Amen-Ra Hotep’s Arm

By Hallie o'Donnell 

Clair looked like a giant puffball, a big girl with a sea of brown spirals sitting atop a swollen face, and below that, a goiter. She had been engulfed by her ample adipose layers for her entire life, and stood in front of her deteriorating and almost blind miniature poodle, Jenny. Jenny was hauled around everywhere with Clair—even to the job at the therapy clinic where she worked as a therapist. From inside the black mesh windows in the dog carrier, Jenny could make out vague shapes in the form of humans as they waddled past them in the waiting room.

Clair now danced and swung her body around the room, eventually devolving into a Mama Cass double, replete with dated ‘60s dance moves, like The Frug and The Hatch:

“You must be my lucky star

  ‘cause you shine on me wherever you are…”

Madonna blared out of the music player, and Clair’s husband clanged some dishes as he looked for a casserole dish.

“Clair, you’re going to give Jenny a heart attack one of these days! Do you want chips crumbled on top of the tuna casserole?” queried Jon, a man of formidable size, similar to Clair.

“Yeah, crumbles sound good. Come on, Jenny! Remember how much life you used to have when you were a pup?” Clair landed on the couch with a big thud, and wiped her brow with the back of her arm.

======

Four weeks earlier, in an undisclosed district of San Francisco, cars pulled up and people got out, making their way through thick fog and disappearing into the basement part of a building. Two large thug-like men waited at the door, checked the select arriving crowd, and let them come inside. The smell of a peculiar type of incense wafted outside through the cracks of the door.

Inside the dressing room, Clair put on her temple mistress robe, did some voice exercises, and turned around and whipped one of her male concubines:

“Pond scum, lick the corns off the bottom of my feet, and carry the burden of the beast! Enjoy every moment of being in the middle of my invective cross-hairs, and finally, carry all the burden of our Temple of Osiris fathers and forefathers!! May the spirit of Amen-Ra Hotep come to my aid, make me strong, and lead me back to the Land of Camels and Dates!!” The concubine shuddered a little, and attempted to pick a grape that he could feed to Clair, and Clair finding the whole gesture to be ingratiating and disgusting, knocked the grape out of his hand and sent it rolling. The concubine was then forced to eat the dirty grape and he did it with a sense of honor.

There were loudspeakers blaring out a kind of polyphonic array of droning horns, triangles and chimes, and chanting. Inside the temple, were the eager participants, all clad in dark robes and smacking their lips:

“Priestess Osiris, mama-mate, queen of our colony, shroud us in your benevolence and power, please give us some of your life force, and we will be forever indebted to you…”

====

Priestess Osiris pushed Anton and Dmitri out of the way—they were trash, less than trash and yet they always found out where the new locations were and showed up anyway. They were hired Russian thugs, who were followers of a cult called “Brotherhood of New Age Rasputin.” They saw themselves as thieve-saints who roamed the streets looking to prey on the naïve and innocent, but who wanted to ascend toward Laskov, “bide land,” which was a place where you went to wait before meeting the “Holy One”—Rasputin.

Every Sunday, they spent hours trying to communicate with Rasputin’s spirit, and in order to do so, needed Napa Valley raised Longhorn Goats: they were satanic looking creatures that had angular, curved horns, icy green slits for eyes, and long wiry hair. Kathy Jones was owner of “Bahh&Co.,” a farm that bred and raised exotic sheep and goats, and for the right price would have supplied them to Satan himself if he had paid them enough. Her husband Stan was always deflated and the only solace he found was when he was watching Family Feud on television.

“Stan we gotta pack up the goats and take ‘em to the city!” cried out Kathy as she pulled the laundry out of the dryer. “I ain’t going to sit on my ass and fuck around all day, like you!” Stan stood up and took a sluggishly defiant stance that was furtive and threw the remote on the couch—he’d get his ass kicked if Kathy saw him doing it.

=====

Clair took the microphone and started talking fervently:

“Adherents of Osiris, we are here today to welcome a distinguished Bay Area resident, and talent… he wanted to be quiet, but he insisted that we introduce him by his real name: ‘Mork… ha ha, but you all know him as Misssttterr Robin Williams!!’ Williams ran up on stage in a hyped-up frenzy, and grabbed a microphone:

“Wowee zowee! Holy mother of god—Oh, sorry, ‘Mama-mate Osiris’—I mean, goddess!” Williams suddenly looked awkward and scrunched his mouth up while he made a sudden spastic movement, and then put his hand over his head, like a claw. “Where in the hell do all you people come from? I bet you guys aren’t GOP Good Old Boys then, either!”-- another spastic movement.

Suddenly there was what sounded like a big wagon being hauled through the building, and it was hauling an enormous gong. The mallet of the gong was an enormous 6 foot long phallus called “Horus.” At the sight of the gong mallet, Williams lurched forward, and quipped, “Holy Lama Dama Ding Dong! That’s one enormous dildo!!”

Eventually Clair’s mountainous presence occluded all those on stage, including the jangled comedian, who left asking where the nearest burrito joint was.

“All right people, let’s get it together then here. We’re dealing with hard economic times and forces that are leading us towards quiet and sometimes raging desperation. We are now going to pass around Amen-Ra Hotep’s corpse-arm, and as we pass it around, I will ask each of you to hold it, absorb its ancient energy, some of which has been known to have a curative  quality, and let its energy enter into your own energy field.” The desiccated arm was passed around, and as it did, the eyes of the adherents lit up.

Hallie O'Donnell is a Bay Area writer. Her work is the sum of her life experiences, and living in the Bay Area can sometimes be a very strange trip, as it were. She has been inspired by the ghosts of Jack London, all the bizarre Bay Area flotsam and jetsam, and local myths, legends and kooks. 

http://halliewrite.carbonmade.com/

On the Esoteric Tip By Alejandro Escabar

There was a magician who set up an elaborate alter to pray for rain. His town was besieged by a drought and people had come to him begging for help.

He took out his wand and raised it to the sky and said, "Oh great beings of the sky, give us of your sacred nectar." The skies opened and out poured gobs of honey and milk. "Oh great spirit," he cried, "Why am I such a fool?"

The skies cleared and a voice shouted from above, "Let them eat cake."

The magician cast his wand down and began blending the honey and milk and made caramels and gave them to the kids in the town who got so high from the sugar that they began dancing around wildly an screaming in ecstasy.

Suddenly the skies opened rain began pouring down on all the villagers. The people became wildly happy and proclaimed the magician to be the greatest magician of all time. The magician, however, felt extremely insecure in not being a very exact magician at all and spent the rest of his life playing Vegas, where he could at least be a fraud and no one would notice.

                                         The End

 Alejandro Escabar is an enigma.  And we like it that way.

Author Profile~ Diamond Drake

At first glance, Diamond Drake is quiet, unassuming in a crowd.  Yet the perceptive eye wants to linger on her serene face and delve into the power that thrives under the peace.

I noticed this when I met Diamond during the holiday season at a poetry reading.  Immediately curious about her, I introduced myself, feeling sure I'd be able to get a story or two out of her.

Did I ever.  Mrs. Drake has recently released her first novel, Imagined Love.  Imagined Love paints the portrait of a young woman's lonely desperation and the tribulations she undergoes after acting on that loneliness.

Readers have been raving about the book's thrilling plot, so I interviewed Diamond to share some of her process here on Paper Dollz to give readers a little insight into how she balances motherhood and writing.

Please tell us about how you became a writer~ what drew you to it?  A need to communicate your feelings and experiences?  When did you start?

I've been writing poetry and short stories since I was in the first grade. It started as a way to express my feelings but it quickly turned to loving the attention I got from my teacher, parents, and other kids. They always thought I was much older because of the types of things I wrote about and it made me feel like a grown up.

Then it became a part of my life. For years I would get ideas in the middle of the night and instead of getting up to turn on the light and find some paper, I wrote on my closet door! I thought my mom was going to kill me when she finally saw it but it was my "creative process." Ha,ha,ha.

Love that you wrote on your closet door!  What an amazing story.  In "Imagined Love"  the heroine's journey is similar to your life journey.  Most writers draw from their experiences.  Can you tell us how you made the leap from your experiences to imagining a different life for your character?

In Imagined Love, Jade's journey IS similiar to mine in that she had to deal with some of the same issues. She differs in the way she chose to handle those situations. In some ways Jade dealt with them in the way I wished I had and in other instances she did things I would never have dreamed of doing! I have to admit that writing this book was like therapy for me. I learned so much about myself and was able to heal some of those old wounds I've carried for years. The challenge, in writing things based on truth, is keeping it fictionalized. There's enough truth to make it relatable but it's still a work of fiction.

As a mother, how do you balance the time demands of writing with taking care of your family?

Sometimes it is difficult to balance being a wife and mother with being a writer particularly because of the way I write. I don't have a designated time that I write everyday. When things hit me, I get up to write and that can be at ten o'clock at night or four o'clock in the morning. The characters' voices and images are so strong that they do wake me up from a sound sleep or make me stop what I'm doing to write down what they say! Thankfully I have a family that gets me and knows when I'm in "write" mode that I just need to be free to do it. Also, doing things ahead of time (like cooking a week's worth of meals) helps free me up to write fairly uninterrupted. However, my family knows that they are my priority. I don't miss school functions or things that are important to them in order to write.

What is the greatest joy you get as a writer?  The biggest challenge?  

The greatest joy I get from writing is making people feel. I loved the reviews I've received so far because the thing each reader had in common was that they felt every single emotion I wanted them to feel. They laughed out loud, cried, became angry, and felt sad at certain parts. That's music to my ears! Knowing the reader cared about what I wrote made all of those sleepless nights totally worth it.

The biggest challenge, I found, was knowing when enough was enough. I tend to be wordy (as you probably noticed) and sometimes I found myself going way too long on a particular scene or subject. It was at those times that I had to look at it from the perspective of a reader and ask myself if it was just too much. Thankfully, that worked for me and I was able to self-edit and know when it was time to move on.

I noticed on your website you wrote 4 other novels.When do we get to see those?  Can you give us a preview of one?

As far as the other four novels go, I think at some point I will go through and rewrite them. It's been almost twenty years since I wrote them and they served more as a tutorial of what I did wrong! I understand now what editors and other professionals were trying to tell me back then but I was too young and arrogant to really hear them. I'm currently working on the sequel to Imagined Love but perhaps after I'm done with that I'll pull out all four of them and see which one "speaks" to me!

Can't wait to see your other work.  Until then, best of luck with your first novel, Diamond!

To Purchase Imagined Love, please go to  www.diamonddrakebooks.com.

INFECTIOUS By Ayesha Ahmed

Ali sat on the edge of the jade divan, glancing through his drawing room window every now and then. His body tensed with excitement; a guest seated with his back to the window lit a cigar and through its smoky mist, Haroon’s slow, measured steps emerged in the driveway. Nothing to look forward to, you can see it in the way he walks, reflected Ali. That’s the only way to defeat time.

Ali nodded to a guest, who was awaiting a reaction to his latest political observation, excusing himself to answer the doorbell.

"Well, late as usual. Yaar, show some enthusiasm for my parties!"

Haroon shrugged apologetically, moving forward to hug Ali.

"Sorry but Islamabad’s changed so much…all these new roads."

Ali interrupted keenly, "Yes, it’s all part of the new development scheme. These bloody dictators know how to get the job done."

Haroon shrugged again, losing interest.

"Where’s Babhi?"

"In the kitchen, probably at the poor cook’s throat! But you’ve never met her, have you? She’s really quite sweet."

Ali introduced him to his guests as a ‘close friend recently returned from America’ and rushed off to find some refreshment for the latecomer. Haroon sat down on the nearest sofa, aware that people were looking at him closely. One man, a middle aged business associate of Ali’s, leaned forward and uttered in a tone of awe,  "The tomatoes are that big in America," and he cupped his hands in an exaggerated way to demonstrate his point.

Haroon broke out in a childish laugh. Ali came back, with servant in tow who offered him a glass of pomegranate juice. Sensing Haroon’s displaced amusement and guessing the reason behind it, Ali tucked him away in a comfortable corner, monopolizing that interesting disinterestedness for himself.

"So what now? A job, like the rest of us? Everything’s going to be a come down after Ivy League."

Haroon circled the rim of his glass with his middle finger. He wasn’t holding back; it was like he was short on information about himself. Somehow the facts of his life: wealth, good background, American degree, good looks, and connections, all appeared to be convenient descriptions of many happy people. But Ali was waiting…

"I don’t know. I honestly don’t."

"You can always join me. We could do business together."

A spark flew from Haroon’s eyes.

"And make more money?'

"Yes, why not? What’s so bad about money?"

Haroon thought hard for a moment. Money, strange friend-strange because he never knew it’s true value, friend because it would always be at his side.

"You’d be no one if it weren’t for your father’s money." Ali was answering his own questions. This was disingenuous of Haroon, playing the consummate renouncing Buddha. I’d like to call his bluff; give me all you have, you son of a bitch, thought Ali viciously.

"Jaan, shall I order dinner to be served?"

His wife’s insistent voice crashed through the tunnel of Ali’s mind, scaring off the intrepid flash of honest hate.
He was back to complacent host.

"Come over here, Salma. There’s someone special I’d like you to meet."

Salma really was sweet. She had almond shaped eyes that smiled in unison with her full lips and already discernible laugh lines. A diamond nose stud that tucked itself neatly behind the flare of an aristocratic nostril accentuated the perfection of her aquiline nose. Pretty package, thought Haroon.

"Babhi, pleasure to finally meet you." Haroon surprised himself by parroting a few more pleasantries, ones that he had heard from his father’s lips to women who were anything but a pleasure. Ali looked on, very pleased with the effect his wife had on his fastidious friend.

"I told you she’s sweet."

"Yes, very."

"You know, I used to dread marriage. Thought it’d be so inconvenient." Ali gave a knowing nudge to Haroon.

Haroon knew what Ali was referring to: Saba, Ali’s ex girlfriend, the one he practically got engaged to but broke it off because she was in a hurry to get married whereas he was interested in reaping the benefits of a private, exclusive world that sloughed off it’s traditions at particular times of the night and in special spots in the city. This was a world that couldn’t wait for rules and values to evolve; in a single evening, it would catch up with the fun that its inhabitants imagined the rest of the world enjoying. But something of the old world would linger in that temporary microcosm and that was the cause of Ali’s frustrated escapades. Modern Pakistan meant girls hanging around ice cream parlours in tight jeans and even tighter T-shirts in the hope that predatory males would take one look at them and propose marriage the next day. The trouble was that both ends of the equation weren’t interested in adding up but subtracting what they could from the other. So Ali never really got to test the modern Pakistani woman’s liberation whereas the girls lost interest after the initial leading questions.

Ali, counting on the male advantage in society, embroiled himself in what he hoped would just be a casual affair but his inexperience with the opposite sex rendered him a fool for feminine charm and very soon Saba was discussing marriage as a foregone conclusion. That was when his worldly wise parents came to his rescue, convincing him that girls who trust themselves to be intimate with a man prior to marriage cannot qualify as wife material. Ali got out of that one but his one mistake was sufficient to alarm his parents who hastened to arrange a suitable match for him. He took one look at Salma and decided that they knew best.

But even though Ali’s bachelorhood had been as inconvenient as his initial conception of marital life, in retrospect he still chose to view it in light of the colouful intentions that he had entertained during that phase in his life.

He really is quite naïve, Haroon thought with amusement and felt vaguely happy that his friend had found some measure of happiness.

"Looks like she’s done you a world of good."

Ali led the way into the dining room, holding the door for the guests who filed past.

"Yes. My parents are so pleased with her."

Haroon was well acquainted with Ali’s parents, knew that they had spent their whole lives keeping surprise out of their precious son’s life. There were times when Haroon wondered how that steely net of security had allowed him to enter their son’s womb-like world. He guessed it was his money; that outweighed the dysfunctional influence that very often accompanied the very rich.

"Well, considering they arranged the whole thing, that hardly comes as a surprise."

Ali looked sharply at Haroon but couldn’t quite make out the context of this remark. It sounded vaguely critical yet a second ago, there had been a compliment somewhere.

"Last time I met uncle and aunty, they were anxious to get you settled." That’s all he allowed himself. Fighting over parents was the last thing Ali wanted to get involved in; they were best left as sacred territory, immune to questioning and discussion.

The dining room was dressed like a bride. The huge crystal chandelier twinkled its welcome at the guests and huge vases with gladiolas were placed at strategic points in the room. A bunch of white roses sat right in the center of the dining table, mingling their perfume with the spicy aroma of kebabs and chicken biryani. A large mirror on a sidewall magnified the chandelier’s light and the guests could watch themselves captured in sophisticated greed. On one of the side tables, there lay an ornate navy blue egg, which found its way into a child’s pocket.

Polite offers of hospitality were made, guests were guided to the tastiest dishes and reluctant servants were ordered into efficiency. Ali was a natural host, inviting all to share in his bounty. Haroon took in the generous display of delicacies, gazed at their doubles in the mirror and felt full.

"Bhai saab, you must taste the lamb curry. The cook spent all day preparing it."

Haroon turned around to face Salma. Yes, so sweet, he thought. If only that sweetness were reserved for him, he might just head home, tell his parents to find one such bride for him. But she had already transferred that sweet solicitude towards a fretful mother, who was juggling between her plate and sleepy infant.

The male guests were growing somnolent with each sip of Kashmiri tea. Each had had his turn at pontificating over the recent political debacle, but the truth was that Emergency or otherwise, it felt safe that the responsibility was in someone else’s hands. Someone picked up on the waning interest and threw in a scandalous tidbit concerning a socialite. Their husbands’ social batteries recharged, the wives had no choice but to console their wailing infants that Papa was going to take them home, very soon.

Ali glanced with disappointment at Haroon’s untouched cup of pink tea.

"Can I get you some coffee?"

Haroon shook his head. Ali sat himself down on the sofa opposite him, and without preamble launched into his personal mission, "Time you settled down. I told aunty I’d look up a few good families for you."

"Why, isn’t mine good enough?"

The irony was lost on Ali. Stupidly he blundered into an offer, "Salma has a cousin-spitting image of her. Just younger but whose complaining?"

Haroon felt like bursting into rude laughter but he knew his friend was in earnest. With a hint of mirth in his eyes, he decided to test the extent of Ali’s crude generousity.

"Really? Did you mention her to my mother?"

"Yes I did actually. She had doubts. You being picky and all that. I could introduce her to you. At a party maybe? Salma, come over here."

"What is it?"

Husband and wife consulted each other over the desirable but absent cousin. Ali was gesticulating, as was his habit when in the grips of excitement. Salma was cool and smiled at Haroon to convey her tacit approval of him as her cousin’s soul mate. If only that smile was for me, just me, not for every bloody guest in this room, thought Haroon. Then I would run home, tell my parents to find me a sweet bride and we could all live happily ever after. With a business like nod that dismissed the discreet matter of matchmaking, Salma sped off to nag the cook.

"Well, that’s settled. Next Wednesday. Hope that’s OK with you? Mashal-her name-will be at my place. A couple of family friends to lend decency and-"

"You’re so stupid."

Ali felt as if he’d been slapped in public. He looked round to see if others had heard Haroon. But it was said very quietly. It felt like the whole room had grown silent but it was only the hush inside Ali’s head, the retreat of carefully constructed defenses of contentment, the absent hum of complacency.

"At least I’m happy’ was all he could say weakly. ‘You don’t even try."

"I don’t want to have to try. Is it too much to expect to like someone, to think about her day and night, to love without expecting to be loved?"

"Your parents just want you to be happy-to have a woman who’ll look after your needs. Care for you."

"Another mother, eh?"

"You ungrateful bastard! What is it you want? Do you even know?"

Panic stirred in Ali’s guts. It usually overcame him in melodramatic movies. Scenes in bad movies that made horrible sense. It was as if someone was getting away with maudlin truths without provoking the relief of laughter.

"I think you should leave."

Haroon got up, embarrassed yet relieved that dignified insincerity had failed him for once in his polite lifetime. He almost felt affection towards Ali now that the curtain of condescension had been torn down. It was a source of comfort to him that Ali looked down on his unhappiness; that meant it was real, not a luxury of his idle brain.

As he walked through the drawing room, a few of the guests wished him goodnight in weary tones. The servant let him out. Walking to his black BMW, he thought of the hidden roses whose sweet scent pervaded the night air. He couldn’t see them but knew they were around somewhere, in some corner of the garden.
Ali emptied the ashtray in the kitchen bin. The servant was stacking the dirty dinner plates on a tray after separating the cutlery from the wasted, half eaten chicken legs. It would take him the better part of the night cleaning up the mess. But he was singing something out of tune and Ali felt tempted to ask him if he was happy.

The drawing room was littered with lipstick stained paper napkins and empty teacups. A guest had left his lighter on a coffee table. Tomorrow this room will look the way it always has, Ali said to himself and switched off the lamps one by one. Back in his room, he sat down a minute before the nightly ritual of undressing. He wished that everything wasn’t quite so quiet. Salma walked in with a towel over one shoulder, her hair tied up in a messy ponytail and her complexion newly scrubbed. Without her heels, she appeared quite short.

"What, still in your party clothes? Remind me to ask the cook for the lamb recipe. Mrs. Israr was asking me for it."

Ali sat very still. At the dressing table, Salma untied her hair, brushing her wiry curls vigorously.

"Tired?’ This time she was angling for an answer."

Ali got up, turned around to face her reflection in the mirror and announced in a polite, distant tone,

"I’m going for a walk."

"At this time of night?"

Ali slowly turned the door handle. She tried to keep the panic out of her voice, "When will you be back?"

"I don’t know." He shut the door after him.

Ayesha Ahmed, born in Ipswich, England in 1972, spent her formative years in a boarding school in Kent. As a child, she showed no real artistic aptitude, running away from piano lessons and art classes. Moving to Saudi Arabia didn’t spark off any artistic ambitions and she lived her life oblivious to her real calling. She was like a potted plant – protected and rootless. It took her native soil, Pakistan to tie her up in knots of angst and self questioning which helped her to branch out into writing.  She grew into a woman aware of choices she was determined not to make. Masters in creative writing at Nottingham Trent University was only attractive to her in that it was a break from ineffectual rebellion. Ayesha got more than she had bargained for – a supportive class, argumentative professors, a distinction and a voice…
Publication: Leap Anthology, Nottingham Trent University, 2008
 
Education: MA English, Punjab University, 2007                   
                 MA Creative Writing, NTU, 2008

A Gelatinous Substance By Christina Correa

Son wasn’t about to give up on her principles of personal responsibility and clean up the smear of a mysterious gelatinous substance on the kitchen table. She made sure to slice her meat and greens to the left of it, to keep her colander of veggies in the sink, and when it came time to remove her stir-fly from its pan she pushed the cutting board back, laid out a plate and proceeded to transfer her meal from the pan to the plate. She at once washed the pan, the cutting board and the knife she had made use of. Then, she wiped down only the portion of the table which she had used (leaving the gelatinous smear as pristine as she had found it), took her plastic bag of wrappings and discarded portions of vegetables from where she had hung it off the back of one kitchen chair, set a pair of chop sticks on her plate and carrying plate of stir-fried pork and greens in one had and bag of kitchen refuse in the other, she retreated from the kitchen.

This was day three of life with the mysterious gelatinous smear on the kitchen table. Whoever had originally perpetrated this smear had not come forward to claim it, nor clean it up at a moment of kitchen solitude. And neither had anyone else.

Now, in fairness, there were a total of five people sharing that small kitchen, and none of them had taken the job upon themselves. Son was hardly the laziest of them. She was merely the only one who routinely prepared meals in the smear’s company, and just as routinely cleaned off the side of the table she had deemed suitable for her use, and not the half occupied by the smear.

Back in her room she sat cross-legged on the bed, plate on a TV table opened in front of her. She ate in silence. Bite by bite the plate slowly reemerged from under her dinner. About half-way through she realized she was thirsty and got up to pour herself a glass of water.

She kept a Brita pitcher full of water on the dresser top nearest the door and several shapes and sizes of glasses (and one mug) as well. She had never bothered to exchange the expired Brita filter for a fresh one. A roommate, a boy named Gyon-Jong who called himself Neil, had bought her a new filter, his going-away gift to her. She had kept it on top of the refrigerator, fully intending to put it to work when the time was right.

Another roommate beat her to it. Just took it upon herself to soak the new filter for an hour, insert it, and discard the old one. Son knew she’d live to regret letting that person share her refrigerated water. She kept the Brita pitcher in her room from then on.

It was then that G’ene arrived home. Of course, Son couldn’t immediately determine whether the individual who had just entered was G’ene, or one of stompy little men who they shared the apartment with. Not that G’ene in any way (but how her walk down a hallway, muffled by walls and door sounded) resembled one of the stompy little men they happened to share apartment 43 with.   

Son listened intently at her door. Whoever it was had made their way directly to the kitchen. The entrance to G’ene’s room was through the kitchen, but it sounded like whoever it was was lingering, unpacking groceries, and slamming cupboard doors.

The suspense was killing her. She fetched her plate of stir-fry pork, not yet cleared, and brought it with her out of her room, down the hall and into the kitchen.

G’ene let out an enthused greeting, in no particular language, and made to give Son and her plate a hug. Son had to be quick on her feet to dodge the embrace. Not that she didn’t want G’ene to embrace her. She just didn’t want G’ene hugging her stir-fried pork and veggies.

She decided to be there on the pretense of needing some Kim Chee to go with her dinner, and muttered something to G’ene about thinking she was that noisy American (Jewish he called himself) guy in room D.

Son was sort of relived when G’ene appeared oblivious to her veiled criticism.

G’ene was in a very good mood. G’ene was usually, though admittedly not always, in a very good mood. She was a tall girl, certainly by Korean standards, she wore glasses and pony-tails and had a round and delightfully cheerful face.

She’d grown-up in a community of Seventh Day Adventists whose every member claimed to descend from a pack of fifteen Western European missionaries that arrived on the shores of Gangwon-d Providence, at the turn of the 19^th century.

G’ene was the Gangwon-do Providence regional weight-lifting champion, middle-weight division. She’d lifted as many as 207 pounds in the snatch event, and had a personal high score of 255 pounds in the clean and jerk.

Her prospects for the 2008 Olympic team had been high indeed, until a torn ligament forced her off the mats late last spring. Everybody said she would be able to recover, that she could make up for this little setback through extra-vigorous training in the fall. There was talk of abbreviating her academics beginning in September, to allow more time for training.

“No one thinks I’ll be the best lifter out there. I really am no Prapawadee Jaroenrattanatarakoon,” the Thai champ who had swept the first Olympic qualifying round in her country and proceeded to dominate Korea in a way it was in no way willing to be dominated. “Nobody thinks I can even be the best in Korea. Why devote my whole life to being at best number six? It’s madness and I'm done.”

Her coaches, her father, her brothers, and fellow lifters hardly knew what to say. That didn’t stop them from trying. She was ceaselessly confronted and compassionately counselled.

Had she torn a ligament in her shoulder, or had she dropped a weight on her head? … Suddenly even her doctors weren’t really sure.

“It won’t do to stay here right now G’ene. If you really mean it, you really want to quit, then see Father Moon-Ny about studies abroad,” her mother advised her.

Standing in the kitchen of her Washington Heights sublet apartment, G’ene knew she’d ridden in on a tidal wave which originated in a gym in Gangwon-do Providence eight months earlier, when she’d tried (and for a few moments succeeded!) lifting a weight that she just couldn’t bear.

Now, what had happened since she’d rented her little room and began studies at Columbia University (molecular biology had always been a passion of hers, until recently cast asunder by the demands of her training schedule) really originated much earlier than the day of that fateful workout.

She frankly assumed it all originated in the womb.

“I bought everything I need to make spaghetti, even French bread and a pasta strainer!” G’ene proudly presented her new colander, “Should I cook now, or wait until later?”

“If you’re hungry now, cook now.” Son detested indecisiveness in others, a very hypocritical stance to take, but Son really was an exceptional hypocrite.

“Oh but I’m always hungry. I’m going to get so fat! I’m not burning it off like I use to.” G’ene pat her toned tummy.

G’ene felt her frustration with their little shared kitchen mounting, it was already filled to capacity, she searched every cabinet and shelf, but there appeared not to be an inch to spare. And half of everything that claimed space was crap! Rusty pots and pans, and expired canned goods.

“It takes a really long time for a can of lentil soup to go bad,” G’ene was examining such a can, “This one expired last year. How many years has it been sitting here?”

“I don’t know. It isn’t mine.”

“You’ve lived here longer than anybody, haven’t you? Like more than three years, right?”

Son didn’t like the implication of these questions. She knew how to mind her own business. She always attended to her own responsibilities. It wasn’t her fault that a can of lentil soup had been abandoned by some ne'er-do-well….

The newest roomy filled a plastic Gristedes bag with cans, packages of noodles, jars of mayo, and boxes of granulated sugar, all long past their dates of expiration.  It was a bit of an ordeal, but G’ene kept at it, persevered by drawing on the of Jesus Christ, which she had been reared on. Such reminiscences on the word of God had allowed her to grit her teeth and endure many a relentless training session, and now served to keep her smiling through the painstaking process of clearing twelve-square inches of shelf space for her personal use, cleaning a mysterious gelatinous smear from off the kitchen table, relegating three badly rusted pots to yet another refuse bag, and coaxing from Son some hints as to which plates and cutlery were without owners and might, given a good long cleaning, be re-enlisted into kitchen service.

While G’ene maintained a brave face, she couldn’t help but notice mounting anxiety on Son’s part.

“There, I’m done now,” said G’ene upon Son’s third pace of the apartment. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’m sorry if I have.”

Son laughed a little and said she wasn’t bothered. G’ene wondered whether she was being lied to, or whether Son was lying to herself. And just like that G’ene too was in a state of crisis.

She had moved into apartment 43 five months earlier and become fast friends with the apartment’s other Korean tenant. They were immediately aware of sharing a country of origin and a mailing address. It wasn’t long before they realized they shared a love of Central Park and American sit-coms. And finally, one Thursday evening six weeks prior, well into the NBC comedy line-up, they realized that they were both gay. They were both gay women who had made it into young adulthood without so much as uttering to themselves what they were. But suddenly there they were and they were touching, and kissing and being intimate with one another in ways they never knew they could be with another human being.

On that first momentous night it had been enough that they had Korea, Central Park, and must-see-TV in common. G’ene hadn’t been attracted to Son from the moment they met. It had been a far more gradual awakening. This, G’ene assured herself, was perfectly normal. Gay or straight love depended on who people are on the inside, and you can’t glean that from first impressions.

G’ene watched her waifishly thin lover fill a little Tupperware container with the left-over portion of her pork and veggie dinner.

Hell, she thought to herself, nobody gets these things right on their very first try.

Two years after high school graduation Christina Correa got it into her head to visit New York. She bought herself a plane ticket, got a sad little hotel room and after a week here in the Big Apple, made-up her mind to stay.  She's been here ever since. 

Memory Lane Leads to Fiction for Author Steven Jay Griffel

Only one month after publication, Steven Jay Griffel’s first published novel, Forty Years Later, has already skyrocketed to third place in the category of Rock among Kindle’s 360,000 e-books.


Forty Years Later is the story of David Grossman’s struggles to reconcile the regrets of his youth and the failures of his middle-age. It is a suspenseful and psychological journey involving two very different women who represent his past and future. Set against a background of Hollywood movie making and Woodstock rock ’n roll, it is a fast-paced, funny, and poignant novel.


Recently, Steven Jay Griffel sat down with our editor to comment on his journey as a writer and the new accessibility of his work through digital publishing. 

What was your motivation / inspiration for writing Forty Years Later? There is a real-life story that parallels the early chapters of Forty Years Later. I really did meet someone I had not seen for forty years who is an award-winning screenwriter and whose work mined some of the same themes I had explored in my earlier writing. I spent one very full day with this person and began to fantasize what it would be like to continue the relationship. My musings took shape—and I found myself writing a new novel.

When we spoke you described your career in publishing as an issue of practicality. Has every writer faced such issues?  Every writer not born with a silver spoon in his mouth has faced issues of practicality. Most writers don’t have trust funds or inheritances to support them. Like most folk, we have to work for a living, doing all the quotidian things to make the world run smoothly—not to mention feed ourselves and our families. Faulkner worked as a postmaster; Hawthorne as a custom’s agent; Wallace Stevens worked in the insurance industry; T.S. Eliot was a banker. Doctors, lawyers, soldiers, mothers, teachers, criminals—everyone has to make a buck.

How hard was it to cross over from being an editor to a writer?  There wasn’t much of a cross-over. Most of my work was in educational textbooks, and while I must have written hundreds of reading passages, articles, and essays—including several Young Adult books—the skill sets I relied on are quite different from those I use when I write creatively. Even when I had the great pleasure of working as a literary anthologist, the process was not creative the way writing fiction is.

Also, I didn’t cross over from editor to writer, I was a writer first. I always knew I’d be a writer. At sixteen I entered the Creative Writing department at Queens College and graduated with that major. I went on to complete a Master’s Degree in American Literature because I wanted to know who had come before me and where I fit in.

Where do you fit in the spectrum of authors? At this point, I’m a minor footnote in the long and venerable history of New York Jewish writers.

Do you see yourself as a Jewish novelist? I am a Jewish novelist by birth and vocation, but it hardly defines me. It sure as hell doesn’t limit me.

How did you develop your writer’s voice? I was a terrible writer for many years because of my unnatural voice. I wrote what I thought sounded literary. I wrote what I thought others would regard as impressive or important. Of course, I wrote a lot of crap. It’s not easy to find one’s writing voice. It isn’t the same as writing the way one speaks, though that at least would have been more natural than the artificial stuff I was cranking out. I was like the bad actor who mouths words stiffly and unconvincingly. He isn’t inside his character—he isn’t expressing himself naturally, from the inside out. A good actor—or writer—has to let go of his ego in order to create something else.

When you say you made an effort to “sound literary,” was that because you were aiming to create high literature, as something different than literature for the masses? It is a topic that I have wrestled with as a writer.  I don’t believe in categorical distinctions such as high and low literature, literature for the elite and literature for the masses. Literature exists along a continuum. There is great writing and there is bad writing; most writing falls somewhere in between. Early on I didn’t trust my own literary instincts. I didn’t think anyone would think much of my writing unless I continually pulled out all the stops, and so my early writing was more like colorful fireworks than a controlled, purposeful narrative. I did not yet understand that every word in a story must serve a purpose. If a writer is equivocal about a certain word or phrase, he must ask himself: Does the wording gratify my ego or does it enhance the narrative? If it is a question of ego, the word or phrase must be cut.


Did you use any techniques you learned in the publishing industry when you wrote the novel? Effective business correspondence is clear and targeted. It does not gain points for rich ambiguity the way fiction does. As a writer of business correspondence I trained myself to write succinctly, and this control occasionally proved valuable when I wrote fiction.


How important to you is the editing, or revising, of your work? Revision is the heart and soul of good writing. Forget the Romantic notion of being inspired by a Muse and having torrents of words gush out. Though this sometimes happens, a story written in a passionate frenzy is usually unfocused.

I revise my work carefully. My first revisions are for sense. Did I say everything I wanted to say? Later revisions are for sound. At this point I rely more on my ears than my eyes. I listen to the words. I try to hear the rhythm of my prose. The meaning and music of my words must work together. There are writers who tell a great story but whose music is clumsy and monotonous. And there are writers who write amazingly musical prose—but who are not adept at creating full-blooded characters and believable plots. The greatest writers do both well. And when that happens—voilà!

Sometimes non-writers assume the work we do is mostly autobiographical. In a sense, it’s true. I think all the work novelists do is mostly autobiographical, whether we realize it or not. Think of J.R.R. Tolkien, author of the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. I can guarantee you that every imaginative moment in his fantastical adventures has its counterpart in some remembered event or emotion. Imagination doesn’t come out of thin air!

Fiction is removed from autobiographical reality only by degrees. The beginning of Forty Years Later is strongly autobiographical—but not the second half of the book. None of those events actually took place, although the ideas were inspired by bits and pieces of my lived life.

While happenstances in life do provide inspiration, every writer has a way of expanding one experience into a larger story.  Can you describe your process for transforming moments of inspiration? People often experience events or relationships and think “This would make a good story.” But not every real-life story can be successfully developed into a novel. I think writers often begin a novel with a single story in mind, knowing—or at least hoping—that other details, supporting cast, and plot will be imagined to augment the central idea. That has been my modus operandi—and it certainly was true of Forty Years Later. I knew two people would meet after forty years, and I knew sparks would fly, and I knew there would be hell to pay. I just couldn’t have said what, exactly. But that’s the mystery of art!

Did you have to do any research? The only substantial research I did was to visit the Bethel Woods Center to see what the new, permanent “Woodstock” venue is like. I also wanted to pay homage to the original site.

Is the original site still there? Yes. The grassy amphitheater that once accommodated hundreds of thousands is pretty much the same. There is a flat, gravelly area at the bottom where the stage stood, but the lake behind the stage, which had provided such a beautiful backdrop, is shielded by new tree growth. I was surprised to discover this, though I shouldn’t have been. After all, it’s been forty years.

You said your publisher calls you a digital pioneer? What does that mean to you? It took some getting used to. I’m older than you are and my early life wasn’t shaped by the Digital Revolution as yours was, presumably.

While I had always dreamed of seeing my books in the windows of book superstores, I now have the pleasure of knowing my book is accessible to every reader on the planet who has a computer or a Kindle, iPhone, etc. Two weeks ago one of my best friends flew from LA to New York and read Forty Years Later on his iPod Touch—at forty thousand feet. He said reading my book was a great high!

Really, I’m thrilled to be a digital pioneer. I love the fact that e-books are less expensive and more readily accessible to readers. Already I have heard from people in Germany, Australia, Canada, Denmark, Israel, and Peru who want to read Forty Years Later, and it’s only been out a little more than a month!

It’s a new age. Things will change. Some things will be missed. For instance, I think large bookstores will probably go the way of the dinosaur as many fewer books will be published in a paper-bound format. However, I think more people will read more books than ever before. In a few years electronic readers like the Kindle and the Nook might be as commonplace as cell phones. On balance, I think the Digital Revolution is one of the great positive changes in human history. I’m proud to be one if its pioneers.

Are you working on any other projects? What is next for you? Actually, I’m working on a new novel about what happens when a novelist, who is also an antiquarian (a collector of rare books and beautiful bindings), finds himself at the forefront of the digital revolution, sounding the death-knell for the very thing he cherishes most. Revolutions are exciting but not without casualties.

********

Steven Jay Griffel is the first author to be published by Schiller and Wells, a division of Stay Thirsty Media. He is a nationally known editor and publisher of educational textbooks, and the author of many articles and books for young adults. Forty Years Later is his first published novel. Combining humor and nostalgia with a cutting-edge style that makes use of phone conversations and e-mails, Griffel has fashioned a fast-paced contemporary tale befitting one of this generation’s digital pioneers. Griffel lives with his wife and two daughters in New York City.

 Order your copy of Forty Years Later here.

"Politics. Yawn." Fiction Written For One Friend

Becca,

Yeah, we've been going back and forth on facebook about these presidential elections. The pandering, the lack of issues, scary liars calling for change, crackers versus darkies and the whole nine. That's why I love you. After all that, we can still laugh and lament together. It's been fun, but not as much fun as the fantasy presidential match up I entertain myself with when I'm watering the orange trees out here in boring ass suburban California. I wrote this one down for you, love.

*********

November 5th, 2008
Headline: McCain Cinches Presidential Race

After a year of backbiting and mudslinging, last night the Republican Elephant broke out of a four month slump to ferociously snap at the jugular of the Democratic Ass to lap up sanguine victory.

At the end of the Democratic primaries it looked as if Barack Obama was poised to take the nation by storm. His acceptance speech at the Democratic national convention brought tears to they eyes of constituents. Unfortunately for Barack, it also brought heightened scrutiny from the anti-terror organizations. After reviewing close-ups of convention footage and comparing them to videos of Osama Bin Laden, anti- terror organizations alleged that Obama is none other than Osama Bin Laden. These anti- terror organizations, namely the Fox news channel, staunch Hillary Clinton supporters and the KKK, insist computerized composites of Obama with a turban and beard and the fact that the names Osama and Obama rhyme prove that Barack is, in fact, Bin Laden in the flesh. Although Obama tried to downplay the allegations as "hype to feed the fears of constituents," his campaign could not shake the allegations. International investigators scoffed at the claims, particularly since Obama does not use a kidney dialysis. This did not stop the federal government from bringing criminal charges against Obama, effectively killing his campaign.

Hillary Clinton quickly stepped into the role of Democratic nominee for President. "I always knew my loss in the primaries was a temporary setback," she gushed during her acceptance speech. Clinton went on to vow to lead her party to victory in spite of the infiltration by "radical Muslim operatives."

After the Obama ouster, the Republicans campaign was forced to restructure their campaign. VP candidate Sarah Palin had attracted an avalanche of attention to the Republican ticket. That attention, however, was as fleeting as it was powerful. The McCain campaign acknowledged that one woman on their ticket would be no match for the uber icon of modern femininity that is Hillary Clinton. It was clear that the McCain campaign would have to pull some punches to regain footing. They reasoned Clinton was better equipped than John McCain to handle tough questions under fire, or answer them at all, for that matter. They needed someone who could match Clinton in the personality game while beating her in the looks department. In the end, John McCain chose to step down to allow the individual who actually made campaign decisions become the face of the campaign- Cindy McCain.

Once Cindy McCain was unleashed on the campaign trail, she exceeded all expectations. McCain constantly addressed the media with humor, panache and traditional feminine grace. During her acceptance speech, Cindy said, "I don't need SNL to show America I know how to joke. I'll be laughing hard come November. Shrill Hill won’t know what hit her!"

During town hall meetings, seeing the two female figures side by side was striking. Cindy’s skirt ensembles constantly upstaged Hillary’s pantsuits. While Hillary went for a conservative professional look with simple pearl earrings, Cindy never failed to accessorize with tennis bracelets adorned by diamonds bespeckled with fresh African soil. Cindy's makeup was always impeccable. Dazzled by her beauty, debate moderators let Cindy answer with jokes, winks and smiles. Hillary, on the other hand, was barraged on tough issues. Hillary fought back. Without blinking, Hillary launched into diatribes while pounding her fist on her podium, earning herself the nickname, “Hammer Hillary.” 700 Club host Pat Robertson went so far as to characterize Hillary’s body language as “butch” to the chagrin of middle American women and to the delight of hardcore lesbians everywhere. Hillary’s firm stance enlivened left wing radicals, but alienated the core constituents of middle America.

Realizing her gaffe, Hillary tried a celebrity makeover on The View. Hillary was Cinderella to Barbara Walter’s fairy godmother, while the other host played the mice. They transformed practical into perky, using the magic of clip in weaves a-la Paris Hilton, Victoria’s not so secret push up bras and bold colors instead of pastels. By the time Elizabeth Hasselback applied the last dabs of gloss, Hillary was a prime candidate for an “age defying oil of Olay commercial.” But Hillary’s reawakening to womanhood came too late. The American people had chosen consistent beauty over practicality. Cindy McCain led Hillary by double digits in the polls. Hil decided to use her newfound beauty to hit her opponent in her weak spot- policy.

Dates were set up for what was billed as "tea party debates." The tea party debates, proposed by Cindy McCain, were to be dignified forums where the two women could discuss the issues of the day while fielding questions by other women at the forum. These invitation only affairs featured hockey moms, weather girls, and war widows. Women of color and women with advanced degrees were conspicuously absent.

Cindy glided into the forum wearing a bold red ensemble highlighted by black stiletto heels. In contrast, Hillary stumbled in, tripping over her three-inch Jimmy Choos while tugging at her blue skirt that was riding up in the back. Twitters of laughter floated through the crowd. The stage was set up like a, antebellum parlor room. Both women sat in their respective Victorian chairs. Before the women in the audience could properly butter their crumpets, Hillary launched into her spiel about how nationwide healthcare, reeducating the workforce, and ending the war on terrorism were the only ways to get the country back on track.

“Cindy McCain has no platform!” Hillary ended emphatically.

Cindy yawned. Striking a note that was a perfect imitation of Hillary’s shrillness, Cindy said, “I have a two hundred and fifty-seven step plan to redirect our country. First we will expand existing housing programs so the people who lost their homes to foreclosure and floods can build huts from recyclable flax. That way the plastic waste from the new tent cities around the country won’t end up in our landfills. Then we will have all the sick people who lack health care go to VA hospitals until we can convince doctors to stop taking golf vacations or buying new BMWs. God knows the VA hospitals have adequate space to meet our current healthcare needs. Finally we’ll give grants to automotive companies who create flying cars that run on sewer water. We’ll give each black family the 40 acres and mules that they have been waiting so long for. I’ll open up the borders so Mexicans can take our American dollars back to their homeland to turn them into pesos, so eventually we can become the United States of Mexico. At the end of my term, we’ll join hands across the nation, light joints and sing old Jefferson Airplane songs with love soaring through our hearts.” Guffaws rose up through the audience. Cindy’s tone turned snide. “C’mon ladies. No one is going to buy this soft-core socialism peddled by an acid addled hippy. We tried all those nicey nice plans during the last Clinton administration. Where did that get us?”

“It got us to an abundant time after years of Republican bungling,” Hillary shot back. “It got us an economic surplus.”

Cindy tossed her blonde waves. “Wrong,” she hissed. “It put us right in the hands of terrorists. We cannot afford these sorts of kumbaya parties while indigenous people are plotting to push American corporations out of their native homelands. We need to strengthen our troops to protect our financial interests.”
Hillary raised an eyebrow. “Whose interests Cindy? The American people’s interests or the interests of your father’s corporate cronies?”

Cindy’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Hillary rolled her neck. “Don’t pretend like you don’t understand what I’m getting at. Just like the Bush’s, your family is at the center of corporate organized crime. From keeping people addicted to alcohol, to the dirty money from Sudan, you people are vampires living off of blood money.”

Cindy’s face flushed scarlet. “That’s not true,” she whispered, closing her eyes gently. “We don’t live off of blood money. We feed on blood!”

Cindy’s eyes flashed open, blazing with the blue flames of one thousand hells. Instantaneously, Cindy’s skin hardened and scaled over, coming to resemble the pelt of an ancient albino alligator. Her scapulas elongated into paper-thin wings that trembled with the beat of the blood coursing through their prominent veins. A long pointed tail unfurled from under her skirt. Perfectly manicured nails grew into talons. Tastefully colored lips peeled back to reveal professionally whitened fangs. The audience gasped. Clinton recoiled in fear. Before anyone could regain calm, McCain was alight. With her horned tipped wings, Cindy pierced a hole in the auditorium roof. Climbing high in the sky, with the graceful finesse of a ballerina, Cindy arced in the air, making peak height when the crescent moon appeared to be a crown over her head. Then Cindy plunged into a nose-dive. Clinton sensed an attack. She tried to escape to her limo, but to no avail. Just as Clinton’s bodyguard opened the door, Cindy slashed with her talons, decapitating the man. Then Cindy grabbed Clinton and dug her fangs into Hillary’s throat.

Two days later voters overwhelmingly cast their ballots for McCain. Researchers are still trying to determine if the landslide can be attributed to voter reverence or if people were just scared shitless.