Locution-Zine #2

7/28/2019 Locution-Zine #2

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l o c u t i o nissue 2


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locutionissue 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 pub-

lished is no guarantee of good writing; there is an unnecessary bar-

rier between those who create and those whose writing becomesrecognized. We feel that this inconsistency is detrimental to creative

growth. As such, our goal is to bridge this gap by providing Locu-

tion Magazine as an outlet for aspiring writers to gain credit and

become recognized for their passion. In the same spirit, we also of-

fer 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.


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All rights reserved. This publication may be freely distributed only

in its entirety and without modiication, and only for private use. It

may not be sold for proit. Excerpts may only be reproduced and dis-

tributed 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.

Managing Editor

Editors

Webmaster

Community Manager

Design

Cover Art

Proofreaders

Special Thanks to

James Zhao

David Leuenberger

Dylan Mounts

Aarin Edwards

Drew Reed

Katherine Arrandale

Anna Clare

Anna Clare

Bart Graafmans

Visalakshi Ramachandran

Drew Reed

Michelle BakerChristopher Foster

Amy Hawley

Shane Lee

Joonas Lipping

Adam Mendelevitz

Jeffrey Vales Kennedy

Sara Williams

Locution Press

2009

locutionissue 2, spring 2009

www.locution-zine.com


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Dear Reader,

Welcome to the second issue of the Locution magazine.

These last eight months have been a dificult, 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 thehobbyist 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 ZhaoManaging Editor


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I almost time for you to break up with me. I can tellbecause youre already beginning to play the games girls playwhen 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 loor. The trafic on the highway is a bit heavy, but youre the only

reason I grind anger between my teeth while weaving in and out of

trafic. I want you over here by me.

I recall the night after the big dance. My irst date with you, andthe irst 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 Wafle 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; irst on the cheek,

and after a moments anticipation, lip to lip.

Hugs and KissesDale Warkenten


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Since then, everywhere we went, you sat right next to me in the

car, but now you sit with your hair lying out the passenger window.

I mash the accelerator so I can dust some poor lunky 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 makesyour 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 madthat 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 carrefused 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

Hugs and Kisses


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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.

We used to hang out after school in the spare bedroom with theTV in it until it was time for me to go to work at the grocerystore 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 insiston wasting all the precious time that I have before I go to work,

sitting way over there on the loor, 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 ingers to your

bare bronze neck, like a snake coiling for attack. I strike and wriggle

my two ingers into the leshy 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 melose 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 loor 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 youhad 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.

Dale Warkentien


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Cold reality sets in. I have to go to work now.

Okay, Ill see you later. You lash 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 lutter.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. Withthat, you turn your attention back to your Tetris game and remain

silent.

I have a nearly overwhelming urge to give your cat lying lessons,

but I defer to slamming the door on my way out.

After 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 familymember 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

conidence. Not even. I would much rather talk to you right now;however, as Fate would have it, I need to talk to Shelly.

Well, ine 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 inger 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?

Hugs and Kisses


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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!

Ibrought you out to the ive-by-ive platform my parents call theback porch and gathered you in my arms both to give you thechance 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 gameback 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-igure equipped with a

parachute. I used to be able to squeeze between these iron bars and

I would jump, holding my action-igure tightly, from the porch intothe sandbox below, rejoicing in watching the parachute open and ill

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.

The passing bell rings and I leap for the door. I have to be the irstone 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.

Dale Warkentien


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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 inishing. First you

break up with me, and now youre degrading your best friend? How

can you live with yourself? I ind myself pressing your shouldersagainst the locker. There you are, inches from my face, and for the

irst time I cant read whats going on in your eyes.

I can nearly see my entire relection 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.

Ithink about you as I dial the number, and each tone delivers acrushing blow to your pride. With great effort, I push the greenaway; 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 strip-

mining 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 relexes snatch a ly in midair

and toss it to the loor, stunning it.

Nothin. Whereve you been?

Hugs and Kisses


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Just sittin here thinkin bout you. I reach for the fallen ly 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 inal move. I squash the ly as it nears the edge of the

table and take a deep breath to prepare. Im sorry, maybe this wasthe 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 ly 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 ly 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, ly guts and all on the

loor next to it. Fucking bitch.

Dale Warkentien


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In the Distance (Hope) Adrian Wong


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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 ire cupping airnow 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 camefrom 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 forthsomeone else with salt in their veins

to meet in the crisp air.

Company WaitngMichelle Baker


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Fall into me, like a river falls to bed

and dreams about the sea.

(we dream of more than bones)In our halls of lesh, 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 ingers -

our ire burned the loom to ash.Be the warp unto my ill - cast off

any other ghost that wears you;

well spin these straws of lesh

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.

EntwinePhil Amy Wright


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W sound of a detuned radio. Open your eyes to thepale gray light just before sunrise and feel the insidious dreadmounting 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 aroundyou 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

A Day in the LifeAnna Clare


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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 thehighlight 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 uninished 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 backupstairs 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

trafic 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 haveto pay a dollar seventy-ive 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 whosenames 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

A Day in the Life


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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 igure out why. Remember how he used

to say, It could be worse. I could be beating you. Wonder why that wassupposed 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, ilm, and philosophy until four in the morning. Try not toremember 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 inal 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 andnot enough protein. Glance at the paper. Read about war, famine,

loods, 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. Relect 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

Anna Clare


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attracting people as unpleasant as you suspect yourself to be.

Try to focus on work, but instead, remember the very irst 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, inconsideratephony 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 drive-

thru 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.

A Day in the Life


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Daisy

AnnaClare


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T slid open. This is as far as I can take youtonight, 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 loor.

Ah, shit, he muttered as he realized hed opened his wallet upside-

down. Sorry, uh, keep the rest. He wrenched open the side doorand 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 illed the forecourt of the cinema to such a degree

that the explosion of lashbulbs 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

Real MoneyAndy White


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plastic fences and cones, and puddles relecting bright lights, some

constant, some lashing. 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 lattening 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 viewbetween heads and burst of camera lash, 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 offout 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 ive 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

ilm.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 lash 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 conidence, though, and

he plunged his inger 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

Andy White


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27

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 irst; Tim managedto slip his eyes away to do the same.

And there, standing in front of him with nothing but the red-

ribbon barrier and a security guard between them, a thousand lights

and camera lashes causing his eyes to gleam, was Tims journalistic

target and his artistic goal; his boyhood hero and his manhood idol;

creator of the best ictional 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, hair-

gelled 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.

The hospital visit did not last long. At irst 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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All Tim felt that he was free to do was phone his editor and get

ired. 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 relected that it might havebeen 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 ished 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.

It took him an hour and a half and a lot of talking to strangers, butTim was eventually able to locate Shamus Street and, with it, theSherlock 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 enteredthe 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 didsurvive the premier. Must

be that Chester spirit shining through, eh?

There was only really one thing that Tim had been planning onsaying 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.

Andy White


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29

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 conlict 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 downon 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; andhis

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 ilm 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.

As it turned out, Tim not only managed to plan his article on thetrain ride; he wrote it from start to inish.


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30

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

ofice.

A good intro, the editor said, after a brief scan. Im sure thefans 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 realmoney,

he added, with a wink.

Real money. In the end, Tim supposed, that was what it was all

about.

Andy White


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31

W , aim for brevity. While this may not be thesmartest approach to every aspect in life, it is one of the pillarsof 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 ofverbosity all too well.

But the Quincunx of Heaven runs low, and tis time to

close the ive 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 suchfrigid 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

Aim for BrevityJames Zhao


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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 thanthe 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 versionconveys an entirely different (and much more speciic) 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 superluous adjectives and adverbs. Many writersmake the mistake of trying to simplify rather than specify, turning

an otherwise ixable 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 ind eficient and effective: put brackets around any part that is not

doing useful work. Unnecessary qualiiers, redundant adjectives,

James Zhao


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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 reasoningis 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 suficiently? Are

you overemphasizing this aspect? Concision in terms of editingparagraphs is simply a matter of practice; each persons style will

force them to cut or edit in a different manner, thus general advice is

dificult to give. A good rule of thumb, however, is to proofread each

section while asking if the part fulills 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 ininitely 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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ContributorsMichelle Baker is the moderator of the Critique subforum of Locu-

tion. 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 irm 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 ive years he has been living in

Japan while studying Japanese, and working as an editor and trans-

lator for Yamaha motors.

Andy White comes from the unknown town of Devizes, and is cur-

rently studying for a degree in English Literature and Creative Writ-

ing at Aberystwyth University. He writes when not distracted by life.

Adrian Wong has been recognized as a proicient 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 Wrightlives in Finland, but he has been writing in English

for a few years now, predominantly on peer critique boards. One ofhis pieces, Daisies, was published in the irst 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 pro-

crastinates occasionally in order to attempt prose.


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Locution-Zine #2

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