 
## Liphar Magazine Issue 3

LitArtMagazine

Copyright 2014 Liphar

Spangaloo –Smashwords Edition

Visit is to see the Online edition as well as to make comments.

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Contents

Editorial

Credits

### Interviews

Wojciech Toman

Joyce Dickens

Carolyn Roper

Articles

PostNet Fiction

Criterion Of Beauty

Scrazzle It?

Though Food

Stories

A Game of Cards

Maladjusted

Moo

Trains By The River

Editorial

### At my Desk...

Your continued support as readers to the magazine is nothing short of fantastic. We at Liphar would like to thank you for your support and feedback.

Nowadays, it is a competitive market in the world of Social Media, where Twitter with its 645,750,000 plus members is ideal for micro-blogging. However, have you been a victim of their extensive rules that seemed to change daily? Often without reason, your account has been suspended. And getting a correct response to a question is near impossible as you are just a number! You receive responses that have little, or nothing to do with the situation. Therefore, do they really care about you?

Take heart there is an alternative! A new revolution of social media is now available.

A refreshing and exciting option to micro-blogging is now conducting beta testing. Scrazzle http://is.gd/YfA5Dc as it's called has much to offer. This common sense approach to micro- blogging eases the aggravation and replaces back the fun. The site interface, icons and terminologies create a lively combination that is easy to follow.

Let's explore the differences...

Twitter: Tweets - 140 characters including links and images.

Scrazzle: Tweets - 300 characters, not including links.

Twitter: Direct Messages - 140 characters with limited links.

Scrazzle: Direct Messages - 3000 characters with unlimited links.

Twitter: Profile - 160 characters to describe yourself.

Scrazzle: Profile - 600 characters to describe yourself.

Just these figures alone would excite any social media fan whom wants to share their thoughts with friends, family and the universe.

But wait, there's more...

Scrazzle offers: No limit on following, without trying to stay within limits. Very few rules that are easy to follow. Moreover and most importantly, support answers to questions will be attended to within a few hours.

With the plethora of individuals that have voiced their opinion and thoroughly fed up with Twitter, but feel they have nowhere to go...there is a choice. Is Scrazzle the new Twitter?

Credits

**Editor:** Deuce Wylde

Staff Writers

*John Laval

*James Blanchette

*Theo Jansen

*Alvin Johnston

*Wilbur Hollinger

Guest Columnists

Lyra Brenyl

Christian Fennell

Contributors:

Shaun Matthew Carter

Neil Randall

Eden Langlands

Steven W. Wise

James Bryron Love

**Cover Image** :

From an Original Photo by

Murray Coleman

http://murraycolemanimages.com

PostNet Fiction. Where is it? I Want it - I Wanna Eat it.

By: Christian Fennell

That's how hungry I am for it. It is—so help me out.

And there is, is there not, a direct line of literary thought from Melville to Faulkner to McCarthy? Consider this: "His moral conscience is the curse he had to accept from the gods in order to gain from them the right to dream." – Faulkner.

And they did, they dragged us—pushed and kicked us into this age of the 'net', and what? Where are we now? And who is there among us and where are they and what is the current state of literary fiction today?

Genre fiction thrives, advances, populated by established writers and emerging writers in the near millions. Literally.

And literary fiction? Maybe not so much.

Why—what the hell is going on and how did literary fiction become so marginalized? Where the fuck is the next McCarthy, Morrison, Márquezis? Or are they out there, and I'm just not seeing it? And if so, great. Wonderful. Let me know. Reach out and point the way—email, tweet me, fb me, or whatever me, I just wanna know.

I want names.

I read literary magazines, the latest releases and what do I see in the current world of literary fiction? Mostly this: endless fictionalized accounts of personal triumph over some societal miss-function, some ill-willed slander, some wrong wrought down on some poor bastard the root of which is all society's doing – and too fucking bad, and all of it personalized with 'close' internalized first person accounts or some 'deep' third reporting of all of that and really, enough—okay? Please, stop. Does it help if I say please? I hope so because literary fiction is seriously off the rails and we need to right again this once powerful and beautiful voice of real discovery and language. Why? Because it is the way, and it always has been, and that is where they were taking us. But not anymore. Why?

McCarthy: "The universe is no narrow thing and the order within it is not constrained by any latitude in its conception to repeat what exists in one part in any other part. Even in this world more things exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. For existence has its own order and that no man's mind can compass, that mind itself being but a fact among others." Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy

Perhaps we just stopped listening? But I don't think so.

I think another 'collective' voice grew in its place, grew louder and stronger, slowly eating through the thread of thought that we still see there, waiting, unable to reach and touch and not because we can't—no, not at all; it's just a case, I believe, that our faith in ourselves has been eroded—the church, I'm afraid, is emptying. Sad, isn't it. And what about you? Do ya care? Probably you don't, but oh well, you know, because it matters. It does.

And what 'collective' voice are we talkin about? Well, I think, mostly, despite all the brilliant elements of distribution and shared knowledge and social implications the 'net' brings to us, there are obvious downsides, one of those being shared thought of untruths on a wide reach that can then become known and accepted truths based upon sheer numbers and repetition—the loudest voice wins. Rules and laws and rights and wrongs, you can and you can't, that circulate and settle like a fine dust of collective insecurity seeking a common denominator of doubt and uncertainty.

And yet this world is a small world. The next great ones are out there, working through this settling dust of huddled insecurity right now. I can feel it.

Over the last year or so I have scrutinized the many fine writing sites, popping on and off, sometimes staying and exploring, listening and commenting, writing and critiquing, and this is what I have mostly found: endless forum discussions among writers of rules that bind and hinder and define narrow approaches that do not push or free the writer (show don't tell - lol).

So in other words, just fucking get it and be brave and let others know you get it. Be writers. And remember this: "Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him." - Faulkner.Article 2

### A Game of Cards

**By Shaun Matthew Carter**

In the rising orange-pink glow of dawn, two ghosts sat at a square granite table, facing one another.

'Another night of mind-boggling tedium passes, dear husband.' The speaker's long, ethereal hair blew steadily against the morning zephyr. 'I am starting to think this ghost business isn't all you made it out to be.'

The male ghost grunted. He kept his head lowered and his eyes focused on his playing cards.

Dawn slowly drifted towards morning, the sounds of humanity below rising.

'Not one child in over a month. What sort of life is this? Spooks, you said. We could be evil, you said. Frighten little sprites, you said!'

The male ghost remained motionless, his features lined and his forearms scarred. Sometimes vague recollections of his past visited him, and he would remember battles. The iron clanging of swords, the 'clack!' of axe hafts bashing against shields, and the steady thrumming of crossbow bolt volleys pounding into rank upon rank of shields and flesh. The tearing sounds of flesh. Gods, he had hated that sound. He did not miss life one bit. Death, however, was slowly turning sour, too. He lifted his head, studied the translucent form of his wife. Why did you have to come with me, you obsessive hag?

'A real home, you said,' she kept going, trying to irritate him. 'A real life!' she whined. Blah blah blah. Like a bleating old sheep. Bleated. I like that word. If any children enter the tower grounds, I'll ask her to bleat at them. See how scary a bleating old woman ghost can be. Aye. Anything for her to piss off.

'It's your go, love,' he said.

The pallid blue form of his wife did not speak, did not move. For once, she was silent. A thin, gauzy smoke seemed to outline her shape. The old ghost raised his eyebrows. Talked yourself to a second death? Maybe he would have peace after—

Hayel grunted. 'Geez, poor bastard.'

'Mmm.'

Hayel moved around the square table. On it were two pewter cups, both empty as far as he could tell. Stains of wine left blood red marks on the table's granite surface. In between the two ghosts which he had cast a freeze spell upon, a dozen playing cards lay in confusing angles and patterns. The cards appeared to be made of a lacquered wood.

He reached the balcony of the tower where his companion leant forward, elbows on the merlon. 'Are we in time, Tharsu?' Hayel asked.

Tharsu grunted. 'Looks like it.' A heavy ringing noise sounded across the way, and Hayel looked up. The sounds of bells pealing within Dillany's central cathedral scoured Executioner's Row, the huge, densely populated courtyard almost two hundred feet beneath them. At the bells' cessation, Tharsu added, 'Yes.'

Like ants, the masses of the city moved back and forth, squeezing around and beyond one another in their quests to reach the wooden stalls and kiosks at the edges of the enormous block of humanity. Hawkers, chefs, merchants and sommeliers would make a killing today, selling their wares. So long, Hayel supposed, as they have bodyguards to prevent looting. North of their current position in the tower, cordoned by a detachment of Dillanese heavy infantry armed with weapons which Hayel could only discern by the gleaming metallic shines cast by the rising sun, was the Row. The large wooden dais, with steps rising up both sides and a trapdoor bunker behind it, where the prisoners will emerge, was occupied solely by a figure pacing back and forth. Attired in dark green robes almost from head to toe. Only her black hair and olive-skinned face prevented her from being a manifestation of the colour itself.

'Emerald,' Tharsu said.

Hayel nodded, resting his own arms on the tower balcony's merlon. 'Do you think the Empress will be in attendance?'

'No need,' eyes still fixed on Emerald, the Imperial High Mage, who continued pacing the length of the dais, Tharsu added, 'Emerald's the Empire's plenipotentiary. The Empress might not even be in Dillany at this moment.'

Hayel grunted. Tharsu Necar was seldom so loquacious. Looking behind, he saw the ghosts still frozen in place. The mauve smoke — residue of his spell — still outlined both of them wholly. A pulsating glow caught his attention on the table. Moving closer, he descried one of the lacquered cards, with a figure dressed all in green, flames seeming to flicker in the background, darkening around the edges of the wood before glowing the emerald green of the figure's robes. Hayel shielded his eyes. This card...it must be the High Mage. Why the fire? And what are these ghosts playing at? A roaring noise caught his attention. The crowd. The prisoners are being brought out. He looked back towards Tharsu. A High Mage in his own right, albeit he considers himself an outsider, an itinerant, probably even a mercenary, Tharsu now stood with his arms spread apart. Before Hayel could think to join him, Tharsu's arms moved in again, stretching forwards, and a jolting crack of energy blasted from his limbs, flying arrow-like, Hayel knew, straight towards the dais. The show has started.

Hayel grasped Tharsu as he slumped against the side of the merlon, blood pouring from his nose. Hayel offered the pale mage a handkerchief, which Tharsu accepted with a scarred hand. Blood dripped slowly from the man's pointed ears; he looked terrible. Neither of them interrupted the tower's silence. Hayel checked towards the table. No cards seemed to emit a glow. What does that tell me?

After a time, when the blood had ceased its flow from Tharsu's nose, he croaked, 'Ow.'

'Emerald?' Hayel asked.

'Wouldn't make sense.' Hayel watched his friend take a breath — an action which seemed taxing on the mage. He drew a leather flask from his jacket, offered it to Tharsu. As his injured friend drank, Hayel brushed the man's long, greasy black hair out of his eyes. Those eyes — a febrile green — were bloodshot and seemed exhausted.

'Because?' Hayel ventured.

'She knew we were coming, didn't she? She requested our help.'

'Your help.'

The barest grin almost lined Tharsu's lips as he said, 'I didn't want to insult you, friend.'

'You might be a more powerful mage but you're fucking hopeless at taking care of yourself, Tharsu Necar. Remember that.' Hayel stood. The dais was now alive with activity. Three prisoners, naked, were nailed to huge crosses. Guards holding what might be crossbows were arrayed in two ranks on the dais; Emerald was still pacing. 'I hate crucifixions,' he said. A man dressed all in black, leaning on his shoulder a huge weapon which reflected rays of sunlight towards the tower, waited at one side of the dais. An executioner, just in case things get ugly.

'If the necromancer commits himself, his children will be spared, that was what Emerald said.'

'His children...the prisoners. Are they conjurers too?'

Hayel winced at Tharsu's wet cough. 'Each has committed crimes against the Empire,' Tharsu said.

'What was the payment?'

'What?'

'When Emerald inveigled you to help her. What did she offer?'

'Let's discuss that later. What's happening?'

Hayel barely heard that question. On the dais, another figure had appeared, clothes a polychromatic hotchpotch. Arms flailing, the figure aimed his arms towards the prisoners on their crosses. Is this him? A wooden 'clack!' drew his gaze around. On the granite table, one of the cards had shattered. Fragments of wood festooned the other cards. Thin splinters were snatched up by the wind. Hayel crossed to the table in a run. The biggest piece of the shattered card had a drawing of a wooden cross rendered in a very rough-looking format. Slashes of crimson were painted on the card. He gathered up the rest of the cards, and crossed back to the merlon.

'Oh shit,' he said. He shook his head in attempt to push his hair out of his eyes. 'Tharsu...'

The injured mage stood; blood stained his dark blue robes in crusted black splotches.

'That's him.'

'Tharsu, look at these,' Hayel held the cards up, 'this one must be Emerald.' A fizzing, crackling noise drew their attention back down towards the dais. Energies of a magical sort were lashing back and forth between the man in variegated clothing and the Imperial High Mage. Waves of black and green crashed together, sizzling residue bouncing away in thick sparks which flew towards the crowd. Terrified screaming sounded below. People were pushing one another to get away. The heavy infantry were motionless, no longer having to protect the dais from the crowd — who wanted as far away as they could. If the soldiers tried to intervene, they'd be incinerated, Hayel knew. Emerald has ordered them not to step in. A pulverized battalion of veterans is the last thing this day needs to be remembered for. The Empire's borders are under interminable pressure as it is.

Azure lightning flashed at his side. Tharsu, eyes rolled back and arms outstretched, screamed in pain; his arms visibly shivered; a palpable stench of sorcery shimmered and burned on the balcony. Hayel's gaze darted between his friend and the wooden dais. The three crosses had been toppled in the blasts. He cared naught for his offspring. This bastard needs to be silenced. Hayel glared at the wooden cards in his hands, scanning through them. In one, he saw a thin, bearded and dark-haired man, blood streaming down his face. Tharsu. Miasmas of...Hayel supposed...magical energy obscured Tharsu's surroundings within the card. He placed this card and Emerald's on the rough, micaceous surface of the merlon. Scanning through the cards, dropping ones he considered unnecessary or did not recognize — and just who the hell are these ghosts up here, with such cards as these, anyway? — he came across the necromancer's card. Ridiculous varicoloured clothing, an agomphious grin and a half dozen risen skeletons stood close behind. They sported weapons of all kinds — bronze hatchets, iron swords and maces; one even carried a bone-studded spear. He's summoning long dead warriors, where from? Hayel looked back towards the dais where, right on cue, bleach-hued skeletons were moving slowly towards Emerald, who appeared to be buckling under the advances of the necromancer's attacks. The executioner, huge axe in hand, charged the skeletons, smashing one into a mound of fragmented bone before sacrificing his position too early. Hayel could only grimace as, even from this distance, he saw the weapons slice and hack the executioner to pieces. In the courtyard, more skeletons were breaking through the ground, rising slowly. The heavy infantry legion moved forward at a deliberate slowness, stabbing downwards and decapitating bone warriors as they went.

At Hayel's side, Tharsu slumped against the merlon again, blood covering his face.

'You need to rest,' Hayel said. Below, shouts, screams and the fizzling crackle of magic were a cacophony, and Hayel knew the crescendo was getting damn close. And this man slumped before me isn't fit to do anything about it.

'I...almost had him. One more effort.'

Pushing Tharsu back into a sitting position, Hayel stood. Tharsu's lacquered card was all but a murky shade of black. Atramentous clouds seeming to close in on his body. Hayel tossed the card to his companion, who stared at it. 'These ghosts,' Hayel began, 'they're diviners of some sort. Man and wife. Wizard and witch. One of them must be able to see the future.'

'Divination only tells half the story. This card seems to think I'm dead, Hayel.'

'Then you're out of the game, Tharsu.' He reached up for Emerald's card. Her green attire was denuded. The corners of the card bled black ink. 'Emerald's robes are invested with sorcery. Did you know this?'

A cough. 'I invested them.'

'Huh. Well, the wards all over her massacred robes are all that keep her in the contest below.''Hayel...'

'Yes?'

Tharsu tried to stand, failed. His arms fell limp as he spat blood to the side. 'Divination is half the story. Why do you think you were able to stun the ghosts?'

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Shit.

'They don't know I exist.'

Tharsu grunted affirmation. 'Nor does the necromancer. He's weakened. You're no battle mage, but you might yet alter events. He gestured and a card flew into his hand. He offered it to Hayel. 'You.'

Hayel regarded the man in the card. Grey robes. Short, messy hair, icy blue eyes. Are my eyes that blue, really? In the figure's hand, a small, orange orb which Hayel recognized.

'Me. Okay. What about payment?'

'Emerald granted us freedom of the Imperial Archives.'

'By the gods!'

'Hayel, concentrate.'

'Hang on a second. If you knew I'd be needed, why did you take all this damage?'

'To defy divination. Clearly I'll have to try that another day. Now, concentrate.'

'Okay, okay.' Hayel closed his eyes, pictured the orange orb in the card. Holding out his free hand, he envisaged the orange glow of sunlight shrinking, manifesting itself into a ball of power. In his mind's eye, he shaped that ball, then thrust his hand outwards, and he felt scorching heat, even as, opening his eyes, he saw fire engulf the necromancer.

Later that evening, with the female ghost downstairs, her howls and cries echoing through the tower, followed by children screaming, the male ghost smiled, and relaxed his feet on the table.

It was a shame, he concluded, that many of his cards were ruined. Nevertheless, his wife's bleating down below was an amusing sound indeed.

### Behind the lens...

### An Interview with Landscape

### Photographer Wojciech Toman

With Deuce Wylde

I'm going for perfection...

so probably I'll never reach it!

Hi Wojciech thanks for doing this interview.

Liphar: Can you tell us a little about yourself and your history?

WT: My name is Wojciech Toman and I'm a 27-year-old landscape and HDR (High Dynamic Range) photographer from Warsaw, Poland. For a few years now, I have been writing a photography blog on which I not only share my photos, but also give some tips: http://hdrphotographer.blogspot.com/ I'm also a software developer currently employed by HDRsoft Company, which created Photomatix Pro - a HDR software program.

Liphar: What initially interested you into photography?

WT: There wasn't anything in particular. For many years, I owned a simple point & click film camera. Then I switched to Canon 400D DSLR in 2008. For first few years, I just snapped some occasional photos with it, but with each trip I took more and more pictures and at some point decided to learn what terms like aperture and ISO mean to better understand what I'm doing... and before I realized I became obsessed with photography.

Liphar: What genre of photography are you most interested in?

WT: Landscape photography – I just love portraying the beauty of nature.

Liphar: What is the influence of digital technology on your photography?

WT: In fact, it was digital technology that really made me interested in photography because the freedom it gives me is virtually unlimited. I can easily create images that I have in mind.

Liphar: What's your view on HDR and does it have a place in traditional photography?

WT: I just love HDR! For me it's more realistic than 'traditional' photography because it allows me to create images with dynamic range that is closer to reality. Traditional cameras can't capture the complete dynamic range of a scene and that makes it very difficult to capture many scenes correctly, for example...sunsets. The problem is that many people relate HDR photography with oversaturated images, but when it's used in a right way, it can create very natural looking images with a very nice balanced exposure.

Liphar: Can you describe what your post-process workflow is like and the tools used?

WT: My post-process workflow differs depending whether I create HDR image or 'traditional' photo, but I'll focus on the first. I usually load my bracketed exposures in Photomatix Pro 5 where I use Details Enhancer, Contrast Optimizer or Fusion/Real-Estate method. Most of the time in Photomatix, I create low contrast and low saturated image – in this step I focus on preserving details in highlights and shadows – not on colours! Then I load my tone-mapped image into Photoshop where I use luminosity masks technique to boost contrast, clarity and colours.

Liphar: On the topic of gear: do you think it matters when trying to make that great image?

WT: Definitely! Of course you can take great pictures with low quality gear (even with your smartphone), but good gear makes it so much easier. For instance, when shooting moving objects using my Canon 5D MK III I end up with in-focus photos most of the time. However, with my backup DSLR (Canon 50D) it's not always the case – many of the photos are out of focus in such case. Good gear makes it possible to focus more on taking the image than on getting around various limitations of camera or lens.

Liphar: Which is your favourite lens? Why?

WT: I have 2 favourite lenses in fact. The first one is Canon 24-105mm f/4 L – I love it because it's very versatile, I can shoot both landscape and portrait with it. If I'm taking only a single lens with me (and I sometimes do this if I want to travel ultra-light) – it's usually the one I grab. Also the image quality is very good. The other lens I really like is the Canon 24mm f/1.4 II L. It's my favourite lens for landscape photography because images are so sharp! And it's very fast so it's excellent for night landscape photography. BTW, as you can see both lenses are 24mm – which is my favourite focal length.

Liphar: What's your useable-to-unusable ratio when you review images from a shoot?

WT: It really depends on the shoot. There are cases (like some gorgeous sunsets) where almost all images are useable. However, I would say that on average it's something like 4:1.

Liphar: What goal are you working towards within your photography and when will you know you have reached it?

WT: I'm going for perfection...so probably I'll never reach it 

Liphar: What is your general photographic philosophy?

WT: This might sound trivial, but it's to capture beauty of a moment and share this beauty with others.

Liphar: What kind of feelings do you want to channel to people that are viewing your images?

WT: I simply want to show them how beautiful the world is. I want to make them want to go outside and enjoy beauty of nature.

Liphar: Is there any amusing story about an image that you would like to share?

WT: I'm not really a good storyteller I'm afraid. However, just recently I was taking some sunset photos on a crowded beach in Mexico. I set up my tripod in such a way that I had some nice rocks in foreground. During the shoot, every few minutes someone approached me, examined the rocks closely and then asked what I'm shooting. When I answered that I was shooting sunset with rocks in the foreground everyone seemed so confused! They just couldn't understand what the purpose was :) Almost everyone thought that I was shooting some tiny creatures living between the rocks.

Liphar: What advice do you have for photography enthusiasts looking to go professional?

WT: Just do what you love. Be passionate about photography and simply pursue your dream. Going professional can kill your passion, so be sure to care about it.

Liphar: Can you share three images and tell us a little about each?

The first one was taken on one winter night in Tatra mountains, Poland. There was very little available light so I had to use a bit longer exposures and fast aperture. In addition, lights in the valley were much brighter than the rest of the scene so I had to bracket to avoid blowing them out.

 Sunset is Rome is one of my favourite images. I took it at the beginning of my photography journey, but I still somehow like it. It was beautiful golden hour over Tiber River in Rome, where the dynamic range was quite wide, so once again I bracketed in this case.

The final image is not landscape photo to show that I'm capable of taking different images as well :) It was taken during ancient Mayan dance show in Xcaret Park in Mexico. The man in the middle was standing still with dancers going crazy around him. I thought it's a great opportunity to capture a long exposure photo, which will be very dynamic and somewhat crazy.

Liphar: What's in the bag?

WT: Canon 5D MK III, Canon 50D (back-up DSLR) and a Sony NEX-6 with a bunch of lenses, a lot of filters, a few tripods, monopod and some flash units.

Thank you Wojciech for your insights and expertise with HDR photography!

Find more of Wojciech's work at

<http://hdrphotographer.blogspot.com/>

Criterion Of Beauty

by Lyra Brenyl

People from all walks of life has its own tastes when it comes to their judgement of beauty and art; be it in paintings, photographs, sketches, music, architecture, film and literature, almost being a part of our everyday lives. Art- being said that it comprises beauty and pleasure has its own share of downsides too, -criticisms. Most criticisms are meant to be done constructively, or shall we call it constructive criticism. Thus, its interpretations can be both judged by personal opinions or be developed from a high degree of tastes. It has been categorized as either Subjective or Objective; making it a familiar problem discussed widely in fields of humanities and aesthetics. Does subjectivity holds more value than that of an objective one? How can such art be called beautiful and pleasurable? Which of which should be called real beauty?

All viewers have different standards of taste. The most popular and most accepted was the subjective form of art, a work of a genius that inspires the artist to show his hidden face through his works. These are works influenced by personal feelings, tastes, experiences, states and opinions. It is more dependent on an individual's perception of beauty for its innate existence. It is something the senses could easily judge, that of which is easily appreciated. A theory that describes to an individual thinking which is always subject to sensations, attributes, and emotions.

A subjective judgment asserts that all ideas and criticisms starts with their sense data which is often called "egocentric predicament", something that is affirmed or denied concerning an argument of a certain subject, wherein the thinking disregards what others think or feel; in such case there is no escape. It has always been a solipsist's point of view, since such feelings can only be known to oneself. However, it admits an inferential knowledge of other minds, thus it holds value private and relative knowledge. This form of art has always made its way to mainstream media, the pop culture of comical or dramatic film, trance rhythmic and love songs. The mentioned themes had always been a popular choice because of matters people see themselves or people relate to it because of personal attachments. For them, its art is a promise of happiness.

If reading romance novels, watching drama makes you swoon over the characters and story, most likely you find pleasure in its subjectivity.

On the other hand there is the objective form. These are art that represents facts not influenced by feelings, not even dependent on the mind for existence. It always appeals at sophistication, or have been made and developed at a high degree, providing excellence to viewers with complicated or educated aesthetic tastes, or even people who gets pleasure through beauty regardless of how they feel about it, and regardless its relativity to their personal state. During the old times, all it takes is a person knowledgeable about the nature and appreciation of beauty or an aesthetician to provide acceptable criticism for us to understand such art; as Schiller coins it "aesthetic education". For most instances, these are the kind of art that pop culture would find it either too complicated to appreciate, or too uncommon that they haven't encountered such in reality; or worst, is being ditched as ugly. Sometimes, some would call it "Sublime", which aspires admiration for its supremacy and unparalleled form. Its excellence and grandeur. Was meant to be admired only by the refined one, or the ones that has the heart for the sublime and Avant garde.

Most of these kind of art have difficulty getting acceptance and appreciation from the socially accepted categories, mostly because of its unparalleled substance, often gets negative reactions from viewers, sometimes from fellow artists. Often these facts aren't enough to describe and characterize such art, objectively made out of norm, quiet experimental. As some would say, it takes an intelligent man to invent something out of nothing. And these are regardless of their emotions or current state.

Its beauty emanates from an artist's submission to the objective aesthetic that governs it, therefore beyond subjectivity of taste. If you enjoyed viewing Picasso's paintings, or that of Tolstoy's literature relaxes you, it is probably because you find pleasure objectively.

Both subjective and objective beauty owes its special value, for it is made with effort and time; still serves pleasure to both audiences. They just differ in tastes and knowledge.

Art has no exact science of the beautiful and pleasurable, it just makes us more human with own rational freedom.

I know some would think of food. Food is generally pleasurable, it may lack subjects for beauty since we all eat it in any form regardless of how they look as long as we find it delicious. These are the common pleasures of life, the "Comfort Food". Regardless of its set up, they could still be eaten, but of course it would also be fun to sometimes eat food artistically prepared. But that's not necessary.

Like art, the taste only matters, then it is enjoyable and pleasurable.

"There is beauty by which all things are beautiful" –Plato

## Behind the lens...

### An Interview with

### Photographer Joyce Dickens

With Deuce Wylde

I love photography and my camera has become an extension of me

I see beauty everywhere I look

Hi Joyce thanks for doing this interview.

Liphar: First, could you give us a little background about your early life?

JD: I was born in Carmel, California in 1946, the third of seven children. I met my husband in Carmel and we have three grown boys, six grandchildren and two great grandchildren. I majored in business in school and my vocational background consists of accounting positions for a handful of companies. I took an early retirement in 2008 in order to work at my photography and digital art on a full time basis.

Liphar: How did you get into photography?

JD: I have always loved photography and I was always the one to take family snapshots. From 1989 to 1996, I worked as the manager/accountant at a crating and shipping business, which specialized in shipping artwork and photographs for many of the galleries in Carmel, California. One of those galleries was Ansel Adams Gallery, another was Weston Gallery and both were a major source of appreciation and insight into the world of photography. I was very impressed and always thought that some day I would become a photographer.

In 2003 I was working at one of my accounting positions in northern California and was sharing images that I had taken on a vacation with a couple of my coworkers. One fellow employee told me that she loved my photographs and thought that I should try to sell them. That conversation stuck with me and little by little, I started adding images to my portfolio. I joined local art associations and photography/art websites; I entered local art shows and I remember the day I sold my first image.....a day I will never forget.

Liphar: What would you call your style?

JD: I like to refer to my work as "Infused Artography" and I have actually copyrighted that phrase; I consider myself a contemporary photographer/digital artist.

Liphar: Where do you draw your inspiration?

JD: My inspiration mainly comes from nature, from the endless bounty with which we are all blessed; I am in total AWE at the beauty that I see everywhere. Having said that, I must also say that I draw a huge amount of inspiration from my fellow photographers and artists on various websites of which I am a member. For me, waking early any day of the week and seeing the sun rise or taking an early walk in the garden, a peaceful day at the river or watching the sun set, absolutely anything I do I feel blessed and inspired. I always have my camera with me ready to capture that special moment in time.

Liphar: How do you feel about the digital era and its impact on photography?

JD: In my early photography years, I actually boasted that I did not alter my images in any way other than perhaps a bit of color saturation. Well, that quickly changed as more programs became available and I saw the amazing work that other photographers were doing. As time passed, I found that in order to keep up with the growing community of artists/photographers and the public's demand for digital art, it was imperative to learn how to confidently edit my images. I still feel very proud when I shoot an image and it surprises me that I don't need to edit it at all; there are those images, however, that seem to be made for digital manipulation and the possibilities are endless. Before the digital age, even the best photographers edited their images in the darkroom. The digital programs are complex and I believe that they are assets to all that take advantage of what they have to offer. I firmly believe that the "art of photography" has dramatically improved with the digital age and I hope I am still around to see the next era and what it brings to the table.

Liphar: What kind of feelings do you want to channel to people that are viewing your images?

JD: My by-line says it all: "If I can bring a smile to your face and joy to your heart through my images, then my day has been a success". Years ago a viewer told me that viewing my work was like taking a mini-vacation. I always shoot with love and awe and if I can pass that on to my viewers, then it all comes full circle.

Liphar: What is your general photographic philosophy?

JD: Nothing and I mean NOTHING is insignificant; every thing on this planet has some form of beauty. It takes a receptive sole to see the beauty sometimes, but its there; you don't need an extensive collection of photographic gear or expensive cameras...you need to learn the settings of the camera of your choice and practice, practice, practice. Learn to "read" the light and you will take beautiful images.

Liphar: What kind of tools do you use for post processing? Explain your workflow.

JD: I enjoy using the software PhotoImpact as well as Corel Draw. I will begin with an image just adjusting the light a bit, or the saturation, sometimes that is as far as it goes; often though I will start playing with the editing programs and invert an image, completely alter the tones or perhaps add an artistic twist to it such as the watercolor or impressionism effect. I enjoy using the posterize effect also. I love creating a new image from one of my photographs and sometimes I am actually surprised myself at the end result. I sometimes create as many as ten different versions of an image and then pick my favorite of them to post on my gallery sites; I retain all images for future use.

Liphar: Which is your favourite lens? Why?

JD: You may not believe this, but I do not have an additional lens to my camera; that is not by choice. I am the original starving artist....I cannot afford one at this time, but if I were to purchase one today it would be perhaps the Canon Ultra-Wide Zoom Lens. I like the fact that using this lens helps eliminate the Halo effect an also you can achieve the look of sweeping skies that seem to go on forever and capture an awe inspiring sunset that is endless. I would definitely compare and do some extensive research before making a lens purchase. When the sales are adequate to purchase a good lens I would also consider the Sigma line of lenses, as I have heard nothing but good comments about them. Here is a link that I think most readers will enjoy:

http://www.popphoto.com/gallery/9-unbelievable-camera-lenses-actually-exist

Liphar: Is there any amusing story about an image that you would like to share?

JD: I am not sure that your readers will consider this to be amusing, but I would like to share....Into The Deep is an image that I am very proud of. It began with a macro photograph of a piece of wood; the bark was peeling away and I decided to remove it all only to find this natural maze created by worm-trails. When I uploaded this image to my pc, I was so surprised at the amount of detail and the impressionistic look – it was then that I decided to add a bit of color to this image and the result has been extremely well received. The point here is that even the most mundane things can be manipulated into things of beauty.

Liphar: Joyce, one last question: Any advice that you would give to amateur nature photographers?

JD: Yes, I would recommend that they learn all the settings for their camera; don't rely on the auto setting. Take several shots on different settings of each image you shoot. Early morning and early evening are the best time of day to shoot due to the "magical" lighting at those times of day. Always shoot using a tripod if possible; the difference is remarkable. Most important of all, do not get discouraged and give up; photography and art of any kind can bring you so much enjoyment and positive energy.

Liphar: Can you share three images and tell us a little about each?

'57 T-Bird At Asilomar

Anyone that knows me knows that I love the ocean and classic cars. The basis for this image is the Pacific Ocean captured at Asilomar on the Monterey Peninsula, CA. The '57 T-Bird was captured at a local street faire that was being held in Anderson, northern CA. Since these two entities are so dear to me, it seemed only fitting that I combine them for this image.

Hummingbird and Orange Rose

Another composite image; both the hummingbird and the rose were captured in my garden in northern CA. The rose was shot with a macro setting and a flash to create the black background. The hummingbird was captured as it was flying up to one of my feeders; I removed it from the image, saved it as an "object" and merged it into the rose image. This image is what appears on the front of my business cards for Numbers Plus Photography.

Christmas Cactus andTwo Glasses

This image is among my favorite florals. I captured the Christmas Cactus right here in my home in northern CA. using a macro setting. I love the glasses which are included in my editing program PhotoImpact, and have been edited into this image.

Full description of what's in the camera bag...

My camera and lens choice for the very near future will be

the Canon EOS 60DEF-S 18-200 IS Lens Kit with

EF 70-300mm f/4-5.6 IS USM

Thank you Joyce for your insights and experiences with photography!

Thank you Deuce, it is a real honor to be interviewed for your amazing magazine.

Find more of Joyce's work at

http://joyce-dickens.artistwebsites.com/

### Maladjusted

**by Neil Randall**

### Part One

'Is she scared of me now?'

Mother's partner lowered his eyes.

'I don't know. But I think it's time you saw your physician again. You need a change of medication, something to help control your temper.'

'The doctors don't care to understand.'

'Is this to do with your other problem?'

I looked away, having never felt comfortable with this stranger knowing something so intimate about me.

He stood up.

'Would you like a drink?'

I didn't reply, assuming he was being ironic. He knew very well I wasn't permitted alcohol anymore.

Sensing this, he rephrased the question, 'Just a cup of tea, of course.'

The kettle was an age in boiling. I started picking away at a dried food stain on the tablecloth, and felt rewarded and relieved when it quickly detached. In like situations, I've been known to be absorbed for hours.

After pouring the tea, he handed me a cup.

'I expect you'd like to see your mother?'

I shook my head.

'No?' He looked surprised.

'It's late. I don't want to disturb her.'

'Well, she doesn't want to see you right now. And who could blame her? But–but she forgives you.'

This took me aback. I couldn't see there being any way that she could.

'Besides, she's sleeping.'

'Perhaps I could pop my head round the door for a moment,' I suggested, keen to perform this token gesture before leaving.

He nodded, as if everything made sense to him now.

Leaving our drinks, we walked upstairs. He opened the bedroom door. In the light from the hall, I could see her laid out like a corpse in a morgue.

'As you can see, she's resting,' he said. 'It's getting late. Would you like to stay the night?'

I agreed that it was indeed late, but the community night bus was sure to be across the road in ten or fifteen minutes.

A few human shapes stood at the bus stop. As I tried to maintain my composure, a man smoking a cigarette came stumbling out of the shadows.

'What are you doing here at this time, you sly old fox?'

It was a colleague from the office. He was very drunk.

'Mother's ill,' I explained.

'Oh, right, I'm sorry to hear that, old boy. Hope it's nothing too serious.'

I didn't like him. Drunk or sober, he was far too confident.

'It's hard to tell,' I replied, revelling in the maintenance of a sombre tone. 'A simple spill down the stairs can sometimes be fatal,' I added for effect.

'My thoughts are with you,' he said, beads of sweat glistening on his brow.

'Thank you. But I get the impression she will die quite soon.'

He fell silent and lowered his head.

I knew he would relay my information to the rest of the office after the weekend break, and wasn't sure if I welcomed or dreaded this. Shows of sympathy can be so insincere. I just want to get on with things in peace.

The new day was dull and unobtrusive. After washing and dressing, I left my living space, feeling strangely renewed by last night's visit to Mother's. The way somebody feels after doing the right thing, especially when not particularly inclined.

Halfway across the market square, I bumped into Mary, a former secretary at the office. I think she was the one who originally infected me. As we chatted, I had the odd desire to have unprotected intercourse with her again–to give back what she'd given to me.

We sat on a bench, still slightly damp from the overnight showers.

'You've heard about Hubbard?' she asked, carefully folding her floral print skirt. 'Hard to believe we used to work with somebody like that. Bloody disgusting, looking at that kind of filth on your computer. It just goes to show you never can tell with some people.'

It felt like she was accusing me in some way, just because Hubbard and I had once been intimate. It wasn't my fault he got caught out like that. But I suppose we were all partly to blame.

'I had words with Mother. It got very heated.' I think I said this because Mary's allusions towards my guilt seemed correct, just wrongly directed.

'When?'

'Yesterday...No, the day before...I–I don't remember.'

In my confusion, I giggled and ran my hand up her skirt.

'Get off.' She laughed and brushed it away.

'Would you like to come back to my place?'

*

When I awoke, she was sitting up in bed, rolls of flab hanging from her soft white belly. Gazing into space, she hummed a sad tune and played with her matted ginger hair. I watched her for a few moments. But thoughts of the sex we'd made, her smell on the sheets, soon repulsed me.

I bolted upright.

'Stop it! Shut up!' I punched and kicked her, until welts marked her skin, and she eventually fell out of bed. 'Put your clothes on. Get out...and don't ever come back.'

Despite her protests, I roughly ejected her from my living space.

It took me hours to tidy up. But I knew I wouldn't be comfortable until it was done to my satisfaction. On the whole my living space could only ever be classified as functional, the lack of decent furniture offset by an ordered cleanliness.

Hunger eventually drove me to the provisions store, where I purchased some bread and a carton of chicken soup. Lots of well-dressed people stood around chatting, happy to fill their leisure time in this vacuous, imprecise manner.

As I returned to my building, three garrulous young men walked straight towards me, forcing me from the pavement to the grassy verge. It was as if I wasn't there. And as a result, my trousers became damp and muddy.

At the kitchen table, I dipped slices of bread into the piping hot soup. The tastelessness did little to dampen my appetite. I ate a second bowl, leaving what remained in the pan, should I feel hungry later.

It started to rain. I opened my bedroom window and leaned out. The streets were empty now and bathed in darkness. The falling rain felt comforting. Sometimes I think I could stay like this forever. The world is likeable from a distance. When I'm amongst it, amongst people, I become gripped with panic.

I reheated the soup, pleased my one day off was almost over, and another working week about to begin. Despite everything that had happened, nothing seemed to have changed.

When I returned home from work, I bumped into my neighbour. As always he was holding his beloved Chihuahua. Most nights, I heard him purring over the animal through the paper-thin walls separating our living spaces. And I often saw them leave the building for purposes of exercise and function. My neighbour was very conscientious, scooping up any excrement with a plastic bag covering his hand. The way they interacted was so harmonious. I wish people were more like that. But I think different species are the only ones that can ever truly bond.

I commented on the inclement weather.

'How's your mother?' he asked.

'Fine now, thank you.' I smiled. From him this enquiry was not at all invasive.

He then set off down the stairwell, attaching the dog's lead to its collar.

Another neighbour, Cassandra, assailed me by my front door. I didn't like her as much as my neighbour and his dog. She made strange demands and often used my personal computer and webcam. I never asked about the specifics but was sure she conducted murky transactions with males. Potential suitors, she called them.

'Aren't they fabulous? Like a pair of eccentrics,' she said about my neighbour and his dog.

I didn't respond to this.

'I have some leftovers at my place. Would you like them?'

This saved me going hungry, so I gladly accepted.

Her living space was much larger than mine. Photographs from her younger modelling days adorned the whitewashed walls. The semi-clad gratuitousness always unnerved me, as I wasn't sure how to react to such stimuli.

Handing me a plate of cold meats, she talked about her current dilemma.

'You see, darling, I've been receiving funding over the last few months from a generous patron. He was masquerading in a chat room under the guise of a theatrical agent. I presumed these contributions were totally innocent, due to his interest in the arts. Now he insists I have intercourse with him once a week, or reimburse the monies.'

I agreed this was a sordid transaction. To have argued would've been far too taxing. Other people's problems, however colourfully described, hold little interest for me.

Then she asked for my assistance.

'As you're so clever, with all your diplomas and certificates, couldn't you compose an official looking something or other to extricate me from this dubious arrangement?'

Lying on the sofa, she slowly hitched up her skirt, lifting and outstretching her legs–she wasn't wearing any undergarment.

'Perhaps you could imply that as he's a married man,' she panted through her exertions, 'should any unpleasantness befall me, his wife shall be informed of his actions.'

This seemed sensible. I imparted this while averting my eyes.

She stood up and smoothed down her skirt.

'If you could draft it for me now, I could amend it, and print off a hard copy for my records.'

Tearing a page from a notebook, she jotted down the gentleman's personal details. I looked over her shoulder and realized the man in question was a local councillor, famed for his temperance and philanthropy.

'You're a star, an absolute star.' She beamed.

I looked at her strangely. Nobody had ever referred to me like that before.

'How's your mother, by the way?'

'Fine now, thank you.'

'What about the unfortunate incident the other night?'

I couldn't recall having told her about it in any detail but must've done. Her knowledge made that much clear.

'We've put all the ugliness behind us now.'

'Good.' She kissed my mouth, her tongue jabbing against my pursed lips.

I pushed her away.

Back in my room, everything was as it should be. Through the walls, I could hear my neighbour singing his dog to sleep.

Another working week passed.

On Sunday, Mary called round and offered to cook me a meal. As she stood at the stove, I walked over, put my hands around her throat, and squeezed.

We grappled for a few moments.

Just as she slipped my penis from my trousers, smashing glass and angry voices sounded from across the hallway.

'You double-crossing harlot!' shouted a man with a gruff voice.

More breaking glass followed, then a high-pitched scream, a little too staged to be completely believable.

Mary rushed over and pressed her ear to the door. At every harsh word, thud or crash, she jigged on the spot and giggled excitedly. I found myself laughing, too.

Under weight of her pleas, I opened the door, and we peered down the landing. Some residents were crowded outside Cassandra's living space. The owner of the tenement building, a crotchety old man called Mr Mao-Cado, had just arrived on the scene. As we looked on, Mary continued to stroke my penis. In coarse language, Cassandra accused a stately looking old man of assaulting her. The old man was the distinguished councillor.

Mr Mao-Cado patted his shoulder.

Addressing Cassandra, Mr Mao-Cado said, 'What's the true nature of your profession, madam?'

This drew a few chuckles from those gathered, as her reputation and choice of late-night companion were not considered very virtuous. Pouting, she deigned not to respond, and put her hands on her hips. Affronted, Mr Mao-Cado struck her across the face. It was not a very tasteful scene but compelling nonetheless.

Mary tightened her grip, squeezing my penis so hard, I almost cried out.

Cassandra brought a trembling hand to her mouth.

'That will teach you not to answer a question from your landlord.'

Cassandra wiped some blood from her lips.

'He raped me.'

'I did no such thing.' The councillor affected outrage incredibly convincingly.

'Of course you didn't,' said Mr Mao-Cado. 'There's no need for you to remain at the scene, sir.'

Cassandra, clearly stung by this, asked in plain tones, so that everybody could hear:

'Excuse me, but I believe we should send for a constable. Isn't it against the law, soliciting for cunt meat like this, he, a respected member of the community, and all?'

'Shut your dirty mouth!' Mr Mao-Cado raised another warning hand.

Things soon died down. Mr Mao-Cado ordered Cassandra back to her room and told her she would no doubt face police charges.

The crowd dispersed.

As he passed my door, Mr Mao-Cado stopped and glared at me.

'You! You're still two months behind with the rent. If you don't pay me by the end of the week, I will issue eviction proceedings.'

I didn't take this too seriously, presuming he was still agitated by the unpleasant scene and taking out his frustrations on the first person he happened upon. People often did this to me.

In the early hours of the morning, I was in bed but far from sleep, when someone knocked on my front door. On opening up, Cassandra rushed in, wanting to talk about "potential repercussions." I told her the police probably considered the matter far too minor to pursue. I think she sensed the lack of foundation in this, and stroking my face, she asked me to accompany her to the police station to act as a character witness. This would've been plain foolish, tantamount to perjuring myself, considering her reputation. But I eagerly assented and patted her shoulder.

She then suggested we sleep together to cement our agreement. On touching her bruised lip, however, she seemed to go cold on the idea and changed the subject, asking me how she could best exact revenge on the councillor. I agreed some sort of a sex scandal would be most damaging.

Later, after walking her back to her living space, I saw my other neighbour standing in the hallway. There was no sign of his dog.

'I had to have him put down this afternoon,' he whimpered, wiping tears from his eyes.

'But I heard you singing to him.'

'To his ashes.'

'What was it?' I asked. But it was obviously cancer. Everything ends in cancer these days.

'I just couldn't bear to see him suffer anymore.'

I told him he'd done what was best and offered my condolences.

'Do you think he'll go to heaven?'

'Of course. He never harmed anybody. Only those who do harm to others go to hell.'

For the remainder of the night I heard him serenading the departed animal through stifled sobs.

Cassandra took the unusual step of contacting me at the office. The councillor was due at his holiday home on Sunday, she said, and some friends of hers had a place nearby. She wasn't sure what she was going to do to get back at him, but wanted me to accompany her. When I told her I was meeting Mary, she insisted I bring her along to create a more "suitable alibi." I wished I'd never picked up the phone. My employer loathes personal calls during office hours.

Before hanging up, she told me that two shady looking characters, no doubt hired by the councillor, had been following her, and she advised me to watch my back. I was unsure to what extent I was implicated.

Unsurprisingly, my employer summoned me to his office. It was the usual kind of rant, alluding to my association with former employees of dubious character. Then he presented me with a written warning. I maintained my composure, telling him all I lived for was my work, and that I would be prepared to make any sort of lifestyle change he suggested. This seemed to satisfy his thirst for humiliating me. He apologized for losing his temper, acknowledged my past dedication, even smiled as I left the room.

That evening, Mary called round again and insisted that I impregnate her. I told her my condition probably prohibited it. She begged me and started to cry. I stood firm and said that parenthood was a very serious commitment, one I wasn't sure I'd ever be ready for. She then asked if I'd consider having a child with a younger woman. I told her all situations are different and should be judged on their respective merits. She cried some more. I don't like upsetting scenes, so I offered to walk her home.

Halfway across the market square, she stopped and said in a strange tone of voice:

'It's okay. I'll go on alone from here.'

It felt polite to insist. But she gave me some money and pointed to a cheap café, suggesting I have a decent meal for once. After kissing me goodbye, she muttered something about fattening me up for fatherhood.

The café was very busy. I had to share a table with a woman of indeterminate years. Her gaunt features and porcelain skin were offset by a big bush of bright-orange hair. Having finished her meal, her tabletop machinations fascinated me, as she seemed to be pricking condom packets with a pin. I wasn't sure whether my discussion with Mary was making me imagine this or not.

On lifting her head, she was so shocked to see me staring at her, that she swept the foil packets into her handbag, gestured to the waiter, paid her bill and exited.

When I eventually left, I'd walked no more than a few hundred metres when something compelled me to turn round. The woman from the café was standing directly behind me, her big orange hair swaying in the wind like the tops of a tree. Making the sign of the cross, she disappeared into the night.

Back at my building, I found my neighbour in the hallway again, looking completely lost without his faithful companion.

'I miss him so much. Perhaps I should get another little friend to help me through the pain.'

At that moment, I lost all respect for him and strongly advised him against it. I said it would be sacrilegious to his dog's memory, purchasing another animal so soon. You can't crudely replace something in that manner; money can't solve everything, I told him. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then agreed, apologizing for his foolishness.

'Would you like to come inside for some refreshment?'

I declined, even though I was curious to see the interior of his living space, having only had the briefest of glimpses in the past. He looked disconsolate. So I said I could spare a few moments to chat in the hallway if it made him feel better. He told me some disjointed details from his early life. A disastrous marriage, a scandal, a degenerative bone disease, a lost love. Evidently, he survived on a small stipend from a compassionate relative, some way removed from his direct family line.

His fractured reminiscences seemed endless. I yawned in his direction but he was slow in taking the hint.

'I'm sorry. I've taken up so much of your time, young man. But tell me, how's your mother?'

I told him I hadn't seen her for several days but presumed she was still alive. As always his query had been well meant. But it unsettled me. I wanted to ask him what sort of a man would strike his own mother.

'Yes, there's nobody more important to a boy than his mother.'

This enraged me. I don't know how I controlled myself. There are so many people in the world. Why does one have more significance than another? Surely all have the propensity to be everything or nothing in the correct circumstances.

My neighbour trudged towards his door.

'I will perhaps sing a little song tonight for absent friends.'

When he disappeared, I spat on the floor in disgust.

The beach was a long walk from the bus station. When we got to the camp, Cassandra's friends didn't seem very pleased to see us. Evidently, mine and Mary's presence wasn't expected, or appreciated. After a brusque greeting, Papillion, a butch, bearded man of middle age, attended to a camp-fire, while his wife, an emaciated slip of a girl, made some tea.

Cassandra wanted to formulate her plan and asked to be left alone for a few minutes.

To give her some space, Papillion, his wife, Mary and I walked along the beach. The tide was high and the sea the colour of metal but relatively calm considering the dark clouds and stiff breeze.

In reference to Mary, Papillion whispered, 'What on earth is a good-looking young fellow like you doing with a roly-poly trollop like that?'

I wasn't offended. In fact, I joined in with his raucous laughter. It felt prudent not to do otherwise.

We paused to skim stones.

Mary's attempts to catch Papillion's eye were crude. If she'd heard what he'd just said about her, I doubt she would've been so ingratiating.

I sat and watched Papillion give her some technical assistance, his hands all over the more intimate parts of her body. No doubt to indicate that had he wanted her, there was nothing I, his wife, or Mary, for that matter, could do about it.

As I looked away, he made a blindside dash, toppling me down a small embankment of sand and stones, laughing as he did so. Mary and his wife helped me to my feet and dusted down my clothes.

When we got back to the camp, Cassandra said it was getting late and winked at Papillion. Before leaving, he insisted we take a drink for good luck. Not wanting to look out of place, I felt one sip wouldn't be of any harm. But Papillion refilled my glass twice. He then suggested Mary stay at the camp to keep his wife company.

By the time we set off, I was feeling groggy and disorientated. Only when Cassandra and Papillion stopped and pointed up ahead, did I notice two figures coming towards us.

'It's those men,' said Cassandra, '–the ones who've been following me.'

'If there's a fight,' Papillion said to me. 'You take the smaller one on the left.'

I had no time to reply. The two strangers rounded on us. Papillion threw an ill-directed punch, which was easily countered, one of the men dashing a gun against his skull, knocking him unconscious.

Cassandra tried to run away but the other man chased her down. It was then I realized I'd lost control of my bodily function.

'What about him?' said the man with the gun.

'Him? Ha! Look at the state of him. He's nothing but a simpleton. He lives in the same building as this slut. He'll be no trouble to us. Now, take her down.'

I watched one of the men pin Cassandra to the ground.

'Get off me!' she screamed, kicking out her legs.

'It's time to teach you a lesson,' he said, striking her repeatedly, then ripping off her clothes.

At this point I became very scared and ran away. I forgot about Mary and the camp. I forgot about everyone. They were all against me.

*

Back at my living space, I saw the eviction notice pinned to my front door: Seven Days to Vacate Premises.

My living space was all I had.

The alcohol mixed with my medication made me feel dangerously rational. If they wouldn't leave me in peace, they'd have to start taking notice of me. They'd taken notice of Hubbard all right.

I switched on my computer.

When we first stumbled upon those illegal sites, Hubbard said we'd be in a whole world of trouble if we ever got caught. I never understood why. It wasn't as if we'd taken those pictures and posted them on the internet. So I always remained indifferent to his warning. Truth is, I often thought about my time with him. He was so responsive. I cherish those moments. They were surreal and arousing.

Accessing the same sites, I opened one page after another, barely looking at what was flashing across the screen in an audible mishmash of childish giggles and screams. Every time I double-clicked something more explicit and disturbing popped up. Each was a dull thud on the door of my awakening unhappiness.

### Part Two

After my living space was raided, the police took me into something called "protective custody." This wasn't like a proper arrest. Apparently, I was now considered a danger to myself. A fleshy-faced female psychiatrist conducted the first interview, her tone a little vague and patronizing. When asking a question she already had an answer prepared. Anything I had to say, therefore, seemed irrelevant.

'Your case is complicated,' she said. 'After a series of thorough psychological evaluations, a lawyer will be appointed to defend you.'

I nodded.

Then she said something strange, 'What you did was wrong, but it doesn't necessarily make you a bad person.'

My legal representative was a tall, angular, youthful looking man with a serious bearing. In contrast to the psychiatrist he said my case was becoming increasingly straightforward. Pacing the interview room, he told me my recent altercation with Mother had come to light.

'This could well work in your favour.'

This baffled me. Surely it could only add to my undoubted guilt.

'Your mother and her partner said you'd been on the verge of some kind of "breakdown." You no doubt appreciate the importance this testimony has on your case.'

It was then I realized I was being considered some sort of lunatic.

'Put simply, the possession of the material found on your hard drive is a strict liability offence: the very fact you had it constitutes a crime. To negate this, it's important we establish your state of mind.'

I told him I hadn't been feeling myself for a long period; that anger had been welling up inside me.

'Excellent,' he said with strange enthusiasm. 'You will continue to be psychologically evaluated. The report will act as a mitigating factor in your defence.'

When he left, he looked very pleased. This made me feel pleased, too.

Next day, my psychiatrist and an independent evaluator acting on behalf of the prosecution service visited me. This informal interview was to assess my mental state. The evaluator, a grey-haired man with a neatly trimmed beard, said he'd spoken to my work colleagues.

'The consensus: you're a shy but hardworking member of the team.'

I felt this was accurate.

'I think what you did was a cry for help.'

I wasn't sure what he meant by this but it sounded far from derogatory.

'There are so many people out there just like you, people stuck in a rut, in need of assistance, who don't know how to ask for it.'

I told him life can be incredibly difficult at times.

Nodding his head, he started to scribble something on a piece of paper. It made me feel like I'd just said something very profound.

He then asked me what had gone through my head that day when I got back to my living space. I told him about the alcohol and my medication, then about Hubbard. He became very animated, saying it proved his theory of repressed schizophrenic memory patterns when overtly stimulated by a combination of intoxicants. He started scrawling on his piece of paper again.

I felt like laughing.

When he finished writing, he said he wanted to ask me a few questions about the incident with Mother. I told him it had been building up for weeks; that I'd actually envisaged it in my head many times before; that I'd often felt a wild impulse to strike her but had always relented.

The evaluator shared a few whispered comments with my psychiatrist. It was her turn to nod enthusiastically.

They stood up and smiled at me. I seemed to be making a good impression on people for once.

'You know, you're the real victim in all of this,' he said. 'If you place your faith in us, in medical science, we'll do all we can to help you.'

I thanked him and said that I greatly respected the sciences, but my real source of inner strength in times of darkness came from my faith in the Lord. I reached inside my shirt and showed him my gold crucifix, a gift from Mother on my coming of age.

The evaluator smiled.

'We all have different opinions and beliefs, but that doesn't make one more right than the other.'

I nodded, because that's all I could think of doing.

'I've never seen such a sad case of society letting an individual down. From your medical history alone, the maladministration of medications is a crime in itself.'

He listed a few more unfortunate incidences from my life as if he were talking about somebody else's. Then they both left the room.

After that, I met my psychiatrist on a daily basis. These sessions could last for anything up to two hours. She asked me about my early childhood, adapting things to explain why my behaviour in later life had been "understandably erratic." When I told her I always considered myself to have had a happy upbringing, especially when Father was still alive, she shook her head and said something about a cerebral valve policing our memory vaults, making sure we don't get overwhelmed with everything we've seen and experienced.

'Sometimes, when bad things happen to us, we unconsciously block them out.'

As the date of my hearing approached, I'd learnt what to say to please her most.

'You may be used as a test case,' she told me. 'So no one gets let down by the care system again.'

Everyone was being so kind I started to dread my hearing. My psychiatrist even mentioned a return to my old living space.

When Mary visited, I felt that familiar sickness in my stomach. The old world was catching up with me. In a garish red dress, her perfume cheap and overpowering, everything about her reminded me of what it was like out there.

After a tactile show of over-emotion, I think she sensed I wasn't that pleased to see her.

'What's the matter? Aren't you glad I came?'

I didn't respond.

We sat down. Mary told me Cassandra had been released from hospital following the incident on the beach. I said, in an ironical manner, 'pass on my regards', or something vague like that.

Mary looked serious for a moment.

'I missed my last period.'

It took a few moments for this to sink in. When it did, I felt like striking her. It was a dirty trick. Just as I was getting somewhere in life, she had to try and hold me back.

'When you get out, we can settle down together.'

'My case is complicated. There are no guarantees I will be released. We must prepare for every eventuality.'

The whole thing made me nauseous, and I dearly wished she would leave.

Thankfully, the allocated visiting time soon elapsed.

When she got up and tried to put her arms around me, I shoved her away.

'Well, take good care of yourself,' she said, unsure of how to complete the departing formalities without the hug and kiss she'd envisaged.

As a result, she lingered awkwardly, before the guard led her from the room.

A week later, I received a letter confirming her pregnancy. It was impossible to exaggerate my despair. Ever since my arrest my world had become even more ordered: my mealtimes, sleeping patterns, and, of course, sessions with the psychiatrist. Now the unknown was on the horizon again, and for hours I sat brooding, wishing I'd committed a serious crime, after all. Perhaps seizing the gun on the beach that day and killing both men in cold blood. I envied hardened criminals facing up to long sentences and found myself repeating a saying that Mother was particularly fond of, "people don't like change."

After a few days my orderly routine at the institute eased my mind. I liked to look out of my window and watch springtime unfold. The air was becoming warmer and sweeter. I was happy as long as I knew tomorrow would be just like today.

As always I avoided other patients at exercise or mealtimes. Everyone seemed dirty and infectious. The canteen was an airborne stew of contaminates. One simpleton, however, attempted to engage me in conversation. He had a chubby red face and stuttered when he tried to speak.

'I'm ge-ge-getting out-out so-so-soon.'

I couldn't understand why he was so excited and asked him what he had to look forward to. After listing a series of dull, commonplace activities, he said something about freedom. I asked him what such a vague and unreliable word really meant. He couldn't answer me. As he walked off I tried to surmise the average life for the average person–a job, a family, responsibilities, mortgages, bills to pay–social shackles far more constraining than a padded cell. At least in here you had yourself to yourself.

Around this time I heard a strange story. I was sitting on a bench during our exercise period, when one of the senior care workers sat down with a spotty-faced patient. Apparently, he suffered from severe bipolar disorder and had recently attempted to take his own life. The care worker started to tell him a story. When he was a young boy, the care worker stumbled upon a larva in the throes of metamorphosis. Unsurprisingly, he became engrossed in this natural phenomenon. But as the struggle became increasingly protracted, he got impatient, opened his penknife and made a small incision in the larva, to assist the creature in its safe transformation. In doing so, the butterfly was released far too soon, and without the natural struggle to escape, the blood failed to get to the wings. As a result, when it shrugged free it had none of the beautiful colours associated with a butterfly. And without our struggles in life, he told the patient, none of us can appreciate the rich patterned wonder it affords.

A few days later, my psychiatrist came to my cell out of our allotted timeslot. I sensed something was wrong; something that would upset the equilibrium of my new existence. My case was to be heard next week, she told me.

'Don't count your chickens. But in a few short days you could be a free man again.'

On the morning of the hearing, my lawyer was in an extremely confident mood. But as my case was to affect future precedents, he said, I must be prepared to exercise patience.

'The panel will deliberate at length upon every facet of the case if changes to the law are to be made.'

I told him I fully appreciated this.

Before the court convened, I sat in an adjoining room with my psychiatrist. She asked if I was feeling nervous. I didn't reply direct. I said that I felt it would be beneficial to my recovery if I were to return to the facility for further evaluation. It took a lot of courage to say this. Regardless, she told me it was just the nerves talking.

After a short while a buzzer sounded, and we were ushered into the courtroom. The sight of so many unfamiliar faces proved unsettling. But in fairness to my representatives, I'd been made well aware of the importance of my case.

As we sat down, my psychiatrist pointed to a large group of people sitting a few spaces away.

'The press,' she said with emphasis.

One of the reporters, a chubby man of middle age, approached us.

'I hope everything goes well for you.'

I was about to thank him but my psychiatrist told him to leave me alone.

'Just offering my best wishes, love.' He looked offended. 'Perhaps we could come to some arrangement regarding an interview when all this is over?'

This softened my psychiatrist's stance.

'Interview?'

'Of course. Something about your groundbreaking treatment, the institutional negligence, perhaps a fly on the wall, television documentary following his progress upon release.'

'Television?' I said.

They both turned and looked at me in the way adults look at children when they say something funny or out of place.

'Yes, young man,' said the journalist. 'My publication has followed your case from the outset. We think your unfortunate circumstances are indicative of a wider social stigma surrounding mental illness. This is of national interest.'

Before anything could be agreed, another buzzer sounded in the courtroom, and everybody took their seats.

My lawyer looked at me and smiled. To his right was the prosecutor, a much older, more experienced man, which didn't seem very providential.

An usher asked everybody to rise.

The judge, attired in black robes, entered the courtroom. On sitting down, he grounded his gavel. I felt completely detached, as if watching all of this on television at home.

The procedural formalities followed. The usher read out the names of the witnesses. Each stood in turn: Mother and her partner, Mr. Mao-Cado, Cassandra and my other neighbour, then Papillion and Mary. It felt strange to see them clumped together like this, when each played such a different part in my life.

Then something even stranger struck me. Seated next to the witnesses was the woman with the big orange hair, the one I'd seen at the cheap café. Head lowered, she was fiddling with something in her lap. But from a distance, I couldn't make out what it was.

The judge called for order.

'As important legislative issues are to be discussed, I will act in an advisory capacity to clarify any technical matters for the independent body. The verdict will then be subject to further judicial review.'

My cross-examination opened proceedings. The judge questioned me a little harshly at first, even about routine things already in his possession. This unnerved me. But once I got used to it, I realized it was to ascertain a clear chronology of events. From there on I answered in an even, unhurried tone, receiving a formal "thank you" each time.

On completing these formalities, he asked me about my relationship with Hubbard. I told him, ostensibly, we'd been work colleagues, but just prior to the termination of his employment contract, we'd socialized outside of work. The judge informed the panel of the details surrounding Hubbard's arrest and subsequent conviction. After a brief pause, he asked me if I considered my relations with Hubbard to have been normal. I told him although Hubbard was many years my senior, I felt they were indeed normal.

He then asked if Hubbard wielded any specific influence over me.

I said, 'Clearly an older, much more experienced individual is bound to have a certain influence over someone so much younger.'

After making some notes, he asked if either advocate would like to pursue this line of questioning. Both declined, agreeing that a link with Hubbard had been satisfactorily established.

The judge then told me he was going to ask a few background questions unrelated to the indictment. I presumed this was to do with Mother. He asked me why I'd struck her. In a very calm voice, I told him I'd been finding it increasingly difficult to function; that rage had been boiling up inside of me.

Next, he asked if I'd been taking my prescribed medication. I answered that as far as I was aware I had, but on odd occasions it slipped my mind. At this point my lawyer interceded, saying that several leading pharmacologists had attested to the medication's unsuitability for my various conditions. The three panel members were advised to make note of this.

Mother's partner was called. The judge informed the court that while Mother was in attendance, she was far too frail to give testimony. He proceeded to ask Mother's partner what, in his opinion, caused me to strike her.

'The medication,' he replied, citing my erratic behaviour ever since being prescribed it.

The judge asked if he felt I showed any remorse for my wrongdoing.

'Of course! He came round the very next night to apologize and see if his mother was all right. These doctors are incompetents. They think a fistful of pills solves everything.'

He rambled on for several minutes before the judge grounded his gavel and asked if the prosecutor had any further questions.

He shook his head.

My lawyer took the opportunity to say, 'Anybody who thinks a man capable of striking his elderly mother'–he swung round so the whole courtroom looked at her–'could be in a fit state of mind to be held accountable for his actions is a fool.' Further qualifying this, he added, 'Today the court is dealing with a damaged individual with severe mental health problems, not a criminal.'

After a fifteen-minute adjournment, my lawyer told me everything was proceeding much faster than originally envisaged.

Following this brief recess, Mr. Mao-Cado was called to the stand. Firstly, he was asked to confirm that I'd been one of his tenants.

'Officially, yes,' he replied, eyeing me with disdain. 'But he hadn't paid the rent for so long, the definition loses some of its exactitude.'

The judge asked if he could sum up my character.

'Weirdo. Freak. They all are.' He then started to rant about my disgusted perversions. But his spiteful words made me look like some kind of victim, and the sense of sympathy for me as someone misunderstood by society only increased.

The judge had him physically removed from the court, and his comments struck from the record.

Mary was called next. The judge asked her how long she'd known me. She told him we'd been intimate for over a year. This drew a few bad taste chuckles. It'd been a serious affair up till then, and I felt Mary was making it descend into farce, which could only damage my case.

The judge said he hadn't asked whether we were intimate or not. Mary pretended to blush. He then asked her how we'd met.

'Through work.'

To another question, she told him she was pregnant with my child.

Gasps of astonishment broke out. The judge called for order.

My lawyer took advantage of this, saying something about the stability of family life, and the positive benefits additional responsibility has in cases of mental illness being firmly established.

Here the prosecutor was granted permission to speak. He asked Mary what she thought about having a child with a man who'd been found with indecent images of minors in his possession, a man with "serious mental health issues". A man, indeed, who'd struck his own mother. This was the only time he saw fit to contribute.

Mary started to swear at him.

My lawyer shouted her down. He said the influence of a third party, namely Hubbard, had been acknowledged by the prosecuting representative himself, and the effect of the medication confirmed by leading experts. The judge allowed this.

Mary's outburst made me seem like the victim again, a role I was more than happy to play.

After Mary's unsightly ejection, Papillion was called. His testimony was full of self-platitudes regarding his "integrity" and "trustworthiness." But he said little of any relevance or worth, concluding with the fact he'd met me on only one occasion.

My neighbour then took the stand. He had reddish blotches on his face, and his wispy hair was thinner and yellowy. His appearance was even briefer than that of Papillion. After confirming his name, he broke down, bemoaning the loss of his beloved dog and had to be helped from the courtroom.

Finally, Cassandra was called. She was dressed all in white, with a bejeweled eye patch covering her left eye. With no prompting whatsoever, she told the court that I had composed the malicious communiqué to the councillor. The judge saw no relevancy in her statement and told her to only answer questions put to her by the court.

He asked her to explain her relations to me.

'We were neighbours.' She broke out in sobs. 'It's my fault he got into this mess.'

Through tears, she told the court that she often used my personal computer and must've left a dubious link in my internet browsing history, something I inadvertently opened and unwittingly pursued.

My lawyer commented on Cassandra's profession, citing it as another example of the environment I'd been exposed to. The judge allowed this too and told the panel to include it in their findings. My lawyer went on to say that under circumstances of "unconscionable immorality", it was easy to see how a maladjusted individual could be affected by dark, unhealthy influences. It was his most passionate explication of my defective personality yet. He quoted Freud, alluded to recent case histories, individuals being let down by the care system who went on to reoffend.

The whole courtroom was clearly struck by his oratorical skills.

On sitting down, he took a handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed his brow with a theatrical flourish.

The hearing was adjourned for the day.

As I returned to the institute, I felt much more relaxed. Nothing could change, I told myself, as long as I remained the same.

I never liked being talked about. When I was a child and relatives said, 'He doesn't say much but he's a good listener,' it made my skin crawl. The summations were no exception. Both lawyers seemed convinced of my validity, and I didn't feel compelled to add anything, despite being invited to do so at regular intervals.

Still, I listened to every word. The gist of the early exchanges was of a purely technical nature, the prosecuting representative insistent upon one point:

'It's important that we leave issues of interpretation open until after the judicial review. When dealing with mental illness, surely each case should be judged on its individual merits. And this was an extreme case, after all.'

My lawyer agreed in principle. He then outlined the positive factors in my favour, referring to Mary as "my partner with child." This shift in emphasis, he said, coupled with my employer's offer of a new part-time position at the office was evidence of my progress. He told the court about changes to my prescribed medication and the support of my immediate family through all of this. Mother's forgiveness highlighted how far I'd already come. He also mentioned the encouraging steps I'd made in my intensive counselling sessions and my deep regret for the trouble I'd caused. This, he insisted, showed I now knew the difference between right and wrong acts.

At this point, I wondered why there was so much emphasis on subjective terms like acknowledgement and admission of responsibility. From the outset I knew I'd been doing something wrong but put it down to things out of my control, my frustrations with life in general. Clearly, I was meant for much better things and only regretted what I'd done from the point of view of having actually done it. All other issues were blurred and indecipherable, but there was no way I could've explained that to anyone.

My lawyer then talked about my inherent good nature. "An inner kindness," he called it, as if it were some specifically legalistic term, like defendant or indictment. He went on to say that he'd encountered all sorts of people in his short career as an advocate, but it was easy to tell a good apple from a bad one. He spoke loftily of the human spirit, the regenerative powers of a good soul led down the wrong path. But most of all, he praised my courage. Up till then I'd almost been persuaded by his eloquence. That was until he mentioned courage. It was one thing that could never be attributable to me. I was a coward, plain and simple. I'd never done anything brave. In fact, my whole life had been conducted in avoidance of having to make a decision, of acting on my own initiative. I was a complete failure.

'This individual has been given no emotional assistance,' he added. 'If we apportion blame to someone so sorely neglected, we're simply letting the poor boy down again. I see before me a lost soul. Easily led, but meek and mild, nonetheless, and I'm confident he represents no further danger to society.' He was like an inexhaustible well gushing forth. 'Before the panel returns a verdict, each member must look deep into their own hearts and come to the right and only decision available to them–there is no case to answer here.'

When he finished, a tangible sense of good feeling fell over the courtroom, as if everyone present had participated in something worthy. The judge smiled and asked if I wanted to add anything. I thanked him for his consideration but declined, saying that my lawyer had stated my position in accordance with the facts. People looked to be on the verge of breaking into applause. The panel was then dismissed for the day to deliberate.

Next morning, the atmosphere in the courtroom retained a light, judicious calm. The panel of three gave its findings concerning the psychological recommendations, and the judge called for a brief adjournment before delivering his final comments.

We waited a short time, my psychiatrist deep in conversation with the reporter from yesterday.

After a quarter of an hour, the little buzzer sounded and we were ushered back through.

The judge's recommendations were as follows:

'That the patient be allowed back to his former living space and employ on a probationary basis. He is to be awarded a substantial state stipend to fund this and increase his living standard. In addition, he is to attend thrice-weekly counselling sessions and be encouraged to undertake further community schooling to augment his already impressive academic qualifications. All in the hope of finding a professional position more suited to his undoubted abilities.'

I didn't need to look at Mary. I could feel her eyes all over me.

The judge then outlined the details of the forthcoming judicial review. It had all been decided.

When it was over, my psychiatrist congratulated me like I'd just received an award.

'How do you feel?'

'I feel nothing,' I replied.

That's when they took me back.

Hard as I tried to concentrate on my studies and three half-days back at the office, that horrible anger was soon rising up again. Now I didn't have anybody to talk to. My time with my psychiatrist was only partial and distracting, where up until recently it had been my whole life. In the early hours of the morning, I found myself sitting at the kitchen table, just to avoid having to lie next to that pregnant lump in my bed. I always thought that to lead a normal life, one simply had to accept certain situations in their own heads. I never realized there was such scope for perceptual error, such phoniness and superficiality involved.

The anger was strongest when I was with Mother and her partner. They felt that they'd failed me and kept making special arrangements to include me more fully in their lives, which only increased the possibility of something going badly wrong. What baffled me was my complete indifference to Mary, who was infinitely more annoying. Perhaps, because I didn't really care about her, she was somehow immune. But Mother. That was different. She was the only one left, so she was the only one in danger.

Initially, I could control the rush of violent emotion; only for it to congest inside of me, becoming more and more poisonous. Mother always said that whenever people were at their lowest point they would turn to God. But the more I prayed at night, the more desperate I became.

One day, close to Christmas, I refused to go to the hospital with Mary for a routine check-up, citing a prearranged appointment at the institute. For several weeks my psychiatrist had been hinting that my treatment was coming to an end. As I sat down that afternoon, she talked about the happy times I had ahead–the baby, my studies, and my work at the office. It was ironic, because I'd never felt more dangerous or on edge.

My indifference finally registered. She asked me why I wasn't excited. I tried to put it into words, but whenever I got close, she interrupted, explaining exactly how my mind was at that moment functioning. Nerves, apprehension, were natural, she said, her eyes searching out mine. I've never been able to hold anybody's stare and looked away almost immediately. Maddeningly, this had her roll off another list of consoling phrases. It was infantile reasoning, like a child bribing another with promises of future remuneration. Since the televised documentary about my treatment cemented her professional reputation, there was always going to be someone attractively sicker to treat. I tried to ask for help. But I was just another closed file. If I told her I was about to explode, I'm sure she would've had an answer prepared to assuage her own lack of professional discernment.

Winding down the interview, she asked about my plans over the holiday period. I told her I was going to Mother's house to drop off some presents. Desperately, I tried to communicate something one last time. But my resistance was as futile as my neighbour's tears on having his dog put down, or the foetus kicking inside Mary's swollen tummy.

My psychiatrist got up, walked around the table, asked me to stand, and then embraced me.

'You've got so much to be proud of. You're a very special person.'

On the streets I felt a mad agitation, like a bee sting to my soul. The bustling walkways only exacerbated the turmoil I was struggling to contain. I was due at Mother's house. I had some Christmas presents to deliver. It was then I sensed I would never be able to control these feelings again, that I might strike her another blow. I had no other option.

Mother's partner answered the door, shook my hand, and ushered me into the front room. Mother was decorating the tree. The whole scene played itself out in my mind's eye. I could clearly visualize her sprawled across the floor, bloodied, looking up with the same terrified eyes she had when I struck her the first time. At that moment I knew it really was going to happen all over again, simply because it had happened before.

### Moo

**by Eden Langlands**

"to believe in dreams is a manifestation of insanity."- Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory

(1971)

It's the end of the world as we know it...and I feel fine. Or as the song goes - but I feel less than fine. I feel hungry, thirsty, dirty and totally pissed off.

My life now was all about taking care of the every whim of fucking cow. When I say cow, I don't actually mean the precious Jenny - although, she would qualify. I actually mean an honest to goodness black and white bovine. But it was just another body to add to my collection of useless travelling companions.

My feet were killing me and hands were raw from pulling on the rope that was tied around the cow's neck, as a makeshift lead. I tugged the wretched cow to move, as I scratched at the rash that was developing on my chest but got no satisfaction from either. I was sure the rash was getting itchier, but luckily not spreading.

I trudged forward on the broken tarmac of what used to be road, carefully stepping over the loose parts. In the new post some dumb ass hit the button and blew it up of a world, a sprained ankle meant death.

I was always anti-social and mostly a grumpy bitch - so the end of the world really didn't do anything to improve my mood. It just meant I could finally get away with my bad behaviour. Tact and politeness sort of went out the window when you had to fight for food and shit in a hole in the ground.

Mike called out and said it was time to rest. Sweeter words I had not heard in a long time. I found an old water pipe sticking out of the ground and secured the cow's lead to it. After all, we can't have the stupid animal wandering off. I never bothered to name the cow. It was always cow, In my disdain, I thought I was more than justified to seethe the word cow every time I said it.

I found a nice place to hunker down for the night and was joined by Mike. Wordlessly, he sat down next to me and got as close to me as he possibly could without actually touching me. I liked Mike - a lot. I wanted to grab him and kiss him, rip his clothes off and ride him like a mechanical bull. I wanted to scream with ecstasy and wild abandon like you saw on those crappy films channel five use to show late at night. Why not? I asked myself. Who cares about propriety any more, it is the end of the world. If I wanted to be a raging slut, now was as good of a time as any. I chuckled out loud as I thought to myself Who cares about my reputation or what they think, they will probably be dead by winter. But I did nothing.

Mike heard and smiled at me. He asked if I wanted to share what I found so funny. I looked into his smiling eyes, his shining with the light of heaven eyes, his lovely wonderful golden flecked eyes that melted my heart, and told him to Fuck off.

I surveyed my camp of stragglers and imbeciles. There were five others, Mike- you already know. That bitch Jenny, you know her type, pretty, precious, screams when she breaks a fingernail. Then there was John. John was besotted with Jenny. He was a few years younger than Jenny but to look at him - he was a man all right. That didn't stop Jenny flirting with Mike. She was the kind of girl that wasn't content with one bloke - she wanted them all. That just left the two whining kids we picked up. I didnt want them - but I was out voted. It was my plan to sell them on as slaves if we ever found any other survivors or ate them if I got desperate enough.

I waited until I heard the soft deep breaths of sleep before I touched Mike. I took his hand in mine and stroked it softly. It was the only time I could bear to show him any affection without breaking down into tears. I knew Mike before. Before - it is such a funny word to describe something that doesnt exist any more and never would again. Before - someone panicked when it clearly says Dont panic. Before - we had hope.

I was millimetres away from stealing a sleepy kiss from Mike's lips when that fucking cow farted. I felt it blow in my hair and the stench was enough to send anyone's gag reflex going. The moment was gone and I was filled with rage once again because of that cow. Even saying the word cow out loud these days made my eye twitch and my rash burn.

I got up from where I was sitting and placed my coat over Mike. I looked around the world we inherited and thought God, what a shite-hole. Then again this town was always was a shite-hole. Part of me thought the almost total annihilation was a bit of an improvement. Took care of the chav problem at least.

My mind wandered to that day- The end and the beginning. We didn't know who dropped the bombs. It all happened too quickly and when it was over who ever could answer those questions were crispy critters. That was three months ago, but it felt like three years ago. We were lucky as it goes, a bomb didn't directly drop on us. Our town was destroyed by some sort of tornado that travelled up from the south moments after a bomb blew up London.

I was in Leicester that day. I was in the comic book store Mike worked in. Usually I would be there at least three times a week. I never really talked to him and he never really talked to me either. I guess we were both those shy invisible people that no one noticed not even by other invisibles. I guess if life had continued normally, I would have never really noticed Mike. He is one of those people when you first meet him, you dont think anything of his looks but when you do know him, he becomes beautiful.

That comic book store saved our lives. Henry, Mike's boss, was really into the zombie apocalypse and made a sort of a if the shit hits the fan shelter in the basement. It was Henry's extreme paranoia and uncanny spidey senses that found us running for the back room towards the basement staircase,as soon as the first bomb dropped. Of course, we all thought it was an earthquake - But who ever heard of an earthquake in Leicester? King's buried in car parks - yes, but earthquakes. Hmm, using that reasoning of the chain of bizarre things that no one would think would happen in Leicester, did happen in Leicester. Thereby- making an earthquake a totally legitimate event. Oh fuck it- earthquake yadda yadda yadda- segway to Henry screaming it is the zombie apocalypse everyone running into the basement. Ironically, everyone in the shop did. A few months ago, if some one screamed zombie apocalypse people would be running out of the shop to get away from the loon.

At that time there was seven of us. Mike, Henry, Josh who worked there - John, Jenny, Dave and myself were customers. Jenny wouldnt know a graphic novel from a take away menu. She was only there because of Josh. He apparently was some sort of local lothario with Bieber-esque qualities that turned the pre-teen population into erst-while Josh stalkers. Which of course makes Josh's dying word's of Don't tell my Dad I'm gay so much more ironic.

After three days in the basement, Henry started to go a bit mental. He said he could hear footsteps up stairs and that it was zombies. There was no arguing with him. He wanted to go upstairs, it was his place, so there was nothing anyone could do to stop him. Henry went up first, a few minutes later Josh and Dave followed.

Henry must have cracked under the pressure because as Josh and Dave came shuffling out of the back room, blinded by the sunlight; Henry mistook them for zombies. He shot them both with his very illegal Romanian shot gun. Henry had never fired a gun before in his life. He did not anticipate the sheer power of the gun's kick back and was impaled on the sliver of glass that was left of the shop window. By the time we made it up - everyone was dead and Josh was dying.

We then did what years of reading and watching Sci-fi films told us to do - get out of the city. Jenny spent most of the journey hysterical, crying over Josh and the loss of her hair straighteners. John consoled her as best as he could, but I thought she needed was a really good slap. Not because she was hysterical, mainly because she annoyed the fuck out of me.

Once we made it to the countryside that is when we found the little boy and girl. I assumed they were brother and sister - I never bothered ask them that or their names. I could say that it was a defence mechanism. In a world on the brink of collapse, getting too close to people and then losing them - is so heart breaking that you put up a wall to protect yourself. Yeah, I could say that - but the truth is, I just didn't give a shit.

I heard one of them crying in their sleep once. I really wanted to kick it, but instead I gave it the last of the Mars bars. See, I'm not a total bitch. I was saving that chocolate for a treat for Mike. Hearing the child whimper like that only reminded me of the soundless sobs and howls I exhale when I think no one is watching.

Shortly after we found the children, we happened upon the other burden - the flatulent one - the destroyer of my peace of mind - the cow. When we first found the cow it was like Christmas. Jenny and the kids jumped up and down signing a song about all the milk they will drink. They continued their song even when I pointed out that the cow was male. Clearly, that meant nothing to her because she answered Don't be sexist, it is a cow and cows equal milk.

After forty minutes and a very involved diagram they finally grasped the fact that the cow will never produce milk. Since none of them was ever around any type of livestock before. I resisted the urge to do a King Pin on Jenny and show her which part she could milk. I thought it would have been cruel and Mike would have thought less of me for doing so. Still, it didn't stop me from sniggering at the thought of it for days.

I thought it was strange to find a fully grown male Holstein-Friesian wandering around. I assumed it was someone's pet because those kinds of cows were usually turned into veal or killed for their rennet. They didn't even use those cows to breed; that is how worthless they are.

Now the group consisted of lovely Mike, Jenny, John, a boy, a girl (I think) and a cow- All useless. No one knows how to do anything to survive. It is like their Mummies did everything for them their whole life. I was raised on a farm, I at least had some sort of rudimentary knowledge of what the fuck to do next.

Before the cow came to be a further burden upon me, I used to imagine before sleep that it was just Mike and me. It was wonderful, we were a couple and he loved me. I didn't have the courage to ask him how he felt about me in case the answer was something like Well, you will do because the only other girl in the world is taken by John. I didn't think my heart could take that sort of rejection knowing how much I secretly loved Mike.

After the cow came - everything became about the fucking the cow. That is when the weird dreams started and the rash formed. Every once and a while I would look at the rash and think I could see some sort of pattern forming. Then I thought maybe I just picked up ringworm from the cow.

I told Mike about the dreams and he believed me; and when he told the others, they believed him as well. The only person who didn't believe - was me. The dream always starts out the same. There is a man talking to me and I can only hear him in my head. He tells me that the fate of humanity rests in my hands and I have to take the cow to this lab in Northumberland.

This cow has to be mated with another cow at the lab and the offspring produced by the two cows will be the saviour of human race. While everyone else in the group believed in the quest and wanted to start off for Northumberland immediately. I was the only one asking questions and doubting my own sanity. The first clue that something was a bit squirrelly was the fact that the other cow was called Nimbus 3 and was of alien extraction. Right now, you and I are both saying Nimbus 3, wasn't that the name of Harry Potter's Quidditch broom? and I'm not even going to get into the concept of alien cows.

I guessed for the group the cow offered hope and Northumberland was sort of a religious pilgrimage. By taking the cow, their lives now had purpose. On the journey North, I became more and more withdrawn. The dreams became more intense. I was often left to ponder how this emaciated cow would save man kind. Was it a sacred cow like in India or some sort of messiah with black and white spots?

I didn't know any more and I stopped asking questions. Even if we made it in one piece and the cows mated - how could it save the human race if we were probably all that was left of it? Helpful would be eating the fucking thing not touring it around the North-East of England. But in the end even I had to accept the only escape was madness and went along with it all.

The Journey took months when it should have taken days. We all were sick from lack of food and clean water. When our gums started to bleed and our teeth started falling out, I knew it was radiation poisoning. Then it was only a matter of time. One of the children died. I dont know which one. I didnt look, I just helped bury it.

It was when I was digging that Mike noticed the rash. It had been a few days since I last looked. When he brought it to my attention, you could clearly see a cow shape with a head at both ends and a ying and yang symbol in the middle. With in minutes I became a cow Prophet. Marching north to our mutual deaths was totally justified, because we were all going to be saved by an alien cow Jesus.

We reached the border Northumberland and the dreams dried up. You would have thought they could rash me a map - because that would have been helpful. With no idea where to go next, we did whatever a group of Xbox playing slacker would do - nothing. We sat down and did zilch. For days we waited for the dreams, or a voice, or even the cow to fart instructions. But nothing happened.

I waited for Mike to make a move but that never happened either. Seventy years of teen age boys telling teenage girls that the Russians could drop bombs and why die a virgin worked. Now the world ended, I just wanted to know why I couldnt get laid. In the end, the radiation sickness made us too weak to care. Mike and I cuddled up together in a tight embrace to wait for death. That is when I had the final dream.

The dream told us to go to a farm a few miles away. As exhausted as we were, the news that our endeavour would almost be at an end and we will be shortly saved; reinvigorated us completely. We almost skipped happily (well as much as you could skip with an bandy legged cow and rickets) to the farm as the sun set. I couldn't help but feel like we were off the see the wizard on the yellow brick road.

The farm was in total darkness by the time we arrived. We looked at each other in despair. We all wondered if it was the right place. No one wanted to jinx it, so rather than speak our suspicions - we stood there slack jawed and listened to the cow fart. We waited and nothing happened. It was in that moment when I was about to give up, flood lights from the farmhouse beamed directly at us.

Stunned and relieved we shielded our eyes and tried to make out the figures running towards us. It was confusing and disorienting being rushed at by a small army of men in haz-mat suits. They shouted things at us but we couldn't understand what they were saying. Then it all went dark.

I don't know how long I was unconscious for but I heard voices. I assumed it was Doctors' because one said I think it is ready for testing now. The bits and pieces I over-heard were about the successful mating of the cows, and the news of a calf. I wondered how they would test the calf - Blood, urine, Rorschach?

I started to come out the drug haze I was in. Blurry eyed - I looked around and assumed I was in a hospital. I tried to move but I found I was tied down. In my panic, I craned my neck up as much as I could and I saw Mike in the bed across from me. He also was trying to look me. I saw him mouth something but I couldnt figure out what he was trying to say. I hoped it was I love you., but as panic overtook my body it realised it was probably It's us.

I said It's us. over and over in my head and then it dawned on me, they were going to be doing the tests on us. I felt someone above me as they started to wheel me away into another room. I looked up at the man in terror. He looked down at me with a smile and said Don't worry little pig. This is going to really hurt.

### Art for Life...

An Interview with Body Artist

### Carolyn Roper

With Deuce Wylde

Carolyn is based in London, but regularly travels throughout the UK and internationally to undertake assignments. She has won major industry awards, is a double World Body Painting Champion and is now recognised as one of the best body artists in the World today.

Hi Carolyn thanks for doing this interview.

Liphar: What got you interested in body painting and when did you first try it?

CR: I first became interested in body painting when I started my make-up training and body art was one of the modules on the course. I had always enjoyed painting on canvas, so I was really interested to find out what it would be like to paint on skin.

Then in 2003, I saw an advertisement for what was then the European Bodypainting Festival in Austria. It was in a beautiful location and looked like an amazing event. So I persuaded my sister to be my model and registered for the competition. When we arrived, I had a few ideas in my head and a small bag of paints. I was really surprised by the size of the festival, with body art businesses from all over Europe competing in the different categories. As I had never actually painted a body before I was a bit nervous. I quite literally made my design up as I went along and hoped I could get it finished to a reasonable standard in the 6 hours. When the judging was announced, I was really pleased to finish in 17th place and had such encouragement from the other artists and photographers, that I came home completely hooked on body art.

Liphar: What would you call your style?

CR: I'm not sure I really have a particular style. To be a successful artist you have to be very versatile and as most of my work is commercial, I have to be able to paint in so many different styles, from logo work, to camouflage and fine art.

Liphar: Do you design on paper beforehand, create stencils, or do you make the designs up as you go along?

CR: Sometimes the client gives me the completed design. Sometimes they want my input and then I put a design together for their approval. If there are logos I usually hand cut the stencils for a nice crisp professional finish. For competition designs, I sketch out my ideas on paper, before deciding on my final designs.

Liphar: What makes a good model?

CR: A good model is one understands the process and can keep very still for long periods of time. It also helps if they eat and drink beforehand. Some models worry that they won't look their best as they're nearly naked and they don't eat before the shoot. This can make them very light headed and prone to fainting. Therefore, I always recommend that they eat and drink normally before a long body painting job.

Liphar: How do the models prepare before you put on the makeup?

CR: The only preparation they need is to make sure they're as smooth and hair free as possible. Body hair and body paint are not a good mix. The paint tends to stick to the tiny hairs, and it's difficult to get a nice smooth finish to the design. Also, as I've already said they need to make sure they've had something to eat and drink beforehand.

Liphar: Do girls ever get nervous being naked in front of you?

CR: Some models can be a bit nervous before a body painting job, particularly if it's their first experience of a body art shoot. I'm sensitive to their concerns and I often find that a model will feel much more comfortable once her breasts and nipples are painted over, so this is always where I'll apply the paint first. I very rarely paint naked models, although I have had to paint detailed anatomical designs for Channel 4's "Embarrassing Bodies" on sensitive areas.

Liphar: How long does it take you to do each model?

CR: The painting time varies depending on the design and the amount of the body that is painted. A very detailed full body paint is going to take at least 4 hours. With commercial work, the client wants the best result in the shortest time, particularly if I'm painting a celebrity as their time is so valuable. I'm always up against the clock and there have been quite a few shoots where I would have loved an extra hour to add finishing touches. But as a commercial body artist, I have to do the best that I can in the time that I have.

Liphar: Does the model have to sit or stand in crazy positions while you're painting her?

CR: Depending on the design and part of the body, the models can usually sit down for some of the time, but most stand, whilst I work around them. It's usually me who ends up in the crazy positions, on the floor as such, trying to make sure that there are no gaps where every part of the body is covered.

Liphar: You seem to paint a lot of ladies and not men. Why?

CR: The client is the one who chooses the sex of the models for their event/campaign. Some clients prefer females as they seem to attract the most publicity when painted. Some clients prefer men as there are no nudity issues with the finished images. It just depends on the job and what the images will be used for. I personally prefer painting men. The back and chest area are usually larger, and this flat surface is easier to work with than the curves of the breast area on female models.

Liphar: What tools and paints do you work with?

CR: I usually use just brushes for my painting. I have a large collection of specialist body art brushes and artist paint brushes. I also use a compressor and airbrush for some designs.

Liphar: What designs are your favorites?

CR: The favourite designs that I've worked on have been from the work that I did for the late great Storm Thorgerson. He was the genius behind many iconic album covers including Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin and more recently Biffy Clyro and Muse. His ideas were always exciting, he was a perfectionist, and he pushed me to my limits but in a good way and the end results were always amazing.

Liphar: How has the painting process changed over the years?

CR: I'm not sure the painting process has changed too much over the years, but there are far more products available. There's a huge range of paints and body art accessories on the market now.

Liphar: Tell us about some of the interesting projects you have worked on?

CR: I've been very lucky to work on some really interesting body art shoots all around the world. I painted for a TV commercial for a Belgian travel company and spent 10 days in the Caribbean with the added bonus of a few days off at the end of the shoot to relax on the beach. I also spent 2 weeks in South Africa with Storm Thorgerson where we worked on various "Back Catalogue" fine art prints. And any painting that I did with Storm was always really interesting and it was fantastic to see my work on album covers. "Puzzle" by Biffy Clyro was one of my favourite shoots. I was invited to appear as a guest on Channel 4's "Sunday Brunch" which was very good fun. And I also appeared on the "Alan Titchmarsh Show," which again was great.

Liphar: You have painted some celebrities over the years; can you drop a few names?

CR: Mark Ramprakash was one of the first celebrities that I painted and he was an absolute pleasure to work with. And over the years I've painted numerous celebrities including Gary Lineker, Ashley Roberts, Ricky Whittle, Kate Garraway, Jennifer Ellison and Mark Foster.

Liphar: What projects are you working on at present?

CR: I've got some interesting projects in the pipeline at the moment, including several trips to the US where I will be demonstrating at various make-up shows. I'm also really looking forward to the release of a major Hollywood movie later this year that will be featuring some of my body art!!

Liphar: If someone wants to get started with body painting, where can he or she begin?

CR: If somebody wants to start out in the industry, I would recommend that they get some professional training to learn the basics. Then it's a case of practice, practice and more practice. To succeed in the commercial world you need to be able to translate your clients' idea's onto the body quickly and accurately. Alternatively, it's also great just to have fun and paint for a hobby.

Liphar: Would you like to share three and tell us little about each?

This is my winning design at the World Bodypainting Festival in 2009.

 The theme was "Spirituality Beyond the Visible Eye." My design was based on the beautiful fairy illustrations by Brian Froud, where I handmade all the goblins and fairies from liquid latex. This painstaking work took several weeks, as I had to make a mould for each one, before adding the many layers of liquid latex. Then each fairy had to be painted and given its character. On the day of the competition, they were attached to the body and I painted the rest of the design around them. I was thrilled to win the title again and was the first artist in the history of the festival to win in two separate categories. (I had previously won the "Brush & Sponge" category in 2009 with my friend and fellow artist Carly Utting). Photo Reinhard Bichler.

The second image is the CD cover for "Puzzle"

which was an album for the Scottish rock group Biffy Clyro. This cover was designed by Storm Thorgerson and recently made it into the NME'S 20 Gloriously Surreal Album Covers.

This is camouflage body painting and was great fun. I did a series of camouflage images in iconic London locations to advertise the UK premiere of the new series of the CIA drama "Covert Affairs."

Thank you Carolyn for your time and sharing your art with us.

Find more of her Art, you can find it here:

http://www.getmadeup.com/

**Scrazzle it?**

By Alvin Johnston

The advent of social media invades our lives in every way possible. We have the social media giant's like Twitter, Facebook, Instagram and many others. Seemingly, the goal is to connect the masses to their friends. It has become more than that.

Advertising is the moneymaker, without it, social media cannot and would not exist. Google brought advertising to the forefront and demonstrated it is a viable business model. Their advertisements appear on multitudes of websites; as well, they have an affiliate program that will pay you to display their advertisements. This is the one main aspect that sets Google apart from everyone else.

Facebook has ads, but they are in-house. Twitter has ads and they appear only on your Twitter pages.

Both of the above mentioned companies have yet to post real profits and still operate in the red.

They make arbitrary changes to how things are displayed and heavily control content. The main goal is a have you sitting in front of your computer with their site opened. They make mistakes. Facebook lost an entire segment of its audience because of lack of foresight into what users really want. Twitter is gone full-bore on the advertising angle. It is expensive, ensuring only large companies can afford to advertise there.

Twitter has made many changes to its layout with further changes on the way. These are supposed to be more visually appealing for the user. Reality suggests that is easier to present advertisements to you this way.

Twitter gave up on caring about its membership quite a while ago and answers to questions go unanswered poorly, vague, canned replies are sent back. Their only focus now in time is advertising. They are seeking to become more profitable and you can't fault them for that. What you can't have an issue with is them forgetting how they got there in the first place.

Competition in the social marketing field is stiff at best. Some companies have had to completely reinvent themselves, like MySpace, which preceded Facebook.

We have Instagram, but Facebook just bought them out in the attempt to regain users that had left them because of the rules they had set.

Snapchat refuses to be bought out and is slowly eroding Facebook users and Twitter as well. It has gained acceptance by the youth because he gives them exactly what they want.

Competition is always good because even if you can't grab a substantial market share, it forces the big companies the pay attention and try to regain lost members.

Scrazzle is the new kid on the block. It seeks to invade Twitter territory by one upping what Twitter offers. From the onset, Twitter allows 140 characters as the Max to a post. Within that 140 characters, is a link to some place, if you've included it, which also reduces the number of characters that you can use.

Scrazzle offers a different way, where up to 300 characters and a separate link. That is just the start of the changes. Increases on your profile page, direct messages are now more similar to email. They contain up to 3000 characters.

The biggest cause of concern with everyone using Twitter is violating the rules. Most people at some point, on Twitter, have broken a rule and have had their account suspended. What makes it more difficult, to follow the rules, is that the rules are not clear and concise. They are vaguely worded and seem to be meant more to confuse then enlighten.

App developers, face an enormous challenge, while setting up apps for Twitter.

For the general membership, if they thought the rules were confusing, then looking at the rules for app developers is even worse. Your app can be suspended for what seems like a little or no reason and when you inquire, most of the time they were only tell you that you have broken some rule, but not which rule you have broken.

Making the rules clear and concise is what Scrazzle is all about...very few rules, in plain English and undisguised.

That is a significant difference from Twitter and if that were the only reason, it would be a good enough reason to join Scrazzle. But wait there's more; they pride themselves on being attentive to the members and seek through personally reply to all email inquiries. They make advertising affordable for the struggling authors and artists out there.

The most noteworthy distinction is that they seem to care about the people that use their service. Scrazzle is targeted at the English-speaking population of the world and makes no allowances whatsoever for foreign language. In fact, certain countries are not allowed to use the service. I was told this was decided upon as a control for spam and bots which wreck havoc throughout Twitter and easiest way to stop all that is from the start.

This service is currently in his infancy and is slowly gaining members. Whether or not it becomes a viable alternative to Twitter is not up to them, is up to you. Users make the choices and the differences to the services that they use.

Social media has moved past, merely connecting you to your friends. It is now, a viable marketing machine and as such can be utilized. What most fail to realize, is that to sell something, it has to be visible.

Many assume something false; is that my product or service is on the net and that's all I need to do. This is this far from the truth as you can get. Marketing is a commitment to both time and energy. You need as many people as possible to see what you're offering in order to have an impact. That is why when you see a new way to market, perhaps you should join, because once again it is in your best interest.

Scrazzle currently doesn't have any cute terms referring to it. Twitter has, Tweet. Perhaps you, the reader, can suggest a name that refers to posting on Scrazzle?

TRAINS BY THE RIVER

By Steven W. Wise

Why did Hamlet trouble about ghosts after death, when life itself is haunted by ghosts so much more terrible? Chekhov, Notebooks, 1892-1904

He sits in a green vinyl recliner patched with duct tape in a paint-peeled house one hundred yards from a steep cliff that descends to the Missouri River, and on cold mornings in early spring, when the fog is high and smoky above the water, he says that he can't claim for absolute goddamn sure that Vietnam isn't on the other side, a gaggle of Montagnards flaying alive a staked Vietcong who spits at them and makes not a sound as they paint their faces with knives coated in his blood and feed his skin like limp parchment to snarling dogs.

"I'm not sure any of the little fuckers were even half human, either bunch of 'em. Especially the Yards, even though they were on our side. They had this sacrifice ritual, did it every year or so, they'd tie up a water buffalo and beat it to death with sticks and rocks. Nothing else allowed. Just like their ancestors did it a thousand years ago. I watched it once...for a while anyhow. Never felt so sorry for a critter in my life. It takes a while to put down a big old buff with sticks and rocks. A helluva while." He pauses, the fingers of his right hand extended, as if electrified for a second. "They were tougher than us, the Vietnamese and the Yards both. I'm sure of that. They're still there, still trying to murder each other. Me, I've been through a half dozen VA shrinks, had my wife finally leave me after thirty years, and until about a month ago, didn't know whether to read my Bible or tear it into a thousand pieces right before I took a flyin' leap off yonder cliff."

He smiles, thin and mirthless, through a long, grey beard that looks like it might be hiding a family of mice. I haven't seen or heard from him since high school graduation night, not once. The phone call came out of the blue. Save for his eyes, the beard hides his visage, but I still see Mike, long face, easy smile—crooked and infectious—one front tooth lapped slightly over the other. I see him in his blue corduroy Future Farmers of America jacket, the hand-sized FFA lettering gold on his back. I think I remember that he won a blue ribbon once for a heifer at the Moniteau County Fair, but I can't say for sure. His speech pattern is exactly the same, like a man in a contest to see who can talk the slowest.

The smile fades. "My luck, probably snag my ass halfway down on a tree limb and take a week to give up the ghost. Joke's on me, huh? Damn joke's lasted about forty-two years now, my sorry ass snagged on that limb." He looks up at me. "I ain't asking for pity, you understand. I don't pity myself. It's like...wonderment or some such...like a long strange fucken dream that ought to be over, but I'm still in it." He shakes his head. "I don't expect you to understand. I don't even care if you do." He pauses, looks out the window. "But I called you, huh? Why the hell did I do that if I don't care that you don't care?"

"I do care." He nods his head and I think he means to thank me.

"Then there came this other dream I got to tell you about after a while. But there's other stuff first. There was this light colonel, a real ladder-climber, gonna be a general officer at a very young age, don't you know. Long on speeches to his hero troops who were going to wipe out every slant-eyed, yellow-skinned gook in Nam and Cambodia both. He never missed a chance to send a platoon or a company out into the shit, sometimes...hell, most times...just to see if we could make contact. Didn't matter a fuck to him if we ran into a battalion or a regiment, hoped we did. Then he'd get in a chopper and swoop around the sky, watching the proceedings, like a football coach in the air, urging his boys to kick ass, stop 'em, then make a touchdown so he could chalk up another win. The guy that shot him down with an M-60 was a big old farm boy named Dexter, from Alabama. That night, I asked him if it was a hard shot. 'Oh hell no, he says, 'bout like shootin' at a giant duck. I just led him good, and the belt feedin' one out of five tracers...shit, man, not hard at all. The pilot was open to my side, nothin''tween me and him but air. Only real worry was not bringin' the bird down, 'cause I knew damn well they could figure out where it was comin' from. But when I saw him slump over I knew it was a good shoot. Couldn't tell if the colonel got hit too. Hope not. Hope the fucker screamed all the way down, then roasted for a while after the crash."

Mike looked up at the ceiling, at nothing, or something, or everything. "Dexter said that his only regret was having to bring down the pilot too, but it was just one of those tough-shit deals. Him or us, you know. Said he wondered what his momma would think of him if she knew. I told him that if his momma was here and she knew the colonel was using her baby boy's ass for gook bait, she would have got down on all fours and let him prop the 60 over her back for better aim. He said 'yeah, reckon she might've at that.' He let it go after that, we all did, never another single word. The First Sergeant knew what happened, and he was okay with it, totally. The LT might have figured it out, or not, we never knew for sure, but I think he knew we'd of fragged his ass if he squealed. He wouldn't have been the first."

"In the end, what sent me to the shrinks was the chaplain back at the base camp, man of God, don't you know, Major Mallory. Man, he looked the part from head to toe—tall, square-jawed, spit and polish, big black Bible always handy, zipper cover, purple ribbon markers, gold page edges. Cadillac of a Bible. Could preach his ass off. Even had some bad boys from big cities holdin' their hands towards the sky once in a while when he got on a roll about righteous battle and taking down the foe. I thought pretty high of him...until after the Montagnard thing went down."

"We came up on this little ville built into a rocky hillside, and the Yards from the get go were all up in the air about it. Told our interpreter it was filthy with VC sympathizers. The Yards waded in there, yellin' and screamin', but it was all women and kids, a couple old men looked like dried prunes. Before it was over, a lot of butchering took place. We mostly stood back, most of us took a walk and smoked, but I couldn't, like some mindless moth drawn to that flame you read about. I might have got through it if it hadn't been for a little girl, maybe twelve, thirteen...beautiful face, raven hair, great big ole black eyes. There was this one Yard, we called him The Crab. About the size of a hundred and twenty-five-pound chimp, and damn near as strong. Had hands like a man twice his size, and these nails, thick as clam shells and long, woulda done for a damn werewolf under a full moon. He wore a necklace of dried ears, but not a one was cut off. He just ripped 'em off. I saw him do it a couple times. Unbelievable...like you

would tear off the corner of a magazine page. One of our guys claimed that he took the ears so easy because he started at the top with a thumbnail cut."

Mike falls silent, a man gone to stone, breathless, lifeless, and then it passes with the rise and fall of his chest. I knew what he was going to say.

"The Crab had her by one arm and slung her up against a hut and then he ripped off both of her ears at the same time and just left her there. She didn't scream, she just whimpered, kinda like a pup that had lost its momma, held her hands where her ears used to be. Just whimpered. I'll always regret that I didn't just yell at the Crab and run up to him and put a round through his head before he took her ears, and just live with the consequences. To tell you the truth, if I had, I don't think we'd be having this conversation. I might have turned out halfway normal. But I didn't shoot the little ape. Goddamn me, I can still hear her whimper. I heard it for so long that I went to talk to the chaplain the first day we got back to the base, and I told him about the girl and that I couldn't get her out of my head. You know what the sorry bastard told me? He told me that I was a pussy who needed to grow a set of balls and act like a real trooper and that a lot of hard things happened in war and he told me to get my ass back to my platoon. Well, after that, fuck it all was my motto, and that worked for about five years or so I guess and then it didn't work at all. I'd tell myself that the girl is doing okay, that she would wear that long black hair over the ear holes...doin' all right, don't you know. But I'd know better, I always knew better."

"Well, anyhow, that's when the shrink parade started, and it was an on-and-off thing till about a year ago, and when I came home and told the wife that the sumbitch was clearly crazier than I was and that I wasn't ever...I mean fucken ever...goin' back, she said that I would go back or she would leave. I didn't and she did. I still have no idea whatsoever what was goin' on in her mind. I mean, I was never better after a session, not once, and she could surely see that, but somehow, she had it in her mind that my bein' hooked up with these...these...white coats...these professional head docs was my only chance."

He shook his shaggy head and came as close to genuine laughter as I think was possible for him. "Christ smokin' a joint, but they were somethin' I tell you. This one, the last one, he was a peach. Pipe smoker. We'd go out on this little veranda so he could light up. He'd pack and tamp and tamp and pack...great big old bowl carved like the head of an Indian chief...he'd fuck with that thing like it was his last time before climbing the gallows steps, and then he'd finally fire her up and suck that first long drag to the bottom of his lungs and then slow shoot the cloud at my head, like he thought it might hypnotize me I reckon, and he'd look at me through those Coke bottle glasses and say, 'well, Mike, my friend, let's make some progress today, shall we?' I might say something like, 'hell yeah, doc, let's do it. Let's play pretend that The Crab regretted his actions toward the little girl and that he found the village medicine man to patch her bloody ear holes and made her feel all better and took her in like a child of his own and that now they loved each other more than life itself and she found a perfect little brown husband and they had beautiful babies that The Crab held in his lap, since he'd become the perfect fucken grandpappy. How's that?' And he'd say something like, 'Mike, my friend, we've got to get past the bitterness or we'll never find a better place for you.' And I'd say, ' But, doc, the bitterness feels so right, don't you know. Why would we want to make something go away that feels sooooo fucken right, huh? Don't you want me to deal in reality, huh?' That's how it went, but the sumbitch never got rattled, he'd just keep suckin' on that pipe like a Saigon whore on a cock. Then I swear to God, I could see...l mean see...his mind wander. It was like watchin' the spokes of a wheel slow down, then just stop." He shook his head as if to clear it. "That last time, he rolls over on one cheek and farts...sounded like somebody rippin' a rotten towel in half...and he says, 'Mike, my friend, if we could just get you to release your bitterness like I've just released that venomous'...like he was talkin' about a fucken snake for chrissake... 'gas from my system, we'd be so much better off.' We just stared at each other for about five minutes, just stared, while he sucked till his pipe went out."

"Had another one, looked like Walter goddamn Cronkite, I swear. Like to fell over the first time I laid eyes on him, and he said, 'yes indeed, the resemblance is remarkable, isn't it, but we won't let that be a distraction, now will we, Michael?' He took a particular interest in the chaplain who started this whole mess, kinda like he was more worried that I thought bad of the chaplain than he was that I was leakin' brains faster than a twenty-year-old car leaks oil. Old Cronkite, he tells me that even men of God can become hardened by the things of war and that he was probably suspicious that I was trying to play the crazy card on him, or that he didn't even believe it all went down the way I claimed, and that despite my experience with him, he no doubt brought solace to a great many young soldiers. I told him that the sumbitch absolutely knew for sure what the Yards...and some of us as well...did in lonesome places in the Highlands, and furthermore, it shouldn't make a flyin' fuck to him about anything except using his big old Bible and his high Christian brain pan to help me through my troubles, since that was supposed to be his job, not acting like George Blood and Guts Patton. He never did come back with a decent argument against that. At least he was smart enough to know better than to try that on me.

"Well, anyhow, all that bullshit went on about like that, one form or another. I could tell tales all night about the white coats. I don't think any of 'em really gave a shit to tell you the truth, kinda like us head cases are the same as junk mail to the postman...just job security. But the thing is, I don't really feel hard toward 'em. I mean, really, how can one man get inside the head chambers of another man, when, truth is, he's as fucked up in some way or the other as the man he's supposed to straighten out. I mean, think about it, really. The pipe guy, he's probably thinkin' about screwin' his big-tittied receptionist, or maybe his kid is droppin' acid and he can't stop him. Or maybe, old Cronkite, maybe what he'd really like to do is jump over the desk and strangle my sorry ass and clean up the gene pool a little. Maybe he looks straight at me with those soft eyes and feels his thumbs against my Adams apple. Shit. Get inside another man's head and fix him. Shit. Like taking two balls of snarled binder twine and rubbin' them together and expecting to make a decent square knot. Ain't gonna happen, don't you know."

Dusk falls, weighty and quick, but Mike makes no move to get up and turn on a light. Minutes pass. A whippoorwill night calls in the distance and then a long freight train rumbles below us on the tracks that border the river. Five minutes long is the train heading into the gathering darkness. He stirs, says, "What is it about a train sound that a man likes so?"

"I can't put my finger on it, but I know what you mean."

"The trains do help me a lot." He huffs a dry laugh. "They help me a thousand times more than the shrinks. Whatcha think they would say about that if they knew?"

"Maybe a real good one would just agree and tell you to live close to the tracks."

He huffs again, louder. "There's none out there that good, I'd bet my nuts in a vise against a Hershey bar.

"Here's the strange thing, man, or maybe it isn't. I'm finding myself reading my Bible lately. I just read from the New Testament, skip around, the four gospels mainly, maybe a little Paul here and there, but mainly the Jesus stuff, the red letter stuff, don't you know. No Old Testament stuff, too much goddamn bloodshed, I'm full of that already. Does that make sense?"

"Which," I ask, "reading the Bible in general or just the Jesus stuff?"

"I guess it's two questions."

"It makes perfect sense, both ways."

"Strange, I tell you. The urge started creeping up on me not long after the wife left, but it was after the dream about the girl when I knew I had to start. She walks up to Jesus, whimperin' like she always does, her hands over her bloody ear holes, and he's in a white robe, just smiling down at her, and he reaches out with both of his hands and puts them over hers and then pulls them down and her ears are back like The Crab never got hold of 'em. Just like when he put that ear back on the guard that Peter carved on with his sword. I read about that no more'n a day after the dream. I don't think that's a coincidence, myself. Holy Jesus, it was so real, I tell you. I woke up and I'd cried and leaked snot on my pillow."

He is shadowman now, a voice gone silent in the close air of the cluttered living room, but I can feel his energy, the engine of his soul churning in time with the great diesels tugging the freight train now five miles down the tracks. Forearms rise in the owl light as he places his fingers over his ears, strokes their outline. The moon is three-quarter, clean white, and there are no clouds above, and after a time the humble light bleeds through the window panes as if a sentient being, fearful of intrusion. His head slumps forward, chin to chest, like a bone-weary man finally succumbing to sleep, but I know that he is not asleep. He says, "I think I might make it to the proper end, all said and done, but I don't think I want the end to be too far, you understand. Maybe five years, or ten, if I can still keep it together. No more'n that for sure. The five is probably closer to right. That'd be enough. How much more you want?"

"I really haven't thought about it, whatever comes comes."

"That's good, like it ought to be. Only crazies like me calculate years to the grave."

"No, that's not so. Sooner or later, we all calculate, all worry some about hanging around too long."

He raises his head, but otherwise does not stir. "Well, I know you need to get back home, didn't mean to keep you so long."

"It wasn't that long, not long at all. I want you to pick up the phone anytime day or night."

"Oh, I won't be a bother. Last thing I want to be is a bother to anybody." He extends his right hand and I get up, move to his side and take it with both of mine, squeeze firmly. I walk to the front door, ask if he wants a light on. "No, think I'll stay right here for a long while, probably till the midnight freight rolls by. It's a damn fine one, that train, sometimes takes seven or eight minutes. My God, but I hope the trains never stop runnin' down by the river. That might be more'n I could tolerate."

"They won't." I look back a final time. "Stay in the red letters, Mike." I think I see his head nod, but I'm not certain. He is shadowman again, the inscrutable mass of a spirit, one with the gloaming. Nothing is certain.

Jesus, in His final act of mercy before going to the cross.

Luke 22: 50-51: And one of them smote the servant of the high priest, and cut off his ear. And Jesus answered and said, "Suffer ye thus far." And he touched his ear and healed him.

### ThoughtFood

Advent of belief

Hardwiring explains a lot about the human psych, the brain and how we perceive. We are preprogrammed from the start to believe in something, anything. There are no true atheists as well there are no true religions.

When you're dealing with fundamental belief systems, they all stem from the same thing, and that is a belief. You believe something to be true; you have no evidence, just that particular conjecture.

It is not a debate about religion, or even which religion would be perceived to be correct. There are essential flaws in everything.

When you begin to question the reality of religions and beliefs, any and all evidence, is merely anecdotal with absolutely nothing concrete to back it up. You simply believe.

From the beginning of time, man has attempted to explain natural events around him. The sun appears in the sky every day and then disappears for the night. That must absolutely mean something. Someone or something must be in control because every day, the sun comes back.

Most religions are based on this very basic concept, the sun God. It may have been the very first question presented by the group staring at the skies. Because of our basic nature, we seek answers to the dilemma of what causes what.

Time has not presented the necessary answers to anything, in fact, it has added nothing more than confusion and chaos.

You have people killing each other over religion. You have religions claiming to be the only religion and if you don't believe them, then your fate will be absolutely horrible. Throughout the ages, man has fought and died over some concept of religion. Some died because they refused to believe, others because they did.

We've had the Crusades, the Inquisition and other nasty events in our history, all for the sake of a God that may or may not be watching. It is more believable, that if you had a God that created everything, he /he, or it has merely walked away and not involved in the daily undertakings of the plain humans.

Some may be screaming blasphemy, how dare I not believe in their God. My counter would be, how dare they try to force their God on me.

It seems that we are moving off-topic and more of a religious debate and that is not the purpose, what we want to do is look at the realities behind belief systems.

Bob Dylan said, "You have to serve somebody." John Lennon's approach was a little different. He wanted you to imagine a place that had no heaven and no hell. They don't seem like much of a statement, but in themselves, they represent a very large concept. They seek to illustrate the realities of what we believe, how we perceive it and what direction we should take.

Science, seems to offer up a myriad amount of facts, when, in fact, very little is factual and most are merely a theory.

Stephen Hawking suggested that God could not possibly exist because he could prove mathematically that he didn't. Hard to say whether the math holds up.

According to the Bible, everything we know and the world around us was created in seven days, well six actually, God took a break on the seventh. Science tells us, that evening started from the Big Bang and spread outwards from there.

There are problems with both concepts. The Big Bang represents a singular point in time, as we measure time, which seems to start from nothing and become something. That sort of sounds like God doesn't it.

We have no way to see beyond the beginning of the Big Bang. We can see the singular event but not what preceded it. You also have to bear in mind that the particular theory, the Big-Bang theory, itself is now being currently questioned over its validity.

We have many things in the universe that we can't explain, but we always have a theory that might. However, theory is a theory, much like belief, no real facts to support it that would make it a fact.

We live in and exist in a very narrow timeframe; considering the age of the universe, as we know it, a minor fraction of time compared with the whole. It's in that time, that we make decisions about ourselves. Most people are more than happy to pursue the crowd and just blindly follow on.

That is the making of religion and ultimately, the downfall of man. Instead of spending the time, working together as a group, infighting seeks to destroy us. We have wars and starvation. Ultimately, it seems not too many people looking past themselves. We all live in our own individual little world and rarely think about anything that is not directly attached to us.

Religion and science have both held us back in so many different ways. You have the scientific debate over particular theory or concept and often times; it is just discarded for no other reason than they don't want to believe it. Advances in science and medicine stagnate because somebody hasn't figured out a way to make money from something.

Diseases that affect an insignificant part of the population are never cured because is no cash to be gained. People starve all over the world, when we throw away food daily.

Religion hasn't fixed this and neither has science even though both have the power to make the change.

Ideas, concepts and inventions a lot of times are lost to the general population.

The Ionians, where one of the four major tribes of the Greeks, dating far back into prehistory. They were philosophers in the true sense of the word. One of the interesting discoveries they made was that they could prove the sun did not revolve around our planet, where, in fact, our planet revolves around the sun. This is important because it was forgotten and it was thousands of years before that was realized again. The major downfall of the Ionians was that they were not mired into religion and were freethinkers. Greek culture at the time decided that this particular thing was not allowable and they fell out of favor.

That is not the only thing that's been lost and will not be the last thing that is lost to the human world.

We now have the Internet, mass information available, ways to communicate that has escalated to the point that you can always be in touch. Some suggest this is a good thing and in itself it is, unfortunately, very few take advantage of what's really being offered.

Gods also fall out of favor and are now referred to as myths. The Greek Gods, the Egyptian Gods, the Norse Gods all have one thing in common, lack of believers. That is the only real difference between the religions we have now and the ones we used to have.

Most don't examine their own religion; they just believe it because Pastor Bob said it is true. There is no staring at the facts or even questioning what is being presented. That is a serious, serious error.

The Old Testament as referred to by the Judeo-Christian religions, or the Hebrew Bible as known to the Jewish persuasion is a collection of stories, events and history. Now the problem is that the stories, events and history are more than likely plagiarized from previous religions.

You have a vengeful God that has done nasty things to the planet, all for the sake of people not doing what they've been told. You have the great flood, typically referred to as the story of Noah and Noah's Ark.

Primitive cultures and other religions also have the same story, with different names for the characters. In all likelihoods, there is evidence in the archaeological digs to support the fact that in certain areas of the world there was flooding.

In the area that is now the Black Sea, it used to be highly productive farmland but was flooded out rather quickly and became the Black Sea. This certain amount of evidence that at the end of the last Ice Age, an ice dam in North America, northern Canada was holding back a major lake. The ice dam, wore away from the bottom, emptying its entire contents through the artic oceans and thus raising the sea level around the world. It has been suggested that this happened in a very short timeframe. Could that be the evidence of the flood? It may be.

All throughout history, things that cannot be explained easily were blamed on God and God's wrath.

Every religion in the world has things in common with other religions and most will share the same story database.

So it is not a question of me telling you what to believe or not to believe, the real question is, why do you believe what you do? We started with the fact that your brain is hardwired to believe in something, so therefore, that is built-in and apparently must be satisfied. It is up to you how you satisfy that. It is up to you to find your own conclusions and be responsible for your individual thoughts. You can follow like a sheep, or you can walk your own path.

There are some interesting points to ponder if you really want to start looking at your religion.

For the Judeo-Christian, let's look at some of the items suggested to be a fact.

Jesus, born in the first century and fact our calendar starts then. As the story goes Mary and Joseph were required by law to show up in the town of your birth for the Roman census. The Romans, were prodigious at record keeping, they wrote down everything. The Christ child does not appear in the records. Further to the point, with the death of Christ, he is reported to have on the cross with him, two other criminals. Once again, no record exists of this. It is unlikely that the Romans forgot to write this down.

Most would have you believe, that the New Testament was written shortly after the death of Christ. It wasn't. It was written in approximately the 10th century and has been modified since then to represent the wishes of the church. It is interesting to note that the Dead Sea Scrolls, while not entirely intact, have also been deciphered and seem to be written in the first century. They do not match what is written in the New Testament.

There are many glaring omissions and/or fabrications that are presented throughout the Bible.

When dealing with the Islamic religions, some things appear to be almost humorous intent. They do not believe in Jesus Christ; however, because it's been prophesied that he is to come through a certain gate in a particular city, they have walled up the gate.

Jehovah witnesses believe that only a small fraction of the population will make it into heaven and that number is incredibly low, less than a quarter million. That means only quarter-million people that have ever lived and that will live in the future, will ever have a chance to make it into heaven. Your particular odds are not good.

What most religions miss is one of the things they profess the most, love and understanding. That seems a rare commodity in this world. It is unfortunate because if love and understanding abounded then many of this worlds problems would simply disappear.

Buddhism suggests that in life, you should cause no harm and perhaps it should be extended to say, you should not allow any harm to be done.

It is your life, your beliefs and you have to believe something so perhaps examining what you believe is a very first step in choosing the correct path not only for yourself, but for the world around you. A single individual can cause a change. 6 billion individuals will change everything.

We have the advent of possible global warming, disease strife and nuclear weapons that can bring a rapid departure for humans on this planet. Perhaps your beliefs should reflect the facts as they are and you, seek to make a difference.

If your religion preaches love and understanding, then perhaps you should take it to the next level and in doing so, make your own personal religion into something and not just the place to show up

See you in the Next Issue

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