WULFSTAN’S LITERARY TUMBLE Issue 1

HONG KONG A PHOTO JOURNAL

A

SAMPLER

STORIES: 2057, ALMOST, CARRIAGE 7, THE PROBLEM WITH

JANE BURROWS, BUTTERFLIES AND SUNFLOWERS, SAM

POEMS: KIERSTY BOON, EBBY EASBY, EMILY BURNS,

FEATURES: NABOKOV’S BUTTERFLIES, WRITTEN IN BLOOD,

STIEG LARSSON’S LOST MANUSCRIPT, JD SALINGER’S LETTERS,

THE MISUSE OF TROLLS: ROBERT STANEK’S RISE TO STARDOM,

PENGUIN MINI CLASSICS, OROZCO’S BOX, PAUL

An ancient and powerful alien civilization, all but destroyed by a celestial impact millennia ago. Now, after thousands of years, their plan to rebuild their race is nearing fruition, and it’s happening here, on Earth.

In the near future, the world is running out of known deposits of fossil fuels. Dr. Amanda Johnson, a brilliant, beautiful, and extremely tall computer designer and programmer, has been recruited by DARPA to design a satellite based scanning system to locate any hidden carbon reserves anywhere on the planet. This system, based in Phoenix, Arizona and called AUGER, will also be re-tasked to continuously track all nuclear materials once the carbon scans are completed. Amanda’s fraternal twin brother, Tyler Johnson, also brilliant and extremely tall, is a world travelling archaeologist, working with their adoptive parents Gordon and Ashley Jameson. Tyler is aware of Amanda’s carbon based scanner system, and asks

her to use it to search for small carbon deposits that may lead to previously undiscovered archaeological sites for him to excavate. Amanda agrees, and, using Majel, a computer A.I. that she has developed, and that Tyler has, unknown to her at the time, modified, she finds several thousand potential sites, one of which is most unusual. A large cube shaped object buried in North Carolina. After informing her brother, he and their parents go to investigate. What they find will change their lives, and the world, forever. Amanda and Tyler embark on an incredible journey that will take them to the surface of Mars, and even to other dimensions. Along the way they will encounter aliens, suicidal terrorists, nuclear weapons, and rogue elements of their own military. Difficulties which pale in comparison when they discover that they, Amanda and Tyler Johnson, are themselves another world’s Legacy.

Barrett James, Jr.

is a 42 year old construction worker living in North Carolina with his 14 year old son, for whom this book was written. During a discussion of the types of novels they liked, Treybear dared his father to write a book containing the various elements they both enjoyed. Having never written anything longer than a few pages, Mr. James nevertheless accepted the challenge, and presented his son with a finished manuscript for Christmas of 2009. After reading it, and loving it, Treybear recommended to his father that he get it published. Mr. James allowed several other people to read it, even posting sections online. After receiving nothing but positive feedback, he decided to go ahead with the publishing process, and “The Legacy of Balthazar: Inheritance” was born. Mr. James enjoyed creating and developing the characters so much, that he’s already begun work on a second novel as a companion to the first one. When not at work or helping his elderly father on his 10 acre horse farm, Mr. James can usually be found in his favorite recliner, laptop and cold beer in hand, busily working on his next novel.

CHECK OUT http://webpages.charter.net/jjbarrett/LEGACY.HTML Or follow him on Twitter @BalthazarLegacy Barrett James Jr.’s Novel is available from most U.S. Retailers Including Barnes & Noble and Amazon.

Red Lines

5

Meet The Team Mark Wollacott Editor

Ebby Easby Jack Goodwin Kiersty Boon Marcela Wong Paula Serenio Rebecca Mayglothing Ryujin Makoto Steven Ferre Will Crowbourne Yi Ying Huang

Welcome to Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble. Thank you for taking the time to buy this magazine. First, I would like to take the time to thank my contributors. They took the time to write pieces, edit work, donate photos and promote the magazine without pay. For your work, I am eternally grateful and hope you enjoy the final product. This is the first edition of the magazine and personally, is a complete leap into the unknown. For years I have read magazines concerning all manner of subjects, from sci-fi in SFX to music in Classic Rock and Mojo, but not one has truly satisfied my tastes. This is why we are launching Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble. This magazine’s mission is to explore all forms of the written word, to review books, examine culture, critique art and present short stories and poems from new and established writers. That is why we are proud to introduce such writers as Kiersty Boon, Ebby Easby, Steven Frerre and others.

Furthermore, WLT aims to be truly international. Already the first issue brings to you writers from Britain, America, Japan and the Philippines as well as a book review from Taiwan. Added to that you will find articles and stories on topics as diverse as Kerepesi Cemetery in Budapest, commuting in Japan, museums in Egypt and not forgetting our cover photo-story in Hong Kong.

We hope you enjoy your stay with WLT and come back for me. We would love to hear your thoughts on the Zine and are always looking out for contributors and authors looking to publicise their work.

Mark Wollacott Mark Wollacott Editor-in-Chief

Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble Join the Community Online www.createbook.org/magazine/ Contact Editorial and Submissions at: editor@createbook.org Contact Sales for Advertising at: sales@createbook.org

Community Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble Issue 1 March-April, 2011

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Yoshino Makoto Ryujin

27

Under midnight stars,

an Onsen Geisha lays

her healing hands

upon my worn out body,

the fire goes out.

News Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble Issue 1 March-April, 2011

6

SAURON’S STORY LEAVES MIDDLE-EARTH

UNAMUSED

The Lord of Mordor has finally released his memoirs in English. Having possessed Russian writer and Lord of the Rings fan, Kirill Yeskov, he’s now got his work translated. However, Mark Le Fanu of the Society of Authors has warned that even a non-commercially distributed piece of fiction such as The Last Ring Bearer needs to be approved by the copyright owner. The work has been translated by Yisroei Markov and tells the story from Mordor’s point of view. It sees the war of the ring as propaganda. Naturally Mordor is a place of peaceful coexistence until Aragorn and Gandalf turn up and ruin everything. Despite J.R.R. Tolkien’s wish to see others expand his world, the Tolkien estate has staunchly refused to publish any fan fiction rather than open his world to sub-standard fanfiction. Tolkien publishers, HarperCollins claim to have had no discussions with Yestov over publishing his book. David Brawn told the Guardian that they found it difficult to deal with online infringements. According to him and Le Fanu fan-fiction is not excempt from copyright.

Will Crowbourne

DASHIELL

Fifteen previously unpublished works by renowned American writer, Dashiell Hammett have been uncovered in the literary archives of the University of Texas, Austin. Dashiell Hammett is known as the father of hardboiled detective fiction having wrote such books as The Maltese Falcon and Red Harvest. The success of these works was based not just on great plots and stories, but also on engaging characters. Perhaps the most famous Hammett character of all time is Sam Spade. Once played by Humphrey Bogart, Spade is the star of The Maltese Falcon. Despite appearing in one single story, Spade has become as famous as Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe and not far behind greats such as Sherlock Holmes. The collection of 15 previously unknown stories were unearthed by Andrew Gulli. They were found in the Harry Ransom centre in Austin. As Hammett died in 1961, it seems the stories have been lying dormant for quite some time.

HAMMETT Andrew Gulli now plans to publish one of the Hammett stories in The Strand, a crime fiction magazine he edits. Gulli told the Guardian newspaper in England that there were “some very, very good pieces of fiction” amongst the collection he unearthed. He describes some pieces as classic Hammett, meaning his famed hardboiled detective stylings. However, the collection also shows a more experimental side to the author, with some different directions and stories. However, the first piece to find its way into The Strand will be a classic piece of Hammett detective fiction. Entitled So I Shot Him, the story is a quick running piece with deadpan dialogue set beside a lake. Gulli says he plans to collect the 15 stories together and later publish them as a book. Avid fans of Hammett’s works will no doubt be hoping this collection is released sooner rather than later. MW

News Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble Issue 1 March-April, 2011

7

Mr Tumpy’s Caravan In 1949 Enid Blyton published a comic strip entitled Mr Tumpy and his Caravan. Last year the Seven Stories centre in Newcastle, England, believed a 180-page manuscript of the same name to be an alternate version. The manuscript came into Seven Stories’ hands after an auction last September by Blyton’s family. The manuscript is from over a decade before the comic strip’s publication and totally different in content. The story centres around a princess in a foreign land, a pet dog called Bun-Dorg and a dog-headed dragon (like the one in the photo – right). The Enid Blyton Society’s Tony Summerfield believes it is a “bottom drawer” story. A naïvely written piece soon discarded as the writer learns their craft. Blyton’s daughter, Imogen, told the BBC that previously unknown stories by famous authors often cause excitement. Especially if they were not previously known about.

Enid Blyton was born in 1897 in East Dulwich and died in 1968. In Hampstead. She is best known for being one of the 2oth century’s most popular children’s novelists. Her most famous works include The Famous Five, Five Find-Outers and Dog and The Secret Seven. Her first version of Mr. Tumpy’s Caravan was probably sent to publishers in the 1930s, but were rejected and put away. Seven Stories paid £40,000 ($60,000) for the manuscript after Blyton’s eldest daughter, Gillian, died. MW

Daphne du Maurier

A trio of lost works is completed by Daphne du Maurier, whose 70-year old story, The Doll, has just been unearthed. The story will be part of a new du Maurier anthology and has been described as a dark story filled with “obsession and jealousy” and features a man who falls for a lady he meets at a party. However, things turn for the worst when he gets back to her place and finds her own obsession, a life-size male mechanical doll. Five of the stories were found by du Maurier fan, Ann Willmore. The rest of the collection includes a ghost story set in Cornwall called The Happy Valley. Du Maurier’s new posthumous anthology will be published by Virago in May. Wulfstan Crumble.

MARCH 5. SET FOR WORLD BOOK NIGHT

One million books will be given away on March. 5 this year as part of World Book Night. The aim of the event is to promote book reading and the world’s great literature. The event is a collaboration between a number of book associations, libraries and the BBC. Books include David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas and Gabriel Garcia Marquez’ Love in the Time of Cholera. People across the country were encouraged to apply to become a book giver. Each would receive 100 copies of the same book to be distributed on March 5. How the books are distributed are up to each giver. We at WLT fully support giving out free books like this and hope it inspires many more people to pick up books to read, whether it is off the internet, from bookshops or from public libraries. MW

FIND KIERSTY BOON’S “THE POET BUSKER”

ON AMAZON FOR $7.56.

News Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble Issue 1 March-April, 2011

8

JOHN

ALL YOU NEED

A series of hand-drawn John Lennon sketches will go on show at the Mandeville Hotel in London starting on Feb. 26. Even though Lennon attended the Liverpool Art Institute between the years of 1957 and 1960, his second wife and curator, Yoko Ono, believes Lennon was an outsider to the art world. Ono, a Japanese conceptual artist of some repute, believes this is because he was pigeon-holed by his work with the Beatles. The exhibition is being curated by Bag One Arts spokesman, Jonathan Poole. He told the Telegraph of London that he felt that “very few people know what an accomplished artist John was – they just related to him as a musician. Ono stated that Lennon saw the pen and sketch book just as useful a means for self-expression as his guitar. Through them he could express his emotions in a creative manner.

LENNON

IS DOUGH

The pieces of artwork that will add a further dimension to the world’s knowledge of one of its most iconic stars are striking for their simplicity and symbolism. Most modern art is concerned with ordinary objects and forcing meanings on things such as messy beds, squares and paint splatters. However, Lennon’s works are simple sketches and include his statue of liberty (see above) and a family portrait. The Statue of Liberty style picture depicts a man (Lennon?) standing on a plinth with a clenched fist and a book. His crown looks more like a jester’s hat. Other items amongst the 30 strong collection include a family portrait (A family of peace) and another of Lennon embracing Ono under a tree. Now for the dough in the title. Prints of the pieces will be auctioned off and range from £800 to £1500. Wulfstan Crumble.

YOUNG

MICHELANGELO

FIBBED A BIT

Disheartened by Giorgio Vasari’s biography, Michelangelo commissioned one of his own. However, not only that, he, like many others (think Augustus’ Res Gestae) used the exercise to make a few alterations. Michelangelo’s story, true or altered, is a remarkable one, a Hollywood one. He went from rags to riches, from the gutter to painting Pope Julius II’s Sistine Chapel. John T. Spike’s new biography, Michelangel0: The Path to the Sistine, charts his rise from nothing to the contract for one of the most prestigious jobs going. MW

News Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble Issue 1 March-April, 2011

9

Gender Imbalance

Remains in the

Publishing

industry

American organization for women, Vida, has revealed the continuing male-female divide in all things literary. As the selection of pie charts to the right demonstrate, men continue to dominate the number of books reviewed, essays and articles written and even the number of article reviewers. For example, the New York Review of Books reviewed 365 books. Of those, 306 were by men and just 59 by women. Furthermore, whether linked or not, of the reviewers, 200 were men and 39 were women. Many other publications show similar results. The London Review of Books reviewed 195 by men and 68 by women, in terms of proportion it was only marginally better than its New York equivalent. Only the Paris Review came close to equality. Of its 91 books reviewed, 59 were by men and 32 by women. Granta magazine editor, John Freeman told the Guardian he worried about gender equality a lot. Meanwhile TLS said it wanted to avoid the “fetish” of a 50/50 preferring to remove the e in equality. Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble is completely random in how it reviews, but in year or two’s time it would be interesting to compare statistics and see if we’re any different than the big boys, run it seems, by big boys. Wulfstan Crumble.

BOOKSHOPS STRUGGLING

According to the New York Times Borders were struggling in January. The book chain reported they would delay payments to vendors and landlords to avoid bankruptcy. Then on Feb.16 Charles Boisseau of the Austin Post reported Borders had closed three stores in the Austin Area. Borders blamed the ongoing US economic woes for its bankruptcy filing. It also said it expected to close 30 percent of its stores, culling all underperforming outlets. Austin Bookstore told Boisseau that it would not seek to replace the closed Borders stores. Meanwhile in Britain, the Guardian’s Benedicte Page has reported that Waterstones is closing stores after a poor Christmas. It announced last month that it would close 11 stores including 2 in Dublin. Borders though look likely to close a total of 150 across America. Waterstones are part of the HMV Group. This giant company is culling a total of 60 stores nationwide. The company has said they are looking to refocus their efforts. The spate of closures across both sides of the Atlantic have led more people to believe the internet is killing the traditional bookstore. However, as newspapers continue to do well and books continue to be produced, it seems that a failure to diversify and adapt to changing tastes and formats is causing problems. Hopefully the paper book is here to stay for the foreseeable future. Will Crowbourne

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Carriage 7 Will Crowbourne

37

Carriage Seven

By Will Crowbourne

Carriage 7 Will Crowbourne

38

They stood squeezed together like human cargo. They were bound for Tokyo for another day of work liked bubble-wrapped robots. He could smell sweat, perfume, traces of alcohol and nicotine, fresh washed linen and manga magazines. He could see little except the tall back of a suit ahead of him, another to the site and a school girl to his right, over her head he saw a man in overalls. This was his morning commute.

Only a smudge of the night had remained when Hiro pulled himself away from his futon. Normally he would wake his wife up so she could make him breakfast, but today he decided to let her sleep. He figured it could not be too difficult to put raw egg and seaweed on a bowl of fresh rice. She was still asleep in her futon when he picked up his briefcase and left for work. She was a good housewife, a retired colleague’s daughter and the one person who stopped his life becoming a messy salaryman-cycle of long hours, coffee, cigarettes, high calorie food, late night drinking and stimulants. Their house was a short walk from the station. A walk of unrelenting concrete, overhead wires and rusting metal; and they lived in a good neighbourhood of northern Saitama. He’d moved to her home town after they got married. He was Tokyo born and bred; a real street youth of the big city turned blue collar worker. That was all behind him now as he walked to the station, pressed his monthly pass on the dashboard and walked through the gates. The sun had peeked above the apartment blocks to the east as he stood on the platform. Its rays warming the back of his neck. Right away he could tell it was going to be another sweltering day; over thirty degrees and not a cloud in sight. He threw the cigarette on the tracks and downed his first coffee of the morning when the station hailed the imminent arrival of the train, on time as usual. He’d only been late to work once in his twenty-seven years as a salaryman;

the day of the sarin gas attacks. Two of his co-workers had been affected that day. They were never right after that and quit a year or so after. He’d heard one of them had killed themselves, but he didn’t know if it was true or not. Hiro stood waiting with the same unknown faces he waited with most days. They all commuted, some worked in adjacent buildings to him. They never spoke to one another. When the train sighed into position, its doors opening with a barely audible hiss, he pushed himself in deep. There were guidebooks available for commuter train strategies. The basic goal being to get a seat at all costs, even if it meant out muscling old people. Hiro had no time for that kind of thing. He figured it was good to stand up on the way to work because he’d be sitting at a desk all day anyway. Like most days he found himself wedged between a schoolgirl and a bunch of salarymen taller than himself. He saw it as being stuck between the best and worst in life. The doors shuddered trying to close. There were too many people again. He’d been there once, it hurt. They shuddered again and opened. Each time a station guard would go to the door causing the problem and start pushing people into the carriage, squeezing them further so the door could shut and the train could get on its way. He felt like an ingredient in a Japanese lunchbox. Someone sneezed further down the carriage as the train pulled away from station. He paid no heed to it. People sneezed and coughed all the time. Once the doors shut on a Tokyo-bound commuter train there was no space to move. People’s hands were locked in whatever position they were in by the sheer mass of commuters. They were so densely packed they moved with the train, swaying as one like green rice stalks in the breeze. Hiro found his arm against the small of the school girl’s back and the back of his hand against her bottom. He knew more than a few colleagues and old

Carriage 7 Will Crowbourne

39

school mates who would give her a squeeze. Hiro just felt embarrassed to be in this position again. He tried not to sweat. For her part, the girl did not even seem to notice his presence as she played on her phone. Go on, give it a squeeze. He pushed his thoughts deep within himself. It was not hard. He’d suppressed his inner self his whole life. It was the price he paid for being Japanese. Instead he concentrated on recalling his speech from memory. Hiro worked in the payroll division of a paper manufacturer in Tokyo. He’d joined as a graduate and with each passing year he moved up the corporate ladder to a new position. Many of them involved speeches during group meetings. There was so much paperwork and rules to go over it kept him busy, some nights he stayed over at the office and he certainly had no time to ask if any of it was worth the effort. Somewhere down the carriage someone screamed. He thought it was a girl, but was not sure. “Did you hear that?” said someone. “Probably a train pervert,” said another. She, it, screamed again. The sound was duller this time, muffled by the sheer weight of bodies in the carriage. All he could hear were the occasional summer sniffs and the rhythmic clickity-clacks of wheels on the tracks. “I don’t think it was…” A businesswoman let her words disappear. Hiro felt sweat roll down his forehead. He felt extremely conscious of his hand resting between the girl’s buttocks. He tried to move away but could not, as if the commuters were pressing into him all at once. “What the hell?” someone shouted further down the carriage. He now heard sounds of rising panic, low moans and the sound of people thumping glass. Clickity-clack and thump-thump. Someone else shrieked. A man cried. People were stepping back, pushing towards him, rippling pushes and counter pushes.

“Help,” a woman almost sounded pitiful. He tried to stand on his tiptoes to look down the carriage. Even then he could see nothing except a few extra holding handles as panic rippled through the commuters like a low wave preceding a tsunami. Hiro was unable to make out most of the words. They sounded garbled and contradictory, words absorbed by general panic and dismay; and the rising screams. Then he made out one sentence passing through the crowd like a Chinese whisper. He bit her. “Who bit who?” No one knew. Responses seeped back towards the front. There was a commotion, squeezing as the mass pulled back. They had nowhere to go and Hiro felt them all pressing against him; feeling as if he might pop. The school girl fell against him. Somewhere down on the right an old woman fell on a sleeping salaryman who pushed her to the floor, swore and went back to sleep. Some were trying to look down the carriage, some were fiddling with their phones, holding them above their heads to try and get a picture. No one was trying to help whoever was being assaulted. An elderly man cried out in pain. Then a girl. “What’s going on?” Hiro felt useless, cut off and wondering what the hell was going on down the carriage way. The tall salaryman next to him twisted his head and looked at him; he had small pudgy eyes and a clean never shaved face. “Probably some kind of fight.” “Yakuza?” “Dunno. I think this guy tried something on and the girl fought back, then he bit her or something.” “What kind of guy bites a girl?” With much effort against the weight of people against him the guy shrugged.

Carriage 7 Will Crowbourne

40

“Did you say bit?” asked another. “Unbelievable.” “Why isn’t anyone doing anything?” asked a foreigner, but they ignored him. Another wave of panic swept the carriage. People rippled backwards. “No, get off me,” someone shouted. There were more screams. Hiro realized it was not some kind of ordinary fight, but something serious. He decided, as he was nearest the conductor’s door, it was up to him to report it. With great effort he began to turn himself towards the businessman so he could knock on the conductor’s door. “She’s dead,” came the whisper. As soon as Hiro managed to turn himself the full weight of the carriage pressed against him. This was different than before. Before it had been a step backwards as if to give a fight room. This time people were trying to get away but with nowhere to go. Their weight shoved his whole body against the glass. “She’s moving,” came the whisper. “How is that possible?” asked someone. No one replied. No one lied. Hiro tried to lift his left hand, prising it away from the girl to knock on the glass. Something was happening behind him and now he regretted turning his back on it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He did not understand what, but he knew it was not the usual train pervert they let slide and he wanted to help, somehow. He’d always been a responsible kid at elementary school, trying to break up fights and so on. The teacher’s had bullied that out of him at middle school. The conductor was standing with his back to Hiro. The conductor worked in a small two meter by one meter cubicle at the back of the train. He pressed the button to open and shut the doors at each station, and let the commuters know which station was next. Between stations he would signal to various telegraph poles as the driver would. Hiro had watched

them over the years, wondering how they knew which one to signal to and why they did it. He never asked, asking questions were bad. The screams multiplied behind him, getting louder by the second. People pushed into him, only him, the last man. He saw the girl trying to push back next to him. The other salaryman just took it like the apprentice sumo wrestler he had been as a child. As the conductor watched the high rise apartment blocks flash past Hiro slowly lifted his arm up to knock on the glass. As he lifted, and put his attention into the act, he saw the girl more clearly. She was tanned all over, and he knew she was in the athletics team; she wore her hair long and straight with purple streaks. There were matching streaks attached to her mobile phone as it dangled from her bag and she wore purple and black bracelets on both her wrists. She screwed her lips up as the mass of people pushed her against the glass. “What can you see?” he asked. Words came out of her amaranthine lips. Strings of syllables, sounds. “A… ku… ma.. no.” He freed his arm enough to put it against the glass. The crowd trapped him against the glass. He felt hot; sweat pouring down his face, leaving stains on the glass. The girl continued to mumble as she averted her eyes. The screams were fading in his mind now, but he heard every enunciated syllable, a.. ku… ma… no, over and over again. The devil’s work… He braced himself to knock on the window when the train hit the ramp-way to the elevated track. It rose for several stops above a city-hub on the Tokyo-Saitama border before dropping again later on. People fell. Panic erupted around him as people scrambled to get out of the way. Some jumped up onto the seats. Others furiously fought to get further back. Some smashed at the windows. He was about to ask what the hell was going on when something cold and sticky washed against his feet. He looked down

Carriage 7 Will Crowbourne

41

and saw blood running down the carriage, around his feet and under the conductor’s door. The screams were closer now. Hiro knocked on the door as hard as he could. The conductor did not turn, he just signalled to a telegraph pole. “They’re biting each other,” someone gasped. Hiro knocked a second time. “We’re trapped.” Some people are thick, he thought as he knocked a third time. “Break the glass.” “I can’t.” “Can you prise the doors open?” “They’re too close.” The carriage turned into total panic as the train levelled off and the blood stopped trickling between his legs. He grabbed at the door handle and tried to open it. Nothing. He placed his shoulder against it. Still it did not budge.

The train sped past a minor station; people looked at the last carriage with horror writ large across their faces. What did they see? “What’s happening?” he asked. People sobbed. People fought. He heard screams of pain, of anger, of quiet pleading acceptance. Many more just seemed to await their fate. Hiro thought of his quiet sleeping wife and banged the door as hard as he could. “Help us,” he shouted. “Stop the train.” Hiro felt each fight, each wave of resistance behind him and with each one people pushed backwards but there seemed to be less weight pressed against him. He hit the glass. Finally the conductor turned around. Instead of doing something to help the conductor just fell back in stunned silence into his chair. Hiro waved and shouted at the man. “Do something.” The guy just sat there, silent. Hiro did not get it. All he had to do was press a button or tell the driver to stop. He could

open the doors or let them into their cubicle. Something. With the conductor’s collapse went his last home. Before he could think of anything else something wet hit the back of his neck. He moved his hand there and touched the liquid. It came back covered in blood.

He froze, turning his eyes towards the school girl. Blood now splattered her uniform and skin as she stood eyeball to eyeball with a salaryman. The man’s eyes were now dull and lifeless, his teeth covered red. Blood seeped out of a rent in his neck. From somewhere the girl had produced a knife, a long switch blade. She held it pressed into the salaryman’s heart. He still reached for her with his bloodied fingers. Before Hiro could do anything to help her, the salaryman lunched at her face, her slow moving lips. Teeth touch Hiro’s neck.

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34

Dragon's Heart by Nicki J. Markus “In time beyond memory, our forefathers, the Tuatha Dé Danann, existed outside the walls of our city in a land of abundance and light. Then invaders came from across the vast oceans, bringing war and battle to our shores. They could not be subdued and our people were driven away from their ancestral homes into the farthest reaches of the land. Our clan, transporting Lia Fáil — the great stone, our most powerful magical symbol — retreated to the safety of a walled city protected by enchantments. Invisible to the eyes of the invaders, we have remained here undisturbed for centuries. Our magic has endured and the mystical forces of the land have kept their balance through the care of generations of Sidhe. Yet our survival is tainted by a bitter loss. Other clans refused to join us in our refuge, clinging to the old ways in the night-world of the forests, venturing out only when the sun had set and the invaders slept. There, in the darkness, they became corrupted by the evil of the Dearg-Dul, inheriting the eternal blood-lust. Once our kin, they now terrorise any of our people foolish enough to roam beyond the city walls at night fall. In this.... Laoise let the heavy cover of the book fall shut, the worn leather slipping easily from her fingers. A cloud of dust bellowed forth from the pages of parchment at the impact, making her cough as it crept into her nose and throat. With some effort, she tossed the ancient tome farther away from her in disgust and it landed towards the end of the bed, teetering for a moment before gravity won out and it dropped to the floor with a dull thud. She stretched out of her sitting position, extending her legs and lying back on the bed. Her head sunk into the soft down-filled pillow. She closed her eyes with a sigh, her mind racing. Barely five minutes of study and already she was bored and longing to be outside. She was training to become an Enchantress, not a Scholar, so she didn’t understand the need for these stodgy history books. What sort of title was Annals of our People anyway? She felt like she was back in the classroom again, and she had never liked it there the first time round. On reaching maturity five years ago, she had chosen to become an Enchantress, thinking it would be one of the more entertaining professions, but she just couldn’t seem to pass the stupid exams. She was now several years older than the rest of the novices and today the Old Enchantress had handed her that ridiculous history book, telling her that this year was her last chance to get it right. Laoise opened her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. The bright afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window slats played on the figures carved into the wooden beams and they seemed to move before her eyes. They looked down at her, smiling as they frolicked amongst the trees, beckoning for her to join them; an artist’s rendering of times long past. How she wished that she could have lived back then, roaming the woods and seeking out adventure, rather than being stuck inside a city that felt like a prison. I need to get out of here and clear my head. She swung her legs off the bed and pulled her long one-piece morning tunic dress over her head, tossing it in front of the door, where it lay like a sapphire puddle. Surveying the rest of her clothes, she dug out some outdoor wear: a pair of loose trousers and a matching tunic top; both in the deep green of oak leaves. She’d won them off a boy in a game of dare during her last year of studies. Luckily she had not grown too much in the intervening years and could still just about squeeze herself into them, though the legs and arms were a little on the short side these days. They were of a much coarser material than her novice garments and feminine day-tunics, but they were her favourite clothes since they gave her more freedom of movement. She rubbed a patch on one of the elbows. Each sign of repair was like a souvenir; each stain was a memory of previous exploits…”

Dragon’s Heart is available to purchase from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords, All Romance EBooks, Bookstrand and 1 Place for Romance. Alternatively buy straight from Omnilit: http://www.omnilit.com/product-dragon039sheart-513142-143.html

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"All her life, Laoise has longed for

adventure and daydreamed her days away. But the time for dreaming is

past. Deep in the bowels of the earth a

dragon wakes and the fate of her people and the entire world now rests

in Laoise’s hands. Can she and her guide, Bearach, complete their quest to the Underworld in time or will her first real adventure also be her last?"

Dragon’s Heart, Nicki J Markus

Nicki J Markus is 28 years old. Born in England, she now lives in Adelaide, South Australia with her fiancé. She has loved both reading and writing from a young age and is also a keen linguist, having studied several foreign languages. She has completed a BA (hons) English with French from the University of Greenwich, London and a PGDip in Translation from the University of the West of England, Bristol. Nicki J Markus launched her writing career in 2010. She writes a variety of non-fiction articles for Suite101.com and some of her fiction work has recently been published by Wicked Nights Publishing. In her spare time, Nicki J Markus also enjoys many other creative pursuits including music, theatre, photography, sketching and web-design. She also has a keen interest in history, folklore and mythology, pen-palling and travel.

http://www.nickijmarkus.org.uk

The Problem with Jane Burrows Mark Wollacott

53

Ronald McClaw liked to keep a tidy office. Problem was, his clientele possessed the propensity for moving this and that around it when he was not looking. Just like the dame dressed up in her best pearls and plunging neckline did as he rifled through his papers. He figured the jamboree between her chin and waist was designed to take his attention from her handsome face; for she had the squarest jaw he‟d seen on a woman since Some Like It Hot. While he appreciated Jane Burrows‟ thought in distracting him some, he never let it take him from his serious business. In his kind of work, momentary distractions could be the difference between a successful job and lying face down in a pig farm. “Ain‟t ya gonna find Lewis?” She gave her best bubble-gum smile as she ran her hands over his statuette. Best PD in the district it said, fake he knew, bought for a dollar twenty off a this and that stall down in Redondo Beach. “Sure.” McClaw was a private hire and knew his business. So what if he‟d not won an award in award-town? So what if none of the classy dames came to him with their problems or their husbands coming to start them? McClaw knew he was good at what he did and did what he was good at. He operated his office in a room above a bar, not much of a view, bit of the river if he creaked his neck, not that any sole worth his dimes would want to do that. Still, most of the day, when he weren‟t working or needed to ruminate, he could sit downstairs with a bottle of Salinger. Right then he was having some trouble with the contemplating. Not because of her plunges but because what she was asking him to do. They‟d been weirdoes, the kind of people with an obsession they wanted proving or disproving, then there were those who were just fantasizing and they needed allaying. Jane Burrows struck him as a kettle without fish. “Like I said Mister, I gotta find myself my husband‟s brother.” “Yeah, I got that part,” he chewed on his pencil. “Why don‟t you run the why part past me again? See if we missed anything.” She chose not to sit. Jane Burrows put her hands on the back of her chair and leant forward. She was the stereotypical blonde bombshell in distress with brunette hair and what looked like a Smith & Wesson 357 in her purse. She spoke fine and fair like the good girls of Savannah on the Tennessee where she grew up and he passed through a man. How she‟d come to be married to some businessman in boom town, he didn‟t know. “I came by the government railroad a week ago, fresh from visiting my folks. At one point, I don‟t know where this was; I raised my fist to my nose to sneeze. It was early in the morning and the sun was flickering through the trees as we rushed past, but I do remember seeing his face staring at me. He stared hard, as if I were some sort of creature who‟d just risen from the depths. He wore a neat suit and held a briefcase on his lap as he looked at me in some discomfort. I had it in my mind that he was fresh from a preparatory school and I was his first sighting of real womanhood. “I was sure I had never seen this man before, thinking maybe he got aboard at one of the night stations. But, as we were alighting at the station he did come up to me and introduce himself as Jonathan D. Ashmore, claiming to be a school friend of my husband‟s. It was then I wondered how he would know about me, but before I could ask my impertinent question he told me about the wedding. He gave such details that I could do nothing except believe him wholeheartedly. “Then he said the most peculiar of things to me. He said, „ma‟am, if you don‟t mind me saying, it‟s strange to see you like this, outside in the daylight.‟ Why? I wondered. He went on to say „I find it strange because, you do resemble your husband‟s younger brother, Lewis Burrows.‟ I was shocked, because I‟ll let you know, I have never set eyes upon Lewis Burrows before, not even a picture or photograph in my husband‟s study. Then he continued as if digging to China, „ma‟am, I would go as far to say you are slowly taking on the form of Lewis Burrows, about the face I mean.‟” “His exact words?”

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She nodded, turned and sauntered over to McClaw‟s sofa. She sat down making a great show of crossing, uncrossing and re-crossing her legs. “Not knowing what to do I took Mister Ashmore back to my house where my husband was recuperating after a long negotiation.” “Is your husband there now ma‟am?” She shook her head and he asked her to take him there. The Burrows‟ household struck McClaw as old money build and new money bought; the kind of place big earners liked to buy into to make it seem they made it. In his experience all they bought into was hype and vulgarity. He deduced they possessed not a bone of taste between them. She led him through to her husband‟s study. Outside a sprinkler sprayed a well-kept lawn and a profusion of roses. A line of trees shaded the study, giving it an unnatural darkness. He was struck by a single portrait of a square jawed man with greying temples, sitting above a bookcase. “Is this your husband ma‟am?” McClaw ventured. “No. Funny you should ask though. Mister Ashmore commented on this very same painting when he did come to visit my house. My husband was working on some papers in the study when we announced our arrival. Being my husband he did not have the politeness to come greet us, but grunted from his open door to come to him. And upon seeing this picture Mister Ashmore did squeal with delight and announce how much it did look like Lewis Burrows, only aged of course.” McClaw nodded and looked again at her husband‟s father‟s portrait. He saw the same squareness of jaw he saw in Jane. He made a note of it, but did not bring it to her attention. Ever since the pair of them stepped into the close study, she kept her eyes on the floor, as if not wanting to look at the portrait nor his reaction. Even though he possessed a face capable of hiding all emotions, he knew the eyes would not lie. “And what was your husband‟s reaction?” “He gave Mister Ashmore such a look of disgust I thought he would do violence against him. Only my protestations saved the situation and we quickly saw to it that Mister Ashmore knew how worn out his welcome was. Since that day my husband has done his paperwork on the banqueting room table. I do believe Mister Ashmore‟s words have disquietened him quite some, and that has made me want to meet his brother all the more.” “Ma‟am, I must ask, is it your husband‟s failure to inherit the family genes that obsess you so much or is it Ashmore‟s comments about your own features?” Jane Burrows heaved her rounded bosom and stepped out of the study with him in toe. After shutting the door, as if shutting out old man Burrows, she leaned against the frame. “His words, my husband‟s anger…” she suddenly seemed weary as if the warm southern husk of her being broke away and showed her inner self for a fragmentary moment. “I look at myself in the mirror more often than before. Not to set my make up or to hide my blemishes, but to examine my features. I want to know if I too look like him, if I too share my father in law‟s features.” McClaw nodded and reached for his hat on the stand. “Ma‟am, I‟ll do my utmost to find this Lewis Burrows for you. But, I may say, this is a most unusual case for me. But let me ask a question first. Have you had much occasion to meet your husband‟s father?” She shook her head. “He died before I moved here.” McClaw went to the door, nodding and making his farewells. As he stepped into the brilliant sunshine he turned for a final question. “Tell me, are your husband and you blessed with any children?” She shook her head and closed the door. “God has not bestowed his gift upon us yet.”

*

The Problem with Jane Burrows Mark Wollacott

55

McClaw drove and drove a while, going full-throttle towards the mountains and then west to Venice beach where he stopped and sat. He liked to watch the waves when he needed some alcohol-free contemplating. He could find Lewis Burrows; that was the easy part. But something about the case struck him as odd. If he were to find the younger brother and if he were to find his resemblance to the good Jane Burrows, then he would only be able to come to one conclusion. And, he figured, it was the same one she was thinking. “Don‟t do domestics, he said, and here I am doing a domestic,” he muttered as he lit a cigarette, flicking the match onto the pavement. “It‟ll get messy, the half-sister and all that, unless her husband‟s mother was playing away too, jeez.” For the sake of his own curiosity, McClaw decided to follow wherever the trail went, sending her a bill for the work. He hoped to find Lewis Burrows in Monte Carlo or some other fancy location and get himself out of seedy-town for a few days. If he didn‟t find him at all he‟d be all the happier; then he wouldn‟t have to lie. McClaw knew a guy he knew a guy who worked with the city council. He had access to all the records and could find anyone‟s official trail. So he finished his smoke and drove down to city hall. Perez kept a cluttered office and was the kind of guy who knew what was on every scrap of paper. It was organized clutter so he said. Perez was a short rotund guy out of Bolivia or something, far down south wherever it was. McClaw found him shuffling papers. He tapped the glass on the door and stepped inside. “Got another job?” Perez did not look up. “Why anyone would want to hire you I don‟t know. If they want to hire you they should know their wife is already doing the gardener or the tennis coach. They don‟t need you to tell them that.” McClaw shrugged. “This one does. How about I tell you over lunch?” As usual Perez did not take much persuading. The insults were just a way of getting the juicy details before giving in and doing the search. Bagels and coffee later and McClaw was helping himself to some cognac while Perez did the paper shuffle. By the time Perez came back McClaw was feeling nicely relaxed and focussed. “Here we are, but you ain‟t gonna like it.” “Why not?” Perez turned over a few pieces of paper to him. “Looks like your boy upped and disappeared when he was nineteen.” So Ashmore was lying. He didn‟t know Lewis Burrows much, not as he said to Jane. “Any ideas where?” “That would be your job. All I know is that he ain‟t here no more. Been paying no taxes, didn‟t die if that‟s what you mean and he certainly has not made any claims, rented any properties or renewed his vehicle license.” Well, that did him a lot of good. He sighed with relief. A dead end on a case like this was a blessing in disguise. Everyone could go home happy. She weren‟t married to her half-brother and he wouldn‟t have to be the one to break it. “However,” Perez lifted up a black and white photograph. “I have got a picture for you. How much does he look like your Jane Burrows?” A lot, so much so McClaw knew he could not drop the case with all good conscience. He needed to speak to some other contacts in the city. “Let me know how it goes,” said Perez. “Pay me,” he left. An hour later and McClaw kept his engine idling outside a town house on Crenshaw Boulevard. He waited, tapping the steering wheel and working his way through his smokes. Just in case he had his colt between him and the back of the seat, ready for a left hand draw. He knew if he waited long enough, Bobby Mendoza would make his excuses with his gambling pals and come outside.

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He didn‟t disappoint. Mendoza was the kind of guy who led a lifestyle that would kill most men, but he showed little sign of wear and tear. He ambled out in a bathrobe of sorts and got in through the passenger side door. “What you idling outside my house for? Don‟t you know I‟ve got a game on?” “You‟ve always got a game on Bobby and I ain‟t got time to wait for the split second you ain‟t got one on so you can take a crap or nuke a pizza.” McClaw fished out Perez‟ photo of Lewis Burrows. He‟d been studying it some while waiting for Mendoza. The more he looked at it the more he saw Jane morphing into this guy like a possession from the Twilight Zone. “Yeah, I knew him. Going back some,” Mendoza scratched his tanned chin. “What you want him for?” “Just a bit of business, you know.” “Some dame got herself knocked up, eh? Well, I‟ve got to say I‟m surprised to see him here again. The Burrows are old money you see. Their old man, Fraser Burrows Junior, he hated being called Junior, was blue blood from New England. He moved down here when the movie business in New York tanked. Figured he could make some good money here, and he was right. Thing is, his two sons were, how should we say, of different opinions on how to follow in their pa‟s footsteps. “One, Lewis, looked the spitting image of his old man, but he inherited none of the sense, you see. He liked to gamble, big time, played in a lot of games. I never met the guy but we all knew of him, mutual gamers, you know? Now, he loved his brother, cos his brother looked after him. Settled all his disputes. But there was one he could not settle. The guy was around twenty, jeez, a long time ago, maybe I don‟t look it, but I sure as hell feel it. Anyways, there was this big game up on Mulholland. Lewis Burrows loses big, real big and his brother can‟t bail him out. So we here there‟s a bounty on his head cos the guy he just dicked around is not the kind of guy, you do. You hear me? So, it‟s a good thing you‟ve got that colt pressed behind your back, you‟re gonna need it if too many people know you‟re after Lewis Burrows.” “So, what happened to him?” “Took off east I heard. Not like anyone can go any further west unless he‟s on the Channel Islands. Nah, I heard he went east and never came back. We finished?” McClaw shook his head. He had leverage over Mendoza, something to do with an old case. He realized there was more potential in not shopping the douche-bag, so he pretended to muck up the case and kept Mendoza on an information leash. “So, you say the brothers were close?” “Yeah, so I heard. The older one looked nothing like his father, but instead of hating his brother for it, he loved him. Don‟t ask me why, but he got all protective, as if…” “If he could please Lewis, it would be as good as pleasing his dead father.” “Yeah, something like that. But, he‟s long gone, probably got himself lynched somewhere for losing a game. Try New Orleans or something.” McClaw had a feeling the answer to his case was a lot closer to home, but first he needed to find one last person. Elizabeth Upton was an old socialite from the glamour days, one of those types who floated above the seedier side of the town and she never let McClaw forget which side he was from. Still, she entertained him with an old sort of dedication and politeness; she was, after all, a former client who knew a thing or two about those circles McClaw would never circulate in. The kid of circles that came naturally to Fraser Burrows Junior and his eldest son. He struggled to hold the dainty china set teacup as Ms Upton gave him the lowdown on what he did not need to know. McClaw, however, knew he must always let her finish before turning matters of his own business. Outside the sun was beginning to set, sending long shadows across Upton‟s lawn. In the distance the city‟s lights were coming on and the other side was waking up. “Now,” she settled her teacup on its saucer without spilling a drop. “What is your concern today dear?” McClaw cleared his throat and kept hold of the cup to keep hold of himself.

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“I was wondering if you knew much of the Burrows family?” “Which one? There are many.” “Of course, of Fraser Burrows Junior and his kith.” Ms Upton sighed and patted his hand. “It‟s a terrible business, the young Burrows and all. I knew Fraser quite well, he was of, how to say, class. The very virtues that passed you by. Of course dear, it is not your fault, because even the well-born can miss out on them. By that I mean his second son, one of the accursed children of wealth. I did not take kindly to Lewis Burrows at all and was not surprised when he was forced to flee the city. I hope you are not trying to find him.” McClaw looked at her, he was certain she knew something he did not. In fact, he was certain she always did. “Tell me about Fraser, was he known to socialise with women?” “I know your meaning and there‟s no need to try to be civilized just for me. Of course he socialised but he never strayed. His wife died when birthing young Lewis, but Fraser stayed faithful to her until his own death. To my knowledge, he never once slept with another woman, or man for that matter.” Once outside McClaw found a public phone and dialled Jane Burrows‟ number. He asked her to meet him at his office. After three conversations he was certain he‟d solved the case. He found Jane Burrows wrapped in a fur coat when he arrived. All dolled up and impatient. He let himself in and made an elaborate pretence of hanging his coat and hat up. As he did, he slipped the photo of a young Lewis Burrows out of his pocket. He looked at the dame and then back at the photo. It sealed it for him. “Well, did you find him?” “Yes.” “Then tell me, I must know if I am doomed to change into him.” “First, tell me ma‟am, do you recall much of your childhood? I passed through Savannah and much of Tennessee myself during my younger years.” A look of impatience fell across her face as he asked, but after crossing her arms she answered. “Well, to be honest Mister McClaw, I do not recall too much of it. You see, I had this terrible accident in my early twenties and from there; it is all kinds of a blur. Now, are you going to tell me how I can find this Lewis Burrows? I have become more afraid that I am slowly turning into him.” McClaw opened his draw and pulled out a bottle of brandy. He unscrewed the cap and held it out to her. “How about a drink?”

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EMILY BURNS

http://oldseventycreekpress.books.officeliv

e.com/Emily.aspx

Emily Burns is a Kentucky poet with a

unique voice. Her interests include: writing

poetry, living history, sewing, camping,

volunteering at local historic sites and

finding adventure. Emily has a B.A. from

the University of Kentucky but only

recently discovered her voice. She has one

children's book to her credit, "The

Children's Civil War Alphabet Book"

available from Amazon. She collaborated

with two stunning female poets for an

anthology entitled "The Kaleidoscope

Chronicles". Old Seventy Creek Press

recently published her poetry as part of

their 2010 poetry series. "Dalliance" is

playful and insightful. Read it to discover

this poet from Richmond, Kentucky...

The Full version can be bought online at:

http://www.createbook.org/magazine/current-issue/

The full edition of Wulfstan’s Literary Tumble includes the following stories,

poems and features. Here is a sneak preview:

Stories

2057 by Stephen Ferre.

“Survival of the fittest,” I coughed, echoing a

sandwich board as I passed. President Gates had

delivered his inspirational fourth State of the Union

Address last night. I’d had to read it on the big

screen on the NewsVixen building on the way home,

since I couldn’t afford a plasma.

Almost by Jack Goodwin

The Hunger was always the first thing that woke him up, although this night

it was more urgent than ever; prodding and poking at Crane’s mind

painfully until he reached a state vaguely resembling consciousness. His

eyelids were heavy and painful, refusing to obey him as if lead weights were

holding them down. Eventually he could open his eyes enough to take in his

surroundings, not that that helped much as all he could see was darkness.

Carriage 7 by Will Crowbourne

They stood squeezed together like human cargo. They were bound for Tokyo

for another day of work liked bubble-wrapped robots. He could smell sweat,

perfume, traces of alcohol and nicotine, fresh washed linen and manga

magazines. He could see little except the tall back of a suit ahead of him,

another to the site and a school girl to his right, over her head he saw a man

in overalls. This was his morning commute.

Sam by Rebecca Mayglothling

I remember sitting at the window, looking at the flowers. They were pink.

What had Sam called them? Magnolias? I’m not sure. I just know he loved

them. And he loved me. He loved everything about his life. I can’t stop

thinking about him.

The Problem with Jane Burrows by Mark Wollacott

Ronald McClaw liked to keep a tidy office. Problem was, his clientele

possessed the propensity for moving this and that around it when he was not

looking. Just like the dame dressed up in her best pearls and plunging

neckline did as he rifled through his papers.

Poems

Gems by Kiersty Boon

“I have a wall of velvet boxes…”

How easily you overlook the 1st of march in croyde by Ebby Easby

“there’s a blackbird in the ghost-tree…”

Riding Dreams by Emily Burns

“It’s something about dreams I can’t remember”

Features

Written in Blood

There are many ways in which a society defines itself as

being civilized or not. There are things that should not

happen and one of those is the glorification of

murderers.

JD Salinger’s Letters

JD SALINGER had a reputation as being one of the world’s most famous

literary recluses, if not the most famous of our age. However, a treasure

trove of letters to a British friend shed new light on his life and his years as a

recluse. It turns out; he was not as reclusive as we first thought.

Stieg Larsson’s Lost Manuscript

Five years on and the stalemate between Stieg Larsson’s family and the love

of his life, Eva Gabrielsson continues. Some may call it “The Girl with the

Greedy Pseudo-in-Laws” or “The Girl with the Manuscripts,” but behind the

furore lie two important questions.

The Misuse of Trolls: The Rise to Superstardom of Robert Stanek

For those who cannot one of the old publishing houses to publish their

works, there are a few options. Give up, revise and try again, or make the

book yourself. People do not always make the right decision.

Nabokov’s Butterflies

Imagine if ye may, H.G. Wells’ time machine. Imagine it

sitting outside your window. It is waiting for you to

come outside and make use of it. For, as Well himself

said, if time is the fourth dimension of space, and if man

can travel space, why then can he not travel in time?

Reviews

Paul, Fernando Botero, Black Swan, The Harbour (John Ajvide Lindqvist),

After the Quake (Haruki Murakami), Vibrator (Mari Akasaka), UFO in her

Eyes (Xiaolu Guo), High Fidelity (book and movie), Piercing (Murakami Ryu),

Orozco’s Box,

58

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PLUS The results of our first POETRY COMPETITION Poetry from Nick Moore and others. The second part of Jack Goodwin’s Almost series. More short stories More reviews including Karie Meltzer’s debut for the magazine. Kerepesi Cemetery: the art of representing the war dead. A Fantasy Epic: Steven Erikson completes his series. Therese Raquin vs. Thirst Your Views Your Reviews The world’s news

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