hpim3640Our reviewer for the September-October challenge, was once again Susan Toy – the generous writer and passionate supporter of writers and writing.

Susan took time out from her busy schedule, while travelling, to review five entries of approximately 800 words each. She has provided detailed feedback and  encouragement to all entrants. In her response to the Bahrain Writers’ Circle’s Creative Workshop, she said, “…thank you for asking me to critique for your group a second time. You do have many excellent writers among you and I commend everyone for continuing to write and submit to these challenges.”

Susan is a bookseller, an award-winning publishing sales representative, a literacy teacher and a promoter of fellow authors and their books through her company, Alberta Books Canada. Susan is also an author and publisher, her imprints are IslandCatEditions and IslandShorts. Through Alberta Books Canada, Susan represented authors directly, helping them find promotion for themselves and their books, seeking out new readers, and assisting them in making wise career decisions.

Susan continues to promote authors and good books in general, throughout the world and online, on her blog, Reading Recommendations. She created the writing contest, Coffee Shop Author, has sat on the Board of Directors of the Fernie Writers’ Conference, served as a member of the Calgary Distinguished Writers Program steering committee, and was a member of the board of directors for the Writers’ Guild of Alberta. She is now concentrating on her own writing and publishing and divides her time between Canada and her home in the Caribbean.

You can read more about Susan here: https://islandeditions.wordpress.com/about-susan-m-toy/

You can read about Susan’s books here: https://islandeditions.wordpress.com/island-in-the-clouds-a-bequia-novel/

And her other thoughts here: https://theviewfrommytrailerandverandah.wordpress.com

Thank you once again, Susan!

The September-October challenge was to:

Write a monologue of around 500 -800 words about a person/your character who is breaking up, could be: with a lover/ girl-boyfriend/ husband/wife/ resigning a long-term post at a company or institution.

The entrants were encouraged to be creative in their responses and all of these entries were highly imaginative. Well done everyone and thank you for participating.

The entries are published in the order they were received.

A HARD TIME LEAVING

by Gordon Simmonds

On that moonless night in Tabriz, the street lights were off and not even a glimmer escaped from behind the blackout curtains of the buildings on either side of the street. The only sound was the echo of my footsteps as I picked my way down the middle of the road; it was too dark to negotiate the uneven pavements. There was no traffic.

Iraqi bombers hadn’t made any night raids so far, but the curfew and blackout had been in force since eight o’clock; two hours before. Alert for any sound that wasn’t my own, I left the relative safety of the Armenian quarter and turned into Shahnaz Avenue, sensing rather than seeing, the trees along the kerb edge and the smart shops lining the empty street. Here, the pavement was wide and even, so I walked quickly and quietly, aware that the Revolutionary Guards would be patrolling.

Not far to go now. The bus – if it came – would stop on the corner with Pahlavi Avenue, no more than two or three hundred meters away. But then…., I could hear voices. Far away at first, but gradually getting closer as I walked on. Not knowing what would happen if I took these people by surprise, I deliberately stamped my feet with each step, which sounded loud in the silence of the night. Sure enough, as they came to within thirty or forty meters of me, the talking suddenly stopped followed a second later by the unmistakable ‘tchuk tchuk’ of an AK47 being cocked.

They couldn’t see me and I couldn’t see them, but there was no doubting the urgency of the challenge in Persian. I guess they said “Who goes there,” or some such thing, and I replied “Englistani.” I put down my bag, stood stock still and let them come to me. I was suddenly blinded from the light of a small torch as they approached, and said “Mihan Tour,” which was the name of the well-known company whose bus I was to meet. There were two of them in military battle fatigues, so in broken Farsi I explained that I was catching the bus to Istanbul from the stop on Pahlavi. Suspiciously they asked for, and inspected my passport, and then to my absolute surprise, the guy with the rifle slung it over his shoulder (with a live round still in the chamber), and the guy with the torch picked up my bag and said “Come!” They escorted me to the bus stop .

With the war in full swing, no one could be certain that the bus would still be operating, but some time later, its headlights became the only light in the city as it arrived pretty much on schedule. It was a whistle stop, and I was the only passenger to get on. The two soldiers loaded my bag, bid me a friendly goodbye and went on their way – still with a loaded weapon. I sat next to an Iranian guy, who eased the journey with his conversation in excellent English. It was April 1982 and I remember the date clearly, because my fellow traveler translated the news broadcast from the bus radio. Some of the passengers were gloating over the fact that Argentina had just invaded the Falklands.

Two days and eighteen hundred kilometers later, I arrived in Istanbul; then on to England. I never went back.

Revolution, war, and circumstances beyond my control had destroyed the order of my life and family. And with that last emotional night in mind , among other things, I wrote these words :-

When I am gone, I will walk into the light

But my soul must bear the scars of an impure life.

I must reflect upon the guilt of countless sins

Developed and accumulated in a lifetime littered with flawed judgement.

The guilt for all the things I should have done, and didn’t do.

For all the words I should have said, but didn’t say.

For mistakes I made in selfishness, or ignorance, or crass stupidity.

I’ve made beds which were too hard to rest my faulted body

Or ‘pon which the fates decreed I should not lie.

I know this now, but careless in the foolish flush of youth, I never thought

That consequence succeeds both action and inaction.

I no longer dream. All that remains is a perpetual haunting image which will stay with me until I die. I see the bedroom; Vanik asleep, Vartan awake and standing in his cot. The tense farewells have been said, and as I kiss my son he looks up and says ‘Baeets menk menag enk’ which in Armenian means “But we shall be alone!”

He was right – I didn’t see my son again for thirty years.

RESKINNING

by Michelle Schultz

I suppose on the morning of our last day together, a goodbye is in order.

I lean forward and brace both hands on the sink so I can see better to take a catalog of my body’s faults. Without my glasses, my features almost blur into beauty. Almost, but not quite.

My teeth are crooked. Despite my begging for braces, Mom insisted that tuition was more important than my vanity. My nose is too big for my face, and no amount of makeup makes it look any less ridiculous. The magazines were wrong about that. The lazy eye that persists even after eye patches and other intrusive measures sits stubbornly to one side, staring at something or someone else.

I hate my face. I can’t wait to be rid of it. Just think of it: after today, no one will glance at me and away while I’m talking, wondering if I’m speaking to them or someone behind them.

The body is no better. I have no discernible shape, whether hips or waist or bust. My fashion blogs say that I should love my less-than-svelte body, but I must dress to make myself look taller. Long pants and tall shoes are in order because they give a slimming effect. I think these are mixed messages, but I bought the pants and shoes anyway.

I won’t have to buy them after today.

Those government agencies or whatever have finally passed legislation allowing minors to re-skin with parental approval. Although my mother does not approve, my father’s girlfriend was all too happy to put the paperwork in with Dad’s name. She reskinned when she was only twenty and Dad was nothing but pleased, so she thinks that I should have that opportunity too.

She’s gorgeous. The elasto-skin of her face is poreless, without blemish. I won’t ever have a zit again, nothing to embarrass me during these last few years of high school. I won’t even have to worry about frizzy hair during my prom. The synthetic hair they implant in my synthetic skin will do exactly what I want so long as I don’t change my mind for a few years. By then, I’ll be an adult and can get reskinned whenever I want. My teeth will all be ceramic, and I can chose to get whatever eye color I want.

Gina, the girlfriend, says that she doesn’t have the visual acuisy, acuitry, acuziwhatzit that she used to have, whatever that means, but I don’t care. I have a lazy eye. I would give anything not to have that in school pictures anymore. If I have to wait a few years for cybernetics to catch up with meat bodies, then I’ll wait. I can always get these eyes taken out in a few years and replaced .

The only weird part is paying for it. I have to donate my eggs once I turn eighteen or go to jail for breaking a contract. I don’t know what I would do with the eggs as I don’t even have a boyfriend much less a desire for a bunch of screaming brats. Might as well put them to good use, right?

Once they plane all the awkward angles off my skull and suck all the fat out of me, there’s no way Jeremy won’t look at me. He said I had horse teeth in elementary school, but reskinning wasn’t possible then. I’ll be better now. I’ll be all fixed.

In two years, our senior pictures will make it into the school paper. Best Dressed, I imagine. Maybe we’ll be Prom King and Queen. It would be nice to get asked to a dance. I’ll have something to do with my weekends other than study.

So goodbye, ugly body. This is the beginning of the rest of my life, and I won’t be taking your stupid eye and flat chest with me. Hello, reskinning.

I can’t wait to meet the real me.

Quitting Addiction

by Mounira Fakhro

Never had I thought breaking up on this addiction could be this agonising.

Due to recent allergic reaction towards this delicacy of sweets I decided to quit it once and for all. Though for a chocoholic girl in her early twenties, quitting all kinds of chocolate products appeared to be so much harder to do than I earlier predicted when making such a decision. On the first day, it was quite painful to distract my thoughts of craving for it, especially since there were still dozens of chocolate thrown around in my bedroom, I hid the chocolate somewhere far of my sight and gave the rest away to my cousins and offering it to anyone I came across that day. And for the rest of the evening I held myself from having any sweets, thinking it was good to lose a few kilos by skipping the after-lunch sweets. By that, worst day came to an end.

However, little had I known that the worst is yet to come. Second day came, and so was that time of the month when cravings are almost impossible to control. I would always satisfy it by eating a whole jar of Nutella chocolate but now I need to find something else…now that I think about it, all my favourite sweets has an amount of chocolate no matter how many come up in my mind. Therefore, I spent the most painful day of the month without my serotonin dose I usually get from chocolate and settled for a plain vanilla ice-cream. Surely its cool calmed me and its sweetness filled my craving for sweets and put the chocolate craving on hold, wonder if it’ll last.

By the third day, the rash that spread all over my arms and legs has begun to subside from the last time I had chocolate, and the itch was almost gone, which was absolutely relieving, thinking to myself how my efforts in resisting chocolate is finally bearing its fruit. It was a nice day compared to the heat waves you’d usually get in summer and thought of doing some writing at this new café that’s opened up nearby and try their drinks while at it. So here I was, in front of the table, finished setting up my laptop and heading to the counter to make my order. What I do order when trying out coffee shops’ drinks has always been a medium-sized cup of hot chocolate, and this not being an option anymore made my day hella frustrating. I ended up ordering green tea keeping in mind its ability to supress the appetite though I highly doubt it’ll supress my urge for having chocolate in any way. I had never realized not eating it would affect my habits and routines this greatly.

Forth day wasn’t much easier, for I had gone to a birthday party of a relative of mine with chocolate being the main ingredient in the birthday cake. ‘’It’s a divine test of will strength.’’ I thought to myself, and was able to stall enough time for the little kids to finish off the cake before being offered a piece. I can’t remember which methods I had used; the lack of chocolate has been affecting my concentration and my memory a bit and barely keeping a record of it all.

Fortunately, since the fifth day and so forth, chocolate has been more absent from my mind than before and days would go by without even realizing any feelings of struggling with my urges and craving. Also spending the day without any mention of it has become more and more manageable. The rash has been healing up pretty nicely and barely leaving any traces of scars, and I even lost a couple of kilos a week after! I guess good things really do occur after bad events, I’ve also grown appreciative of green tea and grew fond of vanilla ice-creams, I do hope I don’t develop any allergic reactions to it or else I’ll go through another divine test of will.

The Farewell

By Mohamad Faouaz

I look at her one more time. The doubts resurface again. Should I be doing this? Perhaps we can try again for a few more weeks, but the specialists that examined her said there was nothing they can do. I took her to see the experts but to no avail. It was too late. It was pointless to carry on and it had to end today, a clean break and final farewell.

As I look at her from the covered porch, she stands there before me in her once glorious red dress. The rain falling on her once bright and glistening skin, now faded and dulled by time. Her eyes look at me soulfully, beckoning me to reconsider. I recall those eyes that winked at me so long ago, as they shone in the dark and twinkled in the sunlight. Those eyes are now greyed and sad, the rain tracing around their edges and dropping like tears to the ground.

I feel as though I am betraying her. We had been through so much together. She had supported me throughout the last 10 years. She had been the single constant in my life. Never letting me down. She was always there at the end of the day to take me home after a hard days work. She made sure I was safe and warm. She entertained me on those long journeys, singing and talking all the way worrying that I would fall asleep at the wheel.

When my first son was born, she was the one to carry him home from the hospital. She cradled him in her soft warm arms keeping him safe as if he were her own.

She carried him to his first day at school and back, she was there when he had a fever and I had to rush to see a doctor.

She was there when I moved jobs and house. She was always there to help and was ever loyal. Never asking for anything, apart from a drink down the Local once a week. I feel a sadness that it had to end now.

I shall miss those drives down to the coast, she was my companion on all my trips and was witness to many changes in my life. As I have witnessed the effects of time and the elements taking their toll on her beautiful body. She continued to be there unrelenting and always bidding my commands.

My friends told me I should find another, more attractive and younger. Yes, there were a few that were more beautiful than her, some with sleeker figures and better structure, but she had that something that seemed to call out to you.

The experts had said there was nothing to be done. Her once smoothly harmonious voice that sang to me in the morning was replaced with a gargling cough. It was too late. It has to be done.

As I am turning towards the door, I cannot resist one more look at her. A thought comes into my mind as the clouds pass and blue sky breaks through the gray monotony, perhaps parts of her will make others happy. I feel better at that thought, and walk back into the warm dry house into the arms of my wife.

It had been a week since my red Toyota Corolla failed its MOT test and many mechanics had come and gone but they could not do anything for the car.

It was time for a new younger and faster model that will be my companion for the coming years, to keep me warm and sing and talk to me on life’s many journeys.

 

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