Chapter Eleven - Enter Genius

Enter Genius is the eleventh chapter in Alistair Vogan's novel How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming.

Sri Zeak Chattopadhyay sat on his embroidered Japanese cushion, in the lotus position, his chin up and his eyes, only slightly open, focused on the floor before him. His breathing was deep, but there was, decidedly, resistance. He could sense it. Something was bumping around in his head, bugging him. Like a bird that’s flown in an open window and couldn’t get out, she wouldn’t leave his consciousness. He got up, disgusted. His knees snapped and crackled.

“For crying out loud!” He could stand in the middle of the room in his purple turban, his cape blowing in the draft behind him from the air rushing in the open window on the 45th floor, with his purple shoes curling up towards his knees, a fake mustache, and not be wearing pants but looking around the room frantically for them, and, still, the what-to-do next of it all would somehow miraculously elude her. He could also point a colt 45 to his temple, press it so that the barrel dug into his skin, cock it, pull the trigger six times without a major event happening in her day, say “drat” even, pat all his pockets, check behind him in the drawers of his desk… still she’d bite her lip, turn and look at him sideways as if she were struggling to answer the 65 thousand dollar question being filmed in the studio the floor below. No. That didn’t quite nail it either, he thought. He had a better scenario… He could douse himself in gasoline. Strike a match and set him ablaze. The flames could rise up and blacken the stucco ceiling as he fell to his knees. There could be a fire extinguisher, even, to his right and a plate of six ham and cheese sandwiches to his left. He would be screaming at the top of his lungs over the sizzling of his flesh for her to help. He might say something to the point like, “Help me! I think I am-on-fire!” With one choice to make – fire extinguisher, or ham and cheese sandwiches - she’d still be uncertain what to do…

This was what he was stuck with.

Carol tapped on the door and entered carrying a tray with a white rose in a vase, a jug of milk, a turkey sandwich with lettuce, tomatoes and mayonnaise, and the morning paper. Yee haw! Speak of the devil! She placed it on the coffee table before the couch. He turned where he stood looking out the window at the city below, his city. He took a deep breath and looked at the wall just above her head, remaining calm. He bit his lip and exhaled through his nostrils. “…Why?” he asked exasperated.

She froze. His eyes traveled around the room and stopped at the large bookshelf to her left. He took in the various photographs of him with presidents, celebrities, a Maharajah, an elephant... This is the way it had become. He saw a photo of himself, in his younger years, smiling warmly, holding an orphan up to his chest by the elbows in a desolate African village. He could almost read the wreath around his right shoulder that had been placed on him moments before the photograph had been taken. He looked good. He’d dug a well with his own hands that particular day! – or, at least held a shovel, he remembered the splinter. A village of forty, for the first time, had been given the opportunity to drink fresh, clean water without the need to walk for miles with buckets on their heads. He lost himself for a minute. Malnourished or not, that kid had been heavy. Now that he thought about it, why couldn’t they have got a better malnourished kid? Relatively speaking, the kid looked chunky. Yep. He had to do everything himself…

“I am here…” he said, looking down his torso to his feet and then to the tray on the coffee table several feet away, “and my food is there.” It was obvious. And, he’d have to spell it out to Missus Simpleton. “Do you expect me to walk over there? Bring it here. Put it on the floor by my feet. No. NO! Pull the coffee table over with the tray on top! Now look what you’ve done! Pick up the flowers! Wipe the table quickly. Carol… Sweetheart. That’s teak, you know? You don’t know, do you?” He looked out the window, shaking his head. “I’m very very busy Carol,” he said. It came out sing-songy and imagined his studio audience watching impatiently for the magic to begin. He imagined strangling her as she slowly dragged the table over beside him. The imaginary Carol was on the rug. He was straddling her with his hands around her throat, her tongue sticking out. Her face red, eyes protruding. His turban slid over his forehead and bounced beside her like a bowling ball. The ruby and several diamonds broke from the turban and scattered around the rug adding beauty to the image. He wipes his forehead, his nostrils flaring, and his dark eyes fiery. In his mind’s eye he looks devilishly handsome, like Clark Gable.

Darius, Salahad Udin, Julius Caesar. Empire builders, all. If the reward wasn’t so great, and elusive, we’d all be living in hovels, eating our own filth. Still, Rome wasn’t built in a day, mainly because all great men are, by nature, surrounded by idiots. Why must everything be spelled out? He knew what everyone else was thinking. He knew what they’d say, what they’d do. But he had to think everything through and broadcast every freaking thought to get anything done ‘the right way’. If he didn’t, it’d all be a mess. They knew it too. They were incapable of making an intelligent decision. They were terrified to make a mistake. Where were the great Risk Takers that had built America? He had to do ALL the thinking ALL the time.

The coffee table and its contents came to a stop at his side. Were there Goddamn tomatoes in his sandwiches? He couldn’t believe it. Genius. He looked at the sandwiches then her, then back at the sandwiches. Which was more intelligent? She, or his lunch? “Oh, what’s the use?” he thought. He tapped his knee against the coffee table beside him, pointedly, “Carol, did you really…?”

He shook his head smiling warmly. “Darling, I was joking! You did know that?” She smiled nervously and then he told her how lovely she looked as she dragged the coffee table back to its original location.

“I love that blouse on you.”

He looked at the sandwiches languidly, then flicked on the television and watched the recording of the previous day’s show. It was perfect! Still, he made a list of people at random who should be fired. Best to keep them on their toes. The worst thing, he knew, was for his team to get too comfortable. That would be the beginning-of-the-end. That’s when quality becomes the real casualty. It’s simple human nature. Also, he’d give everyone else a raise so that way they’d keep their yaps shut. If he didn’t, they’d start talking about how they were all “brothers” and that they had to stand together. Keep ‘em divided, he thought. 

When Carol was gone, he grabbed a sandwich and removed the tomatoes. He sat at the edge of the couch, and bit into it tentatively, hunched over like a squirrel. 

COMING UP NEXT: 

Chapter Twelve - Mission Not Aborted 

If you're enjoying THE NOVEL, please share the link:

http://theivanvonnoshrilgramfoundation.blogspot.com/2011/12/ghost-in-machine.html

For more information, please contact: 

The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation, Prague, Czech Republic

We would like to gratefully acknowledge assistance provided by: 

Rose Street 

Kingsley Vogan 

Ken McDavitt 

Paddy 

Ocope515 

DonkeyJacket 

Safia Adam

 Sport68 

Robert Bodrog 

Bob Studholme 

Brian Borgford 

Craig Lauzon 

Patreshia Tkach

Chi Diep 

Colin Rivers 

Anum Siddiqui 

Sara Ryan 

Hannah Taha 

Shaikha Alain 

Ayesha Sayed 

Leanne Wherret 

Bruce McCullouch 

Susan Cavan 

Tanya Nguyen 

Margaret Lambert 

Peggy Vogan 

Mahmood Farra 

Barbara Vogan 

ZeBeDee 

Paul Marlow 

Alison Belsham 

Brian L 

Melyat 

Jagermeister8 

and 

Sir William Newman 

editors and story consultants at The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation, Prague, Czech Republic.)    

Copyright 2000 (Alistair Avery Vogan / the Von  Noshrilgram Foundation)

Re: Chapter 14

Get ready...

Because it's almost here. Just a couple days from now. Tell your wife, and your children. 
Please warn your parents.


That's right. It's almost... 


Saturday, April 28, 2012


International 
Middle-Age 
Crisis 
Day! 


"...Yaaaaaaaaaay!"


All the staff at the Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation, Reykjavik, Iceland, sincerely hope it's all you dreamed it would be... 

Thoughts: Russian People. What's going on over there?

Hey Russian people! 


A big hello out to you! 


I've just returned from Dubai and checked to see who is reading and what is being read. 


...I cannot understand how I could be getting so many readers in Russia. 


Why would this be? If you can explain, please do! 


Please keep reading. Things are about to really open up in How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming! 

Chapter Six - Hey! Why's There A Spaceman In Your Bathroom?

Hey! Why's There A Spaceman In Your Bathroom is the seventh chapter of Alistair Avery Vogan's novel How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming.

That evening after he had locked up Laundry-Land, Kingsley carried an old typewriter he’d purchased from a pawnshop, and the stack of paper piled on top of it, to the dining room table. He stood before the table while Mrs. Filmon talked cheerfully in the otherwise quiet room:

"...all alone, he thought about his dilemma. It occurred to the fluffy blue jay Nick, as the wind whistled and the rain poured down upon his soggy backside... ...in the lonely field, that the First National Bank at the..."

She was like filthy wallpaper you might pull away from in a window-less room. Although it caused him great anxiety, especially when he thought about it, had he been another person listening in he would have concluded that the woman speaking was gentle, loving. That she meant no harm. But, it was the inescapable quality that tormented him. Feeling he was powerless.

He dropped the typewriter and the paper on the table loudly and heard her pause, as if regaining her composure. And then she started up again. He opened up the lid of the typewriter and saw an official-looking paper folded beneath a thin, clear plastic case. “Schreibkontrolle,” he read aloud.

Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass’s A Taste Of Honey, floated through the wall separating his apartment from hers. Next door Miss Martha was dancing, he fancied, or else, perhaps, moving furniture…

He smiled longingly then, focusing, lifted the package and looked closely at the Adler J-4 typewriter. On the left of the machine at the top of the paddle, like a shining stainless steal shoehorn, stuck out. There were switches, levers, buttons and deep inside its guts, tiny little pieces of metal laid side-by-side like the handles of cutlery all packed up. It was overwhelming. He peered in closely and could make out the tine engravings on each piece of thin metal. He’d need a college degree to operate this thing. There were symbols he couldn’t recognize. On the outside he noted the rows of keys, possessing the same shape as the heal of a shoe. On these were the letters of his alphabet. He put the palm of his hand on the keys and pushed. The metal cutlery handles with the foreign symbols shot up and lodge themselves before a rolling pin-like cylinder embedded in the device. Great. He’d broken it. Mrs. Filmon seemed to grow louder.

At a loss, he opened up the clear plastic package with “Schreibkontrolle” written inside and pulled out the Adler J2 and J4 Instructional Manual.  It was in English.

Writing on J2 and J4

In buying your portable typewriter you have chosen well. The fully operational instructions are intended to serve you as guide enabling you to fully enjoy the various advantages offered by this typewriter. The essential points to be observed when typing with “J2” or “J4” are briefly described hereafter.

Feeling reassured, he read on, noting the five additional features that his Adler Nr. J43906762 possessed compared to the Adler Nr. J2 model. He congratulated himself for purchasing such a fine machine, though noting on some level that he’d most likely never use those features. Still, like purchasing just a little extra life insurance for safe measure, he indeed felt safer. He reached for a pencil and made notes along the manual and parts he might forget, underlying crucial points, sometimes twice.

When Kingsley had completed perusing the manual he confidently freed the jammed keys. Next, he extended the paper support with terminal indicator , and, of course, released the paper bail. He then inserted a crisp sheet of white paper under the rollers and, with his thumb and index finger, turned the platen knob counter clockwise with his right hand before expertly pumping the line space lever. He felt like Harper Lee…

He sat back and waited for Mrs. Filmon to finish the story. He waited relaxed, like a young boxer in his prime, watching his delusional, aged opponent strutting about the ring just before his last match.

He looked down at the keys and noted, somewhat disconcerted, that they were not, as he assumed, in alphabetical order. He listened to the voice,

"…that the First National Bank at the intersection of First Avenue and Finch was the last friendly bank in the courteous and smiling little village not to have installed a security camera monitoring system..."

He realized that he didn’t know how to type.

“Please stop,” he said. But she continued.

The xylophone chimed at the end of the story and Kingsley positioned himself for her to begin again. He looked around to the four corners of the ceiling waiting. He cleared his throat. “I would like you to say the story as slowly as you can,” he said to no-one.

He waited for “Once upon a time.” He sincerely hoped that she would begin slowly, thought she might. However, she began the story at regular speed, and he looked for the letter “O” key. By the time he found it she was on the second sentence and moving on from there.

He slammed his fists into the keys. “I hate this story!” he said petulantly. “I hate it and I hate you!!” His anger turned to anxiety. He could feel himself disassociating. The walls seemed to be undulating slowly around him. He felt like he was at sea. “Please…”

Kingsley rushed to the bathroom and vomited. Her voice was above him. His eyes darted back and forth. Out the window was a darkness he couldn’t remember. The darkness seemed to be seeping in. He saw the colours of the wallpaper, the door frame his hands, but seemed to sense a blackness beneath everything. Terror slowly enveloped him. For the first time in his life, he looked through the physical world around him, and saw that it was all illusion. Nothing was real. Not himself, the water flowing out of the facet, the buzzing of the tungsten light about him. It seemed as if all of humanity had disappeared and he was deep beneath the earth, in a catacomb.

Out of the darkness a large gloved hand stretched towards him. He could make out the figure of an interplanetary traveler, its head encased in a large egg shaped helmet. Just barely he could make out the eyes blinking behind the copper tinted visor, looking at him. The vision dissolved before him and for a moment, it was utterly silent. He became aware of his heart pumping. It built up speed pounding louder and louder. His heart was going to explode. Frantically, he reached for his new shower curtain and ripped it from the rings.

He ran out into his bedroom and spun around trying to strike the voice. He could hear Mrs. Filmon’s voice patiently rising over the high-pitched shrieking of an insane woman. He swung the shower curtain to the left and right and caught his face in the mirror for fraction of a second. His mouth was opened in a scream. Sweat poured down his forehead, tears filled his eyes. He whipped around and around. With a series of movements not his own he found himself in the living room rushing over the coffee table and up the couch. Suddenly, without warning, it seemed as though someone had kicked his legs out from under him, when in fact, while attempting to move in two opposing directions he had tripped over his own legs. He found both these legs in the air before him. He saw his socked feet ever so slowly eclipsing the dining room lights hanging from the ceiling. He hovered a moment then descended like a wingless Daedalus onto the back of the couch and crashed into the wood of the floor.

A sharp pain issued from behind one ear. On his back, Kingsley’s elbows slid over his torso and thumped wetly on the floor. His forearms and the palms of his hands followed, his body behaving like a carcass on a butcher’s table. Gradually he grew aware of a grey rectangle before him. It was his ceiling above, framed by the back of the couch and the wall.

He closed his eyes and turned what was left of his focus to the dull pain behind his ear. It was his right ear. For some time he thought only of the pain. It was the only thing he knew for certain, the only thing he could count on. Somehow, it was grounding. From the certainty of this pain he expanded his focus. He was behind the couch. The wall was to his right. He was lying on his back. He was Kingsley Kuchner. He lived at 177 East-Seventh Street. He was forty-six… A woman was near. He couldn’t see her. She was speaking to him. He felt a pang of anxiety, but swallowed it. He knew the pain was close at hand to retreat to if that darkness descended. Slowly all the broken pieces of Kingsley returned to their proper spots.

He listened to Mrs. Filmon. She was talking about a First National Bank. He wondered if she even knew he was there… “Who are you?” he whispered. He waited but there was no reply. He was alone. He sat up, then looked over the side of the couch. The shredded shower curtain lay in different locations across the room. A chair lay on its back, a picture on the opposite wall rested at an angle, the rug had been pushed up – and was curving in on itself – against the wall. The stack of paper, the cover of the Adler J4 and the J2 itself existed undisturbed where they had been, as if waiting.

The light above the table shone like a spotlight.

He picked himself up and approached the table.

He pulled the jammed metal on the inside the typewriter. He would, rather than wait for Mrs. Filmon finish her story, begin with what he did know. Painstakingly, he punched the keys with his index fingers

"Once upon a time…"

And to his surprise, discovered he knew all the words.

If you're enjoying THE NOVEL, please share the link with a friend:

http://theivanvonnoshrilgramfoundation.blogspot.com/2011/12/ghost-in-machine.html

Next Chapter:
Chapter Eight - The Other Eagle Has Landed



For more information, please contact: 
pinecrestpictures@gmail.com

We would like to gratefully acknowledge assistance provided by 

DonkeyJacket, Safia Adam, Sport68, Robert Bodrog, Bob Studholme, Brian Borgford, Craig Lauzon, Patreshia Tkach,  Chi Diep, Anum Siddiqui, Sara Ryan, Hannah Taha, Shaikha Alain, Ayesha Sayed, Leanne Wherret, Bruce McCullouch, Susan Cavan, Tanya Nguyen, Margaret Lambert, Peggy Vogan, Mahmood Farra, Barbara Vogan, ZeBeDee, Paul Marlow, Alison Belsham, Brian L, Melyat, Jagermeister8 and Sir William Newman, editors and story consultants at The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation, Amman, Jordan.)    

Copyright 2000 (Alistair Avery Vogan / the Von  Noshrilgram Foundation)

Thoughts: Uh-oh, Zeak Is Coming...

Fade in creepy music...

     right,
          about,
                    now...

You will want to ask me why I would create someone like Zeak, AKA the Fabulous Zeak the Sheik.

There are a two probable explanations.

One would point to a culmination of experiences in the entertainment industry over a number of years, that is, between 1987 and 2007. And at this point my lawyer would suggest I say that Zeak the Sheik is a completely fictional character.


The other,　


involves an unfortunate event that has stayed with me my entire life. It occured at Walt Disney World, in 1977. I'm sure if Walt knew, he'd be rolling in his grave. And not because I was wearing a beige leisure suit...

Chapter four - Let Us Not Forget You Are A Prisoner

Let Us Not Forget You Are a Prisoner is the fifth chapter of Alistair Avery Vogan's novel How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming.

To say that Kingsley was skipping as he approached the Laundry-Land Laundromat would be an overstatement. He hadn’t skipped in forty years… 

But, it felt like it to him. In fact, it felt like his legs had a life of their own, but that his torso and other limbs, for the first time in his life were awake, working in concert. Like a team, committed to action. He kicked a can and it rolled noisily up the sidewalk in the shade of an old tree. He didn’t shrink. He considered the sequence of tasks ahead of him, it all was so simple: unlock the door, move out the old machines so that they continue the perfect line starting at the new washing machine, sweep up, and take control of his life. 

Indeed, he was taller.

Kingsley looked up reflexively, remembering that flash he’d seen. What a woman. And what a name! Martha… Miss Martha. How was it that such a beautiful, glamorous woman would be talking to him, in this part of town, his building, in the hallway? It’s unlikely probability seemed to have its origin in something that had occurred that day. A whole new reality had been unleashed by the cracking open of his routine. What else was out there, waiting to enter his life, waiting to transform it? He thought about this. 

“Same for me, but double?” he said horrified, and stopped. Why would he say something like that? Why had he? It was simply incomprehensible. The kind of thing that… Had he kept this kind of foolishness out of the conversation he might have been able to walk away without leaving her something to pick up and say Aaaah. Boy isn’t he an idiot. 

No, he realized, Miss Martha wasn’t that kind of woman. She would have picked up on his pathetic attempt at… At what? He didn’t even know what he’d been trying to do! It was as if he’d lost control of the speech centers of his own brain. Yes. But she wouldn’t mention it to anyone. She simply had too much class. She’s the kind of woman who’d let you talk on even though you had a noodle on your shirt for fear of you losing face. She wouldn’t draw attention to it. She was classy, wouldn’t humble you that way. It was beyond ridiculous to even say that she was too good for him. …He said it out loud again, “Same for me, but double...” It still sounded completely idiotic. There was no way around it. He knew with absolute certainty that at that moment she was calling all her friends and colleagues and they were all having a terrific laugh about it. He looked up at the windows of the apartment and thought he saw someone hide behind a curtain…. He shook his head smiling. “Wow!” He said. “What a god damn, fabulous woman!”

A xylophone chimed somewhere above him. It resonated in hubcaps, traffic signs and a woman’s earrings as she passed. A sense of dread filled his being, as if he only had to look up to see the falling piano, a grand, descending at an angle and at an increasing speed. Just feet away from a collection of rusted garbage cans and still moving, Kingsley was overwhelmed with the decisions required of him to navigate around these towards his destination. He crashed through the cans and sent the lids rolling in various directions. 

When it rained Nick could be found... she announced.

Anxiously, Kingsley began to run.  A taxi-driver slowed down and pulled up beside him. He didn’t seem to be startled by Kingsley’s pace or attitude. He called Kingsley’ name in a friendly fashion, asking him how things were, then yelled his name as if to wake him from a trance. “Kingsley!”

“Oh. Mr. Yaworsky.” Kingsley mumbled, not looking at him. “I am just great… Yourself?!!

Yaworsky waxed philosophical, seemingly relieved to just be near Kingsley, “Well, hey… you know? It takes some getting used to.”

Kingsley looked at Yaworsky for some clarification. Yaworsky shrugged and shook his head like he had a real story to share. Behind him the passenger leaned forward and tapped him on the shoulder, “Really? Do you mind?”

Yaworsky gave Kingsley a knowing look and shook his head. He drove off. The passenger glared at Kingsley through the back window as the taxi disappeared around the corner. 

Kingsley looked into the air and unknowingly walked passed Laundry-Land. Mrs. Filmon, the name he gave her later, droned on, striking the xylophone at intervals and causing cats to fall off windowsills, windowpanes to rattle, eyebrows to quiver. 

“Mom, I met him!” Martha’s voice boomed.

It was a small, one-bedroom apartment, a mess. Clothing, glamour magazines, unwashed dishes, discarded clothing and a dance foot chart were scattered over the floor, a loveseat, a couch, side tables, windowsills... Martha stood in the middle of it all. She was alone. She squinted out the window as if she could see for miles and miles. She held the telephone receiver to her ear and with her free hand ran her fingers through the cord.

“Just now in the hallway,” She responded matter-of-factly. “I know it's him. …Well, I just know. I-I can just feel it. His name? Ted. Gosh, what a powerful name!” Martha listened, then interrupted. “No. I guess it's,” she paused, “Kingsley. That's it. Kingsley… But what a guy!!” Suddenly Martha’s voice took on a sweet, girlish quality, “I tell yah, he's everything a girl could want. He's smart and thoughtful. He's kind and gentle. He's not a real looker…but” But what? There was something. “He's got a really big heart...” she said.

Martha listened for a while then cleared her throat loudly. “I can just tell!” She got up and seemed to be looking for something to throw at the opposite wall. She saw the dance foot chart beneath her feet and began, in her own way, to dance. Her breathing increased rapidly. “Uh-huh” she said slowly while nodding, an emotional distance growing between them. She stopped, wiped her forehead and opened a can of soda, an expression of weariness growing over her. “No!” she yelled into the phone. “He's not like that! No! No, you listen! No YOU listen… Uh-huh. Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay. …Okay, already! Well, he's not like Louis...” She listened closely and smiled condescendingly… “Oh, Mother are you even listening? The big city is a cold place, that’s a fact, but here he is! I just walked right into him! …‘Who?’” she asked, then paused and her voice dropped noticeably. “My man, in shining armor.” 

She opened her dresser drawer, pulled out a roll of scotch tape. On her knees, with the phone held between her ear and shoulder, she reached for the corner of the foot chart. She yanked it taut, pressed a strip of tape over it and the floor. If her mother had been abducted by aliens that afternoon and they had requested permission to perform futuristic-yet-medieval experiments upon her, Martha would have gladly consented. She’d have signed the form, then celebrated. Her mother knew nothing about real, romantic love.

Martha glanced at the tape roll, and shook her head dismissively. “Yes I'm getting auditions. Yes they really think I have talent.” Her back straightened, “No! He did not just get out of prison!!!” she said. “Well I, I don't know,’ she mumbled. “How many times do I have to tell you?... He's not like the others.” She sat down on the edge of the couch, a distance from the phone, took a deep breath and began to speak, as if to a retarded adult, “Listen. Please? He owns his own Laundromat. He's kind and healthy. He's just a normal guy.” She thought about this, then added angrily“... except he's perfect.”

...With a whistle and a wink Nick, the fluffy blue-jay, ordered everyone to, "Please remain calm, and lie down on the floor,” said Mrs. Filmon with affection. 

Somewhere within a labyrinth of streets, avenues and boulevards, with skyscrapers towering above like giants, dwarfing him, with the sun peaking around the tops of buildings and a jet airplane gliding through a white cloud indifferently, Kingsley spotted the construction up ahead on the road and rushed towards it. A sturdily-built man held a diamond-tip saw and squeezed the handle. Kingsley arrived just as it began to screech, drowning out Mrs Filmon. The man watched Kingsley relax noticeably as he tore into the asphalt. Kingsley noticed the man and waved half-heartedly. 

Kingsley thought to himself, but she’s a dancer... 

He looked up at the street signs above him. He shivered. The signs were a different colour, or was it the shape? He tried to figure out what was wrong. They were, he thought, the same streets, but different signs and realized, in fact, that the streets were different too. It seemed impossible. As if waking, he glanced around and took in the details. He felt anxious. The intersection was nearly unrecognizable! Was this really St. Nicholas Street? He’d walked here a million times, before. But now, the trees were small again, two story buildings now shot up into the clouds. The parking lot on the far corner was now an office tower. If he closed his eyes he could see the way it had been right before him. He swayed, and it felt like the cars were rushing by quickly, and inches from his nose. He watched them pass in a blur of shiny blues, reds, whites... The same cars that he’d seen pass in front of his own Laundromat were here too. All the cars that had driven down these streets so many years ago, it seemed, had just kept going, had not returned. 

But where had they gone? And who were these people around him now? 

When the workman, directing the saw along a line drawn in white, reached the end, he turned it off and squinted in Kingsley’s direction. He was half Kingsley’s age.

Kingsley moved on. 

On a typical night, when the pet store was locked up and the lights in the other mom and pop shops along his street were turned off, when the hipsters and drug addicts and prostitutes wandered the street, and university kids and dropouts were falling out of Volkswagen vans, or debating loudly about things he didn’t try to follow, or the odd, more modestly-dressed young couples – their whole lives ahead of them - walked hand-in-hand silently with their hard-soled shoes tapping along the sidewalk, Kingsley would clean the lint collectors in the dryers, sweep and mop the floor, and wash out the large deep sinks, alone. And, at this point, at the end of the day, he would simply have given up. He could no longer fight it. Too tired to hum, whistle, or make chitchat with customers or endure the racket from the street crashing in through the open door, Kingsley would close it and finish up while Mrs. Filmon would tell and retell her story about the blue-jay without seeming to tire. And oddly, when he stopped resisting, he felt less alone. 

But, today was different.  He’d called that number Yaworsky had given him. He’d met this professor, this gifted, knowledgeable man, this wise man. And Kingsley had told him his secret. 

Now it was out. 

He’d left his neighborhood for the first time, in twenty years. 

He’d met that woman, and somehow he felt, uncharacteristically optimistic, about life, its possibilities. 

Laundry-Land had given him a living. It had provided him security, financial and emotional. With it he had had something to occupy him, a routine, a distraction, a place to hide. Today, however, a crack had appeared in his cell wall, and he’d looked out. For a moment, he’d been able to glimpse another life out there. 

And now, Kingsley wanted more.

Tonight, he decided, he couldn’t step into the Laundromat. Without entering, he closed the door, locked it. He imagined he was trapping Mrs. Filmon inside. He continued up the street, away from his apartment, and he could almost hear her banging against the glass. Let me out! You can’t do this! 

He walked for blocks and again the streets became less and less familiar. He saw strange faces and noticed that people were dressed differently than in his neighborhood. Although just a few blocks away, Kingsley felt as though he were in a different country. He recognized some of the postures and styles from the television sets in his bedroom and kitchen. He smiled a couple times to people whose eyes caught his but they seemed to look through him, as if he were invisible. The world was different. He felt like Rumpelstiltskin. How long had he been asleep? 

Down a darkened street, Kingsley sensed he was being watched. “Kingsley?” he thought he’d heard a man’s voice say. His mouth grew dry. His tongue seemed too large. He glanced up to the main street, could hear the cars and people and music fading. He didn’t know how this city operated anymore. Suddenly he thought he could hear Mrs. Filmon breathing near him, panting, as if she’d run the entire way without stopping. He turned around and rushed back to the bright street and tried to disappear into the crowd. 

He noticed a line of tungsten light bulbs traveling around a large marquee. He read the title of the movie, The Agony and the Ecstasy. It made him feel uneasy. It sounded pornographic. He’d never seen that kind of film before. He looked around as he took out his wallet to see if anyone was watching. And everyone seemed to be. 

Inside the theatre, Kingsley had an awakening. He learned about the world of art and the great Michelangelo, except not the gay parts. For example, he learned that though Michelangelo had the same name as his neighbour down the hall, he didn’t suffer from agoraphobia. He was also not partial to long bouts of drunkenness. In fact, he was an architect, painter, poet and sculptor - and "a major influence of the High Renaissance movement," he’d heard someone say as he left the building.

It was sort of startling what he didn’t know, Kingsley decided. 

But, what he took with him that night was an idea that would transform his life. It was simple: Michelangelo was a gifted guy. And, this guy’s gift came from God. He finished his popcorn and looked at the promotional photos behind the glass outside the theatre. This kind of thing was possible?

The thought impressed him greatly and it consumed him all the way home. Later that night, he got into bed both exhilarated and exhausted. As he fell asleep, his mind was filled with the implications of this idea, and the other events of the day. His life seemed filled with new possibilities. 

He slept better than he had in years. 


If you enjoyed this, share the link!: 
Chapter Five - Let Us Not Forget You Are A Prisoner

To read the next chapter, click the link below: 
Chapter Six - Pumpkins, Only Pumpkins



For more information, please contact: 
pinecrestpictures@gmail.com

We would like to gratefully acknowledge assistance provided by 

Safia Adam, Sport68, Robert Bodrog, Bob Studholme, Brian Borgford, Craig Lauzon, Patreshia Tkach,  Chi Diep, Anum Siddiqui, Sara Ryan, Hannah Taha, Shaikha Alain, Ayesha Sayed, Leanne Wherret, Bruce McCullouch, Susan Cavan, Tanya Nguyen, Margaret Lambert, Peggy Vogan, Mahmood Farra, Barbara Vogan, ZeBeDee, Paul Marlow, Alison Belsham, Brian L, Melyat, Jagermeister8 and Sir William Newman, editors and story consultants at The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation, Sohar, Oman.)    

Copyright 2000 (Alistair Avery Vogan / the Von  Noshrilgram Foundation)

Coming This Weekend!

To be released from captivity:

Chapter Five

Let Us Not Forget 
You 
Are a Prisoner

Thoughts: Call All Your Pulitzer, Booker, Governor General and Nobel Friends!

Feeling giddy...

This afternoon, Tuesday, March 27, 2012, the last pages of How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming (the greatest novel of ALL TIME!) came into being. It's a truly amazing feeling to complete your novel, and it feels unreal: your novel is the kind of thing you're only supposed to be working on. But, miraculously, I'm done. Now, it is something I can hold up in the air and announce to anyone who will listen, "I MADE THIS!! IT IS MINE!!" This is something I have practiced quite a bit with my human children. And they seem to like it a lot. I sincerely hope my book is not indifferent to conspicuous public displays complete astonishment? If so, suck it up, book. You'll simply have to adapt.

Really important background information: I started the novel in the summer of 2009 while sub-letting an apartment in Jamestown, Toronto. I chipped away at it on weekends in the UAE, and while on vacation in Japan, at a friend's office in Koriyama. (Thanks Wild Bill.)

And now, How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming (the greatest novel of ALL TIME!) is done! Which is freaky. 

And, wonderful! 

I can't wait until you read the whole thing!

Alistair

P.S. call all your Pulitzer and Nobel friends... They read too, right?

Thoughts: Top Five Books To Take When Stuck On Desert Island

Thinking of my favourite books. If I was trapped on a desert island and could only have five books to read or - if things got really rough - eat, they would be...

1) War and Peace
2) In Search of Lost Time
3) East of Eden
4) Spring Snow
5) The Catcher in the Rye

Bonus books I would secretly hide in my pants...

1) In Cold Blood
2) A Prayer for Owen Meany
3) Barney's Version
4) Fifth Business
5) William Shakespeare's Collected Plays

The one book I would happily set on fire to cook the others I will probably have to eat:

Operation Shylock: A Confession (1993) by Philip Roth (...What was he thinking? I wince for you, Philip Roth.)

Thoughts: anticipating The End

If you're a Facebook friend you know I've recently been taking care of a whole team of sick ladies of various sizes and shapes. On the weekend, I found myself making french toast - with a sneezing eleven month old on one arm and a hacking five year-old standing by in close proximity providing endless commentary and non-sequiturs to confuse me - and feeling just a little too much like Dustin Hoffman as he endeavoured to make breakfast in the 1979 classic Kramer vs Kramer...

And now, this weekend, I am off to the Dubai Festival Authors...

I am very excited about the latter but, unfortunately, this means it may be yet ANOTHER week before I can announce that "I have completed How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming!".

Let it be said, however, that all the characters (Kingsley, Martha, Louis, Doktor Flees and Zeak the Sheik) are presently standing-by in the wings, very professional, stretching and getting more deeply into character in preparation for the unbelievable climax that will end the story and free them to move on to other forms in other stories.

Please do stand by!

The Emirates Airline Festival of Literature

I'll be at the Emirates Airline Festival of Liturature in Dubai on the weekend starting April 8th. I'll be attending with fellow Sand (The Al Ain Writers' Group) members and we'll be secretly scoping out the joint for next year when we intend to present an organized front for local writers - that is writers in the UAE, Qatar, Syria etc. If you're going to be at the festival, or are a local writer, please feel free to contact me.

For more information, see:

The Emirates Airline Festival of Literature

They will tell you it is impossible

After a rather intense, soul-searching rewrite, Martha is finally fit to be leave her apartment. She knows who she is now, and she knows what she wants. Nothing, in fact, will stand in her way. Yes... Later today she will enter Kingsley's day, from the green door down the hall, just past his...

She will do this, whether Kingsley Kuchner is ready, or not.

What's that in her hand?

Martha is getting a major makeover before she's unleashed into chapter four. She's got her hand on the doorknob, almost ready to leave the apartment. What is that in her hand?...

Martha Is Coming

Straight from the Editor's Desk at The Ivan Von Noshrilgram Foundation, Dharamsala, India: Martha is coming, and can she dance. Be prepared.

Novel Teaser

If you haven't read the first chapter of How To Lose Your Voice Without Screaming, here's the teaser:

Kingsley Kuchner has a secret. 

A secret even he doesn't know he has. 

An now, he's going to share it 

with the whole world 

and bring an end to gravity. 

Just watch and see...

Thoughts: who are you?

With the release of the third chapter of HOW TO LOSE YOUR VOICE WITHOUT SCREAMING (The Infallible Doktor Flees) there was a HUGE unprecedented burst of activity, particularly in the US, yesterday. It kind of, sorta, like, blew my mind. I do not know anywhere near that many people in the United States... I guess some readers shared the link? Thank you!

By the way, very very helpful comments and encouragement from Robert Studholme, Spot68, Safa Adam etc in the last few days. Please keep these coming. Overall, most thoughts are being sent directly to me. If you'd like to leave your thoughts on the site, see the 'Comment' at the bottom of the upload.

Thank you for all the hits. It makes the writing process that much more meaningful to know people are getting to know Cowboy Kingsley, Doctor Flees, and Zeak. Martha is on the way. She just put on her sunglasses and is collecting her things... Get ready. Chapter Four, Three Reasons To Go On, will be released over the next couple days.