The Season for Hairy Crabs

The Season for Hairy Crabs

Perhaps the same could be said of any living creature:
 a caterpillar chewing on a leaf, unaware of the beak of an
approaching bird; an egret mesmerized by its reflection in a pond,
as if it were the master of the universe; or Hanfeng’s own
folly of repeating the same pattern of hope
and heartbreak, hoping despite heartbreak.” 
Gold Boy, Emerald Girl


Artwork: Chemin de la Fontaine des Tins at Céret, Chaïm Soutine

There’s a place on Sing Woo Road in Happy Valley where you can buy hairy-crabs from Yangcheng Lake.  I bought six, I was going to have the amah stew it in hot Szechuan peppers for Sonny. But he never came home that weekend. It wasn’t the first time.  I know something is going on.  It’s always the same damn Chinese clients in Shanghai. Karaoke bar. Singing Raindrops Are Falling on My Head or some looney tune that only Sonny knows. They speak only Mandarin up there, right? Yeah, they’ll be singing that oldie, Shanghai Beach, something syrupy like that. 

I didn’t end up cooking the crabs. I threw them out. What’s the point? I could easily eat six, I could eat twelve on my own, but what’s the point in dining alone on crabs?

Sonny’s a real tightwad, so when he called from Shanghai, I stuck it to him. “I spent a lot of money on those crabs. What a pity I had to feed them to the neighbors’ dog.”

As if on cue, the damn Lab started to bark. Sonny could probably hear him all the way in Shanghai. He sighed, “I hate to break it to you, babe, but that shop on Sing Woo Road is known for trying to pass off Hongze crab at Yangcheng crab prices. You’ve been stiffed.”

What Sonny was really saying: if I had been able to speak Cantonese, they wouldn’t have tried to pass off counterfeit crabs on me. This town was full of counterfeits. Fake Gucci purses. Fake Jimmy Choo shoes. Pirated DVDs. Fake gold. Whatever you’ve got, they could fake it for you. It’s the perfect town for me, really. I’m another version of counterfeit: yellow on the outside, but I can’t speak a lick of Cantonese.

Sonny’s French cut silk shirts hang like expensive ghosts in the closet. He seems quite the counterfeit himself – a counterfeit of his former self – when his sideburns began to turn salt-and-pepper, he came back with a platinum-blond dyed cut that makes him look younger by ten years. On the street, women flash him smiles or circle their midriffs with their palms. He’s also turned faux-European, courtesy of membership at The Hong Kong Jockey Club, often sporting a V-neck sweater tied around his shoulders, an Oxford shirt and skinny jeans. With his recent promotion to Head of Sales at Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank, he travels a lot. I watch him put on his expensive brogues, scuff his shoe on the welcome mat at the doorway as if trying to rid himself of gum picked up on the soles, and I think to myself: even wild desert donkeys have to go to work.

The neighbor’s dog is baying. No matter the time of day, it bays as if it’s a call of duty, or deep in heat. Someone should neuter that dog. Someone should pay heed to his loneliness. But his owner is never home. 

Outside Peninsula Villas where we live, a group of missionaries loiter. They look like a youth gathering, except one of the young men is Caucasian. He has longish hair in need of a barber, his hair is cornsilk yellow, and in the sun, it gleams like a swatch of silk. Getting close enough one day, I see that his eyes are strange --- one green one blue. His smile is lupine, as if hungry to save souls, hungry to recruit for God’s army. God has a booming voice, God is certainly liable to shout: how many have you saved today, and I would have to say I have not even managed to save myself.

The Caucasian young man approaches me, perhaps zeroing in on an aura I’ve unwittingly exuded, an aura of loneliness and accessibility. He opens his mouth and out flows a stream of Cantonese. The only word I understand is ‘sister’. His intonations are so perfect that I find myself halted in step listening to his jolting cadence.

“Where did you learn to speak Cantonese like that?” I can’t help blurting out. 

The young man stops talking. “I’m sorry, I’d mistaken you for a local.”

I smile. “No offense taken. I’m already saved though. I went to a Catholic school. I know the seven cardinal sins, the sacraments, all of that.”

He breaks into stride alongside me. “But do you believe in Jesus? Being baptized alone isn’t enough unless you accept Jesus as your personal savior.”

Do I accept Jesus as my personal savior? A long time ago, I thought I did. 

But to brush him away, I quote John 6:44 –No one can come to me unless the Father who sent me draws him, and I will raise him up on the last day.

The young man nods. “I see you know your Scripture, sister. God bless you. Have a good day.”

He lopes off in a crooked gait, and I watch him make a beeline for another woman emerging from Peninsula Villas. This time, a woman who speaks dignified upper-crust Cantonese. I listen to his rapid conjugations, and once again, I’m thinking that here’s another counterfeit – a boy who is the embodiment of the foreign devil but speaks such fine yellow earth. Or perhaps I’ve got it all wrong: I’m the counterfeit and he’s the genuine article. Tell me, how does one discern real from fake in this topsy-turvy world?

On a tram heading towards Causeway Bay another afternoon, the Caucasian young missionary has climbed on as well, and behind my blue-tinted pilot Gucci shades, I watch him wend his way down the gangway, looking for victims. This tint of blue suits me. I do not remove my glasses. I’d like to think the world is as off-color as I am. 

He sits down beside me and accosts me in English. “Sister, do you believe in God?” 

“You’ve already tried to convert me once, don’t you remember? I’m Catholic.”

He frowns slightly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bother you.”

“No, please sit. You never did tell me how you learned to speak Cantonese so fluently.”

His eyes maintain a sly translucence; the disparate color pupils mesmerize me. The young man has an ability to gaze without blinking, without revealing any emotion or flicker of life within. “I grew up with missionary parents in Kowloon. They were Jesuits.”

“What is your name?”


“I’m Lillian. Nice to meet you Douglas.”

I turn into your average busybody aunt; I quiz him about his family background. The government housing where he grew up was in Shatin, and he played soccer with a group of boys from the same block every afternoon after school. His best friend was a diabetic Chinese boy, self-named Peanuts.  Completely without irony, Douglas tells me Peanuts was crazy about Snoopy cartoons. He loved red bean buns, except of course he couldn’t eat any. He died a sudden death from insulin shock.  He wasn’t even sixteen. Douglas had a hard time accepting the death of his friend. That was when he started turning to God. He grew up saying his mealtime and bedtime prayers, went to Jesuit prayer meetings with his parents, but it wasn’t until Peanuts died that he really began to pray for the first time. “Truth hides in the most peculiar places, my friend.” Douglas rubs the corner of his lips with his fingers as if he’s eaten something gelatinous. He uses such antiquated phraseology, as if he’s training to be a priest. “There’s no truth bigger than death. But it hides itself in the illness of my best friend.   He died so I could find life.  His life though short had purpose.  If I hadn’t lost him, I would never have known the beneficence and wonderful love of our Father in Heaven.”

I find his words self-obsessed, delusional.   I stare at the calm unmoving pupils in his face. They are completely unruffled, devoid of any expression.  For something to say, I start telling him about my baptism by water, how the priest at Assumption Catholic Church dunked my head for five seconds too long, a thick, callused palm pressed hard against the crown of my head, how bubbles of air escaped my lips in a mild panic, and I thought I would drown. 

Douglas finds this amusing. “You thought you were going to get killed being baptized?”

“It sounds really lame, doesn’t it?”

He smiles. “Not so lame. I once thought I would die if I was bitten by three mosquitoes in succession.”

“Didn’t you say sometimes truth hides in the most peculiar places? Well, maybe it hides in every third mosquito.”

His strange emotionless eyes are depthless. “You’re funny.”

“Am I?”

He makes a blessing gesture of the cross, gets up and seats himself in the row behind me, in search of the next potential convert. “You are not alone,” he says to me, solemn and blank-eyed, “Our Father in Heaven is looking at you.” I know he meant ‘after’, not ‘at’, but it sounds just right.


This is what Sonny accuses me of – melodrama, histrionism, unreasonableness, which in Sonny’s book, is an even bigger cardinal sin than the other seven. He accuses me of fraudulent behavior. I’m acting shrewish for no good reason. There is no other woman. He is not avoiding coming home. Our marriage is fine. 

I think Sonny has stumbled upon an unkind cosmic truth about much of loneliness – loneliness is something your doppelganger takes on. She’s the one speaking when you’re lonely, standing there in her tight qipao and looking suspiciously like your querulous mother.  Loneliness is itself and its opposite simultaneously, just as Hong Kong, as you stand on a promontory gazing down, is a fishbowl and also a sea of people; you can escape neither it nor yourself. 

Over the last two years living in Hong Kong, I’ve lost a lot of friends. I don’t keep up with people. I don’t return phone calls. I hardly respond to invites. The ones I did like had children, and it’s true, there’s a deep divide between people with children and people without. That divide is deep and vascular. Truth is, I don’t mind hearing another competitive school story. I don’t mind hearing about another child prodigy. But these women break off embarrassed, as if someone like me without children would never understand that need to brag.  

When I think of my friends, it’s curious to note that each one of them is a Chinese woman like me, with the diaspora behind them or who have spent some years abroad, but they’ve all married a Caucasian, like Douglas.  Maybe they know something I don’t.  I imagine them sitting in a school auditorium with their husbands and their mixed children – a breed unto their own – and I think to myself: individually they might have married for love, but collectively they married for power.   Wasn’t it Gertrude Stein who said all relationship was power?

I find receipts in Sonny’s trouser pockets. Receipts from karaoke bars for two of everything: two snifters of Armagnac, two chicken fricassees, two goat cheese salads, one baked Alaska, two mineral waters.   Sonny doesn’t eat desserts.


It is too hot to remain indoors. A million ants are gnawing at me. So I take the tram to Causeway Bay, letting the hot silty wind ruffle my hair and plaster my face. I used to be shocked at the film of black that comes away from my pores after an afernoon out, but now, I’ve come to embrace even the dirt and filth. 

Wandering around Causeway Bay, where the crowd is three-deep on every street, a man pushing a loading trolley of boxes forces me to step out of the way into a dark hallway. It’s a gray, decrepit building, but glancing at the metal directory, I see that the third floor hosts a karaoke bar. It’s dark and vacant, most of its chairs up-ended on tables, and it reeks of stale mustiness and beer. The darkness feels lik   e a welcome relief. Here I can take off my blue-tinted Gucci glasses and allow the world to resume normal colors again. Not that the obscure darkness within really lets light in. But that’s also for the best. 

The attendant that shows me to a karaoke room is a young adolescent girl with bad acne but beautiful lashes. The girl wears a white long-sleeved shirt, a skinny black tie, and black knickerbockers. It’s an odd choice of fashion, but I’ve grown used to these oddball Hong Kong teenagers with their guileless innocence and desire to be hip. She tells me her name is Shadow; she babbles at me in Cantonese, and I try to make out what she’s blabbing about, and then sudden understanding dawns, as if often does for me even though I resist. She can’t believe I’ve paid but I’m not going to avail myself of the songs. Just drink Johnny Walker in the dark? That offends her Chinese sensibilities of getting a good bargain. After all, what other point is there to life but to sing bawdy karaoke?

A thick laminated folder is thrust into my hands, its plastic making crinkling sounds like smoking ice-cubes. The list of songs on offer is endless. Mandarin, Cantonese, even Indonesian songs, and of course, a long list of oldies. The names bring electric jolts of memory – Michelle by the Beatles, Eternal Flame, Wind Beneath My Wings, Dancing Queen, I Should Be So Lucky, Like A Virgin. My high school best friend Hannah. I suddenly see her in all her teenage glory – hoop earrings, leg warmers, giggling, snuggling in my bed, mooning over Doogie Howser, M.D.

What has happened to me that I’m content to be as fake as Sonny? What have I become? A trophy expatriate wife lazying away her days with lacquered nails and shopping for semi-precious stones? I look up at the thin corrugated pipes snaking along the ceiling, the air-conditioner dripping water and making a humming noise, the dark and dank and cold of the room I’m in. Shadow pokes her head back in. 

“You choose song yet?”

I shake my head. 

She comes in and slumps down on the greasy vinyl couch. “I help.”

She flips through the laminated folder. Her finger peruses down the list quickly. She jabs at a song she’s chosen. Over her shoulder, I try to read. It’s some Canto pop song. “From Faye Wong. You know Faye Wong?”

Everybody knows Faye Wong if they live in Hong Kong.  She claps her hands. She pushes the button on the remote. The video blinks on. A picture of a thin sheba-like creature snaking along a wall painted like a chess set. The music begins. Shadow clears her voice. When the words come on, she cues herself perfectly. Her voice is young, sweet, if a bit off-key. She’s too unabashed and guileless to be self-conscious of her lack of tonal range. 

When she finishes, I applaud. She blushes like a winsome bride. “Your turn.”

Why not? I can make it through if I close my eyes and remember Hannah. I clear my throat. I try a note. It comes out reedy, wobbly. Shadow has chosen a song for me at random. Belinda Carlisle’s Mad About You. “You know this one?”

I do know this one. Oh, how I know this one. I begin slow, tentative. And then, there’s no help for it. The beat demands it. The corny pictures of a couple strolling on a beach to a tropical sunset demand that I belt out Mad About You with everything I’ve got, all that my lungs can deliver, even if feeling is lacking. Once again, I am a teenager. A held-up fist as a functioning microphone. One knee thumping up, thumping down. The hair flick. The snazzy elbows cinched close, the knees bumping together, the feet splayed. 

The song ends.  Shadow stares at me as if I’m a particularly delicious Yangcheng crab. “Wow, you so good. More song?” She drums her feet, left, right, left, right, a rapid staccato. And I too am alive to a curious beat. I’ve just realized that when singing the chorus an image has slipped into my head of cornsilk hair and a stranger’s mismatched eyes. My mind has opened itself like a drawer full of knives.

Every afternoon, I ride the tram. Every afternoon, I sing karaoke with Shadow. Every afternoon on the tram, I run into Douglas. He says hello and then leaves me alone. 

“Do you mind if I ask you something, Douglas?” It’s an afternoon with few passengers. He sits behind me, hands beating a strange drumbeat on his Bible. 


“How many people have you managed to save on this tram?”

He closes his bible with a snap and tucks it under his arm. “This afternoon, zero. But the afternoon is still young.” He laughs, twitches a little. Even his laugh has an anodyne, unruffled sheen to it, as if he’s not really laughing, merely imitating the sounds. “My job is to plant seeds. I have hope that many of my seeds will bloom.”

“Have you ever considered that God may not exist?” A side of me whispers: it is evil to do this. Stop.

Douglas smirks. “How do you explain creation then if God doesn’t exist?”

I shrug. “The big bang?”

“That’s just a scientific theory. No one has proven it yet.”

“You mean you don’t believe in dinosaurs, and that we’re descended from monkeys?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I believe in evolution, because I believe God created us all. Monkey and its descendants.”

I can do damage, I see that, but I’m needled through with irritation. “Are you really so naïve as to believe there is an Adam and Eve?”

“I believe that every word in the Bible is inspired by God. It is holy. It is God’s instruction to us.”

“Douglas, have you ever considered that it is possible that there’s nothing after this? There is no heaven. We become nothing. Our bodies crumble to dust. And that’s all.”

Finally, an emotion registers behind his opalescent irises – an emotion that contains within itself a flicker of annoyance. “There is a heaven, Lillian. And there is a hell too.”

“You can’t prove it, though, can you?” 

He touches his hair, flicks it back, loops it behind his ear in a curiously effeminate gesture. “No. But neither can you prove they don’t exist.” The minute he says this, I realize of course there's a heaven and hell. 

My breath lodges, kinks itself. The pain I feel is slamming and sudden, and yet, I don't want him to see this intimate glimpse of me. “So why do you choose to believe in something you can’t prove?”

Douglas bares his teeth. He means it as a smile, but there’s a scintilla of animosity he couldn’t hide. “Faith. God tells us to have faith.”

We look at each other from opposite sides of an impregnable gulf: he is bristling, and I feel deserted, alone, as if I've never before accosted such craggy depth with blue-tinted glasses. I push my Gucci shades up on top of my head so that he can finally see and read my eyes. “Tell me, Douglas, do you have faith in your singing?”


It takes a lot to convince Douglas. I am ashamed to admit I used Shadow as a ruse. I tell him there’s someone longing to be saved at this karaoke bar. 

Shadow is surprised to see me with a young man. Her mouth opens slightly, her eyes widen. But she’s even more surprised when she takes in his race, his disparate color eyes, the Bible under his arm. When Douglas begins to talk to her in Cantonese though, she’s easily won over. Finally, through Douglas, I learn much more about Shadow than I have done in the last couple of weeks here. 

She too grew up in a housing estate in Shatin. She has two brothers but she is the youngest. She failed her O levels. Her father still drives cargo trucks back and forth from the mainland and her mother is a seamstress.   In a four-room apartment about four hundred square feet, she lives with her parents, her elderly grandmother, and her two strapping brothers.  Dimly, with my childhood growing up in Berkeley, I am aware that there are many lives of penury, people whose lives are limned with a survival prerogative that I do not know. Shadow is oblivious to the extent that she has no ambitions where money is concerned; she accepts her destiny to be poor. She wants to find a boy to marry, a boy to have a family with, a boy who earns enough that she can stop working at this decrepit karaoke bar. 

Douglas has stopped translating. He’s conducting now an urgent conversation with Shadow, opening his bible, which I see now is a Chinese-English bible, and the runic characters on the left page look so dense and crawling to me, an unfamiliar place, a place that does not wish to be known, a place not unlike this town.  A whiff of strangeness touches me as I watch Douglas’ face – so unperturbed, so calm, so serene, and this whiff contains within it a terrible whisper – the whisper of ineffable sadness. 

Shadow opens up like a flower; I don’t think she’s ever heard a Caucasian speak such mellifluous Cantonese back at her. It brings back a memory of Sonny and me in Venice, during our early days together. He serenades me with Italian, something I hadn’t known he could speak. He serenades me in a gondola, and I was bowled over by this dapper Chinese guy with his romantic incantations, and it was only when the gondolier laughed, that I began to suspect that really, Sonny was babbling nonsense.


In plain daylight, I see Sonny. He is walking away from me. His hand is resting on the back of a woman with shoulder-length hair, hair-salon curled type of hair. Her skirt is pencil-thin, her legs limber and long in cork wedges. When she turns towards him, I catch sight of a cheek. She is young. Irredeemably young as I am irredeemably middle-aged. I’m wearing tennis shoes. I can catch them. I can shout obscenities. I have good lungs. I can really belt them out. Bastard. Asshole. Goddamn you. But I’ve hesitated a second too long. He has already turned a corner in Happy Valley. The last I see of her is when she picks up her foot to scrape off some gum that’s accidentally stuck to the sole of her wedges.  She laughs and swings a plastic bag. Perhaps containing Yangcheng crabs.


Shadow invites both Douglas and I over for dinner with her parents. I demur.
But Shadow insists. “I think my parents will really like you.”

“I can’t. I have to cook dinner for my husband.”

“But you tell me he travels a lot.”

“Well, maybe some other time I can come.”

“Is he travelling this week?”

“Well, yes, but I really shouldn’t. I won’t know how to get out to Shatin.” (this part is true). 

“I get off work on Wednesday at six. I’ll take you. I can even come to your house to pick you up.” 

This does not sound like a good idea to me. I don’t want Shadow to see the palatial apartment I live in at Peninsula Villas. “No, no. I can come here. I’m here till five o’clock a lot of afternoons anyway.”

“Please come. My mother makes a killer shark fin soup. She puts red mehjool dates in them. No one else makes it that way. If you like her soup, she might even give you her recipe.”

It’s the smile that makes me crumble. Shadow, despite her namesake, does not yet know of dark corners and eclipses of the soul. And when Douglas is done saving her soul, I wonder if the cobwebs will finally invade.

Douglas, on the other hand, is enthused. More souls to save. Hallelujah. 

A Wednesday afternoon, we ride the tram together to Causeway Bay. Shadow comes off work, skipping down the steps. Youthful, exuberant. The two of them converse excitedly in the MTR. 

“What are you guys talking about?”

“We’re talking about the soccer game last night. Hong Kong versus Korea. One nil.”

“Hmm…I didn’t know she’s a big soccer fan.” 

Douglas rolls his head around his shoulders as if he’s a soccer athlete. “She’s got two older brothers, remember?”

“Will we meet them too?”

He turns to ask Shadow in Cantonese, and it’s then that I see it. The sudden down flicker of her lids, the upturn of her lips, the fading blush down her neck. Shadow has a crush on Douglas. 

This unimpeded knowledge feels like a blow to the chest. It leaves me suddenly desirous of more than the stale air of the MTR. I must have gone pale, because Douglas suddenly looks at me with concern. “Are you okay, Lillian?”

“I don’t feel too good.”

There’s no place to sit; no one seems willing to give up his seat either. Typical Chinese. Douglas puts an arm around me. “You can lean on me, Lillian. Lean on me until you feel better.”

And I do. I lean on his young muscular strength. I lean on his faith in the world oh-so-hopeful and benign, his heart that knows only of distant heartbreak and the munificence of a grander being. 


The Season For Hairy Crabs was published in The View From Here. 

Elaine Chiew is based in Singapore and London and is the editor/compiler of Cooked Up: Food Fiction From Around the World (New Internationalist, 2015). She won The Bridport Prize in 2008 and Elbow Room Prize (2015). She’s been named Wigleaf Top 50 Microfiction, nominated for Best of Small Fictions 2016 and shortlisted and long listed in other competitions and awards, including Baltic Residencies, Pushcart, Short Fiction, Mslexia, BBC Opening Lines, Fish International Short Stories, among others. Her most recent stories can be found in Potomac Review and Singapore Love Stories (Monsoon Books, 2016) which has been shortlisted for the Singapore Readers’ Popular Choice Awards.  She has recently completed an M.A. in Asian Art History from Lasalle College of the Arts (Goldsmiths accr.) and a writer’s residency at School of the Arts, Singapore.  

Marooned Bells

Marooned Bells

Marooned on a couch brown raft -rocking lle-de-France
Sullen blackboard jazz blowin from across the navy New Orleans seas. 

Slo-mo angels doing somersaults on my torn red curtain reverie
in these broken Halloween bones and mask
I rummage through the ashes that crashed me into
this pink, new golden face dawn..

floating past jagged-edged icicles into the night melting
chocolate Clark Terry’s “They Didn’t Believe Me.”

Love lost is something we can never afford
head stuck on a starboard mast
crashing through storm waves painted in dead dreams. 

And feeling that familiar frost-bitten regret again- that we never
consummated the close quarters of then,,,what are regrets other than dead
sea gulls floating in a ghost soup sea.



Red Canvas by Richard Tuttle, 1967 (Fair use)



Red Rhythms by Margaret Garrett



At the square before Big Wild Goose Pagoda
the crowds jostle and careen
into spring flowers, boom box thumps,
dancer's rumps, and snaking traffic.

One night master Xuanzang, who anchors
the southernmost corner of the square,
quietly steps down from the stone terrace
and hides himself in Ci'en temple.

Translated by David Allen Sullivan
and the Chinese Poetry Co-Translation Collective


Xiangying, from Xi'an, Shaanxi province, China, is a graduate of XISU, and works has been published in 普遍立射的年 the New Century Poetry. He was awarded a prize for excellent original poetry in the Xi'an youth poet seminar and the Xinlu poems reading contest.

David Allen Sullivan’s books include: Strong-Armed Angels, Every Seed of the Pomegranate, a book of co-translation with Abbas Kadhim from the Arabic of Iraqi Adnan Al-Sayegh, Bombs Have Not Breakfasted Yet, and Black Ice. Most recently, he won the Mary Ballard Chapbook poetry prize for Take Wing. He teaches at Cabrillo College, where he edits the Porter Gulch Review with his students, and lives in Santa Cruz with his family. For more about his work, visit his poetry website, a modern Chinese co-translation project, and poetry about the paintings of Bosch and Bruegel.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of "Restlessness" and why you translated it?
I taught on a Fulbright for one year in Xi'an, China, home of the Terra Cotta Warriors. I do not speak Mandarin, but taught a seminar in which my graduate students found and translated young Chinese poets for a planned anthology. This was one of the poems they discovered, translated, and then worked with me to perfect into a poem that works in English.

What drew you to poetry?
I began writing in high school, and pursued a PhD in poetry. My first book was published when I was in my late forties, and the response encouraged me to write more. I write because it helps me understand myself, my life, and my world.

You publish "co-translations". Can you share some of your experiences of the translation process? Would you describe that relationship as a collaboration?
I see translation from a language I don't speak as an interactive process whereby we negotiate what the reader of the poem who speaks both languages discovered, my reaction to what they've created, and what of the original can be carried over into a poem that works in English. It is blindly feeling one's way down slippery cellar steps into the root-smelling dank, feeling for the light switch, and seeing the place flash into existence.

Can you tell us about your formative influences? Where you born into a family of writers or artists?
My mother wrote poems, and became an art historian. Together we are creating an anthology of poems. Hey, anyone interested? Here is an invitation to write a poem about one of the paintings by Bruegel or Bosch. Feb. first deadline. No limitation on what painting you choose, or what style of poem (prose? lyric? narrative? etc.) you write. Her dedication to her work inspires me.

What other art forms and disciplines interest you?
I love all art forms, but particularly painting, film, and novels.

What are your views on the future of communication and how technology is changing the way we communicate, read, interact with the world and our imaginations?
We are in danger of imploding due to the commercialization of our means of communication. We speak to people who hold our own views, are increasingly directed to mediums we're guaranteed to like, and do not emerge from our bubble except to cast stones at others' bubbles. Only art and literature can challenge our narrowing worlds, open us up to other cultures, beliefs, and religions.

The Emotional Core of the Story

The Emotional Core of the Story

Photos by Piotr Ryczko

Confronted with the unease within
When asked about my novel A child made to order,  I would summarise it was a psychological drama/thriller about a woman's inner struggle with her infertility. Upon this statement, I would mostly receive blank stares, followed by an uneasy silence, and the person in question would hurriedly skip to the next subject at hand. Anything which would brush over this anomaly.

Though sometimes, and maybe lucky for me, the more honest ones would spit it right out: "What (the fuck) do you, a 40+ year old male, think you know about infertility?"
Yes, what do I know about something as serious and life-debilitating as the Mitochondrial disease?  A rare genetic disorder which renders a woman's offspring crippled. But even more to the point, what do I know about the long-term repercussions this disease has on these women's psyche?

Although this question stung right at my insecurites, being as uncomfortable as it can get, it was also necessary to hear it. This was not only a perfectly valid question, it was a question which struck right at the heart of what we storytellers are trying to do. It demanded answers, why am I doing what I do, writing what I write and telling this story, instead of any other story.

And ultimately it also pushed me further into a confrontation with something which most of all attempt to run away from. Our inner unease.


The inquiry

So with this in mind, I would like to circle around the following questions.
Should we write only what we know? Play it safe and approach matters that we have lived through.  Or maybe it's the other way around? We should only write what we don't know? Take a wild chance, put everything on some wild card, anything to blast our way out of the safe and comfy shell of ours, out of our comfort zone.
And if we choose to go down this troubled path, why do we do it in the first place? What drives us into this great black, yawning chasm of this unknown? Why do we write about something which we have no emotional prerequisite to understand?  Is it only naive curiosity driven by our sheer stupidity, or is it some random chance? A quantum crap shoot of the universe?
And then maybe, just maybe, it might be something deeper? Something which bubbles up from our subconsious, our heart(?), and attempts to tell us something, to comprehend ourselves better, to expand our inner cosmos?

“It’s a myth that writers write what they know. We write what it is that we need to know. What keeps me sitting at my desk, hour after hour, year after year, is that I do not know something, and I must write in order to find my way to an understanding. This is the essence of all writing, to find a way to an understanding." - Marcie Hershman


Digging for the core

It is easy as a writer to get caught up in the bells and whistles of the story.  The exquisite intricacies of the thrillerish plot, the suspenseful twists and turns, the amazing hook at the beginning, and the stunning revelations at the end. Or even the beautiful theme which might become the initiating point of the story. I certainly do it more often than not and get so fired up, it becomes notoriously difficult to drag me down to mother earth.

There is nothing wrong with enjoying these skills manifested in our stories. All of them are able to add up to some nifty storytelling. They are the muscles, tendons, eyes, even intellect of the story told. But to get at the core of the story, that part which will not only flabberghast the recipient, but wrench their heart inside out, I believe we need to do some heavy lifting inside ourselves.
We need to dig for the emotional core of our story.


We are all broken

I used the better part of writing my novel  to come to terms with why I was writing it in the first place.
There was the initial infatuation with the theme of the current state of Genetics. And it still is. After all, we have a revolution in the making. We are right on the brink of a mile stone in humanity's history, a point where we will be able to rewrite the most basic fibre of our existence, our DNA.  This theme sparked off the idea for the book. But this theme, or any other theme ofr that matter, won't cut it for 80.000 words which have to push and pull the reader into a trance-like emotional rollercoaster.
So the writing process ended up being a journey, a self-ransacking. What did I have emotionally in common with such a protagonist like Viola? What was the resonating frequency between us?  Or to be more exact, what kind of flaws did I share with my character? What conscious wants did we have in common? And what uncioncious needs overlapped in our characters?

And most of all, why did the writing process about such a woman come so naturally for me? What issues were bleeding over from my personality over to the fictitious universe of my protagonist?

From my experience, only through this uncomfortable digging into our own psyche, do we have a chance at creating a story which will reverberate in someone else. In other words, have a shot at becoming universal. Or to put it in in a different manner: The more I write, and make conscious why I write, the more precise and pinpointed my underlying message becomes.

There are some people, writers, artists, etc, who, in a self exclamatory manner, claim they've conquered their demons. They've become their own Supermen/women, the master's of their own universe.

And it might even be true, I wish that for them.  But personally, I believe this process, the confrontation with what's inside us,  is never finished. Not because I enjoy the anguish it brings, but because it carries with it a constant self-inquiry. And this is what makes us grow. This mental destress and misery is what pushes us to transcend beyond what we are now.

For me Ernest Hemingway's words bring with them a deep psychological and spiritual truth. They strike right at the heart of the cracks which never quite mend inside us, but instead help us evolve and ascend.

“We are all broken, that's how the Light gets in." Ernest Hemingway

The Emotional Core of the Story - Part II

Piotr Ryczko is the published author of the London based publishing house  The Book Folks.  His first novel, a Scandinavian psychological thriller A child made to order was released on Amazon Kindle and Paperback. It placed itself amongst the 100 best novels in its category. The same publishing house plans to release the novel PANACEA at the end of 2017.
His short films have won quite a few international prizes.  They can be seen here:
Born in Poland and raised in Norway, he loves both countries, but has a soft spot for his hometown, Oslo. Piotr loves to hear from readers and writers and can be found on Storygeist where he writes flash fiction, html5 stories, non-fiction and screenplays for his films.
He is also an avid photographer which he does as a hobby, as well as a means to communicate his visual ideas during the filmmaking process.

The Boxer

The Boxer

Tony is from Liverpool: he is a boxer, and an actor, and of formidable size. I hardly know him but he takes me to the Turkish Baths on East 12th Street. He throws me in the cold water, then the hot, then the ice. He thrashes me with eucalyptus fronds and massages me in the steam room. He does all this, over and over, for two hours. He takes me into a shower stall and cuts my hair, because he is also, he says, a hairdresser. He lies me in a cot and feeds me carrot juice, and later borscht. When we get outside, he veers into a bookstore and reads me Neruda: In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself….

Previously published in 52 Men, Red Hen Press, 2015.

Times Touched In A Week

Times Touched In A Week

Stephanie Gangi records every moment of intentional contact in seven days.

I read an article about how couplehood and the attendant touching, not necessarily sexy, increases good health and longevity. I'm single and on the dark side of 60. I'm fine living alone, it's fine, but when Trump got elected, for example, I had no one to gather me up and curl around me to protect me from everything incoming, nukes included. In a less grim example, I'm on a regular schedule of imaging tests for cancer, and I have friends, I have daughters, but reaching out every three months to express my scanxiety and beg for hugs seems overly needy. If I had a partner, in my case, a man, in the next room, I could complain at moments of peak terror and get held and hold on. Maybe live longer in better health. After reading the article, I wanted to know how much human touch I was receiving over the course of a week. Like, data-gathering.

Day one, Sunday

Nothing. No one touches me. I feel flu-ish. I revise my premise from human touch to "intentional" touch, so I can count the dog, although he has to initiate. In fact, the rule is all the touch counts have to be initiated by the other person/animal. Sunday goes from nothing to seven times touched: the dog came to me four times with his muzzle to my hand for petting and two times with his paw on my foot to interrupt me as I wrote, and once on the street he purposefully bumped my thigh to herd me along.

Touches on Sunday: seven.


In the afternoon I have a manicure and pedicure, and impulsively add a lip wax and a ten-minute massage in the special chair. My Vietnamese nail worker, who is name-tagged "Sharon" for the clients, gets to work. She is rough with my feet and I flinch. We smile, she behind a mask. Sharon adjusts her touch. When she finishes—I love the feel of the twisted paper towel threaded between my toes—she takes my arm to help me from the high chair. In the waxing room, she dabs my upper lip. She moves a strand of hair from my mouth and then uses the flat of her palm to smooth my hair off my face. She applies the wax and presses the gauze and rips it off, one, two, three, four times. She taps my skin with something cool, gelatinous, and helps me off the table and over to a manicure chair.

I have to explain about my trigger thumbs, arthritis, a side effect of an oral chemotherapy drug. I wiggle them: please be careful. She wraps my aching hands in hot cloths. My throat tightens. Next she situates me in the massage chair. My nails are wet so Sharon gathers my hair—which, gone and grown back twice now, is newly thick and wavy and unruly for the first time in my life—and clips it up for better access to my neck and shoulders.

I think of my grandmother. Mary. I don't know why, since I was so small when she died, and only know her through my mother's memories. My mother, Marie, is dead too, so I can't confirm anything. But I picture my grandmother with big hands, wide so that a whole warm palm, doughy, could heal eight children. When she finishes, Sharon smooths my wayward hair. I let out a small sob, sort of. My throat is tight and my eyes are brimming when I hit the street. The dog nuzzles me and paws me and herds me on Monday, too, so I tally seven again.

Times touched, Monday: seven dog and Sharon, to hard to count. I'm calling it fourteen.

Tuesday sucks

Tuesday I commute to the office. That cuts down on the dog count, from seven to three, since I am not at home much of the day. The subway is packed, I am touched a million times but not with intent so, nothing counts. There are shoulder bumps and brushing hands and full strange bodies pressing against mine, nearly head to toe, but no. A woman flips her hair and hits me on the side of my face a couple of times. I spend an entire ride with a man jiggling his thigh against my thigh, and it's hard for me to believe it is not on purpose. I move my thigh a millimeter away, his follows. Maybe that should count. No one touched me at the office. Mohammed the doorman handed me a stack of boxes when I got home and they tipped and he grabbed them and tapped my hand to say, "There you go."

Tuesday, three dog, one Mohammed: four touches.


On Wednesdays, when my insurance is in full effect (there are only so many treatments allowed), I see Shaziya for 55 minutes of lymphatic massage, coded as occupational therapy. I have a little crew of surrogate daughters and Shaziya is tops on the list. I have two actual daughters of my own but one of them, the touchy-feely one, lives on the west coast. The close one is my protector, my supporter, but she is not touchy-feely. Her reserve developed later though, since, first of all, she refused to leave my body when it was time to get born, and had burrowed in so assiduously, she had to be obstetrically yanked out. The nerves along her spine, C5-C6, tore. There is residual deficit, as they say. Also, every photograph I have of this kid when she was little shows her hanging off me, hugging my legs. Yet, when she was four? I went to a Mother's Day breakfast at pre-school, and the children's drawings were hung with quotes about their moms, adorable, transcribed by the teachers. My mom lets me bake. My mom takes me to the park. My daughter's quote was: My mom hates it when I hang on her. I laughed and we still laugh although ouch, then and now. Maybe her quote was her way of processing the doctors and orthopedic braces and surgeries and physical therapy sessions she was enduring. Projecting it on to me, who did not deliver her safely. That's fair.

Anyway. Shaziya. Shaz treats breast cancer women who've had surgery. The surgery—in my case, surgeries—can mess up the lymph system because they remove nodes for testing. Your arm and hand puff up. It's unsightly and uncomfortable, but also, lymphedema is dangerous. Plain old injuries can go gangrenous. I don't have that and I don't want it so every week I take off my blouse and stretch out on her table. She probes deep into my arm on my surgery side. She moves her fingers along my veins. She presses along the striations of scar tissue, pushes into the hollows of my chest and each breast, reconstructed to not great effect. She moves behind me. She moves her hands under my neck and across my shoulders, tight because I write, and also, I hunch them to protect my chest, which has taken the hits. I often drift into tears on the table, not exactly crying, more like expressing whatever from wherever she's probing.

At some point, I realize Shaz's big, pregnant belly has been grazing the crown of my head as she works. I wonder if there's anything out there, myth-wise, about what happens if a baby bump bumps against a head, because I experience an epiphany during Shaziya's bump bumping against mine. The arm problems, surgeries, physical therapies, residual deficits. My daughter and I share them. I cry for real. Although the belly-head rubs were not touching with intent, they were revelatory, so, yeah.

Wednesday's touches: two dog, Shaziya, infinity. I'm starting to question my methodology.


The dog does his usual thing. In the evening, I have a date, unusual. I have been set up by a friend with a guy, a journalist, a lawyer. "He's both," my friend says. "Stay open." The journalist-lawyer encourages me to pick a meeting place but dismantles my choice, so we go with his choice although he doesn't even live here. I'm staying open. He's good looking on the internet. Maybe I'll have sex with someone other than myself. I would love to. It's been a while. The prospect makes me feel girlish. I exert special effort, clothes, hair, make-up, to look as effortless as possible. My age but younger. The guy is good-looking in real life, too. We hug. That's one. He guides me with his hand on the small of my back. That's two. We find seats at the bar. He pulls my chair out and says, "Is this okay?" and I say "Very okay," and he then does this thing where he tucks a stray hair behind my ear and I'm thinking, How nice, and that's three, but at the same time I'm thinking, Too soon. He talks a lot and I sip my wine. Sip. Sip. Sip. He's still talking. I slug the dregs. Finally he says, "And you?"

I tell a story, a pretty good one, and in the middle of it he reaches over and takes my hands which I have been using to gesture, to punctuate, and he pushes them down into my lap. Holds them there. He gives me a nod and says, "Now go ahead, keep talking." I try but my face is on fire. I feel like calling the police. He is restraining my hands and smiling as if he's teaching me a lesson in how to be a better storyteller and a more fuckable woman. I take my hands back, dig in my bag for 20 bucks, lay it on the bar and go home. He doesn't text or email or anything. I zero him out, no touches. Or maybe I should count four touches? He touched me, with intent, that's for sure. I hate dating. I don't want to be a couple. I hate this experiment. I decide to erase him.

Thursday: Seven dog touches.

Friday is black

Friday, there is a nor'easter, although it is spring. Friday, after one measly morning nuzzle and a dirty look, the dog goes to the groomer, an all-day proposition. Back home it's so dark I need to turn on the lights in the daytime. I spend the whole day thinking about the journalist-lawyer who touched me in a way that felt like an assault. My internal, eternal, infernal man-manager—the me who makes allowances for men from long, long habit—wonders what I did to provoke it. Yet. I can still feel his hands holding mine hostage. I have spent my whole life finding my voice and using it. Using my hands helps, like massaging my words, like guiding my thoughts. I wrote my first novel at age 60. That's a long time for a writer to not write, that's some hard-core shutting myself up. I'm done with that. I am so mad from the night before I don't notice the dog is giddy with relief when I pick him up from the groomer. He is overjoyed, bumping and nuzzling, licking my hand and leaning against my thigh, pushing his nose into my crotch. I forget to count.


I love my dog. He is an affectionate fellow. On Saturday, he lays his head in my hand so I'll scratch his ears, itchy from the groomer yanking the fur out. He head-butts me in the kitchen when I'm making coffee. He wants me to know he's happy to be home with me after his traumatic salon time. He stares into my eyes, watches me intently. I hug him, and even though I've read dogs don't like being hugged, he stands solid for it. He's big so I can lay my cheek along his strong back and wrap my arms around his chest, his heart beneath my hand. He breathes into me, hot, damp. His tail wags, just a little, his own dignified choice. I feel liquid, loved, loving, bonded, connected, attached, just like the couples in the article.

I meet my daughter, the close one, for dinner. We embrace hello. She maintains her reserve but we sit shoulder to shoulder at a bar. She shows me pictures. We bend over her phone and our heads touch. We laugh. I rub her back along the bumps of her spine as she digs into dinner. My fingers stop and rest at C5-C6. I don't think she notices, although she misses nothing. She tells me a story about her dog. We laugh. We talk about my father's coin collection, my Christmas gift to her. We talk about my new hat, her Christmas gift to me. A hat. We talk about her sister, whom we miss. Let's visit together, I say. Yeah, she says, let's. We've had a few. We walk out into night and I take her arm, my deficient right through her deficient left. She hugs me hard. I hang on her as we say goodbye.

I go home to the big dog. I clip the leash. We perambulate like old marrieds down the street to the park, him herding me along, thank god. My phone dings, Love you, Ma. My phone dings, When are you guys coming to visit me? My phone dings, We just talked about it at dinner! My phone dings, I'm jealous, where'd you guys eat? She, my touchy-feely west coast girl, posts a picture of the three of us from another time and tags me. The texts and the tag, the tail's wag, the hat on my head, everything like kisses, everything like hugs, everything like hanging on. It's Saturday night, the week is over, the task, to tally the touches that carry me through, is impossible. The experiment's a failure. To do it right, I'd have to start over. To do it right, I'd have to redefine the terms and I am pretty sure after all that, I would still lose count.

 "Times Touched In A Week" was initially published
in the August 15, 2017 edition of Literary Hub.

Stephanie Gangi is a poet, essayist and novelist living and working in New York City. 
Her acclaimed debut novel, The Next, was published by St. Martin’s Press in October of 2016. Gangi’s poem
Four, was a winner of the Hippocrates Society of Poetry and Medicine Prize in 2015. She is at work on her second novel.

I published my debut at age 60, so. My creative process is, I've come to learn, fairly standard. All along I just thought I was doing everything wrong but the more I read about "real" writers (ie, career writers) the more I realize all the suffering *is* the process, not warning signs that I am fucking it up. There's procrastinating, agonizing, distraction, self-soothing (and medicating), reading much better writers, lamentation, clicking, staring at many many screens, some blank. There is shame and envy and a competitive streak, core characteristics heretofore hidden. Eventually, there is sheer exhaustion and boredom with myself, and with that, a stillness that allows me to finally shut up and get to work.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of "Times Touched in A Week" and why you wrote it?
I wrote this piece because I hadn't had sex in a while and was feeling mighty sorry for myself anyway, and then someone linked to a Diane Ackerman piece about touch, and all the long-living couples patting and stroking and caressing and hand-holding etc etc, and I'm single, and I thought, heck, how many times do I get touched in a week, being that I live alone and all. And what started as a pretty good feel-sorry essay morphed and bent and glided along into something that I think is joyful. I hope.

Why write?
To slow and muffle the ticking clock, I guess.

Can you tell us about your teaching?
Every single thing I encounter teaches me. My two daughters are my greatest teachers. I teach writing workshops to women navigating breast cancer, finally, something in which I am an expert.

What other art forms and disciplines interest you? For you, what makes literature distinct from all other art forms?
I have art dates once a week with myself. I'm in NYC, what a gift.
Literature is distinct to me because it echos or amplifies or refutes the voice inside my head. It disrupts my own interior narrative, in a good way. This is not better than other art forms, but different. I also like the order and arrangement of words, so it satisfies a visual need, and I like the rhythms of good writing, so it's musical for me, and I like books as objects, the heft and scent, so there's all that too.

What are you working on now?
I'm writing a second novel. In my mind it is titled The Humbler because it is as difficult – no, more difficult – than the first novel.

Conjuring a Whole Narrative from Scraps

Conjuring a Whole Narrative from Scraps

There is no greatness where there is not simplicity,
goodness, and truth.

War and Peace

If you ask an artist who creates crazy quilts how they come up with their designs, that artist will likely tell you that each finished project originates from an emotional place. Each quilt is different because it is made of many found scraps and pieces of cloth in different sizes with no regular color or pattern—the sleeves of an old work shirt, perhaps, or the skirt of a wedding dress. Similarly, the writing of a novella-in-flash involves working with flash fiction fragments and stories by linking them together to form a layered, narrative arc. Working in both art forms demands an improvisational spirit regarding the creation of both content and structure. A novella-in-flash writer and a crazy quilt artist both become familiar with navigating incompletion and juxtaposition.


"Shabby Chic Crazy Quilt Detail" © Constanza Both art forms involve delving into the most unlikely places and finding pieces which, when put together, create an untraditional whole. The aim of a novella-in-flash is to create chapters that can stand alone as individual stories, while at the same time moving the narrative toward the larger, overall story arc. Just as a crazy quilt artist takes the time to prepare and stitch each patch, the flash pieces are written and polished as independent stories.

My novella-in-flash Here, Where We Live was born out of many of my poems and stories from the last twenty years. I conceptualized the storyline by beginning with older pieces that had been collecting dust in my metaphorical scrap bag. I had written stories and poems over the years involving a teenage girl and her mother—stories that felt in some way connected. It excited me that while searching for and gathering up my old writings, new ideas began to form in my mind about the narrative arc for Here, Where We Live and the significant characters began to take shape. As I stitched the stories together, the juxtapositions brought with them fresh energy and new meaning.

Beginning with the two female characters from my older stories, my process for piecing together the structure for Here, Where We Live was a little unusual. I had written another novella-in-flash the year before and ultimately decided the entire ending of that book didn’t work for that particular narrative. But the ending worked in other ways and became the inspiration point for building Here, Where We Live. I began working my way forward from that lost ending. Finding my narrative arc involved imagining what might happen when so much goes wrong in a young person’s life; exploring how she might cope with various stresses and joys; and, especially, how she might contain within herself the contrasting qualities of wisdom—born of hardship—and the stubborn immaturity of a teenager.

While writing Here, Where We Live, I looked to many of my older fragments and poems to guide me. A crazy quilt may be made of scraps of silk, velvet, wool, cotton, and linen. Bits of a family wedding suit might be sewn next to a patch of fabric from a childhood toy, and both may be next to a just-discovered piece of fabric. Similarly, writing the novella-in-flash involved integrating preexisting flashes and giving them a home surrounded by new neighbors—an entirely unexpected new order that ends up feeling just right.

If you look at the Beatles’s album Abbey Road, for example, and notice the order of the songs, you’ll discover how each song as been placed before or after the others to create a unique overall effect. With Abbey Road, considered by many critics to be one of the best rock albums ever created, each song is individually stunning. Yet, what brings the listener to her knees is the way “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” comes right before “Here Comes the Sun,” which is followed by “Because,” and on and on. The brilliance is in the way each song is placed—sad followed by happy, followed by funny, followed by strange. You never really know what is coming around the bend, and even when you do know, it is surprising again, retaining—because of its careful ordering—the ability to strike the listener anew. Like songs in an album, each chapter of the novella-in-flash must feel whole and strong so as to enhance the overall feeling and to bear up under repeated readings and rereadings.


"Crazy Quilt Block"
© ConstanzaTwo books that reward this kind of sustained and repeated attention and that influenced my love for this form were written before the term “flash fiction” existed: Mrs. Bridge (1959) and Mr. Bridge (1969) by Evan S. Connell. A master at showing the reader just enough, Connell wrote linked vignettes in both of these novels, which allows the reader a window into the lives of his characters. Connell’s vignettes, though seemingly uneventful, are a mixture of poignancy and unflinching sadness. At the end of each book, one is left with a strong feeling of having known his characters as though one had lived with them, with the order of the stories contributing heavily to that intimate character encounter.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention a film that I admire, one that creates the feeling of an entire life, by showing the audience just a sliver. Cléo from 5 to 7 is a French film made in 1962 by Agnès Varda. The movie focuses on an anxious hour-and-a-half in the life of a woman as it plays out in real time while she waits to hear the results of a medical test that will possibly confirm a diagnosis of cancer. Varda shows the audience Cléo’s character by focusing on tiny actions and details. As with effective flash fiction, it is the details that haunt the viewer: We see Cléo walking past shop windows and looking at her reflection in the glass; we see her waiting for a visit from her lover, as if for the first time. We see her driving with a girlfriend and trying to feel carefree, the way she felt before she knew she might have a terminal illness. This brief and compact film addresses existentialism, mortality, the nature of despair, and what it is to lead a meaningful life, and it proves that a work of art does not need to be long to leave the audience contemplating it for a long time after.

To return to the crazy quilt analogy, these means of compressed and fragmentary, almost scrap-like composition remind both the author and reader that life unfolds in minutes, hours, and days; in weeks and years. Some moments are colorful and brilliant, many are normal or even drab, and others are sad and desperate and misshapen. We humans frequently have very little perspective on our own stories while we are living them. The novella-in-flash, divided into tiny bits of action, mirrors life this way. I do not believe that life as it is being lived has a “narrative arc”—and if it does, it does not become clear until a person is gone.

Bearing this in mind, each time I experimented with the order of this odd assortment of chapters in Here, Where We Live, it felt as though the novella could easily take an entirely new direction. This was tricky. My hardest decisions involved defining what felt true and consistent with the characters I was creating. Only after rearranging the order again and again could I define a desirable narrative arc. Next, it was time to write what felt as though it were missing. This was like writing connective tissue—or seams to hold the patchwork narrative together.


"CQ Detail" ©Lisa SorensenUnique to this form, the novella-in-flash contains frequent pauses when chapters end, with each story chapter being under a thousand words. I’ve come to see these spaces as where the reader takes a breath, which creates a rhythmic reading experience overall. I enjoyed exploring how breathlessly close to ruin both daughter and mother become in this novella-in-flash. I wanted, as the writer, to have them relive the same issues and themes again and again with sporadic progress, like gasping for breath.

Another book that fostered my desire to attempt my own novella-in-flash is Why Did I Ever (2001) by Mary Robison, whose stunning depictions of messy lives are rendered imaginatively by working with tiny fragments assembled together that highlight the way ends and beginnings of chapters can be used to create rhythmic gaps like breathing. Robison wrote Why Did I Ever on hundreds of note cards over a long period of time. Some scenes or chapters are only one sentence long, whereas others are a few pages. Robison’s white spaces are structurally significant, as they are with my own novella-in-flash, where there are frequent pauses between chapters in which the reader takes a breath and makes the leap from one story to the next, following the threads of narrative mapped out by the author.

After all the patchwork pieces have been found, assembled and reassembled, sewn together with equal parts seams and gaps, only then does the larger quilt or narrative become clear. As the writer, now I can stand back from Here, Where We Live and see exactly where each fragment belonged and how each one contributes to the larger work. And my hope is that the reader will feel equally intrigued when reading the novella—wrapped up in a narrative made of overlaid, stitched-together stories.

First published in My Very End of the Universe –
Five Novellas-in-Flash and A Study of the Form
(Rose Metal Press, 2014)

Falling From Mirror

Falling From Mirror

forgive me for the terrible things I’ve seen
among you
because i walked away from you with violets in my hand
forgive me
“The Cyclamen (Mary-Incense)”

Translated by Burak Erdoğdu / Roza Publishing
Read Turkish version
Narin Yükler's Creative Process

Stories of homes are hidden in its roof

In its color there are  burns of the sorrow

Roads can not be used for traveling

At the borehole there is a sad song of the bride that tears apart the morning

Bread that made from the fame which sieved thinly heats the bare foot

Sits on the fire, a mom’s unburned sadness


A sleepless history records rooms

At the back of the door mom smokes the memories

Lots of lives reflects on the mirror 

The line that falls from the mirror settles under the eye

Girl stays still with her long hair

Frame is the enemy for mudbrick walls that does not break the memories

Her daughter who runs away is worst thing for the mother                                          


Aynadan düşen

evlerin hikâyesi saklıdır damında

renginde efkâr yanıkları

önünde gidilemeyen yollar

kuyu başı yeni gelin türküsü yıkar sabahı

ince elenmiş undan pişirilen sac ekmeği ısıtır çıplak ayağı

ateşte durur, bir annenin yanmamış âhı


uykusuz bir tekrar tutar zaptını odaların

kapı ardında bir anne tüttürür hatırayı

yük yerine dizili yastık sayısınca ömür düşer aynaya

aynadan düşen çizgi yerleşir gözaltına

orada durur kızı, uzun saçlarıyla

çerçeve hısmıdır artık kerpiç duvarın, kırmaz hatırayı

bir annenin kaçıp gitmiş kızıdır en sızılı yanı

Narin Yükler was born in Viranşehir of Şanlıurfa in 1988. She graduated from the Tourism and Hospitality Management School of Gaziantep University and from the Faculty of Business Administration of Anadolu University. After graduation, she started to work as a hotel manager. She got married in 2012 and had her daughter in 2014. During that time, she took part in the activities of various non-governmental and human rights organizations, especially women’s rights organizations.

Many of her stories and poems about Middle Eastern–especially Kurdish/Ezidi–women were published in several newspapers and magazines in Iraq, Belgium, Pakistan, Iran, and Turkey. She held meetings in refugee camps where she read her poems written in Kurdish and Turkish languages. She has written theatrical plays on the human and women’s rights, some of which were staged. Being a woman, a mother and a refugee in the Middle East. Her poetry books include Aynadaki Çürüme and Rê û Rêç. Her awards include KAOS GL Short Story Award – Selection Committee (2015), Hüseyin Çelebi Poetry Prize (2015), Ali İsmail Korkmaz Poetry Prize (2016), Golden Daphne Award For Young Poets – Selection Committee (2016), Arkadaş Zekai Özger Poetry Award (2017) and the Arjen ArÎ Poetry Award (2017).


Can you tell us a little about the origins of this series of poems?

My poetry deals with war, women, and migration.

Why do you write?
To cling to life. I live in the Middle East and have seen many countries in the Middle East. I wrote scripts and poems during these travels. Writing is a way of defending life. And therefore I see literature as necessary. Yes, we can not change the world by typing, but we can tell what causes war and immigration. I want to tell everyone about it.

Tell us about some of your formative influences and teachers who have been important to you.
My teachers encouraged me to read. I started to study philosophy. I write poetry and I cannot write poetry without reading philosophy.

The Future – What are you currently working on?
I'm working on a Kurdish poem. I am living in the heat. I want to develop projects related to refugee flags and children. I am interested in making documentaries, films, and poetry workshops.

Beer at the Lake

Beer at the Lake

You are the odd mom out, the one who doesn’t hang with the pack of moms, the one they don’t really get. You are standing at the lip of the swimming lake. It is a family camp in the summer, you are there with your husband, your kid’s schoolmates, their parents and siblings.

Your girl is dog-paddling near a group of classmates, she is smiling and squealing, a real child. Something has gone right, she is experiencing joy instead of a computer. The temperature is hot, too hot for you who lives by the ocean, and you want to walk into the lake up to your hips, even with your skirt on, even with the fabric hugging your ass and wet and scandalous.

Your husband is drinking beer on the field which means he’s started again and it will be all afternoon, and then through the night. You want him to be above this, but when you married him, you must have known this was part of your arrangement.

And suddenly you remember what it was like to be ten years old at an overnight camp, the one you go to every summer while your mother works full time and on weekends. It starts as soon as the sun sinks, the worries and imaginings about your mother in her car, some truck smashing into it head on because she is drinking and she doesn’t see it. You can’t hear sirens this far up into the hills, city noises don’t reach the camp, so you’ll never know if this is real or just in your mind. Your stomach hurts. You dive down into the pool to cry, underwater.

Bobbing back up from the pool as you sense the pool is emptying. Your eyes sting. A counselor says: okay, let’s go, OUT! You put your towel around your eyes instead of your shoulders. In the dressing room, you hate being naked in front of the girls, you hate the way your thighs and hips look, too defined for your age. You are hating too much about yourself these days and it is out of control. So, you think about bird feathers, how many you might find in the morning before anyone else is awake, the striped feathers, hawks, and how your collection will grow. How you will be alone with those feathers in the field, all yours.

The girls laugh and they are sharing something funny and important, holding hands. Some have breasts. They get each other. You are trying to find a mirror. You want to see how ugly you look. You want to know that it isn’t that bad, because, sometimes you surprise yourself when you look in the mirror and see how blue your own eyes can be, pool-blue. And there is an assistant counselor who tells you how pretty she thinks you are. And funny. She tells you this and you hold her hand and feel both special and weird. Her name is Caroline and she has breasts and she draws owls so well.

But here you are, a mom now, watching your daughter becoming part of a laughing, carefree moment. You are happy about this, because this was never you as a child.

Later, you will have sex with your husband and it will feel better for a little while, especially when sleeping. You have this way about you, you can make people feel good when they are uncomfortable but you can’t save them. And even outside of the lake, even standing there watching, perfectly still, you know that you will someday swim home. You will turn away from his beer breath and sink into sleep. And in that sleepy place you will forgive him.


Can you tell us a little about the origins of "Beer at the Lake" and why you wrote it?

I wrote this as an exploration of emotional time-travel.

Why do you write?
As a shy person, it's important for me to share my thoughts, no matter how odd they are, with other humans. Reading great writing makes me feel less isolated. I'm a fairly reclusive person, and writing had taken me out of myself.

Were you born into a family of writers or artists? What were your formative influences?
My older sisters were both actresses when I was growing up. My oldest sister, Sian Barbara Allen, was a film and TV actress. My other sister, Hannah, was in theater. I loved them and wanted to be like them. I went to an acting conservatory, Pacific Conservatory of Performing Arts, in California.

What other art forms and disciplines interest you?
John Darnielle's The Mountain Goats, ELO, Stephin Merrit's The Magnetic Fields, Joni Mitchell, Elliot Smith, Wilco, Frank Black.

What are your plans for the future?
I'm curating the Bath Flash Fiction Award. I've recently moved from San Francisco to a tiny town in the north of England to be with my sweetheart.

Meg Pokrass is the author of four collections of flash fiction, and one award-winning collection of prose poetry, Cellulose Pajamas, which received the Bluelight Book Award in 2016. Her stories and poems have been widely published and anthologized in two Norton Anthologies: Flash Fiction International (W.W. Norton, 2015) and the forthcoming New Microfiction (W.W. Norton, 2018). Meg is the founder of New Flash Fiction Review and co-founder of San Francisco's Flash Fiction Collective reading series. Currently, she teaches online flash fiction workshops and serves as Festival Curator for the Bath Flash Fiction Festival. You can find her work on her website

Land of Lies • Lügenland

Land of Lies • Lügenland

Robbie was seven when he told his first lie. His mother had given him
a wrinkled old bill and asked him to buy her a pack of king-size
 at the grocery store. Robbie bought an ice cream cone instead.
hid the change under a big, white stone in the backyard of their
 apartment building and told his mother that a giant, redheaded kid
with a missing front tooth had kicked him in the shin and taken the
money. She believed him. And Robbie hasn’t stopped lying since.


Translated from German by Rachel Hildebrandt
German version
Gudrun Lerchbaum 's Creative Process

Chapter One

Day 1

I meet up with Julia on the bank of the Kaiserwasser the afternoon before the wedding. Kati shows up, too. We toast my old life as a soldier and the new one about to begin. The break is as drastic as the one five years ago, and like that one, this one can only be survived in an inebriated state.

We loll around on threadbare blankets and squint up through the greenery at the sinking sun, the sky bluer than it has been in weeks. I fish the pills out of my hip pack, toss one in my mouth, and swish it down with vodka. Julia snags one, too. Kati doesn’t want any, although she needs to relax more than anyone else. However, my supply is limited, and I don’t force people to take anything, least of all her. Affixed by a narrow band, the topcam’s green light sits like an iridescent third eye on her forehead. It isn’t blinking today, although she’s constantly sharing everything that happens to her on Mindmine. The reality is that Ms. Public Servant doesn't want to be seen out drinking in public. Insufficient role model material.

A small child careens toward us, arms outstretched. He trips over the edge of the blanket and falls onto all fours. I turn in his direction, my head propped on one hand.

“Hey, sweetie!” I click my tongue.

The child crows and bares his four teeth, before crawling toward me. He grabs my shirt and pulls himself upright, legs spread. I stroke his plump cheek with my finger and bury my fingertip in the dimple in his double chin. I will be a mother soon enough, and a little practice can’t hurt. With his puffy little hands, the munchkin pats around on the gun stuck in my hip holster. I pop the strap open and hold the Glock out to him. He chortles and reaches for the barrel.

I have to laugh. “Look at that. You know what it’s all about!”

“Take that thing back!” Kati shrieks at the same moment the mother materializes. Without saying a word, she grabs the child around the waist with both hands and stumbles backward, her eyes wide with panic.

“What? Are you scared we might stick your little dumpling on the grill?” I call after her. “We were just playing around.”

“It would be fun to have a barbecue, though,” Julia adds as she scratches at the stump ending at her prosthesis. Without standing up, she sends a flat stone skipping across the water. Startled, three ducks take flight, forming a squadron to search for a new destination.

I am still struggling with my irritation over Kati’s company. She hangs around Julia like a terrier, refusing to get lost. A terrier whose teeth are sunk into her missing leg.

Julia takes a long swig. “To your big day,” she says and passes me the vodka bottle. “If you’ve found the one, there’s still hope for me.”

“Shut up!” I yank up a handful of grass and hurl it in her direction. “You have work, a real job. I’m just getting married, that’s all. A home, children to take care of… I’d trade places with you if I could!”

Which was a lie, since I still have both legs. 

“That’s not true!” Kati cut in quickly, her forehead furrowed disapprovingly. “You’ve always dreamed of getting married, even back in school. The white carriage, a sea of flowers, all of it. It’s the best thing that could happen to you! And now you pretend…”

As if nothing had changed since we were in school. She still knows best. I fiddle around with my gun, throw myself on my back, and take aim through the foliage at a helicopter clattering down Wagramer Strasse. 

“I’m not pretending. Doubt is the prerequisite for every advancement.” I swing my gun toward her. “I think, therefore I am. You don’t think, therefore you aren’t. Click!”

Kati’s hands fumble around in the air. “I would be very grateful… put that thing away!”

“Hey, folks, violence is only one solution among many.” Julia grinned. “Stop the shooting! You just have cold feet, girl. Relax.” She motions me over, the bottle clasped in her right hand. “Lie down!” With her left hand, she pinches my nose closed, so I have to gulp for air. She pours vodka down my open throat. I try to swallow and twist my head away, but I’m afraid I might break my nose, which Julia is holding mercilessly. The alcohol dribbles over my cheeks and down my neck. I splutter, choke.

Kati snatches the bottle from Julia and dries it with a corner of the blanket. “So, what’s your dress like?” she asks. Her eyes grow misty. “Do you remember mine? An absolute dream! You were so jealous!”

I wipe my face with my sleeve and my fingers on my pants before I unbuckle my wrist cell and straighten the display. I scroll through the pictures. “There! My mother’s wedding dress. With some extra ruffles at the bottom. It was too short.”

Kati takes the strap from me and wrinkles her forehead. “Have you already posted this?” She holds the picture up for Julia.

I watch them and know what they are thinking. I can hardly recognize myself in the princess with towering curls, sprouting out of the cloudy mountain of ruffles. Squinting, they compare my current condition with the stranger in the photo.

I try to escape their scrutiny by melting into the ground. My camo, which is just as pointless in the city as faith in a higher justice, finally has a purpose here on the gray-green blanket, splotched as it is with light filtering through the leaves above. Starting tomorrow, I will have to make do without its protection, and my days will begin with time spent in my closet, wondering what I should wear. Want to wear. Free to call shots about what I will do on a given day.

“How is he?” Julia wonders.

The vodka still stings my eyes, causing them to tear up. I sit up and cross my legs, taking a sip from the bottle before I hand it back to Julia.

“He’s alright. Except for his damp palms. In bed…” I gulp as I think about the groping and the slobbery kisses. “...well, it’ll be alright. In any case, a 78% character match and an 86% genetic combat… Shit, damn booze - com-pat-i-bil-i-ty. That’s what I meant. Better than what he had with his first wife.” The sun blinds me, and I scoot over into the shade.

Kati’s head sways. She purses her lips and resumes her sweet demeanor. “78 and 86, not bad. We had 81 and 89, but that’s not all that better.”

Julia slugs her on the shoulder. “Has your husband already started looking for your successor? Married for four years and still not pregnant. Watch out!”

“She’s gone,” I say. At least today is supposed to be about me, not Kati.

“Gone? Who?” Julia asks.

“His first wife.”

“What do you mean, gone? Dead?”

“No idea. Maybe in the militia, where all losers end up. A painter or a drinker, barren or a thinker. A stalwart weapon, aiming true, will make a soldier yet of you.” I quote the maxim used in the campaign that had lured me out of my studio five years ago. “Battle hymns cure artists’ dreams.

Childbearing or mine burying,” Julia whispers as she hands Kati the bottle with a wink. I don’t know that slogan and suspect she made it up.

Kati’s face now. Despite the fact that as a teacher, she won’t land in the militia, whether she ever has kids or not. Education is a form of national defense. Only those who know their country’s borders can defend them and all that rot. Does she think of these slogans, too? Either way, she’s gnawing on her lower lip and choking back down whatever is on the tip of her tongue. Julia can still say whatever she wants where Kati is concerned. One of the last fading sunbeams sweeps across her gentle features, causing her mocha-colored hair to gleam as the sun sinks behind the Kahlenberg. With my finger, I copy the wave of a curl sweeping across her cheek onto my pant leg. Behind us, the last family gathers up its swimming things and leaves for home.

“Something’s missing,” Julia comments, her eyes fixed on my cell. “No veil, that would be too much. Maybe a white satin band, loosely braided”

I crawl closer to her, as the ground buckles and tips beneath me. The go pill combined with the alcohol and the heat. I have a hard time keeping my balance, but eventually sit upright and prop myself against Julia’s shoulder. She has removed her prosthetic leg. The lower part now lays in the meadow, her turquoise linen shoe tied neatly and cocked at a right angle, the ruffles of a white sock frothing out, just like they did back then. Always the same combination, never changing over the years. All that’s lacking are the red splatters. The bone fragments and bloody tissue are missing from the flesh-colored limb, too.

It occurred around the time that people began to plant mines in their gardens in an effort to protect themselves and their possessions. During the turbulent times around the collapse of the Union, raising a family in the suburbs was no longer such a positive thing. On the other hand, this time was a good one in terms of fashion, as men started to shave off their beards. Any bearded man ran the risk of being taken for an Islamist. The belligerent squads of the Righteous, which were running wild in those days, refused to grant anyone the benefit of the doubt. Distrust, fear, and a sense of pending catastrophe, of a massive war, hung over our childhoods like storm clouds. We did not attach any more significance to this than the threat of a heavy rain shower.

As it turned out, there was no major disaster. At least, not the one everyone was waiting for. The Righteous seized power at the last minute and purged the country, calling every citizen up for duty, drawing boundaries, and building fences.

We were playing basketball outside the garage. Julia, Kati and I. Shirin had already gone home, her parents were constantly worried about her. The ball sailed over the fence. It just sat there, glowing orange, on the grass. The chain link was only chest high, and there was nobody in sight.

Kati should have gotten the ball, since she was the one who had thrown it too hard.

After it happened, I started to pull the arms and legs off my Barbie dolls and recombine them. A black leg for the white Barbie, four white arms for the black torso. I had to sew new clothes for that one. Back then, there were still multiethnic Barbies. I also crocheted a lot.


“A white satin band?” I asked, staring at the wedding dress picture. “I don’t know. Maybe it should be a crown of thorns. Rose stems wound into a wreath, the petals strewn around my feet.”

The shot crashed into the tree right beside us, sending bark fragments and every nearby bird into the air.

“Take cover!” Julia shouts, as she hides behind the trunk.

The guard is standing less than ten meters away, by the fence surrounding the sports field, his semiautomatic trained on us. A bearded seventy-year-old man in the cornflower blue uniform of the civil defense corps. I reach for my weapon, my adrenaline at fighting level, sweat breaking out all over, my dizziness and shaking have vanished. I take aim at him.

“Get out of here, you drunken riffraff!”

Kati gets to her feet and slowly approaches the old man, her arms stretched out like crippled wings, palms up, a cloying smile. “Please excuse us for disturbing you. I teach over there at the high school.” She vaguely points across the water, as if the man with the gun in his hand had just asked for a school recommendation for his grandchildren. “I’m here for a bachelor send-off with my friends over there. A few high spirits are in due order, wouldn’t you say?”

She gives an artificial laugh as she raises her arms and throws her head back. As if she wants to point the old man toward the seventh heaven. He does not lower his weapon, but his shoulders unclench.

“I promise that we won’t be here much longer. After all, I don’t want to be completely wasted at the wedding tomorrow.”

I, I, I, I. All eyes on her, as usual. The bullet puts an abrupt end to her babbling. I drop my weapon, as the guard does his. Watch as she sways, falls. The guard is the only one who can see her eyes. His mouth opens, his jaw unhinged. He looks over at Julia, who is peering out from behind her tree trunk, and finally at me. He staggers back a few steps and dashes away, hunched over and darting erratically like a hare.

Julia creeps out from behind the tree, her eyes flitting back and forth between Kati and me and the spot where the man is about to disappear within the clubhouse. She crawls over to Kati lying motionless on her stomach, and stares at the hole punched into the white blouse, underneath her left shoulder blade. Like a time-lapse film of a rose in bloom, the blood is seeping into the fabric. Julia grasps Kati by the shoulder, attempting to turn her over.

Sobriety rushes through my body like ice water. “Leave it! We have to get out of here before the militia shows up.”

Shoving the Glock back in its holster, I sweep up the prosthetic leg and toss it to Julia. I wipe off the bottle on the blanket to get rid of DNA evidence and fingerprints before I hurl it into the river. I pause for a moment, gasping. How quickly everything can change. The shot had simply gone off. Just like that. I close my fingers around the still-warm pistol, yearning to wipe it down and throw it after the bottle. However, the engraved service number on it will lead straight back to me, even without my fingerprints. Besides, I’m supposed to turn it back in tomorrow when I formally resign my position.

Julia grabs my arm and yanks me away.

Lügenland was published in 2016 by
Pendragon Verlag, Bielefeld, Germany.

Land of Lies is forthcoming from Weyward Sisters
The Creative Process is collaborating with the
Global Literature in Libraries Initiative
Weyward Sisters on global literary initiatives.



Tag 1

Am Nachmittag vor der Hochzeit treffe ich Julia am Ufer des Kaiserwassers. Kati ist auch da. Wir trinken: auf mein altes Leben als Soldatin und auf den anstehenden Neustart. Der Bruch so drastisch wie jener vor fünf Jahren, auch dieser nur betäubt zu ertragen.

Auf abgewetzten Decken rekeln wir uns, blinzeln durch das Laubwerk in die tief stehende Sonne, der Himmel so blau wie seit Wochen nicht mehr. So blau, wie wir bald sein werden. Ich fische die Pillen aus der Hüfttasche, werfe eine ein und spüle sie mit Wodka hinunter. Julia zieht mit. Kati will keine, obwohl sie es am nötigsten hätte, endlich locker zu werden. Aber mein Vorrat ist begrenzt und ich dränge niemandem etwas auf, ihr schon gar nicht. Das grüne Licht der Topcam, die, an einem schmalen Stirnband befestigt, wie ein schillerndes drittes Auge auf ihrer Stirn sitzt, blinkt heute nicht, obwohl sie sonst jede Lebensäußerung auf Mindmine teilt. Doch beim Trinken in der Öffentlichkeit will die Frau Staatsdienerin nicht gesehen werden. Mangelnde Vorbildwirkung.

Ein Kleinkind taumelt mit ausgebreiteten Armen auf uns zu, stolpert über den Rand der Decke und fällt auf alle viere. Ich drehe mich zu ihm, den Kopf in die Hand gestützt.

„Na, du Süßer!“ Ich schnalze mit der Zunge. 

Lachend zeigt das Kind mir seine vier Zähne und krabbelt auf mich zu. Es sucht Halt an meinem Shirt und zieht sich hoch in einen breitbeinigen Stand. Ich streiche mit dem Zeigefinger über seine pralle Wange und lasse die Fingerkuppe in dem Grübchen auf seinem Doppelkinn verschwinden. Bald werde ich selbst Mutter sein, da kann ein wenig Übung nicht schaden. Mit seinen aufgeblasenen Händchen patscht der Zwerg auf die Waffe, die in meinem Hüftholster steckt. Ich öffne den Druckknopf, halte ihm die Glock entgegen. Glucksend greift er nach dem Lauf. 

Ich muss lachen. „Ja, du weißt, worauf es ankommt!“

„Nimm ihm das Ding weg!“, kreischt Kati und dann ist auch schon die Mutter da. Ohne ein Wort packt sie das Kind mit beiden Händen um seine Mitte und stolpert rückwärts davon, die Augen panisch aufgerissen. 

„Du schaust ja, als hättest du Angst, wir könnten dein Dickerchen auf den Grill legen!“, rufe ich ihr nach. „Wir haben doch nur gespielt.“

„Grillen wär aber auch fein“, sagt Julia und kratzt sich am Stumpf oberhalb der Prothese. Ohne aufzustehen, lässt sie einen flachen Stein über das Wasser hüpfen, der drei Enten aufscheucht. Flatternd steigen sie auf, formieren sich, ein Geschwader auf der Suche nach dem nächsten Ziel. 

Ich kämpfe noch immer mit meinem Ärger über Katis Anwesenheit. Wie ein Terrier hängt sie an Julia, nicht loszuwerden. Ein Terrier, der sich in das fehlende Bein verbissen hat.

Julia nimmt einen tiefen Schluck. „Auf deinen großen Tag“, sagt sie und reicht mir die Wodkaflasche weiter. „Wenn sogar du einen findest, kann ich ja noch hoffen.“

„Sei doch still!“ Ich reiße eine Handvoll Gras aus, werfe es in ihre Richtung. „Du hast Arbeit, einen richtigen Job. Ich werde nur heiraten. Haushalt, Kinder … wenn ich könnte, würde ich mit dir tauschen!“

Das ist gelogen, denn immerhin habe ich noch beide Beine.

„Ist doch nicht wahr!“, sagt Kati auch prompt, die Stirn missbilligend gerunzelt. „Du hast doch schon immer vom Heiraten geträumt, damals in der Schule. Weiße Kutsche, Blütenmeer und alles. Ist doch das Beste, was dir passieren kann! Und jetzt tust du so …“

Als ob sich nichts geändert hätte seit unserer Schulzeit. Noch immer weiß sie alles besser. Ich spiele mit der Waffe, lasse mich auf den Rücken fallen und visiere durch das Blattwerk den Hubschrauber an, der die Wagramer Straße entlangknattert. 

„Ich tu nicht so. Zweifel ist die Voraussetzung für jeden Erkenntnisfortschritt.“ Ich schwenke die Waffe in ihre Richtung. „Ich denke, also bin ich. Du denkst nicht, also bist du nicht. Klick!“ 

Kati wedelt mit den Händen herum. „Ich wäre dir wirklich sehr dankbar … leg das Ding weg!“

„Hey Leute, Gewalt ist nur eine Lösung unter vielen.“ Julia grinst. „Schluss mit Schuss! Du hast bloß kalte Füße, Mädel. Entspann dich.“ Sie winkt mich näher, die Flasche in der Rechten. „Leg dich hin!“ Mit der Linken hält sie mir die Nase zu, dass ich nach Luft schnappen muss, mit der Rechten gießt sie mir den Wodka in den Rachen. Ich versuche zu schlucken, dann den Kopf wegzudrehen, doch ich habe Angst, mir die Nase zu brechen, so gnadenlos hält Julia fest. Das Zeug rinnt mir über die Wangen und den Nacken hinunter. Ich spucke, huste. 

Kati entwindet Julia die Flasche und trocknet sie mit einem Zipfel der Decke ab. „Und? Wie ist dein Kleid?“, fragt sie. Ihr Blick wird schmalzig. „Weißt du noch – meines? Ein Traum! Du warst so neidisch!“

Ich tupfe mir mit dem Ärmel das Gesicht trocken und wische die Finger an der Hose ab, bevor ich mein Fonband vom Handgelenk löse und das Display gerade biege. Ich wische mich durch die Bilder. „Da! Das Hochzeitskleid meiner Mutter. Mit extra Rüschen unten. War zu kurz.“

Kati nimmt mir das Band aus der Hand und runzelt die Stirn. „Hast du das schon gepostet?“ Sie hält Julia das Bild unter die Nase.

Ich sehe ihnen an, was sie denken, erkenne mich ja selbst kaum wieder in der Prinzessin mit dem aufgesteckten Haarteil über Rüschenwolkenbergen. Unter halb gesenkten Lidern vermessen sie den Ist-Zustand, vergleichen ihn mit der Fremden auf dem Foto. 

Ich versuche, ihre Blicke zu ignorieren und mit dem Untergrund zu verschmelzen. Mein Flecktarn, in der Stadt so sinnlos wie der Glaube an höhere Gerechtigkeit, ergibt auf der graugrünen Decke mit den durch das Blätterdach gefilterten Lichtflecken endlich Sinn. Schon morgen muss ich auf seinen Schutz verzichten und jeden Tag vor dem Kleiderschrank grübeln, was ich anziehen soll. Will. Den ganzen Tag selbst bestimmen, was zu tun ist. 

„Wie ist er denn so?“, fragt Julia.

Der verschüttete Schnaps brennt noch in meinen Augen, lässt sie tränen. Ich setze mich in den Schneidersitz, nippe an der Flasche und reiche sie an Julia weiter. 

„Ganz okay. Bis auf die feuchten Hände. Im Bett …“, ich schlucke, denke an das Getatsche und die viel zu nassen Küsse, „… na ja, das wird schon. Immerhin 78 Prozent Charakterübereinstimmung und sogar 86 Prozent genetische Kombatt… – Scheiße, verdammter Fusel – Kom-pa-ti-bi-li-tät, wollte ich sagen. Mehr als mit seiner Ersten jedenfalls.“ Die Sonne sticht mir in die Augen und ich rutsche ein Stück weiter in den Schatten. 

Kati wiegt den Kopf, spitzt die Lippen, tut wieder einmal auf süß. „78 – 86, nicht schlecht. Bei uns waren es 81 – 89, aber so viel besser ist das ja auch nicht.“ 

Julia boxt ihr auf den Oberarm. „Hat dein Mann sich auch schon nach einer Nachfolgerin umgeschaut? Vier Jahre verheiratet und noch immer nicht schwanger. Pass bloß auf!“

„Sie ist weg“, sage ich. Wenigstens heute soll es um mich gehen und nicht um Kati.

„Weg? Wer?“, fragt Julia.

„Na, seine erste Frau.“

„Wie, weg? Tot?“

„Keine Ahnung. Vielleicht bei der Miliz. Wo alle Minderleister aufschlagen. Ob kunstverseucht, ob bipolar, ob süchtig oder unfruchtbar – die rechte Waffe in der Hand macht euch zum Teil der Heldenschar!“, zitiere ich den Leitsatz der Kampagne, die mich vor fünf Jahren aus dem Atelier geholt hat. „Marschgesang statt Ausdruckszwang.“

Kindersegen oder Minenlegen“, wispert Julia und reicht Kati anzüglich zwinkernd die Flasche. Den Spruch kenne ich nicht, den hat sie sich ausgedacht.

Katis Gesicht jetzt. Obwohl sie als Lehrerin sicher nicht bei der Miliz landen würde, ob sie nun Kinder bekommt oder nicht. Auch Bildung ist Landesverteidigung. Nur, wer die Grenzen des Landes kennt, kann sie auch verteidigen und all das Gewäsch. Ob sie auch an die Sprüche denkt? Jedenfalls kaut sie auf ihrer Unterlippe und würgt hinunter, was ihr auf der Zunge liegt. Noch immer kann Julia sich bei ihr alles erlauben. Einer der letzten Sonnenstrahlen streift ihr zartes Gesicht, lässt ihr mokkafarbenes Haar aufglänzen, bevor die Sonne hinter dem Kahlenberg versinkt. Mit dem Zeigefinger zeichne ich den Schwung der Locke, die sich über ihre Wange windet, auf mein Hosenbein. Hinter uns rafft die letzte Familie ihre Badesachen zusammen und macht sich auf den Heimweg.

„Irgendetwas fehlt“, sagt Julia, den Blick auf mein Fonband geheftet. „Kein Schleier, das wäre zu viel. Ein weißes Satinband vielleicht, locker eingeflochten.“

Auf allen vieren krieche ich zu ihr, weil der Boden unter mir buckelt und kippt. Go-Pill und Alkohol, dazu die Hitze. Den Kampf mit der Schwerkraft gewinne ich mit Mühe und richte mich auf, stütze mich auf Julias Schulter. Sie hat die Prothese abgenommen. Wie damals der abgetrennte Unterschenkel liegt sie in der Wiese, der türkisfarbene Leinenschuh am rechtwinklig abgespreizten Fuß ordentlich geschnürt, darüber die Rüsche eines weißen Söckchens, seit Jahren gleich. Nur die roten Spritzer fehlen. Und aus der fleischfarbenen Hülle ragen weder Knochensplitter noch blutiges Gewebe.


Es geschah, als die Leute begannen, ihre Gärten zu verminen, um sich und ihre Vorräte zu schützen. In den Unruhezeiten während des Zerfalls der Union war es auf einmal kein so großes Glück mehr, mit Kindern am Stadtrand zu wohnen. Modetechnisch hingegen war diese Zeit ein Gewinn, weil die Männer sich ihre Bärte abrasierten. Schließlich lief jeder Bärtige Gefahr, als Islamist zu gelten. Den Prügelpatrouillen der Aufrechten, die damals außer Rand und Band gerieten, wollte niemand einen Vorwand liefern. Wie Gewitterwolken hingen Misstrauen, Angst und die Erwartung einer Katastrophe, eines großen Krieges, über unserer Kindheit, ohne dass wir ihnen mehr Bedeutung zugemessen hätten, als der Gefahr eines kräftigen Regenschauers. 

Es ist ja dann auch nicht zum ganz großen Desaster gekommen. Nicht zu dem jedenfalls, auf das alle gewartet hatten. Gerade noch rechtzeitig hatten die Aufrechten die Macht übernommen und das Land gereinigt, jeden Einzelnen in die Pflicht genommen, Grenzen gezogen, Zäune errichtet. 

Wir spielten Basketball bei den Garagen, Julia, Kati und ich. Shirin war schon heimgegangen, ihre Eltern in dauernder Sorge um sie. Der Ball flog über einen Zaun. Orange leuchtend lag er auf dem Rasen, der Maschendraht brusthoch nur und niemand weit und breit zu sehen. 

Kati hätte gehen müssen. Sie hatte viel zu scharf geworfen. 

Danach fing ich an, den Barbiepuppen die Glieder auszureißen und sie neu zu kombinieren. Ein schwarzes Bein für die weiße Barbie, vier weiße Arme für den schwarzen Torso, dem ich daraufhin neue Kleider nähen musste. Damals hatte es noch fremdethnische Barbies gegeben. Auch gehäkelt habe ich viel.


„Ein weißes Satinband?“, frage ich und starre auf das Brautkleid-Bild. „Ich weiß nicht. Vielleicht eher eine Dornenkrone. Rosenstiele zum Kranz gewunden, die Blütenblätter zu meinen Füßen verstreut.“

Der Schuss kracht neben uns in den Baum, lässt Rindenstücke spritzen und die Vögel im Umkreis auffliegen. 

„Deckung!“, schreit Julia und sucht Schutz hinter dem Stamm.

Der Wächter steht keine zehn Meter entfernt am Zaun der Sportanlage, die Halbautomatische angelegt. Ein bärtiger Siebziger in der kornblumenblauen Uniform der Bürgerwehr. Ich taste nach meiner Waffe, Adrenalin auf Kampfpegel, Schweißausbruch, kein Schwindel mehr, kein Zittern. Ich nehme ihn ins Visier.

„Schert’s euch weg, versoffenes Gesindel!“

Kati steht auf und geht langsam auf den Alten zu, die Arme wie lahme Flügel ausgestreckt, die Handflächen offen, klebrig lächelnd. „Entschuldigen Sie, wenn wir Sie gestört haben sollten. Ich unterrichte drüben am Gymnasium.“ Sie deutet mit dem Zeigefinger vage über das Wasser. Als ob der Mann sich mit der Waffe in der Hand nach der besten Schule für seine Enkel erkundigt hätte. „Ich feiere mit meinen Freundinnen hier Junggesellenabschied, da muss es doch ein bisserl poltern.“ 

Selbst jetzt will sie politisch korrekt sein und vermeidet die weibliche Form, obwohl eindeutig kein Mann unter uns ist. Bloß kein linkes Gendersprech. Sie lacht affektiert, hebt die Arme und wirft den Kopf in den Nacken, als wolle sie dem Alten die Richtung zum siebten Himmel zeigen. Er behält die Waffe im Anschlag, doch seine Schultern entspannen sich. 

„Ich verspreche Ihnen, wir bleiben nicht mehr lange. Schließlich will ich morgen bei der Hochzeit nicht völlig verkatert sein.“

Ich, ich, ich, ich. Alle Blicke wie immer auf sie gerichtet. Der Schuss zieht einen endgültigen Schlussstrich unter ihr Geplapper. Ich lasse meine Waffe sinken wie der Wächter die seine, sehe sie taumeln, beobachte ihren Fall. Nur der Wächter kann ihr in die Augen sehen. Sein Mund steht offen, der Kiefer wie ausgehängt. Er sieht Julia an, die hinter ihrem Baumstamm hervorlugt, schließlich mich. Er schwankt einige Schritte rückwärts und rennt dann geduckt im Zickzack davon wie ein Feldhase. 

Julia kriecht hinter dem Baum hervor. Ihr Blick hetzt hin und her zwischen Kati und mir und der Stelle, wo der Mann gleich im Vereinsheim verschwinden wird. Sie robbt zu Kati, die reglos auf dem Bauch liegt, starrt auf das Loch, das unterhalb des linken Schulterblattes in der weißen Bluse prangt. Wie eine im Zeitraffer aufblühende Rose breitet sich das Blut auf dem Gewebe aus. Julia packt Kati an der Schulter, versucht, sie umzudrehen.

Wie Eiswasser schwappt Nüchternheit durch meinen tauben Körper. „Lass, wir müssen weg, bevor die Miliz kommt!“

Ich schiebe die Glock in das Holster, greife nach der Beinprothese und werfe sie Julia zu. Die Flasche wische ich an der Decke ab, genetische Spuren, Fingerabdrücke, bevor ich sie in den Fluss schleudere. Keuchend halte ich inne. Wie schnell sich alles ändern kann. Der Schuss hat sich gelöst. Einfach so. Ich lege die Hand an die noch warme Pistole, will auch sie abwischen, der Flasche hinterherwerfen. Doch die eingravierte Dienstnummer führt direkt zu mir, auch ohne Fingerabdrücke, und morgen früh bei meinem Dienstaustritt muss ich sie abgeben. 

Julia packt mich am Arm, reißt mich fort.


The Austrian writer Gudrun Lerchbaum grew up in Vienna, Paris, and Düsseldorf. Before and during her studies of Philosophy and Architecture she held various side jobs ranging from industrial worker to nude model for an art class. After graduation, she took up work as a freelance architect. Confined to bed after a riding accident in 2007 she started writing her first novel and became seriously addicted to the literary process. She currently lives in Vienna with her husband and has two daughters.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of Land of Lies and why you wrote it?
In 2012, I started looking after a 15-year-old Afghan girl who came to Austria as a refugee. Her story, her powerless exposure to cruel decisions by men in her country, made me furious. On her behalf, I searched for a literary voice that would be able to express her longing for a happy, quiet life as well as set free the suppressed aggression which she had buried inside.

To avoid the perception that these problems had nothing to do with our lives in the First World, I situated the story in our midst, in my own country. I wrote a short story about a distraught female protagonist living in a repressive regime in the near future. Her country is governed by a strong leader, whose party's principles echo the right-wing parties of our time. I didn't necessarily expect the future to be like this, but it seemed like one of many possible futures.

After the story was shortlisted in a competition, people started to ask me to continue the narrative. So that was what I did and the story became, with small alterations, the first chapter of my novel. I sent my stubborn heroine on a journey catalysed by a violent incident that cast her out of society, forcing her to reset her life and to take a stand against oppression on a personal level as well as politically.

As I was drawing my novel to a close, reality started to match my story. In some European countries, like Poland, Hungary and Finland as well as in Turkey, right-wing parties were elected to power. In Austria, Germany, and the Netherlands they also gained many votes, and now even the US, former leader of the free world, is ruled by a seemingly unscrupulous right-wing populist. Was the undesirable future I meant to imagine about to come true?
And the refugee girl I cared for? She now lives her life in another Austrian city. She works for her living and she defies every man who tries to limit her life and independence. Sometimes she might even be happy.

Why did you become a writer?
When I was a child I wrote stories, like many children do. They often involved horses and girls and all the sad things that happened to them, due to the fact, that they were mostly surrounded by really bad people. Eventually I stopped writing because there was so much else to do, so many experiences to be had. Finishing school, I had a brief impulse to become a writer. But as nobody encouraged me and I didn't really know what to write about, I cast that dream aside and headed for architecture.

I completely forgot about writing until the mid-2000s. At that time, I was in a relationship with a man who wanted to write a novel, and asked if I would like to contribute. He never got started, so on a lazy Sunday I wrote a few pages using what I thought was his perspective on our relationship. When I showed it to him, he went pale. I had captured his every thought. That was the moment I realized I could do it.

It was a thoroughly unhappy relationship, and we split soon afterward. But the infection had caught me. About a year later, on a riding-holiday with my daughter, I had an accident that prevented me from working and made my every movement painful for a few weeks. Bored, I took out the first pages I had written the previous year and started to develop them into a longer piece. It came as a surprise that the further I strayed from what had actually happened, the more fun writing became. I finished the novel, but it never got published, since the small publisher with whom I had signed a contract went bankrupt during the editing process.
I began to write short stories and to take courses in creative writing. My stories got published, and a few years later, my second novel was ready.

Being asked the question: What does writing give you that life can't? I have to say: Nothing! Writing gives me the same pleasure I get from imagining a building and how people would like to live or work in it. What's better, though: I can do everything on my own, follow every lead I choose. That's an incredible luxury. Unfortunately, it doesn't quite pay off as well financially, but I'll never stop dreaming.

The Art of Translation
For me, language is all about rhythm, and it's incredibly exciting to see it captured in another language. As the process of translation has only just begun, I can't provide any significant insights apart from that.

I work very closely with my translator, which of course is only possible because of my sufficient knowledge of the English language. I definitely enjoy the process and the way it improves my skills. It's hard to imagine how a translation into a language I don't speak would feel, but I look forward to that experience too.

Did your parents encourage you to become a writer?
I was always encouraged to read by my parents. They had nothing to do with writing or other arts, but they loved to read and still do. For many years my birthday presents consisted mainly of books. The occasional girls and horses story was significantly outweighed by adventure and literary children's books. I regretted, though, that girls usually played rather decorative roles in these works. On the other hand, this deficiency made me dream myself into the stories I had read, every evening in my bed when the light went out. This marked the true beginning of me inventing my own stories and switching into faraway worlds.

Which books did you love as a child?
Looking back my favourite book was Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer. I also loved everything written by Erich Kästner. Beautifully written, exciting and witty – those were the books I cherished most.

Do you draw inspiration from other art forms?
All art is linked because, one way or another, you need to tell a story. Literature therefore might be the most direct form of art, but in my eyes the creative process is similar in all art forms. At least concerning architecture, I can say that for sure. You have to develop a sense of what you want to achieve, however blurry this picture may be. Eventually an idea materializes. Whether it be a persistent protagonist who struggles in your mind to come alive, or a dance-move that demands to be transformed into a building, or a colour flooding the grey city or ... You follow the lead of your inspiration, and then you have to work on the structures necessary to keep it up, to make it move or whatever it is you desire.

What are you working on now?
My current project is a noir novel featuring a woman who once sympathized with RAF terrorist movement. Now she is confined to a wheel-chair because of Multiple Sclerosis and strives to find the murderer of her ex-husband, a political journalist of Turkish origins, with the help of two equally unlikely allies. I am only halfway through it.

What are your hopes for the future of literature?
In one way or another, literature will always survive because there's an endless flow of stories to be told and an endless need to be told stories. One advantage of literature over film that I see is the fact that books leave you more space for your imagination. I hope people will always feel the need for that, too.

What are your concerns for the future of literature?
What are your views on the future of communication and how technology is changing the way we communicate, read, interact with the world and our imaginations?

I believe that technology can change processes but not humanity itself. Whether we chat virtually or over a cup of coffee – it's still communication. In my lifetime, these new forms of communication have become available, and I have benefited greatly. One thing I worry about, however, is the increasing speed and the continuous accessibility eating up the time we need to dream and feed our creativity.

Respect is my keyword for our future, as much as for the present. We need to respect each other and the resources of the planet we depend upon. Every single person is responsible for the future.



i forget my body
and a tree forgets its motion

i forget that i have lived
and the sea forgets its anemones
“A Solar Regression”

Translated by Burak Erdoğdu / Roza Publishing
Read Turkish version
Narin Yükler's Creative Process

I walked gently in the streets that ends up with the same road

Mountain said that she knows the secrets of trees

And she heard what is to be said for tomorrow

The stone was a language that still lives and I kept it for myself

While the history was cleaning his own stains


I have passed through tunnels for reaching myself

And passed through gates which has reliefs

I knew villages thats names rewritten from their seasoning

And I thought that sharp smell of past would be on the road

Will not break my neck at the colonial altar

I thought that İbrahim would split his humpback with his axe




özenle yürüdüm aynı yola çıkan sokakları

ağaçların sırrına erdiğini söyledi dağ

duyup söylediğini sonraki zamana

sakladım, yaşayan diller sınıfına giriyordu taş

inatçı geçmişle lekesini ovarken tarih


kendime dönmek için tüneller geçtim

geçtim kabartma tarihli kapılardan

ismi değiştirilen köyleri baharatlarından bildim

sandım keskin geçmiş kokusu kalacak o yolda

kırmayacak boynumu sömürge sunağında

sandım elindeki baltayla kendi kamburunu yaracak ibrahim


Narin Yükler was born in Viranşehir of Şanlıurfa in 1988. She graduated from the Tourism and Hospitality Management School of Gaziantep University and from the Faculty of Business Administration of Anadolu University. After graduation, she started to work as a hotel manager. She got married in 2012 and had her daughter in 2014. During that time, she took part in the activities of various non-governmental and human rights organizations, especially women’s rights organisations.

Many of her stories and poems about Middle Eastern–especially Kurdish/Ezidi–women were published in several newspapers and magazines in Iraq, Belgium, Pakistan, Iran, and Turkey. She held meetings in refugee camps where she read her poems written in Kurdish and Turkish languages. She has written theatrical plays on the human and women’s rights, some of which were staged. Being a woman, a mother and a refugee in the Middle East. Her poetry books include Aynadaki Çürüme and Rê û Rêç. Her awards include KAOS GL Short Story Award – Selection Committee (2015), Hüseyin Çelebi Poetry Prize (2015), Ali İsmail Korkmaz Poetry Prize (2016), Golden Daphne Award For Young Poets – Selection Committee (2016), Arkadaş Zekai Özger Poetry Award (2017) and the Arjen ArÎ Poetry Award (2017).


Can you tell us a little about the origins of this series of poems?

My poetry deals with war, women, and migration.

Why do you write?
To cling to life. I live in the Middle East and have seen many countries in the Middle East. I wrote scripts and poems during these travels. Writing is a way of defending life. And therefore I see literature as necessary. Yes, we can not change the world by typing, but we can tell what causes war and immigration. I want to tell everyone about it.

Tell us about some of your formative influences and teachers who have been important to you.
My teachers encouraged me to read. I started to study philosophy. I write poetry and I cannot write poetry without reading philosophy.

The Future – What are you currently working on?
I'm working on a Kurdish poem. I am living in the heat. I want to develop projects related to refugee flags and children. I am interested in making documentaries, films, and poetry workshops.

The Lost Son • Für immer mein

The Lost Son • Für immer mein

Translated from German by Uta Haas

Prologue – The Last Chapter

No dreams. Blank mind. Only darkness.

And suddenly a piercing noise, somewhere out there. But in here he was safely hidden. His eyelids heavy, so heavy. The rest of his body leaden. His heart beating the steady rhythm of a slave galley.

The noise grew louder. LOUDER.

Stop – my ears!

His eyelids seemed stitched together, and he had to separate them forcefully. Opening his eyes, he squinted into glaring white. Anything was better than this erratic noise blaring on and off. He must find the source and switch it off, return to blissful sleep here in –

Where the hell was he?

Slowly things took shape around him. Iron everywhere. Weights, on the floor and on bars. This definitely wasn’t his study. It wasn’t a room he had ever seen before.

The slave galley in his chest skipped a few beats. Adrenaline leaked through a hole somwhere. Not enough for coordinated action but enough to start him thinking. He closed his eyes again. First things first.

– My name is Tarek Waldmann.

Good start. Now slowly put together what had happened last, one step at a time. This routine had been drilled into him when he was a child, for the times when he had carelessly lost his leather E.T.

Last recollection before everything went dark?

– I am a murder suspect.

The leak in the galley got bigger. Panic flooded in.

– Right, how about some more concrete memories?

Let’s start again. Last memory before it all went dark?

– I was in Helga’s flat. Helga, who is supposed to be my mother all of a sudden. She had wanted to tell me the last chapter of my story and explain everything to me.

He snorted a laugh. Now that it was too late, they wanted to explain everything to him.

He had pushed open the door to Helga’s kitchen, his insides bubbling like lava. Calmly, Helga had shut the door of the little stove in the corner and turned to face him, glancing up as she wiped her sooty fingers on her navy-blue trousers. A smile that could read him.

And suddenly he was lying here, a bottomless chasm between the kitchen, and him and Helga. How to bridge that gap now? Too much work. Much better to go back to sleep. He shifted into a more comfortable position, but his back bumped into something soft.

Someone else, right beside him. A heavy arm draped possessively across his upper body, a hand curled around his chest. He took it, chuckling. Lina and her desperate need for physical contact. Her embraces had turned into something like a Heimlich maneuver. He pulled the hand and arm tighter across his chest, like the edge of a blanket, wanting to huddle up against the body behind him. No resistance.
Does that really feel like Lina? something inside him whispered. Or even someone alive?

He blinked, drew himself up, and looked at the hand in his. Strong, straight fingers. Age spots. Definitely not Lina. Without letting go of the hand, he looked over his shoulder.

It was Helga alright. There was his mother, sleeping, her arm strangely twisted in his grasp. She didn’t seem to mind. He pulled at it and shook her, but he suspected what would come next. He knew a few things about dead people by this point. They didn’t wake up in a hurry.

Two in two days, Tarek. What will the two friendly Viennese police inspectors say to that?

Once more, double-edged blades pierced his eardrums. A doorbell, jarring and demanding. Somebody banging on the sturdy door with hands and fists, making it shake. Tarek’s name – Open the damn door!

Adrenaline coursed through his heart, roaring at him to finally feel fear. It was time to accept that no one in Helga’s story was going to live happily ever after, especially someone who was up to his neck in everything. He had to do something, dammit, and at once!

He couldn’t. It was as if someone had shackled his energy and brain, and dumped them into a glassy tank of water. And now here he was, watching the two of them make a last ditch attempt to explain to him who had gotten him into this mess, urging him to get out before it was too late. It certainly didn’t look like a lesson in escapology. With a resigned smile, he patted Helga’s hand.

Oh, Mom, he thought hazily. What have we done?

Für immer mein was published in 2013 by Eire Verlag, Salzkotten.
The Lost Son is forthcoming from
Weyward Sisters

The Creative Process is collaborating with the
Global Literature in Libraries Initiative

and Weyward Sisters on global literary initiatives.

Ellen Dunne is the pen name of an Austrian writer, born in Salzburg. Ellen worked as a copy writer in advertising agencies before moving to Dublin, where she worked in various roles at the Google Europe HQ. In 2011, her first novel "Wie du mir" was published with small German press Eire Verlag. "Für immer mein" (German original of The Lost Son) was published in 2013. "Harte Landung", first part of a crime novel series, was published by Insel in 2017. She lived and worked in Berlin, Munich and Mexico City, since 2004 in Dublin.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of The Lost Son and why you wrote it?*:
This story originally spun off from me exploring how to turn a piece of family history of my husband's grandparents into a novel. I got fascinated by the idea of one person finding out about their family's past in the form of a self-written biography. Then the idea of a lost child came into the mix, and when I read about forced adoptions in former Eastern Germany and the initiative of a Berlin woman, Katrin Behr, to help people unearthing their stories, the idea for The Lost Son was born.

It is quite a dark story of an adopted (and quite lost) young man who is approached by his real mother under cover, but their reunification gets so marred by the lies and tragedies of the past as well as the inability of all involved to get over their personal hurt, it all goes horribly wrong.
To me, the story is best described as "family noir", and the German title "Für immer mein" (directly translated Forever Mine) reflects the possessive love that both sets of parents feel towards a child that they both deem "theirs". The English title The Lost Son aims more at the melancholic aspect of the story. Despite the dark and inherently sad story, my goal was to make it easy to read, accessible and also entertaining.

Why do you write?
I always loved to read, and also liked to spend my time inside (not too sporty for sure!). The lives of the characters just fascinated me, and also the emotions that well written books could evoke in me. In reality I often was an anxious child - reading made it possible to go places and live through adventures without the frightening reality of living through them myself.
I started my career in advertising, as a copy writer, so I am used to call myself a writer. In a sense of an author of a work of fiction, it definitely took its dear while, as I felt shy about my ambitions for a long time. Only when I started having readers because I got published I got the confidence of calling myself an author.

The Art of Translation
This translation was my first, and it was commissioned by myself, so I guess this made a big difference to the usual process. Uta Haas, my translator, just like myself, is a native German speaker, and it was also her first work of literary translation. I think she did amazingly well. One advantage, especially for the parts when Eastern German Helga was involved, was that she could very well relate and therefore translate the more tough and direct "German English" that makes Helga's language so distinct and compelling. For Tarek's more fluid communication, which is influenced by having grown up in both Austria and Ireland, we also took on board Trish Flanagan, a very capable native Irish editor. So the translation was a real collaborative work. I was fascinated to find out that, being in the English speaking world for so long and reading a lot of books of UK, Irish and US-American writers, the style I would write in English would differ quite a bit from my German writing style, while both influenced each other.

Were you born into a family of writers or artists?
I was born into a family mainly gifted and active in music. Both my great-grandfather and grandfather were conductors of the local marching bands, my brother is a musician and mixer/producer, while my stepdad was always a connoisseur of classical music. Living in Salzburg, which is steeped in classical music, my parents exposed me very early on to opera, too.

What were some of your formative influences? Which teachers supported you on your path to becoming a writer?
Still, I always read a lot and started my teenage writing "career" after a very engaged project of a former German teacher of mine, who created an anthology of our school essays, taking head shots from us "auteurs" and hand-produced the anthology. I have my copy until today, and from then on I started to write. From the start, I went for the long haul and wrote my first novel with 15. IT by Stephen King, a gift from my brother for my 14th birthday, had kicked off a reading frenzy, mainly horror novels, but also a lot of contemporary pieces. It is hard to single out names, but books that definitely influenced me as a writer and propelled me in certain directions such as Arundhati Roy, Andre Dubus, Northern Irish Bernard MacLaverty, Eoin McNamee, but also German writers such as Robert Schneider. In general, I just enjoy the often more light-hearted approach of UK/Irish writers. I do appreciate humor, especially in the face of darkness.

What other art forms and disciplines interest you?
My second passion definitely is music, and I would find it hard to write without. Lyrics of songs can inspire me but also turn me off a song completely.

What are you working on now?
Currently, I am working on the 2nd novel of my crime novel series around a half German, half Irish policewoman. The first part will be out in August 2017. It is my first major publishing contract after a good couple of years trying to break in, so I am very excited, trying to balance all my hopes with the reality of many books being published at the same time, and still being an unknown author.

What are your hopes for the future of literature?
To me, the future of literature is bright. It might shift its shape and how it is consumed, but there will always be the love for stories - so plenty of room for people who tell them.

Silkworms, Swathes and the Dead

Silkworms, Swathes and the Dead

It feels, again, like being a silkworm
Cocooned in a shell built upon its own saliva,
Reflecting the memory-aches,
With one thread hanging out of the shell
Living beyond time and space,
Which might be inferred as a calculation inside the cocoon.
The illusion, that it isn't dark, inside, could be smudged easily
For darkness always stays in each corner
Wherever there is the name of a god.

The 'Roza' felt betrayed for the first time, in the naïve summer,
When the caramel of your lips was offered, a prerequisite.
The religion had died many years ago, in my dry womb,
Before it could see the light of day as an infant,
And, before it could suckle the usual fluid
Of naivety from the nipples of slumber.
In retrospect... I feel, I can do the same again
For that ride to the wonderland. For one kiss.
Feet intersecting, mine placed upon yours,
Souls worshiping the void while standing
In the middle of another void,
With number seventeen at the end of its name.

The smell of the neon light grows stronger,
More and more intense as time transforms...
I could feel the gangrene
Growing in your stomach
Gesticulating omnipotent.

The blues stay with us
In the saliva of that one kiss
Which remains our first and last
Ride to the wonderland.

Previously published by

Ramsha Ashraf is a Pakistani poet who tries not to let any tradition confine her individuality. She has one poetry collection, titled as Enmeshed, published to her credit.

BRIEF INTERVIEW - My Creative Process: I think, silkworm could be considered, or at least it appears to me, the most potent metaphor for creativity. It provides you a cage of paradox to live in; a sense of liberation yet a Promethean chain keeps you tied to an unknown responsibility. I write without knowing any legitimate reason to why I write... But, I guess, this is why art and literature is considered an apt barometer of mirroring and measuring what is called, and known in a much simpler context as, life.

Can you tell us a little about the origins of this piece and why you wrote it?
Well, the Muslim month of Ramadan has been observed all over the world. So, it brings a few sweet-bitter memories spent in the arms of a not-so-religious yet pious lover.

Why write?
I guess, I write because I just cannot accept the fact that time is going to erase my voice from the surface. Although, I am fully aware of the futility of my act.

You Look Beautiful When You Smile

You Look Beautiful When You Smile

If you want to learn how to be happy,
you have to know what is sadness first. 

Missing Kissinger

Ever since Happiness heard your name, he has been running through the streets trying to find you.* He saw you on a sunny morning, striding down Mount Pleasant, slowing only to avoid the spongy tarmac where a burst pipe was sending water to the surface. You were moving fast, your head held high, taking in the view over Christchurch to the mountains beyond. The air was clear with the occasional waft of sweet lemon from the autumn-flowering shrubs. Happiness almost caught up with you, but you gave him the slip at the bottom of the hill, stepping neatly over the bricks where the path had unzipped. He was left standing at the side of the road, waiting for a gap in the traffic. 

The roadworks on the bridge were causing chaos and no one was giving way, and when he finally managed to get across the road, you were almost at the bus-stop. You frowned as you walked past the vast empty space that used to be the Countdown supermarket. It was full of light, its remaining concrete pillars making a frame for the sky, but you were looking at the rubble. You looked so sad as you got on the bus to Sumner that you made Happiness sigh. He kept his distance.

But Happiness is the eternal optimist, so he followed you to Sumner that day, taking the next bus and enjoying the view out over the ocean. Listless lenticular clouds were moving slowly along the horizon. Their elongated forms were tinged with shades of green and blue, reflecting off the lagoon. When he got to the town, you had bought yourself an iced coffee and were drinking it as you walked along the seafront. But then you had to make a detour round the tall protective fencing near Cave Rock and he lost sight of you again. The next thing he knew you were taking a short cut past one of those large rusty shipping containers that line the road beside the cliffs. When he looked, all he could see back there were damp shadows and the chance of a rock fall. He didn’t feel comfortable at all. So he called it a day.

The next time he saw you, you were window-shopping in Cashel Street. The temporary shops in converted containers looked trendy and bright. They sparkled in the sunlight, offering up their shelves of colorful, if overpriced, trinkets. There were a lot of people around and Happiness had to thread his way through a gaggle of tourists who were being very slow and photographing everything. He was carrying a big bunch of flowers (yellow roses, your favorite), so couldn’t have been more conspicuous, yet you were oblivious. But the tourists were delighted with him and insisted on a group photo, smiling and pleading amicably. He obliged and by the time he’d finished you had moved off and were well on your way to the park.

Now Happiness is no quitter. He broke into a run, catching you at the entrance gate. He was quite out of puff when he handed you the flowers, but still managed a winning smile. That was when you said, after reading the note attached: ‘You must be mistaken, they can’t be for me. Who would give me flowers? It’s not my birthday or anything.’ And you wouldn’t take them. Refused point blank. You had a look in your eye that said you thought he was a nutcase, could be dangerous, and so he backed off. He gave the flowers to a little old lady who was sitting on a bench feeding sparrows. It made her day. ‘Yellow is for friendship,’ she said.

Happiness was perplexed. You were a tough nut to crack. But he wouldn’t give up; it was his job, after all. He had heard your name, knew you by heart, and he had faith that he would find you again. He remained vigilant and ready. A few days later he spotted you at the Book Exchange Fridge that stands on the concrete foundations of what was once a house. He could see you standing in the mellow autumn light, your face serene. After all this chasing, he did not want to frighten you off, so he held back for a moment. You were pulling out books from the converted fridge, leafing through them and putting them back. But before he could approach, there came a roar as a 4.9 aftershock rumbled through. He watched the pavement hump up and down in one smooth movement as the tremor passed by. ‘Amazing!’ he thought, but in that moment of distraction he lost you. When he looked up you were no longer there.

It was clear that Happiness would have to try something different. He became crafty. He would use your friends to get to you. It was an old trick that had worked before. He whispered to Suzie to put a note on Facebook – ‘Join me at the Dance-o-mat’.

The Dance-o-mat was one of Happiness’s favorite places in Christchurch. It was situated in the cleared ground of a clothes store. Someone had put down a dance floor and converted a commercial washing machine so that people could put a gold coin in the slot and play music through loud speakers. Happiness liked the crowds that turned up there; and since he had broad tastes in music he could happily, excuse the pun, spend hours there. This time he didn’t follow you; he waited for you to arrive. And you did, with a group of your friends. 

You look beautiful, he thought, when you smile. In his experience, most people do.

He watched as you put your money in the slot, hooked up your iPod and started clowning about to the music. More people turned up, some of them in fancy dress and Happiness felt right at home. After a while he managed to talk to you, sharing a joke. You said you had a funny feeling that you’d met him before. 

And you danced with him for ages.

*First line courtesy of the Iranian poet Hafiz c1320.

"You Look Beautiful When You Smile" was first published in
Sweet As: Contemporary Short Stories by New Zealanders, edited by Blair Polly and Wendy Moore and published by the Sweet As Short Story Project, Wellington, 2014.

Celia Coyne is a freelance editor and writer living in Christchurch. She is a graduate of the Hagley Writers’ Institute, where she focused on developing her short-story writing. Her stories have appeared in the literary journals Takahe, Penduline Press, Flash Frontier, Atlas, The Thing Itself, Flash: The International Short Short Story Magazine and several anthologies, including Sweet As: Contemporary Short Stories by New Zealanders. Celia grew up in the UK and many of her stories are set there. When she came to New Zealand, she fell in love with the sky and began taking photos of it. Pictures and stories can be found on


The Shipping Tycoon

The Shipping Tycoon

Andreas* is in Greece. I meet him on his yacht, the 218 foot Rosenkavalier, built in 1929.  He is one of nine children born to a shepherd.  He made his fortune in donuts, and later cream-filled pastry puffs. “Come,” he says, “Sail with me. I will give you your own suite. You can do your work on the aft deck.”  

I take a photo of him on a wicker chair, drinking champagne.

The light is gold mixed with silver. His face is dark from tanning. His smile is very white. His wife is Orthodox and will not divorce him. In the morning, he sends me a large stately hardcover cloth book, Burke’s Peerage. There is article on him and his rise from donuts.

In the afternoon, he takes me to a boatyard. His new yacht is there, all steel lines, massive as a ferry.  “You will sail on it,” he says. “You will write about it.”  He is a small man, with a small bullish chest. He has all his hair and kind dark eyes: not dark like coal or iron ore or night. But brown like a dog’s eyes—a spaniel or beagle. 

He has four children. His son’s name is Dionysius.  I don’t meet his daughters. When I get home to New York, Andreas calls me up. “I followed you,” he said. “I arrive tonight, via Miami.” He has his own plane.

I take him to the Village Vanguard. It could be wonderful, I think, to sail with him, to have my own suite, to work on the aft deck.  He shows me the suite – he has a brochure. The bedspread is shiny black. The drapes are gold. Or, “you could have the petal room,” he says. It is delicate, like tendrils, pale green and yellow.  “Lalique,” he says, when I touch the bowl in the photograph. “Fantasia.” 

At the Vanguard, it is dark and smoky. A band plays the blues and he likes the blues, he says. He understands the blues. “Do you,” he asks, understand the blues? Perhaps not yet.” He lays out his business card. He adds a number to it. “Come tonight,” he says, meaning to the Mediterranean. “Come next week. I will arrange it.” 

We don’t eat. He is past eating. We drink champagne.  I am twenty-seven and wearing a short skirt. I am wearing a pale peach silk shirt that is shoulderless and wrapped at the neck. The lights lower. The lights lower again. He has his right arm around my shoulder. He lowers his hand to my breast. He takes his finger and his thumb and squeezes my nipple. He crushes it. Although this hurts so much that I hold my breath, I stay very still, very quiet,

I pretend not to notice. What I do notice is that he has warned me.  What I do notice is that never will I sail with him in the Aegean. Never will I swim with him or write about him on his aft deck. 

Later, he builds the Alysia. It is 280 feet. It has thirty-six crew.  Weekly rental is 661,500 Euros ($820,000).  He is in Mumbai at a trade show. He leaves his boat in the harbor and goes in search of a curry to eat. It is 2008 and he dines at the Palace. Islamist fundamentalists overtake the Palace. He and his fellow guests are locked in the basement. Andreas uses his cell phone to call his family and then the BBC. His last words describe a lull in the bombing. You can hear them online**: “All we know is the bombs are next door and the hotel is shaking every time a bomb goes off. Everyone is just living on their nerves.” He is shot five times and dies at seventy-three.


*Andreas Liveras, dies 11/2008

** This live recording could be found online in 2014


Previously published in 52 Men, Red Hen Press, 2015

Life in Suspension/La Vie Suspendue

Life in Suspension/La Vie Suspendue

Let me introduce myself.
I’m the Memory Collector, your companion and spirit guide.
Let’s unwind the clock, peel the past.
The reflections you give me, conjure, surrender from within,
I throw into the fire, the cauldron of resolutions.
They burn into embers and flickers that evolve into butterflies.
They flutter away, free and heal of all strongholds
so they can revisit and reinvent who you are.
Let the dance begin.

I’m in my mother’s womb in Paris.
She’s scared. I want to get out.
I’m three years old in Terracina, Italy, sharing a room with four girls.
My grandfather visits from Greece.
He holds my brother on his lap
and says, a boy at last, I’m not impressed with girls.

I’m four years old, in Monte Carlo.
My mother takes me to school.
A pigeon poops on my scarf.
She reassures, it brings good luck.
I’m five years old, in Karben, Germany.
It’s Saint Nicholas day, my birthday.
Marieluise feeds me Lebkuchen, Stollen and Pfeffernüssen.
They taste like heaven.

I’m six years old in ballet class in Geneva, breaking my point shoes.
The Russian master ingrains in me the correlation between pleasure and pain.
I now know the two centers sit next to each other in the brain.
I’m seven years old, in the Swiss Alps, making snowmen, skiing, hunting for Easter eggs.
My mother laughs then says, your father can’t be left alone.
I’m eight years old, in the Jura mountain, in love with my dog, playing chess with my dad.
I’m ecstatic.

I’m nine years old.
My grandmother takes me to the market in Tarragona
to buy the bitter and pungent quince she craves.
I’m ten years old.
My cousin drowns me in the beautiful blue waters
of the Spanish Mediterranean because I threw sand at him.
My head hits the hard bottom, all the air’s gone from my lungs.
My last thought is, no one knows I’m here.

I’m eleven years old.
My mother makes jam with apricots, strawberries, peaches and plums.
She’s filled the house with the intoxicating scent of gardenias.
My brother throws another temper tantrum.
I’m twelve years old in math class, mad with laughter.

I’m thirteen years old.
The Music Conservatory in Geneva is sheer magic,
an enchanted world I inhabit alone, the key to my soul.
My piano teacher has such faith in me.
I’m fourteen years old, between worlds.
My aunt married a fascist. He grabs my dad by the throat.
It’s the middle of the night. It’s loud. I can’t sleep.

I’m fifteen years old, in Northern Wales,
riding a fabulous horse along stunning steep cliffs,
racing him to full gallop in bewitching Celtic wind,
relinquishing cravings in the dust.
I’m sixteen years old, off to San Diego.
My mother cries at the Paris airport.
She breaks my heart but the pull is stronger.

I’m learning to let go, trust the ripeness of the moment.
That everything happens at the right time.
To appreciate what I have.
I’m connected to my bones,
filled with the richness and texture of space, uplifted,
vibrating, reverberating. I become the sound
of Tibetan bells, echoing and hovering in the cosmos.
I perceive the whole world below, life in suspension.

From Life in Suspension (Salmon Poetry, 2016)

La Vie Suspendue

Je me présente, si vous le voulez bien.
Je suis La collectionneuse de souvenirs,
votre compagne et guide spirituelle.
Déroulons le temps, effeuillons le passé.
Vous invoquez vos souvenirs, me les livrez en offrandes,
je les jette dans le feu, dans le chaudron des dénouements.
Parmi les cendres tournoyantes, naissent des papillons qui vous guérissent,
vous libèrent de vos chaînes, vous redécouvrent pour vous réinventer.
Que la danse commence.

Je suis dans le ventre de ma mère à Paris.
Elle a peur, je veux sortir de là.
J’ai trois ans, à Terracina, Italie.
Je partage une chambre avec quatre filles.
Mon grand-père vient d’arriver de Grèce, tient mon frère sur ses genoux
et dit, enfin un garçon, les filles ne me passionnent guère.

J’ai quatre ans, à Monte Carlo.
Ma mère m’emmène à l’école.
Un pigeon me chie sur le foulard.
Elle me console, ça porte chance.
J’ai cinq ans, à Karben, Allemagne.
C’est la Saint Nicolas, mon anniversaire.
Marieluise me gave de Lebkuchen, Stollen et Pfeffernüssen.
Je suis au paradis.

J’ai six ans, en classe de danse classique à Genève.
Je casse mes pointes.
Le maître de ballet russe m’initie au grand art de lier douleur et plaisir.
Je sais à présent que tous deux nichent ensemble dans ma tête.
J’ai sept ans, dans les Alpes suisses,
je fais des bonshommes de neige, skie, cherche les œufs de Pâques.
Ma mère rit puis dit, ton père ne peut rester seul.
J’ai huit ans, dans le Jura.
Je suis folle de mon chien, je joue aux échecs avec mon père.
Je suis en extase.

J’ai neuf ans, à Tarragone.
Ma grand-mère et moi allons au marché
acheter les coings amers et âcres qu’elle adore.
J’ai dix ans.
Mon cousin me noie dans les belles eaux bleues
de la Méditerranée espagnole parce que je lui ai jeté du sable.
Ma tête heurte le fond de la mer, mes poumons manquent d’air.
J’ai pour dernière pensée, personne ne sait où je suis.

J’ai onze ans.
Ma mère fait des confitures d’abricots, de fraises, de pêches
et de prunes. Elle a rempli la maison du parfum grisant des gardénias.
Mon frère pique une nouvelle crise de nerfs.
J’ai douze ans, cours de maths. C’est une crise de fou rire permanente.

J’ai treize ans.
Le Conservatoire de Musique de Genève est pure magie,
un monde enchanté que j’habite seule, clé de mon âme.
Ma prof de piano croit tant en moi.
J’ai quatorze ans, à la lisière des mondes.
Ma tante a épousé un fasciste. Il a saisi mon père à la gorge.
C’est le milieu de la nuit. C’est bruyant. Impossible de dormir.

J’ai quinze ans, au Pays de Galles, chevauchant un fabuleux
cheval qui galope vers le nord, le long de falaises
étourdissantes, le vent celte m’ensorcelle,
laissant mes désirs s’envoler dans la poussière du galop.
J’ai seize ans, je pars pour San Diego, la Californie.
Ma mère est en pleurs à l’aéroport de Paris.
Elle me brise le cœur mais l’appel est plus fort.

J’apprends à ne pas m’attacher,
à apprécier ce que j’ai,
à croire en la magie du temps qui transforme,
que tout arrive à son heure.
Je suis en symbiose avec mes os.
La richesse de l’espace et sa densité me ravissent,
me transportent, me font osciller, vibrer.
Je deviens le son de cloches tibétaines, écho flottant dans le cosmos.
Je perçois le monde entier, la vie suspendue.

La Vie Suspendue (Salmon Poetry, 2016)


About Hélène Cardona
Hélène Cardona’s recent books include Life in Suspension and Dreaming My Animal Selves(both from Salmon Poetry), the translations Beyond Elsewhere (Gabriel Arnou-Laujeac, White Pine Press), winner of a Hemingway Grant; Ce que nous portons (Dorianne Laux, Éditions du Cygne); The Birnam Wood by her father José Manuel Cardona (forthcoming from Salmon Poetry in 2018); and Walt Whitman’s Civil War Writings for WhitmanWeb.  
She has also translated Rimbaud, Baudelaire, René Depestre, Ernest Pépin, Aloysius Bertrand, Maram Al-Masri, Eric Sarner, Jean-Claude Renard, Nicolas Grenier, and Christiane Singer. She contributes essays to The London Magazine, co-edits Plume and Fulcrum, holds a Master’s in American Literature from the Sorbonne, received fellowships from the Goethe-Institut & Universidad Internacional de Andalucía, worked as a translator for the Canadian Embassy in Paris, and taught at Hamilton College & LMU. Publications include Washington Square Review, World Literature Today, Poetry International, Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Drunken Boat, Asymptote and The Warwick Review.

Hélène Cardona was born in Paris and raised all over Europe before settling in the US. She earned her MA in American literature from the Sorbonne, where she wrote her thesis on Henry James. She is the author of 7 books, more recently the bilingual collections Life in Suspension, called “a vivid self-portrait as scholar, seer and muse” by John Ashbery, and Dreaming My Animal Selves, described by David Mason as “liminal, mystical and other-worldly.” Cardona’s luminous poetry, hailed as visionary by Richard Wilbur, explores consciousness, the power of place, and ancestral roots. It is poetry of alchemy and healing, a gateway to the unconscious and the dream world.

Her translations include Beyond Elsewhere (Gabriel Arnou-Laujeac), winner of a Hemingway Grant; Ce que nousportons (Dorianne Laux); Birnam Wood (José Manuel Cardona): and Walt Whitman’s Civil War Writings for WhitmanWeb. She contributes essays to The London Magazine, and co-edits Plume, Fulcrum, and Levure Littéraire.



How would you describe your own (very individualistic) poetic voice? What are your intentions in your poetry?

I write as a form of self-expression, fulfilment, transcendence, healing, to transmute pain and experience into beauty. For me, poetry is a process of self-revelation, an exploration of hidden dimensions in myself, and also a way to express the profound experience of the fundamental interconnection of all in the universe. Writing is cathartic as it extends a search for peace, for serenity, rooted in a desire to transcend and reconcile the fundamental duality I see in life. Ultimately, I seek expansion of consciousness.

We are stretched to the frontiers of what we know, exploring language and the psyche. The poem is a gesture, an opening toward a greater truth or understanding. Art brings us to the edge of the incomprehensible. The poems, in their alchemy and geology, are fragments of dreams, enigmas, shafts of light, part myth, and part fable. Mysticism constitutes the experience of what transcends us while inhabiting us. Poetry, as creation, borders on it. It is metaphysical. It offers a new vision of the universe, reveals the soul’s secrets and mysteries. These lines from the poem “The Isle of Immortals” encapsulate my philosophy:

The ultimate aim is reverence for the universe.
The ultimate aim is love for life.
The ultimate aim is harmony within oneself.

What defines my writing is the sacred dimension of the poetic experience. And it is founded in very concrete reality, a reconciliation of the spiritual and the carnal. It speaks of transformation and seeks the unison of all that lives. 

Clearly, your poetry is enjoyed by a wide range of different readers; but I was wondering if you have a kind of ideal reader? That is, who is the reader you imagine when you are writing?

Thank you for saying that. I’m delighted to have a wide range of readers. But I don’t write for a specific kind of reader. I’m hoping my poetry leaves the reader in awe, with a renewed sense of wonder and of the sacred. 

Your poetry collections Dreaming My Animal Selves and Life in Suspension are bilingual, and you write in French and English equally fluently. What are the challenges of presenting your work in this way? For example, are there things that one language can do which the other can’t, and vice versa?

English has been my language of choice for a long time now. French is my mother tongue but English became the dominant language when I moved to the United States. Actually it took over even before, when I wrote my thesis on Henry James for my masters at the Sorbonne. I was already an anglophile, having lived and studied in England, and I loved writing in English. I feel as if English, even though it was my fifth language, chose me. So I write in English first and then translate into French. I love this exercise of going back and forth because it enables me to make beautiful discoveries. I’m also influenced by other languages, including Spanish, German, Italian and Latin. It’s very stimulating and enriching. I was born in Paris and grew up in Switzerland, France, Monaco, England, Wales, Germany, Greece and Spain, absorbing different cultures and ideas. 

When I wrote my first collection in English, I did not originally intend it to be a bilingual collection. It was my first publisher’s idea that I present it as a bilingual collection. This turned out to be a brilliant idea. It was fascinating because it rekindled my love of the French language and of writing in French again. The French translation absolutely informed the English version. I made discoveries with the French and it became a dance between both languages. I also felt more freedom than if I were translating someone else because it was my own text. This has been the process for all three collections.

To answer your question, there are always things one language can do which the other can’t. And so the process is a bit like that of a detective searching for clues and of a mathematician looking to solve a problem.

In my interview with John Ashbery for Le Mot Juste, which was also published on the Poetry Foundation, I commented that French leaves less room for ambiguity. It’s a very precise language. So is English but English is more fluid. Interestingly, Ashbery responded that he needs “sort of a sfumato effect to hide in or to find material in.” 

How do all the languages influence you and your writing?

I think they stimulate the mind in different ways. I’m naturally curious about other cultures. Having been raised in a very international environment makes me a citizen of the world. Both my parents were immigrants. My mother left Greece to move to France. My father escaped the Franco dictatorship so as not to be jailed for his writing. That’s how my parents met. I am an immigrant too. After moving to the U.S., I became an American citizen. So I’m keenly aware about not fitting into molds. I wasn’t the typical French girl growing up. At home, all my parents’ friends were foreigners. My dad worked for the United Nations in Geneva and Paris, among other places, and his colleagues were mostly from South America or Spain, but also from Iran and other countries. I literally grew up in the U.N., which is a microcosm of the world.

So very early on I would transition between languages and countries. It’s harder to be nationalistic when you’re made of several countries. It opens up your mind. When you learn new languages it creates synapses in the brain. They inform my writing, consciously, and unconsciously. All kinds of associations come to mind when I read or write.

Your poetry draws heavily on dream, mythical and psychoanalytic imagery and archetypes. In this sense, I suppose it’s not really “poetry of the everyday,” perhaps.  Why are you drawn to this kind of imagery in your poetry?

I like to cultivate a relationship with my inner self through dreams and love to remember them. I keep a notebook by my bed and write them down. You always dream, it’s only a matter of remembering. The day is the waking dream. When I trained with Sandra Seacat at the Actors’ Studio in New York, she introduced me to a particular form of dream work, which could be called Jungian. I have done this work for many years now. It’s very therapeutic. And it can also be used to develop a character in a play or movie. Your inner self has all the answers and will give them to you, as long as you’re meant to know what you’re asking for. 

In the dream you are connected to your inner self and to the divine. We experience the dream’s intelligence and the world psyche. Everything in the universe is connected. Dreams provide insight into the personal and archetypal dimensions of the unconscious. I’ve continued to train with different teachers and shamans. Dream work is medicine for the soul and helps us integrate our conscious and unconscious selves so we can explore our path, gain self-insight and wisdom, and fulfill ourselves. Many poems are born from dreams. It’s a wonderful gift to be given to hear a new melody or lines this way. For instance, the poem “My Mother Ceridwen” came from a dream: my mother appeared to me as the Celtic goddess Ceridwen.

You’ve talked in interviews about the “transformations” of self involved in acting, costumes and performance. What are the similarities and differences, do you think, between the kinds of transformations of selves in your poetry, and those involved in, say, acting?

Acting and writing are two creative outlets for me, two ways of expressing who I am. It helped me a lot when I was in drama school studying Shakespeare from a performer’s perspective that I had already read most of the plays and knew the language. The fact that I had studied so much literature made it easy for me to analyze the texts. But then you want to get out of your head as an actor. And studying the Meisner technique was very useful for that. It helps you be in the moment and react to what’s going on in the room, to be acutely aware of your surroundings, of others. It shifts the attention from you to whoever is with you. Which in turn is helpful when you read poetry. There is an audience you want to address, you can’t just be in your head. And you have to project. There isn’t always a mike. So good diction helps. I also like to hear what I write, the sounds and rhythms. If I stumble, maybe I need to change a word.

As an actor I am drawn to films that are visually beautiful and poetic. At the same time, I always pay close attention to the screenplay. It’s the backbone of the film. I was lucky to work with Lawrence Kasdan (Mumford). He writes all his screenplays, and they’re usually original screenplays. He’s a terrific writer and director. I was also lucky to work on Lasse Hallström’s Chocolat. Robert Nelson Jacobs’s screenplay was nominated for an Oscar and won the BAFTA award. It’s based on the beautiful novel by Joanne Harris. Great writing helps the actor. 

Acting and writing both raise your consciousness and in that sense, enhance one another.
On a personal level, it’s very satisfying to have more than one creative outlet. If I’m not working on an acting project, I can write. I can always use my time creatively.

Which of your many talents - acting, voice-over, poetry, etc. - do you enjoy spending time on the most?
I’ve worn many hats over the years: teacher, writer, actor, translator, dancer, shaman, dream analyst. I have multiple selves. To be an actor you have to be a chameleon. The search for fulfillment is a recurrent theme in my life. It’s the title of the thesis I wrote about Henry James. Jean-Claude Renard writes that “I” by essence becomes “Other,” that is to say “someone who not only holds the power to fulfill his or her intimate self more and more intensely, but also at the same time, can turn a singular into a plural by creating a work that causes, in its strictest individuality, a charge emotionally alive and glowing with intensity.” In that sense the work’s artistry affects others and helps their own transformation. This applies to any art. I’m happy as long as I can express myself through art and I love to work. Whether writing or acting, I find myself in an exalted state of concentration and consciousness, like a meditation or trance. It’s as if time stops or expands and I’m able to touch other worlds and keep a sense of connection with what is bigger than me.    

What are you working on at the moment?

With my partner John, we have adapted his novel Primate into a screenplay and we’re looking to get it made into a film. 

I just co-translated, with Yves Lambrecht, Walt Whitman’s Civil War Writings for WhitmanWeb. It was commissioned by the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. It was a ten-month long endeavor. The Civil War Writings retrace Whitman’s writing and service as a volunteer nurse during the American Civil War. We also translated the in-depth commentaries that scholars Ed Folsom and Christopher Merrill wrote for each text. The poems and texts are thus bookended with a foreword and afterword. They explore how writing and image can be used to examine war, conflict, trauma, and reconciliation in Whitman’s time and today. 

Ce que nous portons, my translation of What We Carry by Dorianne Laux, was recently published by Editions du Cygne in Paris.

Adapted from an interview with Jonathan Taylor in Everybody's Reviewing



– Czy nie wiesz, gdzie są martwe ptaki? – zapytało dziecko kamień, bo nikt, kogo pytało wcześniej, nie wiedział. Nie grzebie się ich i nie grzebią się same, więc powinny leżeć na ziemi. A że jest ich dużo jak ludzi, powinny leżeć jeden obok drugiego. Jeśli nie jeden na drugim. Nie tylko pod drzewami, ale też na chodnikach i ulicach, bo ptaki na pewno potrafią umrzeć w locie, skoro ludzie mogą robić to, idąc. Nie jest to coś, do czego koniecznie trzeba się zatrzymać.

– Więc gdzie? – spytało dziecko, bo w całym ogrodzie nie było ani jednego ciała, z którego wyprowadził się ptak. Było tylko pióro. Dziecko dotknęło się nim i pomyślało, że wszystkie ptaki, które umarły w powietrzu, nie spadły. Zrobiły się lżejsze o siebie i zawisły.

Dlatego może zdarzyć się grad bębniący o dachy wróblami albo czarny deszcz, który wypłucze z góry wszystkie wrony. Albo taka zima, że trzeba będzie odśnieżać gołębie. Może też nic się nie zdarzy i martwe zwierzęta zostaną w niebie, a ludzie na ziemi.


Fragment of "To Feed a Stone" by Bronka Nowicka, Biuro Literackie publishing house
Translated from the Polish by Elzbieta Wójcik-Leese.

Bronka Nowicka graduated from the Film, Theatre and TV Direction Department at the Polish State Film School in Łódź, and from the Faculty of Painting at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, where she now is a PhD student. Her fields of inspiration, exploration, and creation include human-thing relations, images in motion, language, encounters. She is looking for new media in the field of art; she uses a computer tomography scanner as a film and graphic tool.
She creates videos,
tomo-videos, video installations, photographs. She took part in exhibitions at the International Centre for Graphic Arts in Kraków, the Susanne Burmester Gallery in Germany (in Putbus, on the Rügen Island), the Małopolska Garden of Art in Kraków, the Promotional Gallery at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, the Fine Arts College in Kazimierz Dolny, the Art Centre in Sosnowiec, the Ducal Castle in Szczecin, the Media Art Faculty Gallery in Warsaw, the Kunstnernes Hus during the Festival for Digital and Visual Poetry in Norway (Oslo), The Trubarjeva Hiša Literature in Slovenia (Ljubljana). She participated in the international literary festivals, including Prima Vista (Tartu, Estonia), Kosmopolis (Barcelona, Spain), Slovenian Book Days (Ljubljana, Slovenia), Festival of the European Short Story (Zagreb – Rijeka, Croatia). She took part in interdisciplinary artistic projects, interalia Corresponcences & Interventions, Open Studio of Mechanisms for an Entente, Labirynt Wolności (the Labirynth of Freedom); interdisciplinary scientific conferences, eg. “Posttechnological experiences. Art-Science-Culture” at the HAT Centre (Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznań). She is the author of publications on new means of narration in the field of video art (e.g. in Załącznik Kulturoznawczy, Wiadomości ASP). She is the director of theatrical plays (e.g. “Shining City” – Studio Theatre in Warsaw, “Look, The Sun Is Going Down” – the Adam Mickiewicz Theatre in Częstochowa and the Na Woli Theatre in Warsaw, “Theatre de compose ou I'homme belle” – the Jaracz Theatre in Olsztyn, “Far Away” – TVP Kultura). She is a screenwriter and director of television programs: educational and travel series. In 2015 the Biuro Literackie publishing house published her poetic book “Nakarmić kamień” (“To Feed a Stone”) that was awarded the third prize in the competition Złoty Środek Poezji (The Golden Mean of Poetry) as the best poetic debut, and the prestigious Literary Nike Award for the best book of the year. From 2017 Bronka Nowicka is one of New Voices from Europe – the project implemented by Literature Across Frontiers and European Platform for Literary Exchange, Translation and Policy Debate.



– Smakuje ci chryzantema? – zapytało dziecko kamień i włożyło do ust płatki zbite w kulkę podobną do miniaturowej kapusty. Każda chryzantema miała taką w środku, ta jednak była najokrąglejsza i najbardziej złota. Chrupała jak kapusta, ale smakowała cmentarzem.

– Gorące – dziecko wsadziło palec w szarą górę, która usypy-wała się w popielniku.

– Mróz – powiedziało i polizało oszronioną furtkę. – Krew – dodało.

Poczęstowało się ziemią, a gdy ją przeżuło, powiedziało:

– Czarne.

Pisało patykiem na ciele: „czereśnie”, „czarodzieje”, „poranki”. Ze znikających ze skóry słów można było powyjmować mniejsze. Tym samym patykiem wydłubać śnienie z czereśni.

Tak dziecko karmiło kamień, żeby żył.


Fragment of "To Feed a Stone" by Bronka Nowicka, Biuro Literackie publishing house
Translated from the Polish by Elzbieta Wójcik-Leese.

Bronka Nowicka graduated from the Film, Theatre and TV Direction Department at the Polish State Film School in Łódź, and from the Faculty of Painting at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, where she now is a PhD student. Her fields of inspiration, exploration, and creation include human-thing relations, images in motion, language, encounters. She is looking for new media in the field of art; she uses a computer tomography scanner as a film and graphic tool.
She creates videos, tomo
-videos, video installations, photographs. She took part in exhibitions at the International Centre for Graphic Arts in Kraków, the Susanne Burmester Gallery in Germany (in Putbus, on the Rügen Island), the Małopolska Garden of Art in Kraków, the Promotional Gallery at the Academy of Fine Arts in Kraków, the Fine Arts College in Kazimierz Dolny, the Art Centre in Sosnowiec, the Ducal Castle in Szczecin, the Media Art Faculty Gallery in Warsaw, the Kunstnernes Hus during the Festival for Digital and Visual Poetry in Norway (Oslo), The Trubarjeva Hiša Literature in Slovenia (Ljubljana). She participated in the international literary festivals, including Prima Vista (Tartu, Estonia), Kosmopolis (Barcelona, Spain), Slovenian Book Days (Ljubljana, Slovenia), Festival of the European Short Story (Zagreb – Rijeka, Croatia). She took part in interdisciplinary artistic projects, interalia Corresponcences & Interventions, Open Studio of Mechanisms for an Entente, Labirynt Wolności (the Labirynth of Freedom); interdisciplinary scientific conferences, eg. “Posttechnological experiences. Art-Science-Culture” at the HAT Centre (Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznań). She is the author of publications on new means of narration in the field of video art (e.g. in Załącznik Kulturoznawczy, Wiadomości ASP). She is the director of theatrical plays (e.g. “Shining City” – Studio Theatre in Warsaw, “Look, The Sun Is Going Down” – the Adam Mickiewicz Theatre in Częstochowa and the Na Woli Theatre in Warsaw, “Theatre de compose ou I'homme belle” – the Jaracz Theatre in Olsztyn, “Far Away” – TVP Kultura). She is a screenwriter and director of television programs: educational and travel series. In 2015 the Biuro Literackie publishing house published her poetic book “Nakarmić kamień” (“To Feed a Stone”) that was awarded the third prize in the competition Złoty Środek Poezji (The Golden Mean of Poetry) as the best poetic debut, and the prestigious Literary Nike Award for the best book of the year. From 2017 Bronka Nowicka is one of New Voices from Europe – the project implemented by Literature Across Frontiers and European Platform for Literary Exchange, Translation and Policy Debate.

The Emotional Core of the Story part II

The Emotional Core of the Story part II

Photos by Piotr Ryczko

Innocuous questions posed?

The questions that kicked off the story "The emotional core of the story"  two weeks ago were simple enough. 

Should we write what we know? Or should we take a wild chance, put everything on some wild card, a complete unknown, anything to blast our way out of the safe and comfy shell of ours, out of our comfort zone.

These questions, although seemingly innocent, open up a slew of themes which beg to be queried.

Last time, I concluded at how important it is to arrive at a deeper emotional connection between us, the writers, and the characters in our stories. The true stuff of life, our hard earned emotional experience which has burnt its way into our subconscious, and made us into who we are.


This time around I would like to go deeper into the process of writing my novel "A child made to order". Into my own experience of enquiry about the main character of this novel and the emotional connection I developed with Viola. A protoganist which was as far away from my own personality as I could possibly imagine. Or so I thought initially.

But more importantly I would like to break down my process of enquiry into some more manageable steps and conclusions.  So  others might hopefully take away something of value from this.

But first let's look at the origin of the process itself.


Self-enquiry, its true meaning and ultimate goal

Self-enquiry is a well known spiritual process, used by Buddhists to arrive at deeper truths about what is hidden within us. The divine part which is hidden in us. It can be as simple as a prolonged focus on the question "Who am I?". When done with scrutiny and vigor, it can uncover our ego and mind as illusions. Bear in mind, this enquiry takes an incessant effort and patience on our part. Think of this process not in terms of months, but a life-time.

The people who are familiar with this process in practice might object to it immediately. They would say it is not aimed at things in this world, not at our psychology, our wounds, and our subcouncious.

I think differently of this matter. I do believe that given a meditative mind, cleansed of the incessant chatter of our thoughts, we are able to uncover some groundbreaking truths about ourselves and the world around us. You might ask, what has this to do with writing? Surely spiritual practice and its immaterial rigor has nothing in common with the creative process.

Well, I think otherwise.

I believe most of us are already doing this process, more or less consciously. Regardless if we are a hardcore spritual practitioner or hate the mere thought of meditation.

Just think about it. Isn't writing a very active form of meditation? Many artists describe the process of creation, the inspired flow, as a hyper-focused union with something so much larger than our own personality. As a blissful state, a place we disappear into. A swallowing of our whole essence into the immanent.

That's why I think that by writing, we are able to arrive at these truths. The same way spiritual self-enquiry is able to do. Be it psychological or spiritual questioning.  And by writing a lot, we vibrate ever higher with our mind, our focus, reaching for ever more refined and universal answers.


The protagonist's fragmented psyche

With this in mind, let’s get more specific about my experience of this process. And how this can translate into our writing.

Viola, the main character of “A child made to order” is a 42 year old woman who has been through eleven gruelling IVF cycles. This emotional rollercoaster of high hopes and crushed dreams have laid her psyche in ruins. A short quote from the novel sums up the inner resentment and frustration so havily experienced by Viola and other infertile women.

It’s also an ample illustration of how many years of emotional battering can distort these women's self-image and project their inner drama, and low self-esteem, onto others.

“Sara! Sara! Baby! Get a grip on yourself. Just listen to yourself.  Just think about it. The one thing you were meant to do, that only thing we can do, you’ve failed at. And miserably at that. Remember who you are, Sara! And if you should forget, then just listen to your period. How do you feel when it comes around?” Marianne whispered to her. She knew Sara needed her more than ever. This wretched girl was lost, and it was Marianne’s duty to make her see this obvious fact.

“It’s what?” Sara asked, unsure if she possesed the correct answer. Then she focused her tear-filled eyes on Marianne’s face. And the blogger clapped at her like an obedient dog.

“It’s one cosmic joke, girl. And the last laugh is on you. What’s the point? That’s how you should feel. The period is a fucking taunt! And so is this man. Because when he learns the truth, that’s how he will think about you. Right?” She put Sara in her place. After all, what was that stupid little girl thinking?

excerpt from the novel "A child made to order"


The protagonist

Having done several months of research, collecting a mountain of notes, read countless recounts, and consulted with a psychologist who has dealt with infertile women, I chose deliberately to enter the story as late as possible, just about when Viola was turning 42.

This is the time, when given an opportunity to surface, the motherly instinct can overwhelm a woman’s otherwise completely rational life. I thought this was the perfect opportunity to have the protagonist go deeper into a  off the rails. 

An immense potential for engaging drama.



Enquiry as a process

With this character and the process of self-inquiry in mind, I focused in on the classical model of the main character’s need and want. I also formulated a few simple questions.

What is the one thing Viola needs so most dearly in the world? The thing without which her world would never be complete.

I knew she wanted a baby, but I needed to go deeper than that. Was it the love which she would be able to give to her child? Or was it, more egoistically angled, the love she would receive from that child?

And did any of this resonate with my self?

I found out that the answers didn’t come at first. It was a struggle. Sometimes they didn’t surface for several weeks. This may  be one of the the hardest part of our work as writers. To identify what is truly ours in our writing. Or why it is the way it is.

And often, the answered remained elusive. Because the real issues, our own flaws, and wounds, they would do just about everything to stay concealed in our own subconscious.

Still, if we keep at it, formulate the question, re-focus on this matter while we write, I believe our true nature surfaces sooner or later.

For me personally I learned that my inner being didn’t necessarily need a child like Viola did, but there was a deep need for unconditional love in my persona. In other words, love which wasn’t asking for something in return. But was sufficient in itself and was rather a spiritual search.

I also found out that our needs can often turn toxic. They can overwhelm us, and lead us to destructive behavior. That is if we let them, and we are not mindful of ourselves. This is exactly what happens to my protagonist. And this is what happened to me in the past where my spiritual path, an uncompromising search for the transcendent, laid my life into a wasteland.

And if you think about it, this is what happens in every gripping story. This experience is the real ammo for our storytelling.

This was the case with Viola where her life goes off the bend when she suddenly gets the opportunity at the impossible. To give birth to a child.  This spins her unquenched desire into an emotional storm which blinds her rationality, where she burns all the bridges in her life, fires herself from her own dream job, and puts her in an uncanny mental territory, where she is able to kidnap a stranger's child on a subway.

The writing, the inquiry led me to the conclusion that even the most beatiful things, or maybe especially the most beautiful things in our life can be such a double-edged sword. Being so crucial to our own existence,  they also hold immeasurable power over us.

A power strong enough to derail our normal existence into an emotional war zone.


Tapping into our psyche

I continued to tap into my emotional past. Not in a literal sense, I wasn’t writing a biography, but I pulled at the raw emotions of it all. A fountain of untapped feelings which gave the narrative the rawness it required.

I soon realized that although the research is critical, the facts aren’t so important as the raw energy of the emotions in the story. I wasn’t writing a clinical account of an infertile woman, and this wasn’t a non-fiction book. What I was after was rather the vibrant and relentless emotional battering of the reader’s senses. And the best scenes were the ones, where the protagonist's hurt, and pain overlapped with my own. Emotionally and metaphorically.

I repeated this process for other areas of the Viola’s character. And found such an interweaved web of character traits, mirror images which reflected back some fragments of myself. As the process became second nature, a fountain of questions welled up.

What is the thing that Viola detested most about herself? Why does she detest vulnerability so much? What did others to her?  How far would she go to conceal her wounds? What would she do? Would she be willing to sacrifice her relationship, even the most trusted people? And what would it take for her to break through that shell?  To free her from her past.

These questions were aimed at the main character of the novel, but there was no escaping it,  they were also always gunned at me. To test what resonated and what didn't. What my mind was bored by. What it was frightened by, or what it rebelled at. The rebellion and the fear were always good signs. The right direction.

I also found out that the hardest truths about ourselves, our flaws which cause our most destructive patterns, are the ones which are the most elusive to our own mind. And when you think about it, they are like our blind side, right in front of our nose, staring right into our face, and so obvious for everyone else, except us.  Rarely made conscious by our own eyes and mind.

And that is also the reason why self-inquiry is so challenging. Maybe the most challenging part about writing.  To keep at it, and uncover hidden, often painful truths about ourselves.

But on the other hand, it is also why this process can be so wonderfully fruitful because many times we won't have any clue why we write what we do. But in due time, with patience, some consideration for our neurotic nature, something deep wells up from our inside. It opens up and makes us conscious of what is in between those seemingly empty lines - universal truths about ourselves.

I believe that to tap into this well, launch into this self-discovery, can elevate our writing, from the mundane to the sublime.

Lastly, we do this not only so we can write better drama, but also so we can hopefully become just a little bit more human. Towards one another.

"Yeah, that’s a well (the emotional wounds) that you can go back to. There won’t always be water in it, but you can go back and check. As your life moves on you, start to say, “What am I really confronting now? Is there a metaphor, is there a story metaphor that will express what I’m trying to understand about my life?” You have to be very calculated about how you access that pain. It’s no fun being at the mercy of destructive impulses, and the one thing that art does is it allows us to put a leash on them. I think you learn that pretty quick. Otherwise, you end up going to jail or overdosing..." - Paul Shrader

And finally I want to leave you with a few well-chosen words from Paul Shrader, the screenwriter of the Taxi Driver fame, who touches upon the very same issues of my story, accessing our own emotional history, our pain, as the source for our stories.  But what he does, is to add his own two cents. Words which carry with them such great wisdom.

Piotr Ryczko is the published author of the London based publishing house  “The Book Folks”.  His first novel, a Scandinavian psychological thriller “A child made to order” was released on Amazon Kindle and Paperback. It placed itself amongst the 100 best novels in its category. The same publishing house plans to release the novel PANACEA at the end of 2017.
His short films have won quite a few international prizes.  They can be seen here:
Born in Poland and raised in Norway, he loves both countries but has a soft spot for his hometown, Oslo. Piotr loves to hear from readers and writers and can be found on Storygeist where he writes flash fiction, html5 stories, non-fiction and screenplays for his films.
He is also an avid photographer which he does as a hobby, as well as a means to communicate his visual ideas during the filmmaking process.

Chained Dusk

Chained Dusk

Voices murmur, in delirium:

'Too easy it to fall in love
Every now and then,
Every now and then'

They grow harsher:

'Too difficult to hold on
To one love, 
You must withdraw'

I start chasing cars on pavements
Hawkers come and cross
Selling newspapers
And at times mottiya-threads.

These are fragments?
I am no Saphho.
All is lost.
What I remember is that strange face
Holding my neck with cold hands
Kissing my face lightly yet strangely
Hands that grew tighter and tighter
Face was drawn closer and closer
Dream choked, died of suffocation,
Dream that is no longer there, 
Not even in bits and pieces. 
It rests in the grave of my memory, 

Ramsha Ashraf is a Pakistani poet who tries not to let any tradition confine her individuality. She has one poetry collection, titled as Enmeshed, published to her credit.