locution

issue 2

locution
issue 2
Locution Magazine strives to become a platform from which new writers gain valuable experience and credit in the publishing world, by providing new writers with access to a respectable publishing opportunity.

Good writing is no guarantee of being published, and being published is no guarantee of good writing; there is an unnecessary barrier between those who create and those whose writing becomes recognized. We feel that this inconsistency is detrimental to creative growth. As such, our goal is to bridge this gap by providing Locution Magazine as an outlet for aspiring writers to gain credit and become recognized for their passion. In the same spirit, we also offer a passionate, active community of writers, as well as a plethora of resources to assist in the creative process. Locution Magazine strives to recognize and foster the ingenuity, constancy, and beauty of poetry and prose that are essential to the creative spirit.

issue 2, spring 2009 www.locution-zine.com

Managing Editor James Zhao Editors David Leuenberger Dylan Mounts

locution

Webmaster Aarin Edwards Community Manager Drew Reed

All rights reserved. This publication may be freely distributed only in its entirety and without modification, and only for private use. It may not be sold for profit. Excerpts may only be reproduced and distributed with permission from the copyright owners, except in the case of brief quotations used for book reviews and interviews. The creative works published in Locution do not necessarily represent the views and opinions of its editors, staff, or members of its online community. Locution Press 2009

Special Thanks to Michelle Baker Christopher Foster Amy Hawley Shane Lee Joonas Lipping Adam Mendelevitz Jeffrey Vales Kennedy Sara Williams

Design Katherine Arrandale Cover Art Anna Clare Proofreaders Anna Clare Bart Graafmans Visalakshi Ramachandran Drew Reed

Contents
7 9 Letter from the Editor The Open Window Dale Warkentien poetry

10 Hugs and Kisses Dale Warkentien fiction 17 In the Distance (Hope) Adrian Wong artwork 18 Company Waiting Michelle Baker poetry 19 Entwine Phil Amy Wright poetry 20 A Day in the Life Anna Clare fiction 24 Daisy Anna Clare photography 25 Real Money Andy White fiction 31 Aim for Brevity James Zhao article 34 Contributors 5

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the second issue of the Locution magazine. These last eight months have been a difficult, but rewarding experience for us. We have put countless hours into promoting, developing, discussing, and improving ourselves and our work. What sits in front of you now is the result of all that effort. It is the result of a community of writers working toward a common goal in the face of vastly different schedules, locations, and lives. In spite of delays and miscommunication, we continue to advance. Our forums grow more active every day. Our IRC channel constantly invites new users. Locution is not just the collected works of writers, but also the collective voice of a thriving people. And if Locution has grown in any way since our last publication, the greatest strides were certainly taken in the community. Weve invited new members, received new works, and consolidated our views not as individuals, but as interdependent members. It has been an amazing experience for all of us. We have our share of disagreements, but in the end we all look to the same goal; to bridge the gap between the writer and the publication. Our driving desire is to make it possible for both the hobbyist and the professional to express themselves fully. With that, I present to you the second issue of the Locution magazine, featuring prose, poetry, and art from an international community. We hope you will enjoy these pieces as much as we did and encourage you to join us again for our next issue. Yours truly, James Zhao Managing Editor

The Open Window

Dale Warkentien
Last Thursday the shadows moved long after five in the streets below, like the fading oxygen missing from the particulated sky. And the haunted sound of The Long and Winding Road tumbles from the cheap radio collecting sea-green footprints on my collarbone.

Hugs and Kisses

Dale Warkentien

know its almost time for you to break up with me. I can tell because youre already beginning to play the games girls play when they want to break up. Youre not sitting next to me in the car. I grip the steering wheel a bit harder and edge the accelerator toward the floor. The traffic on the highway is a bit heavy, but youre the only reason I grind anger between my teeth while weaving in and out of traffic. I want you over here by me. I recall the night after the big dance. My first date with you, and the first time you sat next to me in the car. I was driving the speed limit then, to waste a bit more time before you had to be home. The 1970 Ford Torino, which I lovingly referred to as The Waffle Mobile in homage to the innumerable dents it had received in my more unlikable moments, had big beautiful bench seats. The perfect thing for an eligible teenager in high school, this having been discovered after my dad had explained the positive effect a bench seat could have on the male ego while driving down the street with one hand on the wheel and the other around your beautiful sweetheart. That night I had relayed to you, in not so masculine terms, the advantages of a bench seat. You giggled like honey and held me in a full embrace for the rest of the drive home. Then you kissed me; first on the cheek, and after a moments anticipation, lip to lip. 10

Hugs and Kisses Since then, everywhere we went, you sat right next to me in the car, but now you sit with your hair flying out the passenger window. I mash the accelerator so I can dust some poor flunky in a Yugo. I cant believe youre denying me this simple pleasure. I turn to look at you, your brown hair beats violently in the wind, and the sun makes your naturally bronze skin seem a bit darker. Shelly, how bout you scoot over? You respond to me with the straightness of your brown hair, No, I dont want to, Rick. And slow down, your driving scares me. Your cold response sends a chill up my spine, like the time I unknowingly kissed you in front of your parents. Why wont you sit by me? I ask as I swerve amazingly close to a slower car. Is there something wrong? Im trying to look calm, but Im getting so mad that I want to scream as loudly as the time when you left me without kissing me. Upon witnessing an unfortunate accident with my car, your parents escorted you back to your house before I even had a chance to comfort you. I was so mad at my car. There was always something wrong with it. I wanted to make it feel sorry for what it had done to me, so I kicked the fender and made another large dent in it. The resurfaced memory makes me want to scream even more. Just another missed opportunity with you. I look over to you expectantly. But instead of making me happy, you make the next play in the break up game by asking if Im mad at you. First you distance yourself from me, and then you try to make me mad at you so that I will break a promise. You think I forgot, but I still remember. You had been waiting for me to get my car running. I lost my temper. I wanted to take you out, but I was running out of time and no matter what I did, my stupid car refused to run. I reached the limit of my tolerance, and you watched in horror as I pounded relentlessly on various parts of my car. After I calmed down a bit, you asked me if I would ever get that mad at you. I promised with all my heart that I never would, no matter what you would do to make me angry. You made me promise twice, and then braved the grease and kissed me. So now, as I sit idling at the top of the exit ramp waiting for the light to change, you know that if you can make me mad, I will have broken my promise to you and youll have the excuse you need to break up with me. I peal out just before the light turns green and the thick smoke rolling from the wheel wells blows sheet-white anger into my rearview mirror. But I answer your question cool and slow: Why would I be mad 11

Dale Warkentien at you? as I whip sideways around the corner and speed up your street. You brace yourself expectantly for a quick stop in front of your house and say, Youre mad because I was late for you to pick me up today. I just got caught up with Margie. I let my anger escape with a sigh and reply honestly, No, Im not mad at you for being late.

e used to hang out after school in the spare bedroom with the TV in it until it was time for me to go to work at the grocery store down the street from your parents house. But now youre ignoring me as I sit here in the living room on the couch, and watch you play Tetris. I hate Tetris, and I know you know that but you insist on wasting all the precious time that I have before I go to work, sitting way over there on the floor, staring at that mindless game. In order to regain your attention, I reach across the arm of the couch and visually measure the distance from my fingers to your bare bronze neck, like a snake coiling for attack. I strike and wriggle my two fingers into the fleshy part of your neck as though trying to inject venom. Tickle, tickle, tickle. You brush me away like a gnat. Stop that! Rrrahh, you made me lose my game! I remember when you used to laugh that off, but now youre serious. I sit back on the couch and watch you restart the game. You resituate yourself on the floor and let your brain go to mush, and I have to go to work soon. There was a time when nothing could remove your attention from me. Not even your brother, who was more nosy than his own good would account for, when he sat wide-eyed in the few inches you had inadvertently left the door open. I got up and walked out to the hall. I opened the door and grabbed him before he had a chance to get away. I had him by the ankles, so I just turned him upside down and carried him into his own room. This had the unexpected result of causing him sheer joy, and he asked me to do it again as he squealed. So, I promised him that I would hang him upside down any time he wanted as long as he didnt bother us anymore. When I came back, you pulled me back onto the futon, nothing but smiles, told me how sweet I was for playing with your brother, and asked me where we had left off. I speak without thinking, reveling in the memory, I love you, Shelly. But you reply without feeling. Me too. 12

Hugs and Kisses Cold reality sets in. I have to go to work now. Okay, Ill see you later. You flash me a grin, blow a kiss at the air and hug your controller. Can I see you tonight? I search for the answer in your eyes and see enough hope to cause my heart to flutter. Well, me and Margie... I speak in a huff without thinking. Margie and I. Were going to see a movie at seven. Seven oclock?! Oh great, thats perfect, thanks for tellin me. For a brief moment I think I see triumph in your eyes, but if it was ever there, you have covered it up with hurt, so I add, Well, Ill see if I can get off early; this job is driving me nuts anyway. I dont want you going if youre gonna be that way about it. With that, you turn your attention back to your Tetris game and remain silent. I have a nearly overwhelming urge to give your cat flying lessons, but I defer to slamming the door on my way out.

fter three rings, a timid familiar voice chimes, Hello? Hey Margie, whatcha doin answering the Foltons phone? I say with a teasing lilt, knowing that Margie is as much a family member as Shelly. She giggles. Because I knew it was you. Hows your life been lately? Dont ask. Is Shelly there? With a dramatic gasp and mocking tears, she replies, You mean to tell me that youd rather talk to her than me? My masculine laugh peals through the phone, giving me confidence. Not even. I would much rather talk to you right now; however, as Fate would have it, I need to talk to Shelly. Well, fine then. Just a minute: shes up in her room. I hear the phone hit the table. I can hear you coming from across the room even though you are walking on carpet, and I finger my bat, preparing myself to make a play on offense in your little game. Finally, I am lifted until you say, Hello. I thought you were supposed to be at work. You sound as though you were forcing every word through your teeth. Play ball! Well, lets just say, I got off early. It was a bad day. You shouldnt have done that. The wind up. Never mind, thats not the point. Whatre you doin tonight? 13

Dale Warkentien I told you that I was going out with Margie. The pitch. I have to see you. Why? I need to be careful now in order to keep you from realizing that Im calling the shots in the game now. If I make one little mistake, youll realize that I intend to break up with you and you will throw an out before I have a chance to score. Women always do. I cant talk about it now, but I really would like to see you tonight. Your silence is back dropped by the radio as you pause for your response. I have to talk to Margie, lemme call you back. Strike!

brought you out to the five-by-five platform my parents call the back porch and gathered you in my arms both to give you the chance to redeem yourself and to make the pain of breaking up easier on you. You squirm a little in my protecting arms as if you were a newborn pup, unaware that its master was only trying to comfort it and say, I think youd better let go. While recovering from being caught off-balance by such a cutting remark, I realize that I had made a big mistake by bringing the game back into play. Then, to put a capstone on game day, you make a home run by telling me that you would much rather we be friends. So what now? Im still holding you in my arms, but I dont know why. I lean my head back against the black wrought-iron railing and feel the cold of the metal. The breeze tousles my hair and I remember being in midair and holding my little action-figure equipped with a parachute. I used to be able to squeeze between these iron bars and I would jump, holding my action-figure tightly, from the porch into the sandbox below, rejoicing in watching the parachute open and fill with air. I dont know, but I think you need to let go of me so I can go home, Rick. My thoughts chatter and somehow I explain to you that I would be willing to accept the challenge of forming a friendship with you as I remind myself that I promised I wouldnt get mad at you for any reason. Ejected for throwing at the batter.

T
14

he passing bell rings and I leap for the door. I have to be the first one out of class so I can get to your locker while youre still there. Youve been getting better at avoiding me, and if I dont hurry I wont be able to see you and Ill have to wait until after English.

Hugs and Kisses I turn the corner, and I can see you just down the hall, standing by your locker. Youre talking to Margie, and I walk by so I can see you. I decide to say hello only to Margie to make you mad. Margie grins at me and blushes as I near your locker. I get within earshot when I hear you accusing Margie of being dumb. My anger explodes, and I feel like Ive grown to twice my size as I grab both of your arms hard, and say, What did you just call Margie? I... But, no... Who the hell do you think you are? Im beginning to attract attention, so I realize I must be quick about finishing. First you break up with me, and now youre degrading your best friend? How can you live with yourself? I find myself pressing your shoulders against the locker. There you are, inches from my face, and for the first time I cant read whats going on in your eyes. I can nearly see my entire reflection framed within your pupil, and the baleen of your iris presses my anger into the back of my brain with a whirling vortex of green. Then, nothing else exists but your lips, and I know what to do now. I reassert my grip and move a bit closer. I have to steal it now. First, tenderly, then with more pressure. I know you like it even though youre struggling. I release you and step back. See, thats what its like. Now you know how everyone else feels when you take what you want and walk away. I turn and walk away and wave to Mr. Malcom, my baseball coach, as I turn the corner to the main hall.

think about you as I dial the number, and each tone delivers a crushing blow to your pride. With great effort, I push the green away; I must try not to sound too excited, or Ill blow everything. The phone begins to ring: once for every week since the incident at your locker. Im about to hang up; the fourth ring means that the answering machine might answer and I cant leave a message. In resignation, Im beginning to accept the fact that you have won the game when I hear the voice which will seal my victory over you. Hello? I pause, drawing little lines in the dust on the table, as if stripmining for silver, while I search for the right words. Hey Margie, whats up? Long time no see huh? Rick? Yeah. Whacha been up to? My reflexes snatch a fly in midair and toss it to the floor, stunning it. Nothin. Whereve you been? 15

Dale Warkentien Just sittin here thinkin bout you. I reach for the fallen fly and rip its wings off so that I can watch it walk around in the dust before I kill it. A girlish giggle wiggles through the phone line and tickles my ears, strengthening what I already knew to be true. Thats funny, Ive been thinking about you too, Rick. Cool. Ive been meaning to tell you how much you mean to me for a long time now. I just never felt like the time was as right as it is now, because until now things just havent been working in our favor. I really like you a lot; I was just hoping that you might have feelings for me. Silence is the only response, so I know that I have to make my final move. I squash the fly as it nears the edge of the table and take a deep breath to prepare. Im sorry, maybe this was the wrong thing to do. Look, Ill just let you go; I guess I understand if you dont want to talk to me. No... wait. I begin to draw concentric circles around the dead fly like a target, What? I didnt mean for you to take it that way, I... I was just caught by surprise, is all. Im sorry. No, its okay. I just needed a few seconds to sort things out. Okay. I grab a napkin and vigorously wipe the fly remains off the table. I would love to go out with you sometime. In fact, I wish you would have asked me a long time ago. Great! Okay, well, Ill see you in school tomorrow, and well set a time and call it a date. Okay? Okay. See you tomorrow, Margie. The clean spot on the table leaves me wishing I had more dust to draw lines in. See ya. I beam with pride as I return the phone to its cradle. I have won the game by taking your best friend from you, and shell make up for the hugs and kisses you refused to give to me. The napkin sails in a beautiful arc toward the trashcan and lands, fly guts and all on the floor next to it. Fucking bitch.

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In the Distance (Hope) Adrian Wong

17

Company Waiting
Michelle Baker
The weighty slap of water on rocks falling waves on rubbled coral I stand on pronged cold lava over the pinched glare of crabs its left salt, the ocean has a gift for this outcrop the empty stone bubbles a memory of fire cupping air now hold white glittering nothing so cold as diamonds but the warm taste of blood saline and iron where I lick the palm of the land kissed by the sea

A child such as I came from this womb of earth and heaven under the early sun I climb out again to watch it rise in volcanic fog this time the air is warm and the rock cold but a few pools over the water trapped is blue and staring at the sky in what year will that home send someone forth someone else with salt in their veins to meet in the crisp air.

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Entwine

Phil Amy Wright

Fall into me, like a river falls to bed and dreams about the sea. (we dream of more than bones) In our halls of flesh, the drum-skins pulse, but even the paving-stones beat these tones loud enough to shiver bones. (and our drums are more than stones) We were woven on the lightest fingers our fire burned the loom to ash. Be the warp unto my fill - cast off any other ghost that wears you; well spin these straws of flesh to gold and life and waking.

Exhale your song into my lungs. We sing in rhythm with the sky, so still our voices cant be heard for the sound of the Earthchild breathing. And as long as we lay here entwined you and I can never die.

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A Day in the Life

Anna Clare

ake to the sound of a detuned radio. Open your eyes to the pale gray light just before sunrise and feel the insidious dread mounting the uncarpeted staircase of your soul. Hit Snooze. Drift off to sleep, and have that recurring dream about your teeth falling out one by one, leaving your mouth a mess of bloody tooth shards and saliva which you spit out into your cupped hands, while avoiding the blank staring eyes of the people in the cubicles around you as your face burns with shame. Wake to the sound of a detuned radio. Open your eyes to the thick bluish light of morning coating the bedroom walls. Pull the covers over your head. Suppress a soft, despairing groan. Hit Snooze. Lie awake in bed and try not to think about the day ahead. Fail. Hear the click of the radio coming on again. Hit Snooze. Repeat. Repeat. Stumble out of bed, leaving it unmade: youre just going to be using it again in sixteen hours anyway. Enter the kitchen, head heavy with the residue of sleep. Remember that youre out of coffee because you didnt feel like going to the store after work yesterday. Decide to stop for coffee on the way to work. Enter the bathroom. Shed your nightclothes. Regard your softening physique in the mirror. Note your schlumpy posture, your 20

A Day in the Life coffee-stained teeth, your bloated stomach. Recall the cover of the tabloid you saw a coworker reading yesterday: Best and Worst Beach Bodies! Wonder if this is why youve never found real love. Turn on the shower. Enter. Remember that Kevin Spacey movie where he calls playing with himself in the shower each morning the highlight of the day. Smile. Then remember what happens to him at the end of the movie. Stop smiling. Exit shower. Dry off. Remember that you forgot to put your laundry in the dryer last night and that you have nothing to wear to work. Wrap a towel around your sad, naked body and go to the basement. Dig through the basket of unfinished laundry and select clothes that do not smell. Recall that you just wore them two days ago. Reassure yourself that no one will notice or care. Go back upstairs and dress. Look at the time. See that you are now running late. Hurry outside. Get in your car, wait several long seconds for the traffic to clear, and speed out into the road. Look at the clock and note that you wont have time to stop for coffee. Exceed the speed limit to give yourself a few extra seconds. Realize that you should have taken the time to buy coffee yesterday, because you could have had it brewing while you were in the shower, and you wouldnt have to pay a dollar seventy-five to get it. Shake your head. Stop at a gas station. Get annoyed because the coffee has gone up twenty cents. Try to talk yourself out of your annoyance: its only twenty cents, right? Fail. Drive with one hand on the wheel the rest of the way to work while sipping your coffee. Consider that you are displaying a blatant disregard for the safety of yourself and others. Dismiss the thought and drink your coffee anyway. Arrive at work. Exit car. Hurry inside, brushing past people whose names you cant be bothered to remember. Punch the time clock. Let go of the breath youve been holding: just made it. Feel oddly pleased with yourself over this small triumph. Drink your coffee in earnest. Feel the fog in your brain begin to lift a little. Go to your cubicle. Say good morning to the coworker in the cubicle next to you, the one youre secretly in love with. Sit down. Check your email. Try not to indulge yourself in impure thoughts about your coworker. Begin working. Work. Try not to think about how you let your father talk you into going to business school for accounting, because he refused to pay for a useless liberal arts degree. Try not to think about how youve never been able to stand up to him, how being in his presence feels 21

Anna Clare like having a stone weight hanging in your chest. Force yourself not to feel the pain that comes from knowing youve never had an honest, heartfelt conversation with him, that it always ends in tears and shouting, and you cant figure out why. Remember how he used to say, It could be worse. I could be beating you. Wonder why that was supposed to make you feel better. Work. Try not to think about how long its been since youve had an honest, heartfelt conversation with anyone, let alone a family member. Try not to remember the long, fascinating talks you used to have with friends you swore youd keep in contact with but never did. Try not to remember how you used to debate religion, politics, music, art, film, and philosophy until four in the morning. Try not to remember how alive you used to feel when your future lay unmapped before you, and how you believed it when your teachers lied to you about anything being possible, and following your dreams, and other such insipid advice that doesnt work out in the real world. Try not to remember the final line in Fern Hill, about singing in your chains like the sea. Try, and fail. Work. Enter the canteen at lunchtime. Eat too many carbohydrates and not enough protein. Glance at the paper. Read about war, famine, floods, hurricanes, madness, and murder. Wonder when everything started to go wrong. Try to put your own life into context. Realize this does not make you feel any better. Notice your beloved coworker on the other side of the room. Smile. Remind yourself that your beloved coworker is married. Stop smiling. Return to cubicle. Work. Try not to think about how long its been since youve held hands with someone. Not even a kiss, not even sex, just something as simple and gentle and ordinary as holding hands. Lick your dry lips, and allow your mind to wander back to your unavailable coworker. Give in: indulge yourself in impure thoughts. Latermuch later berate yourself for being so emotionally immature that youd fall for someone who is married. Try to focus on work, and not on the physical proximity between you and this coworker, who is so unlike the cold, conceited sycophants you used to date. Reflect tenderly upon this persons warmth and kindness, humility and integrity. Feel your mood slip as you wonder why youve known so few people like this, if its because they are so rare in this modern world, or if its because youre only capable of 22

A Day in the Life attracting people as unpleasant as you suspect yourself to be. Try to focus on work, but instead, remember the very first time someone smiled at you. Try not to think about how long its been since youve seen a smile like that. Think about it anyway. Try not to hate yourself for being the distant, self-centered, inconsiderate phony you know, deep down, that you are. Realize that this is why you are alone. Work Try not to think about it. Fail. Leave work. Forget that you need to buy coffee. Stop at a drivethru because you dont feel like cooking. Tell yourself that you eat too much of this stuff and that its probably, very slowly, killing you. Smile. Arrive home. Enter your empty house. Turn on the TV. Watch fatuous sitcoms and over-acted dramas, allowing the hollow fodder to numb your brain so you dont have to think about anything. Eat your burger and fries. Turn off the TV. Pull your day clothes off and put your nightclothes on. Wash your drawn face, brush your dull teeth. Spend several minutes staring at yourself in the mirror. Turn away. Go to your room. Climb into bed, set your alarm clock. Turn off the light. Lie awake in bed. Wonder what youre doing, where youre going, and why. Find yourself unable to answer. Repeat.

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24

Daisy Anna Clare

Real Money
Andy White

he perspex screen slid open. This is as far as I can take you tonight, mate, said the taxi driver, almost apologetically. Then, more happily, Thatll be twenty-two quid. Thanks, Tim said, as he eyed the distant crowd beyond the windscreen. Coins and chewing gum wrappers and green and blue notes spilled all over the taxicab floor. Ah, shit, he muttered as he realized hed opened his wallet upsidedown. Sorry, uh, keep the rest. He wrenched open the side door and took to the street. He had intended to run immediately, but something between awe and fear had locked his feet in place. He was struck at once by the sheer size of the road, the width of space between the parallel buildings and the monumental size of those, toohe had never before been in London, where everything is done bigger, and louder, and with more money. And, although it was what he had come for, he was not quite prepared, either, for the volume of human compression that filled the forecourt of the cinema to such a degree that the explosion of flashbulbs was rendered as trivial as pinpricks in a black sky, the red carpet not even visible beyond the crowd. Tim saw, above the throng, that a tarpaulin had been erected, and realised that it was raining. The road was empty, but for a line of 25

Andy White plastic fences and cones, and puddles reflecting bright lights, some constant, some flashing. Tim patted the left side of his jacket to ensure that the postcard was still there and ran as professionally as he could towards the mass of people, his eyes all the while pinned to the starkly silhouetted words: Lance Kramer and the Stolen Soul | World Premier Tim slowed to a saunter as he approached the assembly of photographers and fans, TV journalists and cameramen, biting his lower lip and flattening down his jacket. By standing on the tips of his toes he could just about see the opposite crowd of fans and paparazziand there, just there, popping in and out of view between heads and burst of camera flash, he could see Geoff Alcomb. The actors must have already entered the cinema by now. First the actors, then the creatives: that was what premiergoers.net had said. Tim was about to shout his name when the impotence of trying such a thing from this distance hit himalmost as hard as the photographer whose elbow cracked into Tims ribs as he tried to get a better shot. Hey, dickhead. The words were yelled into Tims ear. Piss off out of my space. The photographer glared at Tim as he turned away, lifting the camera up to eye level. Tim could taste blood with every cough. He was soaking wet, and cold; the one man he had travelled two hundred miles to speak to was facing his direction from five metres away and yet had no notion of his existence, and the Cockney photographer in front of him had just unstrapped his camera from his neck and inserted a new roll of film. With a combination of shoulder barge and two-handed grab, Tim wrenched the camera away from the photographers grip. He had the element of surprise on his side and, turning the camera upwards towards its owner, snapped a picture. The flash blew, and the photographer twisted his head away in shock, eyes closed. More than anger or spite, more than bravado or bravery, it was fear of the consequences of attacking a Cockney photographer with his own camera that made Tim barge his way straight into the crowd. His earlier trick had given him some confidence, though, and he plunged his finger again and again, aiming the cameras lens at anyone who turned his way as he dug ever deeper into the milieu. He had just about got his breath back when an arm, as hard as a rock and just as strong, prevented him from moving any further 26

Real Money forward. A face like marble was locked onto his. Tim considered using the camera again, but thought better of it. Somewhere between the security guard and Tim, a voice said, Oh, no more pictures, please. The security guard turned towards the voice first; Tim managed to slip his eyes away to do the same. And there, standing in front of him with nothing but the redribbon barrier and a security guard between them, a thousand lights and camera flashes causing his eyes to gleam, was Tims journalistic target and his artistic goal; his boyhood hero and his manhood idol; creator of the best fictional detective of all time and the reason his editor had agreed to pay for him to travel down to London: before him was Geoff Alcomb. He only had one shot at this, and he knew it. He gulped down as much of his fear as he could swallow and grasped at as much of what he had recited during his journey as he could. Mister Alcomb, he saidit was important to show respect my name is Timothy Dooleybarely a pause: skip, skip over the trivial detail and Im from a small newspaper in Chester a pause, just there, to let this sink in. Oh? said Alcomb. Well, it was a response. Tim pulled the postcard from his inner pocket and proffered it. It took an effort to keep his hand steady. There was a noise a little bit like a hundred eggs cracking all at once. Tim did not dare look down, but Alcomb had no such qualms. In fact he looked distinctly amused. Was that your camera? Not thinking at all straight, Tim had dropped it in order to pull out the postcard, which was quickly sequestered by a smooth, hairgelled assistant. Um, actually There was a tremor in the crowd behind Tim, and a look of distinct surprise appeared on Geoff Alcombs face. An angry Cockney man behind him shouted, Theres the cunt! before he knocked Tims lights out and sound meant nothing.

he hospital visit did not last long. At first Tim could not recall how he had gotten there at all, but the nurse informed him that a taxi had delivered himapparently the driver had been so impressed by his tip that he threw in the ride to the hospital for free. The nurse told Tim that he might feel a little woozy for a few more hours, but that it did not appear that he had been hit that hard, and he could feel free to go.

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Andy White All Tim felt that he was free to do was phone his editor and get fired. When he left the hospital, he discovered that it was now nearly morning, but it was still raining. He spent the next few hours wandering the streets of London. The sun rose above the Thames; Tim reflected that it might have been beautiful were it not for the sludge of the river and the smog of the sky. By around eleven oclock he lay unconscious on a bench in St James Park. His contented dreams of Lance Kramer and of Geoff Alcombs writing of him gave way, after a time, to troubled ones about Timothy Dooley and Geoff Alcombs perceptions of him. He awoke at his mobile phones third ring. He had fished it from his pocket and pressed the answer button before he was truly awake; but less than a minute later he was up from the bench and running frantically.

t took him an hour and a half and a lot of talking to strangers, but Tim was eventually able to locate Shamus Street and, with it, the Sherlock Arms. He used the mens room as best he could to tidy himself up, and then he sat at the bar, and waited. It was another half an hour before another person entered the pub. Tim was on his third pint of water, and still jittery with excitement and the taste of a failure turned to success, when Alcomb took up the stool next to his. Well, well, well, he said. His voice was much huskier than it had been the previous night, and with its rasp came the scent of cigarettes and strong alcohol. So you did survive the premier. Must be that Chester spirit shining through, eh? There was only really one thing that Tim had been planning on saying to his heroit was the same thing he had been dying to say to him for the past ten years. Can I get you a drink? Wait, let me guess a Singapore sling? A what? Alcomb laughed, through a row of dirty teeth. Oh no, I wouldnt stoop to sipping that shit! Oh. Oh, I see. Its just Its just that my million-book selling main character drinks them every damn day and cant solve a case without them? Tell me about it. I tried to make him grow out of that years ago, but Jane, my editor, she wouldnt stop going on about conventions and reader comfort and all that. All I can say about the Singapore sling is, it sounds better than casablanca or mai tai. Nah, you can get me a Hockley dark, mate. 28

Real Money Tim didnt know what to say. He ordered the drink, of course: a thick, heady aleassuredly dark but notably uninspired. Even so, he ordered another for himself. He exchanged reluctant words with Alcomb about the previous night, and about the conflict between himself and the Cockney. Alcomb couldnt stop laughing. That was fantastic, he said. Bloody fantastic. I just had to get my PR guy to call you up after that. I didnt think one bugger would take a single picture of me all night, but after your little stunt and all the police action, the cameras wouldnt leave me alone. Fantastic! He took a huge swig of his beer and pulled a battered piece of card from his jeans pocket. No-ones ever sent me a postcard by hand before, either. Its a novel way of giving me your number, thats for sure. He dropped the card down on the bar. A postcard. And of my own hometown, too! Yeah, like I needed reminding of that shithole. Tim sipped at his drink. He had managed to convince his editor that a reporter from Chester would be able to charm out an interview from the Chester-born author. The biographies in all of his books declared his proud heritage from humble beginnings; and his character enjoyed cocktails, not ale that tasted of tar. It was all in his books: it was all true, surely? Anyway, Alcomb said, after downing what was left of his pint, must rush. Ive got some pissant signing to do to prove that I still care about my readers. Just wanted to thank you for the entertainment. It was a damn sight better than that poxy excuse for a film last night, thats for sure. But, let me tell you, its put a nice wedge in my pocket, and no mistake. So, Tim choked, as Alcomb lowered himself down from his stool, the Lance Kramer series. Did you just write them all for... well, for money? Hell, what does anyone do anything for? And its not so hard. If you have to make a load of shit up to get it, who cares? Cheers for the pint, by the way. And dont stay in Chester for too long, whatever you fucking do! Tim opened his mouth to speak, to ask a question, to get Geoff Alcomb to say the kinds of things he was supposed to say, but Alcomb just slapped Tim on the shoulder, turned, and walked away, leaving Tim to plan what the hell he was going to give to his editor in place of a proper article.

s it turned out, Tim not only managed to plan his article on the train ride; he wrote it from start to finish.

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Andy White It turned out not to be so hard after all. It was as if it had all been in his head for years. If you had to make a load of shit up, who cared? When he went back to work the next day, he took it to the editors office. A good intro, the editor said, after a brief scan. Im sure the fans will lap it up. He tossed it onto a pile of paper lying in a tray. Ill take a proper look at it later. If its any good, we might send you to more premiers. And then you can start earning some real money, he added, with a wink. Real money. In the end, Tim supposed, that was what it was all about.

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Aim for Brevity

James Zhao

hen in doubt, aim for brevity. While this may not be the smartest approach to every aspect in life, it is one of the pillars of good creative writing. William Zinssers famous text, On Writing, states the problem well. We are a society strangling in unnecessary words, circular constructions, pompous frills, and meaningless jargon. Clutter seems to be a universal plague, infecting writers new and old alike. The Garden of Cyrus proves the disastrous effects of verbosity all too well. But the Quincunx of Heaven runs low, and tis time to close the five ports of knowledge. We are unwilling to spin out our awaking thoughts into the phantasms of sleep, which often continueth precogitations; making Cables of Cobwebs and Wildernesses of handsome Groves. Besides Hippocrates hath spoke so little and the Oneirocriticall Masters, have left such frigid Interpretations from plants that there is little encouragement to dream of Paradise it self.

How can we, as writers, avoid the same fate? When we write and edit, it is important to remove the excess, stay concise, and get to the point! The famous adage states, Time is money, and readers will

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James Zhao not be pleased to read four paragraphs explaining Marks hair color. Readers are loath to invest time in writing if they feel it will drag. A writers goal is not only to communicate, but to capture the readers attention. And while some writers can manage verbosity (Tolkien and Lovecraft spring to mind), they are the exception rather than the rule. Knowing something and applying something, however, are two different things, so what can we do to be concise? Concision in writing is best viewed at three separate levels: in word choice, in sentences, and in paragraphs. Being concise in word choice is a matter of careful inspection. The difference between The salary man went home, and The salary man trudged home, is only one word, but the second version conveys an entirely different (and much more specific) tone. Concision means not only being brief, but being precise as well. Ask yourself if each word means exactly what you want. When editing, scrutinize your words, especially adjectives and adverbs. Run quickly should become sprint, and big animal should become beast. This reduces clutter by ensuring that your meaning is clear, and by forcing yourself to write with strong nouns and verbs, as opposed to superfluous adjectives and adverbs. Many writers make the mistake of trying to simplify rather than specify, turning an otherwise fixable sentence into See Spot run. Word choice and concision go hand in handthe closer your words are to your exact meaning, the clearer your image is, and the better your prose. Reviewing sentences is another matter; your main focus should be clauses and phrases that fail to add to meaning. Empty openers are oftentimes the worst offenders: There are two guards at the door can easily be replaced by Two guards stand at the door. You can apply the same kind of analysis to phrases and clauses. End of the line is the same as last, for example. While reviewing sentences is more abstract than reviewing words, the same concept applies: leave in only what is necessary. Ask yourself if you can make it clearer. Then have someone else edit your work and ask if they can make it clearer. Editing sentences is about personal style as much as (if not more) about following a formula. Avoid clichs that add no depth, avoid overly long phrases, reduce your clauses, and split your sentences if they are getting too long. If careless, sentences can become cumbersome paragraphs attempting to display style. William Zinsser recommends a unique system to reduce clutter that I find efficient and effective: put brackets around any part that is not doing useful work. Unnecessary qualifiers, redundant adjectives, 32

Aim for Brevity wrongly used prepositions, entire sentences or paragraphs, if necessaryspare none of them. Paragraphs are unique in terms of clutter analysis because they usually represent excessive character exposition or plot development. The goal still remains unchanged, but the reasoning is different. Look at your story in chunks; break each paragraph into manageable pieces, which is anywhere from two sentences to an entire scene. Paragraphs are natural boundaries between sections of your writing and are never a bad place to start. Is the paragraph an information dump with unnecessary detail? Does this section contribute to moving along the plot or developing the characters? Does this part explain the setting sufficiently? Are you overemphasizing this aspect? Concision in terms of editing paragraphs is simply a matter of practice; each persons style will force them to cut or edit in a different manner, thus general advice is difficult to give. A good rule of thumb, however, is to proofread each section while asking if the part fulfills a vital aspect of your story. If you think you can do without it, you most likely can. Dont be afraid of rewriting or deleting entire paragraphs; you will always be able to add infinitely more than you can take away, so be as aggressive as necessary. Achieving concision in writing is not done through knowing. Practical application is immensely important, and the more you edit for concision, the more precise and effective your writing will become. If you constantly look for opportunities to focus, your writing will undoubtedly improve. As another famous saying goes, Keep it simple, stupid.

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Contributors
Michelle Baker is the moderator of the Critique subforum of Locution. She writes at work and works at writing in her spare time. Her main hobby is prying cat butts off her drafts. Anna Clare is an unpublished writer and amateur photographer who has tried, in her way, to be free. She lives in the United States.

Dale Warkentien, though his classical education is English centric, has a very firm belief in empirical education and the drive to further his education has taken him to almost all seven continents (hes still working on Antarctica). For the last five years he has been living in Japan while studying Japanese, and working as an editor and translator for Yamaha motors. Andy White comes from the unknown town of Devizes, and is currently studying for a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing at Aberystwyth University. He writes when not distracted by life. Adrian Wong has been recognized as a proficient artist in the past through winning various competitions. He pursues a professional career as an artist and is therefore very driven and passionate about what he creates. After all, he feels most accomplished if he manages to evoke certain emotions in other people through his art.

Phil Amy Wright lives in Finland, but he has been writing in English for a few years now, predominantly on peer critique boards. One of his pieces, Daisies, was published in the first issue of Locution. No other piece of his has been in any publication.

James Zhao is Locutions current lead editor. He is a student at UC Berkeley, considering a Political Science and Biochemistry double major. He does neither exceptionally, but manages to fake it very well. As a starving college student, he has no spare time, but procrastinates occasionally in order to attempt prose.

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