Kristina Wright gave Peep Show: Erotic Tales of Voyeurs and Exhibitionists a rave review:

The themes of voyeurism and exhibitionism are explored in a variety of fresh ways in this collection. Lolita Lopez’s “Indecent” offers a clever twist on the overdone college-coed-turned-stripper. Here, the college coed daringly strips at various spots around campus for an underground—and increasingly large—audience. In “Clean and Pretty,” Japanophile Donna George Storey’s creates a unusual club where the act of bathing becomes an art of erotic exhibitionism. Storey never fails to entertains readers with her unique perspective and elevates the peeping tom story to a mutual fantasy for sex worker and client.

Paying homage to the pinup girls of the 1950s, Angela Caperton crafts a sweet and sexy tale in “Calendar Girl.” Her protagonist discovers the power and lure of sexuality in a pinup calendar and goes a step further to become a “pinup” herself, thanks to a willing photographer. Kissa Starling gives a unique spin to the ever popular theme of sex in a movie theater in “Busted.” Instead of attempting to avoid detection, her wanton couple gets off on performing—and inspiring—another couple. The story is fun and daring and perhaps enough to inspire a few readers, despite the title.

I’m five days away from my wedding day. I’m in love with a very wonderful woman. You’d think that writing about love would be easy but sometimes it’s not.

How much of what I write is influenced by the impending celebration? What will you, the reader, draw from my work knowing I’m just about to be married? How do we separate fact from fiction?

The last thing I want to do is embarrass my fiancée by writing about our life together, even if it’s coded as fiction. Not good for the love life. However, life, or experience, is a powerful muse. Much of what I write comes from happenings around me. But there is a difference between my public life and my private life.

One of the concerns that the three of us discuss while working on this anthology is the possibility of embarrassing our families. “Would my parents blush if they read this, knowing I’ve written it?” is a common question we ask. “Should I publish under my own name?” is another. I’m not sure how to resolve these queries.

Fiction is not fact but it often has its basis in reality. Fiction depends on some kind of relationship with reality if it is to be embraced by readers. We may read to disconnect with the real world, but we still enjoy connecting with characters that we can identify with.

Whether we write about Singapore or Mars, the words do reflect some portion of the writer but the words are not us. I think it’s Neil Gaiman who notes that in his experience, humour writers are a miserable bunch while horror writers seem to be very well balanced, happy and sane individuals – not mass murderers as some would suspect.

What we write does in some way reflect the reality of our lives but not necessarily directly. You cannot expect to “know” someone from their works of fiction. There is a distinction to be made between what I write and who I am. And nothing I write is about my fiancée – except the notion of love and romance.

Joe.

In the dim and distant past, getting three people to meet regularly could be difficult. Particularly if those three people travelled around. Add in family crises, illness and minor disasters. Meetings could be such a mission. Thank goodness we have Skype.

This month I’m out of Singapore. In fact,  I’m back in NZ, attending a wedding. By great fortune (or perhaps by the great taste of a certain woman), the wedding is my own. I say fortunate not just because I’m marrying the woman I love but because the wedding coincides with the making of this anthology. Love is in the air, as the cliché goes.

Technology can play such an important role in writing. Many authors use laptops or desktops for writing and editing. There are gazillions (ok, that may not be a literary word) of applications that can help writers out, from word processing through time management and into mind mapping.

Sometimes, all this IT can swamp the vision writers have. Gadgets can be such a distraction and like most boys, I still lust after shiny things that click, buzz and whirr. I know I find it very easy when researching on the internet to lose myself, looking at “just one more page”. I’m not sure if there is a “trick” to getting around this problem, other than disciplining myself to stick to the subject or adhering to a strict time limit. Easier said than done for most of us.

Nevertheless, technology does have an important part to play in the life of a writer. It really can make the writing life simpler and faster – up to a point. It can never replace our talent, creativity or drive.

Skype has been a real boon for us in the past six weeks, allowing us to work in real time while separated by thousands of kilometres. I’d love to hear of any other applications that writers enjoy using.

Joe.

Kazuaki-related BL anthologies.

Volume 01
Volume 02
Volume 03
Volume 04

It seems my wish for Kazuaki to do more actual BL manga has been answered, even if it’s just random oneshots.

While I’m still getting all this set up, I figured I’d talk about something I found yesterday while pitifully perusing Amazon!JP. (Which, honestly, is something I do quite often–it helps me find new authors, shhhh.)

I believe there are currently 17 in all, and they’re put out by MARBLE COMICS, which is the same company that releases Cab. I found them while searching out more manga by Ogura Muku, and got incredibly excited because the first one I found (‘Rival Catalogue’) has eight (eight!) of my favorite mangaka featured inside.

I’m getting a bit ahead of myself here. What I’m talking about are themed BL anthologies. The themes I’ve seen so far include: age difference, oyaji (older men),  salary men, siblings, difference in social status, delinquents, occupation and business, ‘bad end’, glasses (which has two books dedicated to it), uniform, childhood friends, rivals, love triangle, first time, and ’seishun’ (youth-oriented).

Personally, the ones I want most are the uniform, siblings, social status, rivals…

Well.

Actually, I kind of want them all aside from maybe the oyaji, salary men and ‘business’ haha. Those three just don’t speak my to personal BL preferences quite so much. But the ‘first time’ one has Ogura Muku’s ‘Sentimental Garden Lovers’ characters on it, which made my day. The rival anthology cover illustration is by Aniya Yuiji. Yamashita Tomoko has done more than one. The ‘love triangle’ cover is by Taumi Mayu.

Personally, I quite like MARBLE COMICS. The stories I’ve seen written for them are by many authors with lovely art styles and are generally very sweet. I like the tone in the manga they tend to publish.

Not to mention ‘Cab’ is my personal favorite BL anthology that’s currently running.

You can look at them all yourself here!

(Image taken from Amazon!JP)

The Aesthetica Creative Works Annual 2010 arrived today, and a beautiful object it is, too.

I’ve not read much of it yet, but what I have is absolutely excellent. And the images within the artists’ competition are wonderful, too.

I only know a couple of the other authors in it. I’d supposed with 3500 entries there’d be a few more. But, anyway, congratulations to Julia Deakin, whose work I know and who is well worth seeking out, and to Matt Spence, who is not in the volume, but commended (and was also shortlisted in the Bridport) – a young poet to watch, I think.

“Miss Golden, who had concealed herself in the switchboard room before the offices closed for the night, eyed these things with surprise.”~~from Sonata for Harp and Bicycle” by Joan Aiken in the textbook Prentice Hall Literature

A solid textbook that offers the best in literature genres.

Under the Rock Umbrella: Contemporary American Poets from 1951-1977, edited by William Walsh. Mercer University Press, 2006

This poetry anthology attempts to examine American poetry between 1951 and 1977, what William Walsh defines as ” watershed years” in terms of culture and the influence of rock music on that culture.  Under the Rock Umbrella, a fairly thick anthology (that’s always good; more is better with poetry anthologies), but don’t think it’s an anthology of poems about rock music. It is a solid collection of “poets born after the birth of rock and roll.” I can’t claim to have read it in any complete sense during its brief vacation in my greedy little hands, but I browsed through it again and again, finding many familiar names, which lends credibility, and many unfamiliar ones as well, which means this anthology doesn’t just tread the same ground as others on the same era.

A nice library find. An anthology like this is the best way to read poetry. However, I don’t feel it makes any definitive statement about the effects of rock music on our culture, or vice versa. There are too many intangibles in that. You can make the same connections here that you could in any comprehensive anthology.

None of this is really definitive, really, because I haven’t spent enough time with the book. Grade: A

One of so many fine poems:

Encephalitis

If your drop of lemon juice leaves the lemon in your hand and the oyster doesn’t wriggle upon being touched by the juice of the lemon you should not eat it for the oyster is not whole in its mind.

–Peter Streckfus

LOVE LUST DECEIT ELECTRICITY
Short Fiction

A Sizzling Love Story

by

VIKRAM KARVE

There is a saying: “ If you decide to murder your husband you must never act in concert with your lover ”.

That’s why I did not tell Raj.

Or involve him in any way.

Not even the smallest hint.

I made my plans alone and with perfect care.

An “accident” so coolly and meticulously designed.

Precisely at 12:50 in the afternoon, the ghastly accident would occur.

And then my phone would ring – to convey the “bad” news.

And suddenly I would be a widow.

Free.

Liberated from shackles.

Released from bondage.

Then all I had to do was to keep cool, maintain a solemn façade, and patiently wait for Raj to return after completing his project in Singapore.
Then after the customary condolence period was over, Raj would propose to marry me – an act of chivalry, of sympathy, or even “self-sacrifice”.

First I would demur, then “reluctantly” succumb to the pressure from my friends and relatives, and accept – just for my children’s sake.

There would be nods of approval all around.

And soon Raj and I would be Husband and Wife.

The phone rang.

I panicked.

There is no fear like the fear of being found out.

I looked at the wall-clock. It was only 10.30 am.

Had something gone wrong?

I felt a tremor of trepidation.

The phone kept on ringing – it just wouldn’t stop ringing.

I picked up the receiver, and held it to my ears with bated breath.

The moment I heard Anjali’s voice I felt relieved.

“Why didn’t you come to the health club?” Anjali asked.

I’m not well,” I lied.

“Anything serious? Should I come over?” she asked.

“No!” I tried to control the anxiety in my voice. “It’s a just a slight headache. I’ll take a tablet and sleep it off,” I said cautiously.

“I hope Manish and you are coming over in the evening,” Anjali asked.

“Of course,” I said and put down the phone.

I smiled to myself.

That was one party Manish was going to miss. Probably they would cancel it and would be right here offering their condolences and sympathy.

I would have to be careful indeed.

And to hell with the health club and the painful weight loss program. I didn’t need it any more.

Raj accepts me as I am – nice and plump and on the “healthier” side, as he calls me lovingly.

Not like Manish who is always finding fault with me.

I know I can always depend on Raj.

He really loves me from the bottom of his heart.

I looked at my husband Manish’s framed photograph on the mantelpiece.

Soon it would be garlanded.

My marriage to Manish had been a miserable mistake, but soon it would be over and I would be free to live the life I always wanted.

I wish I didn’t have to kill Manish, but there was no way out – Manish would never give me a divorce, and if he came to know about me and Raj, he would destroy both of us, ruin our lives; for he was a rich and powerful man.

Also, I prefer to be a pitied widow rather than a stigmatized divorcee.

The plan was simple.

I had programmed a Robot to do the job.

The huge giant welding robot in Manish’s factory.

At exactly 12:45, when the lunch-break started, Manish would enter his pen drive into the robot control computer to carry out a maintenance troubleshooting check.

And then he would start inspecting various parts of the robot – the manipulator, end effectors and grippers – to cross-check their programmed movements.

It was a routine exercise, and I knew Manish had become quite complacent as the robot had never developed any faults so far.

But today it would be different.

Because I had surreptitiously reprogrammed the software last night.

This is what was going to happen.

At precisely 12:50 all safety interlocks would be bypassed, and suddenly the robot would activate and the welding electrode would arc 600 Amperes of electric current into Manish’s brain.

It would be a ghastly sight – his brain welded out and his body handing like a pendulum, lifeless. Death would be instantaneous.

Manish had been a fool to tell me everything and dig his own grave. A real dope – he deserved it!

It was a foolproof plan and no one would suspect since the program would erase itself immediately. I had ensured that. It would be an accident, an unfortunate accident.

Condolences, compensation, insurance – soon I would be a rich widow, with one and all showering me with sympathy and compassion.

And then I would wait for Raj to come back from Singapore.

And then, after a few days I knew he would propose to me, and I would ‘reluctantly’ accept and we would live happily ever after.

I looked at the wall clock. It was almost 11 O’clock.

Suddenly I began to have second thoughts. Maybe I should give Manish a last chance.

All I had to do was pick up the phone and ask Manish to rush home.

Feign a sudden illness or something.

But no! I tried to steel my nerves. I had crossed the Rubicon, and there was no going back. The tension of waiting was unbearable, but I must not lose my head.

I tried to divert my thoughts to Raj.

The first time I suspected that Raj loved me was when he didn’t attend my wedding. Then he disappeared abroad for higher studies and I almost forgot him. And one fine day, after almost fifteen years, Raj suddenly reappeared to take up a job in my husband’s factory.

And when I learnt that Raj had still not married I realized how deeply in love with me he was.

At that point of time I was so disillusioned with my marriage that my daily life was rather like sitting in a cinema and watching a film in which I was not interested.

Raj and I began spending more and more time together, and somewhere down the line emotions got entangled and physical intimacy followed.

Did Manish suspect?

I do not know.

Was that the reason he had sent Raj to Singapore?

I don’t think so.

We had kept our affair absolutely clandestine.

I looked again at the clock.

11.45 am.

One hour to go.

I began to have a feeling of dread and uneasiness, a sort of restlessness and apprehension – a queer sensation, a nameless type of fear.

So I poured myself a stiff drink of gin.

As I sipped the alcohol, my nerves calmed down.

Today was the last time I was going to have a drink, I promised myself.

Once I married Raj I would never drink – there would be no need to.

In my mind’s eye I could almost visualize my husband Manish sitting in the vacant chair opposite getting steadily drunk every evening.

Manish was an odd creature with effeminate mannerisms that became more pronounced when he was drunk.

He was always picking at an absurd little moustache, as though amazed at himself for having produced anything so virile.

How I hated the mere sight of him.

The very thought of my husband made me gulp down my drink.

I poured myself one more drink and gulped it quickly to steady my nerves. Then I had one more drink; and one more, when my cell-phone rang.

I shook out of my stupor and picked up my mobile phone. It was an unknown number. I rejected the call.

The cell phone rang again; same number. I looked at the number. 65….. – it was from Singapore.

Was it Raj? From Singapore? My heart skipped a beat. I answered urgently.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi Urvashi, how are you?” it was Raj’s voice.

“Where are you speaking from? Is this your new number?” I asked.

“No. This is Rajashree’s cell-phone,” Raj said.

“Rajashree?”

“Yes, Rajashree, she wants to talk to you,” Raj said.

“Hi Urvashi,” a female voice said, “Raj has told me so much about you.”

It was strange.

Who was this Rajashree?

I knew nothing about her!

So I said, “But Raj has told me nothing about you!”

“I know,” Rajashree said, “it all happened so suddenly. Even I can’t believe it could happen so fast – Love at first sight, whirlwind romance, swift wedding.”

“Wedding?” I stammered, shocked beyond belief.

“Yes. We, Raj and I, got married yesterday and we are on our way to our honeymoon, on a cruise liner.”

“You bitch! Give the phone to Raj,” I shouted, losing control, the ground slipping beneath me.

“Hey, chill out. What’s wrong with you?” Rajashree said calmly, paused for a moment, and spoke, “Raj has gone to the embarkation booth. Hey, he’s waving to me. I’ve got to go now. Bye. We’ll see you when we come there.” And suddenly she disconnected.

I stared at my cell-phone, never so frightened, never so alone.

I felt as if I had been pole-axed.

I looked at the wall-clock.

12.55.

Oh, My God!

The deadline of 12.50 had gone.

It was too late.

My blood froze.

The telephone rang.

I picked it up, my hands trembling.

“There’s been an accident, madam,” said the voice. It was the company doctor. “We are rushing Manish Sahib to the hospital. I am sending someone to pick you up.”

“Hospital? Tell me the truth,” I shouted hysterically into the phone, “Tell me, is he dead?”
“No. He’ll survive.”

Manish did survive.

I wish he hadn’t.

For his sake. And for mine.

For till this day he is still in coma.

And I know I will have to live with a ‘vegetable’ husband all my life.

It was a small miscalculation.

600 Amperes wasn’t enough.

But then the Robot is a machine.

My real miscalculation was about Raj.

LOVE LUST DECEIT ELECTRICITY

Short Fiction

A Sizzling Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

Recently, Fear Itself came into my possession. The complete first season of the anthology series with 13 episodes of suspense and horror to dive into for the long Thanksgiving weekend.

The first episode, Eater, tells the story about rookie cop Danny Bannerman who spends the night in an isolated precinct guarding a serial killer. The serial killer happens to eat his victims and is intent on making Danny his next “meal.”

Danny is the only female in her precinct, dealing with the normal sexist comments from the older, male police officers. She is even a horror fan, reading a magazine when they are being informed of the prisoner and his arrival. Danny even corrects her fellow cops when they make comments about the cannibal serial killer, referencing Silence of the Lambs.

I hope the safety is on...

The Cajun cannibal is massive, tall with greasy dark hair, and he has a pension for voodoo. One by one Danny’s fellow cops that are left at the isolated precinct are acting strange, using the same mannerisms and sweating profusely. It seems that what her fellow officer said about cannibals being able to eat a person’s heart and obtain their spirit may be true.

This episode was surprisingly good, considering that it was the first of the horror and suspense anthology series. Several of the other episodes have far surpassed this one in my eyes, but Eater was a good jumping point for the anthology series. Danny makes the ultimate sacrifice to rid the world of the serial killer who tortures and eats his victims. Kudos to her! And I was not expecting the voodoo angle to play out as well as it did, the Cajun cannibal had some talent behind those gnarly teeth.

I was impressed by the use of the cannibal’s flashbacks, using scenes from a previous victim’s terror to make his presence more ominous. His male victims were killed immediately, but he tortured the females before eating them. In the flashbacks, the Cajun cannibal even fed a woman her own tongue for dinner. Yuck!

This was a great day for our family and hope it was for you and your’s as well. It has been a challenging year with the loss of dear friends and my Dad, financial circumstances for most of our children, but today — I am thankful for our health, our home, food to eat, a car to drive, and six wonderful children and four awesome grandchildren. It has been an amazing year for me as a writer with three books released during this year of 2009.

Great things are happening during this wonderful holiday and Christmas season. Come back and see the “Spirit of the Season” online catalog on December 1st.

“Shelter from the Storm”, my latest novel, is set for release that same day – December 1st, as well as “Flash Tales: An Adventure in Words”, an anthology that includes 20 very short stories I wrote. There are five contributors, including myself, in this fun little book.

I’ll be doing a book laugh autographing in the Seattle area in mid-December and will keep you’all posted for details. Please come back often and check out what’s coming up.

SUPER MOM

Superwoman, everyone said.

Super Competent, her appreciative employers said.

Super Reliable, her impressed clients said.

Super Talented, her professional peers said.

Super Boss, her devoted subordinates said.

Super Bitch, her jealous frustrated passed over colleagues said.

Super Shrewd, her business rivals said.

Super Fit, her fitness freak buddies at her gym said.

Super Sexy, her admirers said.

Super Lover, her lovers said.

Super Achiever, her teachers and professors said.

Super Parent, her children’s teachers said.

Super Friend, all her acquaintances said.

Super Daughter, her parents and in-laws said.

Super Wife, her husband said.

Super Mom, her children said, but secretly they wished she stayed home like their granny who was always there for them.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

R9WPUP5YBJXY

Ryan is afraid of the dark and what resides in that darkness. From Dark Delicacies, “The Fall” by D. Lynn Smith tells the story of Ryan and his family, living in southern Florida.

“The Fall” is written in Ryan’s perspective of the story, remembering past events related to the current issues with his family. His mother is dead, killed by his father for what she has become. His twin siblings killed by the creature that changed his loving mother.

Ryan’s father captures the creature, experimenting on him and learning more about what it is. However, his father’s obsession leaves Ryan alone to dwell and to remember the deaths of his mother and the twins.

The creature is taunting, hissing at Ryan’s father and enthralling Ryan with its gaze. But Ryan knows that fear held him back, kept him silent and unmoving as the twins were killed before his eyes. Ryan is no longer afraid, and even when the truth of the creature is revealed: He feels no fear nor remorse.

“The Fall” was much more than a simple ‘creature creeping in the night’ short story. The reader has to ask the question of what is right and what is wrong versus what is just and what is unjust.

Ryan made his choice, he will hunt down every last one of the creatures even with the knowledge of their true nature. This short story was amazingly written, and I would like to read more of Ryan and his quest to rid the world of the creatures.

About the Authors

Brian Alexander, guest judge for Best Sex Writing 2009, is the writer of MSNBC.com’s “Sexploration” column, author of America Unzipped: The Search for Sex and Satisfaction (2008), and a frequent contributor to national magazines. He is also at work on another book. It has nothing to do with sex.

Jesse Bering is director of the Institute of Cognition and Culture at Queen’s University Belfast in Northern Ireland, where he studies how the evolved human mind plays a part in various aspects of social behavior. He writes a weekly online column for Scientific American magazine called “Bering in Mind.”

David Black is a journalist, novelist, screenwriter and producer. His articles have been published in the Atlantic, the New York Times Magazine, Harper’s and Rolling Stone. His novel Like Father was named a notable book of the year by the New York Times and he received Writers’ Guild of America Award for The Confession.

Violet Blue is the sex columnist for the San Francisco Chronicle, notorious blogger, high-profile tech personality, best-selling author and editor, podcaster, GETV reporter, technology futurist, public speaker (ETech, Google Inc.), sex-positive pundit in mainstream media (such as CNN and Oprah Magazine), and a Forbes Web Celeb. Find her at tinynibbles.com.

After spending years working on an arcane and socially irrelevant doctoral dissertation, debauchette dove into the world of sex work. She has worked as a nude model, a fetish worker, a call girl, and a courtesan, before retiring to work on the online magazine F/lthyGorgeousTh/ngs, which she cofounded with a fellow sex enthusiast.

John DeVore writes the “Mind of Man” column for The Frisky.com. A former Maxim Magazine editor, John has written for Comedycentral.com, Playboy.com, and for the infamous political parody Whitehouse.org. For two and a half years, he cohosted the radio show “DeVore and Diana” on Sirius Satellite Radio.

Betty Dodson (dodsonandross.com) has been one of the principal voices for women’s sexual pleasure and health for over three decades. Her books include feminist classic Liberating Masturbation: A Meditation on Selflove, Sex for One and Orgasms for Two. In 1994, she earned a PhD in clinical sexology. She presented the first feminist slide show of vulvas at the 1973 NOW Sexuality Conference.

Seth Michael Donsky is a filmmaker whose work has screened at the Berlin, Seattle, London and Cinequest International Film Festivals and MoMA, New York. As a journalist he has been published in Los Angeles Confidential, Gotham, the New York Press, and the online versions of ELLE Décor, Metropolitan Home and Home. Contact sethmichaeldonsky.com.

Ellen Friedrichs lives in Brooklyn where she teaches health to middle and high school students. She also teaches human sexuality at Brooklyn College and runs the GLBT teens site for About.com. More of her writing can be found on her SexEdvice.com website and on the gURL.com State of Sex Education blog.

William Georgiades worked in Manhattan media for over a decade, as the editor in chief of BlackBook, as the book reviews editor at the New York Post, as an assistant editor at Esquire, and as a contributor to Vanity Fair, GQ, The Advocate and The London Times, among others.

Johanna Gohmann has written essays, articles and reviews for Bust, Elle, Publisher’s Weekly, Red, Babble.com, the Irish Independent and others. A native of Indiana, she spent nine years in New York City writing about everything from werewolf erotica to the Queens Mineral Society. She currently resides in Dublin, Ireland.

Chris Hall is a bicoastal sex nerd who keeps one foot in San Francisco, one in New York, and his mind permanently in the gutter. Chris is cofounder of the website Sex in the Public Square (sexinthepublicsquare.org) and senior editor of CarnalNation (carnalnation.com).

The author or coauthor of ten books about relationships and sexuality, Janet Hardy has traveled the world as a speaker and teacher on topics ranging from ethical multipartner relationships to erotic spanking and beyond.

Diana Joseph (dianajoseph.net) is the author of I’m Sorry You Feel That Way: The Astonishing but True Story of a Daughter, Sister, Slut, Wife, Mother and Friend to Man and Dog.

Paul Krassner (paulkrassner.com) is the founder, editor and frequent contributor to the free-thought magazine the Realist. He currently writes columns for AVN Online and High Times. His books include In Praise of Indecency, Pot Stories for the Soul, Tales of Tongue Fu, One Hand Jerking and Confessions of a Raving Unconfined Nut.

Judith Levine (judithlevine.com) is the author of four books, including Harmful to Minors: The Perils of Protecting Children From Sex, which won the 2002 Los Angles Times book prize. She is an activist for women’s freedom, civil liberties, and peace and currently serves as a director for the National Center for Reason & Justice and the American Civil Liberties Union’s Vermont chapter.

Thomas MacAulay Millar is a New York-area litigator, a parent and spouse, a feminist, a progressive, a Scottish-American, and a cis-het-white male, not necessarily in that order. He contributes to Yes Means Yes Blog, Feministing Community, and sometimes Feministe.

“Michelle Perrot” is a pseudonym to protect her marriage. She has published four books and her work has been featured in the New York Times, the Washington Post and Brevity, as well as other anthologies, magazines and journals. She lives with her family somewhere in the United States.

Kirk Read (kirkread.com) is a writer, performer, and event-maker based in San Francisco’s Mission district. His books include How I Learned to Snap (American Library Association Honor), a memoir about being openly gay in a small Virginia high school, and This is the Thing, a collection of performance essays. He co-curates San Francisco’s two longest-running queer open mics, Smack Dab and K’vetsh. He has toured the country twice with the Sex Workers’ Art Show.

Rachel Sarah is the author of Single Mom Seeking: Play Dates, Blind Dates, and Other Dispatches from the Dating World (Seal Press). When she’s not contracting for Match.com, Rachel hosts a juicy blog at singlemomseeking.com for single moms and dads.

Christine Seifert is an associate professor of communication at Westminster College in Salt Lake City, Utah where she teaches professional writing and rhetoric. She earned a PhD in English from Oklahoma State University. Christine is currently working with an agent to revise her own young adult novel…sans vampires.

Monica Shores is an editor of and regular contributor to $pread magazine. She has also written for Alternet, the Rumpus, DCist, Popmatters, Boinkology and the Feminist Review. “Red Light Rights” is her biweekly column on CarnalNation.com.

Rachel Swan is a staff writer at the East Bay Express newspaper in Oakland, California.

John Thursday is an erotic philosopher who has devoted his adult life to doing field research for his dissertation on Kant’s lesser known work, The Pure Critique of Fellatio. In his down time he enjoys dancing, cooking and masturbating. You can find his work at Johnthursday.com.

Mollena Williams is a New York City born and raised writer, actress, solo-performer, BDSM Educator and Executive Pervert. She travels hither and yon speaking on a broad spectrum of subjects within the Leather Lifestyle. She’s a founding member of the Crowded Fire Theater Company, lives in San Francisco and blogs at mollena.com.

About the Editors

Guest judge Esther Perel, one of the world’s most respected voices on erotic intelligence, is the author of Mating in Captivity, now available in twenty-five languages. Esther was named one of Elle Magazine’s 2007 IntELLEligentia and she is the recipient of the 2009 book award for The Society for Sex Therapy and Research. She has appeared on “The Oprah Winfrey Show,” “The Today Show,” and “CBS This Morning.” Fluent in nine languages, Ms. Perel is a frequent keynote speaker around the world and serves on the faculty of The Family Studies Unit, Department of Psychiatry, New York University Medical Center and The International Trauma Studies Program affiliated with Columbia University. She is a member of the American Family Therapy Academy and the Society for Sex Therapy and Research. More at estherperel.com.

Rachel Kramer Bussel (rachelkramerbussel.com) is a New York-based author, editor and blogger. She is the editor of Best Sex Writing 2008 and 2009, and has edited or coedited over twenty books of erotica, including Peep Show, Bottoms Up: Spanking Good Stories; Spanked; Naughty Spanking Stories from A to Z 1 and 2; The Mile High Club; Do Not Disturb; Tasting Him; Tasting Her; Yes, Sir; Yes, Ma’am; He’s on Top; She’s on Top; Caught Looking; Hide and Seek; Crossdressing; Rubber Sex; Sex and Candy; Ultimate Undies; Glamour Girls and Bedding Down. Her work has been published in over one hundred anthologies, including Best American Erotica 2004 and 2006, Zane’s Chocolate Flava 2 and Purple Panties, Everything You Know About Sex Is Wrong, Single State of the Union and Desire: Women Write About Wanting. She serves as senior editor at Penthouse Variations, and wrote the popular “Lusty Lady” column for the Village Voice.

Rachel has written for AVN, Bust, Cleansheets.com, Cosmopolitan, Curve, Fresh Yarn, TheFrisky.com, Gothamist, Huffington Post, Mediabistro, Newsday, New York Post, Penthouse, Playgirl, Radar, San Francisco Chronicle, Tango, Time Out New York and Zink, among others. She has appeared on “The Martha Stewart Show,” “The Berman and Berman Show,” NY1, and Showtime’s “Family Business.” She has hosted In The Flesh Erotic Reading Series since October 2005, which has featured everyone from Susie Bright to Zane, about which the New York Times’s UrbanEye newsletter said she “welcomes eroticism of all stripes, spots and textures.” She blogs at lustylady.blogspot.com.

An anthology storm is brewing in the bowl, ripples disquieting the surface of the placid aqua underbelly.

Writers writing raise their heads and cock their ears to the sound of distant printing presses, the hiss of the typeface tide.

The Goldfish turn their spectacled eyes with hope.  Soon the anthology of goldfish writers will make waves in the bowl!

My sister Abby is a high school senior this year and recently got voted to be the editor for her high school yearbook! So when she saw my high school yearbook shoot, it gave her some ideas for her high school’s yearbook cover. She asked me for help with the cover so I quickly helped her with these design proposals.

She is planning on taking pictures of students at her school to replace these students. The theme she came up with is Anthology which means ‘any printed collection of literary pieces, songs, works of art, etc.’ Perfect for a yearbook!

So which proposal do you like best?

Proposal 1:

Proposal 2:

Proposal 3:

Second page:

THE GIFT OF LOVE

Short Fiction – A Love Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

I do not know how the idea entered my brain in the first place; but once conceived, it haunted me with such urgency that a strange force took charge of me, impelling me to act.

I tucked the packet under my arm and walked towards my destination, looking around furtively like someone with a guilty conscience.

The moment I saw her photograph I knew that I had to see her.

A man’s first love occupies an enduring place in his heart.

Ten years. Ten long years. She had married money. And status.

I was heartbroken.

Yet I bore her no pique or rancor. Never will. How can I?

I had truly loved her. I still love her. I will always love her. Till my dying day.

I was desperately eager to impress her.

To give her a gift would be too obvious.

I did not know how much she had told her husband about me, about us, about our unrequited love!

Her children should be the same age as mine. Maybe slightly older.

They say the best route to a married woman’s heart is through her children.

I looked at the packet under my arm.

A gift. A gift for her children.

The deluxe set of children’s encyclopedias I had promised my son. And my daughter. Year after year. For the last three years. And did not buy. Because it was too expensive.

And now I was going to present it to Anjali’s children. Just to impress her.

Why? I do not know.

As I rang the doorbell, I felt a tremor of anticipation.

Suddenly I realized that I did not know whether Anjali would be happy to see me or pretend she didn’t recognize me.

The door opened.

Anjali looked ravishing. She gave me her sparkling smile and welcomed me with genuine happiness, “Sanjiv! After so many years! What a delightful surprise. How did you manage to find me?”

We looked at each other. Anjali had fully blossomed and looked stunning. She looked so exquisite, so dazzling, that I cannot begin to describe the intense emotion I felt as I looked intently into her radiating eyes, totally mesmerized by her beauty.

“Stop staring at me, “Anjali said, her large expressive eyes dancing mischievously.

“You look so beautiful. And so young!” I said with genuine frankness.

“But you look old. Even your beard has becoming grey.” Anjali paused, probably regretting what she had said.

Then suddenly she held out her hand to me and said, “I am so happy to see you, Sanjiv. Come inside.”

Her house was extravagant. Wealth and opulence showed everywhere.

Anjali carried herself majestically with regal poise; her demeanor slick and confident.

No wonder!

To ‘belong’ had always been the driving force of her life.

Money, status, social prestige, success – she had got everything she wanted.

I couldn’t help feeling a pang of envy, and failure.

“You like my house?” she asked. “Sit down. And don’t look so lost.”

I sat down on a sofa and kept the gift wrapped packet on the side-table.

Anjali sat down opposite. “How did you know I live here? We shifted to Mumbai only a month ago.”

I took out the wallet from my pocket and gave it to her. “Your husband’s purse. I saw your photograph in it.”

Anjali opened the purse and started to check the contents.

“You don’t trust cops, do you?” I said with a smile.

Anjali blushed.

She kept the wallet on the table. Then she looked at me with frank admiration in her eyes. “IPS? That’s fantastic. I never thought you would do so well! What are you? Superintendent? Deputy Commissioner?”

Now it was my turn to blush.

“No,” I said sheepishly. “I am only a sub-inspector.”

“Oh!” she said, trying to hide her disappointment.

But I had read the language of her eyes. The nuance wasn’t lost on me. Suddenly she had changed.

“Is Mr. Joshi at home?” I asked.

“He is still at the office,” Anjali said.

“Oh! I thought he would be home,” I said.

“I’ll make you some tea,” she said and started to get up.

“Please sit down, Anjali. Let’s talk.” I looked at my watch. “It’s already six-thirty. Let’s wait for Mr. Joshi. Maybe he’ll offer me a drink. And dinner.”

“My husband comes home very late,” Anjali said. “After all, he is the Managing Director and the CEO. There is so much work. And conferences. Important business meetings. He is the top boss – a very successful and extremely busy man.”

She couldn’t have spelt it out more clearly. I got the message loud and clear.

Anjali changed the topic and asked, “Where did you find my husband’s purse?”

“It was deposited in the lost-and-found section last evening,” I lied, trying to keep a straight face.

“It’s strange,” Anjali said. “He didn’t mention anything.”

“He may not have noticed,” I said, tongue-in-cheek, “After all Mr. Joshi is a very busy man to notice such minor things like a missing purse.”

“Yes,” she said, giving a distant look.

Anjali opened the purse once more and examined his credit cards and driving license. At first she appeared confused. Then she gave me a cold hard look. But she didn’t say anything.

There was a long period of silence. Grotesque Silence.

Anjali kept staring at me. Looking directly into my eyes. A distant look. Almost dismissive.

I began to feel uneasy.

Suddenly I remembered the gift wrapped packet I had brought and exclaimed enthusiastically, “Anjali, where are your children? I have got a gift for them. Just a small present for your kids!”

From the look on her face, I immediately sensed that I had said something terribly wrong.

I saw tears well up in her eyes.

All of a sudden, Anjali looked small, weak and vulnerable.

I felt a sense of deep regret as comprehension dawned on me.

I looked at her helplessly, pleading innocence, but it was of no use.

Some day Anjali might understand my actions, but at that moment it was hopeless to try and explain.

The hurt was deep, and I had to let it go in silence.

We just sat there in silence, not knowing what to say. A deafening silence.

It is strange how moments you have rehearsed for end up with a different script.

I could not bear it any longer.

I quickly got up and started walking swiftly towards the door.

Suddenly I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the packet – the gift.

But I did not turn back.

Why? I do not know.

“Don’t go, Sanjiv. I want to talk to you,” Anjali spoke coldly.

I stopped in my tracks.

I could hear Anjali footsteps behind me.

I turned around to face her. She seemed a bit composed.

“You lied to me, Sanjiv,” Anjali said. “I want to know where you found this wallet.”

I did not know what to say. I tried to avoid her eyes.

“Tell me,” Anjali pleaded.

When in doubt, I speak the truth, so I told her the truth, “We raided one of those exclusive classy joints last night,” I stammered. “A posh call-girl racket……….” I could not continue…so I mumbled, “I am sorry. I did not know…”

“I know! Oh yes I know!” Anjali said mockingly. “That impotent creep! Trying to prove his virility to himself.”

With those few words, she had bared the secret of her marriage.

I looked at her.

Her manner was relaxed and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.

I was nonplussed. Suddenly I blurted out, “Don’t worry Anjali. I have dropped the charges. I’ll hush it up.”

I still don’t know why I uttered those words but the moment she heard my words there was a visible metamorphosis in Anjali.

Suddenly she became flaming mad.

She looked so distraught and angry that I felt very frightened.

I was terrified that she would go berserk and attack me, slap me, or something, so I instinctively stepped back.

But Anjali suddenly turned and left the room.

I waited, dumbstruck, pole-axed, frozen for a moment and after regaining my composure decided to leave and started to move towards the door.

“Wait!” I heard her scream. I stopped in my tracks and turned around.

Anjali quickly walked towards me and thrust out her right hand.

She held a bundle of five hundred rupee notes. “So this is what you have come for, isn’t it? A bribe to hush up the case, isn’t it? Even from me! You unscrupulous swine, I didn’t expect you to fall so low. Here – take the money and get out. This is all I have at home. If you want more, you know where to find my husband; don’t you?”

“No, Anjali,” I recoiled in horror, “Please don’t ………..”

“Cheap!” Anjali spat out. There was contempt in her eyes. “Cheap riffraff! That’s what you always were, Sanjiv. Get out you filthy blackmailer.”

She threw the bundle of notes at me. It hit my chest and fell on the ground, the money scattering near my feet.

“I love you, Anjali,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

“Love,” she exclaimed, her radiating eyes burning with anger. “So you have come to see how your barren old flame is flourishing, isn’t it?”

She paused and said sarcastically, “So you are pleased aren’t you? Happy to see how successful my marriage is, isn’t it?”

Her sly and sarcastic suggestion that I might be happy at her misfortune hurt me more than anything else.

I turned around and walked out of the house.

As I walked towards the gate something hit me on my back.

I winced in pain.

The three volumes of the expensive Children’s Encyclopedia were scattered on the ground, their silver paper gift wrapper torn.

I knew that Anjali was standing in the door looking at me. But I did not look back at her.

I gathered the books and walked away into the darkness.

Next morning, as I gradually came into consciousness from my drunken stupor, I realized that I was in my bed.

Though sunlight filtered in through the open windows, everything looked blurred.

Slowly things began to come into focus.

My daughter was sitting beside me on the bed. She touched my arm with tenderness.

There were tears in her eyes.

My son stood aloof on the other side of the bed.

There was fear in his eyes.

My wife looked at me with loving pity and said, “The children want to thank you for the lovely gift. They are so happy!”

She was holding the set of encyclopedias in her hands.

I smiled and reached out to them.

They held my hands and smiled back.

I looked at the pure unadulterated joy in their eyes.

For the first time in my life I experienced a deep genuine true love for my wife and children; a love which I had never felt before.

Tears of joy welled up in my eyes.

I had discovered love.

Yes, I had discovered the gift of love.

THE GIFT OF LOVE
Fiction Short Story
By
VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

vikramkarve@sify.com

Tindal Street Press is a small regional publisher based in Birmingham. With many prize-winning books on its lists (including three Booker Prize nominees: Clare Morall’s Astonishing Splashes of Colour,  Catherine O’Flynn’s What Was Lost and Gaynor Arnold’s Girl in A Blue Dress) – it is well-known for punching above its weight.

Launched a decade ago with a collection of short stories called Hard Shoulder, Tindal Street put themselves on the map when it came to finding new regional voices – particularly from the Birmingham and Midlands areas.  Now, ten years on, they have brought out a new anthology, Roads Ahead.

Ok, first off, let’s get things clear. I am not a great short story reader. I am part of those much-moaned-about masses that tend to eschew the short story form in favour of other forms. Novels. Or plays. Or even non-fiction (shock horror). Anne Brooke is the great VL short story reviewer; I am just a pale pretender.

But when Tindal Street offered this collection for review,  I jumped at the chance. First, being from a publisher with a strong regional focus, I was hoping to find something different: some interesting settings and specificity of place. Secondly, Tindal Street  invited open submissions for this project – a rare and exciting opportunity for both writers and readers. As Catherine O’Flynn says in her introduction:

“Writers aren’t often invited to submit material. They’re more used to being explicitly asked not to and told that, if they do, their work will just be shredded, or recycled, or made into paper aeroplanes: but on no account read.”

The third reason is the fabulous cover (shallow of me, I know).

Editor, Catherine O’Flynn, likens this collection to a pick ‘n’ mix of sweets – or a “10p mixup” as was common when she was a child: the pleasure being that you don’t know what is coming next. Certainly this anthology is full of variety of locations: we have stories set in Birmingham, Buenos Aires and Nigeria; in locales such as a sealife aquarium, a deserted farm, a drug-riddled estate. There is also a satisfying mix of subject matter.

In general, the collection favours quite traditional stories: character over concept, realism over stylistic experimentation, ordinary life over mad fantasies.  The tone is predominantly young, urban, sharp and observant – and there is an accessibility and lack of pretentiousness to this whole collection that is very likable indeed.

However, despite all this variation of place and subject, there does seem to be a slight similarity of style and form. Most are accessibly written in traditional style. Most have a first person voice that is fairly casual and straightforward. Most use a bit of slang and modern references – but not too much; have a bit of comedy – but not too much; a bit of bleakness – but not too much. Many seem to go for a realistic setting that escalates either into a dramatic dark twist or towards a more downbeat note at the end.

Shooters by Michelle Singh and Six of the Best by Iain Grant both suffer a little from dark twist syndrome. Singh’s writing about place is impressive and Grant has a straightforward likable style laced with dark comedy moments that is very appealing. But the curiously realistic and believable situations in both stories are unbalanced by their slightly overblown endings.

A couple of stories used the macrocosm of outside events in the wider world to mirror the microcosm of personal relationships.

The most interesting and successful of these is Table Rock Lake by David Savill where a black American man tries to find out more about his  white male soldier lover’s  abuses in Iraq. The veil of secresy that hangs over the details of the case seems to mirror the taboo and the unacknowledged and unsaid  that surrounds their own private relationship.

There were some stories that I really enjoyed but wondered if they were more like beginnings of novels than complete stories – particularly those where character came more to the fore. The book opens with the lovely and likeable tale called The Chest. I loved this story – the characters are terrific, the style is easy, funny and engaging, and the premise is bizarre and original (two people squabbling over a chest they find in the street). However, I felt it was slightly let down by the rather predictable short story style ending – the “profound bit” if you like. I understand why it might have been rounded off in this way, but I couldn’t help feeling that the originality of the story and its comedy – yes, comedy – should have been allowed to stand alone. This was one story where I enjoyed the characters so much that I wanted to spend more time with them and I would love to see something longer by its writer, Kathryn Simmonds.

Two of the stories that really stood out for me took very different approaches to each other, yet both felt complete and right in the form. Both have stayed with me and both seemed to capture something true without seeming to try too hard.

Like a sudden burst of Beckett in the middle of all the traditional formats, Since Charlie Hadn’t Come by Chris Smith is like a breath of fresh air, very moving, and beautifully complete. About an elderly man living in rural isolation, this story  is richly imaginative and poetic, changing the tempo and acting as a contrast to the more naturalistic everyday tone  elsewhere. It is a confident story, balancing what it lets us know and what it doesn’t let us know with great skill. With its strong symbolic imagery and confident imagination, it shows how powerful the short story can be and it is the one that – for me – engages most with the form. I would have welcomed more stories that were less traditional in style and tone such as this one .

The other story that I admired greatly – for different reasons – is Kavita Bhanot’s A Float for Shez. This story is the other extreme – so normal, so everyday and very traditional in form, about the subtle shifts and power relations in friendships between schoolgirls, and yet the characterisation is so well done, the understanding of behaviour and emotions so perceptive that it is elevated above the usual. Bhanot has done that other thing that short stories can do so well– captured perfectly the small interactions between people, the seemingly small moments. She does this with her sense of realness – of time, of place, of people: of the way those people interact.  She does not throw it all away with a self-conscious ending, rather she has faith that that she has captured it well enough for it to deliver.  And it does.  Again, this story has a kind of uniqueness to it and a completeness. It just feels right.

Taking the book as a whole, I set to wondering about the considerations and problems of putting together such a collection.  How do we read short stories as readers? Do we take them one by one? Is there a sense of the whole in a book such as this or are we just expected to dip in and out of it? How important is the juxtaposition and placement of the stories? Should they flow together, go together – or should they rudely contrast with each other?

Short story collections, I decided in the end, should ideally be like music albums. Or concertos. Whilst the stories are all separate, there should be some sense of rhythm – even the rhythms of light and dark, comedy and tragedy, the rhythms of theme and setting even….that takes us through from one to the other, so that even whilst we pick and choose we feel our tastebuds watering in anticipation.

Roads Ahead is a lively collection of readable, likeable and interesting stories with a diversity of settings (both national and international), characters and ideas. For me, to have become a really great collection, it needed a wider diversity of writing styles and to have taken a few more risks.  But, as a  fitting way to celebrate 10 years of Tindal Street and as a manifesto of intent for the future, this collection certainly made me curious to find out what roads lie ahead both for the writers featured within its pages and for Tindal Street Press itself.

304 pages, published by Tindal Street Press (Sept 2009). ISBN-13: 978-1906994006

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Other links

Website of Tindal Street Press

Leena’s original Vulpes Libris review of Catherine O’Flynn’s What Was Lost here.
RosyB’s  interview with  Catherine O’Flynn for Vulpes Libris

——

When she’s not palely pretending to be stern and serious  for VL, RosyB writes comedy novels. You can find out more here.

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Dear Reader, I am sure you have heard the saying: Absence makes the heart grow fonder

Now, please read this fiction short story:

At exactly 8 PM her cell-phone rings in her hand. She’s expecting the call – that’s why she’s holding the cell-phone in her hand. She looks at the caller-id, accepts the call, moves the mobile phone near her ear and says, “I love you, darling!”

“I love you, Sugar!” says her husband’s voice from half way around the globe. On his bed beside him, sprawled with arms and legs outstretched like a fallen statue, the woman is still asleep, her breathing untroubled.

It’s a long distance marriage, and the ‘married bachelors’ have been following the same drill for quite some time now – two calls every day at exactly the same time (Eight in the morning she calls him up just before leaving for work and eight in the evening she receives his call from half way across the globe just before he leaves for work. And both of them start their conversation automatically with the words: “I love you, darling! Or, I love you, Sugar!” He’s her ‘darling’ and she’s his ‘Sugar’!)

“How was your day?” the husband asks.

“Hectic. Lot’s of work. Deadlines to meet!” the wife answers. She steals a glance at the handsome young man sitting beside her in the darkened lounge bar.

“It’s terrible here too,” the husband says, “It’s killing – the work. Too much traveling. Sales meets, seminars, conferences. One hotel to another. Living out of a suitcase. I’m feeling exhausted.”

It’s true. The husband is indeed feeling exhausted; a relaxing, satiating kind of exhaustion. He gets up and opens the window and allows the early morning air to cool his body, then turns around and looks at the marvelous body of the woman on his bed. She looks lovelier than ever before, and as he remembers the ferocity of her lovemaking, he feels waves of desire rise within him. Not for a long time has the mere sight of a woman aroused the lion in him to such an extent. He smiles to himself. He feels proud and elated; it was a grand performance. Spontaneous lovemaking at its best; not like the planned and contrived “quality” lovemaking with his wife, full of performance anxiety, each performing for the other’s gratification, putting on an act and both faking pleasure thinking the other would not know.

“Yes, darling. Poor you. I can understand,” the wife says, and sips her potent cocktail. It’s her third. She wonders what it is – the mysterious but deadly intoxicating cocktails her companion is plying her with, and she is feeling gloriously high.

“I’m just waiting for this hectic spell of work to be over so we can meet,” the husband says. He sits on the edge of the bed and looks at the sleeping woman. Mesmerized, marveling. It is difficult to believe that in a few hours from now they would be addressing each other formally again.

“Oh, yes. It’s been three months and I’m dying to meet you. When are we meeting?” the wife asks.

“I’m planning a fantastic vacation. I’ll let you know soon. We’ll go to some exotic place. Just the two of us. Quality Time!” the husband says to his faraway wife and at the same time looks yearningly at the gorgeously sexy woman lying so close to him.

“That’s great! We must spend some Quality Time together,” the wife says to her distant husband while she snuggles close against her strikingly handsome colleague. He presses his knee against hers. She presses hers against his. He moves his hand around her over her soft skin and pulls her gently. She feels an inchoate desire. He gently strokes her hair, and she turns towards him, her mouth partly open as he leans over her.  Fuelled by the alcohol in her veins, she can sense the want churning inside her like fire. And as she looks into his eyes, and feels the intensity of his caresses, she can sense her resistance melting.

“I love you, Sugar!” the husband says.

“I love you, darling!” the wife says.

Their lovey-dovey conversation completed, both the long distance spouses disconnect their cell-phones, focus on their present objects of affection, and, with renewed zeal, carry on the passionate amorous activity presently in hand. After all, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

At the beginning of this story I had quoted a famous saying: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Now I am temped to say: Absence makes the heart grow fonder – for someone else.

MARRIAGE A LA MODE

Fiction Short Story

By

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009

Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

vikramkarve@sify.com

LIFESTYLE MANAGEMENT

Are You a Victim of Hurry Sickness

By

VIKRAM KARVE

A central element of lifestyle management is the skill to creatively balance achievement and work success with leisure activities, family life and social involvements.

Another critical aspect is the ability to feel comfortable at work and at home and to enjoy the experience of whatever is being done at that moment.

But nowadays, most of us are obsessed with getting results or completing one’s task. When task completion becomes more important than enjoying and understanding the work or activity one is doing at the given moment, a sure victim of “hurry sickness” is born.

The resultant constant sense of urgency is the trap of hurry sickness. One rushes to “get things done” to the point where it becomes an obsession.

Breaking this syndrome requires that you learn to enjoy experiences for the pleasure they give. When you gain pleasure from an experience, there is no need to get things done painstakingly.

Enjoy experiences, not rewards, and things will get done automatically without any constant stressful sense of urgency.

As defined from a psychological perspective, Hurry Sickness is:

“A pervasive and progressively urgent need to complete task in order to obtain rewards at completion without regard for other aspects of the work experience and by using maladaptive time strategies.”

They key causal factor in hurry sickness is the progressive need for task completion.

Enjoying what you are doing is neglected with a morbid urge to getting it done as quickly as possible, no matter what the activity.

The obsessive need for task completion extends to non-work involvements and activities like eating, playing, romance, making love, sex, leisure, having fun, loafing, taking a stroll, recreation, entertainment, leisure, sports, pastimes, hobbies, holidaying, exercising, lazing around, dozing, enjoying music, cooking, gardening, meditating, enjoying “doing nothing” and delightful timepass, what you consider “wasting your time” with your family, wife, kids, pet dog, friends…

This attitude of Hurry Sickness interferes with the enjoyment of these activities and experiences because of the persistent inclination to hurry up and finish it off.

Getting things done has become such a strong need because the payoffs or rewards for completion have assumed primary importance.

Your work experience has taught you that rewards always come at the end of the activity after you have put forth great effort to achieve a goal. You do not realize that happiness is not a destination but the manner of traveling.

Not only do you feel a sense of personal satisfaction from your achievements, but tangible rewards, such as promotion, cash incentives, awards, and advancements are given to you as well. With time, these rewards have become clearly linked with your self-esteem.

Each time you “succeed”, your ego, your inner self, sends a message to you which says, “You have done well. You are a commendable person because you succeeded again.” Your need for this kind of reassurance has become stronger than you would care to admit.

Time-Urgency quickly becomes a strong internal driving force towards task completion. Your life becomes a frenzy of completing one task after another. You are obsessed with time and wasting any of it becomes almost a mortal sin.

You strive to maximize your productivity by using time ever more efficiently, but you also have a sense that you are controlled by time and you don’t like it. Time is both your challenge and your enemy. A telling sign of hurry sickness is that even while relaxing, you are constantly fighting time-urgency and this that causes you unrest and never allows you to totally “switch off”.

Another way to seek to increase your output is to adopt maladaptive time-strategies. These questionable tactics do help you get more done over the short run, but you pay a heavy emotional price.

You now do everything faster, you have learned to “multitask” or “double up,” to do two or more things at once, and you are constantly preparing for what is coming next before you are finished what you are doing now.

The insidious trap is that you get something done quickly even when there is no reason to get anything done at all.

You hurry when there is no need to hurry – even when you have all the time in the world.

Because of your emphasis on task completion, you focus on finishing without regard for other holistic aspects of the experience.

In short, you have lost the ability to enjoy yourself while doing anything because of your incessant drive to get to the finish line.

Because you are afflicted by Hurry Sickness, you have lost the ability to emotionally rejuvenate yourself. Chronic fatigue and pessimism are symptoms of this malady.

SIGNS AND SIGNALS OF HURRY SICKNESS

Here are some behavioral signs, symptoms and signals that indicate hurry sickness:

1. Eating.

You now eat in the office while continuing to work or you just skip meals altogether. You multitask while eating. At home, you eat fast, gulp your food, finish meals well ahead of everyone else and eat in bigger bites without savoring the taste of food. Sharing pleasantries at the table is minimal because you cannot sit long enough. Ask yourself – are you eating mindfully and relishing every morsel of your food?

2. Sex.

Relaxed romantic sex and unhurried love-making is but a pleasant memory. The frequency has reduced and even when you do indulge in sex, it is a quick encounter and you are off to sleep or on to some other more “important” or “urgent” activity. Sex is less spontaneous and more mechanical these days. Love-making has become another hurry-up-and-get-it-done-with activity. Worse, you often indulge in “faking it” in order to get it over with in a hurry so you can quickly get on with the more “important” and “productive” things in life – your “high priority” activities!

3. Communications.

Your communication patterns now focus squarely on the negative. Feedback to others emphasizes mistakes and failings and you rarely compliment or offer sincere support to anyone these days. You don’t take the time any more for pleasant chat with family and colleagues. You have stopped listening. You make demands instead of working cooperatively with others or team-building. And hey, are you on your cell-phone most of the time?

4. Leisure.

You put aside less time for relaxation and you enjoy it less when you actually try to relax. Time-off is now more of a hassle than it is worth. When you sit still, you feel uncomfortable almost immediately. You have lost the ability to “do nothing” – it’s difficult for you to loosen up and enjoy an idle hour relaxing, doing nothing. Ask yourself why you work – reflect, contemplate, think about the fundamental reason why you work and realization will dawn upon you that the primary reason you work is to be able to enjoy your leisure, so why aren’t you taking a vacation every day and learning how to enjoy your leisure with full awareness?

5. Family.

Family members now “report” events to you, but you share little of yourself with them. You and your spouse argue more than you talk. The satisfactions of family life have diminished in quality and quantity. Your impatience is just as strong at home as in the office.

HOW TO CURE HURRY SICKNESS

Because you have hurry sickness, your initial tendency is to effect and expedite your “cure” in a hurry too.

But this hurry-up-and-get-it-done attitude may actually sabotage your recovery. What is required is patience, perspective and the ability to deal with setbacks in healthier ways.

It is easy to blame hurry sickness on the pressures of your job, the stress of daily living and what you have to do to survive in the fast paced world of today and on the insensitivity of the complex modern world. While each of these perceptions has a grain of truth in it, the fact remains that most of the responsibility for hurry sickness lies within you.

Your drive to get ahead is the real root of the problem and the fact is that you have lost all sense of perspective. Until you accept personal responsibility for your present state, you will not be in a position to confront and reverse the real mischief, damage and harm caused by hurry sickness.

Remember the well-known story of the hare and the tortoise.

Decelerate your life a bit, slow down, walk leisurely instead of driving and do not carry or switch off your cell-phone where you can, don’t multitask, do one thing at a time with full awareness and mindfulness and learn to enjoy the experience of whatever you are doing.

Do you believe in multitasking?

Are you a victim of Hurry Sickness?

Why don’t you rid yourself of this malady and enhance your quality of life?

Sure, you can get rid of Hurry Sickness!

Just stop multitasking and focus on whatever you are doing at the present moment.

Remember: HURRY BURRY SPOILS THE CURRY.

VIKRAM KARVE

Copyright © Vikram Karve 2009
Vikram Karve has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

vikramkarve@sify.com

http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

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New Writers of the Purple Sage, edited by Russell Martin

This anthology of “Contemporary Western Writing,” consisting of short stories, excerpts from novels, and essays, contains some good work, but I don’t like to read pieces of novels which, if they are novels I have already read, is repetitive, and if I haven’t, well, I’d rather read the whole novel.

The anthology starts with a poem by David Lee, who wrote some wonderful poems about pig farming, and has some other great pieces of writing, but the book as a whole doesn’t leave me with much. Although containing work by authors such as  Ron Carlson, Barbara Kingsolver. Thomas McGuane, and James Welch,  it is still a limited compilation of regional literatures.

And I always thought it a bit egoistic to edit an anthology and include your own work, as Russell Martin does here.

Grade: C-

The good folks at Brimstone Press have announced the table of contents for their latest volume of Australian dark fantasy and horror, collected from the 2008 crop, and — big smile — my story, “Smoking, Waiting for the Dawn” (one of several to be included from Dreaming Again), is in there. It’s rubbing shoulders with some mighty good yarns:

“The Last Great House of Isla Tortuga” by Peter M. Ball

“The Claws of Native Ghosts” by Lee Battersby

“Pale Dark Soldier” by Deborah Biancotti

“Heere Be Monsters” by John Birmingham

“Teeth” by Stephen Dedman

“Her Collection of Intimacy” by Paul Haines

“A Guided Tour in the Kingdom of the Dead” by Richard Harland

“Moments of Dying” by Robert Hood

“Just Us” by Pete Kempshall

“Painlessness” by Kirstyn McDermott

“The Casting Out” by Miranda Siemienowicz

More details here.

Shouldn’t it have snowed by now in New England?
Yesterday I was wandering around Charles St. antiquing. I foudn this great set of books by a professor at Harvard from 1929. “Copeland’s Treasury for Booklovers: A panorama of English and American Poetry and Prose from the Earliest times to the Present.”
I am going to buy an Amazon Kindle. But I just spent $80 on these old books.