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     ken*again

   

Canterbury   James A. Ford
Traducción  Eric D. Lehman
Recovery  John Sims
Surrender   Jack Swenson

& (one-hundred and fourteen)  J. A. Tyler
Jack   Saskia van der Linden
How to Slow Down for the Big Run   John Vespasian
Addictions  Denise Vincent

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                             

Canterbury                                                                                                                    

by James A. Ford

 

he cold January wind whipped through the yard of the large six bedroom farmhouse. The snow covered farmyard was deserted to the night, nothing stirred but the wind and blowing flakes of snow. The moon, soon to be full, illuminated a snowmobile resting beside the doorstep covered in a blue tarp to keep the elements at bay. Inside the house a small boy sat by a large wood burning stove in the kitchen, he sat so close to that stove his silhouette seemed merged with it. An old woman with a cane was staring at him from across the large but spare room.

"He’s just been sittin’ there."

"Sittin’ there by the stove since you boy’s got back." The old lady whispered, staring at the back of the small boy as she leaned hard on her ancient oak cane.

"Warming up, I suppose Ma." Wayne, her youngest son and the boy’s uncle offered.

"What happened out there." She asked, still looking at the boy’s back

"Nothing mother, nothing."

The old lady pulled a face. The boy, her grandson sat hunched up on an old foot stool at the other end of the large, open plan, workers kitchen. He faced away from them and seemed to take no notice that he was being discussed.

"Well I think it a bit strange. He won’t talk to me, his own grandmother. He was fine before you boys left, before lunch he was all excited about going on the trail—on the snowmobile. Did you two get into a fight over something?"

"No mother just leave it. You know how kids get at that age." Her son was a big man and she knew his words usually carried authority but not over her.

"It just strange is all. You must know."

"Mother, he’s a moody kid... he’s a city boy, not to worry, he can’t take the cold that’s all. You watch he’ll come around. Don’t worry so much."

The old lady shook her head unconvinced.

"He didn’t say anything?"She asked.

"About what?" He responded. The old woman looked at him as if he were not paying attention. Then he understood—Robert.

"No. Nothing at all... its been two years." He said and looked away. The old woman loved her son but didn’t always believe what he said.

"Well it just seems strange," she said, then shrugged and slowly shuffled out of the kitchen.

Wayne Garvis watched his mother, her pale slight form leaning on her cane receding into the depths of the dark living room. She worried, he thought, she had always worried, but what did it matter, all her concern hadn’t kept Robert, her favourite son, alive.

He turned his attention back to his nephew, looking over at the small brown haired boy sitting stock still in the far corner of the huge eat-in kitchen. The boy suddenly turned his head and looked over his shoulder at him.

The day had started on a high note—the promise of an outing on uncle Wayne’s new snowmobile. A light snow fell throughout the morning, coating the already well packed fields. Jake waited impatiently all day, watching the snow and trying to find ways to pass the time. From the front window he could see across the yard and past the hay field on the other side of the road. The far end of the field was abruptly bordered by the forest. It started there and continued all the way into Maine; there wasn’t a real break until it ran up against interstate 95, well over a thousand square miles of forest. That forest was crisscrossed with hundreds of trails, mostly small trails near the numerous settlements that ran around its periphery. Without someone like his uncle as a guide—once in, getting out, might never happen.

"How long will we be out?"

"A few hours at least Jake." Wayne smiled at the excitement in his nephew’s question.

"How far will we go?"

"I don’t know to be honest. We’ll see... depends on how cold it gets tonight."

"What’s it like... I mean at night... out there?"

"Spooky." Wayne whispered, and opened his eyes wide.

"Really?"

"Really."

Jake loved uncle Wayne, his father’s younger brother. After Jake’s father Robert died, Wayne sort of stepped up without making a big time of it. On Jake’s frequent visits to the farm he spent a lot of time with his uncle. In the summers it was fishing trips; in the winter cross-country skiing and of course—snowmobiling. They had snowmobiled many times but this time would be different—this time they were going to start in the late afternoon and wouldn’t return until after nightfall.

Jake always enjoyed his visits with his grandmother and uncle Wayne, who lived with her and took care of her. But the visits were always bittersweet since they never failed to remind him of his father. His mother couldn’t even set foot on the farm anymore, she became too distraught.

The morning moved forward minute by minute and then it was the afternoon’s turn to slowly drag, but the time finally came, and at three thirty as the winter sun was rapidly heading for the western horizon Jake and Wayne started to pack the snowmobile. They filled a duffel bag with water bottles, ham sandwiches and bags of potato chips. Jake was very excited to be travelling in the woods at night.

The snowmobile itself was large and there was plenty of room despite Wayne’s huge two hundred and sixty pound bulk. Jake was a little envious of his uncle; Jake wished he was as big as his uncle, perhaps some day he would be, his father had been almost as large.

They started out at four pm. Jake sat at the back, the duffel bag stuffed with supplies rested between him and his uncle who was up front at the controls.

The feel of the air rushing past Jake’s face was pure exhilaration. As they sped through the hay field Jake looked up at the sky, there was a darkening blue that could be glimpsed through breaks in the clouds. Then there were trees all around him; they had entered the forest. It wasn’t even dark yet but Jake now knew what his Uncle meant by spooky: the trees were tight to the trail and as they sped past the branches seemed to reach out at Jake trying to grab him. Jake was thankful for his goggles, though no branches struck his face, he had the feeling that they might any second, and worse—that they wanted to.

Halfway up the north trail they hit the rut. It was at least twice as deep as what they had found to be the common and very plentiful ruts of the trail. Jake thought this only afterwards because he was to occupied with flying up in the air. The hard bump launched him straight up out of his seat and into the air, he landed on his butt in the snow. For a moment he sat on the trail, stunned. When he realized what had happened he started to laugh, it seemed funny until he saw his uncle continue receding in the distance. He wasn’t stopping, he hadn’t noticed that Jake had fallen off. Jake leapt to his feet and ran after his uncle .

"WAYNE,"he screamed, "STOP FOR CHRIST SAKE." Jake tripped in a rut and went careening into the snow.

"Fuck." He stated, matter-of-factly. "Fuck."

He stood again, now staring as the huge form of his uncle and the sound of the snowmobile engine fading down the trail. Jake got the idea that his uncle may be playing a trick on him and would stop any second so Jake could run and catch up—but the image of the big man and the roaring machine just continued on; grew smaller and smaller, less and less distinct, then there was a slight flash from the headlight as the snowmobile and his uncle angled off on the trail and were gone.

Silence.

Then from above a harsh cackle. Jake looked up, a large black crow stared down at him from the top of one of the trees. It cackled again and then seemed to decide that Jake was of no more interest and flew off in great flapping motions.

Jake was alone.

He stood staring at the last spot he had seen the snowmobile. Wayne had to notice soon that he was no longer sitting behind him. Eventually. He had too. Or was his uncle so big that the lack of Jake’s paltry eighty three pounds was not even noticeable. Driving these trails in low light conditions was a job of acute concentration, his uncle may be so intent on the job at hand as to not notice Jake’s disappearance until he stopped for a break. Jakes mind raced with the possibilities. "Christ, it could be hours." He said to himself.
The forest was deathly quiet. Such a sudden change from the roar of the snowmobile engine. The sun was low in the sky and it would be dark soon, sooner still in these woods Jake knew. It was already cold, and night would do nothing but make that worse. Jake found it hard to see clearly. Like the fuzzy vision you get during the change to twilight but magnified by a factor of five. The shadows from the trees and the partially overcast skies made the prospect of night terrifying.

Jake was alone, deep in the woods. He did a quick calculation of how long he had travelled on the snowmobile - at least twenty five minutes, probably closer to half an hour. If he retraced his steps on foot how long would it take to get to the main road and then back to granma’s house? Two hours? It might take two hours. Soon it would be pitch black in these woods, Jake told himself. He had better start moving or he was going to freeze to death. All he could hope was that Wayne would notice his absence and comeback for him. He started walking back along the packed trail praying that the light would hold long enough for him to get to the road.

Jake hurried but didn’t run. Running would have been impossible. It was tiring work just walking the trail. Every few steps his feet would sink into the snow, sometimes swallowing his legs past the knee. There were good patches as well, where it was like walking on solid, if uneven, ground. But for the most part it was tough going. The length of the trail was full of ruts like the one that had so unceremoniously dislodged him, Jake was very aware that in the coming dark he might twist an ankle or worse break one, he would need to be careful.

As he walked his over stimulated imagination continuously flashed an image in his mind: a photograph of him, of his frozen corpse, eventually discovered by the authorities. It was a clear ghastly image that wouldn’t go away. A grinning parody of himself found just off the trail and within sight of the main road, leaning up against a tree, frozen solid. An ice man, perfectly preserved with a look of horror locked on his frozen features, stories of which would be used for decades to come to frighten children around the campfire.

As Jake walked, the night chill of the forest seemed an actual entity, a creature with a heartless life of its own, intent on spreading its frozen balm of misery to all it touched. Jake’s fear at the deathly quiet and darkness threw his mind into overdrive.

Full night had descended and only the moon’s light seeping down through the trees aided Jake’s progress. He was tired of walking; cold, hungry and losing sensation in his feet. He knew that to stop now would be fatal. His ears searched the night, listening carefully for any sounds from the forest. Only listening for Wayne, he told himself, listening for the return of the snowmobile, but he soon realized that his ears were alert for something else. He had no idea what, but the forest seemed to push him, a bully pushing and pushing. It wanted him out.

A large tree loomed near a curve in the path. As Jake walked by his cold breath caught in his throat. Hanging from a thick branch of the tree was the carcass of a bear. The dark body split open and drained of blood. Underneath it, a small cub paced in slow circles in the red dyed snow. Every few circuits its little feet stopped and it looked up, whimpering and stretching on its hind legs. Jake stared in amazement. Then the cub seemed to notice Jake for the first time; it stared at him with wide eyes that shone in the dark. There was a roaring sound that seemed to grow all around him and to his dismay Jake watched as first the hanging carcass and then the little cub faded and then disappeared, like smoke. The roar in his ears died as well.

"Jake?"

There was a voice calling behind him.

"Jake. Are you all right?"

Some one was speaking to him.

"Jesus Jake I’m sorry. I didn’t even notice you fell off until I slowed down to turn back, Jesus."
At first, Jake didn’t realize that his uncle was back and was speaking to him. He stood watching the tree where the bear and its cub had a moment ago appeared. He blinked again and again but they were gone and weren’t coming back, a figment of his mind. Magical apparitions that his will couldn’t control. He turned and there was his uncle standing in the knee deep snow. Was he an apparition too?

As Jake stared at him from across the kitchen, the eyes of the boy made Wayne feel uncomfortable, he wasn’t sure where to look. Jake’s stare was a naked accusation, a rebuke. To Wayne, the boy’s eyes seemed old, the ancient eyes of a fisherman surveying a vast expanse of ocean, knowing without regret or fear that one day that sea would claim him. Those eyes contained all the hurt of the world. Within two dark irises the truth of the universe could be read. We all die alone, they screamed; all of life but a fleeting side road on a headlong plunge into eternal loneliness.

Uncle Wayne was a hard man, but the knowledge of his nephew’s pain, and the anger the boy felt made him feel weak. He hated that feeling, that image of himself as weak and impotent. He had felt that way only once before—the day Robert had killed himself. His only brother, and Jake’s father, gone in an instant, so final, an awful tie that would bind them, uncle and nephew, all their lives. Impossible to wrest free of, always sitting low and heavy like a bad meal lodged deep in the gut but somehow impossible to vomit up. Soon digested and incorporated into the body. A part of the very flesh, never to be excised.

Uncle and nephew watched each other for another moment and then Jake turned his expressionless face back to the warmth of the stove and his constant thought—an image in his mind of a little bear pacing around and around forever, padding circles of blood red in the snow with its tiny feet.

　

 



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Traducción                                                                                           

by Eric D. Lehman

eynard Brightle was already forty four when he decided to learn Spanish in order to read Cien Años de Soledad. Of course, he had read it in English translation almost twenty times, and had always been satisfied. But then, the woman at the farmer’s market had upbraided him. He had called himself a fan of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and when she found that he didn’t read Spanish, she had cried “Dios mio, you mean to say you have not read Cien Anos except in translation? And you call yourself a fan?” He had suffered a little, then, with his favorite book suddenly taken from him in an instant, suddenly full of ciphers and darkness.

Nevertheless, Reynard had recovered when he realized that the classic tome would be new to him, the Buendia family and its hundred years of war and sorrow would open up to him page by page and it would be like the first time again. That first time, he thought, had been a revelation. He was seventeen years old, from a small mountain town in Colorado, and was forced to read Marquez for a comparative literature class at the University of Denver. It was then that Reynard discovered the truth of words, of the simple, everyday wonders of life. Never had one book been so charged with the electricity of existence, of the hope that isolated individuals can muster against the inevitabilities of separation and death.

The declarative first line had hooked him: “Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.” Reynard loved how that line jumped both forward and backward in time. Now, after ordering the original version online, he read the line in Spanish: “Muchos años después, frente al pelotón de fusilamiento, el coronel Aureliano Buendía había de recordar aquella tarde remota en la que su padre lo llevó a conocer el hielo.”

Translating the line into English, however, confused him. The line as he found it now read “Many years later, in front of the firing squad, colonel Aureliano Buendía had to remember that late remote time in which his father took him to know the ice.” He stared at his work. Had to remember? Didn’t this subtly change the meaning of the line. Was to remember implied that it just happened, randomly, with the chance that filled our lives with interesting variation. But if the colonel had to remember, then it was fated surely, as the last lines of the novel implied. He supposed that this was not a critical problem, but more a “giving away” of the eventual realization of Aureliano Babilonia on the final page.

However, the fact that Jose Arcadio Buendia had taken his son to know the ice, was not the same as discover at all. As Reynard continued, he found similar problems in the difference between the Spanish and English words. This lack of discovery, of chance, and of possibility, was a terrible blow to the truth he had found in the novel. Being totally crushed by the weight of fate and history was certainly something that befalls the Buendias. But in English translation, there seemed to be a struggle against that weight, as each individual in his isolation tried to connect with the others. That seemed missing in the original.

Reynard was sure that he was a poor translator. But as he scanned the multiplicity of definitions and felt the lack of truth and surety seep into his blood, he understood at last and for the first time the illimitable problems of transforming Spanish words into equivalent English ones, and vice versa. The forty four year old man put the dictionary on the shelf, hesitated, then placed One Hundred Years of Solitude next to it, knowing that he would never read it again, and that la traducción de novelas es una imposibilidad en esta tierra.

　



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Recovery                                                                                                 

by John Sims

 

he van stopped in front of his car and the orange lights on its roof started to flash. The headlights dazzled him a little as he got out into the freezing wind to meet the driver.

“Paul Davies?” said a woman’s voice.

“That’s me. I pulled over to make a quick call on the mobile and when I tried to restart the engine there was nothing. No lights or anything. And I’m freezing.” He looked over her shoulder expectantly at the van.

She followed his gaze. “What is it?”

“Um…well, the car’s broken down…”

“So you need a mechanic?” she said.

Paul looked confused. A long day at work had dulled his mind and the stress of breaking down had confused him further.

She took a pair of surgical gloves from her pocket and pulled them on with a snap. “And here I am—your breakdown service mechanic. Would you open the bonnet, please.”

He got into the car and stared at the controls. He put his head out of the window. “Er…”

“There’s a lever down in the footwell, just pull it.”

The bonnet popped open and she fixed a light to it. After a few minutes and a quick test she said, “The battery’s dead. I have some in the van if you want to buy one. No charge for fitting it.”

“That’s that bit, right?” he said, pointing into the engine.

“No, sir, that’s the little computer that controls the fuel injection and the engine ignition system. Car maintenance isn’t your thing, is it?”

He smiled. “To be honest, I had to read the handbook to see how to put petrol in it. I get in, turn the key and drive. That’s the sum of my knowledge. Not very good, is it?”

“Well, I’d be out of a job if everyone could fix their own cars.”

“Good point. OK, I’ll take a new battery. I just want to get out of this cold and get home in time for Christmas.”

She glanced at her watch. “Only three hours to go. Don’t worry though, I’ll have you running again in a couple of minutes.”

When she’d finished they sat in her van to fill in the paperwork. As he got in she moved a carrier bag off the passenger seat, revealing for a moment a fresh, plucked turkey that was as thin as it was small.

“Your last call-out? ” he said, and smiled.

“Last one in the shop,” she said. “I was lucky to get it.”

He looked at it. “I’m not sure about lucky,” and sniffing it added, “It’s not getting any fresher sitting in this hot van.”

“I was on my way home with it when your call came in. My last job and then I’m off until tomorrow evening. Sign there, please.” She handed him the clipboard and pointed to the spot. “I still have to read how to cook it.”

He signed the form. “Slow oven for a long time,” he said. “About three hours for that little chap, then check it. Personally, I like to slit the skin on the breast, peel it back and stuff some herbs and stuff under it, a bit of butter maybe, then close it back up and pop it in the oven. Tastes nicer and it’s not so dry.”

He looked up and saw her staring at him. “What is it?” he said.

“Um…nothing,” she said.

“It’s my job,” he said. “I’m a chef and I have a fridge full of those to cook tomorrow so it’s an early night for me.”

“Ah, so we both have to work Christmas Day. I suppose someone has to do it.”

“I don’t mind. It’s not like I have a family or anything.”

“Same here. And it’s not busy for us on the day…everybody’s at home watching old films on telly and stuffing themselves with sprouts”.

“Or in my place, having dinner cooked for them.”

“Ah, if only…” She looked down at the turkey.

“Cooking’s not exactly your thing then?”

“To be honest,” she said, smiling. “I have to read a cook book to make beans on toast.”

“And we never feel like cooking anything when it’s just for ourselves.”

“Exactly. But I suppose it’s different for you professionals.”

He laughed. “Are you kidding? I love beans on toast—and there’s hardly any washing up after it.”

They both stared out of the windscreen of the van and watched a few snowflakes blow onto it.

“Well,” he said, and the words came out slowly, with reluctance, “I suppose I’d better be going, let you get that bird into a fridge. Thanks again for getting me back on the road. It gets scary out there in the dark on your own.”

“You’re welcome,” she said as he got out. “Good luck tomorrow.”

He looked back at the van as he opened his car door. His head told him the right thing to do was to get in and drive off, go home and get a good sleep ready for the next day. He hurried over to the van, tapped on the driver’s side window and opened the door. “I don’t know if I should, or if it’s allowed or anything, but will you take my card? I think I ought to at least give you a meal or something. I’m sure I’d have frozen out here. Any time you like. Just call and ask for me.”

Paul stood in the centre of his kitchen, surrounded by staff. Ovens blasted out heat and the smell of roasting meat. Pans simmered on hobs. Knives scratched against sharpeners as everyone worked flat out.

He moved among his staff to check progress, give orders and offer advice, on the edge of panic as the restaurant filled and more and more food had to be cooked. The phone rang. “Not now. This is NOT a good time,” he said as he hurried to pick it up. “Hello?”

“Hello, boss, it’s Jean in reception”

“I know,” he said. “Nobody else can phone in to here.”

“Right. Well I have a woman on the phone for you.”

“Not now, we’re flat out. Who is it?”

“Claire.”

Paul thought it over. “I don’t know any Claire.”

There was a pause. “She says she’s your knight in shining armour.”

“Eh?”

“Hang on.” The line went dead for a moment. “She says to tell you she’s the breakdown lady. Are you feeling all right, boss? I thought you were working too hard. I said as much.”

“Ahh, I know who it is.” He grinned and punched the air. “OK, put her through, Jean…and mind your own business, by the way.”

Claire’s voice came on. “Hello?”

“Hello, Claire. OK, Jean, you can go back to work now.” He waited to hear the click of the reception phone being put down. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think to ask your name last night. I hope you’re phoning to take me up on my offer of a meal.” He crossed his fingers.

“Ah. I didn’t think to tell you my name either because it was on the copy of the form I gave you.”

He frowned at his own stupidity in not noticing, covered the phone while he shouted to the staff. “This sauce is burning! Who’s sauce is this? It’s burning—look!”

“Are you busy?” said Claire. “Is it a bad time?”

“Lord no, just another day at the office,” he laughed, and covering the phone again shouted: “Will someone check this oven? That bird should have been taken out half an hour ago. Now, please.” He tapped a wooden spoon against the oven as he returned his attention to the phone. He glanced at his watch and started to panic. “I’m glad you phoned.”

“Actually I didn’t really know if I should, but I didn’t know who else to ask.”

Paul stirred a pan of gravy. “Of course you should. Is something wrong?”

“Did that turkey smell all right to you last night?”

The question took him by surprise. He’d been hoping she’d want a quiet table for two with a good wine. He switched his thoughts to the bird. “Yes,” he said. “Smelled OK… but a lot would depend on how long it was sitting in that hot van, and your fridge temperature. Why, is it a bit ripe today or something?”

Staff with questions were starting to form a queue beside him.

“Are you sure you have time for this?”

“Of course. Just routine for us. All under control.” Staff were beginning to call his name and more orders came in from the restaurant. “If that bird’s at all suspect, please don’t risk it.”

“Oh dear. You’re right, of course. It’s not worth getting ill for a little festive meal. I’ll have a nice frozen dinner, same as last year. Next year I’ll be more organised and have a proper Christmas.”

“Yes,” he said as he tried to break up lumps in his gravy. “It’s all about timing, cookery—plan it all well ahead and don’t get flustered.”

“OK. Well, thanks for your help. Bye.”

“Bye, Claire. Wait a minute. Why don’t you come around here for dinner. Plenty of room. Can you make it about three? I’ll be finished by then.”

“OK, if you’re sure.”

“Of course. It’ll be my turn to rescue you.” He put the phone down and turned to the queue. “Right, what’s wrong? Why is nobody cooking?”

Claire arrived at the restaurant just before it closed for the afternoon. Jean showed her to a large table where Paul and some of the staff were sitting. He stared at her as she approached.

“What is it?” she said, checking her clothes.

“Nothing. Just you look strange out of uniform.”

“Strange?”

“Sorry, I mean different. I mean very nice. Ohh….”

Jean shook her head and sat. “He’s hopeless. But at least he’s not dressed as Santa this year.”

“I hope you don’t mind joining me with a few of the staff, Claire. You’ve already sort of met Jean.” He introduced everyone. “It’s sort of a little tradition that I cook a meal for the staff when we close after the lunch period. Gives us a chance to rest our feet before we open again for the evening shift.”

“It’s good, thanks. I’m glad to be out of the house—and away from that horrible turkey.”

Paul smiled. “It happens to the best of us, don’t worry. Well, I hope you’re hungry, because there’s lots of it. And we have some great wine.”

A waiter placed a large pot in the centre of the table.

“This is another little tradition on Christmas Day. None of us can bear the sight of turkey after the morning so we have this.” Another waiter started placing plates of toast on the table. Paul opened the pot. “I know you’ll like it. Help yourselves to beans, everyone.”

 



                                                                                                        
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Surrender                                                                                                                           

by Jack Swenson

e were at my cabin in the foothills east of Sacramento.  We were snowed in.  I came up to do some work, and Bob came with me.  The porcupines were eating the siding, and we had replaced several panels.  When we got done working, we went into town and had dinner, and when we came out of the restaurant, it was snowing.  The Highway Patrol had the road blocked, but we convinced them to let us through.  I had to turn off the water or the pipes would freeze, I said.
 
I built a fire in the Franklin stove, and soon it was warm enough.  It wasn't cold out.  The snow was wet, what in the Midwest they call "concrete" snow because it is so heavy.  We had to leave the car at the foot of the hill.  I figured we'd worry about that in the morning.  We'd have to dig it out and maybe scare up a tow.
 
We sat next to the stove and put our feet close to the fire.  Bob was drinking bourbon; I cradled a cup of hot coffee in my hands.  My friend wanted to know if I was going to marry Mona if she had the kid.  I said no.  "What are you going to do?" he asked.  I told him I was trying to talk her into having an abortion.
 
"She wants the kid?" he asked. 
 
"No," I said.  "She just wants to keep me guessing."
 
I didn't want to talk about Mona, so I changed the subject.  I asked him if he had seen Charlotte.  A month or so ago, he said.  She came over one night when his wife was out of town.  Bob and his wife had a swell house in the Hollywood Hills.
 
We talked about golf for awhile.  Then we talked about horse racing.  He had gone to the track a couple of weeks before, and he saw something he'd never seen before, he said.  One of the horses had a heart attack during the race and died.  "He still finished third," Bob said.  I asked him if he had bet on the horse; he said no.
 
I got up and fixed Bob another drink. "Still on the wagon?" he asked. 
 
"Yup," I said.
 
"How long's it been?" he asked.  I told him a couple of months.  He asked me how I felt, and I said horseshit.
 
He shook his head.  "What do they talk about at those meetings?" he asked.
 
"Alcohol," I said.
 
"Lordy," he said.  "Don't that make you thirsty?"
 
I laughed.  "They tell some pretty hairy stories," I said.
 
I got up to take a piss, and when I got back I stood by a window looking out.  The snow was coming down every which way in big, fat flakes.
 
Bob got up and got the bottle of bourbon and brought it back to where he was sitting.  "I been thinking," he said.  "I think I might be an alcoholic, too," he said.  I asked him what made him think that.  He said because when he started, he couldn't stop.
 
About ten I got up and said I was going to bed.  Bob said he was going to sit up awhile and read.  As I climbed the stairs to the loft, I could hear him getting some ice from the cooler and putting it into his glass.
 
I crawled into my sleeping bag and lay on my back and watched the firelight dance on the varnished ceiling boards.  I wasn't sleepy.  I would either sleep or I wouldn't.  I had learned that the best way to fight it was not to fight it.  You had to surrender.  That was true for a lot of things, I had learned.



                                                                                                        
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&(one hundred and fourteen)                                                                                                            

 by J. A. Tyler

 

his will be the story of no story. This will not be a story. This will be the roots of trees, the forest. This story will be a forest. This will be the story of branches into dark, frost coming and showing on the breath of trees, greying dead leaves. This will be the story of dying leaves, men, a man. This will be the story of a man. There is no man. There is no story. This will be instead the story of women, a woman, a woman as a man’s mother and a man’s sister and a man’s lover and a man’s baby and a man’s lust and a man’s never was. There is no woman, no women. This story never was. This will be the story that never was. This man, this woman, This will be the story of men and women. There are no men, no women. These people never were. This will be a story that never was. This story never was. This is not a story. This will be a story that never becomes a story. This will be the story of unbecoming. This will be the story of no story. This is unbecoming, a story. There will be no story. This is not story. This is no story. This is no story.

 



                                                                                                      
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Jack                                                                                

by Saskia van der Linden

or a couple of weeks I’ve been exchanging messages with Jack. He’s thirty-four and works as a relationship counsellor.

We’ve already agreed on a date when Jack posts some new pictures of himself. I have to swallow. Hard. In four days Jack’s become twenty years older!

On Thursday, a boyish thirty-something was smiling at me from my PC. This Monday I find myself staring at a stern fifty-year-old’s face in disbelief.

I vaguely remember a film that starred Robin Williams. In this film, Robin Williams suffered from an illness in which he aged at dubb speed. At the age of four, he had to start shaving.

At the same time, his personal development didn’t keep up with the changes in his appearance. The inner Robin Williams was still at primary school, so to speak, when he turned grey.

I’d always assumed this was about a fictitious disease, but Jack’s visibly suffering from it, too. Children or even grandchildren, that’s not the question anymore. He’ll be lucky to see his toe nails grow up!

I realise there’s no time to lose. Our date’s on Friday. I’ve worked out that Jack’ll be seventy by then. And the average Dutchman doesn’t get much older than seventy-four.

Suddenly, what I’ll be wearing on our date doesn’t seem quite so important anymore. Something black will be just right.

 



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How to Slow Down for the Long Run                                                                                                 

by John Vespasian

 

ou are a strange man, Ludovico,” complained Alessandra Benucci. “You say that you love me, but you care as little for me as you do for your career.” Ludovico Ariosto looked out of the window and did not reply immediately.

His new job as governor of Lucca was difficult and his salary meagre, but the beauty of Tuscany never ceased to astonish him whenever he looked outside. “Sometimes, you have to slow down to prepare yourself for a long run,” answered Ludovico, shrugging his shoulders. “Anyway, at this moment, this was the only job I could get.”

“But you promised that we would get married soon,” went on Alessandra, walking up to him and setting her hand on his shoulder. It was June of 1516 and, in three months, Ludovico would be 42 years old. He turned around to face Alessandra and saw his promises reflected in her eyes.

“I am just asking you to have a little patience, my love,” he said, taking in a deep breath. “We will be married as soon as I have saved enough money to lead a proper life.” How often had he tried to explain that to her? A hundred or a thousand times, it didn't matter.

Ludovico had changed jobs often, always moving forward, working endless days only to be able to devote his nights to his passion. After years of efforts, he had just completed his poem “Orlando Furioso,” although he was still planning to make some revisions.

“You should just let it go as it is now, Ludovico,” exhorted Alessandra. “Your poem is more than good, it is even more than wonderful! It is high time for you to forget about it and work on something else. Why don't you write a Venetian comedy to please the Bishop? Or a song dedicated to the Duke?”

During the following eight years, Ludovico saved as much money as he could from his small salary. Shortly after his 50th birthday, he fulfilled his promise and married Alessandra. The couple purchased a small farm near Ferrara and retired to live there.

When Ludovico Ariosto's poem “Orlando Furioso” was published, only eighty six copies were printed. During his retirement in the farm, his revisions of the poem never ceased. It is believed that he rewrote parts of it at least two hundred times.

Little by little, the reputation of “Orlando Furioso” began to grow. By the time Ludovico was 57 years old, his poem had been already reprinted many times and was already considered the work of a genius. Ludovico, nevertheless, continued to make new revisions one after the other. After his death, Alessandra Benucci published the final version. It was absolutely perfect.

 



                                                                                                        
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Addictions                                                                                                      

by Denise Vincent



ichael had waited on platform three for the fast shuttle to Waterloo every week day morning for the past thirty-five years. Today would be his final journey. As the train stormed into the station, assaulting him with a wind saturated with drizzle and the heady smell of diesel, he didn’t need to look up to know there would be standing room only. He could really do without standing today. He’d been up since four thirty and had only slept fitfully before then, much to the annoyance of Joyce, his wife of more years than he cared to remember. With her hot flashes she was finding it difficult enough to settle without his thrashing and teeth grinding. She’d taken to disappearing to the guest bedroom quite frequently lately and he wished she’d hurry up and get this annoying mid-life thingy over and done with.

The doors squeezed shut and his mind raced as the train accelerated towards his final day in the city as Sales Director at Hollis Perkins International. Retiring early meant he was still young enough do all the things he’d always meant to do but hadn’t got round to. At least that’s what Joyce kept telling people. He was sure she was right, although he couldn’t get rid of the nauseous feeling that clung to him like a cheap suit and his chest felt heavy and constricted. The station flew past the grime-streaked window and a fat black fly dementedly tried to knock itself senseless against the glass. As he considered no longer being Michael Barratt, Sales Director, he felt his breathing high and tight his throat. He wasn’t sure who Michael Barratt, retired, was. He remembered another train journey he had taken before he and Joyce were married. Leaving work early he had taken the evening train to meet Joyce in the most insalubrious hotel in the shadows of York Minster. The thrill of that train journey on the way to their furtive liaison had been exquisite, but it was ridiculous to imagine that kind of passion surviving after nearly four decades of marriage.

He didn’t hear what the girl said to him from underneath a tangle of blonde streaked hair but as she frantically rearranged her luggage he realised she was trying to make a space for him to sit down. Obviously a student he thought throwing a disparaging glance at the three cheap bin liners she was trying to squeeze into an already full luggage rack. He was glad to sit down though and with his hands across his stomach he concentrated on releasing his knotted diaphragm. To his annoyance an overstuffed rucksack wedged between the girls knees meant her leg lurched towards his as the train undulated. Irritated he edged along the seat until the metal armrest was digging into his right buttock. Then to make matters worse she deemed it necessary to make small talk.

‘Sorry about all my stuff,’ she said and mumbled something about not usually carrying bin liners on trains.

He gave her a thin bored smile. ‘Just finished your degree?’ he asked hoping she’d just say yes and leave him to his thoughts.

She inclined her head very slightly but didn’t look up. ‘No . . . I’ve just finished three months in The Retreat,’ she said in a matter of fact tone, ‘do you know it?’

Of course Michael knew it; it was the clinic where all the overpaid so-called celebrities went to kick their drink and drug habits. He didn’t realise they took in common or garden waifs and strays as well. It’s a good thing I’m broad minded, he thought, there are people far less eminent than me who would be shocked to sit next to a soak on the train.

‘Alcohol?’ He asked, expertly adopting a concerned but unperturbed expression.

‘And drugs,’ she answered frankly. ‘Been in there three times but I’m not going back. I’m on my way to a half way house in Richmond and I’m going to sort my life out, apply my addictive personality to something positive.” Her long slim fingers played incessantly with the strap on her rucksack and made him want to slap her hands. ‘You see, because I’ve never had a focus, a goal, I’ve filled the void with destructive things . . . I met someone in the clinic and he’s going to help me get started making jewellery, my own business, a fresh start.’

He’d never felt the need for alcohol himself, let alone drugs. They were just a crutch for people who were failing. Poor girl, one of life’s losers he thought. ‘Good for you,’ he said to the side of her head, ‘I’m sure you’ll be a great success.’

Success, now that was a word to describe his life. He’d worked his way up the Hollis Perkins ladder the hard way. From Salesman to the Board of Directors. It had been a hard slog of more than thirty years and taken more dedication than most of this new breed of I.T. literate graduates could even imagine. He knew Joyce was proud of him, she always boasted at dinner parties how committed he was to his work. ‘He loves the business more than me,’ she’d told people on many occasions. The dinner party invitations had become virtually non-existent over the past couple of years though and his position as Sales Director had provoked envy in even the closest of their friends. No one understood his dedication. Bill and Christine, their best friends, had taken to calling Joyce “poor Joyce”. “She’s always left alone and never has a holiday, you really should spend more time with her if you want to keep her,” they would tell him. As if their mediocre Spanish holiday and Sunday barbeque in their pathetic little garden was superior to his three figure salary and his grand plans. There was nothing “poor” about Joyce, she had a lovely house, a daughter and the money to buy whatever she so desired. He was certain that Joyce was very happy with her lot. She’d never had to work, so she’d been able to raise their daughter and look after all things domestic. What woman wouldn’t be fulfilled? Now Katie had gone off to university she had some silly little job, something to do with sick kids or old people, he couldn’t remember which. Well she could give that up now. Once he was retired she wouldn’t have time for that nonsense. They were off to their apartment in Barbados next week for some sun. They hadn’t been there for years. He was certain Joyce was very excited; she’d had her suitcase packed for weeks. He’d noticed it bulging under the bed when he was retrieving a dropped cufflink. She was probably leaving his until the last minute; she knew how he wouldn’t tolerate creased clothes.

Deep in his own thoughts and with the rhythmic drone of the train on wet tracks he had not realised the girl was still talking. Her voice was soft with beautifully rounded vowel sounds and reminded him of that BBC travel correspondent on the local news. He wondered how someone who sounded so educated could turn into such a pathetic drop out. She was obviously bright enough to realise he was a decent and tolerant man or she wouldn’t have made such an effort to get him to sit next to her. He’d always prided himself on his tolerance and felt the weight of his position in allowing this sad wreck of a girl to offload. She’d been saying something about someone dying when she was small. ‘Too young to remember him,’ he caught.

‘My Mum ran off to Sweden with a bloke when I was thirteen,’ she continued, rubbing the delicate skin under her eye so vigorously with her forefinger he was sure she’d get a friction burn.

‘So you stayed here?’ he asked.

‘Mmm, in a very expensive boarding school in Edinburgh, paid for by Granny.’

‘Well that’s not so bad,’ he told her.

‘I was miserable,’ she said ‘Got expelled at fifteen for taking drugs and I couldn’t face my Gran so I took off, went to London. Stayed with a friend who was using too and the next eight years have been a bit of a blur really.’ She ceased rubbing her eye, much to his relief and re-crossed her legs letting a strappy sandal dangle from her foot. Very unsuitable footwear for rain, he thought looking down and admiring his highly polished Italian black leather shoes.

As they neared the outskirts of London the train plunged into a tunnel transforming the window, behind the girls head, into a black velvet mirror. His blurred reflection showed a dry, tired middle-aged man. His features, remnants of a once handsome face, were dominated by dark cavernous eye sockets, which bore testimony to too many late nights and early mornings. Hollis Perkins had certainly devoured his best years, although he was fond of telling Joyce how lucky she was to have him and how women found it hard to resist a man wearing Yves St Lauren and a Rolex. The girl talked incessantly for most of the journey and he listened to most of it. With years of sales experience behind him he knew how to put someone at ease. He prided himself on his heightened sense of empathy and knew that people felt comfortable with him and that’s what made them trust him. That was the key to his success in meeting sales targets. Over the years he had imparted many gems of wisdom in this area to junior members of his staff and was certain they were most grateful. He’d mentored some of them too well though, especially that Richard Adams, the baby faced smart arse with his Masters degree and ridiculous jargon. The joke was that they thought the idiot could run sales and marketing as one amalgamated department. They’d see. It would come crashing around their ears and they’d realise they did need a Sales Director after all. Of this he was certain. Nobody had mentioned doing anything to send him off today and that was sure to mean a big surprise. God, he hated fuss. He’d prepared a fantastic speech though just in case, witty and moving with just a hint of irony that they wouldn’t notice until later. When things started to go pear shaped his parting words would come back to bite them. He smiled to himself. As the journey neared its end some pointless unintelligible announcement wafted over their heads, blending with the irritating chatter of a dozen mobile phone conversations. The train slowed to a sluggish crawl and the girl began to pull together her pitiful belongings as he stood to one side.

‘How will you get to Kensington?’ he asked, watching her struggle as her long finger nails punctured one of the bin liners and an angry tear spread revealing a flimsy looking floral garment.

‘Tube,’ she replied.

‘But you can’t carry that lot all over London,’ he told her ‘why don’t you get a cab?’

‘They only trust us with a thirteen pound a day allowance,’ she answered, ‘It doesn’t cover cab fare.’

‘Here,’ he said in a voice slightly too loud. Taking a twenty-pound note out of his wallet he handed it to her as if it were a rabbit from a hat. ‘Get yourself a cab.’

The girl looked directly at him for the briefest moment and her eyes startled him. They reminded him of the lapis lazuli bracelet Joyce always wore. Bright blue flecked with gold. He hated that bracelet; so cheap looking compared to the beautiful precious stones he’d bought her. Some friend had bought it for her, probably one of the brain-dead do-gooders she worked with. It irritated him that she chose to wear their gaudy trinket rather than the things that had cost him a small fortune. He’d read somewhere that Lapis Lazuli was supposed to ward off depression. Joyce certainly had nothing to be depressed about and anyway depression he was sure was a bit like stress, a fictitious condition invented by spineless weaklings who were scared of doing a days work.

The girl pushed the money into the back pocket of her jeans with a simple thank you. He thought she’d be more grateful and at least expected her to resist a little before taking it. Don’t know why I bother, he thought.

As the first cab pulled into the rank she insisted he take it. It made sense, he had an important job to get to, last day or not, and she was in no rush. She seemed like a pleasant enough sort and she reminded him a little of his daughter, young and vulnerable as she shifted from foot to foot and wound her hair around her finger. Thank God Katie had turned out all right, he thought. Mind you she wanted for nothing. Her digs were paid for by direct debit and a standing order went into her account on the first of each month to cover everything else she needed. She must have nearly finished her course so she’d soon be a qualified quantity surveyor, or was it chartered surveyor, he couldn’t remember. He hadn’t seen her for quite a while. Anyway, he was sure this girl would be alright now after their little chat and his generous gift. He was a fine example of what a person could do with their life with a little dedication and commitment. If anyone could get her back on track he could. As his taxi sped off he didn’t look back, so he didn’t notice her walking hurriedly away from the taxi rank. She had her rucksack on her back, three bin liners squashed into the palm of one hand and the twenty-pound note clutched tightly in the other.

 


                                                                                                      
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