Joannas

  

guest story by Tim, images by Simon Sonnenblume

You're doing it wrong

When Joanna Muir woke up in the middle of the night, it wasn't unexpected. There wasn't any particular change in atmosphere, or a sudden sound. She didn't need the bathroom, she wasn't cold. She just woke up.

What was different, though, was the sign that had appeared since she went to sleep. It was simple enough -  a poster on her wall that looked to have been attached with sticky tape. It said, "You're doing it wrong."

A simple statement, perhaps meaningful, perhaps not. Joanna didn't spend much time on the message. She was more concerned about how it had got there, how somebody had got into her bedroom. Frankly, she was instantly creeped out.

Decidedly frightened, she got out of bed very fast and went to the door, listened, and pushed it open. All was as usual and she took some unconscious comfort in that. 

Joanna explored the adjacent rooms, mentally before physically, and then went downstairs carefully. 

Again, nothing, and a further explore showed all entrances, windows and placements to be as they should be. All were entirely as she had left them the previous evening.

She made herself a tea, and sat for a while, thinking. She decided it wasn't an immediate police matter, but it would be in the morning. She tried to re-ravel her nerves, thought that bed was the place to be, and went back upstairs.

As she entered her room, the sign fluttered slightly, not that it needed her attention. Next to it, a new sign had appeared. "And you still are", it said.

That was that. She grabbed and threw on some clothes, left the house in panic, got into her car, and drove. 

It might be that the risk to her, driving at speed in an unfocused state, was greater than whatever was at home; it certainly didn't feel that way and there was no such analysis going on. There were moments she caught herself sobbing with fear.

The lights of a hotel - the nearest - appeared. People. Help. A phone to use. Warmth.

She pulled in to park the car. As she reached to open the door, she found it locked and unopenable. She screamed. Her scream threw her head back and her eyes passed the interior mirror. And in the mirror, she saw a shape, a thing...a person, sitting in the back seat. It smiled at her.

She saw a shape, a thing...a person

She didn't faint. Somehow this concretisation of her fear helped - the potentials collapsed into the understandable, however horrific that might be. It was now a particular situation with a particular circumstance and could, in some way be navigated.

The figure cleared its throat. "Oh, sorry", it said. "Didn't mean to startle you. Hi."

This entirely unexpected approach was more than confusing. The waves of confusion fell upon the shore of her remaining certainty, as she opened her mouth to speak. Before any words could blossom, she noticed, all at once and yet all in a sequence, that the figure was a woman. A small slab of the fear glacier fell away. Moreover, it was a familiar woman. Very familiar. In fact, it was herself.

Joanna turned around in her seat. "What the..I mean..no, I mean, what the?" 

Joanna Back Seat said "Oh sorry, I'd forgotten what it was like when I saw - you - that it is to say, when you...Look, do you want a coffee?"

There seemed little choice, and Joanna Front Seat closed her mouth, stunned. Then she shrugged. "Sure", she said.

Now the car door opened, and the two of them walked to the hotel. Wary at first, Joanna's fear and rage had by now turned to open astonishment and confusion, but these emotions allowed her to walk next to herself to the hotel lobby. She even had the presence of mind to say "What will they say, there being two of us?"

"Twins", said the other Joanna, shortly.

Nobody did ask, or comment. The two Joannas sat in the lobby. One wanted coffee, the other needed it.

One wanted coffee, and the other needed it

"So?", said Joanna.

"Well, I bet you think I'm from the future, or the past, right? Or it's a multi-Universe, I've hopped over here from another. Actually, I know that's what you think because you're me."

This was confusing too, but somehow made sense, because these theories were exactly what Joanna was thinking. It was strange knowing that what you think was known to someone else, but then of course this wasn't someone else. The strangeness began to abate and grow simultaneously.

Two coffees later, and everything and nothing became clear. One Joanna had been asleep, and the other Joanna had found herself in her bedroom, with the sign in her hand. She had stuck it to the wall, though she didn't know why. She had followed the first Joanna to the car, though how she had been undetected was a mystery too. To be honest, this whole thing was as puzzling to Joanna as it was to Joanna.

"So, let get this straight", said both of the Joannas, simultaneously. "I - you - were asleep, and I -you found yourself in my room and then..well, wait, what?"

They looked puzzled. One Joanna moved nearer the other, perhaps to hear better. One reached her hand for her coffee cup, and so did the other. They reached for the same cup.

As their fingers met, they somehow merged into one another. "Oh my God", they said, as they moved closer again, shuffling up the seat.

They became one single Joanna

They leaned back, leaned against each other, merged, became one single Joanna.

After a few minutes, Joanna got up, left the hotel and drove home. There was no note, no sign that anything had ever happened. She went to bed, somehow no longer frightened, but still infinitely puzzled.

The next morning, Joanna went through her usual routine. She made her breakfast, left the house, went to work. Although all seemed normal, she found it hard to concentrate on the job in hand, and after a while, left her desk for a break.

In the little kitchen, she turned on the kettle, got a mug from the cupboard, and turned to see a sign taped to the wall. 

"Nope,"it said. "Still wrong."

Mr. Ectoplasm

 

By Glen L. Bledsoe 

Jimmy Allen Cotton was raised by his aunt after his parents went to jail as a result of being involved in a Ponzi scheme that cheated quite a number of people out of their retirement funds. Jimmy's Aunt Sally had her own business. She was a medium and fortune teller plus she had a pet washing facility that made her a little money on the side.

Aunt Sally took Jimmy in and made him her assistant during seances. He was the one who created the illusion of ectoplasm coming out of his aunt's orifices (if that isn't too crude of a word to use). Much to his Aunt Sally's delight Jimmy discovered that he could exude ectoplasm from his fingertips and from the corners of his mouth without any gimmicks.

Jimmy took to the stage and soon became famous. He performed before audiences around the world and was even invited to perform for the President of the United States at the White House. However, at a reception for a show he put on in Cleveland, Ohio someone challenged him to eat a jar filled with hot peppers. Jimmy won the challenge and $50 USD in cash, but the burns in his mouth made it impossible for him to exude ectoplasm again. Jimmy, however, was not discouraged and opened up a dry cleaning business and was quite financially successful. He still looks back at his days on stage as Mr. Ectoplasm as the best days of his life.

The Four

 By Glen L. Bledsoe 

School was over for the day and the custodian came in to sweep and empty wastepaper baskets. I don't remember how the topic came up now, but the old man said, "I ever tell you the story about the Elk's picnic I went to a few years back?"

He knew he hadn't, but that was okay. He was about to tell a story and even though I had papers to grade I shook my head.

"Well, we were all standing there with plates full of baked beans, potato salad and fried chicken when just off to one side we noticed a group of people walking along a path dressed in formal clothes, but old fashioned. Like 1920's. You could see they were having a conversation. Even though we all stopped talking and stared, strain as we might we couldn't hear a word they were saying even though we weren't that far away. At one point the Four turned their heads sharply in our direction as if they'd heard something, but stared right through us as if we weren't even there. The path they were following made a sharp turn as it approached a stone faced outcropping. But instead of turning with the path the Four walked straight into the wall and vanished without a trace."

"Ghosts?" I said.

"I don't think so," the custodian said. "I think they were caught in an imperfection of time. Some bubble that briefly leaked light from their time into ours or maybe vice versa." Then he shrugged. "I got other rooms to clean. See you tomorrow."

The Unfortunate Store

 

By Glen L. Bledsoe 

ASTORIA, ORE - Experts say that these new businesses unfairly target poor neighborhoods and the economically disadvantaged. Almost overnight businesses that buy, sell and trade misfortunes are springing up like mushrooms after a rain. Where did it all start and how do these businesses impact our communities?

Beaverton businessman Philip Henri-Bones, owner of a large chain of laundromats in the Pacific Northwest and newly opened "The Unfortunate Store," (pictured) in Astoria says he got the idea after reading James Joyce's short story "The Sin Eaters." The notion came to him that those who wish to shed the emotional weight of their personal tragedies might shift them to someone else-for a price. What makes this so devastating to our poor neighborhoods is that minorities who are well used to things going pear-shaped are taking on these burdens in exchange for quick cash at an alarming rate.

Dr. Jean Sheldon, Professor of Statistical Burdens and Calamities at the University of Oregon said, "The poor are experienced in bad luck and so they are more emotionally fortified when things go wrong. The well-to-do are taking advantage of this trait and in exchange for significant fees are shifting their guilt and social burdens onto the poor."

This has attracted the attention of the Oregon Fortunes Commission (OFC). Spokesperson Earl Wittles says he believes that laws are probably being violated, but admitted that this is a legal gray area. State Senator James Coville told reporters he has plans to introduce legislation to address these matters in the upcoming session in Salem.

The managers of two of the largest chains "Tragedy Depot" and "Tough Luck World" did not return phone calls from our reporters.

The Bather

 By Glen L. Bledsoe 

This illustration depicts the legend of the moment before Dooth, the leader of the Funnelbeaker peoples, first gazes upon Mar-Thol (who is about to disrobe to bath in the Nile) and becomes besotted with her beauty. They marry only later to be cursed with immortality with the memories of each other's face erased by Arka-Arkitutti, the Witch-Queen of the Sea Peoples. For eternity they criss-cross the planet searching for one another with aching hearts.

Somebody needs to write an opera around this.

The Herring Lasses

By Martin Sercombe

Herring lasses with baskets of herring.

 

Herring lasses were groups of women who would travel the east coast of the United Kingdom from as far north as Aberdeen to as far south as Great Yarmouth, following herring as they migrated throughout the year.

Herring, sometimes called ‘silver darlings’‚ are a small fish that were caught in huge numbers in the North Sea from the eighteenth century right up until the mid twentieth century.

Over the course of the year, the herring migrated to new breeding grounds, so the best place to sail from to catch them would change depending on the time of year.

Men worked on trawler ships catching the herring, but on land, it was the women‚ whose job it was to preserve them. Because there was no refrigeration, when herring were caught, they needed to be salted, smoked or frozen quickly. The herring girls typically salted their catches.

Women worked in groups of three or four, gutting and salting, each group packing one barrel at a time. The women were paid depending on the amount of barrels they finished, so it paid to work fast.

The work was all outside, so it could be freezing cold in the winter. Standing in a quagmire of mud and fish guts (imagine the smell!), the women worked with sharp knives to gut the fish, which could cause injuries. It was also extremely tiring‚ as the women had to work for as long as it took to gut and salt the whole day’s catch, which could be up to fifteen hours a day.

Herrings were over-fished by 1960 and from 1977 to 1981 fishing herring in the North Sea was banned. When fishing resumed, the herring industry no longer existed.

Night is Paper

by Martin Sercombe and Thom Conroy

 Night is Paper is a cine-poetic collaboration with novelist Dr Thom Conroy.

The artistic process began with a slide show of images generated in Midjourney. The images prompted a sequence of text-based fragments which combine to evoke a sense of eves-dropping into a shadowy, indistinct world where nothing can be fully understood.

A mix of found sounds and electroacoustic music from the Free Music Archive build upon this mood of unexplained mystery.

Songs

By Martin Sercombe and E.E.Cummings

 

 

The American poet E. E. Cummings’ work began to enter the public domain in 2019, which then allowed other artists to make use of his poetry in derivative works across a range of media.

 

 Taking advantage of this, Songs chooses five short poems from his first three volumes: Tulips and Chimneys, & and XLI Poems as the basis for extension into the realm of the moving image.

 

 The translation poses a number of challenges, namely finding ways to preserve the lyrical flow of Cummings’ language as it might be read or spoken, whilst preserving his idiosyncratic use of syntax, line breaks and punctuation. The second challenge is finding appropriate ways to illustrate Cummings’ word images without over defining or misconstruing their meanings or intents. 

 

These five works make no claims to have solved these problems. Rather, they attempt to preserve the spirit of the original works via complementary sounds, music and imagery, reinventing and reimagining them in the process.

 

All the images were generated using Midjourney, and the soundtracks comprise of public domain music selected from the Free Music Archive.

somewhere i have never travelled

 By Martin Sercombe. Poem by e.e. cummings

 

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands


 

Hiding the Children

 By Glen L. Bledsoe 

The mother of my new student asked to speak to me in the hallway. She showed me a photograph of a man who could have been the winner of a Charlie Manson look-alike contest. She said, "If you ever see this man around the school immediately call the police. He is my children's father and he has sworn to sacrifice them to Satan."

My jaw fell open. Not the usual greetings exchanged between a parent and a teacher on a new student's first day.

She continued, "We've been moving from campground to campground, town to town trying to escape him for two years."

I looked back at the students through the door to my classroom. "I will see that your son is safe," I said, "and l'll talk to your daughter's teacher. We'll have a plan to hide them if necessary."

We did make a plan, but it was never implemented because within six weeks they had moved on. I have no idea whether they are still on the run or not.

True story, I'm sorry to say.

The Autobiography of Jacob Henrik

 

By Glen L. Bledsoe 

Jacob Henrik was a man dedicated to perfection. The secret of his success, he would tell everyone he knew or happened upon the street, was his attention to details. No problem could escape solution if one methodically applied his resources to sorting through the intricacies and correcting errors every step of the way. It was his formula for success. It had made him one of the wealthiest men on the eastern coast of the Americas. 

As Jacob Henrik approached his fiftieth year he decided that it was incumbent upon him that he share his secrets to the world at large to not only running a successful business (or string of businesses as was his case), but to lead a better, healthier, happier life. To that end he decided to write an autobiography--an autobiography of a man who attended to details. 

Jacob Henrik knew his strengths and he knew his weaknesses. While he was master of ledger books and business agreements, of railroads and coal mines, and he knew that his 8th grade education left him unprepared to take on the telling of the story of his life in print. He understood that certain work had to be delegated, that one man could not take on every task, but could oversee the tasks of those who he managed. 

Over the period of several months he dictated his life’s story to a secretary who in turned handed the text over to an editor who in turn sent it to a team of proof readers who line by line wrangled the tangled rules of spelling, punctuation, grammar and capitalization, then double- and triple checked their efforts until they were satisfied that their work was polished and perfect in every way without error. Upon Jacob Henrik’s approval they sent the book to the printer. 

Upon receiving 35,000 copies of the book, almost seven and three-quarter tons of paper, which were placed in a special storage unit designed to preserve the volumes in pristine condition until ready to be given away to relatives and business associates, Jacob Henrik opened a fresh copy of his leather bound life story to the title page to autograph it and noticed: 

“The Autobiography of Jacob Henry” 

His last name was misspelled.

The Lost Children (Part 2)

 

 The Lost Children (Part 2) by Martin Sercombe

 

Two of the boys decided to take matters in hand.

Together they would hunt for a new home,

a place where life might be a little easier.

They looked for a boat to take them down river.

On a misty morning they rowed downstream towards the ocean.

Soon after, two of the girls followed behind.

But the coastal town proved as desolate as the city they had left behind. 

Wild storms had destroyed much of what they found.

 Making it hard to choose a place to call home.

The Value of Now is Always One (1)

By Glen L. Bledsoe 

The true nature of time is counterintutive to the every day experiences of our daily lives. Everyone would agree that the present is fixed (that is simply is), but what is not apparent is that the future and especially the past shift to assure the stable experience of the present. That is to say, the Reliability of Now. 

History, memory, archeological reilcs and records of all kinds are soft, malleable. Events can ony be measured as numeric probabilities, and as such given values only between zero (0) and one (1). The farther back into the past, the less certain the event becomes, the smaller the value, the more flexible the event becomes, the more stable the present. It may be thought of as less an issue of altering the past to suit the present and more an adjustment as to the likelihood that events did or did not occur as they are understood at the present. Which leaves events of the past as shadowy, nebulous and as open-ended as the future. 

The closer to an event to the present, the higher the probability value until we reach the present, which is the only thing we can give a value of one (1)--simply because it is. 

The future is much like the past. The future shuffles itself to make certain that the value of Now is always one (1). The future and the past have only a single purpose, which is to create the present, the Now. The Past + the Future = Now. Only in this way can we move through time. Without it we become unstuck.

How will this understanding change your life and how will it improve your experience and appreciation of Now?

Father Duvall

 

By Glen L. Bledsoe 

FATHER DUVALL, an itinerant priest, draws crowds to listen to him preach wherever he goes, whichever chapel, church, synagogue, temple, mosque, community center, manor or home invites him. He, in the company of his traveling companion Brother Neb (who in spite of being blind greets everyone he meets by name whether he has met them before or not), travel from village to village, town to town, crossing county and country borders, continents from century to century. 

Father Duvall speaks. Father Duvall takes confession. Father Duvall witnesses. Father Duvall listens and advises. Father Duvall chastens. Father Duvall investigates. Father Duvall aids those who need him in meaningful and life-changing ways. He sometimes is known by other names, other appearances, but his work is always the same.

The Lost Children

The Lost Children by Martin Sercombe 

 

Throughout the city, people started to die of unknown causes.

As each year past, the plague struck younger.

Soon there was no one left over the age of sixteen.

 

 

For those that remained, the mutations started slowly.

One child grew an extra finger,

another an odd shaped thumb.

A great forgetfulness spread across the city.

The children struggled to understand the purpose of the things left behind.

The word ‘fun’ almost vanished from their vocabulary.

A few youngsters tried to bring a little joy back into their lives.

A makeshift circus traveled from ravaged street to street.

The performers made do with whatever they could find.

A tame rat and a threadbare teddy bear became the stars of the show.

 Led by the extraordinary juggling skills of Klara the Clown.

But in the end, the challenges of everyday existence took their toll.

 

 

Soon the shops would empty

and the children would have to leave the city in search of food.