Miguel Sanchez Presents… by Sebastien de Robillard

He wanted to make it up to her. To apologise, not too much, but enough, and also to give her something. What exactly? A music compilation: nothing original, but involves enough effort and can speak volumes. What was the intention of this gift you ask? Why bother bro? He thought he had been a little too rude. Not that rude, just too rude.

But where did this all stem from? Why the sudden guilt? It probably had a lot to do with Monday night. It was not a normal Monday night for Jack. He decided to go see a film (which did meet his expectations, but was not brilliant, which is a shame as it should have been brilliant) and a film he saw, friends in tow. The cinema was not too cold, it was actually quite full for a Monday night.

The film didn’t finish late. And he was in bed by 11 p.m. He turned the light off not long after this, and waited for sleep to take him to a world of red nightmares and black dreams.

But Jack did not sleep. And there were three reasons for this.

1) Coffee. Strong coffee. With three sugars.
2) The film’s central monster character reminded him of himself. He saw all of his bullshit in that one, fake character. His selfishness and his manipulative thoughtfulness (He wanted a king for him and his friends. Not because they needed leadership, but because he wanted somebody to blame when things went bad. Someone to hurt. He was nice so others would be nice to him; he gave so he would receive).
3) His not so nice behaviour on the previous Saturday. He had grunted responses throughout the night. Not that this was the problem. She had been fishing for attention no doubt, and she definitely wanted compliments, but she did seem to genuinely want to talk to him. Jack wasn’t that interested in any of these things. Compliment yourself! He probably thought. Get your friends to lavish you with attention, he would have pondered. He only grunted, and that was okay. Short, sharp responses were perfectly apt at this point. Jack didn’t feel like playing the losing game anymore. He had participated in this game for a long time, and was quite good at it. But then the losing game got too hard, so he pulled out. No games. But or however…? (No, however sounds better). However, as mentioned in the introduction, Jack felt he had been too rude. Too rude. Jack’s brain replayed scene after scene of him being a bloated, grunting, mono-syllabic arse, and felt like shit. Who was he to treat someone like this? Why was he so superior? At two or three in the morning, he admitted, out loud, to himself, in the dark, that he was an arse. “Now let me sleep!’ he exclaimed.

So, what happened? What was the tipping point? He was asked a rather simple question. Simple and harmless.

“Are you coming to my birthday party next weekend?” Jack, without missing a beat, looked her in her pretty eyes and said, “Probably not.”

In fact, and I cannot recall this detail as well as I would hope -I was busy scoring blow at the time - he probably just coughed some inaudible, bullshit, insensitive comment. For the sake of this tale, we will stick with ‘Probably not’.

Probably Not. What a bastard.

So, this rather cold response leapt back and forth in his head, all night long. He didn’t fall asleep until four in the morning. Poor guy, he must have been pretty tired the next day at work.


So he wanted to make it up. He thought a mix-tape would do the trick. He hoped it would say the following but not the following after that;
1) I am sorry for acting a little rudely.
2) I don’t think I will come to your birthday party, but I hope you have a good time my dear.
3) Please understand that this is not a last, final grab for you affections, but rather an apology. This is not a present made my starry eyes, but a show of affection, respectful attention. We may not be friends, but that doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t respect you.

But Jack my dear boy, what about her, the girl?

1) What if she doesn’t remember?
2) Does remember but doesn’t care?
3) Thinks you are a boring bunt (silly kunt) anyway.

What if this piece contains too many lists? Will people lose interest?

If she doesn’t care, Jack thought, that was okay, and if she doesn’t remember, then that was okay too. This was about him behaving badly, and him feeling the need to make it up to her.

This was about him about doing the right thing and not doing everything for himself.

He wanted his mix-tape to travel back in time, to the previous Saturday’s party, and say the following:

‘You look spectacular tonight. Amazingly spectacular.’

Stoker’s Horror Blog: Thoughts and Critiques by Steven Rogers - Part 15: Tears and Cartoons by Sebastien de Robillard

Modern cartoons don’t have the heat of old cartoons. I think that every time I see another crappy trailer on TV or before a feature. Crappy animation, crappy story telling and crappy acting.

Of course, you could argue that I, Steven Rogers, does not watch kids’ cartoons. I don’t have time for that shit. But some of my friends love them. Especially the Pixar films. I don’t get it. I don’t get Pixar and why they are so popular and wonderful. I mean who gives a rat’s arse about a fucking rat, or some stupid toy or some stupid car? I don’t.

I recently purchased the new Yeah Yeah Yeah’s album. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. They seem to have lost their old punk-styles, and developed a more generic, synthesizer sound. How dull and predictable. Rec didn’t think so. She thought it was marvellous.

‘Don’t type that. I never said it was marvellous Steve, I said it was really good. Don’t put words into my mouth.’ She was lying next to me, apparently reading the morning paper. She knew I would probably use the following words in my review of their album: “shit”, “popular” and “boring”.

‘Is this like your whole “Kings of Leon” thing? ‘Cos they are massively popular now?’

‘No, no, no. No. It’s not like that. You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t understand how your opinions on things are based on the opinions of others? Right. Sure.’

‘Oh hey,’ she continued, ‘there is a documentary about a metal band form Baghdad showing this week in town? It could be good.”

I made a face. She didn’t look at me.

‘Is that your pretty face Steve? God I hope not.’

A few hours later, she picked me up from the comic book store down the road - new Green Lanterns, a new Robin, a one about Zombies (genius) and some Superman stuff. I had called her because it was spitting a little, and I didn’t want to walk home in the rain and YES I DON’T HAVE A CAR.

Okay?

‘Thanks Rec my sweet dear,’ I said, jumping into the back so I could lay out the comics as I opened up each one. She looked over her shoulder.

‘You know its only a few hundred meters home?’ I ignored her. I wish she didn’t fucking interrupt me when I was reading my comics. Fuck.

I started reading the first one, Ah Hal Jordan, you are spectacular. I finished it and then grabbed another. Something was wrong. We were in a car park.

‘Where are we?’ I asked. She looked at me, and said, with measured controlled,
‘We are at the movies.’
‘No, Rec, no, fuck off. Please no. I don’t want to go to a movie about stupid fucking metal. I won’t go. I refuse to go.’ She got out of the car and started walking away; I quickly jumped out and followed her. She locked the car with that beep beep sound.

We quickly reached the box office, and I grabbed her arm, with all the manliness I could muster.

‘No, no. I will not watch this film.’ I looked around; metal heads everywhere, all wearing the individualistic uniforms of black on black on black. Fucking losers.
‘These people are so fucked. I mean, look at that fat one, wearing a grey cardigan over an ice hockey top. Who fucking dresses like that? Is he trying to be ironic? Look at his glasses too…’
‘Steve,’ Rec cut me off, ‘I am seeing this film now. Are you coming in with me?’
‘No.’
‘Fine, meet you out here in 2 hours.’
‘What? No. Well…give me your car keys at least? So I can get my comics.’
She came up to me, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and gave me an almighty kiss. I kissed back – what else could I do? This was nice. This was very…
‘Fuck you,’ she said and turned to walk inside.
‘Well, what am I SUPPOSED TO DO FOR 2 HOURS?’
Rec shrugged her shoulders without turning around.

How to Bake a Bliss Pie by Luke James

This is an age-old recipe popularised in fairy tales.

Serves: 0 to 2

Preparation time: 16 years +

Ingredients
• One human
• Rose-tinted glasses
• Yourself

Method
1. Place human in mixing bowl.
2. Add rose-tinted glasses.
3. Add yourself.
4. Mix well until all ingredients are combined and gooey to the touch. Break down any resistant chunks of human with a good spoon.
5. Transfer mixture to baking tray and place in a moderate oven until risen.
6. Remove from baking tray and serve hot.

Note: this recipe can be the most delicious dish ever tasted, but if incompatible ingredients are used or oven is set at incorrect temperature, pie may crack or lack flavour. This can cause extreme discomfort to one or both humans involved, and may also affect family or friends in the vicinity.

Hunting by Amanda Kramer

It was a drizzly and white late afternoon but the clouds showed signs of retreating and unveiling a calm dusk sky. He stepped up over a jagged rock and scuffed the toe of his boot on some crumbling debris. Placing his right hand down on the shrubby slab of rock, he used the ball of his palm to secure himself so he could dust off his boot quietly and, using his left shoulder, adjusted the strap so the rifle lay across his chest, like a seatbelt. The muzzle pointed up towards his lower ear and when he turned his head to the left he could smell the old residue from last week's hunt. He was never frightened at the closeness of the muzzle to his brain and the fact that only a few millimeters of bone lay between him and his fate. His expertise was paramount. He'd been hunting for a long time now.


The lonely wind blew a vacuum around his head but he could hear himself panting. Like clockwork, he assumed his position. Now crouched low like a python, he wriggled his body beneath some thick bushes, nestled amongst sharp sticks and ragged branches. Already the sky was clearing to a seamless milky grey and the wind retreated slightly. He lifted a finger and felt the direction of the air against his wet print. He took a pretend shot into the distance just slightly cocking the rifle, making a faux-explosion sound with his mouth. The immaturity of the act relaxed him and he smiled to himself and wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. He was pleased now. Perfect view, perfect aim. Now he needed the gold. He waited, picking something from his teeth using a thin piece of dried shrub. All was still. Then he saw it. Not one but two beasts, one behind the other, making their way around the base of the outback hill. They were completely unaware of him. This repulsed him. They were so clumsy and lumbering, their breathing heaving noises and sounds into the quiet. They had a lot of meat between them; he would certainly be proud of himself if he could mark both of them from here. He thought about how to tie the bloodied carcasses to his Hilux and remembered he brought with him some winch straps from the yard.



He waited until the beasts were stationary. They sniffed the air and grunted at each other hungrily. He drew a sharp intake of breath as the leader turned to his stumpy sidekick. Then the beasts were moving again. Slower this time. Perhaps they had sensed a predator. Not likely, he thought. The only thing they could sense was the arse of another of their kind. He felt disgust, the familiar precursor to the blind hate that drove him away from his family and to places like this. Places cold and lonely, where he cramped for hours in disguise, waiting and waiting for a chance to slaughter even one of this obtuse species.


They halted again and he cocked his rifle gently, one finger slowly easing itself onto the trigger. The only sound was the slowing whoosh of the wind and the rustle of the eucalyptus up above. He squinted, they stood still and dumb. Not moving, positioned in their own predatory formation, crude and offensive. Up ahead, a male kangaroo held its paws together and sniffed the wind, while a joey scuffled in the cracks behind him for some greenery amongst the dirt.


He fired two shots, like drum beats. The first hit the hunter in the head, sending him flat down into the crud. The second hit his sidekick, but in the ribs. The two men lay there, one dead, one dying, neither killing.



He got up, right hand on the rocks, left hand steadying the rifle behind him this time. His anger retreated from him like the rain had from the dusk. He smiled and walked away, leaving them bleeding into the dirt with no choice but to stare straight ahead at the roo and the joey retreating, shocked, but alive.

Sunny Side Up by Seb de Robillard

“So?”
“I’m happy.”
“Yeah? So what?”
“Well, you asked.”

And it was true. Mike was happy, and had been so for a few years.

“A few years.”
“Bullshit.”

It wasn’t bullshit, it was the truth. Sure, not everyday was a holiday, not every day was Christmas, but fuck Christ all mighty, he was happy.

“How? How did you get happy? Become happy, sorry?”
“ I apologised.”

That was it. He said he was sorry.

“That’s it?”

It sure was.

He decided, that he needed to swallow his pride, his ego and just show some humility. He got rid of his “bullshit” and just apologised.

“Three words? “I’m Sorry”?”
“That’s two words idiot, and it was a little more complicated than that.”

Of course it was a little bit more complicated than that, most things are. What sent it off this time? A book? A song?

“I don’t really know how I ended up in the park, but there I was. I think I passed out, after drinking with some hobos, and then a few hours later, the sun came up.”
“Did they rob you?”
“No.”
“Really?.”
“I was covered in a fine film of dew, this was in early summer. The sun slowly crept up, gently nudging me awake, and I just thought of her.”
“Because of the dew?”
“The sun. It wasn’t a cold morning or anything, but the sun warmed me. Pulsed through my body. I breathed in deeply, and I smelt her.”
“Huh?”
“The warm sun, it smelt like her.”

Mike never worked out how he ever associated her and her smell and summer, never quite worked out what summer even smelt like.


Mike’s friend was a little confused. He had not read Patrick Suskind’s Perfume like your trusty narrator, therefore had no real understanding of the power of the nose and stuff and how it makes you feel or remember things without you even realising.

“Then what?”
“I called her, woke up her, and told her I was sorry. Sorry for the way I had been, the way I behaved. I said I was sorry for not being honest and not allowing myself to be hurt. For not taking a risk. I apologised for taking her for granted, for just expecting her to be there when I wanted her to be there. I apologised for being a selfish person.”
“Did you tell her you loved her?”
“No. We met up a few hours later for coffee, I still stank of hobo goon and morning grass.”
“So you were wearing cheap as cologne?” Mike’s friend laughed.

“Sure. She looked like she had just woken up; her skin was paler than her usual lovely tint. She looked like morning, you know?. It was like her blood hadn’t really started flowing yet, flowing to give her that glow. Her beautiful glow. “
“And you told her this?”
“No. She looked annoyed, but there was flicker of curiosity, of interest in her eyes. We hugged, I should say, I hugged her. I held her for a long time. At first she was not to keen about it, even did the old pat on the back a few times, you know, “Get-off-me-pats”, but then she relaxed. We embraced, held each other like that for some time.”

“And then…”
“And then I told her I could smell the sunlight on her skin. She looked at me, and smiled.”

Fallow by David Streader

Morphine and IV drips. Catheters and hospital food. Dark grey skies, cold wind. Nicotine and Xanax. Heartbreak and restrained tears. A headache that comes after work, throbbing, until the tablets take their course. Self medication and disassociation techniques. Glazed eyes and plastic plants. A life under fluorescence, subconscious green, tinting the skin of the patients. Subtle insults, patronising compliments. A constant electrical buzz. Anxiety, anti-anxiety, anxiety. Vague sense of filth and bacteria, the overwhelming stench of bleach and chlorine. Cheap coffee, rushed cigarettes. Time races and stands still simultaneously. Mild heart palpitation, traffic fumes. Junk food and sadness. Morning coughing, yellowing teeth. Someone smiles a sweet pitying smile. Brief conversations in the break room; an uncle who had a stroke, a grandparent’s recent death. Valium and caffeine pills. Memories of a suicide, a mother of four hanging in the family bathroom, no note left - a commentary on the rest of us. The pills they say, the doctors gave her the wrong ones. Rubbing eyes, the sun sets again. The sad cold day turns to a sadder colder night. The veins in her temple, they pound. Then TV, then a fitful broken sleep, sweating, shaking. Dreams of death and forgotten friendships. And work. Dreams of work. Until the 5pm alarm goes off. Snooze for nine minutes, snooze for nine minutes more. Coffee and cigarette, peak hour traffic once more. The morning radio, play advertisements and insincere odes to love. Traffic accident, everyone slows down to look. To see if maybe they can catch a glimpse of a corpse, of their own mortality. She won’t look, she’s seen enough death already. She takes the offer of overtime. Mopping up the fluids, watching the clock. The trip to is as exhausting as the trip from. Mild paranoia. Nausea and tremors. Someone’s fucked up. You don’t seem very happy these days, someone says. She stoops over to pick up a discarded magazine, its cover of upset celebrities reminds her of her own divorce. Bring the kids back on time or they can’t see daddy next weekend. Make a phone call. A lingering feeling that she is standing on the edge, about to fall in. It’s the people they say. The people around you will pull you back. She wonders if the doctors have given her the right pills, runs in the family they say. God this place hasn’t changed in thirty years. She sighs, and tries to imagine a time when it wasn’t this bad…

Suggestions for a Newborn by Guido Martini

Wine turns into vinegar so be weary of whom you choose to trust with the rest of your life. A partnership can only be defined as such. When the spark is gone together with the looks, there had better be something else. Don't be stuck pedaling the tandem, solo.

You probably won't make a difference to the world, but it doesn't matter. You are living in YOUR world, so by default, you are making a difference.

All rules must be broken. The square shape can fit into the star opening, if you want it to. The end justifies the means.

Oh yeah, stay away from clichés; they are so passé, and try to avoid pompous French words when writing in English.

Most of all be true to yourself. Never let anyone get in the way of achieving your dreams; or tell you what to do.

Sharing by Neve Chalmers

Caitlin breathed deeply as she turned off the ignition and peered through her smudged windscreen. The kitchen light was on, and a dark shadow moved inside. “She’s home”, Caitlin sighed. She paused for a moment before bundling up her bags for the nightly dance to the door: groceries in one hand, worn briefcase in the other, and hand bag perched precariously in between.

A note met her in the hallway: “Caitlin, I’ve gone to Nebraska for the weekend with Joel. Just thought I’d let you know that the shower needs a good scrub. Electricity bill attached xo”. Caitlin winced. She could hear Sarah’s verbose southern twang, “Don’t forget to the pay the electricity bill, sweetie pie!”

The kitchen sink heaved with the remnants of Sarah’s life: three coffee cups, orange peel, fry pan with complimentary burnt eggs, empty tin of beans, two Tupperware containers and a used pot of bikini wax. “Shit.” Caitlin breathed out and leaned against the sink. She created a new list in her mind of “things to do tonight”, with Sarah’s rank dishes and mess coming in at number one. Behind her, a shadow moved.

Within an hour Caitlin had de-contaminated the kitchen and prepared a tasty Japanese salad. She had even poured herself a glass of pinot noir to celebrate her empty nest. She knew that she had put far too much mirrin in the salad dressing, but was pleased with her attempt nonetheless. She contemplated her toe nails as she sat in front of the blaring television, realizing that it had been at least three months since she’d last paid them any attention. The peace was a welcome gift, Caitlin thought, as it gave her the time and space to indulge her most inane thoughts. Every now and then, she thought she could hear Sarah moving in the bathroom. Caitlin giggled, “one single glass of wine and I’m imagining she’s back.”

After falling into a brief dream on the couch, Caitlin lazily opened her eyes and found that her salad bowl and wine glass had been moved. She gazed up at the ceiling, straining to remember if she herself had moved them. “Must have”, she mumbled. The television screen stared blankly at her. “Did I turn off the T.V.?” Caitlin mused, feeling an underwhelming unease that she knew was a direct consequence of her over-active imagination and seeing “The Ring” many more times than was necessary.

She lifted her heavy bones off the couch and moved towards the hall. In a moment, voices filled the room. Caitlin turned to find the television back on, roaring as its volume steadily increased. A blonde southern belle yelled at Caitlin to try a new feather duster, “with four times more dust grabbing power!” “Where the hell is the remote control?” Caitlin cried out, desperately scanning the room for an answer.

*****

It wasn’t until exactly one month later that Caitlin and Sarah’s elderly neighbour, Jennifer, decided to call the police. She hadn’t seen either of the two young girls come in or out of their home for weeks. The bins hadn’t moved. A pile of damp newspapers was starting to form on their front porch. The first snow of winter had enveloped Caitlin’s car. “I know she didn’t care much for that old thing”, Jennifer explained to the police, “but there’s no way she wouldn’t have moved it into the garage for the first days of winter”.

Sergeant Gidon was assigned the task of inspecting the share property on Hayley Street. He was relieved to escape Headquarters, especially in light of what was regularly referred to around the traps as winter’s “bureaucratic avalanche”. When he arrived at 28 Hayley Street, he was surprised to find that the door to the unit clicked open with ease.

The atmosphere inside was stale. All of the windows were covered, making the place feel and smell like a dank hovel. Gidon moved into the living room to pull back the heavy curtains. His eyes soon adjusted to the light. Peering at the floor, he suddenly confronted the wide eyes of a dead woman. Caitlin lay in a contorted tangle: a television remote control between her limp hands, a full bowl of Japanese salad beside her head and a glass of pinot noir splashed across her body and the white carpet.

Moments later, a panicked Gidon found Caitlin’s housemate Sarah, sitting dead in the base of their shower.

Stephen's Quintet by Guido Martini

My dad occasionally sends me emails of the "Astronomy Picture of the Day"
A sort of cosmic money-shot taken of the orgy of our forming universe.
The thought of it embarrasses me, just like how you felt when your parents embarrassed you in front of your schoolmates
That flushed feeling passing from your head to your toes.

Hold on...how many other parents send out really cool emails?
I mean meaningful, deep, totally enlightening?
Not a viral joke email or a funny picture of a cat
He's sending me pictures of GALAXIES! CONSTELLATIONS! COSMIC DUST!
It's as is he's stating: look up there my son.
Wonder. Why you are here.
Wonder.

And so it was, as I observed "Stephen's Quintet,
It all made sense:
Life is pure energy.
It burns brighter than any sun
Impossible temperatures
But not enough for 37.5°

My Name is Blue Van Meer by Aylma Pessl

Diary Entry 2009 70.3

This is the third time I have swept away course work assignment (see ‘controlled yet passionate arm, sweeping my work off my desk while he passionately heaves me onto the desk, ready to have his way with me’. Think all this without the passion or desk or boy).

How does one effectively use one word, or even several words, that come close to capturing the beautiful, short and sweet sadness of a sigh. A sigh. It’s not even a breath. Something escapes one’s lips (dry because Chanel’s Scintillantes Glossimer, Paillettess, shines more than it moisturises), but not enough to consider it an exhalation. A sigh, a slight sound, barely perceptible except in the most uncomfortable of situations (see Diary Entry 2008 311.2/312.1). Rod in the car, sitting behind the ridiculously large wheel, before telling me he was still fornicating with his ex-sweet-heart, the cruel hearted, bosomy Clarice, and that they would be re-emerging into the college limelight a couple once more at the Dewell-Stanford Dorm House ball that following week).

A sigh escaped me.

Today Anna Lee decided to tell me, yet again, that I needed to relax, be nicer, maybe “get drunk and just snog someone” (see Chapter 3 of How to Meet a Young Man, Ladies. John Parsol, 1997) rather than be “aloof, cold, calculating and down right emotion-less” (the latest quotation from One Tree Hill, her favourite re-ran TV show. Sorry, I don’t recall the season or episode). I hate it when she says these things to me (there Anna Lee, can you feel that emotion? Hate is emotive. Detest. Odium, ha- good one!).

I am not aloof. I may be many things, but I am not aloof. And I do try, just not around her. I could tell from the first time we meet (Diary Entry 2008 158.4, 217.2) that we would not be the ‘best of friends’, close or even remotely interested in each other.

1) Safe sex: It was only because she felt she needed to scrawl her crude, southern moniker onto, yes ONTO the front covers of her school books that they were liberated from the prophylactic-tight plastic to breathe in the learned, collegian air.

2) Cousteau does Harvard: her ridiculously large, all-boxed shoe collection, which she would sift through every Saturday afternoon before a date, leaving the worthy-less ones lying in their tissue prisons like hundreds of uneaten oysters, strewn around the dorm room. I broke several heels by accident I broke several with great deliberation (see Episode 6: Territory Markings of the Siberian Tiger of Canal Plus’ Columbian Award winning six episode series on the rare Siberian Tiger called 6 Hours in the Life of a Fading White Royal).

Another sigh.

I had finally mustered (see Eli Cash’s unpopular WildCat, 1999) the courage to speak to Rudolph Thomas Valisse today when Rod decided he needed to ruin my day and week and life (Dad, you can see that without you around, my dramas are ever more melodramatic and adolescent) by interrupting our budding conversation, like a cruel child stamps on a little, growing daisy (my God, I am becoming so damn sentimental). I had been keeping an eye on Rudolph, like a young, female Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window sans binoculars (I will never stun like Grace), and had developed the following theory: we had had different authors (parents) but we were of similar ilk. His novel may not have been as complex or well travelled as mine (in my own humble opinion) but I think he could be an interesting read. If you could purchase me for $29.95 on Amazon, then he would pop up in the “If you liked this then click here” section.

I think.

I had several things ready to throw out, should the conversation get past the initial greeting.

Potential Topics: Harvard, Dad, local football.
1) “My father went here, and spoke so fondly….”
2) “Of course Dad wrote, but if he had ever decided to attack the non-fiction world, I believe his writing would have been unashamedly Nabokovian…”
3) “Dad really disliked the college teams…”

Instead: Rod. He pecked me on my cheek and gave me an overly affectionate hug. It was more contact than during our two dates.

I was furious, but neither gentleman had a chance to see my disgusted reaction: Rudolph disappeared and Rod stared triumphantly at his departed back. By the time he had turned around, I was gone.

Bastard. Oh Dad, what would you say to all this? That I am too young to be wasting my time with such frivolities? I would argue sternly against that. Your first June Bug was at the tender age of 16. Why can’t I explore the many uncharted channels of my heart?

Oh Dad, sometimes I feel these are nothing more than sad, silent soliloquies to you (Ha! Try saying that Christian Bale).

Stoker’s Horror Blog: Thoughts and Critiques by Steven Rogers - Part 13: It’s Not Just the Name by Sebastien de Robillard

“The slow, creeping, dark cloak of death slowly encircled us, clouding our vision. We couldn’t see, and it felt like we couldn’t breath. My heart slowed down, and I could feel the hearts of my friends slowing too. Death was here for us. Death was here for us...”

John Franco Conard finished with a long, long-hanging-in-the-air dot dot dot (visual aid: . . . ) wanker-of-an-arse pause. You could imagine him planning it earlier in the evening, probably with his thin, black beret-wearing, red-spectacled wife.

The crowd broke into applause, some standing ovations. Some and then more. God. What a bunch of idiots.

I leaned over to my right. “Jesus Christ Rec, what a fucking joke.”

She laughed, “He is the newest, brightest darling of the literary elite.” I rolled my eyes and made to throw up. This year’s Writers’ Festival had been ordinary at best, but to “headline” the festival with John Franco Conard (“My Name is John Franco Conard (and yes, he pronounced “name” like a proper noun, like he was so damn special that “name” was just a word but “Name” was his word for him))!? Oh I missed the wit and brilliance and genial nice-guy-ness of Eggers. I miss the good looks of… the other writer, the Australian one. I missed all those smart funny people, those SEXY ladies who had graced the festival stages. Where were they tonight?

“Should we go?” Rec asked. I nodded. “I need some wine,” she said.

“Of course you do, what else would you drink after an event at the ‘Writers’ Festival’?” I said with some level of sarcasm.

We stumbled out, lucky to leave with our satchels in one peace, battering our way through the gagging horde of amazon.com-top 10-most-popular-books-of-the-month-reader/subscribers dying for a little bit of John Franco Conard.

“Fuck, I can hardly breath. What a joke. I am going to rip the fuck out of this tomorrow.” I didn’t see her, but Rec groaned rather audibly, probably on purpose.

“Boring. Tearing apart something on your crappy little blog. What a boring, clichéd joke Steve, seriously.” We stopped at the lights. I wanted to argue, but I chose against it. We started walking across the road, heading towards our usual, little bar without any real conscious inten…

“Well, why the fuck can’t I? We just sat through dribble, absolute dribble?” I couldn’t help myself.

“Of course. Why can’t you? Poor you, I forgot, I forget how you suffer through life. God, you are such a damn cliché of a failed artist. You are like every protagonist in a Hornby novel… No!” She yelled the last part out, which kinda shocked me.

“No. You’re not even good enough to be a Hornby character, you’re that stupid main character in that ridiculous book Alistair loaned you. The one with the shit writer who is jealous of his friend and gets one blow job a year and…” Rec laughed her cute little arse off.

I didn’t move. Can you believe that? Him? That character? I don’t even remember his name, the book: The Information. I think.

‘Rec, wha… what the fuck?” I stammered out. “That is one of the meanest things you have ever said to me? I mean, shit…”

She laughed at this pathetic attempt at my own defence (not doing that again: I paid a fine AND served a three month community service bit and was hopelessly humiliated). She laughed and then stopped abruptly.

“You are so negative, so full of spite. You didn’t even try, yet you bemoan the fact you never got anywhere, or anything done. People like you are everywhere. Wanker intellects with nothing to give the world but sour, sorry, ego-boosting words.” She was furious now. What did I do?

“You know what Steve? I liked Conard’s book. I never wanted to tell you because I knew it would kill you, look at your face, but I did. It was well written, it conjured wonderfully warm images in my head. You? Your blog hurts my eyes. Change the fucking colour of the font!”

Rec stormed off.

Writer’s Block by Kate Barnaby

I sit on the train and think about writing something. I’ve been encouraged to write, to express myself, if I have things to say. Well, I do have things to say, but who’s really going to be interested? And how do I start?

Suddenly, on this particular rainy day on the delayed Werribee line, I had a brainwave. Where’s my pen? Shit. I search through my dilapidated, held-together-with-duct-tape bag, which, when I really need something, seemingly turns into Mary Poppins’ magical endless bag. I pull out my keys three times, thinking each time that I found my pen and getting increasingly frustrated. Eventually my hand grips a long, thin plastic tube but by then, I’ve forgotten what I was going to scribble on the side of my mX.

It doesn’t matter anyway, it seems all I have is the pen cylinder. Where the hell is the ink? A quick drunken flashback reminds me vaguely of mX spitballs and the moving through Melbourne artwork.

But why am I writing about drunken escapades? I need to save those for my Facebook status updates. Favourite song lyrics? TV quotes? Same thing. There’s really nothing to write about.

I sit on the train and try to remember my idea, and different images flood my mind. But mostly I think about the actual writing part, the affluent language needed, sentence structures, and how I should cast off.

One main niggling question is what style should I write in? There’s too much pressure for writers. Short story? Prayer? Analysis of a politically biased opinion piece? Recipe? Creative writing? Maybe I’ll try my hand at poetry:

Self-cut, indie fringe

Bright red tights, she really is

One delicious roll.

Perhaps I could write something that only one other person will understand. Funny for them, but everyone else will tune out. (For reference, see above Haiku. There is only one person who could decipher that.)

I could write about love and loss, but just how do I write that magical tear jerker? I mean, without sounding like a whiny teenager. I could tell you about how guys pine after me but the one I like is a complete ass. Just enough self indulgence to let you in and know you’re thinking of me and want to know more? Enough self indulgence to pour out every tiny little detail? (Incidentally that’s pretty much autobiographical. I’m the former, but I won’t elaborate).

Ideas come in and out of my head. Boring. Already been done. Too self indulgent. Not self indulgent enough. I’m not sure I’m any good at this.

The writer’s block is frustrating. I have (potentially) hundreds of interesting ideas. I just can’t think of them.

There are already so many biro-ink stained fingers in thousands of word-filled pies. Maybe the writer’s block is stopping me from poisoning them?

Passionista by Luke James

I lack passion.

What I mean by that is I have been TOLD that I lack passion.

The first time I heard this was about a month ago. A co-worker was prattling about his love for fifteenth century Flemish art and made a comment about how the triptych was used as an avenue to express social and political comment. I sat behind him making hand signals to indicate my disdain for his masturbatory opinion- seriously, who name checks Hieronymus Bosch when their idea of a perfect Sunday "arvo" is nine $2 pots of VB? When I articulated my distaste for his ex-hippie, ex-uni-student, quasi-bourgeois-Northern-Renaissance-for-the-masses love for said art, another co-worker, a close personal friend, dropped an accusation- "Luke, you don’t have any passion".

My jaw gaped. Me? A man who wept openly during the final scenes of 'The Bridges of Madison County'? A man who can't speak when he hears 'Into Temptation' by Crowded House because the love and confusion and sadness and overwhelming Catholic guilt stab him in the guts like a double-serve of unrequited love? A man who celebrated Steven Gerrard's 35 yard piledriver in the 93rd minute of the 2006 FA Cup final so hard he fell off his bar stool and injured a French woman?

That's right. Me. Passionless little old me.

Two weeks ago on a lazy Sunday morning I was talking to someone else. A friend. A girl. OK, a girl I like. Well, a woman really… anyway, the topic came up again.

I think I mentioned that I didn’t love my job. And that I didn't love food as much as she did. And that I hadn't touched my guitar in a few months (this is typically a sign that all is not well in Lukey-land).

She actually gasped. It was audible. Kind of wheezy, but the vocal chords were definitely engaged. You know at 0:44 of 'Jesus Walks' where Kanye says '…top floor, the view alone would leave you breathless, mmhhh, trying to catch it, mmhhh…'? It sounded like that.

"You lack passion!", she yelled. The tone was accusatory. She repeated it, but this time triumphantly- "You lack passion!".

"No, I don't", came my ever-so-witty retort.

"You do, you do, you do". It had a certain singsong quality to it, like an Irish accent. Unfortunately, like an Irish accent, it was also very annoying.

I had to disagree again. Then she came at me with logic.

"In the last 15 minutes you have said 'I don't care' at least six times. You don't care about anything".

I did my best to rebut her argument, and what followed went more or less like this:

Me: I'm passionate about music.

Her: Your passionate about pretension.

Me: I'm passionate about clothes.

Her: You just want to look like the fifth Beatle. You're NOT the fifth Beatle.

Me: I'm passionate about football.

Her: Pffft.

And that, pretty much, was where my defensive rally ended. I was out of ammo and I was out of steam. It was my Waterloo, just with less blood and silly hats.


******************************************

Since then I quit my job, bailed on my life here in Melbourne and joined Greenpeace. They do a lot of great stuff, fight for a lot of good causes. I have a lot of respect for what they do. I don't LOVE it, but it's ok. I also play in a band with a few of the guys on the ship, mostly U2 covers though. Still, it's nice to be passionate about what I’m doing. Well, sort of.

The Latent Accountant by Amanda Kramer

It was well and truly dusk as he lay in bed thinking of ways to do his presentation to the Artistic Directors of Melbourne without using PowerPoint. The evil, blasphemous brief was specific, and recommended exploring other ways to get the budding artist’s creative idea across. The thought filled him with resentment so bitter his stomach turned and he felt a lump in his throat. His eyes hurt. He turned in his single bed, hearing it creak and felt a cold draft lick his toe as the blanket was cruelly wrenched from his foot with the movement of it all.

After six months in the arts industry, where the girls (women) had shiny lips and were far too loud, and the men’s presence made him stammer and loosen his tie in an effort to appear more at ease, the concern began to consume his entire being. If he was a Mr. Men character, he thought, he would probably be Mr. Grumpy. But he was not fond of the colour purple or cartoons so he banished that thought.

He climbed out of bed and stood in front of his square window in his flannelette pyjamas. It wasn’t quite summer and he was a practical man. From there, he watched the neighbours across the block finishing dinner and talking.

He did this when he needed distraction, watched the neighbours that is. Pondering what possible topics could form their conversations served as a welcome, almost challenging mind game for him. (He’d met the family before, of course. This was anything but voyeuristic and sinister). As he watched Jo pack the dishwasher while Geoff chatted with the baby on his knee, he wondered what on earth they could possibly be talking about. Surely they had already covered the important and necessary topics such as whether each other’s day was sufficiently enjoyable and what they wanted to consume at dinner. The rest perturbed him. It was September and Tax Time had come and gone so it couldn’t be that. Perhaps there was an unusual charge on the grocery bill and they were listing what items were purchased that week in a crude process of elimination... This was probably it, he thought.

With his mind at ease, another conflict balanced, he retired to bed, his cot, his haven for dreams of square homes and round numbers.

Love in the Club? Nah by Kalolaine Vea

So it’s Sunday morning again. I wake to find the Sahara desert has relocated to my mouth and DJ Kool Herc is rocking one of his block parties in my head. As I struggle to open my eyes, the memories from the previous night come rushing through my brain like a motorcycle fuelled by amphetamines. Some Sundays the memories are not too bad. An example of an average night; me asking a young women why she was clubbing when she was pregnant, first of all its just rude to ask and none of my business, second (and worst) she wasn’t pregnant! Seems pretty bad but I’ve done worse.

I stumble out of bed and attempt to walk to the kitchen (which looks more like a pathetic re-enactment of a Tap Dog’s routine.) I can still feel the alcohol in me, signalling I hadn’t had enough sleep or, consumed way to much the night before, which ever sounds better. As I walk past my brother’s room, I peer in and can see he’s had just as big a night as me. How I can tell? He still had his shoes on. I get to the kitchen grab a drink, take a seat and start reminiscing about the night before.

I vaguely remember getting to the club, hugging and kissing a few people like I haven’t seen them in years (yet I saw them last week at the same place at the same time - force of habit I guess). As I approached the entrance I was becoming anxious that I’d get bounced for no I.D, even though I’m 20 years old and have been going to the club since I was 16.

The security guard is like a menopausal sixty-something year old women. Sometimes he’s the loveliest man, and other times (well most of the time) he’s mean as hell. Luckily, tonight he wasn’t at the door. Instead a small white man had taken his place. He looked as if he’d been hit by a motorcycle fuelled by ampheta… oh my bad I’ve already used that simile, hmm let’s try again. A small white man stood at the entrance, he looked as though he’d been hit by a gigantic hippopotamus (that’s more like it), so he wasn’t really taking notice of who walked in or out of the club. Phew, I’m in.

So the next big challenge is getting down two treacherous flights of stairs, (yes they are treacherous when you’re wasted) whilst fumbling around in my pockets for the fifteen dollar cover charge (what a joke I know), then being confronted by the crazy, power tripping door bitch. Try and dodge your way past her - you’ll have a big butch Samoan she-man to deal with, no thank you.

As I enter the club I quickly scan the place without being too obvious, looking for anyone I know, or actually want to see, haven’t spotted anyone too special yet, but I reassure myself he’s somewhere there. Making my way to the bar, I kiss and hug a few more people I don’t really know or care to see and order my best friend and I tequila shots and vodka sunrises. After downing two tequila shots each, we walk towards the toilet to have a smoke. By then the ethanol’s playing with my head, and I’ve forgotten about what’s-his-face, temporarily of course, because just as I reach the front of the toilet, he is standing there, we make eye contact, my buzz sky rockets through the roof and the game begins.

"The Couple of the Tram" Script by Sebastien de Robillard

I don’t hate mornings, not at all. Sure, I would rather sleep in til 8:00am then have to get up 6:45am each morning, but that’s the way it goes. That’s the way it goes.

I sometimes read on the tram, sometimes stare out the window. Sometimes I am so fixated by whatever I happened to be listening to (at the moment, a neo-New Romantic Danish band) that I spend the entire trip with my eyes closed, engrossed by the music. Not everyone enjoyed my taste in music.

“That’s not music, that’s noise,” Marie says. She refers everything I listen to as "Dinosaur Music." Makes us both laugh.

Today, I was caught between the book (a slow, overly descriptive, Upper East Side story by a writer that should have made it far better, far more interesting and quite frankly, should know better than to publish crap like that) and staring out the window, when I saw them jump on. He followed her up the step, and he let her sit down first.

I checked my iPhone for the time -and to show everyone I had one-7:37 a.m. I looked at them for a few seconds; I did recognize these two. I saw them if I happened to catch this particular tram. I turned up the music on my pod and, head titled a little to the right, began to scrutinise. I should say, I decided to scrutinise them.

These two had just recently had a fight, that much was obvious. Couples, bickering or not, were hardly a new thing, but there was something about these two. Maybe the first fight, the first proper fight, the night before.

He pulled out his Ipod, a mini, and she did the same, a mini also. Probably purchased at the same time, probably had VERY similar tunes on each. He went to offer her a headphone, but she had already shoved both of hers into her pinna, deep. He looked at her, and reluctantly withdrew his offer. He looked rather sad, and she looked rather annoyed.

Another routine popped up. She absent-mindedly handed him her ticket and he scanned it in before either of them realised what they were doing. Her face became red, and he tried to appear frustrated by the effort, but he failed. He was so damn in love. She regretted their regime, I must validate my own damn ticket, she thought. Well, probably.

You could tell these two had their routines down pat. After breakfast, he would hold the door open for her, and lock it as she walked to the end of the pathway, waiting for him. They would walk, probably arm in arm, or perhaps hands inter-locked, towards the tram stop. They would sit at the same seat each morning and he would do the ticket thing. She would read a magazine she carried, and he would read some book, nothing fancy or very literary, like me. Probably some airport-bookshop-$29.95 (same price, doesn’t matter what country you are in)-fucking fodder-novel.

I continued observing them, noting down their little this’s and their little that’s. They were so similar, in size and appearance; they were made for each other. They didn’t look like they had much to contribute, to anyone really. They were probably very sweet individuals, not the sharpest tacks or brightest bulbs, but not the dumbest. They were probably polite, and shy. You would invite them out, but only because you were inviting everyone else out as well.

It was hard to imagine them ‘doing it’. A little like your friend’s 70 year old parents, weighing a couple of hundred kilos between them, you are sure they did sleep together, but you were also sure they didn’t. And if they did, was their intimacy?

Yes I am an arrogant, self righteous, egotiscal, grammar-bastardising narrator.

Each glared out a separate window, trying to ignore the other. Except of course when the tram would suddenly stop, or start, and they would bump into each other. Each time they rubbed up against each other, she would react with demonstrative annoyance. He looked so sad each time this happened. He had this puppy dog look that made you want to drown puppy dogs.

Yes I am an arrogant, self righteous, egotiscal, grammar-bastardising narrator.

Very little happened after this, and it was not until we reached Flinders Street station that it became awkward again. Just before the tram stopped, and my fellow passengers flooded out of the doors towards their fruitful, beautiful jobs, she squeezed his hand briefly and they both turned and kissed, pecked each other on the lips. It all happened so quick, and I almost missed it. The looked into each other’s eyes, I would love to have been closer for that. Anger? Frustration?

They routine had worked against them, fooling them into a brief, a very brief reconciliation. Their routine would not stand by ‘pissed off’, it would not stand for the ‘cold shoulder’ or ‘slamming doors’. Their routine politely told them where they could shove their feelings and reminded them why there were together in the first place.

It was beautifully awkward, when they realised this, looking into each other’s (probably) brown eyes. They were both embarrassed now, cheeks glowing red. A slight smile, maybe? I don’t know.

She got up and left. He didn’t look out the window after her.

Advancement by Guido Martini

I was recently over at a friend's house for a barbeque. This was no ordinary meat over charcoal affair. Well, it was, but the meat wasn't ordinary, and neither was the charcoal. We had to drive to a place, which sold vacuum-sealed meat in boxes. 8 filet mignon steaks for 60 bucks. It was going to be a special night.
Conveniently this establishment happened to also be a BBQ supply shop. Most of the grill units on display looked better than kitchens I'd been accustomed to. I wondered what these customers' kitchens must have been like, yet alone their homes. We were there for charcoal too. Hawaiian charcoal.
"It's the most natural coal you can cook on. No contaminants in it, and it'll enhance the flavor of the meat."
I said, "OK man. I trust you."
After all, this guy's favorite dish is Kobe beef. He knows his meat, with great anticipation I'll be taking a back seat on this one.
The cashiers bantered with him a little. Yes, he looked different without the five-inch goatee. He gave them an example of how people treated him differently when he had it, other drivers in particular.
"I could cut into another lane without any hassle. Now, they don't give me the time."
He must have looked dangerous. Don't fuck with the biker driving a Merc. We laughed and he chose three steak knives from the box near the till. I wondered if the display position was a wise one.
They mentioned that in three weeks, there would be a 60% discount on all beef which he should take advantage of. Dammit, ruining the moment like that with their salesmen tactics.
"How do you like them?" he asked while pulling out of the parking lot.
"Medium rare. Sometimes rare"
"Yeah me too. I messed up last time. Cooked them too long. I'll be more careful tonight."
"Like I said, I trust you. It's your show, man. Let me get the beers."
We stopped by the supermarket. Even the busboys recognized him and the banter continued. He's a cool guy, it's only natural.
Back at his place we started to get everything in order. Vegetables sliced, meat marinated, grill positioned on the terrace, charcoal bag sliced open. He poured a pyramid of it in the bowl, carefully rearranging certain pieces in a way that made sense to him.
Stepping back, he rubbed his hands together, then placed one on my shoulder ready to describe the ensuing operation, "OK, so I'm going to douse the coal around here and at the base. Then we'll light it. We're looking to ignite the seed. It's all about the seed."
As he said this he was unknowingly swaying slowly from side to side, then up and down, simian-like.
I interrupted his explanation.
"Do you realize this is probably the oldest conversational topic between two humanoids?"
We laughed about it as our ancestors peeked from our DNA, in awe of how flint stones and sticks were replaced by plastic lighters and fluid.

Upon the Undertaking: Part 1 by Guido Martini

“A conversation with a computer?” he said to himself. “You kidding me? Jesus and here I was thinking of writing a story of the Most Paranoid Man™. We are years away from AI of that caliber. Whatever, he needs to get real and answer the caller on line 23 – probably someone irate with the company’s service, figures, if they’re hiring morons like this”.

Jake closed the mail application, fingered the mouse towards the apple and ordered the computer to shut down.

“What a cunt. Then again, there could be potential, good training as such. Get some feedback, besides where else are you going to get anything read? “

He left 5 Euros for the Americano and walked up the stairs of the beachfront bar offering “free” wi-fi (TANSTAAFL - no truer words) onto the Promenade Des Anglais. It was late June, however the absence of people and folded up beach chairs made it seem like late spring.

“Where the hell is everyone?” he thought. “Guess this recession is for real.”

Jake’s been out of touch with the real world. He’d just gotten back from a four-week visit with his brother in Los Angeles. Before that he’d embarked on a crazy cycling journey from Vancouver to LA (over 2000 clicks in 23 days. Carrying all his gear, camped along the way, no SAG – biiitch! What? Who’s the fucking man?). Before that, contemplating his relationship’s failure in Vancouver by procrastinating as a landscaper - during the Canadian winter. Real world? Not really, but the sense of freedom he felt was unmatchable to anything he’d ever felt before.

“OK then. I’ll give him something for his lame-ass blog. Something different. Conversation with a computer though…not such a dumb idea. After all, I think in the third person - narrating my moves like I’m in some fucking story.”

Jake had recently finished reading, “The Moon is a Harsh Mistress” where an important character was a bored computer who, as a practical joke, issued somebody a pay cheque in the gazillions thus rousing suspicion in the main character to the disturbing fact that the computer was indeed, alive.

“Doubt he read it, the fat fuck. He probably, like most, underrates Sci-Fi. Damned sheep. “
Jake liked to joke about the physical largesse of his Australian friend Rudy, directly at him at times; after all, Rudy could take it. He had a sense of humour and was a top bloke.

“I wonder if I’m the only one that does that? Fuck! Imagine if I am. He must think I’m a real dick, then again, he may appreciate the honesty”.

He closed the car door and put the keys in the ignition. It had rained, so the windscreen was peppered with water droplets, a quick swipe of the wipers and the wind would do the rest. The grey car pulled out of the car park and proceeded uphill towards the Ligurian hamlet. The idyllic hamlet that did not have high speed Internet.

“I’ll think of something. It’ll come to me, and it will be good”.

ShortWritersTallStories Manifesto

>You are not explaining it sufficiently?

What are you talking about? I typed.

>Firstly, typed the computer >you want to start this new blog with a creative piece? Something to get the blog started?

>Point A: Your aim is to encourage writers to submit short stories/poems to upload onto an online blog fashioned for creative writing? typed the computer.

That is correct, I typed in.

>Point B: In order for this online blog fashioned for creative writing to commence, you need to send out a manual outlining the goals and parameters for your online blog fashioned for creative writing?

Ah…yes and no. Rather than a manual, I typed, I shall call it a manifesto. And I don’t believe I will be setting “parameters”.

The computer made a whirring sound, which did not sound healthy. Actually, it sounded like a sigh.

>Indeed. We shan’t call them ‘parameters’, but there must be some rules involved?

It made a good point.

I typed, You make a good point. Okay, no rants or diatribes.

I almost pressed ENTER….

Delete.

No, yes, you can rant, or blow your annoyed load in the blog, but turn it into a story, or give it start and an ending….?

A faint whirring, I think it was saving.

>Rant? I am not familiar with this term LOADING LOADING LOADING I compute. However, Mr Administrator Lord Sebba Of the Mac (243- #24_12), much of your saved word documents are little more than rants?

It had me there. I typed, They are not! They usually involve at least one central character loading loading loading

>I apologise for the interruption, but according to the Oxford Online English Dictionary:
INSERT A rant is a very loud, aggressve, or bombastic speech, usually long and repetitive.

>And WikiWords: INSERT To Speak in a violent or angry matter, extravagant.

>Much of your writing incorporates many these traits.

Yes Yes thank you.

Goddamn smart arse.

I typed, Point taken. Just have an epiphany or something.

>Mr. Adminstrator Lord Sebba Of the Mac (243- #24_12), I could cite at least loading 47 examples of your saved word documents that you have called INSERT "Stories" without an ending or epiphany.

>They are nothing more than rants. With reference to www.comicfilmrants.com INSERT preachy, wind-bagged, slew of nonsense words, yelled out to make oneself heard, to make oneself feel important, possibly aggressive.

Fine fine FINE, and NO! Don’t delete the repeated words okay? I get it. I rant sometimes. And don’t pretend that you were dropping quotations from Oxford Online, that sounded like some randomn online dictionary or some crap.

LOADING LOADING LOADING

>You will run the blog?

Yes, I shall be the admin dude. So all pieces are emailed to me, and I shall post them.

> Email: derobillard@gmail.com
Subject Matter: ???

Ah, maybe ShortWritersTallStories and then the title of their piece.

> Email: derobillard@gmail.com
Subject Matter: ShortWritersTallStoies – Name of Story

>Will you be censoring the submitted pieces?

Of course not. I think my Mac is a facist. I will have an assistant editor/Proof Reader look over it, that’s it.

>I see. Well. It sounds like you know what you want. Perhaps you should send out the correspondence now.


Should I include a warning at the end of each email, like, don’t hit REPLY ALL on the emails? Not everyone wants to read your crap (unless it’s on an awesome blog!)

>This is probably a good idea.