POLY-WRITES

En Hiatus: watch for new posts in fall 2011

2011-05-02T07:01:00.000-07:00

Yes, you may all have noticed that this blog has been pretty inactive. Sorry about that! I hope that JOE ROSS who has taken over the creative writing course at Polytechnique in my current absence will perhaps be able to put this blog to use next fall with the 2011-2012 class! Until then, please enjoy perusing the past posts, and if you are a polytechnique student and would like to post some creative writing here, please email me and I can provide you the means to do so!

Happy writing & reading to everyone!

Short Play by Romain Vuillez

2010-04-01T07:34:00.000-07:00

From "An Evening of words and theatre" performance at the Ecole Polytechnique on the 17 February 2010.

SHORT PLAY by Romain Vuillez, Acted by Matthieu Hubert and Sophie Potin

A couple on a couch at a party.

SALOME : It was something really pure, you know, being in the desert, all alone... At night you really get the feeling you are the only one left on Earth... but at the same time, I have never been so close to anyone than the Bedouins we were working with. The Bedouins are really amazing people. So much dignity... We shared tea with them, it was so meaningful, for them because it's part of their culture, and for us because we got the feeling of being accepted, as if we were belonging to the tribe. Their life is so different from ours, everything counts, the time is slower, and in a sense everything is much more intense... You know what I mean ?

JOHN : Yeah...

SALOME : You know, I tend to be very open, because I think that it's really important to connect to the others ; like now we are talking and while I'm sharing my thoughts with you, it's just like the inner me is touching the inner you. I can't stand people faking, or people being bored by sharing, because it's what really matters, you know. I like sharing with people, even in the small moments in life, when you go to the laundromat, when you go to the grocer...

JOHN : And not only by talking.

SALOME : Exactly, what was really strong in the desert was this bond that exists without words. But it is very difficult to get this kind of connection here, because everybody has something to do, somewhere to go, and everybody is always in a hurry. Including myself !

JOHN : I'm sure you have a lot of projects going on...
SALOME : Sure, I'm working on a new movie with the same team.

JOHN, coming closer : Really ? Great, about what ?

SALOME : Well, it's a secret, but I'm having a lot of fun with it. It's a beautiful experience. These people are so good at what they are doing, it's astonishing. You know, I believe there is a rule one must follow in cinema, the rule of the three Es : entertain, educate and elevate. Most of the time, a movie is all about entertaining, you have fun but nothing comes out of it. Or all about educating, but you get bored because nothing has been made to keep you interested. Some movies, and that is rare, manage to do both. But when a movie really reaches the spectator, makes him realize something important, really elevates his mind, then it's a masterpiece. And this new project is promising. Not only will it entertain, educate and elevate the spectators, but so it does with us who are working on it.

JOHN : Can't wait until it's out !

SALOME : I'm gonna tell you a part of the secret, because I trust you... You probably know I'm always deeply concerned by the environment, even if I've focused more on my career last times ?

JOHN : Of course, I've heard you've bought some land in South America.

SALOME : Yes, that's part of a bigger project, in order to give back the land to those who plow it. I'm glad you've heard from it.

JOHN (coming closer) : I really liked the idea ; very original, but concrete and simple.

SALOME : I know, people tend to avoid originality, have you noticed ? They never want to find out what's true and what's bullshit by themselves. But it is possible, you just need to look for the information. For instance, we are being manipulated by the big firms, but nobody realizes it because people don't read about it, don't ask questions... Who are Monsanto's shareholders, that's a good question. It's one of the themes of the movie.

JOHN : It's very interesting... (coming always closer)

SALOME : But don't tell anyone about it, okay ?

JOHN : Of course not ! I'm glad you trusted me enough to tell me this. I really feel there is this connection between...

SALOME (standing up) : Hold on, I'm gonna get another glass of champagne.(leaving)

JOHN : Wait a sec... (on his side) Shit ! Hope I haven't had to stand all this for nothing ! Phew, there she comes again.

SALOME (sitting) : Where were we ?

JOHN : You were telling me about...

SALOME : Oh yes I remember, the fact that people always believe what they are being told and never question it...

JOHN : That's right.

SALOME : You see, when there was this little scandal a few years ago...

JOHN : It's a shame how your words have been twisted !

SALOME : Oh thank you, I appreciate that. You know, I never said it hadn't happened or so, I just wondered if everything was as simple as they pretended... You know, it would not be the first time that a government manipulates the media.

JOHN : That's for sure !

SALOME : But nobody understood it, and nobody checked out what I had really said. But we talk, we talk and it's getting late, I need to go !

JOHN : So soon ? Let me take you back home...
SALOME : That's sweet of you, but it won't be necessary, I have a chauffeur. It was really nice speaking with you, we really had a good connection here, don't you think ?

JOHN : I was just thinking the same thing ! Why don't we...

SALOME : And that's really important, you know being able to share like this, so to say for nothing, just understanding each other, get to know each other.

JOHN : Yeah that's why...

SALOME : That's why we should take care of such small beautiful moments of life as if they were precious things, try not to destroy them.

JOHN : Certainly...

SALOME : I'm so glad you feel the same way than I do ! It was a real pleasure meeting you, John. I really like these kinds of memories, of very truthful exchanges. (kissing goodbye) Well, bye ! (leaving)

JOHN : Wait...wait... Damn !

The END !

PLAY by Romain Reboulleau

2010-04-01T06:47:00.000-07:00

From

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and theatre" performance at the Ecole Polytechnique on the 17 February 2010.

"PLAY" By Romain Reboulleau.
Acted by Manuella Boujard
and Tristan Picard
(Tree and butterfly: ? tba)

Characters:
Sean: 20 years old, has always lived in New York, kind of a bad boy.
Mary: same age, whimsical, with a permanent smile on her face

Setting:
Countryside. Some cows in the far background, a little river on the right. A broken bottle of gin lies next to a mobile phone, at the bottom of an old green tree. The summer sun rises slowly, the time must be around 8 a.m.

[Both characters are asleep: Sean on his back, outspread arms; Mary comfortably installed with what seems to be her sweatshirt under her head. Sean snores suddenly loudly, which awakes Mary. She opens her eyes and sits cross-legged.]

Mary: Hey, are you awake ?
[Snore]

Mary: Can you hear me ?
[Snore again, Mary gets closer]

Mary: Nope, I guess you're still sleeping... [Pause] I hate snoring people. I'm going to try that trick.
[She whistles, the snoring stops. Big smile on her face, and little innocent laugh. Then the snoring starts again]

Mary [shaking Sean violently]: GET-UP-I-CAN'T-STAND-IT-A-NY-MORE !!
[Sean awakes suddenly, and gets on his feet. Little innocent laugh again from Mary, who gets up]

Sean [visibly drunk]: My head... Where am I? Whohoooo...
[He falls and lies on his back again, in the same position as before. Mary stands over him, behind his head. She bends to get closer to his face]

Mary: Hi, my name is Mary. So what are we here for?

Sean: Hmm, what? What do you mean? How did I get here?

Mary: I don't know, you were already here when I arrived. I thought you were here for a purpose, so I stopped and decided to take a nap.

Sean: A nap? In the middle of the night? This is all insane!

Mary: Oh, no, don't worry, I must have slept, like, 20 minutes or so. The sun was already rising when I arrived.

Sean: Yeah, all right. I kinda don't care. Where are we?

Mary: How should I know? You tell me.

Sean: Do I look like I know what I'm doing here? I don't even remember leaving the house.

Mary: How come people don't remember what they do? [Little laugh] Must be funny!

Sean [still not moving, breathing with some difficulty]: You're already boring me. Where are we?

Mary [thinking]: As far as I can tell, we are in the middle of a field. A field where there are many cows. And a tree.

Sean: Oh, come on...

Mary: What? I don't know where we are, I was following a butterfly and I lost its trace when it went in that tree. Then I heard you snoring, I thought you were here for some important reason, like you were waiting for a nice white rabbit to get out of his burrow, or something of that type. [pause]
Were you?

Sean: [Sigh] No way... Get me my iPhone.

Mary: What is an eye-phone? Do you mean that kind of phone you can put on your eye, to see the person you're talking to? What does it look like?

Sean: Oh come on! My iPhone, my cell phone. Must be over there.

Mary: Oh, I see it!
[She gets to the phone with little jumps, takes it in her hand and watches it for a moment]

Mary: Nope, must be some kind of mirror. Useless.
[She throws it to the ground, next to Sean. He reacts and sits up to grasp his phone]

Sean: Hey, what are you doing? Are you crazy, that phone cost me three hundred bucks!

Mary: Oh, is this an eye-Phone? But there is no button...

Sean: Yeah, whatever. Cool, it's still working. [with a very common tone, like he's saying he will buy some tomatoes instead of potatoes] I would have killed you, I guess. Password, check; GPS...
[long pause] Come-ooon!!!! Shit. And no network, perfect. Guess we're stuck here with each other.

Mary: And the cows.

Sean: Probably.

Mary: So how did you get here?

Sean: I'm trying to remember. It could help me get back home. I was at my friend's, having a good, alcoholised party. [Thinking] Man, those tequila shots!! [Back to his reflexion] Then we went out because it was too hot inside, I think, and that's when I decided to go away. I remember something was telling me to leave. But I don't remember what...

Mary: Oh, I know, it was a rabbit. It happens to me all the time, they talk to me and ask me to help them to go somewhere. This morning one of them told me to follow the butterfly, so I did. But when I lost it, I needed to have another instruction, that's why I stayed here with you. [Explicative tone] You know, there is a reason why I do strange things like following butterflies... [Almost laughing] I'm not crazy, huh!

Sean: Yeah... No, I think it was someone's voice. 'Go away, go away!' So I ran. But I didn't stop...
Why?

Mary: Because you were scared?

Sean [with a contemptuous tone]: Haha, sure.
[He starts thinking about that last question. Mary looks at the tree.]

Mary [talking to the sky]: Oh, come here, come here... Please, no... No !! [To Sean] The butterfly left, I can't see it anymore. I'm going to get a telling off from the rabbit...

Sean: Oh, come ooon! Rabbits don't talk, are you crazy or what? No, I know, you must be that girl from the book: Alice's adventures in Wonderland. That would explain everything, the rabbits, the butterfly...

Mary: [Little laugh] You're talking nonsense.

Sean: Probably. I'm still drunk, you know.
[Sean tries again to make his phone work. Mary walks slowly around the tree, looking at the countryside.]

Mary: Hey, look, this is a sign from the rabbit! There is a smoke sign, over that house!

Sean: What? Shut up a minute, I'm trying to... [Interrogative tone] Smoke sign? Yes, I remember! The house burnt, that's why we were leaving!
[He looks at the house, while she returns to the tree, unconcerned. She sits in front of the tree, as if she wanted to see something in the trunk]

Sean [visibly waving at some people far away]: Hey, hey!
[Mary seems to be very concerned by the bottom of the trunk, nods at it. Sean is still looking at the burning house and the place where his friends seem to be]

Sean: Listen, I have to leave.
[She starts walking towards the other direction, as if something guided her, absolutely indifferent to Sean]

Sean [still looking away]: I don't know how to get you back home, maybe you can join us until we find your house... [Not sure about the name] Lily?
[He looks around, but she has left.]

Sean [heading off in the direction of the house]: Whatever!

END

WILD BACKPACKING by Daria Shakourzadeh

2010-03-29T10:18:00.001-07:00

From "An Evening of words and theatre" performance at the Ecole Polytechnique on the 17 February 2010.

Play "WILD BACKPACKING"
By Daria Shakourzadeh.

Acted by Michael Buchet, Adrien Chan-Hon-Tong, Etienne Foessel, Pierre Larraufie and Eva Simon (in photos)

Fred, Tony, Jane, William and Charles are hiking in the forest somewhere in the mountains of Corsica. We see them walk while the sun is fading. After a while, only the moon remains to light there path. We can hear the sound of the night, an owl in a tree and crickets.
FRED: Let’s stop here, there’s a good spot to plant our tents. We can’t see where we’re walking anymore.
TONY: Oh Sir, yes Sir! I am dying to eat that jam, it smells so good in my backpack!
They all put down their backpacks where Fred points. Then they talk all together/at once.
JANE: My feet hurt so much, not to mention my back.
WILLIAM: Stop complaining, we’re carrying everything, your bag is empty. But my shoulders!
CHARLES: Oh god, I am going to eat everything up before you have time to even have a look at the food.
TONY: Oh shut up you man, don’t play the rude buddy. I could eat two times as much as you, whenever you want. Wanna bet?
Laughs.
FRED: [everybody else shuts up] Men, I am going to begin to make a fire with those branches while you look for some more wood.
Fred kneels down on the ground and the others resume laughing and giving each other looks of approbation. Charles punches Tony and everybody begins hurrying to put the bags in better order and to begin searching for branches. Some put their flashlights on their foreheads. Charles is the least concentrated, he makes sure he looks as efficient as the others, scanning the ground, but it is clear he is not as focused on the branches. Meanwhile, the fire is finally lit and branches are accumulated. After a while, a plant grabs his attention.
CHARLES: Tony, come here, give me some more light. [Tony obeys] I knew it. You will not believe what I’ve just found!
JANE: What?
CHARLES: [he picks a few bays from the bush] This is Blastenogopia Oephalisis.
JANE: [laughs] Oh please, you’re such a bad chemist, why do you act as if you want us to believe any different?
Laughs.
CHARLES: I might be a bad chemist, but I am not as ingenuous as you, darling. Do I have to remind you that I spent my whole military training up in those Corsican mountains? What do you think I learnt? Management? Authority? Cohesion? Self-help? Nope, darling, when I first got to Corsica, I was whiter than a virgin. But once there, I ended up a Machiavellian drunkard and junkie.
Laughs.
CHARLES: [with a big gesture like a clown] This, my friends, is called Blastenogopia Oephalisis. Take one of those bays, and life will seem different all of a sudden. You think it’s dark? You will be illuminated. You feel lonely? You will have the impression this place is crowded. You think it’s too quiet here? You will be deafened by the most terrific music. You are starving? You will forget about your stomach at once! [They all sit around the fire and Charles goes from one to the other] Take one of them, and you will not be disappointed, my friends!!
FRED: I’m not eating that shit.
CHARLES: Oh come on, I’m joking! I know this is the plant they take here when they want to warm up during long, boring, and cold winters. It only happens to have some peculiar virtues, but it’s not more harmful than a simple cigarette or alcohol. I saw people who have tried it. It’s nothing, just a bit of fun.
TONY: Leave him alone, for the moment he is hot because we’ve just stopped hiking and running around, but after a while he will be cold and he will go himself to pick one of your bays from the bush.
Laughs.
TONY: Come on, this will be fun! Let’s all try it, and then we can prepare our dinner feeling good.
They all eat a bay. Fred hesitates, sees everyone else take theirs. Abandoning his cause, he finally shrugs his shoulders and eats his own bay.
WILLIAM: [laughing] ok, done! Let’s begin preparing dinner then.
TONY: I’ll take care of the tents.
They begin doing their stuff to prepare for their night. They are laughing more and more noisily and uncontrollably together. Even Fred seems to be enjoying the moment and to have forgotten his fears. Suddenly, the noise of the night becomes stronger and stronger until we suddenly hear the Nutcracker by Tchaikovsky. Nobody seems to have noticed it except for Tony who is startled and jumps up.
TONY: [takes Charles’s arm] What the hell is this?!
CHARLES: [bursting into laughter again] what are you talking about, it’s my arm!
Tony laughs while the Nutcracker is still playing. Red lights shine on Jane.
TONY: What the hell? Charles, have you ever seen her dance ballet before?
Charles laughs, so much that he is moving and twisting. He finally disappears from Tony’s view while Tony remains looking at Jane.
JANE: [is turning round and round while holding a cricket in her hands] Lizzy, I am to be engaged. [She stops, annoyed, as if somebody had said something that hurt her feelings] Yes, to be married, what other kind of ‘engaged’ is there? Oh no, don’t judge me Lizzy. [She looks at her frog] There is no earthly reason why I shouldn’t be as happy with him as any other. Not all of us can afford to be romantic. I will marry him. What else can I do? I have no money and no prospects. I am already a burden to my parents.
Tony shakes his head, trying to breathe deeper. Jane is spinning again. She stops, looks at the moon, then she kneels down on the floor and goes on acting bizarre. Tony’s breath becomes quieter again, but when he resumes looking at Jane, she has pink hair.
JANE: [smiling] Tony, have you met Marco?
TONY: Marco? Jane, your hair! Who is Marco? Jane, there is something I have to tell you. Who is Marco? I know it is time for me to tell you what I feel. I know I will express my feelings the right way now. Better than ever. I see things, it is clear now.
JANE: Welcome here, dear Tony! Look, this parlor is for my own particular use. Oh Tony, this marriage! It’s such a pleasure to run my own home. [she shakes her head, and laughs, and laughs, with Charles whom she takes in her arms, forgetting the cricket].
Music again. An owl with sharp teeth appears but Tony doesn’t notice it. He is too concentrated on what he is about to say. His three friends come and surround Jane and his friend. They have frightening masks but we still recognize their clothes. Jane looks mad with despair, afraid, looking for Marco with her eyes but staying still in front of Tony.
TONY: When I first saw you, you were so ordinary. Your hair was ordinary, your eyes were too dull, your cheeks too hollow. But then it became different. One day it struck me. You reminded me of this girl who danced in the Nutcracker. I realized you were the incarnation of that girl and that music. The Nutcracker. It is you, don’t you know. Every single detail of your face, every single one of your manners, your grace, every gesture, every position, the color of your skin, the movements of your hands, something in your air and your manner of walking. So I would listen to it, in my bedroom, alone. And I would think of you, and imagine things that could happen between us. You should listen to the Nutcracker. The Nutcracker should listen to the Nutcracker.
Tony is now holding Jane in his arms, smelling her hair. They dance a waltz to the sound of the Nutcrakcer. Jane seems to do this without paying attention to Tony, but she eventually seems to notice him again, and when she does, she says:
JANE: Oh, come on Tony, you cannot be sitting here, next to your wife! Move! Over there, next to Mr. Sobolev, my guest of honor!
Jane goes to one of the masked characters. She kisses him on his head. Then they all take each other’s hands and they begin to turn, except for Tony, who is in the middle of the round.
TONY: No! Go away, you devil! No ! I will not let you ! Oh my goodness, my old demons… No, I had gotten rid of them. You will not win. I know better. Jane, Jane ! Don’t let them ! It’s not dark ! Charles, you told me it would not be dark. The dark knight. No, I am not dark. Oh shit, yes, you are. You are my old demons. My dear, horrible, old demons. I don’t care. I am alone again.
He lies down on the ground. Little by little, everybody stops turning, dancing, laughing. Everybody seems tired. They sit—or they lie down as there is less and less light.
The morning. A pale white light. The scene looks like a battlefield, dirty and devastated. The five friends wake up and realize nobody is sleeping in their tents. They look around them, but they don’t see Tony anywhere.
FRED: [staring at Charles] Where is Tony?
Charles is still sleepy and acts like he has a hangover. Will gets to his feet and begins looking around.
WILL: Oh god, this is not good. This is not good, my friends.
They hear a grunt. It comes from quite far away but they realize it is Tony. We can’t see him.
WILL: Toto, you scared me, idiot! Where were you last night? One moment you were here, the next you had disappeared.
CHARLES: You sound surprised. Why? Everybody knows Tony likes doing a disappearance act during parties.
WILL: What party, Charles? Who’s talking about a party here!
JANE: Oh, shut up! My head’s aching with your stupidities. Come on, guys, we are not in good shape to walk today. Let’s spend the day here.
Silence. They all burst into laughter at the same time.
CHARLES: Oh, Jane, you were incredible last night!
END

THE RING by Wang Junzhe

2010-03-29T09:03:00.000-07:00

From "An Evening of words and theatre" performance at the Ecole Polytechnique on the 17 February 2010.

Play "THE RING"
by Wang Junzhe.

Acted out by Léo Daguet, Anne-Sophie Hautecloque-Raysz and Christine Messié (pictured here)

The ring
By Wang Junzhe

Actors: 3 (1 guy and 2 girls)

[The stage is divided into two parts: left and right]

[On the left hand side, a girl (Lisa), dressed formally, is working before a computer. Sometimes she leaves her seat and does some housework]

[On the right hand side, another girl (Emily), fashionably dressed, is watching TV, with a casual gesture]

[In the middle of the stage, a guy is reading his monologue]

Casas [without any emotion]: My name is Casas. 30 years old. I am a guy like anyone of you, except for one thing: I have got two girlfriends. Their names are Lisa and Emily.

Casas [turns to Lisa, looks at her for a while and then re-addresses the audience]: Lisa is a professor in a high school. She is wise, virtuous, steady and hardworking. I know that she loves me. Every morning, she gets out of the bed softly and tries not to wake me up. Before she leaves for work, she always prepares breakfast for me. She gives me a call everyday from school. She comes back home half an hour before me so that when I get back from work, the dinner is ready. She is perfect, isn’t she? But there is one only thing that she is missing: Passion.

Casas [turns to Emily, gives a mild smile]: And that is what I found in Emily. She is young, vital, charming and magnetic. She is a perfect complement to Lisa. Together with her, my life is an adventure every single day. I don’t know whether she loves me, but that’s precisely what attracts me. However, she is not motivated to work and she doesn’t really plan to look for a job. With my money, she runs after every new fashion—and her fascinating appearance makes me love her even more.

Casas [Faces the audience]: Now it’s the time for me to make a choice.

[Casas walks to Lisa’s side and knocks on the door.]

Lisa [Comes to open the door, helps Casas take off his coat and put it on a chair, above hers]: Dear, you are back. Come, the dinner is ready. This afternoon I left school half an hour earlier and went to buy the Chinese food that you like the most.

[Casas and Lisa both sit down around a table and begin eating their dinner]

Lisa [looks at Casa eating first, a bit nervous]: So… how do you like it?

Casas: It’s so good!

Lisa [smiles]: That’s great! By the way, in your room I have helped clear off your desk. And today I took some time to wash all your clothes. Now they are all dry. You can take a new shirt with you for your conference tomorrow. You will find them in the second drawer on the left.

Casas [looks into Lisa’s eyes]: Thanks. [Casas gives Lisa a small kiss] Do you have time tonight? You want to go to the cinema? A new romantic movie has just come out. All my colleagues have given it very positive reviews. Maybe you want to go to watch it with me?

Lisa [hesitates for a while]: Sorry dear, there is a bunch of schoolwork that I need to correct tonight. There will be an exam for my students at the end of this week. Maybe next week I will have some time in the evening. I am so sorry, Dear. You know I always want to go to the cinema with you. But … I am too busy tonight.

Casas [disappointed, but still gives Lisa a mild smile]: It’s OK honey.

[at this moment, Casas’s phone rings]

Casas [looks at the number, frowns and turn to Lisa]: Business

[Lisa gives him a smile of understanding]

[Casas goes to another room]

Casas [talking in a very low voice]: Emily, I thought I told you that I would be busy tonight!

Emily [Acting cute]: Casas, for the first time in my life, I cooked dinner tonight! You want to join me?

Casas [hesitates]: but…

Emily [seductively]: Come, come! My sweetheart! I am sure that you won’t want to miss my first time!

Casas: OK, I will try to come over in a bit.

[Casas hangs up the phone and goes back to the dinning-table]

Lisa: Is everything OK, Dear?

Casas: emm… Actually, there is a meeting right now to prepare for tomorrow’s conference. I am afraid that I will have to leave now.

Lisa: That’s ok, Dear. What a pity that you don’t even have time to finish your favorite Chinese food.

Casas: I am so sorry about that.

Lisa: Hurry up! You don’t want to be late for the meeting. Let me get your coat for you. It’s cold outside.

Casas: It’s OK, I can get it myself. Again, Dear, I am so sorry for not being able to enjoy dinner with you. I may not come back tonight. No need to wait up for me.

[Casas walks to get his coat from where it lies atop Lisa’s. Something drops on the floor out of the pocket of Lisa’s coat: A ring]

Casas [talks to the audience]: Oh my god! What is that?! A ring? A wedding ring?! Is there another guy who has proposed to Lisa?! I thought she loved me?! [pause for 3 sec] OK, now I think I have made my decision which girl to choose.

[Casas puts the ring back in Lisa’s pocket, puts on his coat and goes straight out of the room without saying anything to Lisa]

Lisa: Bye, Dear, take care! [Casas never replies]

[Once Casa has left, Lisa goes towards her coat. She carefully takes out the ring and smiles with all the happiness in the world: she doesn’t know that Casas has seen it.]

[Casas goes to the other side of the stage, knocks on the door and Emily comes to open it. Emily gives Casas a big hug and goes to close the door. Casas thinks Emily is going to help him with his coat, so he waits for Emily to take his coat off. Emily doesn’t think of that at all, therefore, after waiting for several seconds, Casas has to take off his coat by himself. Then he passes the coat to Emily who extends one hand to him. Casas lets the coat go, but Emily doesn’t catch it and the coat drops onto the floor. Instead of picking it up, Emily extends one hand to cuddle his neck and she leans in to give him a kiss. Casas has to pick the coat up and put it on the back of a nearby chair by himself.]

Emily [dragging Casas over to the table]: Come, my sweetheart! Taste the spaghetti that I made for the first time!

Casas [surprised]: So, you said you cooked for the first time. And this is … spaghetti? OK, let me have a try.

[Casas takes the fork and is about to take a bite]

Emily [takes the fork from Casas]: Let me help you, Dear!

[Emily forks a big mouthful of spaghetti for Casas, and Casas eats painfully with a big frown]

Casas [taking some time to swallow]: Wow, that is … that is awesome! Maybe it could have been cooked for just a bit longer. And you may have put too much salt in it—

Emily [about to cry]: So you don’t like it?! It took me the whole afternoon to learn how to cook, and I even cut my finger!

Casas: You cut your finger preparing the spaghetti?! [not waiting for an answer] Anyway, Dear, I know you are not very good at cooking. But I like this spaghetti that you prepared for me! I will definitely finish all of it! I swear to you that this is the most unique spaghetti have I have ever tried!

Emily [stops crying and smiles]: Really? I love you, Dear!

[Emily gives Casas a big kiss]

Casas [says to audience]: OK, it’s time to make a choice! I must make it clear to Lisa that it’s over between us!

Casas [says to Emily]: Dear, I forgot something very important in the office. I have got to take 5 minutes to go back and get it. I am sorry for that. But please give me 5 minutes!

Emily [gives Casas a naughty kiss]: No problem, my honey. I’ll be waiting for you here, at home!

[Casas leaves Emily’s room and goes to center stage]

Casas [Monologue]: I should practice breaking up with Lisa!

[Casas turns his back to the audience for the preparation]

Casas [back to the audience, starts simulating the break-up speech (romantic version)]: Lisa, you know I love you. My heart is all occupied by you! I think of you in the day and I dream of you at night. [pauses for 2 seconds] However, I cannot see the future between us. I am sorry that I cannot be with you anymore. If you love me, please let me go.

[Casas shakes his head to show that he is not satisfied]

Casas [starting again, like the previous time, with his back to the audience for preparation. Starts the second simulation (aggressive version)]: Lisa, I am fucking bored by you! There is no passion with you. I am damn pissed off by the way you are dressed, your profession, your obedience… I cannot bear any of these things anymore! Get the hell out of my room! I don’t want to see you anymore!

Casas: OK, I will use this one. I am ready to break up with Lisa!

Casas [back at Lisa’s room, opens the door as Lisa is coming to open it]: Lisa, I have got something to tell you.

Lisa [makes a sign to ask Casas not to say anything]: Wait, I have got something to tell you!

[Suddenly Lisa gets on one knee, down the floor, and takes out the ring: she is proposing to Casas!]

Lisa: Casas, you know how much I love you. My heart entirely filled by you! I think of you during the day and I dream of you at night. You are the first man with whom I have fallen in love. And I hope you can be the last one as well. Would you like to marry me?

[Casas, stunned by what is going on, backs off one small step, unable to believe what has happened. Then his eye fills with tears. Casas kneels down and holds Lisa firmly]

Casas: I do! Lisa, I do! I love you! I would like to marry you!

[Lisa is very happy and excited, and she helps Casas to put on the ring that she bought for him]

[Casas suddenly remembers Emily]

Casas: Wait, Lisa. Could you give me 10 minutes? I love you baby. I will be back right away!

[Lisa knocks her head with her fist as Casas departs]

[Casas, running out of Lisa’s room, comes to center stage]

Casas [talking to the audience]: What have I done? Am I insane? What about Emily? I love her so much as well! Fine, it seems that I don’t have any choice. It is time to say goodbye to Emily.

[Casas goes back to the room of Emily. Before he can say anything, Emily drags him next to the table]

Emily: dear, the spaghetti is getting cold! Come, finish it!

Casas [is about to say something]: …

Emily: Oh, Dear, do you want me to warm it up for you?

[As she says this, Emily touches Casas’s hand and sees the ring]

Emily [extremely surprised, jumps back]: Oh my god! Is that a ring?! A wedding ring? You have got another girl somewhere? Or are you even married?! I cannot believe it! I love you so much! How can you betray me?!

[Emily gets more and more excitedly and eventually she grabs a knife and puts it next to the neck of Casas. Casas is so nervous that he doesn’t dare to move at all!]

Casas [snaps]: stop!

[The whole scene is frozen and Casas is the only one who can move. He comes to center stage, takes out a small bottle of eyedrops and sprays several drops in his eye. Then he goes back to Emily and puts his neck next to the knife. Now his eyes are full of “tears”]

Casas: Once upon a time there was a true love at my hand, but I didn't cherish it. I didn't realize it until it was gone. There is nothing to make one more miserable than that. If God can give me another chance to restart, I'll tell the girl I Love You. If I have to add a deadline to our love, I hope it will be ten thousand years from now.

Casas [takes the ring from his own finger, kneels down on one knee]: Emily, this ring is for you. Would you please marry me?

[Emily’s hand starts shaking and she drops the knife on the floor]

Emily: I will.

[The lights dim]

END

ON THE CHAIR LIFT by Jean-Baptiste Desforges

2010-03-29T08:45:00.000-07:00

From "An Evening of words and theatre" performance at the Ecole Polytechnique on the 17 February 2010.

Play
"ON THE CHAIR LIFT"
by Jean-Baptiste Desforges.

Acted by Mathilde Leclercq, Mathilde Paré, Pierre Salomon and Loic Was
(photos of them are seen here)

The scene takes place in a French ski resort. Four people are waiting for a chair lift to take them up the slope : two young American snowboarders, called Peter and Steven, and a British skiing couple, Mr. and Ms Smith. The boys are noisy and look coarse, the couple seems very distinguished.
The chair lift eventually arrives and picks them up, a little brutally.

PETER (very loudly) : Gosh, this one is fast! Feel it?
STEVEN (as loud) : Oh! Man! It has just kicked my ass!
(They put the protection bar down in front of them.)
Mr. SMITH (discreetly to his wife) : What a pleasure to get some rest, my dear, isn’t it?
Ms SMITH : You are perfectly right, my dear.
Mr. SMITH : And what a pleasure to ski on such delicious snow and in such sunny weather, isn’t it?
Ms SMITH : Absolutely, my dear.
PETER (still loudly) : Man! That slope was fucking good! Did you see my back flip?
STEVEN : Sure, man!
PETER : Almost killed a fucking young boy, man!
STEVEN : Yeah ! He should have learnt to ski before…
PETER : Did you see his mother, man?
STEVEN : Yeah, I thought she would kill you ! Mother’s are so nervous when you get close to their “lovely kids” .
PETER : Did you see her clothes, man? Her pink ski suit and her ridiculous hat? She almost killed me with her look, man. She’s living a century ago!
STEVEN : Man, she was so ugly ! I

wouldn’t even touch her with a stick !
(They both laugh loudly and coarsely. Mr. and Ms Smith seem annoyed and ill-at-ease.)

Mr. SMITH : Darling, would a piece of cake make you happy?
Ms SMITH : With pleasure, my dear, you are so gentle.
(He gives her a piece of cake. She eats with her little finger up. Steven and Peter look at them and begin to laugh.)
STEVEN (imitating Mr. Smith’s tone) : Darling, would you like a beer?
PETER (playing the same game) : Sure, Darling, you are so lovely.

(They both take a beer, open it, drink it straight down in one gulp then they both burp and laugh loudly again.)
Mr. SMITH (visibly shocked, discretely to his wife) : They must be American. Do you see how vulgar they are?
Ms SMITH : Doubtless, my dear.
STEVEN (to Peter): Those damned Brits are so hung up!
PETER : Sure, man!
(Suddenly, the chair lift stops.)
STEVEN (loudly) : Come on, man! Those fucking French chair lifts always stop!
PETER : Fucking French ! Nothing works in their country!
Mr. SMITH (to his wife): What a pleasant pause. Let’s enjoy the panorama. I love the panorama. Those mountains are so wonderful. Aren’t they?
Ms SMITH : They are, my dear.
Mr. SMITH : What about a cup of tea, my dear? I have some hot water…
Ms SMITH : Oh, my dear, you are so adorable.
(They begin to prepare some tea and to drink it, little fingers up.)
STEVEN (getting angry): Come on! I won’t spend the day on here because some French guys can’t build a chair lift that works!
(He lights a cigarette, and blows the smoke toward the Smiths. They grimace but don’t react. On the slope, a resort employee arrives with a loudspeaker.)
Mr. SMITH : Look, my dear, a resort employee has arrived with a loudspeaker. He will tell us what is going on.
Ms SMITH : Probably, my dear.
THE EMPLOYEE (in French, through the loudspeaker) : Mesdames et Messieurs, nous sommes désolés pour cette panne. Le moteur sera réparé dans quelques minutes. Merci de votre patience.
STEVEN : Oh, come on ! This fucking man can’t speak English like everybody else? I don’t know what the hell he told us!
Mr. SMITH (to Steven): Please, forgive my indiscretion. I think I heard you say you didn’t understand the message of that employee. Is that true?
STEVEN (a little destabilized) : Well... Um… Yes...
Mr. SMITH : He actually told us that the engine failure was impossible to fix quickly, and that we would have to wait one hour or two.
PETER : Gosh !! Damned French !!
Ms SMITH : Then he told us that people can jump from the chair lift if they would like, since we are not very high and the snow is very powdery under the chair lift.
STEVEN : Really?
PETER : Okay, let’s do that.
(Peter and Steven remove the protection bar from their side of the chair lift. They hesitate for a while then they both jump. We hear them screaming as they fall onto the snow, which is not powdery in the least. Then the chair lift restarts.)
Mr. SMITH : I think the journey should be quieter now. Don’t you agree, my dear?
Ms SMITH : You are perfectly right, my dear.

The END

Sarcastic, by Daria Shakourzadeh

2010-01-05T07:32:00.000-08:00

SARCASTIC
By Daria SHAKOURZADEH

We were not children anymore. He was a twenty-seven year old working man, so there was no doubting that he was that kind of sentimental, embittered executive, almost an old geezer. At twenty seven, you’ve inevitably already gone through some breakups. First, you are mad with despair, but soon you become used to it, which is the first symptom of bitterness.

So, when he told me that evening, after we had only been dating two weeks, that he loved me, I could not help letting all my sarcasm burst out.

“Please, you’re kidding! You don’t even know me. Don’t tell me you’re that kind of inexperienced old boy!”

Then I saw it, for the first time. His warm, calm, deep, spontaneous, amused, patient, confident look embraced me.

“Not at all, I am only being perceptive.”

From that evening onwards I have not stopped loving him.

by Daria Shakourzadeh, after Dan Rhodes

Note

2010-01-03T09:14:00.000-08:00

The following text posts by Polytechnique’s promo x2007 are taken from our fall 2009 course assignment:

Write, in class, in under 15 minutes, a flash fiction story on only one side of an index card. The story should be based on Dan Rhodes book of flash fiction, Anthropology. In Rhodes’ book, all the one-paragraph-long pieces have a single word title & are about a fictional “girlfriend”. They are often humourous, at times darkly so.

We hope that Rhodes will be pleased with our homage to his delightful & fun book!

Normal, by Wang Junzhe

2010-01-03T09:12:00.001-08:00

Normal
By Wang Junzhe

My girlfriend and I were lying in bed.

“Look at you! You are so lovely and beautiful! You have definitely the potential to be a movie star!” I said softly looking into her eyes.

“You really think so? I hope I will get famous as well!” she smiled at me.

“Sure! How great it will be!” I said, “However… hmm… let’s just stop dreaming.” I turned off the bedside lamp, “night dear, sweet dreams!”

The next day, my girlfriend went to work as usual. At around one, she called me and said excitingly “You will not believe it! Today, I met a film producer. He said I have got the potential to be a star and he asked me to try out for the leading role in his movie!”

From that day on, I watched her often on TV: in films, on TV series and in advertisements. She did become a star! I was so happy and proud for her! Furthermore, as her boyfriend, I had quite a number of interviews and from time to time I had the chance to be on TV as well! “That feels good!” I said to myself.

A year later, she was famous all over the nation. She was the idol for everybody.

Two years later, she became internationally well-known. She went abroad quite often.

Three years later, I hardly saw her once a week, except on TV.

Four years later, I heard rumors about her having affairs with other actors.

Five years later, on the night of our marriage, she told me that she was pregnant. However… the baby was not mine. Finally, I could not bear it anymore and shouted at her crazily.

Suddenly, I felt someone shaking me, “What’s up, Dear? Is everything OK? Why are you yelling at 3 o’clock in the morning?” It was my girlfriend, with a drowsy look.

Luckily it was only a dream!

“It is OK, Dear,” I said with a mild smile, “just a nightmare. I should really stop dreaming!”

by Wang Junzhe, after Dan Rhodes

Flash Fiction by 2009-2010 student Nicolas Eid

2010-01-03T08:11:00.000-08:00

Flash Fiction Story
by Nicolas Eid

As usual, the street was empty on this Tuesday afternoon, as it was a cul-de-sac which led to a few houses. But a man broke the harmony by running as fast as he could. With my very first glance at him, I immediately realized he was not here for peaceful reasons. Behind him, a policeman was running after him, but he was too far away to catch him. The policeman’s being in his mid-fifties actually prevented him from moving as quickly as the mugger. A loud shout suddenly emerged from the silence, which was so far only troubled by the noise of breaths and strides.

“You will never catch up to me, Bastard!”

At once, the policeman pointed his gun at the thief, as though to compensate for his lack of self-confidence, and for the impossibility of catching the man.

“Stop, right now! You won’t escape from us!”

On my way back from school, I was in the middle of all this mess, bewildered and motionless, too scared to move or act, as the men ran very close to me. Both of them disappeared in a block of houses.

That Tuesday evening, I had a lot of things to tell my friends.

by Nicolas Eid

An afternoon of Words & Theatre 11: François de Peaudecerf

2009-02-23T05:35:00.001-08:00

THE VIRTUE OF SCIENCE
by François de Peaudecerf

Staging by David Lemasson (playing Jack, the student)
and Charly Hamy (playing Professor Jones)

CHARACTERS:
Prof. JONES: 55, well-cut short beard, little glasses
JACK: twenty something student, looks “cool”

[ Prof. Jones sits behind his desk, an armchair stands in front of the desk. Prof. Jones is wearing white coveralls, looks serious. Some horribly complicated posters hang on the wall. He seems to be taking notes from an article, then stops, looks at a pen and puts it parallel to the edge of his desk. He smiles, satisfied, and continues writing. Somebody knocks on the door. ]

Prof. JONES: Yes, come in!

[Jack comes in, smiling]

JACK: Hi, Professor Jones! How are you? Is your research going well? [looking at the posters.] Woah! Terrific! Those posters are terrific! Look at this picture: amazing!

Prof. JONES: [looks first amazed then tries to recover] What you are looking at, young man, is the most advanced simulation of a 4-D lattice of quark dynamics in the fundamental state of...

JACK: [interrupting] Oh, no need to go on, you see, I won't get a whisp of it and anyway I don't care. Just as I was saying, this picture's amazing, it looks like Science-Fiction. [He turns to the armchair and sits, tests the quality of it.] You're quite comfortable here, aren't you? [He spins in the armchair] Nice!

Prof. JONES: [tense but polite] Please, stop it! If you are not interested in my research, may I ask you why you came here, young man? Besides, what is your name?

JACK: Jack, I'm Jack Oliver. Well, I need a letter of recommendation – you see, I want to go to the United States, but they're so picky... You're quite famous, so I thought that with your name, I could get through. What do you think about it? You're in?

Prof. JONES: Well, you’re a bit quick when it comes to business. But, first, I’d need to know a little more about you and your plans, for example, what really interests you about Physics, which subject ...

JACK: Oh, no problem, I don't care what you write, there’s no need to know what I'll do. I just want to go to the States. The subject I’ll study doesn't matter, I won't work a lot, anyway. You must’ve been there, no? How was it? Big campuses, lots of money, the American way of life? Did you enjoy it? I can't wait! Did you...?

Prof. JONES: [interrupting] Well, yes, I mean, it was great, but... let's get back to you. You understand that before I write anything for you, I need to know your results, as in your grades, I also need to know about your motives, what gets you through, why you see your stay in the US as an opportunity...

JACK: But Prof,, aren’t you getting a clear picture, here? It’s the States!!! That's enough of a motivation: going to the United States, where everything is possible! Burgers, skyscrapers, American girls, all mine! You just have to sign a damn paper and then they're mine. You can't refuse me that! Prof? What do you think?
[During Jack's speech, the Prof has put his head in his hands, thinking and looking angry. When he looks back up, he seems changed and determined]

Prof. JONES: Okay, boy, let's get it straight. You want your trip to the States: how much are you ready to pay me for that letter?

JACK: Wh...What? I...I beg your pardon?

Prof. JONES: How much are you ready to pay?

JACK: To... pay? What...? Money?

Prof. JONES: Pay money, dough, dosh, call it what you want! You understand what I mean?

JACK: But.. why, I mean... you don't pay for a letter of recommendation, you... the professors do them for free...

Prof. JONES: Oh, yeah, and why should they? They have a Phd, right, so they're not so stupid? Why should they write them for free?

JACK: Why...? But... I... for their students, for the sake of science, I...

Prof. JONES: Oh God, what did you say, the sake of Science? You're a such a kid! Science! I'd not be sitting here if there had only been Science!

JACK: What...?

Prof. JONES: What did you think? One day you’d find a revolutionary idea and: “Poof!” you're a big shot, recognised and respected all over the world? Poor baby, open your eyes! It's all about money: get credit, and then use it to get your work recognised--or more often the work of someone else recognised as yours!

JACK: You...you stole your articles?

Prof. JONES: No, I paid for them. And pretty well indeed! But now, you see, I'm the playmaker: you think I'd not make the most of it? But then how could I spend my holidays in Tahiti? Moreover, I still need high-ranking articles, and they are quite expensive nowadays...

JACK: But...I can't believe it! I... you're supposed to represent Science, its virtues, its freedom from every other human activity! You, a scientist...living for his research!

Prof. JONES: Oh yeah, and maybe I should also stay up late in my lab, then go home to a tiny flat where, after a frugal dinner of sardines and stale bread, I should read some highly boring intellectual book and finally fall into sleep alone in my simple bed. And of course, I should sign recommendation letters for free! Sorry to disappoint you boy! [He opens a drawer and throws some fashion magazines on the table] Are these Nature and Science? [He points to a half-naked girl on the cover of one.] Is she the latest Nobel laureate? Not really. You're wrong about the magazines I read, just as you're wrong about my life. Now, you'd better make your decision about that letter quickly! I have to go for my golf lesson, after which I'll dine in a restaurant with a nice Russian chick who wants to study in our venerable institution, and who'll prove to me, I hope, that she's got enough “assets” to succeed. So, you see, I am quite busy. Therefore, I will ask only one last time: how much?

JACK: I...I can't believe it!!! ... I...I am ashamed of you, you dishonour Science, the work of thousands of invaluable men and women... and being so mean! I can't believe it! I...I...I’m leaving!

[Jack leaves the office, slamming the door]

Prof. JONES: [smiles, now alone, relaxed, and laughs a little.] Aaah, it always works. [He looks at the magazines, smiles again, and puts them back in the drawer] So, back to work! [He again looks concentrated, he places the pencil that has moved back parallel to the edge of his desk and returns to his notes. After a moment he looks at his watch] Oh my God, I'm late! [He takes off his lab coveralls: he’s wearing fancy golf outfit underneath. As he stands up, we see he has got golf shoes, too. From behind his desk, he picks up a golf bag which was hidden. He smiles.] Ivana Petruchka. Sounds great!

[He leaves his office]

--THE END--

An Afternoon of Words & Theatre 10: Florian Tedeschi

2009-02-23T05:26:00.000-08:00

Violence(s), by Florian Tedeschi

A small public garden, with a sandbox where two children are playing. They are arguing.

Children 1 : Give me your bucket!

Children 2 : I’ll never give it to you! Why should I?

Children 1 : ’Cause if you don’t, I’ll jump on your sandcastle.

Children 2 : Oh yeah? If you do that, I’ll scratch your face.

Children 1 : Then I would tear your hair out!

They keep on arguing. We can’t hear what they’re saying, but we can see they are really angry. The light moves to the left, where their fathers are sitting on a bench.

Father 1 : I heard you got promoted?

Father 2 : Yes, I’m totally excited about it.

Father 1 : Does the boss know what you were doing with his wife last Wednesday?

Father 2 : I hope not, for sure!

Father 1 : What if I told him about that? I guess that’s what I would do, if you don’t decline his offer.

Father 2 : Oh yeah? Then I would tell him about all your embezzling...

Father 1 : And I would not only tell not your boss, but also your wife about your little rendez-vous...

They keep on arguing. The light moves back to the children.

Children 2 : Then I would kick your sorry ass.

Children 1 : You would kick my sorry ass?

Children : Yes! I would kick your sorry ass.

They laugh. The light moves back to the fathers.

Father 2 : Really? Then I would have much more to lose.

Father 1 with satisafaction in his voice : I guess so.

The second father takes a gun with a silencer out of his pocket, shoots, and kills the other. The children keep on laughing, not aware of what has just happened.

--THE END--

NOTE: Final image here is by Mike Jones, Welsh artist (b 1941) lives in the Swansea Valley & is represented by Foutain Fine Art Gallery. More of his art can be found by clicking HERE.

An Afternoon of Words & Theatre 9: Divya Babin

2009-02-22T05:32:00.000-08:00

THE IMMORTAL GAME
by Divya Babin
Staging by Mathilde Poulhes (playing Phelan), Manon Picard (playing Ker), Leo Greusard (playing the barman) and Soizic Bernard (playing Adelphie)

CHARACTERS:

KER: A young woman, rather small, with a childish face. She has a red coat on, and probably a skirt or a dress for we can see her legs. She’s wearing nude tights.
PHELAN: A thirty-ish man, tall, unshaved. He’s wearing a white shirt and dark pants, and looks tired.
A BARTENDER: Wearing dark clothes. We can’t see his face.
ADELPHIE: A young girl.

[The scene takes place in a bar late at night. The bar is empty but for PHELAN sitting at a table in a corner, and the BARTENDER behind the counter. KER enters the place and sits at the counter. The BARTENDER places a juice in front of her. We can’t see his face, only his dark silhouette behind the counter. PHELAN stands up and walks to the counter, on which he puts his empty glass. He takes a seat near KER, and receives another glass of red wine from the bar tender. The BARTENDER disappears from the scene silently. For a few minutes, KER and PHELAN sip their drinks in silence. ]

PHELAN: Cold night, ain’t it?

KER: Yes, the wind is chilly. (She shudders) I’ve just walked here from Greystone.
[He looks surprised, but she smiles innocently at him.]
My car broke down three kilometres out of city centre, on the long dark road down there. I was a bit frightened on my own, but I had no other choice. I forgot my cell phone at home…
[She seems to wait for him to say something but he keeps playing with his glass, as if he’s not heard her.]
I was on my way to Dublin. I have an appointment there.

PHELAN: At 1 a.m., on a Monday night?
[He smirks and gives her a weird stare. She looks away.]

KER: Yes, uh... work issues... My… job has some particular circumstances.

PHELAN: [unconcerned]
So have many jobs, I guess.
[He takes a sip. She gives him a tentative smile]

KER: Oh, you understand, do you?
[He looks surprised, and shrugs.]

PHELAN: So you’re on your way to Dublin? I could have given you a ride, but I think I’ve drunk too much tonight.
[Lower, to himself.]
What’s new?
[Louder.]
You want me to call a cab?

KER: No, no, thank you! I’ve already called one… There’s a booth outside. It shouldn’t take more than a half hour, they told me. Hopefully, I’ll make it in time.
[She smiles ruefully. He finishes his drink, and the BARTENDER that has suddenly re-appeared provides him with another one.]

PHELAN: [to himself.]
Guess, I shouldn’t…

KER: Sorry, you said… ?

PHELAN: [grabbing the drink.]
Nothing.
[With a smile.]
Don’t you want something stronger to drink? Aren’t you cold?
[She laughs.]

KER: With my coat on? I’m all right, thank you. But won’t you play chess with me until I leave? I’m getting a little tired and it might help me stay awake.
[He seems a bit surprised, but she gestures towards a chess board on the counter behind him.]

PHELAN: Hmm… I’m really bad at it, but if you don’t mind…

KER: Oh… I am not too good either… Should we?
[He stands up, brings the chess board to KER and sits down again.]
Thank you, uh…

PHELAN: Phelan. I’m Phelan.
[He waits but since she does not answer adds:]
And you are?
[She giggles.]

KER: I go by various names, but I guess you could call me Ker.
[He frowns.]

PHELAN: Well, uh... Ker... nice to meet you… So, will you begin?
[She nods and becomes very serious. She plays.]

KER: Beginning is easy, isn’t it?
[She smirks at him and he seems taken aback. He plays. They both play one more move apiece.]
So you’re an easy-going man… I thought so.
[He frowns. She takes her turn. He smiles and takes his.]

PHELAN: Check.
[She grins coldly, but her eyes stay serious.]

KER: Looking for an easy victory? That’s all you can do? Coward!
[There is no humour in her voice. PHELAN looks at her, frowning. They stare at each other for a moment then she stamps her fist on the counter. This sudden move makes him jump and he spills some of his wine on his shirt.]
Such a coward! You’re disgusting!

PHELAN: Hey, cool down! Look what you’ve done! I am not playing with you if I’m just going to get insulted!

KER: [She laughs as he is looking down at his shirt helplessly.]
Yeah, you’re playing with me because you’ve got nothing else to do, you pathetic drunkard! Has your girlfriend thrown you out, or are you just one of those pitiful husbands who lose interest in their wife once you get to the baby lot and the routine life?
[He looks on the edge of answering but stops himself and stands up.]
So, what? You’re up now? Fine! Are you going to run away from a little girl who’s speaking the awful truth? Why don’t you stop running away and sit down?

PHELAN: I’m going to the bathroom to try and do something with my shirt. When I come back, I’m goin’ home.

KER: No, you don’t.
[Her left hand digs into her pocket. He is about to turn his back when she takes out a small pistol and aims it at him quite casually.]
I said, sit down.

PHELAN: What… What’s that now?
[He frowns but tries to laugh.]
So is that what young girls do to kill time?

KER: No. It is not. Sit down.
[She waves the pistol towards the seat.]

PHELAN: Or what? I’m going to get shot because I didn’t like being called a coward by a girl during a chess game in the middle of the night?

KER: No. You’re going to get shot because you tried to be smarter than the girl who was holding the gun. Sit. Now.
[He sits down.]
That’s better. Now, listen carefully. You are going to give this game your all, otherwise you will be very sorry. So, let’s proceed.
[She reflects for a few minutes on the board which he has reset up, then makes her move.]
Your turn.
[They take 13 turns each, in tense silence, taking their time before making their moves. PHELAN eyes her searchingly from time to time. ]
Do you like Daffodils?

PHELAN: Not more than any other flower. Why do you ask?

KER: I’m curious.
[She grins and takes her turn. He takes a bishop on his next move.]

PHELAN: [hesitantly.]
Do you play often?
[She shrugs and moves.]

KER: Barely. Only when I have time out of work and need to think.

PHELAN: Oh... Is your work that demanding then?
[She grins strangely. He plays.]

KER: Yes, it’s more or less a 24/7 kind of job. What about yours? Feel like complaining?
[He casts his eyes down. She plays.]

PHELAN: Yeah, I can’t say I revel in my job. I guess I just don’t revel in anything anymore. But as long as I can pay the bills…
[She snorts and looks at him with disgust.]

KER: So original.
[He shrugs and takes a turn.]

PHELAN: I used to enjoy playing chess with my father. I mean, when I was a kid…
[She takes her turn then looks up at him.]

KER: What happened? Your father got killed in a car accident and you stopped, or you no longer talk to your parents because they’ve always loved your older brother more than you?
[He gives a short laugh that sounds a bit fake while taking his turn.]

PHELAN: No, nothing so interesting. I love my parents and my younger brother. I just grew tired. I have no patience for chess.
[She snorts and plays.]

KER: You’re good at giving up. I wonder how you made it up to now.

PHELAN: I guess I wasn’t always indifferent.
[He takes his Queen in his hand, but stops to think.]
Don’t you love your family?
[Her eyes flash at him.]

KER: I do. Very much.
[She smiles treacherously.]
In fact, that’s precisely why I’m here.
[She keeps silent for a few minutes, staring at him.]
Don’t you want to ask me what this masquerade’s all about? Or are you so bored that even a girl forcing you at gun-point to play chess in the middle of the night doesn’t surprise you anymore?
[He shrugs but smiles innocently, which makes him look suddenly younger.]

PHELAN: I thought it might be safer not to ask…
[She laughs but her looks become serious once again.]

KER: My... uh... little sister needs a heart. Tomorrow it will be too late.
[He nods seriously and puts down the Queen he’s been holding.]

PHELAN: What’s she like?
[She plays.]

KER: Young, beautiful... sad. Her laugh was like the tinkle of a bell. She no longer laughs… She loves flowers. But not daffodils. Do you have a sister?

PHELAN: No, but my ex-girlfriend had one. She was neither beautiful, nor nice...

KER: Ah, ah... so you really got dumped by your girlfriend?
[He plays.]

PHELAN: Maybe it’s not so bad if I lose this game...
[She looks at him with disgust.]

KER: I can only agree with you. But maybe you won’t even have to wait for the end of the game… I mean, my cab will soon be here. I don’t see why I should lose any time…
[She takes her turn. He looks panicked and moves immediately after her, taking a pawn.]
Is that all you can do?
[She plays. He moves again immediately after her, taking a rook.]
Come on!
[She takes her next turn. He again plays straightaway, taking the other rook.]

PHELAN: Check.

KER: Does it change anything? Do you think you can win with that?
[She plays.]

PHELAN: What if I can? Does that change something?
[She shrugs, and stares at him harshly as he makes his next move. She plays and takes a pawn.]

KER: Check.

PHELAN: I guess I’m in dire straits. I told you I wasn’t very good.
[He tries to laugh but sounds more like he’s choking. He tips his glass to his lips but it’s empty.]

KER: I assume you don’t have children.

PHELAN: I don’t. But I’m only twenty-nine, you see. Not too late.
[She laughs. He coughs.]

KER: I wonder…

PHELAN: My parents met when they were already past thirty… My father had just spent five years in India doing relief work.
[He coughs. Silence.]
My brother just graduated from the Department of Medicine… He’s getting married.
[Silence.]

KER: You must be a great disappointment to your parents. It’s your turn to play.
[He coughs and hesitates, but takes his turn as she waves the pistol in her left hand. She plays straight afterwards, grinning broadly.]

KER: Check.

PHELAN: I guess it’s over, I’m lost... But even if I didn’t lose, would you…

KER: [harshly.]
Would I what? Do you think not losing is enough? Do you even want to win?
[She cocks the gun, still aiming it at him.]
I’m fed up. Play now. Let us finish. I hear the cab outside.
[A short silence. He smiles, suddenly hopeful, and plays, taking her Queen.]

PHELAN: What about that? What are you going to do without your Queen?
[She laughs.]

KER: Well, first I could tell you that you need to think more about the future…
[then harshly:]
To win you need to sacrifice, don’t you know?
[She plays.]
Checkmate!
[She stands up and takes a few steps backwards to put some distance between her and PHELAN.]
So now, Phelan, it’s good-bye time. You can’t say it wasn’t fair… I gave you a chance… You could even have struggled, overpowered me…
[She smirks.]
You didn’t even think of that, did you? How pathetic…
[He takes a step towards her.]
Don’t! It’s too late now. Accept your fate. At least, this time you’ll be useful.
[He casts his eyes down.]

PHELAN: You’re right. I’m useless.

KER: Utterly useless.

PHELAN: I doubt anyone will cry for me.

KER: I’m sure even your family will forget about you in a week.

PHELAN: [angry]
No they won’t! Maybe I’m pathetic, but they’ve always supported me.

KER: Then you’re even more pathetic!

PHELAN: I know… But I wanted to do something. I just couldn’t…

KER: No, you just didn’t. That’s different. You could, but you gave up before even trying.

PHELAN: I could?
[He looks up and seems completely confused. Then comprehension dawns on his face.]

KER: [sweet and sincere]
I’m so sorry.
[He stares at her without fear, for a few moments as she levels her gun and prepares to pull the trigger. She’s on the edge of firing when ADELPHIE enters the place, wearing a long white dress, with flowers in her left hand. She’s barefoot. KER glances at her and looks suddenly sad. Her voice breaks:]
Adelphie?

[ADELPHIE walks towards KER, puts her hand on KER’s left arm and whispers something into her ear. KER looks like she’s going to cry, the gun trembles in her hand. ADELPHIE smiles and we can hear a bell tinkling. The curtain falls. ]

THE END

An Afternoon of Words & Theatre 8: Fabien Wagner

2009-02-22T05:17:00.000-08:00

Show Time by Fabien Wagner

Staging had been prepared by Pascal Benchimol, Eric Leibenguth and Guillaume Ruop--however, due to injury, the play was not performed, thus these photos are not from class.

The scene shows two characters: Bob and Jack. An Old man is among the audience.

Bob : Why did you betray me ? How did you dare? It was such a cruel offence! You, my best friend!

Jack: Life is not so simple, Bob. You’ve always been so naïve. Even when you were a boy, you were so easily fooled…

Bob (in a seemingly tragic but moderate manner): Ah, Jupiter‘s thunder falls upon me! You have destroyed my life. (silence) Nothing has importance anymore now…

Jack: It’s not my fault if she preferred me!

Bob (yelling): No…!

Bob throws himself on Jack. They roll on the floor. Bob is above Jack and tries to strangle him. He hits Jack’s head against the floor three times. The sounds are loud. The third time, Jack stops moving. Bob looked up, bewildered, his hands gesture towards the sky.

Bob: Ah! My soul is now stained with the blood of my best friend, the sorrow of my love and the malediction of the fates. Let the Gods have pity on me!

[The old man comes out from the audience onto the stage. He has graying, tousled hair. He jumps onto the stage.]

Old Man: [shouts]No, no, no. It’s absolutely wrong. Hopefully, nobody but me saw you. Can you imagine if that were not the case? You would have been in such trouble! I cannot believe you even did that!

Bob: I am sooo sorry! I don’t understand what happened. I was taken by my feelings, and it just came out like that!

Old man: It is lucky that this theatre was empty. But now, we have to decide what to do inthe future. You need to correct this.

Bob: To correct it? But what else can I do? Jack is dead and that’s all. There’s nothing else to say or do.

Old man: On the contrary, you can improve the situation greatly. Everything is about the impression you will make on other people. You have to convince them of what you want, to make them believe that it is the truth. For that, you have to be a real actor. There’s no use pretending anything if you don’t believe in it. You need to be possessed by what you say.

Bob: But imagine people coming here who see that. How can I change what they will think and feel at the simple sight of me, murdering my best friend?

Old man: It is all about your behavior. After a murder, the testimonies can be very different depending on the reaction of the witness who has seen the crime. See how I might change all this into something completely different? Imagine I am you, and let’s begin the scene of the crime again.

[The old man comes on the front of the stage, taking the same position as Bob a little earlier.]

Old man (staring at Bob in a knowing way): Someone who wants to incriminate you will have seen the crime like this. (With hatred, his hands up, his eyes glowing in madness): Ah, Jupiter‘s thunder falls upon me! You have destroyed my life. (Silence. Then, in a trembling and frightening voice) Nothing matters anymore now…

(staring at Bob in a knowing way): Someone who wants to exonerate you will have seen the crime like this. (Depressed, in a feeble voice.): Ah, Jupiter‘s thunder falls upon me! You have destroyed my life. (Silence. Then, sitting down and slowly shaking his head) Nothing matters anymore now…

(staring at Bob in a knowing way): Someone who wants to make a mockery of the whole situation will have seen the crime like this. (Acting drunk. He keeps laughing for apparently no reason. He is supporting himself with the help of Bob): Ah, Jupiter‘s thunder falls upon me! You have destroyed my life. (with hiccups and laughs) Nothing matters anymore now…

(staring at Bob in a knowing way): Someone who wants to…

Bob (interrupting the old man): Yes, that’s right. I understand. But you aren’t helping me very much. What should I do exactly? Which is the best way to present things...

Old man: What you did was awful. You absolutely need to change that.

Bob: Of course, but how? Can you tell me exactly what to do? I’m completely lost.

Old man: You need to find that by yourself. It’s a kind of inner monologue. (With emphasis, in a kind of theatrical madness): The inner monologue!
How many times will I have to tell you this?
(With emphasis, even louder than before): The inner monologue!

[On the stage, Jack is moves slightly, as if he is waking up. He grabs one of Bob’s legs.]

Bob (shouting): Ah!

Old man (shouting): Ah!

Jack (shouting and standing up): Ah!

Bob: You’re supposed to be dead, you know!

Jack: Sorry, I fear I have been asleep for a little while…

Old man: All right, pals. There we go! We have our work cut out for us. (He walks quickly into the wings). You gonna play this one-act once more? If the audience had seen your last rehearsal, it would have been a failure. Let’s try again!

Bob and Jack head out into the wings as well. The curtain drops.

An Afternoon of Words & Theatre 7: Ange-Thérèse Akono

2009-02-22T05:07:00.000-08:00

IF ONLY MAGNAN WERE OPEN ON SUNDAYS
by Ange-Thérèse Akono

*
[In the collective kitchen. Dirty plates are lying on the first table along with spice pots, pans and other kitchen utensils. Two students, Anna and Pedro, are discussing something a round the first table. On the second table is a hotplate with a pot with its lid on on it.]
Estelle enters the room.

ESTELLE: Hi, What’s up?
She draws up a chair and sits.

PEDRO: I’ve been tortured this morning by Cauchy, Salençon and Le Tallec

ANNE (laughing): That’s you! Always complaining. It can’t be that difficult!

PEDRO (imitating Anne’s voice): It is not AT ALL difficult. All you have to do is attend all the classes, learn the book by heart and study all the past examinations papers.
Well, I started reading my notes only a few days ago!

ESTELLE: Yeah! Quite challenging. Good luck! By the way, what are we going to cook?

ANNE: Whatever we find, I guess. The cupboards are empty.

ESTELLE: Are they? I thought Sylvain had ordered groceries. He told me he would.

PEDRO: He’s certainly forgotten, otherwise they would have been delivered by now. He might have been busy studying.

ANNE: Just like all of us. I mean, we all are to sit exams next week.

ESTELLE: Instead of complaining, you could have sent him a reminder, Anne.

PEDRO: Ok girls, don’t fight! Having a row will lead us nowhere. We’d better think of a solution.

ESTELE: What’s left?

ANNE (pointing at the potatoes lying on the first table): I had some potatoes left.

ESTELLE: I brought some bacon cubes.

PETER: I have got nothing but spices. Here they are!

ESTELLE: (approaching the second table) What’s that?
She opens the pot to check inside.

ANNE: Some rice, not ours.

ESTELLE: (She nods): Let’s start by cooking these potatoes.
Anna stands up, put the potatoes into a pot, pours water and hands the pot to Estelle.

PEDRO: Don’t you skin the potatoes? My mother always does.

ESTELLE: Pedro, we are not cooking a Spanish omelet. Besides, we‘ve got to save time.

ANNA: Trust me. It tastes better.

PEDRO: Nothing can be better than a home-made tortilla de patatas.

ESTELLE: Oh, oh! I think the fuse just blew ! The burner is off now.

ANNA: Pedro, could you go and turn it back on?

PEDRO: Young lady, I am exhausted and so sleepy!

ESTELLE: Por favor?

PEDRO: I can’t resist such a sweet request coming from such a beautiful lady.
He leaves.

ESTELLE: Such things always annoy me. Why can’t this burner just work normally? We should take action at the student accommodation office…

ANNE: Yes, they could for example, make sure Magnan is open on Mondays, or open a fast-food place next to the student buildings, or…
Pedro comes back.

PEDRO: I’ve just flipped it back on. Does it work?

ESTELLE: No, it still doesn’t.

ANNA: The trouble is, the hotplate can’t heat two pots at the same time, I think. We could wait until the rice is cooked, or take it off the other burner.

PEDRO: That’s not legal. (pointing at the rice) This student came first,

ESTELLE: That’s not enough. He should have stayed to watch his food. My mother used to tell me a good cook never leaves his food unwatched.

ANNA: Pedro, we are tired, cansadas, hungry, and we have to go back to studying soon.

PEDRO: Si, pero, that’s NO excuse.
Anna takes a potato out of the pan and gives it to Pedro.

ANNA: Here is your potato. Just wait until we have finished cooking ours and until the other student has finished cooking his rice, and then you can cook yours. This way you will not be taking part in our crime.

Anna and Estelle exchange conniving smiles.

PEDRO: I am going to wait in my room.
And he leaves.

ESTELLE: He is really angry!

ANNA: he’s too touchy, Pedro!

They put the pot of potatoes on the burner where the rice had been. The door opens and another student comes in.

STUDENT: Hi, excuse me. I forgot my rice on the burner, I hope it didn’t burn.

ANNA: We took it off before it got burnt.

STUDENT: Thanks! Actually, I no longer want it, so if you are interested, help yourself.

ANNA and ESTELLE: Thank you.

STUDENT: You’re welcome! Enjoy!
He leaves.

ANNA (tasting the rice): It’s cooked! We are lucky!

ESTELLE: Yes, let’s just cook the bacon cubes. I’ll call Pedro.
(She gets out her cell phone)
Pedro, you can come back, dinner is ready.
What?... I see, Well, we don’t want to wait too long, ok.
(Talking to Anna) he is coming.

ANNA: Nice!

ESTELLE: Bacon cubes with rice. That’s not at all healthy. There should be some vegetables.

ANNA: Yeah! If only Magnan were open on Sundays!

An Afternoon of Words & Theater 6: Thomas Morel

2009-02-20T08:55:00.000-08:00

STRANGE ENDINGS, by Thomas Morel
Staging by Frederic Delacour (who plays Jerry)

and Simon Chamoret-Devergne (The Angel)

CHARACTERS: Jerry Butler: a CEO in his fifties, tall and thin, with a little moustache. An angel: a messenger. tall and blond, wearing all white.

[Jerry Butler is almost ready to go to work, wearing a dark grey suit with a red tie. But he has a heart attack and he finds himself in a somewhat big white room with no door. Everything’s white, except for two black armchairs and a black TV screen. The room seems to have no walls, he is surrounded by a dazzling whiteness.]
Jerry Butler: What the hell is this place ? Where am I ? What happened ?

[Takes a few steps, stretches his hand out to reach a wall but finds nothing. Puts his hands quickly in his pockets out of fear. The angel comes from nowhere, behind Jerry, puts a hand on his shoulder which makes Jerry jump. The angel wears white trousers and a sky blue sweater. ]

The Angel: [With a sententious tone] Mortal flesh you were, dead you are. For now, it is time you followed me.

Jerry Butler: [incredulous] What ? No kidding ! Where I would follow you ? I won’t go anywhere with you ! There’s a meeting with my administrative board I have to attend to. The administrators, they rely on me. And I must be late by now. I can’t disappoint them ! Let me go !

The Angel: [softening his voice] I tell you, unfaithful, you are not to go anywhere without me. You don’t belong to this worldly place anymore. You are expected elsewhere; and you shall follow me.

Jerry Butler: I tell you, whoever you are ! I have business to do, factories to manage, shares to buy and sell. I work with administrators and financial institutions, I manage employees and factory workers. These worldly matters belong to me and I must attend to my responsibilities. Show me the way out and leave me alone.

The Angel: You shall understand that you are dead and that there is no more concern for you in the world …

Jerry Butler: I don’t give a shit about what you’re saying.

[Jerry’s face turns red out of anger, but the angel remains unflinching, his arms crossed]

Where is the way out ? Tell me or I’ll send my lawyer to deal with you!

The Angel: … You shall follow me, or you’ll be lost on the way.
Jerry Butler: What are you talking about? Don’t you see I’m still alive and healthy? I am still breathing, my heart’s still beating. Can’t you see that? Can’t you hear it? I tell you; I don’t know who you are but I won’t let you kidnap me and fool me like that.

[Jerry swings as hard as possible to take a punch at the angel, but his fist finds nothing and just goes through the head of the angel]

What the hell …

The Angel: You see? There is no way out, only a way forward. Your soul is giving you false impressions. You think you’re breathing, but there is no air; you think your heart’s beating but you had a severe heart attack. There is nothing for you to do, but follow me. If you still don’t believe me, please have a look.

[The TV screen is put on, Jerry looks at it and his eyes widen out of horror]

See, now? There’s nothing I can do for you, but show you the way forward. I’m just a messenger and a guide.

Jerry Butler: [falling on his knees and crying] I can’t believe it! Leave me alone!
The Angel: As you wish. You can call me later.

[He disappears. After a few long seconds, Jerry Butler stands up wearily and wanders around in the whiteness. He finally lets himself fall into one of the armchairs where he begins to speak to himself]

Jerry Butler: God, what am I going to do? Without me, everything will fall apart. There is nobody capable enough of taking over my position at the head of the companies. My administrators will fight for power and the group will collapse. Only I was strong enough to make all that coherent. And what about my family?

[He throws up his hands and shouts]

Oh God ! Who are you to let such a tragedy happen? Why have you allowed this to happen?

[He tries to calm down, sobbing]

What will my wife do on her own? She won’t be able to face anything without me. Who will accompany my daughter to the altar? She’s to be married in two weeks. And there’s still so much to do. The wedding is not ready yet. What about my sons? The elder is preparing for his final exams, he needs to feel safe and secure. The younger is not even five. How will he understand the loss of his father ?

[He starts crying with renewed intensity]

And who will take care of me, in this strange new world? Who will give me a helping hand? I can’t go alone into this scary place. Where are you, my friends?

[He finally lies down on the floor, like a foetus in his mother’s placenta]

The Angel: There, there. Come with me.
[He puts a hand on Jerry’s shoulder, helps him to get up and they go offstage]

--THE END--

An Afternoon of Words & Theatre 5: Christophe Cochet

2009-02-20T08:30:00.000-08:00

One-act play, by Christophe COCHET
Staging by Caroline Apra and Jedd Betari
Extras : Soizic Bernard, Pascal Benchimol, and Guillaume Ruop

[A bar, it is late. A man, half-drunk, half-asleep, is sipping a last drink. A woman in her thirties is also standing at the bar, daydreaming in front of her drink]

Characters: THE WOMAN, THE MAN, THE BARMAN.
Men playing pool in background (Note: in the case of this performance, they were drinking and chatting in the background).

MAN: Didn’t find anyone tonight?

WOMAN: Sorry?

MAN: Yeah, girls like you generally find a bed for the night.

WOMAN: I am not sure I’m that kind of girl.

MAN: No need to argue, I’m not judging you. I’m happy not to be left alone for once.
[The woman scoots closer to the man.]

WOMAN: Let me tell you that I am not a prostitute. I’m not here waiting for a drunken man to pick me up, either. And I won’t allow a whisky-soaked loser to insult me.

MAN [to himself]: She’s got character!

WOMAN: I assume that you come here every night, tease hookers, and empty ten glasses an hour? You are getting a divorce from your wife who can’t stand your getting drunk. You have kids who don’t want to see you anymore. You lost your job some time ago, and that is how all this started.

MAN: Pretty close.

WOMAN: Now you hate the whole world, except the bitch who gives you pleasure once in a while.

MAN: Nice imagination. Had any bad experiences in a bar late at night recently?

WOMAN: Fuck off.

MAN: That’s what I thought.
[Silence between the two. You can hear men playing at a pool table.]

BARMAN: Want another one, Major?

WOMAN: No thanks, Larry. I think I’ll go.
[The woman grabs her purse.]

MAN: Major? You mean like in the army.

WOMAN: I thought I told you to fuck off.

MAN: You know, I was once in the army too. Not on the front of course, but I have seen some bad stuff.

WOMAN: I guess you didn’t have the balls to hold an M16.

MAN: You are the standing proof that it has nothing to do with balls.

WOMAN: You’re becoming smarter.

MAN: Or maybe I am just concealing my assets.

THE WOMAN: What’s the need? Who are you anyway?

MAN: So are you still in? In the army, I mean.

WOMAN: No. Well, yes. But not in the same unit.

MAN: You chose to leave, or were you asked to?

WOMAN: I left because I couldn’t take it anymore.

MAN: Where were you stationed?

WOMAN: Fallujah, Iraq.

MAN: You saw too many nasty things? You missed your family?

WOMAN: Yes and no.

MAN: That’s a concise answer.

WOMAN: I lost a complete platoon in a village ambush when I was responsible for the operation. And I lost my husband three years ago. No children.

MAN: And you think the best medicine is whisky?

WOMAN: No, vodka.

MAN: Character AND humor. Attractive.

WOMAN: I don’t know why I’m telling you about my life.

MAN: Because I asked you to.

BARMAN [to the men who were playing pool and are now leaving]: Good night. See you tomorrow.
[To the woman and man]: You’re the last ones, guys. It’s always you, Martin.

MAN: But I guess I’m not a bad customer, am I?
[The barman smiles and turns away.]

MAN: I’m not offering you a last drink.

WOMAN: No, thanks anyways.

MAN: Well, I think it’s gonna be time for bed.

WOMAN: Hey, wait a sec. You’re forgetting something.

MAN: What?

WOMAN: I told you about my life. I want to know about yours.

MAN: You’re sure you don’t want another drink?

WOMAN: Yes. So what do you do?

MAN: I’m a shrink.

WOMAN: Not bad. You’ve got your own office, or do you work in a hospital?

MAN: It depends.

WOMAN: If I am concise, you’re rather non-committal.

MAN: I said I was in the army. I was a psychiatrist there. I didn’t get to see the front but I met the guys who saw its horrors. I have never seen mutilated bodies lying in the dirt, but I have talked to many amputated GIs. And I can tell you that if they had had the balls to hold an M16, they didn’t have the mind to do so afterwards.

WOMAN: I understand.

MAN: I’m not sure you do, but let’s not get into a fight. I don’t think I would be on top.

WOMAN: I bet you wouldn’t.

MAN: However, I do know where I would be on top.

WOMAN: What do you mean?

MAN: Want to have sex?

[The end.]

An Afternoon of Words & Theatre 4: Qiu Gonghao

2009-02-20T05:27:00.000-08:00

Dish Washer, by Qiu Gonghao

Staging by Agnés Fliscounakis and Hervé Desprets

This is a one act play with a husband and a wife, after dinner.

Husband: I’ve finished, darling.

Wife: What do you mean by that, Tom?

Husband: I mean, I’ve finished eating dinner, Jane.

Wife: And I should do the dishes. Is that what you mean?

Husband: I’d love to help, dear, but don’t forget that it’s Thursday night…

Wife: Right.

Husband: And I do the dishes only on weekends.

Wife: Listen, Tom. Our life needs a change.

Husband: A change? You do them 4 days a week and I’ll do them the other 3? Would that make you feel better?

Wife: No, a real change, Tom. A real one.

Husband: You do them on weekends and I’ll take the weekdays?!

Wife: No!

Husband: You’re challenging my authority in the family, Jane. It’s me who
makes the rules.

Wife: No darling, just a little change and there will be no tedious dish washing at all.

Husband: Are you asking me to take over the task of a woman?

Wife: No, darling, I am suggesting that we can by a dish washer, Tom. I’ve been asking you for one ever since the day we got married.

Husband: So you know the answer.

Wife: But I also want to know the reason.

Husband: Because it’s too expensive. We can’t afford it.

Wife: What! We can’t afford a dish washer which costs 300 bucks?

Husband: But it isn’t worth the price, Jane. You know those machines always do a bad job. We wash our dishes better then any dishwasher.

Wife: I am bored by the dreadful time spent washing dishes! It’s a waste of time!

Husband: Ok. So tell me, what will you do if you have 30 minutes of free time?

Wife: Talk with you.

Husband: Which means I will lose 30 minutes’ time of my own.

Wife: (Silence) That’s why you don’t want a dishwasher, Tom? You hate listening to me!

Husband: You said it, dear, not me.

Wife: Do you know how much time I have spent on this family? I make your breakfast, feed your dog, wash your dirty clothes, make the dinner and wash your gravy-covered dish, and you don’t have the least mercy for your pathetic wife?

Husband: Sounds bad eh?

Wife: What!

Husband: But think about me, Jane. It has been a luxury for me to have half an hour of my own after a hard day’s work. Am I asking too much?

Wife: Don’t you see I am comforting you and feel the pressure on you, and…

Husband: (shaking the wife’s shoulders) You are right, Jane. Our life needs a change.

Wife: A change? What kind of…? You mean, we’ll wash the dishes together from now on?

Husband: A real change, Jane. A real one.

Wife: Do you want to take over the washing?

Husband: No! Let’s make a deal. We will buy a dishwasher, and we will both have half an hour of free time, meaning that in that half hour you won’t try to bother me.

Wife: Bother you?

Husband: Or comfort me?

Wife: No way! That’s my answer, you selfish man! I’d rather do the dishes myself.

Husband: As you like, my dear.

Wife: But don’t forget tomorrow, Friday, it will be your turn to do them!

An Afternoon of Words & Theatre 3: Cédric Pasteur

2009-02-19T13:47:00.000-08:00

Revenge of the Geek by Cedric Pasteur
Staging by Thomas Boulier (playing Michael)

and Youssef Benzakour (playing Sheldon, a.k.a. The Geek)

Cast of Characters : Sheldon, a geek.
Michael: A dumb student

Setting: In a dark dorm room. A laptop computer on one of the desks.

Time: Mid-afternoon.
[Sheldon is wearing a hoodie. Michael is dressed like a rapper with a big gold chain around his neck. Sheldon is working on his computer. The public can’t see the screen, just his hands typing in frenetic bursts on the keyboard. Michael enters the room. ]

Michael: Hey dude. My name’s Michael, I’m your new roommate. [Michael moves his hands towards Sheldon but he doesn’t seem to react. Sheldon keeps looking at the screen.]

Sheldon: Hi. Please excuse me if I don’t get up to welcome you but I am in the middle of something very important.

Michael: Don’t sweat it, dude. I wasn’t expecting any welcoming party. [Michael starts looking around.]

Sheldon: I am conﬁguring my computer so I can access it remotely from any computer in the labs or from my computer back home. I have setup secured tunnels with SSH through the University proxy. This is actually very easy, so I created an IRC bot that could automatically set up the connection and environmental variables. In order to communicate efficiently between the bot and the main script, I used a socket...

Michael: Suck what ?

[Sheldon shakes his head.]

Sheldon: A socket. It is a special ﬁle used by Unix systems to communicate between programs on the same computer. Basically, it’s just a FIFO pipe.

[Michael freezes for a second. His face shows his concentration. ]

Michael: My big brother would love to talk with you. He knows all about pipes. He’s a plumber.

Sheldon: [Mumbling] This has nothing to do with... [Louder] As I said before, I don’t have time for small talk right now.

Michael: No problem, man. You won’t even notice I’m here. [Michael continues to check out the room. He sees the plasma lamp on the desk and plays with it.]

Michael: Awesome dude, you’ve got one of these cool lightning lamps.

Sheldon: [Still staring at the laptop’s screen] Please be careful. This thing is very fragile. For your information, it is called a plasma lamp, or an Inert Gas Discharge Tube, as its inventor, Nikola Tesla, ﬁrst called it. What you see is the result of the ionization of an inert gas under low pressure thanks to the high frequency and high voltage current between the inner electrode and the outer glass that acts like an insulator.

Michael: [With his palm on the lamp] Look. I’m like that guy from Star Wars with lightning bolts coming from his hand.

Sheldon: That guy, as you call him, is the Emperor a.k.a. Darth Sidious, Dark Lord of the Sith a.k.a. Senator Palpatine from Naboo when he started plotting against the Republic. Did you know that it's the same actor, Ian McDiarmid, who portrays the Emperor in Episode VI back in 1983 and Palpatine in the prequel trilogy?

Michael: Woah. That’s an amazing story. You must have picked up so many chicks with it. [Michael laughs out loud. Sheldon waits a few seconds before answering.]

Sheldon: Wait. [Looks closely at the screen] I think you should see this.

Michael: [excited] What? What is it?

Sheldon: [With the same serious tone.] I just received an email for you. It’s Mister T. He wants his jewelry back.

Michael: Well, I got a message for you, It’s ... [Freezes for a few seconds trying to ﬁnd something clever to say] It’s McGyver and... and he says you’re a nerd.

Michael: That doesn’t make any sense.

Michael: [Pointing at Sheldon’s face] Neither does your face.

Sheldon: Let me google it. [Types on his keyboard] I was right. It’s exactly what I thought. The Wikipedia page says that your joke stopped being funny in 1998.

Michael: [Gets really angry] Stop messing with me. You think you’re better than me just because you know all these useless things.

[Michael takes his jacket ff and does some push-ups]

Michael: [Doing some boxer moves] Come here, wuss. We’ll see who’s the bigger man.
[Sheldon slowly closes his laptop, takes of his hoodie off to reveal his suprisingly strong arms and stands up. He is twenty centimeters taller than Michael.]

Sheldon: [With a very intimitading expression.] Who’s the bigger man now?

Michael: [Putting his arm on Sheldon’s shoulder] Come on, bro. You know I was kidding.

[Sheldon grasps Michael’s arm and takes it off his shoulder, then stares at Michael for a few seconds. He starts moving his arm and Michael ﬂees]

THE END.

Final Photos: The Creative Writing Class at Polytechnique, promo 2006, with Cédric at center and the lamp from his play.

An Afternoon of Words and Theatre 2: William Matthew Yon

2009-02-19T13:34:00.000-08:00

VERSAILLES-STYLE PIMPING
By Matthew Yon

GREGOIRE
Poly-technicien, age 22, wearing a suit.
MARIE-CHANTAL
Judge, in her early 50s. wearing an evening gown that could look a little worn out.
WAITER
Waiter, French palace style, snub, wearing a black suit with a white shirt and bow tie. His head is always looking upwards, and his neck is stretched, giving the impression that he scorns everyone. He should interact with the audience: whenever they laugh he puffs in disdain, turns his head and walks away and then slowly comes back. He has an extremely strong French accent.

[The scene takes place during a wedding dinner. In the centre of the stage is one table laid with fine crockery, prepared to sit ten. The table is oval or rectangular shaped, its broad side facing the audience. Four chairs are placed on each side, and one on each end. A sound device should simulate background conversation, noise and music, suggesting the large number of invitees, and the overall luxury of the ceremony.]

[Marie-Chantal, wearing an appropriate, is already seated on a central chair facing the audience.]

ENTERS – Grégoire, coming ondstage from the left, taking slow steps backwards

GREGOIRE : [Addressing someone off stage, left.] …pleasure was all mine, duchess. Enjoy the diner, or as we say in France, Bon Appétit! [He comes towards the table.]

ENTERS – Waiter, right.

[The waiter strolls around the table, going from chair to chair, pulling them back and forth as if to seat someone. During the process, Grégoire sees MARIE-CHANTAL and walks to her, intending to say hello and to introduce himself formally. He stands before her, and she sees that, but does not stand up as he seems to have expected.]

GREGOIRE : Evening, Madame. [He bows his head] It appears we shall be neighbours for dinner.

MARIE-CHANTAL : [Coldly] Good evening, young man. [Bluntly] May I ask who you are?

GREGOIRE : I’m Grégoire Lamartin, a friend of the bride.

[The waiter has finished seating everyone, and now begins serving the starters]

MARIE-CHANTAL : Oh, I see! [Fatuously] You’ll excuse my enquiry, but you see, I’m a judge, and I tend to be faced with the real world a little too often. Recently I’ve read many governmental reports about fine-looking young men who crash wedding parties merely for the food and inebriated young ladies. I feel reassured to see that I won’t have to sentence my dinner neighbour!

GREGOIRE : [Seating himself next to her] I see, Madame, no offence taken. I guess that being suspicious comes with the territory [mockingly] when one exercises such an honourable profession.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Indeed, in fact that’s hardly flattery at all… You have no idea! [Cooler]And you forgot to ask my name, by the way. I’m Marie-CHANTAL Dawner.

GREGOIRE : Well, Madam Dawner, it’s a pleasure to …

[She sees someone more interesting on her left side, and starts talking to him]

MARIE-CHANTAL : Good evening Mr Cox. Enjoying the evening?

GREGOIRE : [To no one in particular/himself] Never mind…

WAITER : [Coughs loudly, followed by silence] Mesdames et messieurs, Noix de Saint-Jacques piquées de pétales de courgettes et gingembre rose, dans un bouillon parfumé. For translation, please learn to speak French!

[He comes to the right edge of the stage, facing the audience. The background noise starts again, but adding knives and forks sounds. Characters eat when not talking.]

GREGOIRE : [Speaking towards the chairs on his side of the table] So, have you managed to talk to the groom, Mr 4? … Oh yes indeed, he is a fine speaker. That’s hardly surprising given that the boy went to the best law school in the world.

MARIE-CHANTAL : [Loudly] A delightful wedding indeed! My dear Albert would have loved that, I mean, he would have loved meeting everyone in such a charming place! [Mildly] Of course, I do not mean that he would have supported this foolish choice of a groom. I just cannot understand how respectable parents can sometimes be so weak…

GREGOIRE : His hobbies? Well, you’re asking a little too much, Mr 2. In fact I hardly know him. All I can say is that he has made a great first impression. Yet, now you’re asking me, he may have said something about sailors’ knots…

MARIE-CHANTAL : I mean, Mr C, I have never thought of them as prodigies in terms of parenthood, but then again… surrendering so willingly to that young lady’s fantasies. I just don’t understand. [Lower] I mean, a young girl may like chocolate very much, but it’s up to her mother to make her understand that vanilla is just as fine, and far more suitable for an old family heiress. I mean, it’s not like this one will run for president.

GREGOIRE : [astounded by what he hears next to him,Gregoire speaks a little louder but chooses not to interrupt] Well, from what I heard, they studied together at Harvard, but it really was this first internship that brought them together.

MARIE-CHANTAL : No, definitely not. I, as a mother, would never let my daughter rush into a marriage with an unknown person that could just as well turn her life –and my reputation– into a hell. First of all, a good union is the result of proper acquaintances. Then it requires the parents’ proficiency in match-making in order to select the right boy. I have always deemed that the only way to meet someone is either through the parents’ enlightened guidance, or during debutante balls.

GREGOIRE : Sorry Mr 3, I didn’t quite hear you… Oh, music? Well, I really think he’s fond of music, for when we talked, he mentioned he had a membership card to the Opera.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Anyway, let’s change the subject. Human mistakes are a subject that, alas, troubles me far too often. I’m a , you see… So, where did you go on your holidays, Mr B? I heard the wildest speculations about your going to a cold place in August! [She listens] Oh… You went to ski in New Zealand! [laughs] Wild indeed.

GREGOIRE : Yes, I went to see Fantasio last week. Brilliant performance in my opinion, not that I am any expert in theatre! Have you seen it? No? Oh, you really should. And you could take your grandson there, introduce him to a classic.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Last time I went skiing it was with, sniff, my dear Albert. But the place was overcrowded with those young scoundrels who skim over the snow like crabs. I don’t want to emit a judgement when I’m not on duty, but once again, I blame the parents. Responsible parents should force their offspring to go straight! I mean, it does not take a genius to see there’s something wrong with these snowboards. Nature wants people to go straight [pause] forward.

WAITER [answering his phone] Someone’s en retard you say? I would say terribly en retard! In fact, all the seats are taken, we are complet! What? No Monsieur, this is the excellence of French cuisine, we don’t squeeze our guests together to add a seat! What did you say? That we always do that in France? Monsieur, cela suffit! [hangs up]

MARIE-CHANTAL : [Turning to Gregoire] My dear Gordon…

GREGOIRE : Gregoire, ma’am.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Gregoire, sorry. My dear Gregoire, do you know how to ski?

GREGOIRE : I was raised in the Alps, so yes, I ski fairly well. Yet I haven’t…

MARIE-CHANTAL : … And you must think, like the rest of us, that snowboards shouldn’t be allowed on the slopes, right? They merely deserve to be sunk into a swamp.

GREGOIRE : Well…

MARIE-CHANTAL : You’re absolutely right. So, tell me please, since you seem to speak decently, I suppose you’re still a student? So tell me, how are your studies going?

GREGOIRE : [struggles to keep his composure ] Hum… You said? Oh, my studies are going on well.

MARIE-CHANTAL : You’re at, how do they call it again? BAC, yes, thank you Mr B. So you’re at BAC plus…? How old are you, by the way?

GREGOIRE : plus 5, and I’m 22.

MARIE-CHANTAL : [mildly interested] so you’re ambitious, you’re into advanced education, the long haul. Makes me remember my own…

GREGOIRE : Indeed, it’s starting to feel a little long, but it’s ok as I can still manage to find a little time to write! And Paris,… Hemingway was right, having the chance to live in Paris as a young man is an experience that’ll probably stay with me all my life.

MARIE-CHANTAL : And where are you studying?

GREGOIRE : In Paris.

MARIE-CHANTAL : In Paris. Must be expensive for your parents, isn’t it?

GREGOIRE : Actually, I’m paid.

MARIE-CHANTAL : By whom?

GREGOIRE : The French Army.

MARIE-CHANTAL : A student-soldier. Well, that’s peculiar. So tell me, you said you liked to write. Are you studying literature? A poet soldier [chuckles then grows serious, raising a finger] Let me tell you, that from the number of drunk wannabe-playwrights that I’ve sentenced, this domain seems to be quite a slippery slope. Especially for those who go down that slope on a snowboard! [She laughs alone. Waiter coughs twice, annoyed by the sound.]

GREGOIRE : Well, no. Actually, I’m more into science.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Science, you say? Are you an ambitious young man trying to become a doctor?

GREGOIRE : No. I’m…

MARIE-CHANTAL : Right, I didn’t suppose so, either. But it’s ok, you know. As long as eventually the two ends meet.

GREGOIRE : [annoyed] actually, my mother, who’s a doctor, deterred me from that job. She said the pay didn’t meet the effort, unless you had a heart of stone. So…

MARIE-CHANTAL : … you’re in a law school! There’s so much I could teach you then!

GREGOIRE : I’m at the Ecole Polytechnique.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Oh… [looks ashamed for an instant] Well… congratulations! [pause] Would you perhaps know… errr… What’s his name again?

GREGOIRE : [despairingly] tell me.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Marc Duchêne, no… Yes that’s it, Marc Duchateau! He was the son of our neighbours back when we, me and my dear Albert, lived in Lyon. I heard he managed to pass the entrance quiz.

GREGOIRE : It’s not really a quiz…

MARIE-CHANTAL : Anyway his parents must have felt quite relieved, for one would never have deemed him good for anything. I remember the first time I met him. He was 4 and carved his cake into geometric shapes when he ate. I always thought his mind never landed on earth. So would you be so lucky as to know the little brat?

GREGOIRE : No ma’am. He’s definitely not in my year, but would you happen to know the year he got in? Or his age?

MARIE-CHANTAL : Oh yes, he got in 6 years ago.

GREGOIRE : Then I could hardly know…

MARIE-CHANTAL : … and there’s also my brother-in-law’s cousin. She had a daughter who must be 27 by now.

GREGOIRE : Again, ma’am, it’s pretty unlikely that I would know her.

MARIE-CHANTAL : [not listening] She married another X. That’s how you call each other right? I heard figures that said over 80% of your female peers end up married with other students from the school.

GREGOIRE : Actually, those figures were global, and indicated that nowadays, young people who pursue college degrees tend to meet their soul mates at university; as is illustrated by tonight’s happy Harvard couple.

MARIE-CHANTAL : They both went to Harvard?

GREGOIRE : My guess is that would be the reason for all the Harvard flags around us [signals with a wave of his hand the flags which the audience can suppose therefore are draped above and behind them along the walls].

WAITER : [answers his phone again] Mr 5 is coming after all? He’s a cousin of the bride? Oh… Well, sir, I guess he should come. My mistake. Still, all the seats are taken. Yes, right. I’ll check the listing and then call you right back.

Exit WAITER.

MARIE-CHANTAL : I also heard the girls in your school were not, how should I put this… Very feminine. Would you agree with this?

GREGOIRE : I beg to differ.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Oh… has Mr X fallen for an X-branded girl?

GREGOIRE [laughs] No, no. Most surely not.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Well, I happen to have a daughter, slightly younger than you. A smart girl, she’s in her first year of sociology studies at the Ecole Supérieure de Versailles! [To her side of the table] Yes, we have moved to Versailles. I really appreciate the place. It’s so full of respectable people, a little piece of heaven on earth, attached to fundamental values. [She smiles as if dreaming and turns back to Gregoire] My daughter’s young, but already looks as good as me when I was 20! Take a look, I have a picture here. [takes out a picture from her handbag] Well, that one’s a picture of me when I was 20, but here’s another one, of her. [takes out a second photo] Isn’t she gorgeous?

GREGOIRE : [embarrassed] As fine a complexion as her mother’s indeed.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Would you want to meet her? I mean, you wouldn’t be signing up for anything, it wouldn’t be an engagement… though it could eventually become one, of course!

GREGOIRE : That’s, is really,… err… generous! But I have to decline. I’m sorry.

WAITER enters with a sheet of paper, checking the invitees to find the intruder.

MARIE-CHANTAL : So there’s someone after all. No problem, my good boy. Still, would you have any friends, perhaps acquaintances, who are desperately single, even if they look as bad as the average engineer… just let me know! [she winks at him]

GREGOIRE : I’ll see to it. I’m sure your daughter could fulfil a lonely X’s heart.

WAITER : Madame, could you remind me of your name, please?

MARIE-CHANTAL : Surely my dear lad, I’m Marie-CHANTAL Dawner.

WAITER : bends and whispers in her ear. She suddenly looks terribly pale.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Well, it appears duty is calling me again, and I will have to leave your pleasant company. [She stands up] My dear Grégoire, [he stands up] I recall your school is holding a debutante ball soon… at the Opera.

GREGOIRE : yes, that would be the Bal de l’X.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Please, try to have my Lily invited, and I’ll make arrangement so that you’ll get an opportunity to teach her how to ski during the next winter holidays.

WAITER : coughs loudly, impatient.

GREGOIRE : I assure you I’ll do my best to pim(p)… err… to put your daughter into the most righteous hands. Still, I would make a poor ski instructor, as I’m really into snowboarding.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Oh… I see! Well… if it comes to that, I’ve always suspected my elder son of being curious about snowboarding…

WAITER : [losing patience] Madame! This is not a brothel, and the actual invitee will be here soon!

MARIE-CHANTAL : [embarrassed] He means… I found someone to replace me in order to keep you entertained!

GREGOIRE : I know, that would be the bride’s cousin.

MARIE-CHANTAL : You know each other?

GREGOIRE : He and I are well, kind of acquainted, yes.

MARIE-CHANTAL : Good night, and keep me posted!

GREGOIRE : Farewell!

Exit, MARIE-CHANTAL and WAITER

An Afternoon of Words & Theatre 1: Rémi Ferrier

2009-02-19T13:13:00.000-08:00

Untitled Play, by Rémi Ferrier

staged by Stéphanie Gantois and Cyril Becquart (pictured by red bar)
with extras : Agnés Fliscounakis & Hervé Desprets (pictured at tall table)

At the Bôbar : the bobarman and a serious student.
The bobarman : not well dressed, his hair uncombed.
The serious student : very clean with freshly combed hair, glasses and a shirt under his pullover.

The bobarman is cleaning behind the bar. The serious student enters and waits at the bar but the bobarman continues to clean and walk back and forth behind the bar. The serious student gestures to the bobarman.

Bobarman : I’m sorry, there is no water here

Student : [ surprised ] What ?

Bobarman : [Picks up and drinks from his beer] I said we don’t serve water today. I’m sorry but you should try the lady’s !!

Student : What’s happened ?

Bobarman : You’ve never heard of water shortages in Africa ? We have decided to support their cause and to stop serving water in this bar. In this way we’re helping little Africans to get water from their Rain God.

Student : Is this a joke or something ?

Bobarman : No, no, I’m being very serious, I read it in the I.K. last week.

Student : [smiling and shaking his head] This is the worst theory I’ve ever heard. I don’t even want to argue with you. Can I have a glass of water please?

Bobarman : I told you, it’s impossible.

Student : I promise I will send one bottle to the poor children starving in Africa as soon as I get back home, isn’t that enough ?

Bobarman : That is very kind of you, and I’m certain that if every student here had such noble intentions the world would be a better place.

Student : Now, can you give me some water please ?

Bobarman : I’m afraid you haven’t understood me quite right. We have cut the water, so it’s impossible.

Student : What? It’s far for me to judge the idea that you are a stupid alcoholic and a desperate fellow, but what the hell happened in your empty mind of an idiot? Did you think for even one second?

Bobarman : [Sips his beer, bent over the bar] of what ?

Student : Simple question : how do you wash things without water ??

Bobarman : simple answer : we don’t wash them, we have enough plastic cups to serve people until 2020.

Student : What happens if somebody wants something other than a beer?

Bobarman : Oh, we have plenty of juice, and we have one bottle of mineral water. You know, in case of emergency.

Student : [looking desperately at the bobarman] But – no – but – you can’t do that, can you?

Bobarman : I don’t see what the problem with this is, you know, in Germany beer is cheaper than water. I’ve even heard that when you buy a house now they ask you if you want running water or beer running out of the tap. – oh, we should do that ! – put a cistern of beer under the bob and have it directly from the spigot, on tap, what a good idea ! beer in your sink, the world at your feet !

Student : [to the public] How did he get into this school ? Either the exam he took was about a beer under pressure in a bottle, or the examiner was more drunk than he is.
[to the bobarman] But tell me one thing, Imagine you get sick – let’s say, for example – this is just an hypothesis of course – let’s say you have a huge hangover, like the one you get after drinking the whole night and you don’t remember how you got back home – this is just an example of course – then you want to drink water here, what do you do ?

Bobarman : [very naturally] The best remedy for a hangover as far as I know is to drink a beer straight after getting up! [He takes a drink of his beer, as if for emphasis]

Student : You are such an alcoholic, I can’t understand why they let you put yourself in such a state and don’t kick your ass out of this bar.

Bobarman : Me, an alcoholic ? No way !! The characteristic of an alcoholic is that he cannot stop drinking. As for me, I can stop drinking alcohol from now on and you won’t even notice the difference.

Student : Then why don’t you?

Bobarman : Because I don’t want to.

Student : Then I say you can’t !!

Bobarman : Look, I’ve been quite polite up until now, but if you are going to start insulting me and treating me like a fucking drunkard I won’t be so nice.

Student : Easy, easy, I’m trying to help you here. I’m just saying, if you want to keep your place in this school, you know, keep studying, perhaps you had better stop drinking and go to class.

Bobarman : [smiling] Well, until now things have not gone so badly, I’m not worried about my future.

Student : What do you mean ?

Bobarman : I’m just saying beer gives you a different approach to the exams, and my method has been quite successful so far.

Student : [astonished] Really?? Like what? You have nothing to retake, nothing to still pass, so you’re saying you’re a genius?

Bobarman : Be cool mister I-work-hard-every-night-to-get-good-marks, the fact is the corps, the mines, must have found something in my way of thinking that they find interesting.

Student : [quite lost, doesn’t believe it] You mean, that you – I mean such an alcoholic as you are – your never going to class is between the 20 first students ??

Bobarman : God bless you.
[to the public] Freshmen are so naïve nowadays.

Student : Ok, forget this stupid story about water, just give me a beer.

Bobarman: [handing him a plastic pint] Here you are, a passport to party; no coming back.

National tea

2008-12-11T20:26:00.000-08:00

When the first cold days of November had started you would always find her in the small park near the church. Whatever the time of day you went there, you could be sure to find her slowly pacing ups and down the sandy paths. The first thing you were bound to notice about this frail figure was the huge and ghastly carpet bag under the weight of which she was struggling. It must have had a definite shape and colour at some point, but you'd always feel at a loss to say which it could have been.
The bag was shaking in rhythm with the old lady's frame. Seeing this tremendous spectacle you could have sworn there was some contraption in the ground shaking the old woman through the knitted wooden cane she was heavily reclining on. Once, you had witnessed a young boy scout's lame attempt at helping the pathetic creature. You remembered that scene very clearly because of the lady's staggering reaction. She had suddenly stopped shaking. Failing to straighten her hunched back, she had looked daggers at the poor boy with eyes made even more predatory by her fur hat rammed down low over her forehead. Everything about her suddenly expressed power and resentment. The boy had gulped uncomfortably, staggered from one foot to the other for a few seconds and finally made up his mind to obey the unspoken order to get lost. He fled as fast as he could and the old woman resumed her unsteady gait.
This very scene was for you the trigger of a real interest in that old lady. You started paying more attention to her each time you passed her in the alleys. The more you looked at her the more you grew uneasy, for, despite the pathetic state of her body, there was an unexplainable sense of nobleness about her. What's more, you soon noticed the way her eyes never stayed immobile under the heavy fur cap, always peering at everything around in a crazy dance, piercing at your very soul every time they met yours.
Slowly, you grew more end more obsessed with the old woman. You would go to the park everyday, even when you didn't feel like going out, and pace randomly around the garden, oblivious to anything going on around you. Suddenly you would spot her coming your way. The time would freeze to an almost standstill while you observed her, eyes wide open. Most of the time you would also stop in your tracks and let your mouth hang half-open as you forgot even your own body. The woman would then pass on by and the world would resume its usual pace.
You started having dreams about the old lady. Sometimes she was a spy from a distant and exotic country, meeting informants in the park. On other nights she was a bad witch, feeding on the souls of people she looked into the eyes of with her predatory gaze. You would wake up from these particular dreams in a sweat, shouting aloud something along the lines of, “No, don't eat my brain!”
One day you got the answer. It was really cold and windy and there was no one to be seen in the park. Although you had been reluctant to go out in such bad weather, you'd felt bound to by your unnatural curiosity. Would the old lady be there? You could feel your fingers turn cold and hard in your pockets. You could not feel the pain in your ears any more: if you had touched them they probably would have broken off neatly. You had almost decided to call it a day and go back to a sheltered place when she appeared, struggling in the wind. Astounded, you stared as she made her way in your general direction. Suddenly a stronger gush of wind hit her squarely. Very slowly you saw the woman fall to the ground and the big bag fly up in the air. It fell slowly and crashed a few feet farther off, exploding to free thousands of plane tree leaves. So that was what the bag had contained all along!
You took action. After quickly checking that the woman was all right, you took the bag and chased after the flying leaves to stuff them back inside. Once finished, you brought the bag back to the old lady. She was shaking all over, completely frozen.
“You need to go back home, ma'am. It's not wise to go out on such a cold day! Here, take my arm, I'm going to help you,” you told her. You made your way slowly out of the park, all the while trying not to let yourself be shaken by the gusts of wind on the huge bag so as to offer strong support for the wavering old lady. Once outside the park gates she pointed to a tall Gothic style building on the other side of the crossroads. You helped her climb the three rows of stairs to her apartment.
It was huge, dark and dusty, with Victorian décor, but the most striking thing was the smell. A mixed scent of dry and rotting tree leaves. If you had closed your eyes you could have sworn you were lost in the undergrowth of a mysterious forest. What on earth could that woman do with all these leaves? A little voice inside of you started talking about witches and painful death. You told her to shut up but she wouldn't. The old lady, who had been sitting silently on a velvet couch in the middle of the room, recovering her breath, suddenly she spoke up.
“Well, I must say I don't know how to tell you how thankful I am. If you'd not been there I would certainly have frozen to death. What's more, I would have lost all this fine crop. Please do sit down. I don't have much to give you but the least I could do is treat you to a nice cuppa!”
She stood and went through the big door on the right. Upon opening it the smell of leaves became even stronger. Inside the room you could see row over row of plane tree leaves stacked in shelters. The lady paced along the rows, muttering to herself, then made up her mind, grabbed a handful out of one of the stacks and came back to the living hall.
“These are from year 95, an extraordinary year, you'll see,” she said with a smile.
“Er, ma'am,” you said tentatively, “you don't really intend to drink an infusion of these leaves, right? Cuz, you know, plane tree is toxic, isn't it?”
“My dear boy you completely misunderstand the point. Look at me, I've been drinking plane tree infusions for more than thirty years now and do I look any worse for it?”
Seeing the way she was shaking all over while speaking, you were tempted to confirm that she did, in fact, seem to be suffering from side effects. But it would have been disrespectful to the old lady, so you kept silent. She sat in a deep armchair in front of you, shrinking into the cushions like a dessicated spider, and resumed her speech.
“Of course, that's what they told me when my husband died. Intoxication, they said. But I know better. You can't trust those people from the government. They're all corrupt, just like those people from private companies. I'll tell you the truth. Have you never wondered why we English people never thought of growing tea here in our own country? Don't tell me it wouldn't grow! I know it's what they'll make you believe, but I know better! The truth is it's the Chinese and the Indians who corrupt our noble society to force us not to question their monopoly on the tea trade, which is as terribly unbalanced a trade as there can be. In the past we had established compensations: we would occupy India and sell opium to China. But they managed to sneak out of these! India claimed their independence and obtained it. As for China, they went so far as to fake a revolution, the Mao emperor used communism as a pretext to ban our particular line of product. So it has been more than fifty years that our holy nation has been losing millions after millions to these degenerate countries! Now I say we have to react and resist. We can drink plane tree leaf infusions, it's as good as tea, even better! Of course they don't want to see this happen, so they have everybody believing that it's poisonous. But let's face facts: is it believable that our noble country, with all its age-long traditions, would have suddenly taken up drinking infusions after India was discovered? I'll tell you the truth, straight from my grandmother: before there was tea, people drank tree leaf infusions, and the plane tree's was the very best!”

TV Programme

2008-12-01T14:10:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend watched a documentory about animals at 2 a.m. I told her I was sleepy and we should sleep. She said I was a lion and she was a monkey. I was always sleeping while she needed activity. I answered she was tired too and should sleep. She stood up, took her clothes, opened the door. I asked what she was doing. She calmly said she was going cause I was a lion and she couldn't live with a lion. I bumped out of the bed and stayed in front of the door, asking her to reconsider her analogy. She smiled, pushed me, and we had some activity.

Regency nonsense

2008-11-30T06:06:00.000-08:00

The gentleman in the dashing coat and shining Hessian boots drew the curricle to a halt and descended in one swift move. The stable boys stared at the beautifully-matched pair of bays and glared at the tiger with a pang of envy as his master handed him the reins.

“Walk them, I shall not be long.”

He strode into the inn. Everything in his demeanour, from the straightness of his outfits to the strong and shapely figure he cut proclaimed his sportsmanship. There was Quality. The landlord offered him some refreshment, excusing himself that the private parlour had already been bespoken.

“Oh, it is, is it?”

One of the perfectly arched eyebrows went up and the landlord reddened under the scrutiny.

“Maybe the young lady won’t mind…”

The landlord found himself quite at a loss to finish his sentence. Under the gentleman’s heavy eyelids anger had flashed in the dark gray eyes.

“Thank you, I will ask the… young lady myself, if you please.”

The landlord bit back an unwise answer and ushered the Corinthian in the private parlour, reflecting that he should have sensed that mischief was brewing when he had seen the young couple arrive. The man was by no means the young lady’s brother, but he was no mere lordling that could be denied entrance. The innkeeper sighed heavily and closed the door behind the dark gentleman.

As soon as the parlour’s door was opened, the Viscount’s quick eyes found the young lady seated by the window. She was gazing at the London road absently. Something in her attitude betrayed her wariness, but somehow her soft brown eyes looked as lively as ever and her complexion was none the worse for the journey. Her little chin lifted up in her proud way. He had to admit, she looked very becoming. Though she could not pretend to be a dashing beauty, for dark looks had gone quite out of fashion, she was striking in her own way, with a vivid personality and unaffected manners. Against all odds, she had taken the town by storm and the way her delicate face came to life when she talked or grew angry had put the loveliest damsels into shade. Even the fact that she was an heiress had not marred her promising debut. The Viscount clenched his fist at the thought, and walked slowly into the room. The smile on his face was cool and contemptuous.

As soon as she heard the footsteps, she turned her head and for a short moment something very much like relief shone in her eyes. But this was immediately replaced by coldness as understanding dawned on her. Disgust spread on his face as he looked at her shameless attitude. He had no wish to hide his feelings. After everything his parents had done for her, accepting the guardianship imposed on them by a long-forgotten friend, and introducing her to the very best society in London, she had still felt no shame in eloping with his rake of a cousin.

“My Lord Wentworth. You are here.”

“I am here, My Lady, though I have no wish to be, believe me.”

“I am sorry that you should have had to make such a distasteful journey,” she replied in a low trembling voice he recognized.

She gazed coolly at him, infuriating him further. His snubs had never failed to put any impertinent damsel into a blush, but from the very beginning she had shone no sign of wanting to comply with him and his sense of propriety. As the eldest son of her guardian, he had done his best to tolerate the spitfire girl, and had even disregarded her outrageous flirtations with his fortune-hunting cousin, thinking she was neither green nor so lost to propriety as to contemplate such a misalliance. It seemed he had been mistake. It took him all his will not to walk to her and shake some sense in her lovely, childish brown head.

“How could you be so shameless as to elope,” He asked, not sparing her blushes any longer.

“Maybe, she spoke with treacherous smoothness, anything is better than to be constantly in your cold and contemptuous company, My Lord.”

Miss Shaw turned her blazing eyes towards his Lordship, feeling her blood boil. He was just as bad as she had guessed he would be when she had caught the expression on his face. He thought her vulgar, capable of any improper acts. Anger blurred her vision, and for a few seconds she had to fight back tears. How she wished she could call him out for his contemptuous words!

“I am very sorry to see that you have come to such a dislike of my character,” he answered just as silkily as she had, but his gaze was lit up by a disturbing flame she had never seen before. “I shall nonetheless take my leave to inform you that you will not be married to Clifford before you come of age.”

Fury rose so violently in her belly she would have slapped him had she not been convinced he would add that to her many faults. Instead, hearing Clifford coming, she gave him a curt smile and steadied herself. For the whole journey she had wanted to run Clifford through for what he had dared put her through, and her only hope had been in the certainty that the Viscount would take them over before noon. But now she did not know which of the two was the wickedest, the vilest. They would both see if she could not fence for herself!

“My Lord, as you see your cousin has caught up with us and he says he will not let us marry.”

“Oh, will he not?”

The dandy levelled his quizzing-glass and stared at his cousin, a faint smile brushing his lips. Though she did not really care for Clifford’s quizzing-glass, the sick look on the Viscount almost redeemed her abductor.

“I think you shall have to fight if we are to resume our journey to the border,” she suggested with only a faint trace of hope in her voice.

His lordship laughed heartily.

“I find you blood-craved, Child. What has he done to infuriate you? You did not seem so eager to proceed a few moments ago.”

Her eyes blazed as harshly at the dandy as they had at the Viscount, but she knew by his lordship’s expression that Clifford’s words had not been wasted on him. His gaze flew to Sara’s face, and she blushed under the sudden intensity of his deep gray eyes.

For a short moment, the look reminded Sara of the happy weeks they had spent at Sherrington with his parents and his younger brother. She had almost begun to think him a friend, as he had taken her to ride everyday and had even helped her practice the waltz. But then, back in London, he had been as cold and as contemptuous as ever, and she had bitterly understood where she stood in the world. With his handsome dark looks, his title and his fortune, he was one of the most eligible of bachelors. She was only a country girl, tolerated because she was an heiress, but nonetheless looked upon with pity. She smiled bitterly at the word. An heiress. Suddenly she was tired and, even though she would have quite enjoyed seeing the gentlemen duel for the sake of her fortune, it was high time to end this nonsensical masquerade. Clifford had gone too far.

“My Lords, will you please listen to me before you set forth killing each other.”

She managed to smile, but kept her gaze focused on the window.

“There is no reason for you to fight, for I am not the heiress everyone supposed me to be.”

“What are you talking about, child,” Clifford asked with a dubious lift of one eyebrow.

The Viscount stood silent, staring intensely at Sara, not betraying any emotions. She shuddered, for she knew how he would welcome the news of the hoax. Though she was not responsible for it, he would still blame her.

“To speak the truth, my father left me without a penny. It was my Lord Sherrington’s notion not to utter a word on my circumstances to the world, and since he is my guardian I merely complied with his advice, though I now see I have acted very unwisely.”

Lord Clifford stared blankly at her, and she smiled her laughing smile at him. She could see on his face his mixed feelings: incredulity, annoyance at the pointlessness of his journey and good-natured amusement. Finally he bowed to Sara, smiling back into her eyes with a twinkle in his own.

“Miss Shaw, I shall go back to London this very moment, and leave you in the care of your guardian’s son.”

Then he added in a low voice, in response to her blazing eyes.

“Oh, Sara, it is just what you deserve for leading me on this dance! I hope you will enjoy the journey back. Wentworth, I'll meet you at Watier’s.”

On this light note, he left the inn. Only minutes later a curricle was seen taking the London road. The room remained silent. Sara did not trust herself to speak to his lordship. She was still in such a rage. Maybe, she thought, she should have waited for blood to be shed before unveiling the truth.

“As soon as I am of age, I will seek a post in a respectable house. I won’t trespass very much longer on your parent’s kindness,” she said stiffly. “So, will you be so kinds, My Lord, as to not remind me in the meantime of this awful masquerade.”

She did not lift her chin, but heard his lordship cross the short distance between them in a few strides.

“I won’t,” he said softly. “But you will not become a governess.”

She stared harshly into his dark eyes, wrath growing in her bosom once more.

“Oh, what will you have me be, My Lord, a milliner perhaps?”

His lordship's coldness and contempt had vanished, leaving place for warm amusement. As he looked at her, his little spitfire, she looked so much like a vengeful Greek deity he could not help but laugh.

“Since you are no longer a great heiress, I thought you might like to take care of my house,” he offered with a laugh spreading to his usually cold eyes.

He took her hand gently in his. Fury consumed her. How could he? How dared he?

“Oh, you’ll have me be a housekeeper?”

At this, his lordship burst out laughing, before giving her a look that drew an even deeper blush from her already reddened complexion. Suddenly she was at a loss. His grey eyes had been, from the very beginning, what she had been unable to handle.

“Oh, you little nonsensical spitfire! Do you think I could decently marry the heiress under my father’s guardianship?”

He kissed her roughly, and for the first time she realised that his harsh treatment of her might just be what would suit her character .

The Blue Bouquet - from another point of view

2008-11-27T12:19:00.000-08:00

I woke covered with sweat. Although I couldn’t find sleep anymore, I remained lying on the hard, damp mattress, listening to the silence. Outside, the town was asleep, but I could feel her breathing, the very soft groaning of living beings dreaming together. The window was wide open. There was nothing between me and the outside night except an old mosquito net dangling from the window frame. The lack of streetlights made the room dark yet familiar, like an old coin in your pocket whose shape and touch you know without needing to see it. I finally rose up and crossed the room to the window, avoiding carefully the stool and the jar of water standing at the foot of the bed. I pushed aside the mosquito net and sat down, my back leaning against the window jamb. The air was slightly more fresh and breathable here. As I lit a cigarette, the moon suddenly appeared out of nowhere and showed me the bare street at my feet.

I smoked my cigarette slowly and silently, still listening to the sleepy town, then lit another one. The street was empty, except for a man coming from the plaza, walking quietly along the white crumbling wall. Then, all of a sudden, another man sprung out of the shadow of a porch. He looked rather small and fragile, and was wearing a palm sombrero. As he hurried to catch up with the first man, there was a flash of moonlight in his right hand. I held my breath as they both stopped walking, the short one facing the back of the other, who was standing without a movement. They were talking, but too softly for me to hear what they were saying. I imagined the fear of the tall one, the cold touch of the unknown weapon at his back, and hoped they wouldn’t see me staring at them.

Then the tall one turned around, and I clearly saw the large machete the short one was holding. To my surprise, the tall man lit a match and held it close to his eyes, looking as if he wanted to burn himself. The light made him squint, and the other one forced his eyelids open with two of his fingers, standing on tiptoe, with the threatening machete still in hand. The flame burned the fingers of the tall one and he dropped the match, leaving the moon as the only source of light. Then another match was struck, and the strange scene replayed itself. This time the one with the machete grabbed the other’s sleeve and forced him to kneel down, then brought his weapon close to the eyes of the man. For a split second I thought he was going to kill him, but then he had let him go and had vanished into the darkness, as if he had never been here at all. Alone in the dark street, leaning against the wall, the tall man was holding his head in his hands, stumbling and falling like a newborn. He staggered along the street, and then was gone too.

I lit another cigarette, listening to the silence.

Writing

2008-11-25T14:08:00.000-08:00

I wrote letters to my boyfriend every day while he was away. Love letters when I felt lonely, angry letters when I resented his absence, funny letters when I wanted to share a joke, passionate letters when I desired him.
When he came back, he told me that he hadn't read any of them, because my handwriting was unreadable.

Another friday night

2008-11-16T07:48:00.000-08:00

Man's P.O.V.

Like every week at this hour, the metro was overcrowded. I had managed to occupy the last space remaining in the car at the previous station. I really could not afford to take the next train or else I would have been late for my train back home. Someone tried to push his way in after me and I was this close to kicking him. The heat inside the metro was unbearable. Outside it was snowing but here it felt more like the Sahara or rather some tropical forest. The man next to me _ maybe I should say below me providing how much packed together we were _ stinked horribly. I wondered how many days had passed since he last took a shower. I thought I would faint a few minutes later if I could not get farther away from him. I tried thinking about Mary that was waiting for me back home and the wonderful week end we would spend together. This was my only weekend off for about a month and it was the only thing I was thinking about for a week.
At last the door of the train was opening. I still had twenty minutes to get my ticket and step into the train. I took a few seconds to get myself together and concentrate on what was important. A ticket machine was free right in front of me, so I rushed to it and started entering my ticket information. A message appeared on the screen.
Due a to a central server error, it is impossible to retrieve your ticket from this machine. Please use the ticket office to retrieve your tickets.

This was not a big problem, as there was a booth over there with just one person. This should be very quick. The man before me appeared to be the slowest man in the whole world. I know this sounds like a cliché but this one really was a contender to the world title. When it took his wallet from his pocket, it looked like the super slow motion they show on TV during sports. Now he was starting to count his coins, but he had trouble seeing them, so it took him about ten seconds to find the right focal point where he could see clearly.
Excuse me sir, do you mind if I help you, I'm in a hurry, maybe I could help you with your coins...
Are you insinuating I am too old to be able to handle this on my own ? he replied while staring at me.
No sir, of course not, I'm just saying that ..
So please mind your own business and be a patient, he said with a remarkable confidence.
He may have been old and slow but he still looked very strong and I decided it was maybe not a good idea to continue this conversation. The anger was starting to grow inside of me and I didn't want to end up fighting an old man.

A few minutes later, the old man finally stepped away and I could start explaining my situation to the young woman inside the booth. A few meters away, a young black man was playing his guitar. I had no idea what he was playing or whether it was beautiful or not, because all I could hear was a noise that was preventing me from hearing her answers. I tried talking louder and louder, but I did not seem to work. The young woman remained calm and kept asking me the same question about some card that I still could not understand. At this time I was almost sure that I would miss my train, the last train going to Brugges this day.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I don't remember what passed trough my head at this moment but I gave a large swing in the air with my elbow, hitting with a strength I did not know I had the man behind me. When I looked back, I realized I had hit a policeman that probably only wanted to tell me to be a little more quiet. On the distance, I saw his two colleagues running in my direction. My weekend was definitively ruined.

************************
Woman's P.O.V.

By the window I could see the snow slowly falling on the city. I had been working inside this tiny booth for four hours, doing the same task again and again. I would just enter the information the client would give me, collect the money and give them the ticket. I don't know if it was due to the weather or to the beginning of the weekend but the clients were particularly ungrateful. I had already been insulted five times this day, even once in a language that I didn't know but was not very hard to understand what was meant. I had been working here for a month so I had become accustomed to this type of attitudes and I did not even react to this kind of provocation. Only the music of a young talented man playing Soul music with his guitar was helping me staying awake. He was playing here every Friday since I started working here and I really enjoyed hearing him.

I was helping a nice old man to buy his ticket to Paris. He told me that he was going there to meet some old friend he had not met for ten years, when he retired from his job as chief financial officer in a car company. You could see the years on his face but it was easy to see at first glance that he was still active and full of strength and dynamism.
While helping this man, my eyes were attracted to a middle-aged man that was trying to retrieve a ticket from a ticket machine. He couldn't stand in place and kept oscillating like a boat during a storm. His foot kept hitting the floor frenetically. He clearly was in a hurry and on the verge of becoming crazy of anger. He hit the machine, then looked around and ran to my booth.
I continued helping the old man to buy another ticket while keeping an eye on the other man as I had a bad feeling about him. He kept looking at his watch every ten seconds and doing some kind of dance like when you have an urgent need to pee, but in a much more violent and jerky way.

He started talking to the old man. I could not hear what they said of the window separating us but I suppose he was telling him to hurry up. The old man answered very firmly and went on as if nothing had happened. Behind him, the nervous man stepped backward and stayed there quiet for a few minutes, like a child punished by his parents. I finished helping the old man who kindly thanked me for my patience and complimented me.
As soon as he left the booth, the man rushed to the booth and started talking so fast that I almost did not understand what he wanted. I gently asked him to calm down and repeat slowly. He kept shouting louder and louder that he needed the ticket to Brugges he had bought trough the Internet. I tried asking him that I needed to see his reduction card to be able to give him his ticket. But it was almost useless as he never stopped talking. I made a small gesture to one of the policeman in the area asking for help, as I had no idea how to get out of this situation. I kept the same inexpressive face I had learned during my first month here because I was afraid that showing my fear would only make him angrier. I had see on Discovery channel that you should never show your fear to an angry animal and I don't know why but this is the first thing that popped into my mind.

The policeman put his hand on the man's shoulder to try to calm him down. The second he had done that, the man hit him directly in the face with his elbow, like a professional kick-boxer. I used the communication system to alert the other policemen in the area to come and neutralize the man. My boss told me to go home early because I had reacted the right away and avoided a bigger problem.

The parakeets

2008-11-09T14:17:00.000-08:00

When my girlfriend told me she wanted a couple of parakeets, I first tried to deter her:
"We have already had two cats and a dog. No one has survived more than two months! "
After she explained me that parakeets do not usually try to cross the road, and that they would bring entertainment in our rather "gloomy" daily life, I had no other choice than to say yes.
I live with two parakeets now. They scream, they smell. On the week-end, my girlfriend insists for them to eat with us. Nothing makes her laugh more than seeing then eating in my plate.

Winter

2008-11-05T09:16:00.000-08:00

My neighbour is very young to be living on his own. He can’t be more than seventeen, but I’ve never seen anyone enter his place. No friend, no family, no girl.
White skin, stormy eyes, something disturbing in his demeanour.
When I leave home, I see him stare at me through the dirty window. He never says a word though. When I come home, I hear his breathing in the dark corridor, but never his voice. One morning I tried to make contact.
“Hey you, in there!”
No answers. Just a blank look. Another day, I knock on the door.
“Wanna drop by and have lunch with me?”
I hear him lock his door. Ok then, I am the big bad she-wolf…
Sometimes, I lay on my bed, trying to understand his unnerving look, his weird loneliness. Why doesn’t he answer? I feel bad about him; I’ve felt cold and nervous since I moved in.
One night, I am on the balcony, having a smoke, watching the moon rise up slowly, as my fingers grow cold from the freezing air. And I hear him. Only a whisper, but clear, just as unnerving as the frozen look he gives me each day.
“I am cold,” he tells me.
For a short moment, I don’t know if I am dreaming, hearing things. I can’t see him on the balcony but I know it’s him.
“It is going to snow,” I answer softly.
“I wish I could see it.”
I don’t understand him, but I think he does not wish to be reached. My mind searches for him in the darkness.
“You will, I’m sure.”
There is nothing else I can answer. The snow will be down before dawn.
“I am cold,” he whispers once more.
I wonder who he is.

Next morning, the snow begins to fall. He is not at the window.

The Edge

2008-11-04T10:54:00.000-08:00

Roxanne embraces her sister with a shy smile, and lets her head rest on her shoulder while Juliana brushes her hair with her fingers. Releasing her sister from her arms, Juliana sits down and pats the couch, next to her, with a hollow smile.

JULIANA: Aren’t you tired, Rox? It must have been such a long day for you. When Mum called I almost did not answer… I was so frightened.
Roxanne smiles soothingly.
ROXANNE: I told you many times that everything would go smoothly. In fact, there was nothing to be anxious about. I defended myself, and explained how I did the only thing I could… They knew it, and came to the only possible verdict. Self-defence…
She runs her fingers against a bleaching scar at the base of her neck and gives a strange little laugh. Juliana, startled, shudders violently.
JULIANA (whispers): Nothing to be anxious about... Yes, you must be right. I guess I am too emotional.
Roxanne goes to the sofa and puts her arms around Juliana.
ROXANNE: Oh dear, dear, Juliana. Please look at me. It’s ok now, everything is over. Please! Don’t let yourself get distressed. I am ok! Look at me. I won’t go to jail and with the doctor’s help, I’ve begun to forget about that night… Those nightmares… are less and less powerful…
A small noise resembling a sob escapes Juliana’s throat.
JULIANA: Roxanne, I am so sorry, you are the one who had to undergo the whole thing and I am the one locking myself in my room to cry… I wish I were a better sister, or that you could forgive me… (She hides her face in her hands and starts sobbing silently.) But, Rox, if you knew… (sobs) If you knew how much I dreaded that they would not believe you… (sobs) If ever they found out…
ROXANNE (her eyes fixed on the wall behind Juliana, there is no emotion in her voice): Found out?
JULIANA: Oh, Rox, I can’t… I can’t… Please don’t ask me. I’ve wanted to die so much. (more sobs) And I feel so ashamed… I know I should not say this to you… I mean… I know you loved him although he tried to kill you… but I am so happy you killed him!
ROXANNE: (staring through the window with narrowed eyes): You must mean you are happy I did not let him slaughter me…
JULIANA: No.

They keep silent for a few minutes, Juliana still sobbing, Roxanne lost in her contemplation of the street through the window. Suddenly Roxanne turns her attention back to her sister and smiles reassuringly.
ROXANNE: By the way, I did not love him, so you should not concern yourself with what happened or what unkind feelings you may have about him. When he turned violent, I simply valued my life more than his…
Juliana stops sobbing at these words.
JULIANA: You did not love him? Do you mean it?
ROXANNE: I do. Never loved him.
JULIANA (cold and troubled): Then why did you go out with him for so long? (She jumps to her feet) I.. I asked you to stop seeing him from the beginning ! I.. knew he was dangerous ! I…
She starts crying again. Roxanne stands to cradle her.
ROXANNE: Hush Ju, just forget about him, about the whole… You could have known nothing… Hush.
JULIANA (now on the verge of hysterics, Juliana disengages herself from Roxanne’s embrace): But, yes! I knew, Roxanne, I knew him well enough to wish him dead every day of my damned life, ever since…! (Roxanne stays silent, her gaze fixed upon her sister’s face.) He raped me, Roxanne! I could not tell you… I could not tell anyone... (she breathes heavily.) But I am glad you killed him, I wish I could have seen his face when he… (she starts crying again.)
ROXANNE (whispers through clenched teeth, strangely calm): Yes, I enjoyed it. He only got what he deserved, the bastard… Our only consolation is that he died in pain…(to her sister:)Now come, Juliana, he won’t hurt you anymore! I saw to that…
JULIANA (stares up): You saw to that? Rox! What can you mean by that? What the… You knew? All along !? Oh my…
She stumbles and falls on the couch, her hands fly to her face in stricken horror.
ROXANNE: Hush, Ju, don’t think about it…
JULIANA: But how…
ROXANNE: I saw him leave our house that day, and heard you crying later that night. In your dreams you even spoke about it once or twice. Happily, our parents sleep at the other end of the house. Now…
JULIANA: But if you knew… Oh my…Don’t tell me you did it on purpose! How could you go out with him when…
ROXANNE (a smile flutters for a few seconds on her face): Ju, I won’t tell you anything you don’t wish to hear. And honestly there is nothing to tell. Just what I told the police, he tried to kill me, stabbed me once but then I reached for a knife and struck first… He would have killed me otherwise.
JULIANA (fascinated): Did he beg for mercy?
ROXANNE: There was no time for that. Only one strike, but that was enough to put him down.
JULIANA: Didn’t he say anything before he died?
ROXANNE: Oh, he felt quite betrayed, I suppose. He tried to mumble something… I can’t remember. But at the end, his look was so distressed that I almost took pity on him. Not that it would have changed anything, though…
JULIANA: Did he bleed hard?
ROXANNE (with a weird smile): Yeah, lovely red on the white carpet, but the smell was quite nauseating.
JULIANA: Rox, you’re frightening.
ROXANNE: Just kidding. You’re the one asking sordid questions… (Then after a few moments’ reflection she goes on:) I only had a short while to see the light fade in his eyes, and then I collapsed. I had lost a lot of blood, too. But yeah, I saw it. The fear in his eyes…
JULIANA: I wish you’d strangled him.
ROXANNE (laughs): It would have been quite difficult to choke him to death and plead self-defence.
JULIANA: But how did you…
ROXANNE: I told him I knew about what he had done to you, and that I would tell the police. It was quite easy to pick a fight with him, to provoke him. Then I grabbed one of the knives and told him not to come near me. That was enough to put the seed in his mind, so he took the other knife, and I let him stab me. But then I got to his throat. He was a bit drunk. I’d waited for the right moment, you see. And I’ve always been strong. He never thought I would struggle.
JULIANA: Rox, you should never have…
ROXANNE (suddenly wrathful): Shouldn’t have? After what he’d done to you! How can you be so unfeeling as to tell me something like that? Ju, what would you have me do? (Tears run down her cheeks. Juliana cradles her gently). This was the only way… The only way to relieve you… I didn’t want to keep looking into your hollow eyes. I wanted you back, feeling better, feeling something at least! I knew that this could make you feel something, if nothing else could.
JULIANA: No, I’m sorry, Roxanne. I meant, it was not worth taking so many risks! You could have died, you could have gone to jail for the rest of your life… I didn’t want to hurt you Roxanne… You’re my little sister. I should take better care of you…
ROXANNE (stops crying): Then you are not angry with me? I did what I could to make things better. And I did it well: nobody will ever suspect anything now, because I’m the only one who knows what happened… We are both freed from all this. Nobody will ever know the truth.
JULIANA (smiles): No, they won’t, for I shall never breathe a word of this to anyone. Never…
The sisters fall into each others arms, Juliana with a sigh of relief, Roxanne with a giggle recalling that of a small child.

Polygamy

2008-11-02T04:19:00.000-08:00

Girls are very jealous. They always want to be the only one. So the first thing I did was to find them a field where I could say they were the best and the only one. I had the funniest girl in the world, the cutest one and the sweetest one and so on. The thing is they didn’t want me to see other girls. They were so jealous they told me they would kill me. One day I switched name between two girlfriends and now I’m in Hell. But you know what, polygamy isn’t forbidden here !

Diamond

2008-11-02T04:18:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend was the most beautiful girl I can imagine, she was so perfect I couldn’t find the smallest flaw in her. I wanted her forever so I bought her a golden ring. By the fire one night I kneeled in front of and showed her the ring. She looked at the precious stone, she froze one second and told me :
“This one is too small, I thought you loved me more.”
She married a guy who could buy her the world.

2008-2009 Class

2008-10-06T15:32:00.000-07:00

A new school year and a new group posting.

Watch over the next weeks as Polytechnique's current 3rd years give you a little insight into their imaginative worlds!

Hazardous Escape, by Timothée de Ferrières

2008-06-10T10:36:00.000-07:00

Hazardous escape
by Timothée de Ferrières

The night was falling and Canh was still sitting on the strand. He enjoyed the moment because his fellow prisoners had walked away from the shore. As the strand streched a few meters below the esplanade, he almost felt alone : the only one who could see him was the guard in the watchtower that stood on the bank of the river a hundred meters upstream. He listened to the lapping of the water disturbed by the evening breeze, and he thought of his family.

If he were able to cross the river, he would walk and meet them again, whatever the distance. He had not seen them since he left home to join the resistance, two years before. He would have stayed if it had been possible, but he had had no choice. He remembered the verses he wrote a little while later :

(ref : The following translation does not render the rythm and the rhymes of the traditional-style original poem:)

For the very last time, I could stare at those lands,
That hundred-year-old alley where I used to play,
And those familiar roofs that used to shelter me
Like a precious treasure which had to be preserved.

In the middle of the gate, moved in their prayer,
Hopeful but so anxious to see their son going,
My family remained in the morning sunlight.
Their sorrow made my heart feel a pang of anguish.

I heard the soft singing of a luminous bird
With bright, coloured feathers that the sky set ablaze.
I breathed the air of the carambola trees
Whose gentle shadow I may never see again !

I carved deep in my heart this beloved picture
Which nothing, even time, will never alter,
And I carried away on that uncertain trip
Only a machete along with memories.

Canh dreamt of living a peaceful life on the land of the family as a small farmer, like his forefathers. Nevertheless, the trouble in the country prevented him from fulfilling that harmless desire. The regular army, which lacked combatants to fight against both a bordering country and the internal rebellion, had been making the rounds of the villages seeking recruits. When they arrived in a village, they gathered all the youngsters and they drew lots among them. They took away one young man out of every seven. Canh had been one of the unlucky ones. He was seventeen years old at that time.

He had had little time to get ready and to say his farewells to his family. They could not let him join the army. On the one hand, they rather agreed with the rebellion, but on the other hand, the family of the mother of Canh came from the country he might have to fight against. Therefore, he had to join the rebellion.

Hoi, a friend of the family helped the local rebellion group whenever they needed some food or tools. Canh knew him very well, so he had run to his village and met up with him. He explained his situation. Forunately, Hoi had to meet some rebels during the night, so Canh could quickly hide among them.

As Canh had never used a rifle, the rebels decided not to send him immediately into the combat areas. He was left in a one-eyed, old soldier's care to be taught the arms drill. When the others went to sabotage a bridge or an electric wire, Canh and the old man watched over the camp. During that time, Canh quickly learnt what he had to know, like how to use a gun or how to put up some explosives to fell a tree. Although he did not really like these activities, nor the idea he would have to fight, he was an assiduous apprentice. It kept his mind busy. He was fond of learning new things, and it made him forget his anxiety about his family, who might have been charged with having let him go.

A fortnight after he had left home, Canh was ready to take action. However, he was not yet able to take part to the particularly delicate actions. He and some other rebels were thus watching over the camp during a pitch-black night. Because they were not able to defend the camp alone, they had to stay motionless to avoid making any noise. Canh, however, eventually fell asleep. He woke up in the body of an army lorry. The camp had been taken by the army after the rebels were put to sleep by a lethargic gas. The lorry arrived before dawn at the prison where Canh was still a prisoner now, two years later.

The prison was a kind of camp quickly built to contain the guerilla fighters. It had more or less the shape of a square, in a bend of a large river. In this way, the river was used as a natural barrier, which simplified the building and the monitoring of the prison. The two other sides were blocked by rows of buildings and, beyond, by monitored walls. In the middle, a large multi-purpose esplanade was the only open-air area for the prisoners.

Actually, despite the ill treatments he had endured, Canh was not unhappy to be imprisonned. He did not have to fight for one or the other side, and he had more chance to survive. His health was sound and he had never been affected by the epidemics that sometimes ran through the prison. However, he did not know how long he would remain there. He hoped the rebellion would free the prisoners, but he feared the government had wearied of keeping many prisoners, in which case anything, he thought, could happen to them. They had to manufacture the army uniforms, but as the prisoner's numbers grew, the camp did not have enough work for everybody. Some prisoners were in charge of the maintenance of the prison, but many others had nothing to do all day long. Feeding these people was likely to have a high cost, too, Canh thought.

Canh above all missed his family. He did not even know what had happened to them after he disappeared. Were they still at home ? Had his elder brother joined the rebellion too, to avoid being enlisted ? Would he see them again ?

Night had fallen and Canh was still sitting on the strand. The river reflected the watchtower torch and Canh had the impression that a thousand stars were floating on the water. He would like to dive under those stars to cross the river and hide in the deep forest that bordered it. Once there, he would manage to find the way home.

A year before, a few months after his arrival, he had also wanted to cross the river. When he looked down the water, he had hesitated before the danger. The river was wide and fast and he was not a very good swimmer. He had eventually overcome his fears, and he was about to dive when he heard a soldier yell "Halt !". He turned round to see a rifle pointed at him. He had not dared dive in then because the river was too clear, and he could have been shot in the water.

"Get away from the river !" the soldier demanded, then added : "Get back to your barracks !" The soldier had found suspicious that a prisoner would be standing in front of the river for such a long time.

Canh had obeyed without a word. He was happy to have come out of that situation so well, in fact he was surprised not to be led to the head of the guards, who could have sent him to the block. However, this episode had worn down his desire to escape.

This day, Canh was remembering that story because, during the afternoon, he had noticed a prisoner who looked like the soldier who had prevented him from diving. He did not know how long that prisoner had been there, but he was convinced they were one and the same. He decided to talk to him the next time he would have the occasion to.

Two days later, Canh saw him again. He came up to him and his interlocutor confirmed he had in fact been a soldier. He was called Truong. Canh reminded Truong about his attempt at escape. Truong recalled having told Canh not to dive in. Canh asked him why he had become a prisoner.

"A few months ago, I was sent to another prison, as a guard. Last month, I did not shoot a prisoner who was escaping. I was charged with treason," Truong explained. He added in a hushed voice "I am neither in favor of the regime, nor of the rebellion, but I did not want to kill someone. I became a soldier because I was chosen by fate."

They kept silent a moment, looking at the river in the distance. Canh was troubled.

"Would you have shot me if I had dived ?" he asked.

"No."

Canh was taken aback by this answer. He thought, I could have escaped a year ago !

"Are there many guards like you ?" Canh asked again.

"Most of them, I think. But guards do not talk about that."

Canh was overwhelmed. Truong's revelationd meant that if Canh tried to cross the river, he would have a great chance to succeed. During the afternoon, he could not help imagining his arrival at home. That evening, he felt the need to write some words about it :

(ref : cf. note 1 above)

O enchanting instant ! Magnificent prospect !
The afternoon sun illuminates the landscape,
And I tread the ricefields that I was used to farm.
I recognize the earth that witnessed my childhood.

I already notice upon the horizon
The roofs of the village that appeared so often
In my dreams, in prison. I listen with pleasure
To the muffled stamping of the great buffalos.

The path to the house is no longer muddy
Since it has been paved with large, blueish flagstones.
I pick up a small carambola that has rolled
Along the embankment from the tree to my feet.

I finally arrive in sight of the house.
My little sister runs to meet me on the way ;
She has changed so ! Everyone is celebrating
What they have awaited : the family gathering !

Carried away by the idea that he could go back home, Canh resolved to try his luck that night. This time, he would not hesistate in front of the water to avoid to be spotted. Despite his excitement, he walked slowly towards the strand. When he reached it, he dived in straightaway.

The guard at the watchtower saw him dive. The water was clear enough to allow him to see Canh's shadow underwater. He followed the shadow with his rifle, and when Canh came up to breathe in the middle of the river, he fired twice. A bird took flight in a flurry of feathers, then the silence came back over the river.

Oulipian Autobiography, By Arnaud Le Guilcher

2008-06-10T10:06:00.000-07:00

Oulipian Autobiography.

I was still floating among my childish lullabies when laziness flew by. Only later, after having fiddled with life and faced its infinite labyrinths, will I find it back, perhaps. Since then I have flown from one imaginary land to another, filled my lungs with letters that fascinated my inner cerebral lab but always faded in the light of real life. I fashioned elaborate lies to flatter myself, but my lips failed to follow the complex loops of my creative liberties, and finally I forced myself to forget this whole load of leisure and luxury that I fancied so much. I followed the intricate lanes of mysterious love, faltered, fell under the losses I faced, feared I would finish a loner but found it at last. For my lack of the lion’s lines, luck favoured me with a lamb’s lenience, and I folded my luggage without fearing to freeze, for I feel so warm in that landscape of love where these new letters flourish.

poem by Arnaud Le Guilcher

2 poems after James Tate by Julien Barthès

2008-06-10T10:03:00.000-07:00

I’m a man
by Julien Barthès

I’m looking at my face in a mirror,
putting hair gel on my head.
Tonight I shall go to my first party.
I’m 14, I’m a man.

There are 6.6 billion men on Earth
but half of them are women.
I’m getting on the bus that will take me to the
party. The driver, he’s a man, too.

I’m looking him straight in the eyes
fiercely, so he’ll know I’m a man.
Men have got 23 pairs of chromosomes—
Their sexual chromosomes are XY.

Men are capable of fully bipedal
locomotion, thus leaving their arms available
for manipulating objects using their
hands, aided especially by opposable thumbs.

Tonight, I’m gonna drink my first
beer. Then I’ll definitely be a man. Homo
sapiens appeared 130,000 years
Ago, in North Africa.

“An excellent man; he has no enemies; and
none of his friends like him”, Oscar
Wilde wrote. Lots of girls are waiting for me
at the party. As a man, this’ll be my day.

I’m still a man

I drank my beer, and I got sick. But
I stayed at the party pretending the
big stain I made on my shirt was
tailor-made, because I’m a man.

Still I did not venture to drink another
ale, knowing that life expectancy at
birth in Hong Kong, China, is 78.9 years
for a man. In Wayana culture, stinging

ants are applied to the body of a child who
proves to be a true man by remaining
still and silent, but no girl seems to
realise this at the party and talk to me.

They were dancing – dancing is
the most popular hobby among
women, right before gymnastics, and horse
riding – paying no attention to me.

So I had to try and talk to some of
them. Men are really good at
languages, they speak 6,700 different
languages all around the world !

Nonetheless, I couldn’t find my words and
had to go home early because my mom –
every man has a mom - made me promise.
Really, it’s hard to be a man.

2 poems by Julien Barthès

The Zzilies, By Jérôme Saulière

2008-06-10T09:46:00.001-07:00

The Zzilies by Jérôme Saulière

PART I: THE FALL

Franzy woke up early that morning. Her arms and neck had been itching all night. Not to mention her rheumatism: she could tell the weather by the pain it caused her, and last night the weather must have been horrible. She went to a window and opened the curtain. A young and dazzling autumn sun was peering through the mist. It set out thrusting a bunch of friendly photons at her, just for fun. But the window pane was photon-proof, and the projectiles bounced back with a “pock”. Franzy winced a bit, because she thought it was not funny. She turned her back to the window. Her husband was still asleep, unaware of the heavy morning light that striped his cheek. She was about to draw the curtain again, when something struck her eye. Scintillating, glinting and shimmering, there lay, all over the streets and roofs of the great city, a thick, thick layer of fish, crustaceans and mollusks. The roads were not to be seen, nor the cars. They had disappeared under that amazing heap of seafood, coming from nowhere: all scales, slimy eyes and tentacles.

“Oh my God!” she cried, unable to keep it to herself. “Wake up, Rugue! Look! It’s been raining crabs and cods again!”

Rugue opened one eye and closed it again. He must not have heard her. She cried out again, louder. Now he sat up under the cover, with a messy face and haggard eyes, and shouted in reply:

“Raining? Crabs? The zzilies! O Franzy, how are the zzilies?”

But she did not have the time to answer him. He had already jumped out of bed and run to the other window of the bedroom, which gave onto the garden.

“Damn these fish! They’re smothering my zzilies! My little zzilies! I’ll have to spend the afternoon clearing them away!”

“Your zzilies look all right to me,” said Franzy, looking over his shoulder.

“All right? I wish you were lying under ten tons of rotting seafood, and I could say you’re all right! And look at that stupid tuna lying across my red-and-orange African zzily! Damn you, tuna! I’ll have your head on a platter!”

“Well, you’ll sure have it on a frying pan, Rugue, if you’re a good husband!”

“But in the meantime it’s devastating my precious, precious zzilies!”

“Oh come on, that’s no big deal. It’s not as though you were a fishmonger! Since these fish falls began, they’ve been closing one by one.”

“Yep. Poor guys. But they’re clever, aren’t they? They can retrain. And you and I can hold our noses. But my zzilies, Franzy, my zzilies! They’re so fragile, so desperate… Look, tonight, I thought I heard them crying.”

“You must have dreamt that.”

“I may have. Come on, let’s go out to the garden, and see how they’re doing.”

And out he went, in his dressing gown and slippers. Franzy could have cared less. She did not follow him. Rugue had been prey to that strange addiction for years and years now: everything he said, everything he did, was somehow connected to these mysterious flowers. For they were mysterious, at least to her. Beautiful, no doubt. So unbelievably colorful, and various in shape and hue! Of undeniable scientific interest, too: a whole department of the City Botanical Museum was dedicated to zzilies – that is, to the zzilia genus, which includes both the commonly named zzilies, and their miscellaneous wild cousins. Zzilies had been studied, cut, planted, and transplanted for decades, by generations of scientists, however their mysteries had not been exhausted.

Rugue was an amateur in the area, but his collection was a jewel. Zzily lovers came from all over the country to see it. Years of loving, collecting and tending to them… Kneeling on the soil, fertilizing them with a pipette so as not to give the wrong product to the wrong plant. No one could boast they knew zzilies better than Rugue. Apart from him, no one probably knew zzilies better than Franzy, who, all these years, had sat lovingly at the dinner table and listened to his annoying flights of fancy. One day, she felt certain, a new species of zzily would bear his name and hers.

While she was getting hastily dressed, she remembered the afternoon when the Mayor had come to visit their garden. Shortly after, Rugue had been awarded the Medal of Green Citizenship. How proud she had felt! Pride was stronger than annoyance. Sometimes. She breathed in, smiled, and looked out of the window, into the sea-like twinkling of the early day. And annoyance gained the upper hand again: for she caught sight of her husband, crawling on the wet ground in his pajamas, with his bottom unashamedly up in the air. As far as she could tell, he had disposed of the fish and octopi that had encumbered the flowerbeds. He was now polishing every leaf of every zzily plant. In doing so, he talked to them – it was one of his foibles, a most harmless one – with heartfelt expressions of grief. He would not finish before nightfall.

PART II: THE INQUIETUDE

“It poured tonight, didn’t it?”

“Well, for sure, my dear! Poor old Ursula’s poodle was out for his business. She still hasn’t found his track again… One big salmon is enough, you know, to knock out such a small, defenseless creature. I’m glad I wasn’t outside after ten, when the fall began!”

“I say, it’s terrible, what’s befalling us! And it’s the third time in Zzeptember!”

“No, the fourth…”

“Maybe the fourth. Anyway, what’s there to be done?”

“Ask the Mayor! And ask him, too, about that dreadful smell all over the city. I know politicians can’t change the weather. But something should be done about the stench! We’re lying under tons of rotting fish: that’s certainly not constitutional, my dear. And no doubt it’s noxious! We’re being poisoned bit by bit, I’m telling you!”

At every corner of every street you could hear similar conversation. Grannies would join up with members of their clubs to talk about the miasma, and the antiseptic and cleansing properties of eucalyptus. Mothers would meet at the local Public Health Committee to share their inquietude for their children and themselves. Children had to go to school with boots and gloves. They were strictly forbidden to play with octopus tentacles – which had become, mothers stated with horror, a very trendy and accessible toy in playgrounds. Even dogs looked confused by the stench that had taken hold of the atmosphere: they mistook everything, banks, cars and street lamps, even human legs, for bitches in heat. With all the regrettable consequences one might imagine.

The day after the fourth fish fall, demonstrations took place in several districts of the town. People were exhausted, their noses were offended, their nerves were frayed, and, worst of all, they did not understand what was going on – or why. Mottos like “City in a fine kettle of fish!” or “Has Mayor got other fish to fry?” were proudly printed on the banners. A party of extremists even rented a garbage truck and covered the City Hall courtyard with tons of shrimp, crabs and squids.

A few days after these events, The New Zzientist, a very serious national magazine, published an article entitled “Reasons for the fish falls”. It had been written jointly by a hydrologist, a meteorologist and a biologist. According to them, the fish-fall process, which they bombastically termed ichthyoclysm, could be explained very simply. You ought merely to consider the relative densities of fish flesh and salt water, and inject them into the equations describing the convection and viscous diffusion of water particles in clouds during thunderstorms. One paragraph of the article was particularly clear on that matter.

Thus, the vortices induced by a non-linear exchange integral of the fish/sea continuum may lead to an inversion of the overall rotational operator. If the relative proportions of mass and viscosity of the fluids reach a certain critical value (which may be determined empirically), equations and numerical simulations show very clearly that a definite quantum of the ocean fauna will be sucked up out of the sea and incorporated into the cumulonimbus mass. […] Until recently, such processes had never been observed in our latitudes. Global warming and increasing water pollution may mostly account for their appearance. The former has been proved to cause drastic increase in the frequency of hurricanes off our coasts. The latter is responsible for the swarming of fish in certain areas, where the swirling and sucking process demonstrates a preference for taking place. It is a terribly exciting challenge for research in our country, etc…

The article was of perfect scientific honesty – not such as would have put the population at rest. In fact, it went totally unnoticed, for no one read the upscale science journals. Therefore, the main informants of the public were the tabloids. Buzz, for instance, showed a gorgeous grouper that had smashed in the roof of a car. The eyes of the fish were wide open, its agony was both perceptible and disturbing. The owner of the car was standing in front of the scene and crying his eyes out. The headline was : “Experts at sea as infected seafood floods town. Citizens like fish out of water.”

By the time a week had elapsed, the town was in an uproar. Some people claimed the government had purposefully tried to poison them, but failed. Some argued it had in fact been a success, only the toxin worked slowly. Some incriminated the scientists. Others picked on the fish, ingenuously. And a few more of the lucid souls blamed the press for the current malaise. After all, as far as anyone knew, no intoxication cases had yet been reported.

PART III: THE GREENHOUSE

One morning, Franzy was lured out of her kitchen by a jovial sun. A cup of tea in her hand, she stood contemplating the garden for a moment. Zzilies, zzilies everywhere… The bright green of their leaves, the dazzling colors of their flowers, the extravagant patterns of their petals… And, oh! Her husband’s bottom emerging from a arborescent zzily shrubbery.

“Rugue! What are you doing here? I thought you were at work!”

At first no answer came. She assumed he had not heard her, so she drew nearer. In doing so she almost slipped on the corpse of a baby octopus. She picked it up with the intention of throwing it in the garbage. But the cadaver, aside from the fact that it stank abominably, was swarming with tiny little red points. Franzy could see them running over the surface and digging into the flesh. They had probably colonized the poor dead thing’s intestine, for its belly – or was it its head? – looked abnormally swollen and heavy. She could distinguish white spots, too, and blue ones, around the eyes, but apparently they did not move. She dropped the corpse with disgust, wondering why she had ever picked it up.

“Rugue! When you cleared away the fish from your flower beds, you could have cleared the gravel path, too! I’ve just stepped on a disgusting little octopus! Rugue, could you please look up from your zzilies? I’m talking to you!”

“Hm… Yes, darling, I’m supposed to be at work. But nobody minds, anyway. And when I inspected the garden before going away, these arborescent zzilies looked like they were imploring me to stay… They’ve been through a lot of hardship lately, you know.”

“I know, I know.”

Franzy did not feel like starting a quarrel. Was he not adorable, after all, that innocent little husband of hers, with his flowers, and his obsessions? And now with his muddy business suit? She scratched her neck and her arms. She would have to see a doctor, she thought, in case it was eczema.

“So, how are they?” she added, obligingly.

“Fine, thank you. I’d supposed they’d be totally depressed after the sixth fall – which was particularly hard on them, as you know. But they seem to be doing well. It may be my imagination, but their colors have hardly ever been so radiant. Look at that Zzilia Phosphorea: it really looks fluorescent, doesn’t it? I think it’s a side effect of the very high iodine potency in the air. I’ve observed the same reaction on Zzilia Marinara and Zzilia Quasialga, and on my very endemic wrack-leaved zzily… And more generally on all the marine varieties. Who could have foretold that some species would make the most of the falls? Zzilies are extraordinary, aren’t they? Now, you’re right, the sea stench isn’t a benediction for everyone here. My exotic zzilies are very sensitive to it. Poor darling Zzilia Rhinocerontia has lost loads of leaves, I’m very concerned about it – looks like it’s got a delicate sense of smell! And it’s not the only one, look at these shrubs I was tending to just now: I’m quite sure their tints have been altered. Oh, you may see nothing, or think it’s nothing. Mind you, sometimes the change is subtle: this one was peach-orange and has turned pastel pink; this one has gone all the way from cerise to purple. But I can’t believe that this rarest testicle-shaped zzily used to be puce. I’m worried, Franzy, really worried…”

Rugue was now beaming with enthusiasm, in spite of his avowed concern. Actually, the testicle-shaped zzily still looked puce to Franzy. She said nothing. Rugue had stopped talking. Obviously, something was on his mind. Something he did not dare to express. Without knowing what it was, Franzy kept silent: she vaguely hoped that it would not come out. But it eventually did.

“I was wondering whether we could build a greenhouse in the garden, for the zzilies. You know, my collection is quite a must-see in the country, and I’d be sorry if a fish fall should… It could… It might… I… I don’t think I could make up with the loss. And under a greenhouse, the zzilies would certainly feel… at ease. I mean, they wouldn’t have to fear anything any more!”

Franzy could not believe her ears. She scratched them and stared at her husband. He was now looking down and blushing like a bashful crimson zzily in the bud.

“Have I… said something silly?”

“Well, I don’t know! The town is smothering under rotting fish, suffocating in its emanations, and all you’re thinking about is… your zzilies! Your precious goddamned zzilies! Wake up, Rugue! They say in the newspaper those fish falls are certainly toxic! More detrimental to human health than acid rain and carbonic snow! Who cares about your zzilies?”

“Carbonic snow? Hm… What newspaper do you read?” he ventured and kept looking down.

“No matter! No greenhouse! I say: no, no, no! As long as I live, there’ll be no greenhouse for your zzilies. They’ll sleep in the open, and that’ll do them lots of good! As long as I live. End of discussion.”

It seemed to Rugue that there had not been much of a discussion.

PART IV: THE WALL

The Mayor had gathered the whole herd of his counselors at the Council Hall. We were in Zzoctober, and the fish falling season had lasted for five weeks. The population was indignant. Measures had to be taken. First, they had to be informed. The problem was, they were already pretty well informed. The newspapers had selected their sources and had arranged their information as to make things look as dark as possible… And facts now proved they had been right.

The Nature and Houseplants Advisor was the first to speak. He gave a very erudite presentation on the causes and consequences of ichthyoclysms. His explanations were hardly listened to. Then he came to the solutions, and the audience began to look up. He mentioned several sophisticated devices, some of which could hardly be more than the extravagations of a mad scientist. A civil engineer, he told them, for instance, had suggested building a huge aquarium above the city. It would have stopped the fish from falling on the citizen’s heads, and if it was transparent, it would not have affected the town’s sunshine exposure… But a meteorologist had objected it would also stop normal rain from falling – and the engineer had replied that you could make holes in the aquarium…

These gentlemen laughed.

Three distinguished researchers from Karl Xxram University had suggested erecting a wall on the east border of the city. The idea was to the liking of the public: people yearned for something conspicuous, something down-to-earth, and if possible, something unheard of. But as for computations, experts largely disagreed: some reckoned that a fifty-yard-high wall would suffice. Others claimed that a hundred yards were hardly enough. Besides, environmentalists were outraged by the idea: according to them, biological and physical flows would be greatly affected, and the whole cycle of seasons would…

“So, why don’t we build that wall? What do you say, Dick?”

The Mayor had raised his eyes from his notebook for the first time. All the while, he had been drawing very nice pictures on it, displaying people with big heads and short limbs being executed in many inventive ways. The counselors on either side of him looked down at his page appreciatively. Dick, the Roads, Bridges and Walls Advisor, stood up and spoke.

“I think… It can be done. Not in one day, of course. Pompeii wasn’t built in… Er, how do they say? No matter. Let’s say four feet thick, three miles long, seventy yards high – that will make them all content. If I multiply, multiply, multiply…” He started making strange movements with his fingers and beating his eyelids very swiftly, as epileptics do when they are on the verge of a fit. His colleagues were used to it. Dick was a born calculator. “One million two hundred and sixty four thousand seven hundred and thirty three bricks. Which will cost you at least a zzilion…”

“A zzilion?” the Finances and Bribery Advisor gulped in agony. “It’s more than ten times our yearly budget for Solid Building!”

“We could make a soft wall. Like… Why not rubber foam?” the Liquid, Gas and Flabby Things Advisor weighed in. But nobody heard him, for he was sitting alone at the furthest end of the room. The Serious Diseases and Cemeteries Advisor raised his voice. He was stern and livid.

“May I remind you of the consequences of the fish falls on our citizen’s health? It’s a disaster! The report on the subject, which I know you have read, Mr. Mayor, is very clear about their toxicity. It also emphasizes that parasitism is to be feared most: the seafood falling on the town is swarming with parasites of an unknown species. A species that seems to be very fond of human fl…”

“O please, spare the details!” the Mayor broke in.

“The citizens have been scratching themselves a lot lately…” the Minor Diseases and Local Traditions Advisor saw fit to add. All eyes converged on him. He blushed and said nothing more. Suave and obsequious, the Spin Doctor’s voice was suddenly heard. Everyone was startled, because one never noticed him until he decided to draw attention to himself.

“If I may be bold enough as to give you my opinion, Mr. Mayor, I think you would do much good for your image, which is already excellent, if you subscribed to that wall project. The population needs a man of action, they need to be taken care of, to be reassured… Show them you’re in control. That’s all they’re asking for. We can even make it sound like the nature friend in you is crying out!”

“I’ve never been much of an environmentalist, have I?” the Mayor exclaimed in a burst of laughter.

“No you haven’t,” the Nature and Houseplants Advisor intervened. Then he tried to resume his presentation, which had been interrupted at its climax. There were two or three technical solutions he had not mentioned. They were, he said, maybe not as impressive but definitely cheaper, and…

“I’ll go for that wall,” the Mayor said, settling the matter. The Finances and Bribery Advisor was growing pale. He had rosy stripes on his cheeks, which brought out the blue of his eyes splendidly. Everyone knew he was the Mayor’s pet. They exchanged a glance. “But it’ll be ten yards high. I don’t need a Great Wall, after all. I need votes.”

PART V: THE DISEASE

“Oh! Hello Franzy. You look gray today.”

“Thank you, Rugue. You look great, too. I’m tired.” She scratched her arms vigorously. By dint of scratching she had made them red-and-blue-striped. When she took a close look, she thought she saw a life apart pullulating under the translucent skin of her wrist. She really looked exhausted.

It had not rained fish for a week. Franzy had gone into the garden to enjoy the dying warmth of the autumn sun. It was not as funny as it used to be, that sun. It did not throw photons or anything. It simply radiated its heat in a continuous spectrum as most heavenly bodies do. It looked as though it was bored, or sulking. She would have liked it to burn and burn and chase the miasma out of town! As usual, Rugue was trimming a bush of Zzilia Purpurea with a diamond cutter’s careful gestures. After greeting her, h e turned back to it. She remained silent for a moment.

“Rugue, have you read the newspaper?”

“Hm? I never read newspapers, you know that.”

“About the disease… It’s worrying me more and more. Those fish were a mess. The whole town is falling ill and scratching themselves night and day. I remember picking up a dead octopus the other day. It was teeming with little red beasts. I don’t know what they were. They didn’t draw my attention then. But now everybody’s talking about parasites, so…”

“Parasites? I hope you’re kidding, Franzy? What do you mean, parasites? You mustn’t trifle with parasites: what with aphids and red spiders, I spend days and days eradicating them every year!”

“I mean, human parasites.”

“Oh, human… That’s different. Are you positive they don’t attack zzilies?”

“I can’t tell but, yes. Mind you, I was looking at my wrists just now and…”

“You can’t tell? And what did the newspaper say?”

“They didn’t mention plants. Nor zzilies. They say the parasites thrive under the epidermis. There they can multiply very quickly. They say you can see them through the skin. Little colorful dots. They’re blue when they’re born, then they turn yellow, then red. They stay red for most of their lives and they turn white just as they die. Peculiar parasites, aren’t they?”

But it obviously did not make her laugh. Rugue had resumed trimming the zzily. His gestures were more loving, his indifference pained her more than before. Franzy tried again:

“Doctors are overburdened. I was talking with Rita this morning. You know her husband’s a GP. She says he doesn’t come home any more at night. He sleeps at his office. And gets hardly more than three hours sleep a night. People keep coming in, and always for the same thing he says: itching, prickling, tingling, pins and needles sensation… That’s first. Then comes on the nausea. He’s quite concerned, Rita told me, especially since no one knows how the disease evolves. Some cases of paralysis have been reported, but doctors are reluctant to relate them to the fish falls. What do you say?”

“I say, yes, very interesting,” Rugue nodded without looking up.

“And Emergency Rooms are full to the brim. People start panicking at the least sign of eczema, or for the smallest pimple. Myself, when I look at my wrist, I’m not reassured at all.”

“But you don’t panic. That’s my little wife…”

“No, I don’t. But I’m tired. Mortally tired.”

“Have a nap, then.”

“No, I’ll be fine. Have you heard about the Municipal Ordinance?” He hadn’t. “The Mayor has decided to build a wall east of town. It’ll protect us from the fish-and-thunder-storms. His PR staff assure with their hands on their hearts that it’s become his number one project, and he won’t be able to sleep at night until the wall is built. Besides, the ordinance has pronounced the fish falls a “sanitary emergency” and an “act of God”. That means we’ll be compensated…”

“So, you should be glad! Though I won’t be compensated if my zzilies wilt and wither!”

“Actually, that’s what worries me most. The City Council has never been so prompt to react. I suspect they fear something big. Unless it has already happened.”

“Ouch!” Rugue cried out from behind a gorgeous garnet-blossomed zzily shrub. He had cut his thumb. She sincerely pitied him. She wondered why. Perhaps she stupidly wished to be pitied in return.

“About the greenhouse, Rugue…” she ventured with a hopeful sigh.

“We’ll talk about the greenhouse later, shall we?”

PART VI: THE LETTER

Dear Zzimon,

I hope you’re all right. It’s been a long time since I last asked for your advice about zzily matters. Now I need it more than ever. I’m sure you’ll know how to help me. You’re the specialist in these things, and I don’t know what I’d do without you in such situations.

I haven’t had much time lately to write you. Franzy is at hospital, so I have to do everything at home by myself, cooking and everything. For all that, I must say my zzilies have had no reason to complain, because I’ve never spent so many hours with them! That’s what makes me so depressed about their behavior today. Deeply disappointed and depressed.

When I woke up this morning and went out into the garden as usual, I at once noticed something abnormal. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. It was obvious: there was a big hole in my flowerbed of American zzilies. My American zzilies, as you know, are one of the most admirable jewels in my collection. There were four specimens missing. Stolen, I thought immediately. Such was my devastation that I could have swooned. I decided to call the police.

I was going to enter the house and call them, when a noise in the garden made me turn around suddenly. It was a light “swoosh!”, followed by a “plop!”. It didn’t take me long to understand the origin of the noise: another hole had appeared, in the place of a humblebee zzily. I ran over to examine the hole. It was very neat, very clean, without any trace of vandalism. Moreover, there was no one around, I could tell, because I know my zzily garden as well as if it were a living extension of myself: anything that changes in it is like an itch on my skin, any stranger’s appearance is like a fly’s tickle.

That’s when I witnessed the most incredible event of my life. Before my own eyes, a whole bush of carmine zzilies started to tremble, bouncing up and down, as though it were being dragged by the roots. Before I could do anything, the base of the bush had disappeared into the soil, and very quickly, the rest of the plant was also sucked in, leaving another hole in my flowerbeds. I knelt down and started to dig (I’m very fond of my carmine zzilies) but it was not to be found.

Then things sped up. All around me, here and there, in all the flowerbeds, my zzilies, my precious zzilies started swooshing and plopping one by one. Swooshplop! Swooshplop! I had no time to grieve for the lost. No time to stop and cry and wonder why... It all went too fast, too despairingly fast. At the minute, as I’m writing this letter, things seem to have calmed down a bit. I reckon one swooshplop every thirty minutes, approximately. You can’t imagine – or rather, yes, you can definitely imagine – how it pains me to witness helplessly the surgical, methodical, maniacal eradication of my zzilies!

I have a hypothesis. I don’t think they’re being stolen, or ravaged, by anyone or anything. I don’t suspect any disease or parasite either, although there are legions of them in the town these days. I think my zzilies are going back to their native countries. I know it’s a long way. Antipodal specimens will have to go down and pop up again, all the way through the earth, and you bet it’s a long way from here! I just hope for them they won’t be burnt during the journey: it’s a furnace down under. I know it’s not a common behavior for flowers, too. But how would you explain it otherwise?

You’re probably aware that the weather conditions have been abominable here for two months. Those fish falls, or ichthyoclysms, as scientific bigwigs call them, have wreaked havoc throughout the region. For two months, the atmosphere has been loaded with iodine, and marine miasmas, and unsanitary business of all kinds. No wonder the zzilies haven’t appreciated that! I mean, who has? We’ve all been inconvenienced by the stench. But that’s a long way from going away, sucking in, swooshplopping without saying good bye!

I wish we could all swooshplop when we’re vexed! “Ooh, you’re not nice to me, you’ll regret it, swooshplop!” “Honey, I want to divorce you, swooshplop!” “The Mayor could find no argument to impose on his opponents, so he swooshplopped out of the sitting.” “But Mr. Policeman, I’m an honest citizen and taxpayer, I don’t deserve a fine, swooshplop!” And so on.

Now I feel more indignant than vexed or grieved. Having fed, suckled, raised, having tended, cured, fertilized, having loved those ungrateful little creatures makes me sick. By the time I’ve written this sentence, one or two other zzilies will have swooshplopped out of my garden, out of my life. Which ones will it be? Will my beloved red-and-orange African zzily follow the trend? I have no doubts it will. It’s a question of time now.

Soon they’ll be gone, all of them. I’m wondering what to do in the meantime. I won’t try and hold them back. You can’t reason with a flower in anger, especially with those vindictive, unloving bitches. Maybe I’ll go into the garrrden and fold my arms and look up and disdain them. Maybe maybe maybe I’ll go into town for once and buy a pair of roots, and a bottle bottle of fertilizer fertilizer, because I’m terribly thirsty it’s getting hot hot hotter and hotter here you can’t imagine! Ha! Just think, I was thinking of building a greenhouse for them. But no no, Franzy told me, ungrateful bitches! Ungrateful bitch! Ha! Where’s she gone, the bitch bitch bitch? Swooshplop the Franzy! Swooshplop the greenhouse! Swooshplop the Rugue! Ruguy Rugue! All raking and no zzily make Rugue a spiteful gardener! What do you say? Ha! Funny funny!

The rest of the letter was unreadable. It was found in the inner pocket of a jacket, ready to be posted. The jacket lay in a private garden, in the middle of a dazzling luxuriance of red, rose and orange zzilies, next to a man’s skeleton. The skeleton was easily identified as Rugue’s. All around it lay a one-foot-thick layer of white dust, which forensic scientists immediately described as dead parasites of the newly appeared species. They had never found so many of them by a corpse.

“What about the time of death? We’ve got nothing but bones here.”

“Under two days, I assume. The little beasts have cleaned the skeleton meticulously. Before dying themselves.”

“Poor dude. He was full to the brim!”

“How come he didn’t notice?”

The medical community showed marked enthusiasm when the case was reported. It was considered the first example of fulminant parasitic invasion pertaining to the fish falls. The letter was carefully perused. It was found to be perfect evidence of the forerunning dementia: hallucinations – the garden was vainly searched for holes – and eventual loss of language capability… The fit had been just as abrupt as the parasites’ multiplication. The letter still appears in the annals of the City College of Medicine. Teachers show it to gaping students as a crucial witness of how mental capacities are affected by parasites quickly overwhelming the brain.

The Mayor shortly decided to grant the title “Citizen of honor” to Rugue, posthumously. Rugue became a legend, not for what he had done in his lifetime, but for the exemplary nature of his death. The parasite was named after him.

When Franzy came back from hospital after months of treatment, the zzilies were decaying. She looked after them tenderly, in remembrance of her husband. She could not salvage one.

Story by Jerôme Saulière

Sea and Sight, By Laure Canis

2008-06-10T09:39:00.000-07:00

Sea and Sight
by Laure Canis

He was still observing the crabs, which were swept over, swept over by the flapping waves. The tiny and translucent beach crabs were skittering, almost flying over the sand, until they finally decided to dig their hole, the one place where they could feel secure. Every now and then, one of them would be caught in the receding drift, but only to emerge a few seconds later, silkier and cleaner than ever. So why bother hiding? On this early night, it seemed that nothing painful would ever happen, especially to those filled with wonder, who now belonged to this never-ending movement and were granted its protection.

But this little moment of peace did not last very long, as usual. Soon enough, his recurring thoughts had tracked him down. Even in his sanctuary, all alone, he could not help feeling like a failure. He had had quite a promising beginning, very bright and hardworking in school, and was probably the happiest child on earth when with his parents. With anyone he hardly knew, however, the difference was striking.
Everything began, I guess, in second grade, when the other little children envied him for his good results. They would see him coming home every evening, welcomed by a cheerful smile, whereas their parents were never proud of them – or at least this is what they imagined. Little Peter at seven years old was the perfect little boy. For now half of his life, he had known how to read and add numbers. He was not only an egghead, but demonstrated curiosity, a great deal too much, as he was always the starting center of the chattering group that annoyed Teacher Margaret. One day when she was in a particularly horrible mood, she sent him to the corner, shrieking at the top of her voice for him to shut up. Little Peter did not mind, though he was feeling this was some kind of an injustice. However, how the others looked at Little Peter really changed that day: they had mistaken Teacher Margaret’s cry of exasperation for a mark of disdain, and that was the excuse they all waited for to ignore him and finally be able to indulge in their own mediocrity without any remorse. Little Peter was struck on the next day by the silence that followed his questions and the whispering that went on behind his back. He had never been used to not being loved, and seeing that he wasn’t welcomed anymore in conversations, he decided to stay by himself to protect himself from suffering again. Teacher Margaret observed the change that had been triggered by her intervention and crawled under guilt as the years passed by. Peter had become the scapegoat and by fear behaved like one whenever new people came around. In a few seconds, she had broken this little boy who was now destined to become an associable young man, and she could never forgive herself. A few years later, she got the chance to partially relieve her soul unintentionally, when her own son began to talk. She needed someone to babysit him; Peter immediately sprung up to her mind. He would, without any doubt, be the one who would transform her son’s vivacity into intelligence. He did not, but the two got along very well, as different as they were. Stephan, who was now twenty and ten years younger than Peter, was his best and only friend.

He tried to relax and enjoy the present, his ideal vacation trip. Not having to comply with any social obligations, being allowed to stay by himself if he wanted to, this was his perfect idea of a holiday. He decided to focus on the water licking his toes, back and forth, back and forth, and of the feeling of peace it inspired him. But he was soon annoyed by some far-away and high-pitched cry drowned by the resounding waves. As it drew closer, something queer happened: this gait, this crunching of bare feet on sand, this breathing, he knew it all. How could he have not thought of it?

Stephan and another conquest…softly accompanying her movements, he was almost unnoticed, but remained the master of the game, the secret conductor. He didn’t do it with an ulterior motive, he was just his normal self, and had the ability to make anyone comfortable in his presence, magically awakening their spontaneity. He didn’t mind it that Stephan met new people. It was the whole purpose of the little break, for both of them to finally have the opportunity to do what they desired and what was constantly stymied by everyday life and everyday obligations. Still, at this precise moment, he resented him. He resented him for showing him again, and unwillingly, yet another of his failures. If he could not bond with any other than Stephan, how could he possibly imagine seducing a girl? Slightly nauseous and not relaxed at all, he got up and started his way back to the bungalow. The delighting freshness of the water on the soles of his feet had suddenly felt like bare and frozen rancor, and it made him shiver bitterly. Step by step, as he drew away from one of his worst nightmares, the brightness and energy of the tropical stars heated up his toes and stretched up, reaching the whole of his body with pleasant warmth, lighting up his heart. He felt at harmony with those who welcomed him into this world, with these millions of little eyes, of innocent creatures full of acceptance. Looking up, he followed the flight of a bat, simple shadow over the friendly moon. In every corner, there was an enthusiastic rush for life. As he trod upon the crisping leaves, he listened to the crabs’ scurrying. There were so many of them, and each phrase, played at a different pace and touch added up with the others amounted to an extraordinary symphony, the symphony of life he reflected. He was not alone anymore, escorted by his valuable companions, whose steps followed his. He could almost visualize someone walking next to him, a real creature who he would share experiences and inner impressions with. With no intention of hiding anymore, he stopped for a moment to rest and savor the harmony. His soul was at peace and he could finally close his eyes without fear of painful visions.

A few moments later he was woken up by gentle footsteps, approaching the coconut tree he was lying over. At first he thought it was Stephan who had worried about him and who had gone out to search for him, but the footfall was far lighter. It seemed that the person almost did not touch the ground, so subtle was the crack of leaves with each of her steps. Still, he could feel her overwhelming presence. Her trail smelt of sweetness, and, although elusive, filled the air with courage and blind optimism. For, as soon as he saw her, he was struck by her beauty and by the happiness she spread around her.

A young heron, she was quite surprised of attracting so much attention and admiration. If you looked closer, little drops on her long fluffy feathers glowed into the moonlight, revealing the secret night fishing she had indulged in. They were glittering like jewels, and circled her long and gracious neck like a diamond necklace. However precious and elegant she looked like, Peter hesitated. He had been used to being hurt by those he loved, and dared not take a step forward. Her pointed beak still shiny with water glinted at him like a menace. Taking advantage of his indecision, the heron calmly opened her wings, and shook them gently so as to make sure they were completely dry. A white creature with its arms stretched to him, she had the shape of an angel. Without further reluctance, Peter reached out to the heron, and took her hand in his.

Caressing her back, he was caught up in a swirl of pure white that seemed to have no end, until, at last, they were taken somewhere fresh and breezy. He was in such a state of ecstasy that he had the feeling of floating on air. More precisely, this was a strange blend of both ecstasy and sheer serenity, as he was still holding her hand. And off they flew, over the roofs of New York: a few movements of breaststroke, and they seemed to be advancing as quickly as if pushed by a gush of wind. Here the little apartment where he lived, there where Stephan lived, and there, his office. He had forgotten all about it in the rush of the moment. He wondered how the others went on without him while he was on holiday. He had the feeling that he was missed, but he knew why: he simply was good at his job, a marketing analyst, at understanding the clients’ behavior. Such as pity that he couldn’t apply any of that in his personal life. And Emily, how was she doing? Was she missing him at all? Of course not, how could he even contemplate the thought of it? He had to return to reality, though he was not sure what was real anymore. He soon had no memory of his doubts, as the heron suddenly clasped his hand. He turned his head to the right to meet her eyes, and then, he knew.

He opened his eyes, and looked at Stephan, holding his hand.

“What the hell happened to you?” he shouted. He was still trembling, like in panic. “I have been awfully worried about you. I have tried everything to wake you up!”
“Huh?” Peter was still drowsy and was trying to figure out what had happened.
“What were you doing all alone sleeping under a coconut tree? What if a coconut had fallen right on your head? Would be a little ironical to die like that, wouldn’t it?”
“Come on, Stephan, what is happening to you? It was nothing. I just had a long, deep sleep and now I feel very good.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to have sounded so smothering, Peter, really. But it’s just that I sensed something was the matter with you, something very important. Just didn’t know if it was good or bad. I was mistaken. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, I’m glad I can count on you. And I’m sorry I ruined your date…”

Stephan left him a few minutes later. His eyes still plumbed with sleep, he went over the dream in his head. Strangely enough, he had no intention of going back to sleep to continue living his dream. He felt at peace with himself, as if all his internal struggles had been removed without leaving any scar. He was now anew, a fresh person with no more past and no more painful memories. He would have to make new happy memories for himself, and now he knew exactly what he wanted to do. It may seem trivial as a start, but he knew it would change everything. For years now, he had wondered if he should experience scuba-diving, but every time the thought had crossed his mind, it had paralyzed him with fear. He hadn’t known why, and since there were still many fish and corals that could be seen just snorkeling, he hadn’t bothered.

Now he was ready. Ready for this, ready for more. On the same day, he took an appointment with the instructor for a dive in the early afternoon.

His heart throbbing with excitement, he slipped on the wetsuit. It was really for the tradition: everyone would admit that when the water’s temperature is at 85 degrees, there is no need for a wetsuit. Nevertheless he put it on with application, and let the instructor guide him on to the coral reef.

It wasn’t that the sight was that different. Roughly, there were the same animals, with a few nuances, more varied colors, and a few species that were rarely seen on the surface may have been a little more frequent. The real difference was himself, and how he perceived the underwater world. He had changed, and he noticed it for real when the turtle came.

The turtle, the diver’s enchantment.

He had already seen her before, but this time he experienced it. The smoothness of the shell, the sharp yet soft look, the periodic rise to the surface for air, the turtle swimming. He was overcome by the beauty of the creature, and how this heart and body responded to it. Distantly, the heron perched herself on the long stick of wood marking the narrow to the ocean, and observed.

The dive having come to an end, he slowly swam back to the shore, and lied on his back, his arms stretched out to the sky, closing his eyes. He was a little out of breath and took deep inspirations, achieving the deepest relaxation he had ever reached. This time, the sea was perfectly still, but he counted on it. He felt ready to cope: a new self, a new beginning. Closing his eyes, he waited, until he finally reached the ultimate darkness of nothingness, a new blur in his mind.

This time he was really awake. In the blink of a moment, he had grasped it all.
A still light in his eyes, he was swept over.

30 ans, Feels vulnerable. Successful in whatever he has chosen (esp job) but not in private relationships. Discrepancy bet Cartesian logic that dominated his life and the abyss he was left with when by himself. Liked one girl, but never managed to speak to her for fear of failure. Had been used by many, just to have sex: promised to himself she would never be that naïve again. Bec up to now, failure never happened to him and parents had put all of their hopes in her. Job : marketing research analyst, has considerable surpluses. Strange because is an expert in other people’s behavior, in psychology, but has no social life. Hasn’t managed to take a step further. His money has allowed him to have wonderful memories of paradise islands, he always went with his best friend, who was 10 years younger, qui enchaînait les conquêtes sans se poser plus de questions que ça. Amour des animaux < > humains.
Stephan, Emily, Peter.

Rêve :
Rencontre Stephan qui se balade au bord de la plage avec fille -> toujours même chose. Description plage désert une fois que parti : mer calme comme oasis inacessible, mirage. Vent fort, reçoit sable dans la figure.
Craquement de branches de cocotiers tombées. Atm menaçante, ms qqch familier. Cœur battant à toute vitesse. Rencontre héron : observation de loin. Description humaine et féminine du héron. S’approche et lui caresse le dos meme si danger d’être mordu. Fades away. Rêve : vole avec le héron au dessus de New York, se tient à sa patte. Se réveille au cri du héron, en tenant la main de Stephan.
Matin mer très calme, d’huile. Initiation à la plongée. Vue du héron passer attraper un poisson. Apprécie poissons qu’il voit. Après plongée un peu essouflé s’allonge au bord de la mer, le corps à moitié dans l’eau. Cri du héron retentit, de plus en plus fort. Swirl in his mind.

He knew.

Voler

Mer calme, plus de va et vient. Jour : plongée.

.....................................................this story was by Laure Canis

The Revenge of Narcissus, By Tuotuo YU

2008-06-10T09:35:00.001-07:00

The Revenge of Narcissus

By Tuotuo YU

“You gave me an onion as a Christmas present? Are you kidding?” looking at the tiny bulb in the present box, Michael was surprised.

“No, it's not an onion, it's a narcissus bulb.” Amanda took a bowl from the kitchen, filled it with fresh water, immersed the bulb in water, and then placed the bowl on the table.

“There is still one week before Christmas. It will sprout by that time, and around the New Year it will bloom.” She explained patiently.

“OK.” Michael shrugged and said, “That is really a special Christmas present. Thank you. ”

Saying this, he took up his coat, and walked toward the door, “By the way, I'm going out to diner with some friends of mine. Don't wait for me, baby.”

“OK. Have a good night.” Amanda said quietly, and accepted his goodbye kiss.

Amanda is a beautiful girl. She has long brown hair and shining brown eyes. From the year she was thirteen, boys in the neighborhood began to ask her out. After being aware that her quiet personality is far from her hot appearance, all of them quickly lost their patience. Like a princess in the castle, Amanda waited quietly her prince, until the year she graduated from the local college. Then she left her hometown and went to New York lonely. Now she works as a secretary.

Michael is a student of art, and he loves parties, alcohol and girls. One day he met Amanda in a flower shop. After a happy conversation, he abandoned the initial plan of buying a bouquet of roses for the girl he was hanging out with at the moment and offered Amanda an orchid. That was the beginning of their relationship.

Since then they have been living together. It's been for several months. Michael continued to go to parties from time to time. In his words, “That's where an artist gets his inspiration.” Amanda has kept her silence.

Days went on, and Christmas was approaching. The little bulb had grown into a beautiful plant with long green leaves and several white little buds.

One midnight coming back from a “dinner with friends”, Michael found Amanda drinking alone in the kitchen. He made a whistle to express his astonishment, and walked toward the table to grab the bottle. “A nice Whisky, can I join?” He asked.

Amanda didn't reply, she filled her own glass and said as quietly as usual, “Can you guess who I received a phone call from? A girl called Sarah.”

“What?” Michael was in such a panic that he dropped the bottle on the table. He grabbed it again quickly to prevent the whisky from spilling out, but the sleeve of his coat clumsily swept across the unfortunate flower on the table, and it fell to the ground.

After a big noise, there was awkward silence.

“Can it survive?” Michael asked finally.

“...No.” It took Amanda a while to understand that he meant the flower. She looked at it, the green leaves and white buds had fallen off. Lying between pieces of the broken bowl on the ground, they seemed so desperate.

“I'm sorry.” Michael said.

Amanda said nothing, staring at the dying flower.

After that Amanda didn't mention the mysterious girl and her phone call any more, and Michael secretly sighed a breath of relief.

Then it was the day before Christmas. In the morning when Amanda was preparing her luggage for the reunion trip to her family, she heard Michael telephoning in the bathroom. A kind of strange intuition grabbed her, and she sneaked to the outside of the door.

“Baby, I miss you...No, you shouldn't have done that...Honey, it won't be long...How about a Christmas diners at mine tonight...Oh, don’t worry, she is leaving...”

Pressing her ear against the door, Amanda managed to understand everything Michael said is his low voice. As he hung up, she left quietly and went into the kitchen. She sat down on the ground and took a swig of Whisky.

“It tastes so bitter.” She thought.

Her eyes wandered without purpose around the kitchen, and finally stopped on the trash bin. The dead narcissus was still there with its broken leaves and buds, and the bulb.

The bulb.

Amanda made a good lunch. She prepared some steak with a delicious sauce, some salad with cheese and onion, and opened a bottle of red wine. During the lunch, she smiled at Michael and said: “Merry Christmas, cheers!”

Before she left in the afternoon, she told Michael that she had made some more salad. It was in the fridge.

There were plenty of people in the airport. Everybody was hurrying back home at this time of year. Amanda looked at her watch, it was six o'clock. In two hours, she would be with her family, and Michael and his new girl friend Sarah would be on their way to heaven.

Not only does the bulb of narcissus look like onion, it also tastes like one. The only difference is that the former is extremely poisonous whereas the latter is not.

She looked through the big window next to her. It was dark and snowy outside, and her mind went back to that sunny autumn day when a young man offered her an orchid. Suddenly she felt a little sorry for Michael, so she decided to give him a last phone call.

“Hello!” A girl's sweet voice came from the other end of the line.

“Merry Christmas, Mike.” Amanda said after several seconds of silence, and hung up regrettably.

She sighed almost imperceptibly. Then she noticed a man looking at her several meters away. She smiled at him. Encouraged, he smiled back and said, “Hi, I'm John.”

“I'm Amanda. Nice to meet you.”

“What are you sighing about?” An hour later, on the plane, John asked Amanda.

“Oh, I was thinking about narcissus.” She said.

“Narcissus?” John was confused.

“Yes, the flower of winter.”

The Memory Bar, By Arnaud Le Guilcher

2008-06-10T09:28:00.000-07:00

The Memory Bar

By Arnaud Le Guilcher

The first time I entered the memory bar, nothing would have let me guess it would hold such an important place in my life. At first sight it was a curious place, the entry hall was dark and empty, and except the frame of the door, the walls, the floor and the ceiling were covered with dusty grey plastic carpet which looked dully impersonal. In the light of the midday sun, this hall looked like a deserted cave, were it not for the black painted arrow and the severe inscription : “Memory Bar : Entrance”. It was separated from the main room by a corridor divided by a succession of curtains made with straps of different materials hanging from the ceiling : transparent plastic, pieces of bamboo, copper, fragments of frosted glass, lines of pearls, and ,more notably, tubes of blue neon light which almost dazzled me when I crossed the previous curtain. I approached prudently and moved the tubes aside, and as soon as my head had emerged from this fall of light, I heard a strong, low-pitched voice shout :
“Standing ovation for Mr Bald who has dared to cross the six sacred doors and enter our domain!”
Although I still consider myself a young man, I am only thirty-two, I have already lost all my hair. When I was twenty, I used to have beautiful, flourishing black hair, which I let grow and fall on my shoulders ; everyone said my face was that of an angel who would never grow old, with my dark curls and my everlasting faint smile which never faded. However, it was not to last, and a few years later I started losing my hair incredibly fast : everyday I could comb through it with my fingers and tear away handfuls of dead locks. Within a year I had gone completely bald. My wife thought I worked too much, my mother thought I did not eat the right food (she was newly fond of nutrition theory), my shrink thought I had too many repressed feelings and my hairdresser thought I should resort to hair implants. I thought there were too many people who were concerned for my happiness without understanding anything about me. It was about that time I started wandering into bars. What am I looking for? To everyone else, I seem a lucky man, with a united family and a well-paid job. If I were to explain this issue, though, I would say I am trying to chase those bits of unexpected fun that have deserted my life. To be honest with myself, I must recognize I seldom find them in the streets or in the bars, but I keep on searching. Hope lives longer than reason.
This one had at least something original about it. It was even attractive, despite the dusty atmosphere that suggested its inhabitants could just as well be ghosts. Actually, some of them were not far from this state. Meagre and old, a few of them displayed a bright smile, revealing several missing teeth. Some others were younger and looked better fed, but on their faces I could distinguish the same mysterious smile, the same drops of weird fantasy. I was not afraid, I had already seen much gloomier places, but I had a little shiver of thrill, wondering what would come from those twenty faces who were watching me intently. The low-pitched voiced man, who turned out to be a big middle-aged man and was obviously a kind of leader handed me a pint of ale and flooded me with a hurricane of questions :
“What’s your name?”
“Colin…”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have children?”
“I have got two.”
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-five.” (I lied, no one understands how embarrassing it is to be bald before thirty).
“What’s your job?”
“I work as an adviser in a…”
“What do you like?”
“Er…”
“Do you have dreams?” He interrupted before I could answer the previous question.
“Er…”
“Perfect!” He chimed in again, “Then you are welcome in our club! Mike, bring us more beer! Let’s party for Colin Newcomer!”
The atmosphere was really full of joy. Loud laughs filled the room at every moment. Mr. Questions, as I nicknamed him in, was in fact Tom Honorton, the owner of the place. We settled into a long discussion. He tried to explain to me that his goal was to create a place where everyone could feel at home without being overwhelmed by the worries of everyday life, as in a golden childhood. He and his wife did the cooking and all the other domestic chores, his guests, as he called his clients, were just here to enjoy the quietness and the pleasant conversation.
“Why should people be compelled to lose their inner peace and their joyful mood when they become adults?” He emphasized, “I try to help them to find their path back to their innocence and their dreams.”
It was a noble aim, and after a further glance at his guests, I could not help but think he had fulfilled it pretty well, although their absent-minded smiles made me feel somewhat uneasy, as if I was precisely facing children, who could hide many mischievous intentions or unspoken trauma behind their innocent dreaming look. I stayed here for a long time, lost in my thoughts and sometimes having a few words with another smiling man. When I left, night had already come, and in my house, my wife and children had fallen asleep. I slipped into bed unnoticed.
I had a strange dream. The memory bar was closed. Tom was standing on the pavement with his hands on his hips, contemplating the entrance helplessly. A spider had built a powerful magic web on the threshold, and the first one who would cross it was doomed to remain inside for his entire life. Tom had called the most brilliant wizards of the country, but none of them had been able to break the charm. All the guests were waiting in the street outside, trying to find an amusing or useful pastime, lazing around in the neighbouring shops and cafés, and always coming back to form an impatient crowd in front of the entrance. He was about to return home when a beautiful deer appeared in the distance. It was being chased by a troop of ferocious dogs, but it did not seem to be paying attention to them and approached gently in majestic and graceful jumps. At some point I realised it was following an invisible path which was leading it to the entrance of the bar. I shouted, tried to warn it. The idea that this creature of such an extraordinary beauty, which was still surrounded by the halo of the divine would embrace the terrible fate of spending all its remaining days locked inside the bar was unbearable. Still, the deer was not disrupted by all my attempts and did not stop its deadly pursuit. And thus the charm was broken and the animal doomed.
I woke up in a cheerful mood. I was looking forward to returning to the pleasant place I had just discovered. Even the fuzzy memory of the misfortune of the deer could not pull my happiness down : after all, the memory bar was far from being the worst place to spend the rest of one’s life. I tried to watch the news on TV, but barely heard what it was about. I was focusing on my next trip to the bar. However, an odd piece of news caught my attention. The previous night, hundreds of whales had run aground on a beach, and the journalist could not do anything else but repeat the same barren question about the intelligence and the conscience of those animals. How was it possible that their instinct led them to such a fate? I switched it off.
On my way to the bar, I felt I was a different man. After years of greyness, something new had come at last, and I was ready to enjoy it. When I saw the entrance, I remembered the previous day and the moment I had discovered it, still unaware of what I would find inside. It strengthened my pleasure to enter again. I crossed the first curtain confidently.
I was in a disco and the music was so loud that every single object, walls included, vibrated with an obsessive frequency. I was sitting around a table with a few schoolmates. I could have been sixteen years old again. I still had my long curls and the features of the dreaming child that made everyone gape at me and especially my fellow teenage girls who found me so cute... I made a terrible effort to remember which particular event it was that I was reliving. The girl on my right, Sandra, I’d secretly loved. Jack and Philip, my best friends, were seated close by. I’d almost spent all my days with them at that time. Others were anonymous friends I could not remember specifically. I loved being with them, but that very evening there was something wrong. Jack was telling fabulous stories with his usual ease, everyone was staring at him and I felt jealous. I was so shy I did not dare to speak on such occasions. Observing all the attention that Jack, this brilliant crook, this wizard of the lies, was receiving with his mediocre inventions made me feel acutely aware of my own misery. How comes others could be so captivating when I struggled to utter a couple of words? I found this injustice revolting, all the more so because I felt I was often being compared to the other boys on that very criterion. All of a sudden I stood up, grabbed my empty glass, and threw it over the table and left quickly. I felt someone seize my shoulder, I turned around and saw the frightening face of Honorton. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes wide open, and he was glaring at me angrily:
“Why did you do that?”
I did not know what to say. It would be too long, too complicated, to explain all the injustices which were ripping at my heart.
“I don’t know. I felt too anxious, I had to do something violent or I would have gone mad.”
“I understand what you feel,” Honorton’s sharp face had suddenly melt into the much softer features of Sandra, who had happened to become my wife, and we were at home in our bedroom, “but you have to behave like a proper adult. I’m fed up with living with someone who acts so irresponsibly.”
I hated when she made that kind of reproach, but did not answer. There was a grain of truth in what she said, although I knew in my inner conscience that it was not possible to control these instincts. I opened the door to leave the room and found myself on a large beach by the Atlantic Ocean. I was building sand castles and my younger sister was uttering a childish rhyme and throwing handfuls of sand around. My anxious mother was looking after us, her unmoving eyes could not miss our slightest movement. My father was sleeping. Margaret’s repetitive singing was hardly bearable, but I was trying to concentrate on my plans when my sister approached unexpectedly and destroyed all my work with her plump hands. I felt the rage burning in my chest and started filling her mouth with the sand from what had been a magnificent tower only a few seconds before. My mother rushed over, seized me under the arms and reprimanded me harshly, her voice interspersed at times by spasmodic shakes. Only then did she notice my coughing sister and helped her get rid of the sand in her mouth. A few minutes later I was lying on my towel, shaken by rage and humiliation, when my father approached and spoke softly :
“Your mother is very upset you know.”
He tried to sound comforting, but I could feel a strange kind of tension in his voice. I could not say if he was worried for my sister or for my own crise of anger, or if he was merely frightened by my mother’s reaction. He rarely spoke to me so seriously. Looking more carefully at his face, I noticed his features were strikingly similar to those of Honorton.
“You have been behaving like a daredevil lately ; your mother and I are very concerned about what you do, we won’t let you be so violent, especially with your sister.”
“She always causes me trouble and never gets punished. I’m fed up with her.”
“You’ll meet many other people who will upset you in your life.” As always, my father tried to be patient, understanding and persuasive. “But you’ll have to be the master of your feelings, or nobody will accept or help you. We are your parents, so we have to be patient, but others won’t feel they have the same obligations. Remember that.”
Honorton was now facing me with his worried and yet rude look.
“I think we have all been patient enough with you Colin. We all want you to think seriously about what you are doing in life, and to try to be more reasonable. I expect to see you back soon, and in more sensible spirits.”
I left the bar with shivers of terror. Honorton was a monster. On the other hand, I was still fascinated by all the things he revived, things I had completely forgotten. The very minute I found myself outside, wandering on the pavement like a haggard boxer, I made the vow not to come back, and in the same minute I knew I would. The promise of new discoveries was too tempting. With his mysteries and his authority, Honorton was both attracting and binding me. Moreover, now that I had experienced the Memory Bar once, I could not bear the idea of returning to the monotonous life I had led before. For back at home everyday troubles came back in their due time, as precise as the atomic clock, like Sandra shouting:
“I have been waiting for you for more than three days! It’s no longer possible to live with you. You’ve been more absent than ever lately. If this continues, your child will forget you exist within a few months.”
I did not reply, as usual. That same evening, I felt like breaking our crystal vase, that had not borne flowers for so long, and something strange happened. I dropped it from above, it seemed to break apart when it touched the hard red tiles of the floor but the millions of tiny crystal pieces all vanished simultaneously, as if they were so small that they could assimilate in the air around us. The next morning I was so ill I could not even think about leaving my bed. For a few days I thought I might as well die. Sandra cared for me lovingly. She spent hours at my bedside everyday. It took a long time before she had nursed me back to health and I could again go to the memory bar.

This fragment of Colin’s story was discovered a few years later, when Honorton’s house was searched after several mysterious disappearances, but no one has seen Colin since the day he returned in the Memory Bar.

Rewriting of the Blue Bouquet by Tomothée de Ferrières

2008-06-10T09:26:00.000-07:00

Rewriting of The Blue Bouquet by Octavio Paz
by Timothée de Ferrières
November 13th, 2007

It was a hot, pitch-black night. Years had worsened my sleep and the closeness of the air deterred me from trying to sleep. Sitting on a stool in the hall of the boardinghouse, I was listening to the darkness. From time to time, some short steps approached, stopped, sniffed around and went away with the same light pace. Sometimes, I glanced at the image that the flickering yellow light of the stranger cast on the wall across the street. It was periodically crossed by the shadow of a mislead butterfly.

I had just lit another cigarette when I saw a figure moving about in the light for a minute. Then it disappeared. The window went dark, and I heard a door along the staircase and the rumble of someone hurtling down the stairs. A moment after, he was in the hall. I thought he was going to bump into me. He suddenly stopped, obviously surprised to meet a human being still living in that heat. When some men meet in a desert place, they have to exchange words to display their good intentions ; so I asked him :
"Where are you going ?"
"To take a walk. It's too hot."
"Is he reckless ?" I thought. I warned him : "Everything's closed. And no streetlights around here. You'd better stay put."

He muttered something to close the discussion. Once we had exchanged these customary words, each of us went back to his previous occupation : I listened to the darkness, he continued his way out onto the street.
My cigarette was the only light remaining in the night. I was absent-mindedly looking at its glowing red end. The silence had returned. My cigarette went out. A few minutes later, it slipped through my fingers and I began to doze.
The sudden appearance of the moon from behind a cloud illuminated the street and brought me out of my torpor. It was low on the horizon and made the windows into the black eyes of white-skinned houses.

Some time later – I cannot say how long – the young man ran back to the house and up the stairs to his room. He may have had an unpleasant encounter, I thought. I had warned him. He left town the day after and, I figured, he might not be back for quite a while.

Ask the Machine! By Julien Barthès

2008-06-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

Ask the Machine!
By Julien Barthès

Enan had always been happy.

Since the day of his birth, which he remembered well since he had wanted to, he had always been very happy. To be more precise, it was rather since his first birthday: before that, he could not grasp such concepts as happiness and so he could not remember being happy at the time.

Neither could he have had any desires, back in those days, thus not being able to address any request to the Machine.

But when he finally began to feel needs and desires, when he finally could form in his mind the thought “I want this!” his life had completely changed.

His first request had been a baby-wordless-thought, more or less equivalent to the English, “I want to drink milk!”, and instantly he was drinking milk; many others had followed.

The Machine had always been there for him.

She had been there when he was a child and had wanted to know how birds could fly (and then he had known) and right after that when he had wanted to fly himself (and then he had flown).

She had been there when he had wanted plenty of toys and fun games and then he had had them. (If you could see how big a mountain of teddy bears a little child can conceive of, it would strike you that a children imagination is way more powerful than an adult’s!).

She had been there when he was a teenager and had wanted many girlfriends, and then he had got them. (As far as he remembered, there had been Aaliyah, Aamina, Aamu, Aaren, Abbey with a “ey”, Abbie with a “ie”, Abby with a “y”, Abegail et caetera to Zuzanna, Zvonimira, Zyanya and Zyta).

She had been there when he had finally gotten tired and had wanted to be rid of them and then he had been. Later, he would hear about morals and ask the Machine about them… Still later, during his philosophical period, he had wondered how the Machine could cope with conflicting desires in different human beings. For example, how could he have been ridden of so many girlfriends who were desperately in love with him and who surely did not want to be disposed of? And then he had known: it involved very complex parallel-multidimensional-fractal-universes physics. Still, conflicting desires did not occur very often: people tended to live mostly isolated from others: why would you waste your time in socializing, given all the far more amazing prospects supplied by the Machine?

The Machine could do anything. She had been created by humanity a few years after human knowledge had reached its ultimate perfection: the complete comprehension of the universe. Man had then been able to do whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Soon afterwards, the Machine had been built to listen to any man’s desires and instantly make them come true. And then humanity began to experience a long and wonderful uninterrupted era of happiness.

Enan was part of the first generation born After-Machine. The 25th of July, year 1 After-Machine. And one day, the day of his 1 000 000 000th birthday, in front of his billion-candles birthday cake, he suddenly began to experience the end of that era.

It was then just a brief instant of hesitation, a mere “Have I really done this a billion times ?”, atrophied, quickly vanished, and quickly forgotten thought at the deepest back of his conscious mind : a fragile lost blinded moth flying softly for a second between the bursting waves of his shining billion-year old mind just before they nonchalantly ground it down.

It was just the first elusive hint of the unfathomable doom to come.

He had paid absolutely no attention to it and had simply gone on his ritual birthday trip around the Universe. These were always amazing journeys : flying in the immensity of outer space for days, faster than light, diving through stars, grazing black holes (landing on them !), juggling planets, blowing supernovae, drinking the milky way, playing merry-go-round on galaxies.

And yet… Yet…

Until then, they had always been marvellous, unforgettable, unmatched adventures.
And yet… Yet…

It had seemed to him this time that something had changed slightly. He had a strange impression which was not completely unfamiliar, like the one he had experienced on his birthday, but stronger — though still very dim and persistent. He did not know then, but this uneasiness would never leave him again.

He soon found a name for it, a name that had had never been pronounced, nor said, nor thought of for a billion years, since the Machine had come. A name humanity had simply, happily, forgotten, aeons ago.

Boredom… The unsuspected plague.

After such a long oblivion, after so many years of believing that they had managed to escape and definitively outrun the ever hungry beast, boredom was back.

And with it, there came along a long forgotten fiend: fear.

Humanity began to fear.

Confident humanity, fearless humanity, almighty humanity, having done everything and not knowing what to do to fill its idle existence anymore, fearing the next day, the next hour, the next minute, such short times that had always been but worthy of the greatest contempt in billion years lives… And what is more terrible for giants than to be enslaved by a dwarf?

Enan was bored.

Since the Machine, he had done everything he could desire, everything he could wish… Soon he was left with nothing else to do but what he did not mind doing… and then, everything he could think of that may preserve him from boredom.

In just a month, his whole world had crumbled.

Worse! The whole world was actually crumbling!

Enan was witnessing the ruin of his peers: everywhere, people were beginning to get bored, as if the whole world had all of a sudden aged ten billion years more. It was like a plague spreading contagiously everywhere: a month before everybody was healthy, and then came a first case, followed by a second, and then a third and a fourth, and in no time everybody was bored. Even the youngest, strangely, were affected by the plague and were beginning to grow bored.

There was no cure, no escape out of this thick, pervasive haze of gloominess: the Machine could not help them because they did not know what to ask Her anymore!

They were desperate.

For the first time in a billion years, humanity was not happy. But since they had been continuously happy for such a long time, what a breakdown! They had simply forgotten unhappiness. Its abrupt return had crushed them: they were like some warm countries’ well-off, cold sensitive men suddenly caught naked in a terrible hailstorm. They were not anymore able to bear unhappiness, most of them had lose any will to fight back, and some were even considering death as the only solution.

Death… Here was another long forgotten beast. A beast they had always thought had been tamed for good.

And some actually chose this solution. Others, like Enan, did not — they would fight !

It was not long, though, before it became obvious that no one’s imagination was sufficiently powerful to save anyone from boredom. And they were so unhappy.

They subsequently decided to begin a world wide reflection on the issue. Everybody was involved: politicians talked politics, scientists talked science, philosophers talked philosophy and poets talked poetry.

But they came out with nothing, and were still unhappy.

Then followed another wave of desperate, voluntary deaths…

But Enan was not one of them. He was unhappier than ever, but he still would fight. He then decided to pay a visit to every one of those who where considered among the wisest men in human history to discuss his issue with them.

He met Salomon, Archimedes, Socrates, Aristotle, Pythagoras, Cicero, Confucius, Laozi, Leonardo da Vinci, René Descartes, Immanuel Kant, Friedrich Nietzsche, Albert Einstein and many others.

But none of these great thinkers had a solution for him… Worse ! They all seemed to consider that it was actually very healthy for a man to die ! (Socrates being particularly insistent on this point, and Albert Einstein actually intending to kill him after Enan had tried to explain him how the Machine could make light of all the paradoxes She implied, notably outrageously breaking all the physical laws in which Albert strongly believed.)

And Enan was still unhappy.

When Enan came back from his long journey through time, a new trend was appearing : people were beginning to wish for the end of the Machine — unthinkable until then !

It was a difficult choice, there seemed to be no turning back. But as days passed, unhappy and boring days that seemed like years, more and more people began to consider the Machine as the only source of their problems. The Machine had given them everything, clearly too much, and now that they did not enjoy this “too much” anymore they had to go back to the basics. The eldest, born before-Machine, were the main drive of this current of thought: they had known a simpler life long, long ago. They remembered not being happy all the time back in those days, but at least they were not then utterly condemned to unending unhappiness.

So, they had to go back to that way of living. But it was not possible with the Machine: every time you wanted to do something the Machine had you instantly do it. It was impossible to do something by yourself! Should you want to go somewhere, the Machine would instantly teleport you there. Unless you explicitly thought that you wanted to go there by yourself, which, according to the eldest of the elders, was impossible to do all the time. Inevitably, at some point, you would be tired of going yourself, and you would want to be transported instead. And the Machine would have it immediately done.

No: the whole point was to experience some vexation from time to time. And the Machine, after all, was precisely here to eradicate all annoyance.

So, She had to be destroyed.

Thus, one terrible day, Enan took his decision: he wanted the Machine destroyed.

And then She was.

But things did not go exactly as planned. At first, Enan was a little bit confused: he was so used to the Machine fulfilling his least desires right away that he could not restrain himself from vainly formulating wants whenever he needed something. It was even dangerous: he bumped several times into walls, accustomed as he was of passing through them whenever he wanted.

But quickly Enan was delighted to do things by himself. He had to walk to go wherever he wanted instead of being instantly transported by the Machine. When he got thirsty, he could enjoy actual drinking when the Machine would simply have quenched his thirst without the physical process of drinking. What a pleasure it then was for Enan to feel, for almost the first time in his life, water, simple water, basic water, flowing down his throat! He also had to cook by himself! And even if his first tries were not quite edible, he still enjoyed it a lot.

But things soon started to go wrong: after a week, Enan was out of food supply and found himself incapable of making food out of nothing. But it was not the only problem, he soon thought of many things he did not know how to handle: what about illnesses? He had nothing to cure them and even if he had, he still would not know how. What about social life? Even if he as always lived in quiet and rather isolated places (with a wife and some children at the most), he still needed human contact from time to time, and as far as he knew, he might perfectly well be the only human on this whole planet where he had taken up residence! How long would he be able to live in this utter solitude without going insane? And death! What about death? When the Machine still existed, it was not a problem, but now… How ironic! If he had wished for the end of the Machine, it was precisely to avoid death! Not to be projected into it by unhappiness.

He suddenly wished the Machine was back.

And then She was! Enan had not thought of it, but the Machine could do anything!

Thus, he was back to square one, unhappier than ever! What could he do? What should he do?

Nothing! This last try had proven it. The Machine was there and would always be. He had to put up with it. And that left him with the darkest prospect: a life of unhappiness, worsening every day, with his voluntary death as a most probable ending.

He might have the strength to live for another few years, but ultimately, he knew, he would have to let go. After all, it had been the normal way in ancient times, before-Machine. Everyone has to die. And even if he had thought throughout his gigantic life that it was not so, he was now forced into admitting it. One day, all men must die. It might even be healthier.

One day, he must die…

He had enjoyed life as best he could.

He had tasted everything, eaten everything, drunk everything, even things that did not exist but which the Machine had created on his request. All this a million times…

He had had lots of houses, of all kinds: red ones, blue ones, big ones, small ones; some pretty, some ugly, some shiny, some gloomy; amazing ones and invisible ones, tangible ones and frightening ones; some with round windows and others with no roof, some like a shadow and others rather tough, some that might break some you could eat, some that looked great and some not so fit; some with a world for garden and some he had long forgotten. There were millions of them…

He had married plenty of times and divorced as many. He had had all kinds of wives and troubles as many : fit, fat, hot, cold, tall, small, young, old, pretty, ugly, shiny, gloomy, blond-haired, black-haired, clever (or not), women (or not), some he loved, some he hated, some he had never encountered and some he hardly remembered. There were millions of them…
He had had many children, too… Millions…

He could play perfectly well all the musical instruments and had played every work by every composer in every style. Millions of times…

He had read every book in every language. Millions of times…

He knew them by heart; he had also read them upside down and starting from the end to the beginning. He had written a lot, too. Millions of times…

He had studied every subject to its ultimate refinement from physics to biology and from philosophy to pataphysics. Millions of times…

And he had done many other things he had forgotten but could remember if only he expressed the desire. Millions of things…

But never, with all his knowledge and experience, never in his extraordinarily long life had something even slightly given him the least indication that there could be such a terrible difference between doing a thing millions of times and millions plus one times…

Finally, after a few years spent struggling to elude boredom in utter unhappiness, Enan found the strength to make his final choice: death was the only way out…

He was so sorry to end it like this. But he had no choice. He was so unhappy…

There he was: he simply had to express the wish to die and the Machine would comply with it.

He prepared himself. He had no choice: he was so unhappy.

He drew one last, ultimate, breath.

He was so unhappy. He so wanted to be happy!

And he lived happily ever after!

..............Morality: ask the Machine!

by Julien Barthès

The very strange case of Bob and Dora

2008-03-20T02:07:00.000-07:00

Love is unpredictable. It need not be argued. But however warned they may be against love’s idiosyncrasies, who would have guessed that Bob and Dora might ever be husband and wife ? They had been for two years indeed, and no cloud had yet shaded their marriage. One sunny morning of July, Bob woke up and found nobody in his bed. Nobody in the apartment, either. Bob was simple-minded, even for a mechanic, and did not think for a second that his wife might have left him. He opened the fridge, stated that she was not there either, poured a glass of milk as every morning of his marriage, had a shower and prepared to go to work. Dora had to be somewhere, anyway. He put on a jacket – the smartness of which, he had always thought, could impress the customers – and a pair of shorts, considering the heat.

Now the moment he closed the door, Bob had the intuition – who ever said intuitions were a woman’s thing ? – nay, he felt instantly certain that Dora was at the Harpers’. The Harpers were Bob and Dora’s upstairs neighbors. They were taking vacations that week, and they had left Bob and Dora the key to their apartment. Bob tiptoed up the stairs and stealthily tried to turn the handle : bingo ! the door was not locked. He opened it noiselessly. Dora was sitting in front of an unusually, unaccountably, unfathomably modern-style aquarium, smoking, and gazing at the blue and orange fish strolling past. Dora was not a simple woman. She had moods. Somber moods. Reflexive moods. Touch-me-not moods. Moods his husband feared like the devil and never really understood.

“Boo!” She startled. She had not heard him coming. She was obviously in a bad day.

“It’s not funny. You frightened me.”

“Ooh… Sad little Dora… Wanna ride on Uncle Bob’s knees ?”

Dora smiled. Bob had a knack for making her smile, even when she absolutely did not feel like it, and had resolved not to, even when she sulked. He mistook it for a surrender and kissed her lips. However she hardly returned his kiss. It clearly meant that he was not to try again.

“I was thinking about the jellyfish…” she said, as though it explained everything.

“Jellyfish ?” Bob asked, perplexed, and looked at the aquarium.

“A jellyfish stung me when I was ten. I still have a mark on my back.”

Bob could not see any connection at all with the present situation. One thing was sure, this empty apartment, which was not theirs, made him feel terribly horny all of a sudden. He started beating his fists on his chest – which he considered the archetype of virility – and answered in a very preposterously cheerful tone :

“Ooh, ooh, I’m a dangerous jellyfish, and I’m going to bite you if you’re not a good girl!”

“That’s a gorilla you’re mimicking, Bob. And besides, you’re being preposterous.”

No, Dora was not funny today. Although she had said it with a nice voice, Bob could not help feeling unjustly humiliated. He seized an object haphazardly – a video cassette it happened to be – and commented:

“Wow! Awful tastes they have, haven’t they ?”

“Yes, Bob. But I’m really thinking about those jellyfish… Do you think they’re animals ? They’re made of more than ninety percent water… And why do we call them fish ? Do you never wonder that sort of things?”

“Er… No, not often.”

“Maybe that’s why I love you. Now go to work, I don’t want you to be late.”

“Yep honey, you’re right. I’d better go.”

He took his tool case, made his way to the door. Before going out, he added, in as jocund a tone as possible:

“Good day, my little starfish!”

Dora spent the good part of her day thinking about starfish, and if they were stars, or fish, and whether they walked or swam deep down in the sea…

Jérôme Saulière.

Autobiography as someone else

2008-03-20T02:06:00.000-07:00

The other Jérôme is as humorous as can be. I like listening to him very much: he’s a surge of positive ideas. He’s the one whom sunny weather can keep happy throughout the day. He’s the one whom stormy weather can depress by no means. He’s the sunny side of my mind.

I know the person he’s going out with. I’m very jealous of him, for I love that person too, but I know that person doesn’t know who I am. Whenever we meet, the other Jérôme stands before me and his jovial smile hides my neutral face. He’s such a bragger! But I must say otherwise in everyday life my personality is stronger than his, and people seldom notice his presence beside me. I happen to feel tired of being always myself in people’s eyes. I happen to wish they would see him instead, and leave me at rest for a while. Life is much too exhausting for being lived by oneself.

I should have told you first when he was born, I’m such a poor storyteller. He’s the one who would have told you gorgeous stories. I love him to tell me stories. The fact is, I don’t know exactly when he was born. He must have been born sometime, for I don’t remember him following me long, long ago, in my high school days. He may have been born very recently, maybe a few months ago. Do you really care, honestly?

Oh but I shouldn’t have asked you that. If he were there, he would have told me: Calm down Jérôme, it’s no big deal, they’re just gently listening to you, of course they care! He’s such a comforting, such a reassuring old chap! Especially when I’m not feeling good. And please believe me, I’m often feeling not so good. But most of the time, the other Jérôme is there and talks to me and reasons me. He always finds sensible answers to the issues I’m lost in. Suppose I suspect a friend of mine of being indifferent to me. He will go and talk to him or her, unafraid and daring… I guess I might say he’s sort of my hero… Well, if one can sort of be one’s own hero… Am I getting through? I fear I’m not. I wish he were there to explain it to you. You’d say, oh, that’s what you meant! And I’d say, yes, and I’d smile to him gratefully.

Jérôme Saulière

Sorry sword swallower !

2008-03-20T02:05:00.000-07:00

Sorry, sorry sword swallower! What in the world has that mouth not engulfed? Scimitars in Cairo, daggers from the Middle Age, bayonets, stilettos, all that stabs or cuts, every metal in a pointed shape ! Nails, they leave such a dreary taste of rust in the mouth. Staples, they lack consistency. Razorblades, his own special trick. Pins, they hurt his stomach. And knives, well, so many knives, but even babies swallow knives, don’t they? Now yesterday, he swallowed a sword the wrong way. Humiliation. Senility. The end of his career. His throat is sore, and his heart too, as he ponders. The fish in his plate seems to be mocking him. He starts slicing, then pauses : that knife! O God! How often swallowed! His livelihood! He wishes he could find the courage to cut his own flesh instead, that bluish place, just here, under the wrist. But he cannot. Let’s feed that big useless body of ours. Let’s forget the pain. Good boy, come one, one more mouthful! But see him choke now! The pain must be agonizing. Down here, in his old, irritated throat, believe me o brother, a fishbone has got stuck! He coughs, and coughs, his face gets violet. Done coughing, now. Slowly he dies, swords and fishbones swirling in his head. The pallid remembrance of having been a great performer yields to a feeling of utter indignation. Sour, sour sword swallower!

Jérôme Saulière

Portrait of a man

2008-03-20T02:00:00.000-07:00

Mark could have done anything for a living. He was handsome, and funny, and modest, and lucid, too, for he knew all that. And Mark wanted to be a psychologist. When he once said so to his mother, the poor woman nearly fainted : “What! My son!” she said, as she had recovered. “Have I raised you and loved you to be a shrink ? What have I done, tell me, what’s the matter ?” But nothing was the matter, nothing whatsoever. Had she not been so short-sighted, Mark’s mother would have noticed for long that sparkle in her son’s eyes, and the enigmatic brown that framed them – those were not anyone’s eyes, those were the eyes of a deeply reflexive, meek and yet frightfully determinate boy. Whenever he went for a walk, Mark fancied observing the people and guessing what their lives felt like. Strolling across the town park, he attributed a depression to a young pale lady with a baby in her arms, he diagnosed an old wigged peacock of a man as suffering from an obvious inferiority complex. As for himself, Mark suffered from every mental disease in the world. At times he felt like a maniac. At others he dreaded a paranoid attack. He sometimes woke up in the morning with the conviction he had become a schizophrenic overnight. But most of the time, Mark was perfectly happy, as are generally those who do not expect extravagant things from their existences. Love had come, love had gone : he had picked it on his way as a gift from heaven. He had got used to heaping up the harvest of good days in the event of bad ones – and there he went along, unknowingly happy, pricking his elf’s ears and raising his pointed nose in the wind, a squirrel with the brains of a philosopher and the heart of an unborn child.

Jérôme Saulière.

Rewriting of The Blue Bouquet, by Octavio Paz

2008-03-03T22:35:00.000-08:00

It was a hot, pitch-black night. Years had worsened my sleep and the closeness of the air deterred me from trying to sleep. Sitting on a stool in the hall of the boardinghouse, I was listening to the darkness. From time to time, some short steps approached, stopped, sniffed around and went away with the same light pace. Sometimes, I glanced at the image that the flickering yellow light of the stranger cast on the wall across the street. It was periodically crossed by the shadow of a mislead butterfly.

I had just lit another cigarette when I saw a figure moving about in the light for a minute. Then it disappeared. The window went dark, and I heard a door along the staircase and the rumble of someone hurtling down the stairs. A moment after, he was in the hall. I thought he was going to bump into me. He suddenly stopped, obviously surprised to meet a human being still living in that heat. When some men meet in a desert place, they have to exchange words to display their good intentions ; so I asked him :

"Where are you going ?"

"To take a walk. It's too hot."

"Is he reckless ?" I thought. I warned him : "Everything's closed. And no streetlights around here. You'd better stay put."

He muttered something to close the discussion. Once we had exchanged these customary words, each of us went back to his previous occupation : I listened to the darkness, he continued his way out onto the street.

My cigarette was the only light remaining in the night. I was absent-mindedly looking at its glowing red end. The silence had returned. My cigarette went out. A few minutes later, it slipped through my fingers and I began to doze.

The sudden appearance of the moon from behind a cloud illuminated the street and brought me out of my torpor. It was low on the horizon and made the windows into the black eyes of white-skinned houses.

Some time later – I cannot say how long – the young man ran back to the house and up the stairs to his room. He may have had an unpleasant encounter, I thought. I had warned him. He left town the day after and, I figured, he might not be back for quite a while.

Sophie and I

2008-02-12T05:40:00.000-08:00

I believe Sophie imitates all the things I do. But I do not know how, she always seems to be better at everything than me. I like travelling, taking pictures, reading, cooking… And in some mysterious ways, she will go more adventurously, she will take more artistic, brighter and more colorful shots, she will understand more deeply the meaning of any book, she will prepare tastier meals… Her mimics always appear to me to be more successful than my models.

It is not really jealousy. It is more like the way you feel for a younger sister. Deep inside, I know I like her. Because I have to, not because I choose to. Most of the time I just cannot stand her anymore: she is there, anyway, and I have to cope with that.

But sometimes, I feel like being by myself, without her, and the constant reflection she is showing me. I would forget her, I would forget what people think about us, I would not try anymore to be the best, and I would just be me. Then I feel at peace with her, and me. Us.

Sophie

Dreamless Sleep

2008-02-12T04:28:00.000-08:00

I wake up
Wondering
When morning
Will stop.

Still half asleep
I feel conscience in me
Slowly seep.

Oh shadows, do not flee!
Leaving me in a haze so deep
I barely see.

Alas,
Sleepless dreams.

Matthieu.

2008-02-11T05:50:00.000-08:00

I am a Russian

I am sitting at the chessboard, trying to think my way out of a maze of variations.
My name is Mikhaïl Ivanovich Tupolev, like the great Alexeï Andreïevich,
the inventor of the aeroplane that matched the Concorde and exceeded Mach 2.
I am Russian, and I play chess.

Slavs were converted to christianism by Cyrille and Methode
and their followers created the Cyrillic alphabet.
I am staring at the various reproductions of paintings
by Dali and Picasso

that cover the walls. The vast hall in which we play pretends to be modern and trendy,
but it is a pity that there is nothing from Kandinsky.
I like Picasso and Dali, though they have little to do with Russia, but Vasily Kandinsky
is another modern artist, and he was born in Moscow, which makes him one third Russian.

Sometimes, when I enter an Italian restaurant to have a pizza, a cunning waiter notices my slight Russian accent and asks with a subtle expression on his face : “You are Russian, aren’t you?”
It is somewhat pleasing to be recognized as a Russian , because

I am proud to be a Russian, but all the average Westerner knows of Russia is at best
Garry Kasparov and Kalinka,
at worst Maria Sharapova and vodka.

Russia exports 7 bbl of oil a day and 7 Tcf of gas a year,
produces 65000 thousand metric tons of cereal a year,
but I am still struggling to make a meagre living
in the West out of my modest chess talent.

It is the last game of a rapid tournament
in Spain. If I win it I will finish first and grab a nice

$1000 USD prize. I will eat paella in a typical Spanish restaurant and travel to Paris to play
in a team championship.

At the same time, Gregory Perelman is hiding in Siberia and refuses the
$1,000,000 USD prize that the Clay Foundation awarded him for his proof of the Poincaré theorem.
There is no word, neither in English nor in Russian, to qualify such a thing.
The ticking of the clock is a strange lullaby.

I am still a Russian

I have lost my game, something I still can not believe, because
I am still a Russian and my opponent was only Latvian.
When we are sad, people say in our deep blue eyes one can see
the infinite plains of the East and the cold and empty sky.

I'm currently reading “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”,
by Kundera. He is the writer I enjoy the most. He had a fairly good level at chess,
but wasn’t Russian. Nevertheless, Russian literature is immensely rich.
Bulgakov (1891-1940) is said to have been a favourite

of the Soviet regime. Yet he wrote the unforgettable
“Master and Margharita”, and shares his first name with no less than
yours truly and Botvinnik, world chess championship
from 1948 to 1957, from 1958 to 1960 and from 1961 to 1963,

who lost his title twice then struck back in return encounters.
One day, I will have my revenge for today’s loss, too.
“War and Peace” was translated into more than 10 languages ;
it is the novel which depicts the Russian soul the best. I was born

in Poltava and grew up in Volgograd, two places where
the Russian Army won crushing victories.
Russia was never defeated, or those were not real defeats.
I finished shared third and got a tiny

$50 USD cheque. Tonight, I'll have a quick
meal in a meaningless fast-food restaurant as my Spanish
girlfriend comforts me. She thinks I am just
slightly overconfident when it comes to

concluding something. After Kipling, I should say
“Triumph and Defeat, those two liars”. Oil still pours from the ground
in Russia and cars roll in the US, it is the middle of the day
in the Arctic, night falls in Sevilla, and I have not been to

Siberia yet. St Petersburg and Moscow are 650 km apart,
but Russia is only 64 km away from the US,
over the Behring Sea (it would be funnier if, as in Gibraltar,
the West of Alaska belonged to Russia and the East of Chukotka to the US).

But I, the most faithful Russian, wander along in
tiny Western Europe like a fish in its tank.
Not much to regret though, the whole world would still be too
narrow for me : I shall always be a Russian.

Arnaud

4 février 2008 12:45

Down at the end

2008-02-05T06:49:00.000-08:00

It's rare when people sometimes foresee future events with extreme accuracy, past experiences sometimes teach us too much for own good, this is not Gary Kasparov saying in his mind check mate in 33 moves, sometimes reading what we have on our hands can be more then enough to say where every piece fits...

It's hard when you know what you are walking to, and what you are going to face, sometimes walking into the lion's nest is inevitable and uncontrollable, you turn out to be a mere spectator in your own body, unable to control the fixed outcome whatever your moves and words might be, seeing what's down at the end is frightening enough, sometimes it's not bliss to know what is heading toward you.

There, Down at the end, lies our destiny were we see and accept, where we hope and wish, do we have the strength to change ? to fight for what is rightfully us to create ?

There Down at the road to the end, we build ourselves , we hone ourselves--Do we join the herd or just pave our own new road?