Posted by Chris H.
It's been a while, and this is no accident. Things have been busy. The story of "Hey Dave!" however, will be coming to this space soon, and it will be awesome.
In the mean time, here's a message Laura sent me a few weeks ago that I forgot about. Let's hope it isn't important.
Chris, listen to me. Listen this is very important. The exorcism did not work. I don't know where I am right now, I think physically I'm in the space between the floorboards of our office and the downstairs Russian's ceiling? Physically oh God oh God. Physically Phthirus has been steadily eating his way through the rubber of my boots. He may have reached my toes, I don't know. Physically it feels like somewhere not so much as where what exists is important and sensible, as what does not exist is no concern and cannot be felt. I can't feel my toes. I can feel I'm writing, I can feel something in my hand making marks on a page. I can feel an eight-year-old ghost child's eyes watching me write this. This is where he draws his pictures when his mommy isn't home. This is the bad place he goes. He pets Phthirus and Phthirus's teeth go right through him; Phthirus's teeth go through everything, eventually. I don't know how he ended up here with me. I don't know how I ended up here with the ghost child. I only know the ghost child's able to bring his Crayola drawings to the real world and he might be able to bring this message as well. Chris I want you to know one thing. Listen to me, it's important. I want you to know that after all of this, all we've been through together, the laughs and sorrows we've shared, after all these moments I want you to know that I blame you for all this. And you can put that on my epitaph. Phthirus is shaking. I think Mommy is coming.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
They're cutting the power soon
Posted by Chris H.
We're approaching rock bottom in the office, and by "we" I of course mean "I." Laura and the rat haven't been seen in days. Dave doesn't return my calls. The others never really moved in to begin with so it's hard to say that they've been lost so much as they made a calculated desertion during the turmoil. It's not a surprising result, but there's that bitter tang of disappointment that fills my mouth with a dusty dryness. More likely that's the asbestos in the building, but so it goes.
Trappings are, of course, at times just that. But at other times one must look serious to be serious. While one could easily interpret the coming spell of emptiness in this space as a sign of death, one should not do this! At the very least your trusty narrator (me) will continue with idle chatter until such time that a more substantial product may be put before your eyes.
We're approaching rock bottom in the office, and by "we" I of course mean "I." Laura and the rat haven't been seen in days. Dave doesn't return my calls. The others never really moved in to begin with so it's hard to say that they've been lost so much as they made a calculated desertion during the turmoil. It's not a surprising result, but there's that bitter tang of disappointment that fills my mouth with a dusty dryness. More likely that's the asbestos in the building, but so it goes.
Trappings are, of course, at times just that. But at other times one must look serious to be serious. While one could easily interpret the coming spell of emptiness in this space as a sign of death, one should not do this! At the very least your trusty narrator (me) will continue with idle chatter until such time that a more substantial product may be put before your eyes.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
I Hate the Acronym "TIFF"
Posted by Chris H.
The Toronto International Film Fest has been going on for several days now, and, depending who you ask, you may be entirely aware of this fact or completely oblivious. This is the weirdness of living in a city that occasionally has Big Events in the cultural sphere, but isn't really a Big Cultural City (although, as we are reminded ad nauseum, it is a diverse one.) Things happen here that at times warrant international coverage, but most of the resident’s, upon careful inquiry, will respond to questions about it in the vein of “Oh, yeah well, I sort of forgot and it was a busy week at work and my daughter kept me up until 3 in the morning on Wednesday so I had to miss basketball practice Thursday and make it up Saturday and I was really tired and maybe I’ll go next year.” It’s an interesting phenomenon because really, depending where you are situated, it can massively influence your day-to-day living or have absolutely no effect whatsoever.
For anyone who writes about this business, it is, of course, a Very Big Deal. Here at the offices of Formerly-Never-Later, we don’t really write about anything, which is, I guess, a counterintuitive approach to an organization that is purportedly a patron of writing. However, one might think that in the case of a local event of such magnitude some driblet of content might eke out on this site. You wouldn’t be entirely wrong thinking this, but to talk about the Film Fest itself would not really be in keeping with the office’s areas of interest, which are more inclined towards books and rats and poking each other in the ribs when the other person isn’t looking so as to provoke a reaction of surprise, alarm, and impotent rage.
But of course, there are lots of people interested in the Film Fest, and everyone seems to have their own agenda, which is really all the same agenda – how can I be more famous? The crazy people pressing up against restaurant glass to be closer to George Clooney want it, the filmmakers obviously want it - the smaller and more disaffected the better, and the people who write about the Film Fest want it. These are my favorite people, because they try really hard to perform the same function differently. You can probably divide them into two types, the ones who are aware of this and do it anyway, and the ones that are oblivious because they are so caught up in the details of differentiating themselves that they fail to recognize the overwhelming sameness they are caught in.
For some, there’s the films themselves, and you might be lead to believe this is the point, but that seems unlikely. Reviewing a film to me seems a lot like casting a vote. It’s deeply personal and you want to do your best and at the same time almost everyone else doesn’t give a shit and just wants a little consensus. When the Festival is all said and done, most people won’t know anything more about the movies than before it, except that really good and really bad movies draw enough common opinions that you can’t help but hear something. Lost amidst this vague impression of whether the Festival decided a film was “good,” “bad,” or “okay,” are the reams and reams of words in articles, blogs, essays, and what have you. Critics have their “picks” going into the festival, things they really want to see, don’t want to see. Entire books are essentially written about the Festival before there is a Festival, and for a very small crowd this is Useful Information. For everyone else, it’s so much lost noise. It’s unclear what recognition there is for any of the writers engaged in this somewhat crazy and arguably arcane pursuit, except for the likelihood of recognition amongst ones peers, or the even more unlikely prospect of making a “discovery” that no one has made yet. I can only imagine there is some Freemason-like hierarchy that one can rise through by successfully playing this system, but what the rewards are as yet remains unknown. As it is, of course, for someone like myself who remains minimally in tune with the bombardment of information, it’s just an avalanche of do’s and don’t’s and top ten lists and arbitrary critics awards that the critic will likely give some clever allusory name that isn’t so clever. I can’t help but suspect one can get more mileage writing about the people who write about the Toronto International Film Fest rather than the Film Fest itself.
There is a far simpler explanation for why writers bother – and really upon examination I could have written this post in under a hundred words. The possibility of going to parties and hanging around famous people seems awesome, and worth all the associated bullshit required to make it happen. How true that is probably depends largely on whether you spend four hours at the fringe of a conversation with Michael Cera’s brother’s agent, or find yourself alone with Kate Hudson half in the bag. Don’t give up the dream guys, don’t give it up.
The Toronto International Film Fest has been going on for several days now, and, depending who you ask, you may be entirely aware of this fact or completely oblivious. This is the weirdness of living in a city that occasionally has Big Events in the cultural sphere, but isn't really a Big Cultural City (although, as we are reminded ad nauseum, it is a diverse one.) Things happen here that at times warrant international coverage, but most of the resident’s, upon careful inquiry, will respond to questions about it in the vein of “Oh, yeah well, I sort of forgot and it was a busy week at work and my daughter kept me up until 3 in the morning on Wednesday so I had to miss basketball practice Thursday and make it up Saturday and I was really tired and maybe I’ll go next year.” It’s an interesting phenomenon because really, depending where you are situated, it can massively influence your day-to-day living or have absolutely no effect whatsoever.
For anyone who writes about this business, it is, of course, a Very Big Deal. Here at the offices of Formerly-Never-Later, we don’t really write about anything, which is, I guess, a counterintuitive approach to an organization that is purportedly a patron of writing. However, one might think that in the case of a local event of such magnitude some driblet of content might eke out on this site. You wouldn’t be entirely wrong thinking this, but to talk about the Film Fest itself would not really be in keeping with the office’s areas of interest, which are more inclined towards books and rats and poking each other in the ribs when the other person isn’t looking so as to provoke a reaction of surprise, alarm, and impotent rage.
But of course, there are lots of people interested in the Film Fest, and everyone seems to have their own agenda, which is really all the same agenda – how can I be more famous? The crazy people pressing up against restaurant glass to be closer to George Clooney want it, the filmmakers obviously want it - the smaller and more disaffected the better, and the people who write about the Film Fest want it. These are my favorite people, because they try really hard to perform the same function differently. You can probably divide them into two types, the ones who are aware of this and do it anyway, and the ones that are oblivious because they are so caught up in the details of differentiating themselves that they fail to recognize the overwhelming sameness they are caught in.
For some, there’s the films themselves, and you might be lead to believe this is the point, but that seems unlikely. Reviewing a film to me seems a lot like casting a vote. It’s deeply personal and you want to do your best and at the same time almost everyone else doesn’t give a shit and just wants a little consensus. When the Festival is all said and done, most people won’t know anything more about the movies than before it, except that really good and really bad movies draw enough common opinions that you can’t help but hear something. Lost amidst this vague impression of whether the Festival decided a film was “good,” “bad,” or “okay,” are the reams and reams of words in articles, blogs, essays, and what have you. Critics have their “picks” going into the festival, things they really want to see, don’t want to see. Entire books are essentially written about the Festival before there is a Festival, and for a very small crowd this is Useful Information. For everyone else, it’s so much lost noise. It’s unclear what recognition there is for any of the writers engaged in this somewhat crazy and arguably arcane pursuit, except for the likelihood of recognition amongst ones peers, or the even more unlikely prospect of making a “discovery” that no one has made yet. I can only imagine there is some Freemason-like hierarchy that one can rise through by successfully playing this system, but what the rewards are as yet remains unknown. As it is, of course, for someone like myself who remains minimally in tune with the bombardment of information, it’s just an avalanche of do’s and don’t’s and top ten lists and arbitrary critics awards that the critic will likely give some clever allusory name that isn’t so clever. I can’t help but suspect one can get more mileage writing about the people who write about the Toronto International Film Fest rather than the Film Fest itself.
There is a far simpler explanation for why writers bother – and really upon examination I could have written this post in under a hundred words. The possibility of going to parties and hanging around famous people seems awesome, and worth all the associated bullshit required to make it happen. How true that is probably depends largely on whether you spend four hours at the fringe of a conversation with Michael Cera’s brother’s agent, or find yourself alone with Kate Hudson half in the bag. Don’t give up the dream guys, don’t give it up.
Friday, September 11, 2009
By Contractual Obligation
Our depravity continues. Care of Laura, the second chapter in Dawny Bougainvillea's doubtless Booker-winner-to-be, "His Cowboy Heart, Her Ninja Breast."
HIS COWBOY HEART, HER NINJA BREAST
Chapter Two
By Dawny Bougainvillea
That night Polly's ninja reflexes were alerted to a disturbance in the barn. Her first impulse was to wake her father, but she shook it off with a stubborn shake of her shoulders. “This is something I must do alone,” she said, “though I may die in the attempt.”
Pausing only to slip on her two-toed slippers and arrange a bandolier of secret-filled ninja eggshells around her luscious curves, Polly dropped soundlessly from the third-floor window to creep briefly along the dew-heavy grass before leaping onto the roof of the barn where the animals were kept. She peered through the skylight to behold a sight most shocking!
People were in the barn – feasting on animals!
Their garb was strange and the utterances they made just as strange as their clothes. That didn't matter. Only one thing was important: that she avenge the lives of her beloved farm animals. Shrieking a special soundless ninja cry designed to confuse and terrify enemies, Polly snatched a egg filled with noxious toad-odors from her bandolier and drew her arm back to hurl it.
Someone grabbed her hand – someone she did not suspect! She drew a breath and crushed the egg, careful not to inhale the vapors, before turning to face her assailant.
Her already-drawn breath caught in her bosom. Holding her dainty wrist was A MAN: skin red as sunset on a mesa, cheekbones so sculpted they could have fetched a good price at a museum, black hair tied with feathers and beads and small animal bones. His eyes burned black, if fire were black. He was the most attractive man she'd ever seen. He had fangs.
He said, “Please don't hurt them. I'll do it.”
Still engulfed by toad fumes, and feeling oddly subservient to this overwhelmingly attractive stranger, Polly could only watch as the man jumped lightly to the barn doors, opened them, and said something in that awkward, haunting language.
As one, the feeding frenzy stopped. The strangely-clothed people peaceably left the barn, muttering.
The man jumped back onto the roof. “They say they're sorry. They will not trouble you again. They will replace the animals that are lost with their own.”
“Who are you?” Polly said. “Who are they?”
“I am Winner Longhorn. My father was a Cowboy, my mother was an Indian. Those are my mother's people.”
“They were eating our animals alive!”
“It is their way.” He looked at her through long lashes. “Their vampire way.”
HIS COWBOY HEART, HER NINJA BREAST
Chapter Two
By Dawny Bougainvillea
That night Polly's ninja reflexes were alerted to a disturbance in the barn. Her first impulse was to wake her father, but she shook it off with a stubborn shake of her shoulders. “This is something I must do alone,” she said, “though I may die in the attempt.”
Pausing only to slip on her two-toed slippers and arrange a bandolier of secret-filled ninja eggshells around her luscious curves, Polly dropped soundlessly from the third-floor window to creep briefly along the dew-heavy grass before leaping onto the roof of the barn where the animals were kept. She peered through the skylight to behold a sight most shocking!
People were in the barn – feasting on animals!
Their garb was strange and the utterances they made just as strange as their clothes. That didn't matter. Only one thing was important: that she avenge the lives of her beloved farm animals. Shrieking a special soundless ninja cry designed to confuse and terrify enemies, Polly snatched a egg filled with noxious toad-odors from her bandolier and drew her arm back to hurl it.
Someone grabbed her hand – someone she did not suspect! She drew a breath and crushed the egg, careful not to inhale the vapors, before turning to face her assailant.
Her already-drawn breath caught in her bosom. Holding her dainty wrist was A MAN: skin red as sunset on a mesa, cheekbones so sculpted they could have fetched a good price at a museum, black hair tied with feathers and beads and small animal bones. His eyes burned black, if fire were black. He was the most attractive man she'd ever seen. He had fangs.
He said, “Please don't hurt them. I'll do it.”
Still engulfed by toad fumes, and feeling oddly subservient to this overwhelmingly attractive stranger, Polly could only watch as the man jumped lightly to the barn doors, opened them, and said something in that awkward, haunting language.
As one, the feeding frenzy stopped. The strangely-clothed people peaceably left the barn, muttering.
The man jumped back onto the roof. “They say they're sorry. They will not trouble you again. They will replace the animals that are lost with their own.”
“Who are you?” Polly said. “Who are they?”
“I am Winner Longhorn. My father was a Cowboy, my mother was an Indian. Those are my mother's people.”
“They were eating our animals alive!”
“It is their way.” He looked at her through long lashes. “Their vampire way.”
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Everything is fine
Posted by Chris H.
I've been shirking my responsibilities. Laura has made this clear in no uncertain terms by forwarding me a second chapter of that ill-bred pestilence that conspires under the misnomer "novel in progress." I am thinking at this point installments will have to undergo the fierce swipe of the editor's pen before they see the light of day. Such is my service to mankind.
There are, of course, no actual editors in our offices. There is me, and that only goes as far as the three month course on copyediting I took in which I struggled to "recall" the basic rules of grammar. This was an interesting experience, mostly in that I am fairly confident most of us in the class were "recalling" nothing, having never learned such rules. That they exist and--more importantly-- that people care about the proper places of these squiggles and lines was something I was always conscious of much in the way that I am conscious of the fact that Nicaragua is a country. The country is a place I have no plan to visit, but grammar is a thing that seems determined to visit itself upon me.
This is all well and good, and the periodic blog-like updates I have provided are, as you may have suspected, a sort of cagey manoeuvre to buy time. While I purport to have a stable of writers, the unfortunate, perhaps, yes, even unsavory truth is that I am nominally at the wheel with Laura's hands steering from the passenger's seat, and this does not a dread fleet of fearmobiles make. One might be more inclined to paint our endeavours thus far as a sad little buggy, dripping its way down a desert canvas toward a long, noiseless fall, and then nothing.
Rest assured, I am determined to see that this is not the case.
I've been shirking my responsibilities. Laura has made this clear in no uncertain terms by forwarding me a second chapter of that ill-bred pestilence that conspires under the misnomer "novel in progress." I am thinking at this point installments will have to undergo the fierce swipe of the editor's pen before they see the light of day. Such is my service to mankind.
There are, of course, no actual editors in our offices. There is me, and that only goes as far as the three month course on copyediting I took in which I struggled to "recall" the basic rules of grammar. This was an interesting experience, mostly in that I am fairly confident most of us in the class were "recalling" nothing, having never learned such rules. That they exist and--more importantly-- that people care about the proper places of these squiggles and lines was something I was always conscious of much in the way that I am conscious of the fact that Nicaragua is a country. The country is a place I have no plan to visit, but grammar is a thing that seems determined to visit itself upon me.
This is all well and good, and the periodic blog-like updates I have provided are, as you may have suspected, a sort of cagey manoeuvre to buy time. While I purport to have a stable of writers, the unfortunate, perhaps, yes, even unsavory truth is that I am nominally at the wheel with Laura's hands steering from the passenger's seat, and this does not a dread fleet of fearmobiles make. One might be more inclined to paint our endeavours thus far as a sad little buggy, dripping its way down a desert canvas toward a long, noiseless fall, and then nothing.
Rest assured, I am determined to see that this is not the case.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Management strikes again
HANNEY. HAVE READ LATEST OFFERING (“HIS COWBOY HEART, HER NINJA BREAST”). I AM VERY DISAPPOINTED WITH YOU. HOWEVER MISS BOUGAINVILLEA SOUNDS DESPERATE AND/OR HUNGRY. VAMPIRES ARE CURRENTLY IN VOGUE. INSTRUCT MISS BOUGAINVILLEA TO INCLUDE VAMPIRES IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. MAKE IT CLEAR THIS IS NOT A POLITE SUGGESTION. HER FAILURE AND YOURS IS INADVISABLE.
- M
- M
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Plunging toward the lowest common denominator
Posted by Chris H.
I'm loathe to post this, but then I realized that we have nothing else. What follows is precisely what Laura forwarded to me, unedited, in all of its original glory. Ideally it will be the first and last partial manuscript we post here at what used to be Never Later (and may soon have a new name!), but then again, we never make promises because we are slaves to expediency.
Dear Sir,
Please find enclosed the first chapter for my novel HIS COWBOY HEART, HER NINJA BREAST. It takes place in rural American in the 1700s and follows the life of young Poliamareaux Potato, a French-Irish ninja-born farmgirl, and her struggle to choose between the sweet affections of cowboy Winner Longhorn and ninja Whiskey McBlarneystone and also avoid the eviller affections of Sheriff Dieter von Schweinfleisch. Pirates will also make an appearence.
Yours most sincerely,
Dawny Bougainvillea
Chapter One
Poliamareaux Potato - or Polly, as she was commonly called - swung her buxom frame into the farmstead with a sway of her womanly curves, the basket of freshly-gathered eggs balanced on her hip. With her cream-coloured hand she turned on the stove and placed a cast-iron frypan on the burner and threw some butter into it for melting. With her other hand she tossed an egg in the air and almost absent-mindedly gave it a karate chop that sliced the shell exactly in half and left the yolk and whites continuing their trajectory into the sizzling frypan.
Her Irish father, Fiddles Potato, watched from the barn with pride and sadness alternately tugging at his heart. "She makes eggs the same way her dear departed mother, and thus my wife, did," he whispered in the gloaming. "The ninja way."
It seemed like yesterday instead of seventeen years ago that he had forsaken his dying ninja clan, The Leprechauns, and fled Ireland to America via the ocean. It seemed even more improbable to him that he was the last surviving member of the Leprechauns, and downright impossible that he had decided to raise his precious daughter not in the ways of the vicious Irish ninja, but as a humble farmer.
Yet, as he watched her grow from delicate child to delicate almost-a-woman, it seemed even more impossibly impossible that she had nevertheless inherited his ninja abilities, along with her French mother's skill in cooking and needlework.
And that he now owned a farm in the middle of America, with fifty head and away from a life of constant inter-clan violence - impossible!
But here he was.
"Le sange, le sange est disparu, ou est mon sange, et ou est tu?" Polly sang. In her clear soprano, Fiddles knew he had made the right choice. His eyes misted over.
"La, Papa, what are you doing out in the barn?" Polly said from behind him. In the nanomicroseconds it had taken his eyes to mist over, Polly had managed to sneak up behind him with a buffet-style breakfast.
Memories of his beloved wife Monagamousse overwhelmed him and he hugged the dear girl to his chest. "That's my Polly!" he whispered.
Suddenly Polly pulled a face, pouting out her full lower lip. "Oh poot, there's that skanger Sheriff von Schweinfleisch. What's he doing here so early?"
Sheriff Dieter von Scweinfleisch sauntered up to the buffet table, a self-satisfied smirk under his large, waxed mustache. His pet marmoset Scrofula hopped off his shoulder to snatch up a pastry and hissed at her father with his venomous fangs. "Good morning, Sheriff," Fiddles said calmly. "What can we do for you?"
"You know what you can do for me," Dieter said in his thick German accent. He pointed at Polly. "Zer fair Miss Polly's hand in marriage!"
"That I cannot do," Fiddles shook his head. "She is already promised to one of her childhood playmates who is scheduled to arrive from over the ocean in a fortnight."
"Unt childhood playmate, you say?" Dieter smoothed his mustache. "We shall see whose childhood playmate will be arriving over the ocean in a fortnight!" With that cryptic statement, the sheriff snapped his fingers and strode off, Scrofula leaping to his back to cling to his shoulder.
"Papa, how could you lie like that?" Polly said when the sheriff and his monkey were out of earshot. "What shall we do when no childhood playmate arrives?"
Fiddles sighed heavily. "We think of another lie," he said.
She looked at him sadly. "That was never the ninja way!"
"You are too right, my girl. Back on the Emerald Isle we could have simply removed his vital organs without disturbing the lay of his skin, kept him propped up in a rocking chair, and had done with it. But we are among Indians and Cowboys now, and we must abide by the rules in this strange, foreign land."
Also out of earshot, Dieter tickled Scrofula under his chin. "Send word to the other sheriffs," he said. "I want all incoming ships' passengers arriving within the fortnight killed without mercy!"
"CAW CAW CAW!" howled the marmoset, who leapt off to do his master's bidding.
Dieter laughed. "Ach, mein proud beauty!" he said to himself. "We shall see how you marry a childhood playmate - when he has no body!"
I'm loathe to post this, but then I realized that we have nothing else. What follows is precisely what Laura forwarded to me, unedited, in all of its original glory. Ideally it will be the first and last partial manuscript we post here at what used to be Never Later (and may soon have a new name!), but then again, we never make promises because we are slaves to expediency.
Dear Sir,
Please find enclosed the first chapter for my novel HIS COWBOY HEART, HER NINJA BREAST. It takes place in rural American in the 1700s and follows the life of young Poliamareaux Potato, a French-Irish ninja-born farmgirl, and her struggle to choose between the sweet affections of cowboy Winner Longhorn and ninja Whiskey McBlarneystone and also avoid the eviller affections of Sheriff Dieter von Schweinfleisch. Pirates will also make an appearence.
Yours most sincerely,
Dawny Bougainvillea
Chapter One
Poliamareaux Potato - or Polly, as she was commonly called - swung her buxom frame into the farmstead with a sway of her womanly curves, the basket of freshly-gathered eggs balanced on her hip. With her cream-coloured hand she turned on the stove and placed a cast-iron frypan on the burner and threw some butter into it for melting. With her other hand she tossed an egg in the air and almost absent-mindedly gave it a karate chop that sliced the shell exactly in half and left the yolk and whites continuing their trajectory into the sizzling frypan.
Her Irish father, Fiddles Potato, watched from the barn with pride and sadness alternately tugging at his heart. "She makes eggs the same way her dear departed mother, and thus my wife, did," he whispered in the gloaming. "The ninja way."
It seemed like yesterday instead of seventeen years ago that he had forsaken his dying ninja clan, The Leprechauns, and fled Ireland to America via the ocean. It seemed even more improbable to him that he was the last surviving member of the Leprechauns, and downright impossible that he had decided to raise his precious daughter not in the ways of the vicious Irish ninja, but as a humble farmer.
Yet, as he watched her grow from delicate child to delicate almost-a-woman, it seemed even more impossibly impossible that she had nevertheless inherited his ninja abilities, along with her French mother's skill in cooking and needlework.
And that he now owned a farm in the middle of America, with fifty head and away from a life of constant inter-clan violence - impossible!
But here he was.
"Le sange, le sange est disparu, ou est mon sange, et ou est tu?" Polly sang. In her clear soprano, Fiddles knew he had made the right choice. His eyes misted over.
"La, Papa, what are you doing out in the barn?" Polly said from behind him. In the nanomicroseconds it had taken his eyes to mist over, Polly had managed to sneak up behind him with a buffet-style breakfast.
Memories of his beloved wife Monagamousse overwhelmed him and he hugged the dear girl to his chest. "That's my Polly!" he whispered.
Suddenly Polly pulled a face, pouting out her full lower lip. "Oh poot, there's that skanger Sheriff von Schweinfleisch. What's he doing here so early?"
Sheriff Dieter von Scweinfleisch sauntered up to the buffet table, a self-satisfied smirk under his large, waxed mustache. His pet marmoset Scrofula hopped off his shoulder to snatch up a pastry and hissed at her father with his venomous fangs. "Good morning, Sheriff," Fiddles said calmly. "What can we do for you?"
"You know what you can do for me," Dieter said in his thick German accent. He pointed at Polly. "Zer fair Miss Polly's hand in marriage!"
"That I cannot do," Fiddles shook his head. "She is already promised to one of her childhood playmates who is scheduled to arrive from over the ocean in a fortnight."
"Unt childhood playmate, you say?" Dieter smoothed his mustache. "We shall see whose childhood playmate will be arriving over the ocean in a fortnight!" With that cryptic statement, the sheriff snapped his fingers and strode off, Scrofula leaping to his back to cling to his shoulder.
"Papa, how could you lie like that?" Polly said when the sheriff and his monkey were out of earshot. "What shall we do when no childhood playmate arrives?"
Fiddles sighed heavily. "We think of another lie," he said.
She looked at him sadly. "That was never the ninja way!"
"You are too right, my girl. Back on the Emerald Isle we could have simply removed his vital organs without disturbing the lay of his skin, kept him propped up in a rocking chair, and had done with it. But we are among Indians and Cowboys now, and we must abide by the rules in this strange, foreign land."
Also out of earshot, Dieter tickled Scrofula under his chin. "Send word to the other sheriffs," he said. "I want all incoming ships' passengers arriving within the fortnight killed without mercy!"
"CAW CAW CAW!" howled the marmoset, who leapt off to do his master's bidding.
Dieter laughed. "Ach, mein proud beauty!" he said to himself. "We shall see how you marry a childhood playmate - when he has no body!"
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Ongoing plot twists
Posted by Chris H.
It's been quiet the last few days. Dave's off on vacation, Ryan still has no idea he's supposed to show up for work. Only Laura has been around the office, and she mostly keeps to herself, tending to her pet rat and glaring at me suspiciously. She dropped a submission off at my desk yesterday, but I'm leery of it. No doubt it will appear soon enough as desperation drives this fear engine onward.
There is one other item of note.
We have received correspondence from a shadowy figure known only as "The Wolf." This Wolf proposes superior office space, with actual supplies and zero asbestos. More info will be forthcoming, assuming I am not killed.
It's been quiet the last few days. Dave's off on vacation, Ryan still has no idea he's supposed to show up for work. Only Laura has been around the office, and she mostly keeps to herself, tending to her pet rat and glaring at me suspiciously. She dropped a submission off at my desk yesterday, but I'm leery of it. No doubt it will appear soon enough as desperation drives this fear engine onward.
There is one other item of note.
We have received correspondence from a shadowy figure known only as "The Wolf." This Wolf proposes superior office space, with actual supplies and zero asbestos. More info will be forthcoming, assuming I am not killed.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Saving the Day before Bed Time
Posted by Chris H.
Just got the following email from Laura. Make of it what you will. The submission she mentions has already been accepted and posted below. Quantity over quality. Quantity over everything.
Chris. Can you tell me if this guy is serious? Like, am I reading it as a travelogue or a diary? Is it supposed to be funny? I don't understand. What am I doing here? Why do I get the weirdos? Why don't you get the weirdos for a change? Phthirus has gotten into the Lysol. I fear it's given him superpowers. That or the place is still haunted. I understand it's the landlord's problem and he needs to pay for it, but I don't agree that hiring the lowest bidder for an exorcism was the right way to go.
Just got the following email from Laura. Make of it what you will. The submission she mentions has already been accepted and posted below. Quantity over quality. Quantity over everything.
Chris. Can you tell me if this guy is serious? Like, am I reading it as a travelogue or a diary? Is it supposed to be funny? I don't understand. What am I doing here? Why do I get the weirdos? Why don't you get the weirdos for a change? Phthirus has gotten into the Lysol. I fear it's given him superpowers. That or the place is still haunted. I understand it's the landlord's problem and he needs to pay for it, but I don't agree that hiring the lowest bidder for an exorcism was the right way to go.
- Laura'D
A TRAVELOGUE TO COLONIA DE MARIA DEL PULPO
by Topher Topher
"The waves are choppy today" is a common enough warning uttered by lifeguards the world over, but only at the Coves del Pulpo do the lifeguards wear armour. The waves aren't just choppy, they will tear you in fucking half.
I'd come to the sleepy hamlet of Colonia de Maria del Pulpo on rumours of sighting the last known siren colony, a species all but wiped out during the same time as the opera whale back in '43. Whale hunting was big, and siren-hunting was almost incidental - a souvenir for the sailors to bring back home, or make use of during their long voyages. Greenpeace didn't care about the siren plight until decades too late, as until then the only confirmed reports of beautiful sea-maidens whose singing drove men mad had always turned out to be such aquatic lumps as manatees, walruses, and the occasional narwhal. Real sirens never had a prayer with that kind of press.
In a chance stop to a pokey little second-hand store in Kakapski I stumbled on a geography book of Spain and its surrounding islands. One of these islands held Colonia de Maria des Pulpo, and the Colonia held sirens. Wild sirens, with no mention of protection by outside human interests. It seemed like unlikely tourist-snatchery, but so did the cockatrice of Alsace (note: do not visit without mirrored sunglasses. Or a weasel). There was nothing to do but buy a ticket and investigate.
The geography book ("Too Much Spain?") was quick enough to mention sirens, but remained oddly quiet about the characteristics of the beaches. White sand? Volcanic rock? Bring own umbrella? No. The entirety of the passage reads like a campy whodunit: "With only the waters of Colonia to protect them, will the sirens ever truly be free of the land above the waves?" And that's it. Which is a load of zumo de bullshit. Or so I thought.
I've visited the Coves del Pulpo, and I tell you: the waves will fucking tear you apart.
None of the locals will so much as dip a toe when the waves are choppy. The treat the water the way Les Stroud treats a bull moose: leave it alone, leave it the fuck alone because it's goddamn insane and will kill you for looking at it. For existing. Because there ain't nothing to stop it.
Jess Thurgold doesn't fear the water. In her titanium-plated catamaran she's the only one brave, or foolhardy, enough to risk the waters. Not because she loves the ocean, but because she hates the sirens.
"I piss them off," she tells me over a plate of dorada con mejillones. "They think they're safe when the water's wild and out I come in my cat. I intend to train 'em up like Pavlovian shit. I sail over and give 'em a scare. I want their grandkids to shit when they see a boat."
Has she ever killed one? I make it clear I'm a travel writer, not Amnesty International. She answers anyway.
"You have to starve them to kill them," she says. "Anything else and it's like chopping the tail off a lizard." It's not an exact answer, which considering I'm scheduled to ride out with her during the next 'wild water' time, is less than comforting. She misinterprets my look - at least I assume she does, since I'm still alive. "Don't worry about your safety," she says. "They won't go after you."
So very little is known about the feeding habits of sirens that by this one statement I assume I'm in the hands of an expert. "What will they go after?" I ask. I expect to hear squid, monkfish, crabs.
"Women," says Jess. "They love women."
I decide it would be a very bad idea to ask Jess Thurgold who she lost to the sirens. I decide it's a very bad idea to be alone with her on the choppy water with only a titanium plate between myself and death, but I've already paid up and signed my waiver. People who think they've got it tough when they're between a rock and a hard place have never rode with Jess in the Mediterranean.
We don't have to wait long for the waves to get choppy. The next morning before dawn we're heading out past the coves to the feeding grounds of the sirens. We both wear chainmail suits, the sort that divers who play with sharks wear. Our outfits also include welder masks. It seemed like overkill on the island, but seeing the dents in the catamaran's hull provide incentive to gear up.
"Scared?" Jess asks. At this point I'm not. I'm incredulous, and wary, but it's hard to be scared when you're only fifty meters from shore.
"Go stand at the prow for a bit," she says. "Wait 'til we're in the open."
It sounds like a bad idea, but so does being next to Jess and saying no. I stand at the prow and watch the blue waves slam into the ship like prejudiced sledgehammers. A wave rolls us up, bring us crashing down. A chunk of ocean spray ricochets off the deck and slams into my welder mask. It's like being hit by a fastball thrown by Nolan Ryan. A cyborg Nolan Ryan. With a grudge. Jess is laughing behind her bulletproof glass.
It takes less than an hour to reach the siren's feeding area. I worry that Jess and her hatred will keep the sirens from appearing, but Jess seems expectant. We don't drop anchor. We just drift. Jess is leaning over the side and screaming. They couldn't possibly be attracted by this.
And yet they come.
It's like looking at a Magic Eye picture. Suddenly it's not water I'm looking at, but the blue-scaled hides of sirens. They're singing.
Around here I think is where Jess clubbed me on the back of the head, where the welder's mask conveniently didn't protect. We're back at port. I feel like a bad hangover.
Jess is watching me. Her mask is off. "So you got to see sirens," she says. "Treat, eh?"
"You hit me," I say. It was about the speed I was up to.
"Sirens got no regard for men," she says. "I think they only got captured so often during whaling 'cause they were alone and thought men were the biggest joke ever. One little song and you would have drowned to join them. 'Cept the whalers learned that sirens can survive a harpoon and decided to keep 'em aboard for fun. Sirens had to learn community to survive."
Maybe this is where I said 'you hit me'.
"They think men are pointless," she continued, "but they love women. Their songs don't hit the same switch on women. The women..." Maybe it was the concussion, but she stared through me, past me, into memory. "Women get a choice."
I changed my flight plans and headed back home later that day. I didn't want to experience the waters when they weren't choppy. I didn't want to investigate Colonia de Maria des Pulpo any further. I didn't want to know who in Jess's life chose blue-scaled death over being with her.
Excuses and updates
Posted by Chris H.
I haven't had much time lately to moonlight at the offices of what used to be Never Later, which is a problem insofar as Management doesn't really consider what I do "moonlighting." Laura left a note from Dave on my desk, which is a whole lot of bullshit. Management never takes kindly to vacation time, and I'm to be the messenger. I didn't find any receipt for Lysol though, so Dave and his East Don Holdings are going to be waiting a while on that check(cheque? How do we do things in Canada these days?). It's all sort of secondary though, as there's been a lack of material, and the people upstairs are not happy. Our roster currently reads as follows:
Chris H - Ducking responsibility, primary target of Management, ostensibly "responsible" for the wellbeing of the magazine. 0 articles.
Laura D - Always claims to be here, is never around. Is abetting the rodent infestation. May have stolen (?) Dave's Lysol. 1 article.
Dave C - "Music Expert." Takes lots of vacation time; potential freeloader. Not sure who gave him office key. Is not getting reimbursed. 0 articles.
Lucas R - Unshaven. Disappeared to United States. Still contributes to Dork Shelf, thus foolishly acknowledging he is alive. Still at large. 0 articles.
Andre BB - Left for Japan. Likely Yakuza connections. Hates colourful lights, which makes Japan a strange choice. Wiped Chris's hard drive before leaving ("destroy the evidence"). -57 articles.
Ryan H - Does not know he is on the roster. 0 articles.
I haven't had much time lately to moonlight at the offices of what used to be Never Later, which is a problem insofar as Management doesn't really consider what I do "moonlighting." Laura left a note from Dave on my desk, which is a whole lot of bullshit. Management never takes kindly to vacation time, and I'm to be the messenger. I didn't find any receipt for Lysol though, so Dave and his East Don Holdings are going to be waiting a while on that check(cheque? How do we do things in Canada these days?). It's all sort of secondary though, as there's been a lack of material, and the people upstairs are not happy. Our roster currently reads as follows:
Chris H - Ducking responsibility, primary target of Management, ostensibly "responsible" for the wellbeing of the magazine. 0 articles.
Laura D - Always claims to be here, is never around. Is abetting the rodent infestation. May have stolen (?) Dave's Lysol. 1 article.
Dave C - "Music Expert." Takes lots of vacation time; potential freeloader. Not sure who gave him office key. Is not getting reimbursed. 0 articles.
Lucas R - Unshaven. Disappeared to United States. Still contributes to Dork Shelf, thus foolishly acknowledging he is alive. Still at large. 0 articles.
Andre BB - Left for Japan. Likely Yakuza connections. Hates colourful lights, which makes Japan a strange choice. Wiped Chris's hard drive before leaving ("destroy the evidence"). -57 articles.
Ryan H - Does not know he is on the roster. 0 articles.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Fleeing the Scene
Posted by Dave C.
"You weren't expecting regular updates, were you, Hanney? I'm out getting office supplies." I said, thumbing out on a text message.
I had left the damp and filthy office for the drier and somewhat cleaner bathroom at the nearby Coffee Time, if only for the brief relief. Thankfully the neighbourhood, in daylight hours, is slightly safer then the office itself. Here I painstakingly crafted my first submission to the magazine. It took a few revisions, so I was out of the office most of the day.
I wondered what Management would say, briefly. Then, also briefly, I worried about Hanney's mental and bacterial health. On the way back to the office I picked up a gallon of Lysol. I tied my work to the jug, knocked on the door and bolted for freedom.
To whom it may concern.
I here by give notice of intention to take the period of August 22nd 2009 through august 31st 2009 as 6 of my 10 vacation days. Please mark it in the company calendar.
Thank you
Dave C.
P.S. Attached is the receipt of the Lysol. Please reinburse in cash (preferably) or make checks out to "East Don Holdings". Thanks -D
"You weren't expecting regular updates, were you, Hanney? I'm out getting office supplies." I said, thumbing out on a text message.
I had left the damp and filthy office for the drier and somewhat cleaner bathroom at the nearby Coffee Time, if only for the brief relief. Thankfully the neighbourhood, in daylight hours, is slightly safer then the office itself. Here I painstakingly crafted my first submission to the magazine. It took a few revisions, so I was out of the office most of the day.
I wondered what Management would say, briefly. Then, also briefly, I worried about Hanney's mental and bacterial health. On the way back to the office I picked up a gallon of Lysol. I tied my work to the jug, knocked on the door and bolted for freedom.
To whom it may concern.
I here by give notice of intention to take the period of August 22nd 2009 through august 31st 2009 as 6 of my 10 vacation days. Please mark it in the company calendar.
Thank you
Dave C.
P.S. Attached is the receipt of the Lysol. Please reinburse in cash (preferably) or make checks out to "East Don Holdings". Thanks -D
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Fiction from Laura
Posted by Laura D.
(Chris. Managed to convince Russians downstairs to refrain from applying their baseball bats to our heads. Instead convinced them that we are a reputable magazine sympathetic to rising authors and we have launched the careers of many notables such as Pierre LaPoutine and Yvette d'Yeux. I also told them we are a French magazine and we will have to translate their work from English to French. They cannot read French. I hope they do not learn.
(By the way we need more doughnuts. Phthirus ate the rest while I was busy attacking the toilet.)
The Princess And The Frogs
by Dmitri Khotliykova
Two little frogs went strolling one day. Their names were Pasha and Grigory and they were the very best of friends. Pasha had rescued Grigory from an eagle once, and Grigory had lost his arm to a snake for Pasha.
This day Grigory told Pasha that he was really a prince cursed by a witch to take the form of a frog. Pasha said that was very interesting, even though he didn't know what a prince was. He was just a frog.
Grigory said that if he was ever kissed by a princess, he would become a prince again. The witch said so, and though witches are evil, they never lie.
Pasha asked what a princess looked like. Grigory said it was hard to explain, and they didn't see many in the parts they wandered.
"Grigory," said Pasha, "we are going to find you a princess."
Grigory had travelled alone for a long time before he met Pasha. "Where I come from there are princesses," said Grigory, "but I was frightened to stop because the witch might have just turned me back into a frog. But maybe it's been long enough that she's forgotten." So off they went to the Grigory's lands. The journey was long and they passed many castles, but Grigory said none of them had a princess. Finally they came to rest in a beautiful garden. While they were relaxing on a lilypad, they heard voices coming from the path.
Grigory looked over. "It's a princess!" he said. And it was a princess, followed by a small entourage of guards. The princess spotted the little frogs and said, "Oh see! They look like little jewels. I have never seen such pretty colours before. Catch them so I may keep them in my chambers." Grigory tried to tell her they'd gladly go in exchange for a kiss, but all that came out was a croak. Pasha couldn't understand human speech at all and was nervous when a guard approached them with a glass jar, but Grigory assured him it was all right. They sat placidly while the guard put the glass near them and then obligingly hopped in.
The princess clapped her hands in delight. "What well-behaved little creatures!" she cried. "Bring them to my room."
The guard did so. The princess took the jar from the guard and dismissed him. "You are lovely little jewels," she said to the frogs. "Let's see how you fit among my collection." And so saying she opened her jewellery box and tipped the jar so the frogs could hop out. "Oh see!" she said. "How well you look. Let me see you as a ring!"
Pasha could not understand, but Grigory told him to be still and hopped onto her outstretched hand. "How precious you are!" the princess giggled. "Now let's see you as a brooch!" Grigory hopped onto the collar of her gown. "What a clever beast! What if I wish to wear you as a crown?" And Grigory climbed her curls to perch on top of her head. "Dear sweet frog! For this you get a kiss," said the princess, and lifted Grigory to her lips.
"Finally you will be a prince!" Pasha said. Grigory placed his one remaining hand on her lower lip and chastely bowed his head for the princess to kiss behind his ears.
Great as the surprise was for the princess to now be cradling a prince, greater was Grigory's shock to see the princess convulse and claw at her heart.
"Princess! Oh God, how, how?" Grigory cried, not understanding. He was just a prince.
The guards ran in at the sound of his voice. They saw the princess lifeless in her chair, and a hysterical one-armed man, but in the horror and confusion entirely missed the poor, bewildered poison dart frog shivering among the jewels.
(Chris. Managed to convince Russians downstairs to refrain from applying their baseball bats to our heads. Instead convinced them that we are a reputable magazine sympathetic to rising authors and we have launched the careers of many notables such as Pierre LaPoutine and Yvette d'Yeux. I also told them we are a French magazine and we will have to translate their work from English to French. They cannot read French. I hope they do not learn.
(By the way we need more doughnuts. Phthirus ate the rest while I was busy attacking the toilet.)
The Princess And The Frogs
by Dmitri Khotliykova
Two little frogs went strolling one day. Their names were Pasha and Grigory and they were the very best of friends. Pasha had rescued Grigory from an eagle once, and Grigory had lost his arm to a snake for Pasha.
This day Grigory told Pasha that he was really a prince cursed by a witch to take the form of a frog. Pasha said that was very interesting, even though he didn't know what a prince was. He was just a frog.
Grigory said that if he was ever kissed by a princess, he would become a prince again. The witch said so, and though witches are evil, they never lie.
Pasha asked what a princess looked like. Grigory said it was hard to explain, and they didn't see many in the parts they wandered.
"Grigory," said Pasha, "we are going to find you a princess."
Grigory had travelled alone for a long time before he met Pasha. "Where I come from there are princesses," said Grigory, "but I was frightened to stop because the witch might have just turned me back into a frog. But maybe it's been long enough that she's forgotten." So off they went to the Grigory's lands. The journey was long and they passed many castles, but Grigory said none of them had a princess. Finally they came to rest in a beautiful garden. While they were relaxing on a lilypad, they heard voices coming from the path.
Grigory looked over. "It's a princess!" he said. And it was a princess, followed by a small entourage of guards. The princess spotted the little frogs and said, "Oh see! They look like little jewels. I have never seen such pretty colours before. Catch them so I may keep them in my chambers." Grigory tried to tell her they'd gladly go in exchange for a kiss, but all that came out was a croak. Pasha couldn't understand human speech at all and was nervous when a guard approached them with a glass jar, but Grigory assured him it was all right. They sat placidly while the guard put the glass near them and then obligingly hopped in.
The princess clapped her hands in delight. "What well-behaved little creatures!" she cried. "Bring them to my room."
The guard did so. The princess took the jar from the guard and dismissed him. "You are lovely little jewels," she said to the frogs. "Let's see how you fit among my collection." And so saying she opened her jewellery box and tipped the jar so the frogs could hop out. "Oh see!" she said. "How well you look. Let me see you as a ring!"
Pasha could not understand, but Grigory told him to be still and hopped onto her outstretched hand. "How precious you are!" the princess giggled. "Now let's see you as a brooch!" Grigory hopped onto the collar of her gown. "What a clever beast! What if I wish to wear you as a crown?" And Grigory climbed her curls to perch on top of her head. "Dear sweet frog! For this you get a kiss," said the princess, and lifted Grigory to her lips.
"Finally you will be a prince!" Pasha said. Grigory placed his one remaining hand on her lower lip and chastely bowed his head for the princess to kiss behind his ears.
Great as the surprise was for the princess to now be cradling a prince, greater was Grigory's shock to see the princess convulse and claw at her heart.
"Princess! Oh God, how, how?" Grigory cried, not understanding. He was just a prince.
The guards ran in at the sound of his voice. They saw the princess lifeless in her chair, and a hysterical one-armed man, but in the horror and confusion entirely missed the poor, bewildered poison dart frog shivering among the jewels.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Brief update
Posted by Chris H
The new building is proving problematic, but not as problematic as my staple of one-and-a-half writers. I bought everybody donuts the other day. Free food is usually the best way to go. Paradoxically writers thrive on malnourishment for a long time, until they die, which, with a sufficient body of work completed, actually raises their value. Laura wants a cage for her rat. Seems unlikely.
I've been ignoring Management's emails, and that's behavior much akin to people who didn't leave New Orleans before Hurricane Katrina, a mix of helplessness and foolishness. I'm hoping to post a few legit articles over the next week or two and with any luck that will stay the wrath, but it's been touch-and-go as our computers are still running windows 3.1 and getting maintainence around here is a bitch. I got word that Lucas has been spotted in the US, whether he returns is anyone's guess. Andre may or may not have been recruited by the Yakuza, either way he's not returning my calls.
The new building is proving problematic, but not as problematic as my staple of one-and-a-half writers. I bought everybody donuts the other day. Free food is usually the best way to go. Paradoxically writers thrive on malnourishment for a long time, until they die, which, with a sufficient body of work completed, actually raises their value. Laura wants a cage for her rat. Seems unlikely.
I've been ignoring Management's emails, and that's behavior much akin to people who didn't leave New Orleans before Hurricane Katrina, a mix of helplessness and foolishness. I'm hoping to post a few legit articles over the next week or two and with any luck that will stay the wrath, but it's been touch-and-go as our computers are still running windows 3.1 and getting maintainence around here is a bitch. I got word that Lucas has been spotted in the US, whether he returns is anyone's guess. Andre may or may not have been recruited by the Yakuza, either way he's not returning my calls.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
MEMO: Attn Chris You Gutless Bastard
Posted by Laura D.
I just watched a chunk of asbestos drop from the rafters and straight through the floor. I can see the Russian tenants below us making signs to ward off the Evil Eye. While holding baseball bats. I can hear them on the stairs. I can hear one of them just put his foot through a stair. I have been feeding the alpha rat ("Phthirus") my lunch for the past three hours in the hopes we will form a mystical bond and he will not eat my face. None of this is in my job description, which still has not been given to me.
On a lighter note I seem to have received our first submissions, which appeared on my desk while I was fording the washroom. They seem to be a child's drawings, in crayon, depicting multicoloured (red, black, purple) scribbles with the notations, "THIS IS WHERE MOMMY HURTS ME" and "THIS IS THE BAD PLACE I GO". Are we planning to add an artists' corner to Never Later, or should I book an exorcism? I know a guy.
I just watched a chunk of asbestos drop from the rafters and straight through the floor. I can see the Russian tenants below us making signs to ward off the Evil Eye. While holding baseball bats. I can hear them on the stairs. I can hear one of them just put his foot through a stair. I have been feeding the alpha rat ("Phthirus") my lunch for the past three hours in the hopes we will form a mystical bond and he will not eat my face. None of this is in my job description, which still has not been given to me.
On a lighter note I seem to have received our first submissions, which appeared on my desk while I was fording the washroom. They seem to be a child's drawings, in crayon, depicting multicoloured (red, black, purple) scribbles with the notations, "THIS IS WHERE MOMMY HURTS ME" and "THIS IS THE BAD PLACE I GO". Are we planning to add an artists' corner to Never Later, or should I book an exorcism? I know a guy.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The new place
A dump. Lousy. Makes the Varsity offices look like the Taj Mahal. The water runs, but I wouldn't care much to drink it. All that is neither here nor there though. I've settled in and it's time to get to work.
In the absence of any particular directive from Management, I've taken it upon myself to loosen the content criteria in the near future. By which I mean we'll take anything. As the current venue for our publication is rather paltry, I will for the interim be posting all articles through this sad little blogspotty corner of the interweb. I will faithfully reproduce all fiction and nonfiction submissions, as well as any comments on the day to day living of the magazine-formerly-known-as-Never Later. Of course, for informal material and complaints about Management, writers are encourage to produce on their own blogs and we will get some fantastic cross-linking action until we all get fired. If you wish such material to appear here (as mine will), you may of course send that to me as well.
-Chris
In the absence of any particular directive from Management, I've taken it upon myself to loosen the content criteria in the near future. By which I mean we'll take anything. As the current venue for our publication is rather paltry, I will for the interim be posting all articles through this sad little blogspotty corner of the interweb. I will faithfully reproduce all fiction and nonfiction submissions, as well as any comments on the day to day living of the magazine-formerly-known-as-Never Later. Of course, for informal material and complaints about Management, writers are encourage to produce on their own blogs and we will get some fantastic cross-linking action until we all get fired. If you wish such material to appear here (as mine will), you may of course send that to me as well.
-Chris
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