The View From Here Issue 23

8/9/2019 The View From Here Issue 23

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literary magazineterary magazine

issue 23

DipYour Toesinto theLiterary Worldof theviewfromhere


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Cover image: Diego Cupolo

Artwork:FossforPhotographs for front view fiction:Chris Barrio

The Magazine on-line:http://tvfhmag.com

SENIOR EDITOR:Mike FrenchManaging Editors: Sydney Nash & MichaelKannengieser

The Crew:Kathleen Maher, Paul Burman, Stella Carter, NaomiGill, Jen Persson, Jane Turley, Grace Read, Diego Cupolo,Kerrie Anne, Charlie Wykes, Shanta Everington, Patricia Wood,Julian Povey,Chris Barrio, Vicky Roberts & Fossfor.

Copyright: The View From Here magazine 2010-05-07Published by BLAMProductions based in the UK

email: [email protected] of microphone used throughout: FossforFiction & Poetry articles in this magazine: All people, places andevents depicted therein are fictional and not meant to resembleany actual people, places, or events unless otherwise specified.

Gorgeous, Eye Catching, Coffee Table Worthy! The ViewFrom Here - The Best of the Best in the new and emergingliterary scene! Buy an annual subscription today foryourself and save money off the cover price. Contact:email: [email protected] online: tvfhmag.com

Attractive, informative, sparklingand useful - TVFH is so many of

the things I'm not - sigh -

Iain Banks

Below: Photo by Chris Barrio for Sandbox part of this months fiction in the Front View


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inter

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uthor Paul Therouxircuitous series ofnd rang me up anduthor Paul Therouxwould like to takeing lessons and Ithought of you

u know, you haveumyou write as

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ired to be a writer.teach someone tobut my blood ran

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to literary fame: TheTheroux.

single-handedlyders the world over.not what happened.esponsible for Paulses been a kind and

ntor. By talking withintervening years,

much insight abouthis odd occupationsome of us to stringrds and create


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You are a prolific writer. Not onlywith your varied (40+) novels andnon-fiction works, but you alsoproduce articles, interviews,essays, novellas, and shortstories, in a wide variety ofpublications. At a time when

authors are branded, there arevery writers now who are able tobe this diverse. What are yourthoughts on this?

The word "brand" only entered thevocabulary in the past decade ortwo. But the concept is old - ConanDoyle was branded as the author ofSherlock Holmes stories, forexample. Mark Twain was brandedas the Huck Finn/Tom Sawyerauthor, and his travel books wereless popular. When I started writingone of the ideals was "The man of

letters" - though it was already anoutdated concept. I have written onthe subjects that I am passionateabout, and I have been lucky that mypublishers have gone along with this.There is probably less profit in this,and more marketing problems, butprofit and marketing were neverfactors in my decision to become awriter.

One of my favorite books isMosquito Coast because thenarrator is a young boy and anunusually difficult family situation

is seen through his eyes. Whatmade you choose this point ofview to tell the story? Were youtempted to add any other points ofview?

A young boy who is a narrator is aproblem, because the writing is thin -the boy's vocabulary is too small, hesees things he does not understand,and so forth. "Other points of view"would have looked too arty. Mysolution to the problem was tointroduce the Father, Allie Fox, whohas a tremendous vitality, a complexvocabulary and a sense of humor. Ina sense, he is the other voice, but ofcourse Charlie is quoting him. I thinkit worked well, though it is notobvious.

Your travel books are particularlyunique. Can you tell us how thefirst one, The Great RailwayBazaar, came to be?

I had finished a novel. "The BlackHouse" and I had no ideas for abook, yet I had a family to support. Iwent to my publisher and, for the firsttime, asked for an advance on anunwritten travel book. They agree to$7500 in three installments and I set

off. Five months later I returned fromthe trip, wrote the book, got thesecond payment; then (re)wrote thebook and got the third payment. Youwill say, "This was a lot of money atthe time" but it wasn't - I was still onthe poverty line. The booksucceeded, surprising the publisher.It was reprinted five times beforepublication day. But I had finished anovel "The Family Arsenal" evenbefore it was published, and within afew years set off on another trip,"The Old Patagonian Express," a tripthat gave me the idea for "The

Mosquito Coast." It was all work.

Thirty years later, you decided torecreate that journey. Had youthought about doing this for sometime or did the idea graduallyform?

I got the idea for retaking that tripwhen I went back to Africa in 2001and was fascinated by seeing whathad happened in the 30-plus yearsI'd been away. After I wrote "DarkStar Safari" I had the idea ofrecreating "The Great Railway

Bazaar."

Picture Palace, which won theWhitbread Award (now the Costa)is told from the point of view of anelderly woman photographer.When you write from the positionof the opposite sex are there anydifferences you consciously makein the narrative?

Now it seems a very bold thing to do- write from the POV of an oldwoman! But I wanted to write a bookabout creativity, not a woman's rolein the world. Everything this woman,Maude Pratt, says aboutphotography applies to writing. Ididnt not want to write about awoman writer, I wanted to create acharacter from my notions ofcreation and inspiration - and Iwanted to write about the oddness ofsuch a life.

Your newest noDead Hand. Syou tell us abhow it camereference todead hand

It struck me thatat least two disoften in oppositdeities, who havside. I like the iwoman in Indiqualities, and alcharacter to bewriters whonewspapers - n

vel is a mystery Aet in Calcutta. Canout this book ando be? I love theriters block, i.e.

Indian life is alwaystinct things that areion, like the Indiane a dark and a lightdea of an Americana who has theseo I wanted the mainone of these travel

writes pieces forot travel, really, but


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great meals in exotic places, which Ifind laughable. Also a mystery, acorpse turns up in a man's hotelroom...what next?

Do you believe writers block

exists? (Its always a furiousdebate).

Writing is extremely hard, becauseyou always have to come up withsomething new. Yes, I believe thatwriter's block exists. The prolificnovelists George Simenon hadwriter's block one year. GrahamGreene lamented that he could notwrite at all for long periods. But you

have to work through it. Simenonkept a diary and simply noted downwhat was happening and eventuallyreturned to books. I started by sayingthat "writing is extremely hard" but Ishould add that it is a picniccompared to most jobs that people

do and writers should nevercomplain.

You live part time in Hawaii andCape Cod. Do you find yourwriting changes depending onwhere you are?

No. I need silence and nointerruptions and a contented life. Ihave written in many places. Iremember distinctly being in a tent inNew Guinea and writing a chapterabout life in London, for "My OtherLife."

Last weekend we talked aboutretiring and how people becomeless interesting when they retire.

You said you dont see yourselfever retiring. Can you talk aboutthat?

People become less interestingwhen they retire if they lose interestin the world, stop reading, and justcoast and become mentally lazy.They talk about money or theirhealth - not inspiring subjects. I havenever seen writing as a job, so I can't

retire from it. It's a way I havechosen of living my life.

Im not going to ask you whatadvice you would offer a youngwriter or even what your favoritebook is. (I know we share thesame favorite author, SomersetMaugham.) I will ask what you arereading now.

Let me say one thing aboutSomerset Maugham. The writer MMKaye met him in India long ago,when she was struggling to write.Maugham had no interest in her andthough she was boring. She said,"I'm hopeless. Sometimes I spend awhole morning writing onesentence." Maugham said, "That'sthe first thing you've said that makesme think you might be a real writer."She later wrote a best-seller aboutIndia, "The Far Pavilions."

I read constantly, and lately

because I aanthology of traor three travelquickly. YesShackleton's ""The Yage Lett"The Spanish

University of Hato borrow a dozThis is unusualthis book of extam reading EvelMore Flags" aGandharan art -is located mosPakistan wherearmed tribal psuch things inreligion, alas. Ithe way of neware technical anI am writing. But

and a travelerwriter.

Pauls latest noCrime in Calcuttset in India,Hamish HamilNovember 2009.Photo credit: Yin

m compiling anel writing I read twobooks a day veryerday I readSouth", Burrough'sers," and Pritchett'semper" I use the

waii library and tenden books at a time.because I am doingacts. For pleasure Iyn Waugh's "Put Outnd a book aboutthe Buddhist art thatly in the areas ofthere are Taliban orople, who destroythe name of theirdon't read much inbooks unless theyrelate to somethingI would be a reader

ven if I were not a

el, A Dead Hand: Aa which is a mysterywas published byon and released

yong Un-Anongrak


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Scrap Metal Babyby Melissa Scholes Young

Scrap Metal Baby likes her mommasmilk best. It fills up her hollow tin

stomach and pools in the corners ofher mouth. White foam laced withgasoline and a hint of motor oil.

Watching the greasy mixture dripdown the front of her blouse shockedMomma at first.

The doctors said her body wouldadjust and it has. Mommas breastsbear tiny clean scars and fresh cutsfrom the babys mouth. Miniaturewhite leeches in a criss-cross pattern

swim against her creamy skin. Thebaby readjusts her mouth at the

nipple and fresh blood rises to thesurface. Momma winces as the babykneads the breast with hercorrugated phalanges. She sucksher momma dry, one breast and thenthe other, and they hang limp likedeflated balloons.

Weve got to get you ontransfusion oil again, Shelby,Momma says. I need some sleep ina bad way.

Momma rubs her eyes andyawns. She leans back into her

rocking chair and her eyes fall shutfor a moment. Shelby releases aburp, which perfumes the air with theflinty scent of cold steel. Her enginemakes a satisfied low rumbling andbegins to purr. Then she curls up inher mommas arms and the metallicslits of her eyes snap shut. Mommasighs and holds Shelby close,grateful for the moment when thislove doesnt damage her.


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When Momma and Daddylearned that they were to have aScrap Metal Baby, they met thenews with silence. Blank stares.Searching eyes.

But what does that mean?Daddy stammered to the doctor. I

dont get it.Well, it means your child isspecial. She seems to have growncompletely from parts of somethingelse. Metal parts. Shes extremelyrare. One in ten million, the doctorsaid.

He collected pamphlets from adrawer beneath the table. They werelabeled Your Special Needs Childand Coping with Rare Disorders inblock letters without pictures.

There are books you can order.Manuals which will explain theprocedures and such. Scrap Metal

Babies are extremely rare, but thereare a few others out there, thedoctor explained.

Momma looked to the pamphletson the wall of fat smiling babies andwanted to take those, too.

The pamphlets and belly filled

Mommas lap.I dont understand, she

whispered, did I do somethingwrong?

No. Of course not. An anomalylike this isnt anyones fault. We dontknow why the baby turned out likethis. She just did. Lets take a look atthe ultrasound. Do you see theplaces that emit light? the doctorasked.

He held up a series of pictureswith the neon outlines of a baby.Glowing limbs and fingers weresuspended against black.

Your baby doesnt have anybones. See the little engine there?Shes made entirely of scrap metal.Thats why the parts look like theyreon fire.

Will she live? Daddy asked. Hisvoice broke and he looked at hishands.

Yes, for awhile. We dont knowhow long. There may be

complications as she grows. Shellneed replacement parts, tune-ups,oil changes. Other Scrap MetalBabies have lived for a few years.One lived into her teens. Theproblem is usually the engines. Theyarent meant to run continuously like

a body needs. Theyll go about 3000hours. Its a lot to process. It doesexplain why this pregnancy has beenso uncomfortable, the doctor said.

Momma thought of the babyswimming inside her. The steelpressing against her ribs, the coldmetal feeling that tickled her, thesharp jabs that woke her at night.She put her hands on her swollenbelly and rubbed.

How will she come out?Momma asked.

It will have to be a Caesareandelivery. Its the only safe way, the

doctor replied. Lets get youscheduled. A baby this big mightcome early.

The fluorescent lights of theoperating room are blinding. Daddysquints and shields his eyes. Hestands by Mammas head and peers

over the white drape that reveals therest of her body. The light bouncesoff the metal being pulled fromMammas insides and the glarecauses Daddy to squeeze his eyesshut for a second. The incisionseemed small enough, but throughhis splayed fingers, Daddy sees thedoctors cutting and tugging more ofthe skin. There are video camerasand lights hung from the ceiling.Cords. Shiny instruments. Machinesbeeping. Doctors and nursesspeaking in code. Its hard to seeanything.

Youre going to feel somepressure now, the doctor says.Mamma nods through a sleepy fog.

I cant feel anything, shemumbles. Do you see her yet?

I dont know. I cant tell if its theknives or the baby. Maybe a leg?Daddy answers. I dont know.

He shakes his head andsmoothes back the hair which has

fallen from the paper gauze hat onMammas head. He wipes his sweatypalms on his own blue scrubs.

A loud engine suddenly fills theroom. It revs and whirls. The doctorlifts a flailing shiny baby into the air.Daddy sees the babys face first. It

looks like its covered in bloodyaluminum foil. The baby cries andDaddy stares hard, eyes wide open.He sees metal tubes where armsshould be and metal fingers andtoes. The nurses wrap the baby in apink blanket and bring her toMomma on the over side of thesheet.

Oh, Shelby, Mamma says. Shenuzzles her flushed cheek againstthe cold steel. Tears stream downMammas hot face. TheresMammas baby.

The nurses rush the baby away

and a team of doctors surroundsScrap Metal Baby.

Look at these shreds, Shelby,Momma says holding up tiny clothes.The dresses, pants, and onesies aresliced into pieces. What am Isupposed to put you in?

Scrap Metal Baby just smiles andreleases more wet rocks into herpants.

Well, thats not going to help theprocess, Momma says.

She smiles at her baby andmakes a silly face. She reaches foranother diaper and opens the bin of

clean wipes. The scent of animal androt fill the room.

Ugh. That smells terrible. Youvegot oil everywhere. Momma tossesthe ruined clothes into a growing pileof laundry. She misses the top of thepile and the slimy mess runs downthe wall.

Shelby kicks her stiff tube legs inthe air and grins with a mouth full ofincisors. Her face is a metal mold ofthe chubby baby displayed on thediaper box. The smooth metal cheekis smeared with gasoline and itcrusts in the corners of her twistednostrils. Momma runs her hand overShelbys shiny surface andcorrugated parts. Momma used towonder why Shelbys face was sobaby-like, fat and round, when therest of her body seemed soconstructed, but lately shesforgotten to wonder. The tin arms aresoldered together at different seams,and the babys elbows protrude at

A loud engine suddenly fills the room. It revsand whirls.The doctor lifts a flailing shiny baby

into the air.


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odd uneven angles. The baby bodyis one flat sheet bent to make thetrunk. A scar runs the length of thetrunk and more scars surround theplaces where the limbs are attached.

Youre a beautiful baby.Mommas little baby, she coos

tracing a finger up the ball of analloyed foot. Shelbys black metaleyes blink and the corners of hercheeks snap into a smile. Lets getyou cleaned up, Momma says andlifts Shelby into her arms. Greasesmears on Mommas shirt but shedoesnt notice.

Momma holds Shelby on her hipand flinches in pain as the sharpmetallic legs encircle her soft jigglybelly. I used to have a shape. Menused to watch me walk. Now look atme, honey, Im all broken andbruised.

Shelby makes a puttering noiseand bites into her mommas neck.

Ouch! No! We dont biteMomma! Biting hurts, Shelby! Bloodruns down the babys grin and sheclaps her hands in the air. Clank.Clank. Creak.

Youre squeaky. Lets get yousome oil for those hinges. YourDaddy keeps it in the garage.

Clank. Clank. Creak. Shelbys handsbang together like a marionetteclapping. She tries to put her tinfingers together in the Itsy, Bitsy,

Spider fashion. The metal makes ascraping sound as her fingerscollide.

Thats right, Shelby, down camethe rain and washed the spider out,Momma sings while moving aroundcans and bottles on the garage shelf.She locates a can labeled ShelbysOil and places it in the crook of herarm. The baby lurches for the newobject and bangs her nose on thecan.

Waaahh she screams intoher mommas ear.

Oh, baby. Come here, Mommasays cuddling the baby into her neck.That hurt, didnt it?

Shelby whimpers and oil anddrool mix into Mommas hair.

Momma tried to prepare herself.She read every book she could find:Raising Your Special Metal Child,You and Your Broken Baby, How toProperly Care for a Scrap MetalConstruct. A nurse suggested auto

mechanics manuals and engineinstruction guides, too. And yetnothing prepared her for lovingsomething so dangerous.

It will be difficult, the doctor toldthem shaking his head, shell needa lot of special care and constant

upkeep.Momma nodded her head and bither bottom lip. Daddy looked out thewindow into the office parking lot andcounted the cars.

Well name her Shelby. Like mymother, Momma said to Daddy onthe ride home from the doctorsoffice. Shelby, she said again outloud. Daddy scrunched up his eyesin thought.

Suddenly the wheel jerked to theside and Daddy tightened his grip tokeep the car on the road.

Whats wrong? Momma asked

gripping the dashboard and herbelly.

Let me check, Daddy said. Heslowed the car and pulled it over tothe side of the road. He popped thehood and stood looking at theengine. His coat flaps fought in thewind with the speed of the passingcars.

Shelby, he said out loud.

At play group Shelby sits in thecenter of a round multi-coloredcarpet. The letters of the alphabet inpleasing hues are beneath her. Dried

spots of blood have turned black onthe letters B, M, and Q. Fat fleshy

toddlers of all sizes crawl around herand over her. One plump fingertraces the smooth surface ofShelbys leg.

Cold, the toddler says up to hermom.

Careful, her mother says back,metal can go ouch! The nurse oncall crosses her legs in the corner,looks for the sight of blood, andlistens for the wail of injury. A first aidkit sits at her feet. She wears thinrubber gloves. The nurse sighs inboredom and inspects her fingernails beneath the latex. The first fiveminutes of playgroup are usuallysafe. Mothers arrive and unload

babies and bags. Babies watch eachother and cling to their mothers amoment more. Then the babies driftto the toys and the mothers chat andcompare notes on the price ofdiapers and the advice ofpediatricians.

Momma likes coming to thisplaygroup at the local public library.It makes her feel normal, eventhough they never stay long. Sheand Shelby drove six hours northonce to meet another Scrap MetalBaby and Momma cried the wholeway home. The other child just layon the wood floor and kicked itsrusted metal legs into the air. Hiscorrugated limbs made awfulsqueaks, which filled the stuffy air ofthe trailer. The parents didnt evenbother to dress him and Mommakept tossing blankets near the baby,

but they fell to the sides as thegrotesque limbs flailed. Shelby saton Mommas lap, her hard headpushed into Mommas soft chest.

At playgroup Shelby swats at aplastic fuchsia truck with her tinnyhands. The truck moves forward outof her reach. Shelby follows it andfalls over onto her rigid back. Herlegs scissor in the air and comedown hard on a pudgy knee. Theskin splits open and blood poursfrom the cut. Momma rushes to grabShelby. Another set of arms rescuesthe bleeding toddler and hurries him

to the nurse. The nurse jumps upand begins cleaning the cut. She

sprays antiseptic into the wound andthe babys screams echo through thehollow spaces in Shelby.

Momma holds Shelby close,pressing the babys rigid face intoher supple neck. She walks Shelby

over to the bleeding child.See, Shelby. When you kickyour legs like that, it hurts otherbabies, Momma says.

Im so sorry, Jane. Is Tylerokay? Jane turns to Momma with ablank stare and Tyler points onechubby finger at Shelby and putsanother finger in his mouth to suck.

Blood runs down the babys grin and she clapsher hands in the air.Clank. Clank. Creak.


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Im sorry, Momma says again.She looks around the room for afriendly face. There are none.

Mothers hover around theirchildren glaring at Momma andShelby. A few nostrils flare and alone tongue clucks in disapproval.

Momma readjusts Shelby on herwaist, careful to keep her on thespecial padding that protects herown midsection and walks towardthe door.

Dont forget your diaper bag,box-thing, another mom calls.

Momma turns around slowly andre-crosses the room. A baby sitsnearby, releasing the latch on thestainless steel box that serves as adiaper bag. Momma tries to balanceShelby on one hip and lift the toolboxwith her free hand but the split lidfalls open and a wrench spills to the

floor.Shelby sees the abandoned truck

on the rug nearby and begins crying.Shelby lunges for the toy and thereis a rush of movement as moms grabtheir babies and shield their bodies.Momma holds Shelby tighter, kicksthe toolbox shut with her foot, andlifts the heavy box with one hand.

She straightens her shouldersand pretends the weight is not toomuch to bear. Wailing fills the roomand seeps out through the door asMomma closes it behind her. Sheleans for a moment against the

copper Public Library sign. She setsthe toolbox down by her feet andwipes her eyes with the back of herhand. Then she takes a deep breath,collects the box, and opens the glassdoor with her hip. Mommas grimacereflects back at her in the surface ofShelbys cheek. The sunlight makesMomma and Shelby squint and recoilinto each other.

She looks ridiculous, Daddysays.

She looks adorable. Yourewrong. Momma shakes her head indisagreement.

The baby sits in the middle of theliving room floor watching TheWizard of Oz on the television. Sheis dressed as a giant orangepumpkin. The blousy orange materialsurrounds her and the costumestuffing serves as a barrier to breakShelbys falls. Green leaves sproutfrom the sharp edges on her neck

and a single brown stem keepsfalling off her metal head. The TinMan comes on the screen andShelby clangs her hands in delight.The stem tumbles to the floor again.

Put it on that metal piecesticking out the back. That will hold

the stem, Daddy suggests.Momma attaches the cloth stemto a piece of jutting metal that shesbeen meaning to file down. Themetal punctures the cloth as it holdsthe stem in place. Shelbys enginemakes a wheezing sound andMomma looks to Daddy with an

alarmed face.What is that noise? Momma

asks.I think its a hole in the cylinder.

Ill take her in in the morning, Daddysays. He lifts Shelby from the floorand looks at her costume.

See. I told you. Shes my littlePumpkin, Momma says focusing thecamera on the babys face.

Smile for Momma, Shelby.Smile!

Ridiculous, Daddy mutters.The doorbell rings and Momma

lifts up the baby to greet their first

trick or treaters.Get the bowl! Momma calls toDaddy.

Daddy walks to the door with abowl filled with Tootsie Pops andHersheys kisses covered in orangeand black foil. Daddy hangs his headand hides behind the front door.Shelby reaches for the bowl.

No, Shelby. These arent foryou. Daddy pulls the bowl back.This is ridiculous, he says again.

Shh Momma replies. Sheopens the door wide and meets thetrick- or-treaters with a huge grin.

Before her stands a small witchwearing a black cape and plasticgreen nose which bobs precariouslyon her face.

Trick or Treat! the tiny witchsqueals.

Well, arent you just the cutestlittle thing! Momma dips her handinto the candy bowl and drops a fewtreats into the open bag. The nosebobs thank you and the witch turns

away. The witch is passed by twomummies on her way down thecement sidewalk. A father dressed ina heavy Carhart jacket waits at thestreet with flashlight in hand. Toiletpaper streams behind the mummiesand catches in the bushes. They

stop to untangle themselves andnudge each other up the sidewalk.Momma stands with Shelby the

Pumpkin on her hip waiting. Theboys look too old to Momma to betrick or treating but this seems to behow its done these days. Themummies hold out their Wal-Mart

sacks and stare.Trick or treat? Momma

suggests.Oh yeah. Trick or treat, a

mummy answers.What is it? the other mummy

asks.Shes a pumpkin, Momma says

putting a single piece of candy intothe bags.

She looks like a robot...Yeah, a robot dressed as a

pumpkin, a mummy says.Shes a pumpkin, Momma says

again through pursed lips, And your

costume is falling off.The mummies shove and pusheach other down the sidewalk. Oneof them falls into the bushes andleaves most of his costume behind.Momma slams the door and Shelbylunges again for the bowl of candy.

Shelby wakes up on her first birthdayin a drafty oversized garage. Thesign over the door is neon yellowand reads Super Lube. The rollingsteel doors are closed for the night.The pegboard walls are covered inaluminum hooks and hold spare

hoses and windshield wipers still intheir packages. Three enormousworkbenches boast shiny Craftsmentool sets, battery operated drills, andgiant hacksaws.

The baby is on a woodencreeper. With an IV of oil attached toher corrugated arm. Red bricks stopthe creepers wheels so that Shelbyisnt sent sailing around the cementfloor of the garage. The creeper

Shelbys engine makesa wheezing soundandMomma looks to Daddy with an alarmed face.


10/36

crawl, as Momma and Daddy call itis her promised reward at the end ofa tune up. If Shelby is a big, bravegirl through the procedure, themechanics will take her on a ridearound the garage and give her alollipop. Theyll even let her blast

them with the air hose. Shelbysother arm lies on a nearbyworkbench waiting to be weldedback in place. The open wound onher right leg juts up at an odd angle,orange rust and dark mildew peekfrom her parts.

Shelbys motor chugs, thenpauses.

Momma pulls the thin flannelblanket over the babys leg andreadjusts the hot pink bow inShelbys steel wool hair.

There. Now thats better,Momma coos running her fingers

cautiously at Shelbys hair line.The baby makes a puttering

sound and Momma leans her bodyover Shelbys. I know it hurts, baby.Thats why were here. So they canfix you up. Kiss and make it better,Shelby.

Momma and Daddy arrived thenight before at the Super Lube justas the garage was closing. Shelbys

engine was making strange noises.Kept stalling. Her battery wouldnthold a charge, her arm hung by asingle soldered piece. Shelby kepttouching her leg, saying Ow! Theydecided to spend the night in thegarage rather than risk moving thebaby again. Momma looks around atthe mess of her daughter and tearsroll down her soft cheeks.

Its your birthday, Shelby. Oneyear ago today. All shiny and new.And look at you now. Youre all

grown up, baby. My preciousShelby, Momma says. Her criesbecome sobs and she covers herface with her hands.

Mommas cries wake Daddy inthe waiting room. He lifts himselffrom the yellow plastic bench andwipes the drool from his face. Daddywalks to Momma and looks over hershoulder. He smiles down at thebaby.

Hey there, girl. Hows myShelby? The baby blinks at him.Tries to lift her chin. No. No. Justhold still. The garage opens at eightand well see what they can do. Youwant some air, dont ya?

Shelby smiles weakly. Daddy

grabs the air hose and pretends tobe blowing into it. Then he spraysthe babys nose with a burst of air.Shelby giggles and whispers, More.Daddy sprays some air into his ownface and pretends to fall down. Thebaby smiles and tries to lift her headto see better.

Hold still, Shelby. Daddy willcome closer, Momma says.

Daddy sprays the air intoMommas face and her hair blowsback. Momma smiles and swats atthe air hose. The babys eyes snapshut and her engine dies. It makes a

clicking sound as it tries to turn over.Suddenly the garage doors openwith loud clanging and high-pitchedsqueaks as the mechanics come infor their morning shift. They nodpolitely at Momma and Daddy.

Why dont you guys wait inthere? Jim, put on a fresh pot ofcoffee for these folks, the firstmechanic says. His mechanics

overall is black with grey pin stripesand Bob is stitched over his breast.

I think its her piston rings thistime, Daddy says. Theyre all wornout.

Well be right back, Shelby, afteryour tune up. Just hold on, girl.Everythings going to be fine.Momma loves you. Momma runsher hands over Shelbys brokenparts. Daddy puts both hands onMommas shoulders and leads her tothe waiting room.

They sit on the hard plasticbench and wait. Momma chews herfingernails and stares blankly at thetelevision. Daddy paces the smallspace and rubs his scratchy face.Katie Couric drones on about how toknow when a turkey is properlycooked for your Thanksgiving feast.On the screen she is dressed in atan and cream business suit with agold turkey lapel pin. Katie slices into

the flesh of the roasted bird andshoves a forkful into her mouth.

Mmm, she says. The musiccues the segue. Now lets previewsome of the fabulous floats youll beseeing this year in the Macysparade. Matt?

Momma and Daddy both look upwhen the tiny bell on the waitingroom door tingles. Bob holds thedoor with one hand as if to make aquick escape.

Im sorry, Bob says, we cantseem to get her engine to start. Thepistons are shot. Theres nocompression. No spark either. Wedhave to replace everything to rebuildthe engine. We dont have the parts,though, especially not for an enginethis small. And her bodys notholding either.

Momma rises to her feet. Her

breaths become labored.There just isnt enough scrap left

to hold her, Bob continues, sherusted out from the inside. When wewelded the arm back on, it justwouldnt hold. Shes barely holdingon. Weve got her going on a batterybut she wont last without it. Therejust isnt time. Im sorry.

Through the slice of the opendoor, a pair of pliers clangs to thefloor. A deafening echo.

Its my fault. I should havebrought her sooner. I didnt know.Momma takes Daddys hand. She

pulls him up from the bench. To herside.

Its no ones fault, Daddywhispers into Mommas hair. Weknew this would happen.

You can see her. Weve got ourten oclock oil changes coming in,though. Bob sniffs once and looksout in the garage. We need to knowwhat you want to do with her. Herparts, that is.

Momma and Daddy see Shelbylaid out in pieces. On the workbenchthrough the glass doors. Her eyesare closed. She looks like she issleeping. The pink bow rests on thebench next to her head. Orangeextension cords tangle on the floorbeneath the bench.

Can she hear us? Momma asksBob.

I dont think so. I dont know.She hasnt responded at all.

Shelby, Momma whispers, itsMomma. Baby, can you hear me?

There just isnt enough scrap left to hold her,Bob continues,she rusted out from the inside.


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Momma leans down over the babysbody to listen to her chest. The metalis freezing against her cheek.Clicking sounds come from within.Shelby doesnt move.

Daddy stands behind Momma.With one hand on her shoulder. The

other over his mouth. He looks outthe garage doors into the sunlight.We have to get her out of here,

Daddy says. She shouldnt be likethis. We have to say goodbye.

Ill give you folks a minute. Bobcocks his head to the side motioningthe other mechanics to join him inthe waiting room. Well be in there ifyou need us. Im sorry.

Mommas mouth is open. Frozenin the moment before she will wail.Bob shuts the glass door to the smallroom. Muting Mommas scream.

In eight years of these visits, the doghas never stopped barking whenthey arrive. He runs the length of thechain link fence growling andstanding up on his huge back legsthreatening Momma and Daddy. Thedog pushes his mangy black nosethrough the gaps in the chain link

and snarls his yellow discoloredteeth in their direction.

Momma just smiles. She likes tothink the dog protects Shelby inside.She approves of the dogs fierceloyalty to the parts of their little girl.Momma gets out on the passenger

side and closes the door behind her.Daddy sits in the idling car and waits.Momma walks to the "NoTrespassing" sign on the front gatethat separates the road from theabandoned cars inside and calls tothe dog in her soothing voice.

Good dog. Shh. Good dog. Yousee my little girl in there? You seeShelby? Shh. Good dog.

Momma places a singlesunflower on the gravel at the baseof the gate. The huge golden petalsoverwhelm the brown center. WhenMomma sees her baby in her

dreams, Shelby is climbing the stepsin their split-level ranch and Shelbyis giggling as she picks up Eastereggs in the backyard. In Mommasdreams, Shelby is intact and full oflife. But Shelby isnt. Momma forcesherself to remember this.

Good dog. Be a good dog, shesays. Then she walks back to the car

and climbs in the passenger seat.Daddy backs the car out of the lotand points it toward the highway.The dog stands by the fence, earsrigid, and waits.

about the authorMelissa Scholes Young is a writer, amother, a teacher, a pathologicalreader, and a professional juggler, inthe metaphorical sense. Her workhas been published in Mothering,Literary Mama, New Plains Review,Mused, Stones Throw Magazine,and other literary journals. Shescontributed to the anthologies A Cupof Comfort for Teachers and theVoices of series from LaChancePublishing. Melissa is currently

pursuing an MFA in fiction atSouthern Illinois University and wasrecently nominated for a PushcartPrize.http://www.melissasyoung.com/


12/36

Surreal Grounded in theMundane

Call it What YouWantby Keith LeeMorrisTin House

PublishingReview byKathleen

Not a book reviewer, I was so moved by one of Keith LeeMorriss stories a few years ago that I spontaneouslywrote a review on an open book forum. His new shortstory collection, Call It What You Want (Tin HousePublishing) demands a finer appraisal than myunpracticed attempt, but I cant keep quiet about it either.Call It What You Want should secure Keith Lee Morrissstanding among the best U.S. fiction writers today.

Morris, the author of two novels and another shortstory collection, writes about ordinary men (and onlyrarely from a womans point of view, but when he does,he gets it right). The stories mostly take place in smalltowns without obvious heroes. Yet, his characterspersevere with urgency and decency. Morris elicits themagic inherent in everyday life.

His writing is mysterious: unaffected and seeminglystraightforward, the prose rolls along in great swells youdont notice until its time to stop readingyoull try torefuse. His common men are not especially smart buttheir stories linger in your mind, forcing you to think andrethink whatever you believe.

Testimony, the first story of thirteen, is a tour-de-force in which a young man, under examination in court,

relates the tragic chain of events that led to his friendsdeath. The story is told in the first-person, from the youngmans point of view, as lawyers for the prosecutionquestion him. He thinks of questions he hopes they wontask, only to discover that he is dredging up unwantedmemories and allegiances. The more he tries to searchfor excuses, the more the fault lines in his defenseappear. By storys end, he cannot escape his own moralfailing.

Throughout this collection, the characters struggledesperately to outrun or deny their fate, but heartbreakhunts them down in the end.

A child disappears from his bed during a night offlooding, in The Culvert. Everybody in town searchesfor the boy but the parents continue to hope after there isno hope. Past that, the mother and a younger brotherbegin to adjust to the horrible truth. The father, however,finds ways to bolster an outlandish faith. He noticesmissing books, more in fact than the boy could have

carried at once. The fathers intuition and dreams andeven his pulse reassure him. Of course, his mind worksovertime, all the time, to deny the worst. Long after theflood has receded in the towns memory, he thinks:

That time when you arrived home to find that he wasntin the car seat, and you felt sick momentarilyit turnedout, upon a seconds reflection, that you hadnt taken himin the car to begin with. There he was in the window ofthe house, waving at you, and you were almostovercome with tears. And so you shouldnt panic now,not now, because this is just another one of thoseoccasions.

Not all of Morriss stories are tragic, and one story in

this collection is downright hilarious. My RoommateKevin is Awesome, presents a pair of collegeroommates enjoying a week of fantasy that abandons thelaws of space and time, because one of them hadbecome more monumentally bored than any otherperson in the history of the world.

Grounded in the mundane, the stories in Call It WhatYou Will often grow surreal. The collection is unsettlingand as real as the anxiety of being alive, and by thesame measure, bestows a unique pleasure.

Morris elicits the magic inherentin everyday life


13/36

Stairways to Heaven: TheLovely Bones meets TheShack

The Lovely Bonesby Alice SeboldPicador 2002Review by Jane

Have you ever wondered how you will die? I suspect themost satisfactory outcome for most of us would be to slipaway peacefully in our sleep after a long and fruitful life.However, in my experience, that is unlikely to be thecase. In fact, when I look back at the lives of people Iveloved and lost death has either been a long and painfulprocess or sudden and dramatic. Either way, there was

no easy way to come to terms with their loss. It was onlythe passing of time, the knowledge that natural deathcomes to us all and my belief in another existence thathelped to ease my sorrow.

But what if death is unnatural? What if death iscaused by a bizarre misfortune, a car crash ornegligence? How does one deal with such a loss? Howdoes one deal with exacerbated feelings of guilt, rageand injustice? Does it make you embrace your beliefs orabandon them? And what if something worse were tohappen? What about the ultimate sin?

What happens if your child is murdered?Imagine all the feelings of loss youve ever had,

multiply them tenfold, a thousand fold even, and maybeyoud still only be half way to experiencing the horror of

being the parent of a murder victim. Fortunately, childmurder is something only very few of us will experiencebut Im sure most of us can empathize and understandhow it might call into question fundamental beliefs.

So as a parent with a religious upbringing it was withtrepidation that Iapproached two hugelypopular books whichfeatured themes ofchild abduction andmurder and visions ofheaven; The LovelyBones by Alice Seboldand The Shackby W.MPaul Young.

"As he kissed his wetlips down my face andneck and then beganto shove his hands upmy shirt, I wept. Ibegan to leave mybody; I began to inhabitthe air and the silence."

The Lovely Bones is the story of 14-year-old SusieSalmon who is raped, murdered and dismembered byher neighbour, Mr Harvey, a loner who builds dollhouses.On her death Susie is transported to heaven where sheobserves the destruction and unhappiness wrecked uponher family and friends in the wake of their grief andtheir struggle to rebuild their lives. In The Shackthe story

is narrated by Willy who recounts the story of Mackwhose youngest daughter, Missy, is snatched andmurdered by the notorious Ladybird killer. Unlike TheLovely Bones, which attempts to portray the effect of losson numerous people, The Shackis primarily about Mackand how he confronts the annihilation of his beliefs andhis subsequent reconciliation when God requests hisreturn to the shack, the scene of Missys brutal murder.

" I am good, and Idesire what is best foryou. You cannot findthat through guilt,condemnation or

coercion, only througha relationship of love.

And I do love you."

In The LovelyBones and The ShackAlice Sebold and W.MPaul Young present, inparts, fascinatingglimpses into thehuman psyche. Thestrengths of bothnovels lie in the areaswhere the authorshave truly reflected

upon their own experiences and beliefs. To this extent, Ifelt the earlier chapters of The Lovely Bones in whichSebold deals with the murder and the immediateaftermath of the Susies death were the most successful.Sebolds own experience as an 18 year old rape victim,narrowly escaping death, has clearly impacted on thestory which is heartfelt and poignant. However, in thelatter half of the book, the timescales change, the plotbegins to weaken, the events become more fanciful andit is evident that Sebolds vision of heaven is really only adevice used to explore what is happening back on theearth.

In contrast, in The Shackthe murder and the preludeto Macks meeting with God have none of Seboldsfinesse and seem almost perfunctory. The language isprosaic and at times grates on the nerves whereasSebold produces exquisite turns of phrase which drawthe reader in. But where as Sebold uses heaven toexplore earth, Young uses earth to explore heaven andas such I didnt feel emotionally involved with thecharacters until Mack finally confronts God in the shack.At this point the story takes on a new and vibrant form.Youngs beliefs begin to shine through and his joy inheaven and God is uplifting and addictive. Like Sebold,Youngs early experiences have shaped his writing and

The Shackby W.M Paul YoungWindblown Media/Hodder& Stroughton 2008Review by Jane


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his life; he was raised by missionary parents and until theage of 6 lived amongst a primitive tribe who assaultedhim and practised cannibalism. He freely admits thatthose early days provided a sense of identity which grewalongside his more Christian upbringing. However, hisidentity and beliefs were all called into question whenfamily tragedies and personal failings led him to a place

of despair, a place he called The Shack. This period of

his life, which he attempts to mirror using Missys death

as a catalyst, is what led to the resurgence of his beliefsand his acceptance of God.

I am always intrigued by other peoples concept ofheaven and, like many, I have my own, albeit incomplete,vision of heaven. Sebolds heaven is also incomplete, infact so much so, that it felt not so much like heaven but aform of purgatory. Indeed there is no mention of God andhis presence is elusive. The heaven Susie inhabits israther like the parallel universes of Dr Who where youcan walk the same streets, live another life but with theaddition of being able to watch and sometimes influencethe other world. Personally, Im not sure that when I die Iwould want that option so I was pleased there was thesuggestion that, at some point, Susie could move on toanother, perhaps more sympathetic and complete form

of heaven. However, when the event that might triggerSusies onward journey finally occurs it is only for her toinhabit a friends body and make love to a teenage boyshe once kissed. Although touchingly written, I wassaddened that her reconciliation required her to take onhuman form again; it felt more of an exercise in sexualmaturity rather than in spiritual growth. Disappointingly,Sebolds heaven seemed to be one where both heavenand earth are inextricably and permanently entwinedeven after death. Personally, its not an image of heaventhat appeals; Id like to believe that heaven is a place ofunremitting joy where entry isnt won, earnt or gainedthrough earthly associations but granted to all out of loveand forgiveness.

Conversely, in The Shack it is Youngs vision ofheaven and exploration of his beliefs which bringsalvation to a book which struggles at times to portraythe heartbreak and grief that Sebold captures so well.However, The Shack does offer a more complex anddeeper insight into heaven than The Lovely Bones.Whilst the fundamental principles are Christian inconcept, in particular the exposition of the Holy Trinity,The Shack is by no means a simple enforcement ofChristian doctrine and there will be many who will takeissue with how Young embraces all religions and

portrays God as a black African American mama and theHoly Spirit as an ethereal Asian female. There weretimes when my imagination was stretched, in particularwith an episode which was reminiscent of CloseEncounters of the Third Kind but, nevertheless, it wasimpossible to read The Shack and not be infused byMacks joy in reconciliation and the love of God.

Of course, we wont find any real answers to what liesin heaven in any work of fiction but both novels doprovide interesting sounding boards for thought anddiscussion. As novels, neither is perfect and both sufferfrom weak endings. However, a novel doesnt have to beperfect to be a worthwhile read and it is impossible towalk away from either book without feeling some degreeof satisfaction. The Shack is perhaps more memorablebecause of the infectious happiness that thataccompanies Macks redemption whereas The LovelyBonesleaves a feeling of melancholy as despite Susiesapparent moment of reconciliation she continues to walkthe earth, watching and waiting.

It would not surprise me if The Shack remainsYoungs only mainstream novel. The story is really a

testimony to Youngs own personal tragedies and histriumphant return to God and thus his deficiencies as awriter are overshadowed in what is a powerful andinfluential story. His words will, Im sure, give hope andencouragement to all those who seek comfort, faith andsalvation. As for Sebold, there is no doubt she has agreater gift of expression and a genuine talent for tellingtales. Hopefully, The Lovely Boneswill be the catharsisfor the brutal attack that left her so deeply scarred. If TheLovely Bones acts as a means for Sebolds ownreconciliation then, like The Shack did for Young, it willbe a means for her to move on with her life in a positiveand joyous way.

As for the rest of us we can only be grateful when weread stories like The Shackand The Lovely Bones that

portray in greater detail the horror of child murder that wenever have to endure such agony. And for those fewunfortunate parents who do, we can only pray that whenthey climb their own stairways to heaven it will bringthem the peace that, no doubt, avoids them in thisearthly life.

Self-discovery in Casablanca

Secret Sonby Laila Lalami

Publisher : Vicking, PenguinReview : Grace

Secret Son is a beautifully told tale of a teenage boygrowing up in Morocco. Simple, you might think, butSecret Son is far from simple. Lalami writes about bigissues with delicate clarity and addresses these issueson an individual, familial and socio-political level. Issuesof identity, belonging, secrecy, morality and ideology are

The Lovely Bonesleaves a feelingof melancholy as despite Susiesapparent moment of reconciliationshe continues to walk the earth,

watching and waiting


15/36

all covered on different levels, and pleasing subtleparallels can be drawn between them. The most obviousparallel is between the protagonists personal confusionover his identity and the clash of traditional vs modernculture in Casablanca. But there are many more echoesand resonances to be discovered.

The story revolves around one family who live,

divided, in Casablanca. One half live in the modern,French part ofCasablanca, while theother half live in theslums. They areestranged and it isYoussef El Mekki, a 19year old student, whoyearns to uncover thesecrets and lies thatmake up his identity;who is his father? Whois his mother? Wheredoes he belong?

Youssef is

searching for hisidentity, for a richidentity of which hecould be proud.Youssefs searching ismade more chaotic

because he lives in a fractured, displaced society onethat struggles to find its own identity in the battle betweena blind love for the West, and in the words of Hatim,(leader of The Party, a fundamentalist Islamic group thatseduces and mezmarises Youssef) regaining thepurity we have lost.

The characters all struggle with a sense of lonelinessand broken relationships, and there is a hint of familyhistory repeating itself in terms of absent fathers; thetheme of fatherhood becomes an important one. Equally,the characters lies and secrets are important, andLalami unravels these oppressing lies brilliantly. Thecharacters are almost released from oppression whenthe truth comes out, for example, Youssefs mother

Rachida experiences relief when she had the opportunityto share her story with her son.

Secret Son starts with great pace and drama as thefirst rain in 3 years floods the slum Youssef and hismother live in. The description of the first drops of waterfalling from the sky into their soup is wonderful. Then, asthe rain continues to pour we see a town destroyed,people displaced and in need of help.

On this background we are allowed to observe therelationship between Youssef and his mother; the

silences, the distrust, their hopes, the love and the pain.We follow Youssef as he struggles to find out the truthabout his father, and we realise how much his sense ofself, purpose and identity rest on his relationship with hisfather.

After the drama of the first chapter, Youssefsjourney of self-discovery is gently told with a focus on his

daily routine and encounters with friends, old and new.The narration has a pleasing mundanity, which greatlyexaggerates the subtleties of the relationship betweenYoussef and his (disillusioned) friends and his family.Lalamis third person narrative lulls the reader into a softrhythm.

Then, the final three chapters of the novel take adramatic turn, with crisis, terrorism and murder. Lalamiexecutes this well, but its a massive change of tone inthe last stages of a very gentle story. I cant decide if thisis a welcome change, or an incongruous make-believeending to a realistic tale.

Secret Son is both enjoyable and interesting to read,with many insightful cultural observations. Even thoughthe narrative pace is a bit unsettling, it is well worth

reading.

A Bluffers Guide to Gabo

One Hundred Years of Solitudeby Gabriel Garcia MarquezPublisher: Penguinguest review by MG Harris

Youre a well-read person, interested in literature: all your

friends know this about you. Yet somehow you haventgotten around to reading a book that critics and readersand academics reckon may be one of the best novels ofthe 20th century: One Hundred Years of Solitude byGabriel Garcia Marquez, known to friends and fans asGabo.These things happen. I havent read anything byJames Joyce or Proust. I made the mistake of saving lotsof heavy reads for my retirement. But seems that as Iage I dont read with the same intensity of focus as in mytwenties However, who wants to admit they haventread such a book? So heres enough to get you througha dinner party:

1. The opening line:Might as well learn it off by heart most aficionados

know it, often quote it. At High Table dinner at St.Catherines College once, an Oxford don quoted it to mein Spanish...

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, ColonelAureliano Buenda was to remember that distantafternoon when his father took him to discover ice.

That firing squadyou wont hear about it again for afew hundred pages. And contrary to what this single

Lalami writes about big issues withdelicate clarity and addresses theseissues on an individual, familial and

socio-political level


16/36

sentence implies, Colonel Aureliano Buendia isn'tactually killed by the firing squad. The construction of thesentence, plus the flashback/flashforward narrative style,is something the author may have picked up from JuanRulfos magical-realist ghost story, Pedro Paramo.

2.Garcia Marquezs apparent rise from Colombianobscurity to Nobel prize-winning status is a myth, arather Anglo-centric view:In Latin America Gabo was already on his way to rockgod status by the time OHYOS appeared. In fact, the firstreading of OYOHS took place in a packed hall in MexicoCity. He read from pages of an unfinished manuscript, toawed acclaim. The novel was a critical hit even before itwas published.

3.What you need to know about the plot:100 Years are those of Macondo a fictitious, isolatedtown in an unnamed South American country, and thefounding family, the Buendias. This is not one story, it isa hundred stories fighting to be heard. Layers upon layer

of invention. Remember the bit in Groundhog DaywhenBill Murray starts telling Andie McDowell the story ofeveryone in the Punxsutawney diner? Scheherazade-like, each story opens another.

Highlights you might want to refer to in your cocktailparty chat:

Remedios the Beauty, the girl with an aroma soirresistible that one man risked and then broke his necktrying to see her naked. After totally unconsciouslydriving a series of men crazy with her beauty and scent,Remedios exits the novel by simply floating off into theair. (This is the kind of thing which led Roberto Bolano tomutter unhappily about Latin American authors beingexpected to write about floating grandmothers.)

Mauricio Babilonia, the suitor who walks around in a

cloud of yellow butterflies. A popular song Macondo, tellsabout the novel, with a chorus dedicated to Mauricio:Mariposas amarillo, Mauricio Babilonia! Mariposasamarillo, que vuelven libarales!

Ursula, the matriarch who shrinks. Ursula is the wifeof the towns founder Jose Arcadio Buendia. She outlivesalmost all their descendants. Her osteoporotic shrinkageis so pronounced that at the end of the novel, feralchildren of remaining family members play with Ursula,as though she were a baby doll.

4.Macondo does it exist?In the first part of his autobiography Living to Tell theTale Garcia Marquez writes movingly about a trainjourney he took to his familys hometown of Aracataca,Colombia, to sell his mothers house. One the way hepasses the abandoned banana plantation, Macondo. Abanana company brought life to Aracataca and when thecompany left, the town dwindled to a ghost town.

In OHYOS Macondo stands for the Aracataca of theauthors childhood memories; a town that once bloomedin the solitude of the Colombian heartland, then faded.5.The Aurelianos and Arcadios:Some editions of OHYOS have a family tree in the front.Youll need it. The male characters in the Buendia family

are all namedAureliano,Arcadioor Jose Arcadio. Quitea true reflection of the Latin-American tradition of namingsons after their father. (I have an uncle who named fourboys after himself and his own father Agustin) Buttheres a trick to the males' names. They are a code; ahint at the true nature of the character. The Aurelianostend to be cerebral and introvert, solving problems with

brain rather than brawn. The Arcadios tend to be action-oriented, taking matters into their own hands, oftenviolently.

6.The ending:Its a long novel, starts brilliantly but after a few hundredpages it does become somewhat bogged down in thetowns saga. I know some readers who didnt finish.Which is a shame, because the ending is breathtaking.Impress friends by commenting on the circular nature ofthe ending, how it takes us back to a long-forgottenmystery; the undeciphered manuscript of Melquiades (atravelling gypsy, bringer of the ice of the opening line).Look away NOW if this article has persuaded you to readthe novel

One of the Aurelianos finally deciphers themanuscript its a prescient history of the Buendiafamily. Its prophecy is fulfilled in the final pages: as thetown of Macondo dies, so also the last of the Buendias, aneglected infant, is left to die and be eaten by ants.(I didnt say it was a happy ending!)


17/36

The future ain't whatby Stella

Having submerged myself a few montIve briefly resurfaced to discover (music) the release of the all-powerfulofficially heralds the end of printed bootrumpets sounding and see the cloudsI thought it would be appropriate to cbeginning of the last act by sharing arelated habits some more peculiar tcontemplating whether or not theyllproceeding to (mentally) smack me ooverreacting, please note:a) Yes, I know the iPad isnt perfect anthe usual slew of complaints pertainingadget thats supposed to change life a

b) Im not against technological advancc) Though I dont currently ownelectronic reading contraption, I assuthe future, not only because Ill probabland with it, but because itll probably bed) No, I dont think this is the enpublishing or humanity.e) And no, I dont think that by theeveryone will have e-readers and booktake much longer than that and I refuslook silly by throwing around arbitrary g

Bottom line: books the literal patheir way to becoming material for musI know Ive already bewailed this on a pbut it was an in-denial kind of bewailin

to face the beast.Cue wavy dissolve to fut

#MUSBKZ101: Fragments of crinkly yelprotective glass flanked by diagrams oused in days of yore. A grainy photopropping up a wobbly table will getbored group of school children who ctheir virtual money (the old paper andon display in another wing) on pointlesgift shop. Things l ike plastic books daof a keychain or mugs that say I [Heart]

Leaping back to the present. I doureader to prop up a wobbly table wInteresting maybe, but impractical. Wdown on a table, for another thing, I fcover is facing up. If not, its like theyou, and thats distracting. This will nowith an e-reader, although I may stillflip it over when its not in use. Some foi

I read novels to the end, even ifRare is the novel that I havent finisheboring on page 70. Its a matter of prinbe some good parts hiding amongst twant to give the writer the benefiObviously, theres no reason this won

it used to be

s ago in real life,ue the ominousiPad. Since this

ks (yea, hear thegathering, verily),ommemorate thefew of my book-

han others andtill apply. Beforever the head for

d already there isg to a shiny news we know it.

ment.any newfanglede I'll own one in

y want to stay hipconvenient.

of literature or

end of the years will be gone. Itlle to make myselfuesses.per kind are oneum exhibits. Andrevious occasion,g. Now Im ready

uristic scenariolow pages behindhow books wereshowing a booknickers from thent wait to spendmetal variety are

s souvenirs in thegling on the ende-readers.t that using an e-

uld be effective.hen I put a booklip it so the backbook is staring atlonger plague mefeel compelled toibles die hard.I dont like them.d, even if its stilliple there coulde bad and you

it of the doubt.t work with an e-

reader. I just wonder if Ill be less igiven that Im not nearly as patientscreen. Then again, who knows? Itpatient, although I cant fathom whystubbornness of not letting a virtual

I may even learn to read moretime, something which Ive alwaysit couldnt be avoided. Its much betthen start the next. Otherwise it feelcompeting to be heard. Speaking osomething light before I go to sleeturns up in my dreams, the results(Note: postmodernism before bedtimIts highly doubtful that e-postmo

better.)This is perfectly idiotic, but I a

how long a novel is braving the dfinal lines. Or maybe its that I like tcurled up on the sofa turning the panot taking risks. Sadly, this will nowith an e-reader as I assume the nappear automatically in a file descria perfectly thrilling setup, you know.

Call it refusing to conform to ldont arrange books on the shelf alpgroup them by a common subject ormore bookshelves with an e-readerno more dusting. Of course, thpossibility of a complete reversal

all electrical appliances are bannedpaper kind will be worshipped andtemples. Cue wavy dissolve to#BKUTPIA451: Zoom in on forgecry irrational sentimental tears. Beelectrical appliances is not a construonly end up burning books in protestto anything good. It would also be br

On a final note, Im not supublishing in either the short or longto someone who actually knows scomment, but I suspect that if treesthey might be feeling it now.promise) wavy dissolve to#C55H70O6N4Mg: Numerous rachave taken over the earth. Fragile hbe found occasionally, but youd hathe trees have long since forgotten twith their saws and bulldozers. Themost of North America and aresouthward, but theyre getting fierceAmazonians. On the one side, buffthe other, anacondas and llamas.will end? Tune in next time finstallment of War of the Trees.

Background image: John Goodridg

nclined to perseverewhen I read from aight make me more

except for the sheerook outwit me.than one book at aetested doing whenter to finish one and

like different voicesvoices, I try to read

p so that if the textwont be frightening.e is not a good idea.ernism will be any

lways check to seenger of catching thee danger? I may bees, but dont say Imlonger be possible

umber of pages willtion. Theyre ruining

gic if you will, but Ihabetically. Rather, Itime-range. Alas, no. On the plus side ere is always then age where almost

. Books the literallibraries will become

futuristic scenariot it. Cant do it. Willides, banning mostctive proposal. Wed which never leadsutally ironic.e how this affectsterm and Ill leave itmething about it tocan feel happiness,ue (the-very-last-I-

futuristic scenarios of sentient trees

uman bones can stillve to look hard ande stupid little peoplegiant Redwoods runlooking to expandopposition from the

aloes and bison; onho can say how it

or another thrilling


18/36


19/36

Stopping Short of anObituary Noticeby Gary William Murningphoto: Julian Povey

The Irish writer Brendan Behan oncesaid that all publicity is good, except anobituary notice. Now, whilst Im not inany way wishing an obituary notice onmyself, or any other writers out there, Itend to disagree with this. In the pastfew months, since the publication of myfirst novel, my motto has very muchbecome All Publicity Is Good! (Which

can sometimes be translated As AnyPublicity You Manage to Get IsGood!) Granted, its far more satisfyingif youre still around to benefit from it, butmake no mistake about it; in the difficultworld of book promotion and marketing,

just about everything counts.Over the years Ive been fortunate

enough to know a number of writerswhove offered me advice and guidancealong the way, and the one thing all ofthem have pretty much agreed upon ishow important it is for a writer to have avery proactive approach to thepromotion of his/her work. Unless youre

a big-name author with a majorpublisher, the chances are that themarketing budget is going to be fairlysmall, if not non-existent.

So this was something that was atthe forefront of my mind when my firstnovel was published. And, yes, it wasdaunting. There are now so manypossibilitiesso many ways ofinteracting with people anddisseminating information that it is easyto be overwhelmed.

My approach, however, has been afairly simple one. I talked to people Iknowother writers, initiallyand didwhat I could to get some coverage inwriters magazines. I contacted regionalnewspapers and, in one case, actuallyinterviewed myself for the local freepaper. Lucy at Legend was also really

helpful, getting me in The View fromHere and Able Magazine.

But, of course, I was very aware thatthere was so much more I could bedoing. Pretty familiar with the Internetand very comfortable with bloggingcommunities, social networks and so onand so forth, I saw that to ignore suchmedia would be silly.

Twitterthe much maligned micro-blogging platformhas been at theforefront of my promotional campaign.When If I Never was accepted, Idalready been using this service for sixmonths or so. Keeping up with my blogon a regular basis was starting tobecome difficult and I liked the idea ofhaving to restrict myself to 140characters. Through it, Id alreadyestablished some good writing contacts,made some great friends and had somefun along the wayand when I heardthat Legend was interested in publishingmy novel I immediately started tweetingabout it. The enthusiastic support andencouragement I received from myfriends and followers made me seeimmediately just how powerful a toolTwitter could be for me. So I built onthis, keeping the updates going,chatting, occasionally saying somethingthat some considered witty andsteadily grew my following.

What became apparent very quickly,though, was that such platforms cant beused in a simple broadcast sense. It isntenough to simply send out promotionalbytes. I watched others doing this and

saw right away that the vast majority ofpeople would react to this approach inexactly the same way as me; i.e.theyd stop paying attention. Thats notto say that book details etc should notbe mentioned at all. Its more a case ofproviding balance. People need areason to keep following, and simple,repetitive publishing informationprobably isnt going to be enough.

Of course, not everyone on theInternet uses Twitter. But you can betyour life that they use something.Whether it be Facebook or MySpace, Iknew they were out there, waiting, and

so I built my presence on theseplatforms, too. I didnt envisage that theywould be too useful when it came togetting people I didnt know interested inmy novel, but I did see that they couldbe used as a handy way of keepingthose who already liked my work up to

date on new projects/publications. Theirimpact so far has been fairly small but Ihave a sneaking suspicion that theyllcome into their own in a year or twostime. Hopefully!

Perhaps the most important thingIve learned over recent months, Isuppose, is the importance of blogs,reader forums, websites such as

GoodReads and fReadoand howhappy people are, generally speaking, togive you a little free exposure. Bloggersin particular have been incrediblygenerous. Im not shy, and Im morethan comfortable with e-mailing blog-owners to ask them if theyd be willing tointerview me, and the results havenearly always been positive. Individualblogs may not necessarily have hugereaderships, but if youre featured onenough of them, they really start to havea noticeable effect on sales.

But it doesnt just happen. Its truethat using the Internet to promote yourwork requires a fairly significant timeinvestment. You need to keep up withwhats going on, chat to people, helppeople where you can and be a memberof the community rather than justsomeone who visits occasionally. It canbe fairly demanding, yes, but it doesnthave to impact on your work or life asmuch as you might think. Ive now setmyself very clear cut off points. I dontwork beyond a certain time. I dont tweetevery five minutes. And if I have nothingto say, I dont risk making a fool ofmyself by trying to find something.

What I do, though, I do as regularlyas possible. I keep as organised as Ican, make a point of trying somethingnew each week, and continually remindmyself that this is a long-term effort.There are short-term gains but, as I seeit, Im still laying the foundation for futuresuccess.

Success that will not, hopefully,depend on an obituary notice.

Gary's debut book, If I Never, waspublished by Legend Press last year.Gary is a writer from the northeast of

England who enjoys literature, currentaffairs, music, the arts and scepticalenquiry. Find Gary on Twitter:

twitter.com/GaryMurning


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21/36


22/36

The Land of Dreams:Confessions of a Crby Shanta

It was my first day teaching creativeacross the desks at the crowd of unremy palms began to sweat.

Would I live up to their expectatithey make of my rather unliterary acask me questions I didn't know the ans

I was back at Margate DreamlDesperate to have a go. Not quiteexpect. Feeling the adrenaline rush atake my turn. But there was no safetycheck and no-one sitting next to me hol

It began.I began introducing myself and th

the day. Talking too fast. Forgetting mkeep smiling. Feeling my stomach luhigher and higher, hearing that awclunking noise that made me wondercareer off the tracks and go tumbling th

I stopped talking. I'd finished myinstructions for the ice-breaker exercisthe precipice, listening to the silence, s

Someone raised their hand. An

Hurtling down down down, eyes squhammering, teeth gritted against a silenWoo-hoo!The day passed in a blur. Jumping

feeling braver, floating higher. Atafternoon, students thanked me, saidhad, how much they had learned. Andall over again.

***

ative Writing Tutor

writing. I lookedadable faces and

ns? What wouldent? Would theyers to?

and circa 1979.knowing what to

I stepped up tobar to keep me inding my hand.

e programme fory lines. Trying torch as we creptful grinding andif I was about torough the sky.spiel. Issued my. I hung there oninging in the air.

d we were off.

ezed shut, heartt prayer.

from ride to ride,the end of the

what fun they'dI wanted to do it

I look across the desks at the cropalms begin to sweat. The womanpearl earrings and paisley scarf, isyoung man at the back, tipping hishis chin.

His eyes ask: Will I live up to herwill she make of my rather unliterask me questions I don't know the a

I smile at her. At him. TellingThere is bravado during the ice-bre

laughter.When he reads out his writing,

head, his forehead stuck to the pstring. He lifts it just high enough thaspreading. He reads quietly. Quickly.honesty. Not dressed up in clever ldown to the raw truth.

He looks up and the offerings stafirst. Things people liked. Vivid imaginteresting analogy. I tell him howwhat potential it has. And then the rmake it even better, by cutting theusing more showing.

And he wants to do it all over ag***

I currently teach creative writinUniversity in London. I like being awriting techniques and help stuwriting. The best thing about the jinspire and motivate others to tryrisks with their writing.

I love seeing a student's inhibitheir confidence soar. You can't beawhen a student feels secure enoug'writerly' and begins to find their oAnd you hope in some small way tthat.

The funniest things creative wasked me? Have you done this befon my first day!) Do you earn awriting now? (If only!)

Find out more about creative writingUniversity at www3.open.ac.uk/studPicture credit: fasteddie42

d of faces and myat the front, with thesmiling at me. Thechair back, juts out

expectations? Whatry accent? Will sheswers to?

him, it will be okay.aker. Much nervous

e can barely lift hisage by an invisiblet I can see his colour. He writes well. Withlanguage. But pared

rt to come. Slowly ates, unusual phrases,good his writing is,al gifts. How he canmount of telling and

in.

g with The Openle to help demystifyents improve theirob is being able tothings out and take

itions fall away andt the feeling you getto stop trying to ben distinctive voice.at you were part of

riting students haveore? (This was NOTfull-time living from

courses at the Open


23/36

Sandboxby Jessica Patient

Sand collapses under each step,trying to capture and pull me under.Its becoming harder to escape itsgrainy clutches. I clamber my waythrough the meshed branches. Thisused to be woodlands but now itsanother desert with only treetopssticking out of the ground. Sandstarts trickling from the bulging

golden-tinted clouds. There isnteven time to moisten my cracked lipswith a sip from my last water bottle.Grains jab my skin.

Some say it was China who first

fired cloud-seeding pellets into thesky. Everyone rejoiced when theycured the droughts. But then desertsstarted shrinking. Rain turned tosand. Great drifts swept throughcities. One-storey homes wereburied, lost in orange hazes. Panicspread like bacteria. People claimedskyscrapers, stockpiled food and

nested in boardrooms. It became ascramble to reach the highest point.Water became the new currency.

My boss wanted us to guard thepaperwork but we were soon burning

policies, sleeping in corridors andeating from vending machines. Thewater supply suddenly stoppedreaching our floor.

Come here, girl, the proclaimedleader said.

He grabbed my arm, whisperingthat the reward would be bottledwater. My dry throat didnt complain

as he tightened his grip. Watercontainers insulated the boardroomand touched the ceiling.

Were Adam and Eve, he said,pushing me towards the conference


24/36

table. He threw down a grubbysheet.

Repopulation is priority, Hesaid, striding me.

His fingers crawled along myskin. Stubble scratched across myface. Kicks and punches made himwhimper. I wasnt going to bring up achild into a world that had run up

against a full stop.

Squatting on the branch, sandlevels escalate, swallowing morefoliage. Stretching my arms high,trying to hold the bottle far away fromthe sand. Its pelting so hard that tinygrains are clogging up my nostrils.Another branch creaks. My armaches and quivers as the sandclimbs over my chest. There have

been whispers of people living onmountains. This bottle is my

guarantee for shelter. The sand willnot get this drop.

about the authorJessica has been published at ThePygmy Giant, 3:AM, and The Beat.Links to her other published worksand blog can be found here -

www.writerslittlehelper.blogspot.com.She lives in Bedfordshire, England.


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Single Ticketby Rosemary J. Collins

First-class return to Liverpool,please.

Hundred and twenty pounds.Thank you.Two adult returns and three

children, second class, Bristol,please.

Fifty seven pounds.Thank you.

Two returns, second class,Plymouth, please.

Twenty nine pounds.Thank you.Single to Dover, second class.Twelve pounds.The crumpled note and clinking

coins are pushed under the littlesemi-circle hole in the thick glass

or is it see-through plastic? Pennyhas always wondered. Shesupposes she'll find out if it everbreaks. That might prove painful,since she would, as usual, be sittingbehind it.

She pushes the rectangular cardback, and as she does so, takes

stock of the customer. Shaven head,brown eyes, late thirties, noparticular accent, navy tracksuit.There is something scrawled on theback of his right hand, she notices asit reaches out for the ticket. Shepeers at it, trying not to let him seeand blushing at the thought of howshe's failing.

Phone K @ Calais?That doesn't really tell her

anything; because there's nothing toknow, she thinks. He's just anordinary bloke doing somethingordinary and dead boring in Dover.

No, he's going on to France, andthen maybe beyond for all I know.Italy? Germany? Spain?

He decides to stare right back ather if the nosy cow is going to be sorude. Very badly dyed blonde hair,goggling eyes and sullen mouth, midtwenties, chewing gum churning inher jaw, brand name T-shirt.

No sense of humour, that's hertrouble, he decides. I mean, nosmiles or pleases or anything. I'mhardly in a position to write a bookon service with a smile, but really.

Boring old fatso.Moody tart.He takes the ticket and leaves.A bit later, he is strolling along a

corridor in the station, looking at thedisplays in the shop windows withoutmuch interest. Even though it isincreasingly late in the evening, thecrowds at the train station are stillswirling around him to the rhythm oftheir own lives. Their music of


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greetings, goodbyes, gossiping,buying, selling, joking and arguing inseveral languages thrums in hisears. Occasional words that make nosense by themselves stand outdistinctively from the general blur ofnoise. Suddenly something bumps

into him unexpectedly, hard enoughto make him drop his suitcase.Sorry, mumbles a voice whose

complete boredom somehow makesit very familiar. He finds himselflooking at the girl from the ticketwindow, earlier. Her shift must haveended. She bends down, picks upthe suitcase and hands it to him.

She has some idea of what theword manners means, then?

Ta, he mutters, turning to go.'Scuse me?What?If anyone has seen an eleven

year old boy with dark hair and a redT-shirt, could they please report tothe information desk now?

Sorry, couldn't hear you 'cos ofthat announcement.

I saidA party of tourists, chattering

excitedly in Japanese, push past,and again her words are lost. Indespair he grabs her elbow andsteers her into the nearest caf,where it is slightly quieter.

I said, why'd you want to buy theticket?

Pardon?

She blushes, her gaze slidingdown to her feet.

What would you two like? Sorryto interrupt.

The assistant is managing to tapher shoulders and leer with a mixtureof professional impatience and over-familiar rudeness that makes herlook queasy, but is still highlyannoying He would like to reassurethis stranger that Blonde MissMarple is not his girlfriend, but hejust says Cappuccino, please.

Black coffee, please.He realises he is now buying this

complete stranger a drink.What did you mean? he asks

her when he has somehow foundhimself sitting opposite her at a tablein a poorly lit corner.

Well she blushes again,tracing patterns on the table top witha fingernail. It's justsometimesand then her voice changes fromembarrassed to peeved.

It's dead boring, my job, so I playthis game where I try to guess wherethe people are going. You know, whothey are, age, job, what they're goingto wherever they're going for. Imean, it could be a holiday, work...

Penny trails out, her cheeks

glowing red with the painful heat ofknowing she's making an idiot ofherself.

It makes time pass a bitquicker, she finishes, defiantly, withno idea what she's defying.

They sit in silence. She studieshis face to see whether he isbewildered or bored. Her gazetravels from his mouth to his eyesand all over his face without finding aclue to his emotions.

Oh, yeah, I haven't actuallyexplained to you, hardly anyonebuys a single ticket. They're all

returns. No one just packs off andnever comes back. So I was trying tofigure you out; where you weregoing, why. And then, I bumped intoyou again, and I was still kind ofcurious. So I just blurted it out. 'CosI'm stupid. She gives a humourlessgiggle that dies away to a gasp.

Oh, he says. Well, I'm going toDover, and from then on to Calais,'cos...'cos I fancied a change.

What's your name? He addshastily, to distract her.

Penny. You?Um ... he glances around

frantically, until his eye finds acrumpled Marks and Spencer'scarrier bag. Mark.

Now, what's your real name?That, he says, trying to make a

joke of it, you'll never know.She is offended and snatches a

discarded newspaper from a nearbytable, holding it in front of her face.

Penny tries to concentrate on thenewspaper, but her mind is far toobusy shaking up a potent cocktail ofannoyance, confusion, curiosity,embarrassment and nervousness,and every story seems to be anonsensical stream of words andnumbers. Instead she flicks thepages so fast that they create adraught as she tries to take in aseries of photographs.

The leader of the Oppositiongesturing angrily in debate, a bankmanager who has been assaultedduring a bank robbery hosting a

press conference, his grey suit

looking odd beneath the bruise onhis right cheek. A stick-thin motherand child in a country thousands ofmiles away which is being torn apartby famine crouch on the floor of theirhut.

Mind if I borrow that? I need to

take a look at the horses.He pulls gently at the newspaper,thinking she is about to let go, butshe stubbornly holds on. He pulls alittle harder and the sleeve of herbaggy top suddenly rides up herarm, exposing a row of bruisesfrowning darkly against her pastyskin.

What's that?He is surprised to find his

fingertips resting on her biggestbruise. He is even more surprised tonotice the way this makes his heartbeat against his chest, his breath

catch in his throat like it doesn't knowthe way out. Penny snatches herarm back and glares at him, pullingher sleeve down.

Keep your hands to yourself.And, I had an... I fell... I dropped...my boyfriend was a bit drunk.

Her frightened eyes dartnervously to and fro, struggling toescape his gaze, and withoutwarning, a series of angry wordsbegin to rattle like bullets from hermouth. People at the nearby tablesstare and glare.

I hand out the tickets! Every day!

It's the most boring job ever! I watchthem all head off to wherever, and Itry to guess, but I've never even leftLondon myself! I have to go homeevery day, and it's not much of ahome! Its not fair!

He feels like he should saysomething, that he should know whatto do, but he has no idea what she'sangry about and whether or not it'swith him. So he gulps down hiscoffee, and frowns a little, blottingout her shout by concentrating on hisown memories.

The ugly wallpaper pattern of redand orange flowers was so muchbrighter under the bed than in therest of the room. There was a bit of itwhich was loose, peeling away toexpose the cracked plaster beneath,and he would curl up, musclesburning and cobwebs tickling hisneck, and gently tug at it hour afterhour, until the bare patch was almostas big as him, not that he was very


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big back then. Underneath the bedthe yells and thuds from the kitchensounded otherworldly, like nextdoor's music.

He remembers his motherafterwards, putting on more makeupwhile he tugged the blanket on the

bed down so it would hide thedamage to the wallpaper.Robbie was a bit drunk, that's

all, love.It's her who's grabbing his arm

now, waving the newspaper underhis nose.

Look! He obediently looks downat the film reviews. Her voice hassuddenly changed again, tosunshine brightness, like hismother's.

The World's Smallest Elephant,that's the new kid's film. Looks daft,doesn't it?

I used to love those cartoonfilms. He knows how to play alongwith her.

My favourite was Big Smile.I wanted to see that one, but my

stepfather was taking me to thecinema, and he said I was practicallya grown-up now so I should see an

action film instead. He shufflesaround awkwardly in his seat.

Shame. You missed a treat.Look, I, er, I really need the

toilet, and then I'd better catch mytrain. So, er, goodbye, eh?

He pushes back his chair and

sets off in the opposite direction fromthe toilets, heading, she notices,towards the exit rather than theplatform. After a few hundred metershe starts to run.

My presence does that to a lot ofmen, she thinks. Ha ha ha.

It's as she turns to go that shesees the chair pushed back andsees the single ticket and theenvelope abandoned on the seat.

She ruffles through the envelope.There is no way anyone wouldaccidentally take several thousandpounds out of his pocket and leave it

behind.She wonders why he was

carrying an envelope full of notes.She wonders where he really wasplanning on going, where he's goingnow. She wonders why someonewould write Phone K @ Dover on theback of their right hand, and why

someone else entirely would punch abank manager in the face, using theirleft hand, leaving a bruise on theright cheek. She smiles.

Then Penny runs away from thecaf, to catch her train.

about the author

Rosemary J. Collins (16) lives inCheltenham and studies English,French, History, Politics and FilmStudies. She has won the 2009FILMCLUB Young Film Critic of theYear Award and the NationalTheatre Big Break ScriptwritingCompetition. She has self-publishedtwo novels, a poetry collection and ashort story collection onwww.lulu.com. She's been published

in Young Writer Magazine, The RedHouse Young Writers' Yearbook2008 and First News. Her ambition isto write as much as she can as wellas she can.

Model in photograph: JacquelynJennie Thumart

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28/36

Jim Talbot, a writer with adozen unpublished novelsunder his belt, has beenroundly rejected byvirtually every agent andpublisher in the land, andis willing to go to extremelengths to make his dreamof literary stardom cometrue. Charles Randall, the

eccentric founder andmanaging director ofTetragon Press, a smallindependent publisher thathas managed to survivefor thirty years in a fiercepublishing environmentdominated by corporate

juggernauts, is about to bebrutally sacked by a newlyappointed business

consultant. Inevitably, andcalamitously, Charles andJims paths are about tocollide.

Extract fromthe novelBestsellerby

AlessandroGallenzi

The Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane has areputation for hosting some of the mostlavish parties in London. Companies withhealthy balance sheets, companies whowant to appease angry shareholders aftera disappointing quarter, almost-bankruptcompanies who need to keep a high

profile no

The View From Here Issue 23

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Transcript of The View From Here Issue 23