Start Writing Annual 2016

By Start Writing Brigade

The 2016 Start Writing Annual drops with 20 original stories, poems and comics by:
Ariel Goldblatt, Elisha Gennara, Jean Blacklock, Daniella Musarella-Kelly, Stephanie Christmas, Yashin Blake, Miranda Hargraves, Susheela Willis, Elizabeth Holmes, Nerissa Martin, Jill Firman, Simona Dragu, Tasha Stewart, Marie Van Wassenhoven, Sanaz Ghasemi, Timothy Taylor, Daven Sharma, Christie McNabb, Dale Sheldrake.

As for the title: "Anybody Want to go First?" is the question I ask at the end of every group writing exercise. Initially I asked contributors to indicate what exercise led to their submissions. But I left these bits out. As with most things we create, it isn’t where we start but where we end up that matters. - David Bester, Editor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Dec 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365595660

Book preview

journalcover01.jpg

anybody

want to

go first?

Anybody Want to Go First?

The Start Writing Annual 2016

StartWriting.ca

© 2016

Cover art and layouts: David Bester

All rights reserved, including right of reproduction in whole or in part or in any other form.

For permissions, additional copies and more information, visit StartWriting.ca.

Contents

David Bester - Editor's Note

Ariel Goldblatt - #Errors

Elisha Gennara - Sant-Anna

Jean Blacklock - Thief

Daniela Musarella-Kelley - Broken Hearts and Electric Yoga

Stephanie Christmas - Hot Nothing

Yashin Blake - Ow: The Future

Miranda Hargraves - Time Machine

Susheela Willis - Michelle's Couch

Elizabeth Holmes - Moving On

Nrissa Martin - Post-mortem

Jill Ferman - When You Know

Simona Dragu - Absurd Story of the Desk and the Egg

Tasha Stewart - A Clean Break

Maria Van Wassenhoven - Two Poems

Sanaz Ghasemi - Type to Roll

Timothy Taylor - Growings

Daven Sharma - Dry Harvest

Christie McNabb - Punch

Dale Sheldrake - Light Bulb

Acknowledgements

StartWriting.ca

David Bester - Editor's Note

David Bester

Editor’s Note

Anybody want to go first? That’s what I ask every time we finish a writing exercise in my workshops. I must have asked this question north of 400 times in 2015.

After a bit of hemming and hawing, maybe some shoegazing, someone offers to share and the floodgates open. I got to hear more than 2,000 stories, poems and scenes in all—a pretty great return on a simple question. This collection is made up of pieces that got their start through this process.

Initially I asked contributors to indicate what prompt or exercise led to their submissions. Some remembered, some didn’t and in the end I decided not to include any of these details. As with most things we create, it isn’t where we start but where we end up that matters.

Ariel Goldblatt - #Errors

Ariel Goldblatt

#Errors

I don’t like to talk about what happened behind those doors. Once they close, you have no idea what to expect. It goes without saying that everything you may know about this prison system is wrong. There are no religious conversions or workshops or illicit relationships between convicts and guards. Instead, there’s just a cube. Just big enough for me and scientifically calculated to be the minimum size humans need to survive.

Before they ushered me into my cube, I was snipped. Three times to be exact. I was guided into a room where robot arms extended from the walls. I could hear the voices of the court appointed surgeons as they chatted back and forth, totally ignoring the fact there was a person secured to a slab. Dazed, I picked up enough of their conversation to know that I would leave that room a little less whole than I had entered. I was fitted with a metal headband, the latest advance in anesthesia. It didn’t feel like anything and could pass as a fashion accessory to increase brainwaves. The doctors quickly retreated to the safety of an observation room as the robot arms sprang to life, reaching for me. When the blackness faded, I was myself again but something was different. I felt the prickles of the careless razor burn in the place where neck becomes head. There were two other incisions on my lower abdomen that I only noticed later. They had less to do with mind control while I was locked away and more with making sure my tainted DNA wouldn’t be passed down to future generations of #ERRORS.

Inside the cube is a cot, toilet, and suicide shelf. Every day the lights go on at random times. They go off the same way. You stick your arm through a hole in the wall and are fed nutrients intravenously. It’s only you and you and more you. There is no time. There is no routine. There are just four walls and silence. So much silence that you may wander over to the suicide shelf and see what’s there. So many things you can make or items you can misuse to abuse yourself. Because that’s what it’s really like. On the ceiling is a harness that you can slip a belt or a rope into. The interior walls of the cubes are mirrored. For some people coming face to face with themselves is punishment enough. I would find myself over at that shelf at least ten times a day. Have a conversation with a dull blade or a debate with a man I made out of rope. I tried running into those mirrors in the hope I would knock myself out but I always slowed down at the last minute. It was just me, 360 degrees worth on all sides, and I was such a coward.

There could have been five other people in this prison, or 500, or even 5,000. I had no idea. I didn’t know how close the next cube over was. I banged on the side once but only felt the inside of my cube shake back at me.

I was finally living up to my surname #ERROR. Before she left, my mother filled out my birth certificate to the best of her ability: typing in the fields, without even bothering to read the instructions. And that’s how I ended up with the last name of #ERROR. When I was a kid, I used to pretend that was my father’s name but once you fill out enough electronic forms, you quickly understand this isn’t a surname but a fail code.

When they grabbed my arm and put that note in my hand, I felt something I hadn’t for a long time: hope. It was only one sheet of translucent film but it could have been the key to unlock all of the mysteries of the universe. To me, they were identical. Interchangeable. I devoured information about the EXCON program like it was one of those leather bound paper holders from old projections. It didn’t explain much but it told me just enough to turn the switch in my brain from exist to live. I didn’t know if anyone would ever come back or if the note was real or a joke the people in charge used to fuck with us. I didn’t care because it was a crack. Just a tiny moment to break up the nothing from the nothing. I memorized every word in that note. I whispered them to myself when I was lonely and read them backward when I was bored. I played games and wondered if when I read the first word of each sentence it would spell out a secret code. But there was no code. Just instructions in steps and information about liability.

When they finally returned and asked me if I was interested, I shrugged and said why not. But inside, I was begging. Please! Please pick me!

I don’t know how