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Razed In White

Writer's Corner February/March 2010

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With the word Island you can write about anything that incorporates some kind of island in some way, maybe.

Remember the rules:

1. One thousand words or less. A few more won't hurt anybody.

2. Since February is short, and I didn't really know I was meant to make this, the deadline is the end of March. (Don't blame me if this is wrong. :() Stories/poems/scripts are all welcome.

3. Vote by the 5th of April.

4. Criticisms are welcome, but please keep it in the nature of the corner.

5. Give it a shot, it's my first ever Writer's Corner topic and my life will be ruined if I only get one entry or something. :)


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I thought I'd give this a go. Sudden whim took me and swept me away.

Yay whimsy.

I broke the rules though. :mellow: I kept typing and typing and then I reached the end and then I couldn't get it whittled down any more without losing key themes. I stripped out quite a lot of the end part, which was tough. The story still ended up nearly 1500 words. Sorry and I hereby disqualify myself!

Anyway here it is:

I Was Once Driftwood

It was absolutely pissing it down. This was definitely not a great time to be walking home.

Against my better judgement, I pulled out my MP3 player to pick some music better suited to my mood. Stupid, stupid thing to do. The rain penetrated its casing in a matter of seconds and I heard The Beach Boys splutter and die in my ears.

Fucking thing,” I muttered, putting the dripping iPod back inside my jacket. Tugging the earbuds out, I was immediately struck by just how loud the downpour was. A rolling clatter of splats, drowning out even the shooshing traffic noise as lumps of liquid crashed around me.

“Fucking stupid thing!” I exclaimed, this time much louder. I was aware I was talking to myself. And in more ways in one.

I had never seen rain like this. I had never felt rain like this. It had begun during my lunch break, four hours ago. A few minutes of light drizzle, a sudden darkening of the sky, then this, this grand releasing of the heavens. In peaks and troughs the severity had persisted throughout the afternoon, at one calm point even offering me some hope that the rain may have emptied its load as my workday drew to an end. No such luck. The skies were in their full throes as I had finally shuffled outside. I was at least glad to find that it wasn’t cold; the raindrops fell with an energy. They seemed huge too, unnaturally so. Glass marbles that careened downwards, impacting against whatever stood in their way as weightily as they did wetly. These vertical streams filling the world made walking feel like I was pushing my way through some corridor of endless beaded curtains. Blustering rivers gushed alongside me tracing the roadside, often well above the level of the kerb, washing up on to the pavements. Miniature tides swept in and out as cars crawled passed. With increasing regularity I found that the overflowing banks would chase me to the far side of the footpath causing me to dance a little tiptoe dance in an attempt to mitigate the amount of water in my shoes.

It was all pointless though. Not only was I already soaked through to the bone, it wasn't long before I peered upwards, rain waterfalling down over my brow, and..

“Fucking.. Please, god no..”

It was huge. A lake, an actual god-damn lake. I should have expected it, obviously. This was the dip in the route home, where the leisurely downward slope became the annoying upward one. The lake stretched thirty, maybe forty feet. Spanned the entire road. Cars were halting before it, most pulling over and doing what they could to turn around. The only respite across the lake was the little bus shelter on its peculiar raised mound, afloat in the centre of this rippling mass. Yet even the shelter had occasional waves lapping up against it as the odd plucky vehicle, unsure of itself, waded onwards into water that in places was swallowing wheels whole.

There was no way around it. The only other route home involved walking back to the office and turning left instead of right to make the longer trip. That would add another twenty or so minutes to my journey and all with no guarantee that similar flooding wouldn’t greet me that way either. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I knew I had no other option but to do this. I just bought these bloody shoes, was all I could think.

Keeping to the far side as much as I could, I stepped out into the great puddle. It wasn’t so deep here up against the iron railings which marked the front of the terraces - not so deep straight away, that is. As the water level continued to rise, I began bounding, legs stretched, from one shallow part to another, before realising that the resulting splashes were doing me no favours. With all hope stripped, I stopped and took a moment to sigh deeply. I lifted my head and, releasing my grip on the railings, stepped out into the middle of the pavement.

Water washed into my footwear, into my socks. My toes swam. A dozen more steps and my shins were leaving bow wakes on the surface. I didn’t bother lifting my feet up, I was long past such attempts at damage management. I pushed on through.

Approaching the bus shelter, I wiped at my face in an attempt to clear my vision for just a second. It was right then, in that brief moment of clear sightedness, that I noticed her. She was stood, tucked in the corner of the shelter, peering away up the hill as she always was.

Bus Stop Girl, in all of her bobble-hatted glory.

What was she doing here? I thought, as my heart began to race and rattle in my chest. Bus Stop Girl was never here on the way home when I worked the regular shift - I’d only see her when I covered the prep shift, finishing an hour earlier. I realised that I’d stopped walking and was standing, ankle-deep, in the water a dozen or so yards from the shelter and the pinch of dry land which its position rejoiced in. She idly gazed my way and, as had happened so many times before, made fleeting eye-contact with me before looking away. I must have looked an absolute idiot to her. Bus Stop Girl..

She was beautiful.

Her blue and pink wooly hat was today indigo and purple from the downpour and the big expansive lenses of her thick-rimmed spectacles were sheeted in trickles of water, looking for all the world like two rain-spattered patio doors for her eyes. Her small, flat, checkered shoes peeked out from under a pair of denim bell-bottoms that hung dark and heavy below a bright yellow raincoat, plastic, the sort I only thought you saw in Sunday newspaper comic-strips.

I coughed, swept my hair back off my forehead and walked towards the shelter, suddenly and unnecessarily aware of how wet I was underneath my clothes.

Dry land was a relief. Bus Stop Girl had turned and glanced at me again as I'd squelched up out of the lake, this time leaving a ripple of a smile on her face as she looked away. She'd thrown me that smile on two separate occasions in the last seven months and I still remembered both vividly.

I stood under the shelter, savouring the release it granted from both the rain which fell and the rain which had fallen. Simultaneously, neurons were secretly exploding in my mind as I fumbled with the reality of what was happening. This was an opportunity! I wanted to say something. I wanted to say something so fucking badly. But the plug - that awkward, awful, panicky blockage - was in my throat. Any spark of a conversation-starter that came to me was immediately doused by a thousand and one doubts, washing it away. I wanted to run. And yet I didn’t want to move an inch. Right now this bus shelter, this vacuum of space in which I was sharing awkward - yet unmistakeably pleasant - company with the girl who had for months flitted through my grey workday dreams, this tiny island of dry comfort, this was the only place I wanted to be.

The silence in the air swept away the torrential cacophony around us.

“I think it’s fair to say,” she said, turning away from the hill to look at me and sitting down on the bench, “that I’ve missed the village bus.”

I paused, unsure. Talk.

“Um,” I forced myself to say. The plug in my throat loosened, just a touch. “Uh, hi. You’re.. on your way home?”

“Nope,” said her mouth, shaping itself into a mock pouting frown. “And hi. Other way. Heading to work. The Oaken Ark pub down in Flockbridge.” Her brow furrowed adorably as she nodded back over my shoulder to indicate where she was headed.

“Ah... Gotcha.” 'Ah, gotcha'..? I’d never hated myself more.

She continued looking at me, expectantly. I'd begun to fidget with my sleeve. I didn't sit down.

“You should, err..” I didn’t know where I was going with this sentence. I was on emergency autopilot. Oh god, oh god. “You should.. call in and say that you, um, unfortunately you can't make it in to work because.. you drowned?”

And to my eternal amazement she laughed. She actually laughed.

“Aahaha,” her eyes sparkled. “I should, I should."

She turned back to watching the hill again, a dimple flowering on her cheek as she silently awaited the bus.

Long moments swept past. I gazed out at the wet world and wondered what I was doing.

Abruptly, Bus Stop Girl ended her hilltop vigil and the rustle of her yellow coat snapped me out of my anxious musings. She was looking at me, the faintest dab of a mischievous smile on her lips, "Bugger it. You‘re right.”

“I am?”

“You are. Screw work.”

I smiled back, returning hers.

A pause. And then..

“The water’s deeper on this side you know?” She was gesturing to the other stretch of lake that lay ahead, away from her place of work and towards the direction of both our homes. “Saw someone paddling through it a while ago and it was practically up to their knees at one point. You know, right at that dippy bit by the house with the funny white stable-door.”

I knew the dip she meant.

She stood up, took off her glasses and gave her face a wipe, forehead to chin. After placing the glasses back on, meaningfully jamming them up to the bridge of her nose, she looked me full in the face and asked, “Well then. Shall we?”

She stepped closer and, turning her body towards that miniature ocean, primly stuck her elbow out, offering me her arm. Her eyes smiled at mine from behind their patio doors.

“Uh. What? I mean.. Oh," ..god. Oh god. I pulled the plug out with every ounce of strength.

"Ha. I mean, sure. I.. guess we shall.” My thoughts equal parts giddy and dizzy, I obligingly linked my arm through hers.

And, just like that, we waded out together. Away from our little dry island and out, into the water.

Into all of those unfathomable depths that lay ahead of us.


EDIT@2010/02/17: Gave the little story a bit of a random polishing; trimmed it a bit over there, fleshed it out a tad over here, rearranged a few particularly clunky lines and changed the title to something that struck me as slightly less crap.

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Not sure which spelling you mean.

The first one made me go "Argh!" when I didn't spot it straight away. The second made me go "Oh you" because I appreciate when folks attempt to fit in with the locals.

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"It’s like an island in the sky", mumbled Choa, who spat a globule of narcotic tainted saliva down the side of the building. He watched it fall for several seconds until a passing car whipped it away as it flew past. He thought he saw it zoom sideways and then continue on its fall, past a hovering taxi, thirty stories below them. He imagined that he could still see it as his vision blurred, the drugs stirring a melancholic tickle in his mind.

"What?" said Milo. Who sat leaning back against the metallic tubing which sucked great swathes of fresh air into the depths of the building, on whose roof they were sat, to feed the ten thousand or so workers inside.


"Fuck Malatha man. It’s shit."

Choa reached into the pouch that sat between them and pinched a tiny amount of the powder. He sucked his fingers.

"Malatha," continued Milo, "is a fucking misnomer."

"You don’t even know what a misnomer is!" laughed Choa, his brain fizzled and lights seemed to grow inside his eyes. He watched the hovering taxi start to move, then burst into flames, then turn into a rat or something and then scuttle away around the building. He blinked twice and the taxi reappeared.

"Nah it ain’t. See Malatha should really be called Cuntland!" They both giggled and then looked around themselves as if someone might be listening. "Cos only cunts live there and only cunts want to get there."

Choa laughed along but he knew as well as Milo that offered the chance to reach the great city in the sky, they’d probably walk all over each other, let alone sell their grandmothers.

Out of an earth population of twenty-four billion only seven million lived in Malatha; seven million lucky souls, 0.03 percent of the world’s population.

"Lucky fuckers" said Milo.

"We’ll get there one day."

"Hah!" Milo sneered unkindly at Choa, "wake the fuck up little man. You and I will never be citizens of Malatha. You realise how much money you need to get in there?"

"Yeah I know."

"How much do you earn now?"

"Three maybe four gees a week. Depends on the overtime."

"Yeah," said Milo taking a large pinch of the powder, "and how much do you spend on this stuff."

"Enough, heh."

"You’ll need about thirty billion to get into Malatha. Thirty billion."

"Might happen."

"Stop dreaming dude, do you know how many people joined Malatha from Ground last year?"


"Eight ,man. Eight. Fucking fuck all. They got all they need. Fucking robots and food vats and all the thermal power they’ll ever need. They don’t want our products, they don’t need our minerals, they don’t fucking need us. The only thing that stops them zooming off into space and leaving us all to rot is a desire to fucking belong to the human race still. And people like you, sat there sucking a bit of powd, dreaming starry eyes at the fucking city in the fucking sky just make matters worse. Stop dreaming and start working out what you can get on the ground."

The two young men sat in silence and watched the sun slowly set beneath the giant island floating amongst the clouds.


Ali Maljah sat on the edge wall, his robot held the back of his shirt like a paranoid parent. He dangled his legs and looked at the sprawl so many miles beneath him, the spires of countless buildings stood like a million styluses.

He sighed and turned to his companion Mary "What do you think it’s like down there?"

"Crap" said Mary, who sniggered, she was stood by the wall, leaning on her elbows, trying to look cool. She was a year older than Ali and would be going on to University in the next semester. He was going to miss her company because he had a faint crush of her; she was gorgeous. But he wasn’t going to miss her inanity or stupid proclamations.

"It can’t be all crap" said Ali, sighing again. He tried to zoom in on one of the nearest buildings but quickly lost sight of it and ended up seeing a street. People were walking along it while cars lifted and set down amongst them. It was chaos, a scary mix of a crazy populace.

"You know right that people have to work on Ground?" asked Mary thoughtfully tapping her cheek with one well manicured finger.

"Well duh, talk about first year economics,"

"Okay, so how many hours a day do you think they have to work?"

"I dunno," he blinked and his vision bought up his most-favoured wiki page.

"Stop looking it up!" said Mary.

"Typically the average ground worker will toil for forty hours a week. Blimey, that’s enough to complete a Simulcast!"

"It’s enough to read a book!" said Mary, in what she considered a luminescent manner.

"Mary," said Ali quietly and looked over his shoulders at his robot, its dull eyes told him nothing. "Is it true that some of your friends have been down there?"

"Oh yeah," she said smiling. "I have."

"No way!"

"Yeah, I went down there with my brother and his two friends."

"What was it like?"

"Squalid. There was like, stuff all over the streets."

"Stuff?" Ali frowned at her.

"Yeah, like things that people didn’t want anymore, they’d drop them on the streets."

"But what about the people?" asked Ali hungrily.

"They smelt bad." She giggled at him.

Ali sighed. It was pointless talking to this girl about anything serious, she had no idea about things that had nothing to do with her own vanity. One day, thought Ali, one day I’m going to go down there and check it out for myself. And if I like it, like its edge, its power and chaos then I won’t ever come back to Malatha again. Malatha with its ivory coloured towers and ordered ‘free’ society could fuck the fuck off.

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To have heard of Geolo (not her real name) is paradoxical. It is akin to that gathering of your thoughts in one corner of your mind, as you feel the teasing nearness of a name you cannot quite recall. But she will eternally remain obscure (of course, her gender is an assumption). Necessarily unknown, like all true wonders she is never more than tantalising. This description I will provide is at best an imitation of an echo unheard, yet puzzles do ask patience of us and Geolo’s haunting quiet has instilled in me a passion for the allure of mystery. What is it about the unknown that so charms us into reckless devotion? I tell you, it is the deception of our most corporeal feeling of certitude that we, each of us, possess that finest knowledge: the answer to the problem. Look how the boy proclaims he and no other would best accord with the girl, among billions other candidates; see the person pursue her career for future wealth and all its consequents when the present must knowingly fall as sacrifice; consider, actions of this life as response to what surely awaits after death! Or it is the thrill of the new, as when devotees to the moment pledge their souls to accepting that they do not know what will be! In our hearts uncertainties beat, but we quell all self naysaying with that most religious of ceremonies: consecrating terror that it might, in our rapture, unravel into desire.

Ah Geolo, how your choices make me want to learn of you, and yet you make that impossible! She is her own final cause — there’s a way to get at her. Her endeavours were directed at escaping the clutches of community, and growing through self-sufficiency alone, and she above all others has succeeded. With unabated fidelity she pursued a genuinely idealised self, created it, became it, and in so doing claimed authority on reclusion. She, the eternal whisperer, the forever deaf, wanted her complete and unmitigated independence. She wanted to be an individual of her own making. How this want grew in her is beyond analysis, but we all feel the wearisome tug of ties and influence; Geolo differed only in her resolution to run until every fetter snapped, like Pinocchio loosed, but necessarily with no audience to witness her liberation. Like puppets still tethered we grasp up any nearby strings and pull and twist them in the hope that they may be our own, for some gullible sense of control. Geolo let go of it all and thus abandoned us, freeing herself.

We need not doubt that she carried the impulse to be her own person while still living among us, perhaps choosing her own voice, her own body language to thus scoff at the force of lineage and habituation, concocting her own words and spiting Wittgenstein by constructing a linguistic game she alone could play. Family would be discarded, as all growth demands, and the trials of looking after herself would have given some sense of identity I am sure, but nowhere near enough for her. Friends were devastating, spreading their viral influence with every sickening token of faux-individuality and every suffocating pattern of conformity; she would have realised their pernicious influence held true for all people around her. The result is where we can speak with greater clarity, and begin to speak of the Geolo we cannot speak of: she left behind everyone to become the most radical hermit. An individual is not only self-made, she is disconnected from all others, and so Geolo ensured she could not be found. In her own company she ruminated on how best to excavate the youthful founds of socialisation. Alone, with only old memories and new thoughts and the piercing sense of self in isolation, Geolo deconstructed every idea in her mind, challenged their worth by hunting their origin. Of course, they were all contaminated, but it is the prime virtue of reason that it is independent of us all, and so she built herself anew from first principles that she uncovered. Here, O Unmoved Mover, you did create yourself from rations of the madness of solitude! To awaken from dreamless sleep after expelling every distasteful effect we peopled into her, her senses would, with virgin awe, compel that pair of overriding questions: “what?” and “why?” and yet in such a primal manner, for she would have no need for words in that final state of birth.

Her world, true independence, is the transcendence of human experience. A pure self can only be empty. We will never locate her for she cannot be found, for the true individual influences as little as she is influenced. Perennially silent, she is as a loved one passed into death. We cannot say who or what she became; perhaps terrifying, perhaps beautiful — to suggest either is to misunderstand, for our judgements are meaningless. What does the individual care of us and our ways? She would not want to embrace you, has no interest in you, there are no words with which you can convince her to return, no action that will draw her to you. Beyond love, beyond humanity, the ultimate individual casts shadow only on herself. You that want to be your own person, know that you are outdone in that desire. Besides which, what you want to be is of a certain kind: you do not seek the unknown but harbour bland ideals of fame or happiness or wealth or family. They are not self, for to be you is to be unreachable and forgotten, unnamed and nebulous. Recollect the taste of a favourite food unsampled for years and see! how your whetted mouth toys with your perception of reality. I beg of you, seek not Geolo, for she is as real as that missing flavour. If you leave this text knowing anything of her it must be this: she is a perfect lost island.

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Not too sure about this but it was spur of the moment, the way any letter should be. Don't want to make it any more shit by explaining it further!


I know it's been a while since I left, and I've tried to find time to write, not that you'd know. It's been the least of my many worries and my anxiety disorder has been making problems where none exist. I'm sorry.

How long has it been now? About eighteen months right? I remember when just a few days away from you felt like a year and even then we still kept in touch. That was only a few days; now it feels like I've been gone forever. A lot will have changed in that time, but I'm not afraid.

I remember, before I left, some of the things we did together. Just after we met… met properly, I mean… we went to that park nearby. It was September and it was neither one season nor the other. The sun was shining but there was a light drizzle, making the sand in the kids' play area clump around our shoes and stick to our clothes. We lost ten years that day - clambering around the climbing frame and trying to get down the slide. And then we sat down as the rain sprinkled our hair; yours glimmering as bright as the summer sun and as golden as the falling leaves in autumn. We never kissed, we just sat there. Talked. I tried to push you off into the sand but you had the last laugh. Haha, I'm laughing to myself as I write this.

And then there was that time after Christmas, way back when. There hadn't been a white Christmas - the fantasy of sitting by an open fire as the snow daintily makes its way down from the skies; dancing, swaying to and fro in the chill breeze before settling gently upon the windowsill - in years. Our first Christmas together and it was just like how it's described in books and on TV… it can't have been a coincidence, can it?

The snow stuck around for a couple of weeks, being topped up every other day to keep the gritters at bay and make it last for the holidays. You came round to my house and we kissed and cuddled and watched DVDs, like we did every week, and just before we got to the car to take you home you attacked me with a giant snowball. I was distraught and you were wetting yourself. Once again you had the last laugh, and once again I'm chuckling to myself as I write it.

Every encounter introduced me to something new, something I'd never experienced before. Love, joy, sadness, pride, an appreciation for true beauty. You never believed it - and to anyone else you may just have been another girl -but I saw things in you that no one else could. You were, and still are, an amazing girl. It's been eighteen months but I just know it. Just me.

Why am I talking about all this, though? It was in the past and I left. I broke your heart and I fucked off, and only now am I man enough to try and talk again. I've been stuck out here for nearly two years, and I've lost everything to gain nothing. Like the worst sort of gambling addict, I played along when the game was good, and I carried on the same when the odds turned against me. It's not how it works but for all I cared, it was. No one was laughing then, and I'm choking back the tears now.

I still remember when, the first time we spent the night together, I won the lottery. It was only a tenner. Heh. Quit while you're ahead, they say.

You must want to know why I've decided to write to you now. Well, I'm coming back. I felt stranded… marooned. I went to Manhattan but there's not a soul on this damn island I feel anything for. I tried work, but I can't work with the people here. I couldn't bring myself to look for love, because I would be looking in the wrong place. There are no friends to make because the life they live is not my own. We said we wanted to go to New York on a holiday at one point, and it would've been great. Two weeks is all you need, really. It would've been good, that. But any longer is too much. You can take my word for it, if it means anything to you now.

I landed at Liverpool today and I'm stopping in a nearby hotel to gather my thoughts. The only thing harder than running away is crawling back, and as many words there are to write to you in this letter, the only one written on my face is 'regret'. I'll give you a call in a few days, once you've got this, if you've got the same number.

We once had a little falling out over something stupid but we made up, and I left. You remember? I got five minutes down the main road and you sent me a text telling me to come back for a hug, and just by chance it was when I went to find my phone after it slipped out of my pocket and slid under the seat. Without a second's thought I turned back because it was the right thing to do. Well now, it's taken a year and half of thinking and a bit more than a five minute drive but I'm turning back. I'm scared of what I'll find but it feels like the right thing to do.

I'm smiling at the thought, but I'm scared you might have the last laugh.

Love you.

x x

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Elvis Robotican in "Even More Chocolatey"


Elvis Robotican - Brian Blessed

Choco the Monkey - Christopher Walken

Graphy the Visual Aid - Danny Devito

Act One Scene One

Enter Elvis Robotican

Elv. So I'm in the market, the supermarket, and I notice that my favourite "Sugar-Chocosnap-Ricekrisps!" cereal is coming up all the big man, boasting that it's "even more chocolatey!". Even Choco the Monkey says so.

Enter Choco the Monkey

Cho. Now they are even more chocolatey... Chocolicious one might say.

Elv. So I says to the guy, I says: "Hey Choco! You've been telling me this for years, like it's lifesaving information or something, like I care. I mean how chocolatey can they get before they are just chocolate in a box. Presumably there is some kind of upper limit to the chocolateyness. A 'chocolate ceiling' if you will." So he says:

Cho. They're even more chocolatey.

Elv. Well what could I say to that?

Enter Graphy the Visual Aid

Gra. Right then. This line across my face represents Chocolateyness against Time. Lets plot bacon. Not much.

Lets plot Chocolate. Line face man is stern :|

Lets plot Cereal. Hasn't improved since 1978 (cereal's hayday, the "Golden Wheat Age")

My highly accurate and relevent findings prove it.

Cho. Oh.

Elv. See.


Love the word, will be posting a real one before the end of the deadline.

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New South Greenland

“Could we talk about the Weddell Sea?”

Morrell paused, and for that moment so did the room. Specks of dust were held still in the glow of sunlight. A telling boll fell silent – frozen in time. And then he answered,

“Of course. Thought only for a minute.”

I looked up, eager to hear his answer.

“Well?” he asked in return “What would you like to know?”

“What did you see?”

“A lot of saltwater. I was on a ship–“

“I meant New South-“

“New South Greenland?” he interjected. I nodded, and, with a sigh, his head fell into the cradle of his hand, his long fingers like five great supporting beams. He leaned back in his chair, which let out a tired creak. Years of lines spread across his face. The bravura of earlier in the afternoon was gone, the sureness and suaveness gone, leaving only a sense of grave weight.

He looked up at me with earnest eyes, his face framed by two pillars of books that were stacked upon his busy desk. The sun, which had been filling the room with warm light, retreated behind a cloud, leaving a cold dullness in the oaky study. Morrell sighed again.

“If I told you, would you believe me?”

“Whatever you say, I will write it.”

“That’s not what I asked”

“I’m here to report. To let everyone know what you saw. I am here to report.”

“An objective account of this conversation? A report of the truth? I already gave that. I wrote of New South Greenland, I wrote in my books, which – if you’re of any decency – you would have read before conducting this interview. What I saw, Mr. Turner, is all in my books. I suggest you consult them.”

“But surely, Mr. Morrell, in retrospect you’d wish to comment on the speculation.”

“Which speculation is that, exactly?”

“The speculation on the...verifiability. Of your account.”

“Verifiability? I believe, Mr. Turner, that the phrase used was ‘Benjamin Morrell – the biggest liar in the Pacific.’ And, indeed, I believe it was your newspaper which coined it.”

“And I am here, sir, to record what you have to say in response to that! What your opinion is of these allegations.”

“My opinion, Mr. Turner? I do not deal in that medium. I am not interested in conjecture. I do not wish to engage in some exchange of base and baseless opinions.” He tapped one of his books that was lying next to him on the table “Sir, I am an academic. I am an explorer. I deal in geography, history and, above all, I deal in facts. Now if that is what you wish to hear from me, then I will patiently repeat myself, and give you...” he said with a mischievous grin “an objective account.”

I felt slightly beaten, as if I had lost some battle of wits. Nevertheless, I was relieved that the interview was continuing despite us having strayed into these rough waters. I gestured him to continue.

“It was March 1923. We had recently left Thule Island, and I had turned north, seeking to return to the Pacific Ocean and its warmer climes. I was examining some maps with my cartographer in the bridge when I heard my lookout cry for land.”

The sun returned to the room, filling it with effervescent luminosity. Morrell was sitting on the edge of his chair, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“I came to look what on Earth he was talking about, and there it was. Land. Solid land. Sure as that floor beneath your feet, Mr. Turner. Pure and white, whiter than ice, whiter than satin. Stretching across the horizon like a soft falling of snow upon the top of the globe itself. A sight of pure honest beauty. The most beautiful island that I have ever seen, and one to which I shall one day return. New South Greenland is there, sir, and if you wish to go see it then you shall.”

He allowed himself a slight smile and, pointing his long index finger at me like the barrel of a rifle, said

“That, Mr. Turner, is what I saw. And that is what you shall report.”

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Remember the rules:

2. Since February is short, and I didn't really know I was meant to make this, the deadline is the end of March. (Don't blame me if this is wrong. :unsure:) Stories/poems/scripts are all welcome.


So who won this? Did anyone do a word for March as I fancy getting back into this.


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Guys. :)

I wrote my writer's corner the other day, when I had to stay up till 6:30 to help someone out with this mermaid costume they were making. I was in this really great mood to write. And the story flowed fantastically...and then I got home at 8am. Went to sleep.


It's either in two places.

One: Hidden where no one, not even me, can find it.

Two: My room mate had a party that night and someone found it and picked it up.

I could always just rewrite it, but I don't think it would come out as good. Cry.

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