UNCONVENTIONAL UNCONVENTIONAL F O R T H E D E E P E R S T U F F THE THE IVAN DE MONBRISON TETE DEPUNK ALEXANDER ETHERIDGE NICHOLAS LEONARD HOLT IMELDA WEI DING LO S.G. MALLET YUKTA MUNIRAJ CHAITALI NATH TED NAUGHTON SHAWN SCOTT SMITH R N ROVELEH PATRICK TSAO L I T E R A T U R E & A R T V O L U M E 1 S E P T E M B E R 1 2 0 2 2 LIT FOR HEAVY HEARTS AND HEAVIER MINDS COURIER COURIER C O V E R A R T B Y R . N . R O V E L E H
Table of Contents The Unconventional Courier September 2022 02 06 Prose 66 Poetry 91 Creators' Corner Talking Heads 94 Interview with Chaitali Nath 99 Artist Feature: Machiavelli03 105 Looking Ahead 107
By Imelda Wei Ding Lo (a.k.a. Fortunus Games) Raisa Abramov's friendship with the wily Ardalion takes a sinister turn... Blue Heart
By Yukta Muniraj
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Two people have a conversation about the hidden feelings in their relationship, which no one ever talks about. Waters of Sky
Mephistopheles Tips His Hat
Prose The Unconventional Courier September 2022 03
06
By R.N. Roveleh Young noblewoman Ranneveig reflects on her fading adolescence as she takes a final summer trip with childhood friends.
Prose The Unconventional Courier September 2022 04
A
55Nightmare In Red, No. 1 (I)
By Tete Depunk Andrei and Tamara venture to Aleksandr Park, where they reveal their own present desires and longing for the past. Scar Naughton scar narrates how he came to be.
By Ted
47I,
66 69 73The Sixth Day of the Lunar Calendar & Other Poems By S.G. Mallet 5 Poems By Ivan De MonBrison Available Plot Points By Shawn Scott Smith Poetry The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost is the Name & Other Poems By Alexander Etheridge Poems by Nicholas Leonard Holt By Nicholas Leonard Holt 88 78 05
Tips His Hat Written and Illustrated
By Imelda Wei Ding Lo
Mephistopheles
(Instagram/Twitter: @fortunusgames) Previously Published in The Victoria Literary Festival The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Mephistopheles Tips His Hat by Fortunus Games 06
Mephistopheles Tips His Hat
On the surface, Ardalion Ivanovich Mayakov was just another one of my husband’s colleagues at the Bowery Labour Union. The proud owner of the anarchist bookstore, Ardalion Books and Gifts, Ardalion (“Please, Mrs. Abramov,” he had said, “Call me Ardalion none of that Mister nonsense! We are all comrades in arms in our fight against crony capitalism!”) described himself as “a provocateur, a lover of life, and above all, a staunch materialist.”
Written and Illustrated By Imelda Wei Ding Lo
“Son, the greatest trick the Devil pulled was convincing the world there was only one of him.” ― David Wong, John Dies at the End." Only after his bowler hat fell off his head did I realize what kind of man he was.
(Instagram/Twitter: @fortunusgames) The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Mephistopheles Tips His Hat by Fortunus Games 07
Glib and charming in his own dark, provocative manner, Ardalion was also as I gleaned from neighbourhood rumours quite the Lothario.
“What can I say?” I had overheard him saying one morning to my husband, Lev, at a labour union meeting. “I love life, Mr. Abramov. I love being alive I love enjoying all that life has to offer. Persistence, Mr. Abramov that’s all seduction really is. It’s an art, just like protesting and handing out anarchist pamphlets.” And persistent he was.
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But now, this strange man had suddenly popped into my life. There was an element of seduction to his words, which touched me in a way I didn’t know I could be touched. He said a lot of wonderful, flattering things about me things my dour, stone-faced husband would never say. He told me I was beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished, which at least for a while soothed the fears I have long held about myself, the life I led, and the relationship I had with Sam and Lev.
I was first introduced to him through Lev, who has long been involved at the Bowery Labour Union. A trim man in his late forties with slicked back honey brown hair and piercing hazel eyes, Ardalion was well known at the union for his anarchist leanings. A fellow immigrant from Russia, he hailed from the northern city of Moscow, where he had “learned from the best”
I suppose he was referring to the anarchist groups that were springing up like wildfire all over the Russian Empire from the 1880s to the 1900s.
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One thing led to another, and soon, I found myself ensnared by the interest he showed in me. Truth be told, ever since my son, Sam, got accepted into law school, and Lev began spending nearly all of his waking hours at work or at the labour union, I had sunken into a depressed state I would’ve never imagined myself in. I felt overlooked, worthless, unattractive, and unappreciated, despite and perhaps, in spite of all the hard work I put into my newspaper articles and into soliciting clients for our family business, “Abramov Printing House.”
“Oh, Raisa,” he had later crooned in Russian in a private conversation between the two of us. “Tell me more about your youth in Odessa. I have always wanted to go to that lovely southern city by the sea, but alas, I never had the chance while I was still in Russia.”
We were in a private room in a speakeasy a place I would’ve never even thought of entering into just a few weeks prior to meeting Ardalion. Before Ardalion, I had been, as my son put it, the “epitome of the overprotective, conservative parent,” suspicious of any and all people who didn’t fit into the mould of what Lev and I had come to define as “acceptable.”
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Someone who cursed too much? Or, after Sam turned eight, cursed at all? No, never talk to that person again.
Alcohol? Out of the question, particularly after Prohibition.
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Talking to Ardalion and thinking long and hard about what my son had previously said to me made me realize that I had been too hard headed and close minded about these kinds of things before. Why? All because of fear.
Someone who enjoyed going to the Lower East Side Fighting Club to learn self defence? No, don’t talk to that person, Sam he might be violent!
“Raya, [1] I can see that you’re driven primarily by fear,” Ardalion had pointed out to me that evening at the speakeasy. “Why? Why are you so...afraid?” A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “I am?” “Yes, you are. You’re afraid of losing business, you’re afraid that your son will drop out of law school you’re afraid that your son won’t be able to support hims your husband has become a diff [1] = An affectionate diminutive form of “Raisa” in Russian.
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“Well, Raya, I think you’re afraid that your husband has, let’s say, changed since he came to America, am I correct?”
“Everyone changes. I have changed. You yourself have undoubtedly changed since coming to America, have you not?” I felt blood rise to my cheeks. Something about this question wasn’t right. Why was he asking something so personal? Sure, we had talked about more personal topics before, but not like this.
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I flinched at the last sentence. “What do you mean?” My voice was suddenly hoarse.
“You’re exaggerating.” I frowned. “I’m not as fearful as you say I am.”
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“Of course. But you are not happy with how he is, I believe. I can see it written all over your face. I may not have known you for very long, but I noticed that you are not a happy woman by any definition.”
“And what is that to you…?”
“You’re right what is it to me?” Ardalion smiled and leaned back in his chair. Propping his face on his hand, he gazed hypnotically into my eyes and continued, “I’m just a down to earth working class guy who likes to criticize and problematize the oppressive power structures that exist here in the so-called Land of the Free, Home of the Brave. But Raya I care. You’re one of the few women whom I’ve come to care about. You’re an intelligent, beautiful, and generous woman. I’ve yet to meet anyone quite like you on the Lower East Side. To see someone like you driven to such a state because of fear it is truly a tragedy.”
“Maybe I am fearful,” I conceded, “but that’s just my way of showing love and concern for my son.”
“Ah, but the chances of that happening are quite slim, are they not? Why not give an energetic young man like your son more freedom to live the life he’s always wanted to live…?”
“Really?” His hand edged closer to mine on the coffee table. “Really, Raya? Then why does your son, who is now twenty-one years old, not ten years old, often complain about the curfew that you and his father have imposed on him?” I felt the hackles on the back of my neck rise. “The curfew is to protect him. Just last week, a young man was shot to death on his way back from night classes! We just don’t want “
“A way of showing love and affection that’s based on fear? Sounds like what you’ve told me about your husband.”
“Keep your nose out of my marital life, please. ”
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I shuddered, thinking of the disagreement that had taken place between the two of them just two days ago.
“Why do you think that is?”
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“Fair enough,” I gave him a hard smile. “It’s true that I have been feeling rather down these last couple of months.”
“Why?” I sighed and turned my gaze away from him. Focusing my gaze instead on the Art Nouveau paintings behind him, I continued, “Sam always says he wants to drop out of law school. He says he feels ‘called’ to be an actor, not a lawyer, and well, every time he mentions this to my husband, he and my husband start screaming and yelling at each other.”
“I apologize,” Ardalion looked down, apparently embarrassed. “That’s not what I meant. I-I’m just concerned, Raya, since I think you should face your fears head on and that you should come to terms with the negative emotions that you have about your current life.”
“It’s not a pleasant thing to witness, and these disagreements are happening more and more often as Sam becomes increasingly convinced that it’s his fate to be an actor.” I rolled my eyes. “My son can be a very foolish boy. He doesn’t realize just how cruel and terrible the world actually is…and how hard it is to make ends meet.”
Taking my hand in his rough, leathery ones, Ardalion said, “I understand, Raya. I too will have to deal with these fears once my boy, Mitya, grows up. He’s only twelve now, but he’s already becoming quite the talker, though not as much as your Sam.”
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“If there is something Sam is good at, it’s talking. The boy can talk for hours at an end. Even when you think you have nothing in common with him, he’ll somehow manage to find a common topic and yammer on about it for the next ten or so hours,” I smiled briefly, remembering how Sam had managed to make conversation with the unexpressive and taciturn undertaker, Mr. Haldersen.
“That’s why Lev thought Sam should become a lawyer. You know, lawyers do a lot of talking and arguing, which of which come very naturally to him.”
“But,” I continued, sighing again, “what Lev decides for Sam isn’t always what Sam wants. Come to think of it, the two rarely agree with each other on anything. Sam’s stubborn, but Lev is perhaps even more staggeringly so. He’s hard to get through at times. So uncommunicative. So hellbent on what he thinks is right. So...cold.”
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“He wasn’t always like this,” I murmured, lost in my own memories of our youth spent in Odessa. Once upon a time, we had been a handsome, energetic couple. Now? We were just another boring, schlubby, middle-aged couple trying our darndest to make sure our son will have the perfect, middle class American lifestyle we had always wanted for ourselves but have had yet to achieve.”
Ardalion’s eyes widened slightly. “He is cold, I agree. From what I see of him at the meetings, anyways. I mean, I don’t know him that well. But it seems to be the case that he is cold. Even our colleagues think he is. Judgmental, too.”
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[2] = An affectionate diminutive of “Ardalion” in Russian.
“He wasn’t always so cold and so judgmental. You’re right, Ardasha [2] he has changed. The man I fell in love with all those years ago in Odessa no longer exists. He’s been replaced by this stern patriarch who always has to have his way. He’s never bothered to listen to me, particularly not after Sam started high school. After that, it was just ‘Sam must go to law school! He must!’ He doesn’t even care about what really makes Sam happy. Honestly, it would be nice if Sam had the chance to pursue acting. Most people never find something that makes them so happy, but at the very least, even if he can’t make a living from acting, at least Sam has been able to find something he truly enjoys doing!”
I paused, exhausted by my sudden emotional outburst. Ardalion leaned closer to me and we locked eyes. For a split second, I felt dizzy. Was it the alcohol I had just consumed? Or was it “Raya.” His hand tightened around mine as his face drew closer to mine and suddenly, I felt his lips graze mine. Feeling a surge of panic, I suddenly shrieked and pushed him away. As his bowler hat flew to the floor, I realized with a stab of regret just who and what he was.
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Just another stinking Lothario, always on the prowl for bored, defenceless women to seduce. What a demon this man was a bona fide Mephistopheles, exuding class, empathy and social conscience. All of this superficial charm, however, was just a means to an end.
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What a fool I was to tell him so much about myself. He was planning this all along! With my heart still thumping loudly, I scowled at him, “What was that? Excuse me, Ardalion or should I say, Mr. Mayakov what was that?!” The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Mephistopheles Tips His Hat by Fortunus Games 22
He held his hands up and flashed an apologetic, wolfish grin. “I see that I have peeved you.”
“Peeved is an understatement,” I growled. “Get away from me. I don’t want to see you ever again, Mayakov. Preying on me when I was at my weakest!
All because I have some insecurities about my family life…!”
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“You don’t love your husband. You admitted it yourself.”
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“Go ahead,” Ardalion sneered, “Tell him about it. Let’s see what goody two shoes Lev will do.”
“Be quiet. Don’t put words into my mouth, you pathetic gaslighter. I’m going home. I I’m telling my husband about this.”
I never did see that slimeball of an anarchist bookseller again but from what my Levka [3] has told me, Ardalion is still the same to this very day.
Some people never change.
[3] = An affectionate diminutive of “Lev” in Russian.
Imelda Wei Ding Lo (a.k.a. Fortunus Games) is a multi disciplinary writer, artist, podcaster, and game developer who is passionate about environmentalism, technology, alternative health, and above all, story telling mediums that explore character psychology and development.
She has also self published two graphic novels, "Sam in New York" and "The Book of Joel," which are currently being updated weekly on Tapas.io.
Tips His Hat by Fortunus Games
Imelda is also the co host of the literary podcast, "The Nuts and Bolts of Writing," which is on YouTube, Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and other platforms, which are all linked in the podcast’s Anchor.fm profile.
Imelda's short story, "Mephistopheles Tips His Hat," was published in the Victoria Literary Festival's 2019 short story anthology.
About the Author
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Mephistopheles
Some of her artworks, including "The Modern Tantalus" and "Farewell My Father's Son," were exhibited at THE HOLY ART and Boomer Art Gallery in London, England, in 2021.
You can find her on Twitter/Instagram @fortunusgames. Her website is www.fortunusgames.com.
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Blue Heart Yukta Muniraj
Written by Yukta Muniraj
She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at him. His gentle features shone through the window light. She tried to count the number of times she had been lost looking at him. How can someone not do anything and yet make you feel a wave of emotions that cannot be described?
She fidgeted with her band on her wrist, thinking about how he felt for her. He had been a mystery to her, a man of few words, they said, but his actions were what spoke to her at times.
The very same hands that stroked her body and made her eyes roll. He noticed her staring through the mirror and gave her one of those sly smiles. She looked down at her feet at that moment. Sometimes she could not figure out how she felt about the emotions that she felt.
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She watched his muscles move when he lifted his hands to stroke his hair.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Blue Heart by
"The giving of love is an education in itself." Eleanor Roosevelt
She turned to look at him, and she blurred out that she loved him... before she knew it. It was out of her mouth.
William just nodded. That nod felt like a sharp edged knife had just grazed her heart through, and she looked away.
Before she realised it, her vision got blurry with tears and she heard him say it in a whisper then. "I love you." She felt she kind of begged for it. William had told her he did not like labeling the thing they had in between them. She always found it funny how people usually refer to their relationship as a "thing". She was so into him that she didn't care about the terms she agreed on to be with him and the consequences of it. At lunch with friends, they would ask her about her relationship and she would often have to describe it to them.
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Him holding her knees in the cab or unconsciously bringing her to the side of the road while walking, touching her cheeks and just looking into her eyes until she started to giggle and they both started laughing.
She called him her dear William. In the past 21 years of her existence, no one read her the way he did. She looked at him then, that night, when their bodies were entangled and she just lay there curled up in his arms.
She contemplated so many times in her mind whether to say it or not, but yes, it is true when they say your heart can be stupid at times.
Friends would often say that he was using her, but how would did she tell them what the love between them felt like?
William would often make love to her. She never knew she could feel this way until he made her feel it. The imprint of his desires was left on her body and she would carry back home his scent which smelt like cardamom. She discovered pleasure which she never knew existed within her. She often wondered what made her think that was the problem between her and William. Was it the no label or the difficulty of opening up? Maybe it was both or the standards that society set up. We grow up watching people falling in love, getting together, getting married and living happily ever after, but what about the ones with broken hearts, the ones who lose hope and strength to love again, the lost ones, the ones who are not healed yet try to love?
Love itself is enough to describe it. She was grateful for what she had. Yes, people did say she deserved better, but she was proud to have a heart that could love and a life to live and explore. Because loving someone was like being alive to breathe. She feared the unlived life out there in the world, who took heartbreak as a curse. Yukta Muniraj
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The love which only the both of them witnessed? How does she describe the heat of his body and the warmth she felt with him?
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Who is going to tell their story to the world? When do we as a society start accepting that there can be love without labels?
He was just sitting quietly with his elbows resting on his knees and his head down, as if he was deep into thinking and wisely choosing his words.
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Then, he looked sideways and said, “You know that I do truly love you and you know that very well. You just want me to say that to you, don't you?" "Yes... but you rarely express how you feel and it makes me wonder if you really want to be with me at all."
Seeing tears forming up his eyes, she said, "Do you know what a blue heart means?" He gave her a puzzled expression and said, "What...? No, I don't know." Yukta Muniraj
She got up from the bed and knelt right in front of William. Then, she lifted his chin to look at her.
But what a lovely thing it was to feel every emotion and heal from it and love again. What a courageous thing that one was capable of doing. She looked at William then, the calmness this man held. She liked men who were patient and of gentle nature.
Growing up in a troubled and violent household, she found calmness to be comforting. She said, "You said you loved me. You hesitated for a while there and, I don't know, it felt like you did not truly mean it.”
"I... I am not very good at expressing myself and I cannot... I am sorry, but it is really difficult for me and I know it hurts you, the fact that I am a grown man and but I cannot express myself. I feel terrible for making you feel that way."
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"I am not good enough for you."
"I love you, Eva."
He shook his head slowly and she could see he was holding his tears back and she could sense the tightness in his voice when he spoke next.
She smiled at him and said, "Oh yeah, we all have flaws, William, and it is okay. You are not hurting me. We do not need labels to love. We only need love. Living with a broken heart is better than living unlived, and what a shame it would be not to do so."
He let out a small laugh and the tears finally fell out and he grabbed her in a tight hug. She could feel his body shaking and she slowly stroked his back. She could feel her tears budding up now.
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"I believe that when you want something, you just have to ask the universe. I asked for you to heal as well as a sign showing me whether my wish came true. In return, the sign I got was a blue heart. The next couple of days, I started seeing blue hearts on social media and I still do."
"I love you, William."
He just looked at her. She could see he was thinking hard about what to say. She took his face in her hands and said, "I know am just twenty one, but do you think emotions have any age to feel? Even if a just born baby cries when it's born, it's a sign that shows the baby will live. Do you think not being able to express how you feel makes you less of a human?
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Yukta Muniraj is from Bangalore, India. She is currently pursuing law and side by side writing poetry and short fiction. Writing has always been her hobby and also a way of expressing herself. She is 21 years old and has published a few of her poetries in reputed Indian publications. She is learning and trying to make her work reach a wider audience. the Author
About
Written and Illustrated by R.N. Roveleh (Instagram @helevorn bor) Waters of Sky The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Waters of Sky by R.N. Roveleh 32
Waters of Sky
“It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it."
The locals of Hálogaland [1] called the lake Himinnvatn, Sky Water. And this was because, on sunny windless days like this one, the sky mirrored inside it, framed by the blue peaks of the Seven Sisters in the distance. Rannveig stepped on the pebbly shore until her toes sank into the water. It was cool and bright. The sun and the light breeze pleasantly fell upon her shoulders and calves, but her dress still shielded her body against nature’s gentle caress. She was planning to go in, of course. Just not yet. It wasn’t because of the cold; she and her friends had bathed in Himinnvatn even in winter when it was frozen over, carving a hole in the ice and diving in to test their mettle. But this time, it simply felt like she needed more getting used to. Helgi and Lars, on the other hand, had no such qualms. Sprinting towards the pebbly banks of the lake, the boys dropped their clothes one by one: off flew shirts in the bushes, belts in the dirt, trousers on the rocks; shoes, however, they had none to begin with. In the blink of an eye, the two were [1] The northernmost district in medieval Norway (Old Norse)
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Written and Illustrated by R.N. Roveleh (Instagram: @helevorn
bor) 33
-W. Somerset Maugham Sky by R.N. Roveleh
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dipping to their knees into the cool and clear water, stark naked, splashing and squealing like little children. Both Lars and Helgi were eighteen now an age when people around them were already married and had children but acting their age was something these boys seemed to passionately avoid, most of all when they were together. There was energy in their every fibre, the kind of honest cheer that children unabashedly display when all the world around them is new and exciting and they seem to never tire of discovering it. Separately, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the Helgi and Lars; simple peasant boys taking life as it comes, no questions asked. But, together, they came alive. The sunny water glittered against their skins, its trickles and splashes mingling with cries of joy in a soothing tune. A popular game around those parts involved wrestlers fighting to keep their opponent underwater the longest; Helgi and Lars had already taken to it, because they missed no chance to exercise their fighting prowess. Rannveig started working her copper curls into a plait. And quietly watching their mirth she wondered, not without a grain of jealousy, how
Svanhild had already doffed her clothes as well, to follow the boys’ example, and was now running down to the lake with arms spread wide, howling. She joined in the wrestling, like a valkyrja [1] charging into battle. She was a worthy opponent to these two, especially to the lanky Helgi who was now struggling to remain on his feet.
by
the two boys had managed to preserve that naivety in spite of... life. Of life which so delighted in changing everything.
But, despite the nonchalance with which she removed her clothes and wrestled now with the boys, Svanhild was by far the most innocent and chaste of the group. She was soon to marry a family friend who was as old as her father. The girl could remember him playing tafl [2] with her father ever since she was a little child, and she’d never regarded him as more than her father’s comrade. Picturing him as husband, with all the intimacy it involved, made the vivacious girl shy and tongue tied around him. What a nightmare, Rannveig thought, to be forced into marriage with an old man! She liked her men handsome and charming and full of life, a radiating hero who turned heads, not some wrinkled and flabby greybeard who thinks himself deserving of the attentions of a young beauty. In Svanhild’s stead, she would’ve screamed and cried and begged Jarl Skjar her uncle and guardian to not give her away like that! But Svanhild always [1] Valkyrie (Old Norse) [2] Strategy board game in medieval Scandinavia. 2022 Waters of Sky R.N. Roveleh
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Svanhild always felt comfortable in her body, often joking about how hopefully her parents had named her Svan, swan, although time had proven that Svín, swine, would have been a more accurate description. With her blunt humour and self deprecating jokes, everyone enjoyed Svanhild’s company. In spite of her apparent vanity, Rannveig had never felt as confident; in the mirror, every detail had to be in place, and out there, any joke at her expense was forbidden. She was to be taken seriously at all times, respected and admired, her strive for perfection rewarded.
“Hey, Rannveig,” Gertha’s voice came from behind her. “Aren’t you going in?” Gertha, the fifth in their little group, was Helgi’s younger sister and Rannveig’s best friend. She was picking up the boys’ and Svanhild’s clothes from where they had been carelessly discarded, folding them neatly in the grass. “I need to do my hair up first. You know how it gets when it’s wet.”
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The girl took hold of Rannveig’s plait with gentle hands, unbraided it and started working it up again, with the aid of a bone comb she carried in her purse. Her wheat blonde hair was worked into an orderly crown around her head, Unconventional Waters of Sky by R.N. Roveleh
The
saw the best in people. She would shrug: “Don’t be mean, he’s just old. It’s not his fault. We’ll all get there if we’re lucky.” And a joke was always lined up to mask serious subjects: “I doubt he’ll let me wrestle naked men after the wedding, so let’s make the most of it now!”
“You made a mess of it,” she tittered. “Here, let me do it.”
Courier September 2022
sown with leather thread to keep it in place for days. It was only Gertha’s talents that managed to tame Rannveig’s messy curls into creative hairdos that roused admiration at social gatherings. In Gertha’s hands, her hair would be neat and ready.
Always careful, almost motherly, she would clean up after everyone, ask them what they wanted and how they were feeling. Unlike Svanhild, who ranged from taking everything as a joke and falling silent when the discussion turned too serious, Gertha was always supportive and considerate. She was Rannveig’s confidante and knew her every little secret. And Rannveig knew Gertha’s secrets too. Or so she always believed.
Gertha knew of every thought which had crossed Rannveig’s mind sad or hopeful, fantasy or belief or outlooks upon the world and the two girls would chat time away while spinning or embroidering together. She knew of every boy who ever inflamed Rannveig’s imagination, stringing gossip and jokes and what-ifs together like beads upon a strand, making her uncle’s great hall ring with their giggles. “What about you?” Rannveig would ask. Gertha’s answers had turned more sparing with time, until all she would say was: “Oh, it doesn’t matter. I’m not pretentious, you know that. I can get along with anyone. Besides, your stories are always more interesting.” But there was an all knowing look in her honey brown eyes, as if there was more to her than she let on. Even Helgi and Lars were different. Last summer, they had been on their first raid. Under the leadership of Yngvar Eindriði they had plundered a monastery in Northumbria, and happy though they were before departure honoured to be among Yngvar’s chosen- the boys had returned changed. Rannveig had spent her childhood feeding herself on the illusion that she,
These here were her lifelong friends, and they had always played and slept and bathed together devoid of any unclean thoughts, as if they were siblings. They used to have no secrets, nothing to hide from each other and the world. But now it felt different. Was she the only one thinking about it?
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Waters of Sky by R.N. Roveleh 37
too, would one day raid with Yngvar, training with the boys with this very thought in mind; but when summer came, Uncle Skjar was unyielding. So she had to live off the stories of the others.
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“Glorious! Yngvar appointed us to climb the walls that night and open the gate for everyone us of all people!” their answer came, along with other such stories full of excitement. They were drawn to Aidan, the young monk who was now in Jarl Skjar’s employ, at first with the fascination and curiosity of one trying to poke an exotic animal and then, as the novelty passed, they went out of their way to befriend him, though he wasn’t an easy person to get close to. Aidan was living proof that their adventure had been real, with all that it entailed, so they handled him with utmost care. But Rannveig could see that even now whenever someone mentioned the Englishmen who had lost their lives or asked if they had ever hurt anyone Helgi and Lars would exchange glances and their smiles would fade for a while. Roveleh
“How was it? Tell me everything!” Rannveig badgered them.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Waters of Sky by R.N.
They did that often. Never in front of strangers, but more and more often in their little circle of friends. The first time Rannveig had seen Lars and Helgi kiss, they seemed to do it in jest, ostentatiously aware of their audience. But now it seemed to come natural to them, so much that they forgot they were not alone. They never put it in words, but nor did the girls ever ask.
“It’s been a year since we last went swimming together, all five of us, but last summer feels so far away,” Rannveig commented.
“You don’t expect time to stand still, now, do you?” smiled Gertha, almost chiding. “You’re a disgrace!” Lars booed Helgi, who had just lost the wrestling match against Svanhild and was coughing and blowing water off his nose. He slapped a leafy twig against the boy’s buttocks: “Get outta here, get that prune outta my face!” “I’ll show you prune,” Helgi reacted promptly, darting to snatch the twig out of his hands. “Gimme that!” With yelps and bounces and laughter, they chased each other along the bank and all the way to the pier. “Want it? Go fetch, then! Here, boy, here!” Lars whistled and chucked the twig away. It landed where the lake turned deeper, prompting Helgi to vault after it into the crystal pool, barking.
Lars followed him in with a splash. “That’s a good puppy,” he lauded. Brushing the curls from the boy’s face and removing the little branch from the grip of his teeth, he kissed his lips dripping wet. Their yelps and noise died out for long moments in each other’s arms.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Waters of Sky by R.N. Roveleh 39
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“But Helgi, I won’t kiss!” the girl exclaimed. “He looks too much like Gertha it would be like kissing my best friend!”
It had first happened a couple of years back. Jarl Skjar’s usual guests were gathered at a feast in the great hall, the young people circled upon the fur carpet on Rannveig’s chamber floor, huddled over cups of mead, sheltered from the looks of grown ups. What began as a word game turned into a drinking game, and then into a series of tipsy truths and dares. Svanhild and Lars had been dared to kiss, which happened with squeals and feigned disgust into the laughs of the audience.
“What’s wrong with kissing your best friend?” Helgi asked, chuckling, reaching out to Lars on all four over the mead cups, cheeks glowing redder than usual. Lars hesitated a moment, but accepted without further persuasion. And, in the girls’ cheerful prompts, their lips had met in a heavy and noisy kiss. Not just a peck on the lips, but two, something which Rannveig had found slightly unusual. She knew little about kissing, since neither she nor the girls had experienced it, but the boys’ kiss had made her ponder. It was Roveleh
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Waters of Sky by R.N.
timid, playful, aware of the eyes upon them, but not foreign; most certainly not their first.
“I don’t mind it either,” Gertha had whispered at Rannveig’s side, suddenly closing the gap between them. She leaned in, smiling sweetly, putting her apple aside to rest her hand on Rannveig’s knee. And, before Rannveig knew it, that smile pressed on her lips and melted into a kiss. That soft mouth, its taste of apples, the tenderness of the touch of Gertha’s fingers on her cheek… Rannveig found it strange, that unusual display of affection, but not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all. It retained the thrill of that sense of discovery of yourself and of that someone in your embrace, but it was… comforting. Nothing like those wild kisses she would later share with Asvald, frantic, blood tingling, dangerous, torn between disquieting arousal and the fear of abandonment in his embrace. No. In Gertha’s arms she was comfortable for there was no one she trusted more than her childhood friend, no one in the world who knew her better. It never happened again. They never mentioned it, nor did they ever feel the need to repeat it. But, many times, Rannveig returned in her mind to that moment her first kiss to understand where it had stemmed from.
And, somehow, it was only now perhaps prompted by Helgi and Lars’s cheerful banter that the answer came to her: she wanted to be kissed and embraced and held, but without the doubts and disquiet that came with such a connection with the opposite sex. She longed for it, she would have dreams when she was asleep and fantasies when she was alone, so fervid that, in these flights of fancy, there was little she wouldn’t do. But reality and fancy were different worlds. Reality was cluttered with notions such as reputation and duty, like a storm cloud looming above. In this world,
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Unconventional Courier
Sky by R.N. Roveleh 42
But, with Helgi and Lars, she could tell it was something else. It was more than this. It was more than what she had experienced with Gertha. There was something in the way they looked at each other. Fondly, keenly, eagerly. With a tenderness that would not find its way even between the closest of friends. It was how Rannveig had always wanted to be looked upon, it was what she dreamed in her boldest fantasies that she would see in the eyes of the man she loved. Seeing Helgi and Lars like this awoke in her this longing, hope and despondence altogether. She and Gertha had kissed as teenagers looking for love; maybe Lars and Helgi had found it.
If love was that binding feeling Helgi and Lars shared, then Rannveig didn’t know it. What she felt for Asvald the closest to a lover she had ever had was nothing of the sort. It was thrill and curiosity and lust, but never friendship, never comfort. Not one she would spend a lifetime with.
There was one man she longed for, one man she had dreamed of ever since her conscience as a young woman had bloomed: Yngvar Eindriði. The majestic, wise, bold, radiant Yngvar, a drengr [3] like those of the legends [3] brave, honourable man; hero (Old Norse) T2022 he Waters of
maidenhood was like a currency, each moment of pleasure soured by the fear of unwanted complications, each step outside the acceptable taking her into a perilous realm of betrayed expectations. And all these weights set upon her natural desire in order to stifle any willingness to materialise it.
Rannveig was never intimidated by men. She had grown up among them, with an uncle who yielded to her little whims, servants who did her bidding, high-ranking retainers who respected her as mistress of the house, close friends she could be herself around, and admirers always within reach. To the awe of her more demure friends, she made an art out of flirting with ease and grace, always within the bounds of propriety but bold enough to have men swarm around her. But stolen glances and smiles and teasing remarks were not love.
September
In her fantasies, Yngvar would fall in love with her cleverness and bravery, she would fight in battles alongside him, he would win the throne of Norway and she would be his queen. But the day when Yngvar asked for her hand in marriage had not come. He was a solitary man, distant and proud, but love sometimes comes over time; or so she had always been told. She could love him in that way. Could he? She had met someone else, too, where she expected the least. It was someone who had grown on her, unawares, the more she discovered layers upon layers of his individuality. He was a slave, but there was nobility in his demeanor telling of the tragedy that befell him. He was haunted by it, she could tell, but he bore the burden with dignity. This man was Aidan, the young Englishman with pensive amber eyes.
Never had she seen eyes save, perhaps, Gertha’s that seemed to gaze into your soul and understand it without the need for words. Soulful, deep and wise. No pretence, no games. If Asvald’s green eyes were storm and Yngvar’s blue was ice, Aidan’s were warmth and sun and earth.
that had nourished her youth.
September T2022 he Unconventional Courier Waters of Sky by R.N. Roveleh 43
Gertha eyed her suspiciously, the shade of a giggle blooming on her lips. “Fine, keep your secrets. We both know you’ll tell me later anyway.”
by
Rannveig burst into laughter. “Shut up and make way! I’ll show you how it’s done.” She removed her dress and, in the rhythmical cheers of Rannveig, September T2022 he Courier Waters of Sky R.N. Roveleh
“No offence, Rannveig,” Helgi joined in the teasing, “I know you see a princess when you look in the mirror. But, no matter how pretty you make yourself, in my eyes you’re still that chubby little git who’d go into a frenzy whenever something didn’t go her way!”
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She and the boys were coming out of the water with viny hair and goosebumps from the breeze.
Unconventional
“There, you’re all set!” Gertha declared. She turned Rannveig’s chin to inspect her hairdo from all sides. From the crown of her head to the tips of her curls, her hair was now caught in a tight braid woven through with a ribbon. “Come on, you two, what are you doing? We’ve circled this lake three times over, waiting for you to make yourself pretty,” Svanhild yelled, hands cupped in front of her mouth. “What are you preparing for, Oðinn’s descent on earth? Yarn off!”
In place of the initial distrust and caution of their interactions, Aidan and her sometimes found themselves caught up in long conversations dotted with private jokes that only they understood and little confessions they shared with few other people. Those were moments she looked forward to.
Maybe she would. Then, again, maybe she wouldn’t. Some things can’t be put into words. Perhaps her moments with Aidan were best enjoyed alone.
September T2022 he Unconventional Courier Waters of Sky by R.N. Roveleh 45
Rannveig! Rannveig!, she charged forward on the pier and dived into the cool water. Gertha followed suit. The other three did not allow themselves much time to rest and dry before they jumped back in, and soon the air was filled with shrieks of excitement and laughter.
September
She is the author of "Lucky Wolf”, a historical novel published in 2021 and set in 10th century Scandinavia, and of a serialised anthology of short stories published on Tapas.io, entitled "Tales from the North”.
by
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About the Author R. N. Roveleh is a writer of prose, artist and doctor in medieval literature.
Though her prose explores both historical and contemporary settings, the link between them is the examination of human nature and social behaviours. As she is, on the side, an enthusiastic artist, the fiction Roveleh publishes (online and otherwise) is illustrated in acrylics and watercolours. Apart from pursuing her passion for literature, art and academic writing, Roveleh is also a podcaster (specialised in analysing fiction) and language teacher. You can follow R.N.'s works on Instagram: @helevorn bor, Twitter: @NRoveleh and Tapas : RobRoveleh. T2022 he Unconventional Courier Waters of Sky R.N. Roveleh
I, Scar
One of these inspirational thoughts I read said the Japanese repair cracks in leaking vases, fill them in, and that in their culture they say the imperfection makes the object more beautiful, unique.
"To be alive at all is to have scars."
John Steinbeck
People always talk up their scars, don’t they? specially on Twitter. They call them their seams of healing, a part of their life story. I admire them so, but I do wonder whether they have really internalised this healing.
I see him glance in the mirror, I’m not sure cracks in faces are the same.
He is ashamed of me. Am I an ugly scar?
Personally, I think he’s ashamed of how he got me. Vanity. Through insecurity, through fear. Not my fault. No, don’t mind if I do. I’ve waited a long time to tell the story. It’s never the right moment.
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Written by Ted Naughton
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 I, Scar by Ted Naughton
A sign of an accident, a survived one but an accident nevertheless. Scars are ugly, aren’t they?
He had attacked him once in his furious hatred. Pinned down in their garden his brother had hissed into his ear ‘I know what you are’. He knew too; ugly and gay. His father did not help. He had not wanted the boy at all and had told him this regularly. He ignored his son and spoke over him when he tried to talk to him. His son decided it was easier to hate his father and the older man seemed happier with that simpler emotion. But when his hatred of his dad’s treatment grew into disdain, that (bizarrely to me) made his father furious. Hah! He had learned to escape his father’s influence through the poker face of indifference. Scar. I exist. The I, Ted
Scar by
Naughton 48
He had a spider nevai on his cheek a bloody splattered veiny blotch that scuttled on his cheek. It upset him. He had never felt attractive to begin with, always felt second rate in the looks department. Compared to his youngest brother, he was not the pretty one. His brother was the ladykiller and he liked boys. This meant his brother wanted to kill him.
Unconventional Courier September 2022
49
I do not mean to cause him pain, but I do. I’m on his face and he truly believes I have ruined his life. But I think I love him I do not want to fade away and leave him.
Just as his father had said his birth had done to him. I did my best to heal. I wanted him to love me. Even though he wanted me to disappear, I tried hard to please him, to appear as if I had never existed. But I could not his face would never be the same. He would have to live with the fear of having to explain why I was there waving back when he looked in the mirror. Ted Naughton
If I was on a little dog or kitty face I would not show so much and they would not suffer. They would not scan the mirror obsessively. They would be glad their wound had healed and be grateful that they were alive to enjoy today. The laser cut too deep, burnt him too much. Shock. But that punch of lightning created me! Yes, I know like those campy black and white Frankenstein movies, but sometimes I also feel like that Michelangelo ceiling where God creates humanity with his sparky, fork lightening finger!
He was SO disappointed with me. He had some sort of breakdown. My creation had ruined his life.
Hey, I didn’t ask to be born but I’m glad I was!
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 I, Scar by
Scar by Ted Naughton 50
Complications. Try this ointment. It’s hardly noticeable. It’s just a red mark. The doctor sneered at him when he dared to complain. I saw that he wanted to kill his consultant. I sensed he wanted to mark him like he had done to him. He wished he could wake up and I would be overcome, gone like a difficult time he had lived through. But I am here.
I was supposed to be unnoticeable, to solve a problem of which he was a bit self conscious, to boost his ego and his confidence. Instead I became something of which he was very ashamed. I would have liked to have pleased him. He hated the doctor who treated him. I had mixed feelings, like he’s kind of my daddy. But what a pretentious arsehole. He pretended that everything was alright that the treatment was a success.
If only he could learn to accept me. I think he should talk about me more, be open about his mistake, his regret. I love him for all his frailty, I love him for his shame, his deepest scar. I,
The Unconventional Courier September 2022
Like the sizzling erratic life force of lightning.
If only he could tell other people his story, everyone has shame, everyone has scars, maybe somebody, one person, could find it in themselves to give him their forgiveness. I know he cannot find it within himself. He has somehow created a hideous monster out of his experiences where I can clearly see his wholeness like a seeping exquisite Japanese vase. So I have written this for you, my child.
I know instinctively you will turn away from it, arch towards the safety, the ease of shadow. The
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Those pits on your cheek that I know so closely, hold the shadows of your pain. They dance lightly over your face and sweep my folds and dips; fingertip sensations. I imagine it is a caress for me when I’m lonely.
I only wish he would accept me, loving me I dare not ask, but recognising that my existence has been a healing experience. I love you, I think. If only I could tell you that your suffering and your scars have made you more vulnerable, more interesting than before. Those ugly taunts, your real and imagined rejections, have transformed you into a beautiful creature.
But my story exists in the world as a sign of my love for you. When you are ready, it is here to listen to. The Unconventional Courier September 2022 I, Scar by Ted Naughton 52
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 I, Scar by Ted Naughton 53
Ted Naughton (he/him) is a gay writer who lives far, far out in the boggy woods with his rescue dogs and his demons. Ted Naughton has facial scars. About the Author
Written and Illustrated by Tete DePunk (Twitter: @punk_tete Instagram: @tete.depunk) Nightmare In Red, No. 1 (I) The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Nightmare in Red, No. 1 by Tete Depunk 54
So Shammat finally taught Enkidu how to eat bread and drink wine!
"He burned the fear out of me until all was left was desire" Ru Freeman
The Unconventional Courier September 2022
Red, No. 1 by
Now I paced in mind and body in the apartment until darkness settled in the city.
Damn her! Put my neck on the blade’s edge, eh? And yours, too, stupid woman!
Written and Illustrated by Tete DePunk (Twitter: @punk tete Instagram: @tete.depunk) Nightmare in Tete Depunk
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“As soon as the sun sets, we’ll go out for an evening walk. It will do us both some good. It will be safe, I promise!” She insisted and left before I voiced one word of protest!
I came to the conclusion that Tatusya was one of those people who courted danger like a boy chases after a pretty girl during summer promenades.
Nightmare In Red, No. 1 (I)
Still, sometimes I questioned, as brilliant and educated as Tatusya was, maybe the Reds would see it, and place her in something better. Even these godless pricks can appreciate a woman brimming with beauty and brains! Or perhaps they don’t. They simply like ugly things. “Useful” is how they call it. Huh! But as I said, both of us had no papers. Hell, just to get outside, you needed papers! Courier 2022 Nightmare in Red, No. Depunk
September
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Go out! With no papers!
Why else would she pull this mad cap stunt?
Truth be told, she once had a set of papers, but once the Reds took over, it was no good. To get her new papers, she’d have to go to their reformeries, “be educated” (in what? Machinery? A fine woman like that?
Like some coarse beast of a man? Ah, that’s suited for a beast like me, not the likes of her! Jam a flower in an engine, will you?) and get a new job. We know what this means. She’d be on the same path as her poor Polya, I wager. She had no friends, save Kirka and Evseii Ivanovich, to get her into something better, a secretary, maybe.
But what are the chances of that?
The Unconventional
1 by Tete
I wear the cap, too, matching in its grey and herring bone. Surprised the coat fit, too.
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Especially if you were a strange face, and mine, so altered from war and prison (and good thing), was strange to the beloved capital I knew as the stronghold for the Don. Ah, Tatusya, damn you and your infernal risk-taking, woman! Insufferable minx, courting death!
Awkward me, I’ve got a decent, au current coat, civilian, subdued. It’s got modest fur trim, some herring bone on the new fashion of thinner lapels.
This Tonchenka is an oddball, might as well be twins with such bodies like modern day Goliaths. She clicks her purse. Ironically, her purse is a newer one, the fashionable kind you get from France. Apparently, a gift from a client.
September
“Well, Dusya? Are you ready?” She asked me. Courier 2022 Nightmare in Red, No.
Sunset came. It grew darker. Much darker. Dusk turned into that odd sliver of time when evening settles into night, yet it’s still warm from the sun of day. She dons on her little coat, a nice little thing, old fashioned, fur at the cuffs and collars. A bit bourgeoise, as the Reds denounced such fashion, but go to hell. Let a woman wear charming things!
Tilts her little hat, old-fashioned, too, fur-trimmed. Damn, she looks lovely. Ah, damn her, she’s smacked her thin yet shapely lips in a handsome shade of red. Not a garish red, but a rose like one that temps a man with their softness and shape.
Glancing over her shoulder, she gives me a look that feigns a sort of reproach, but I see a layer of soft concern bleed into her eyes.
As though she sensed my fear. I am petrified. A lion whipped to jump into the hoop of fire at the circus suffered less than me at this moment. I nodded. My throat went dry, and my legs went heavy like lead.
She tiptoes out, quiet as a gazelle on supple limbs and dainty hooves. Turning around, she bids me to follow her. I am stuck, shoes nailed on the threshold. “Dusya!” She hissed. Her voice is kept to a hushed tone, but I hear her spite at my unmoving self. With all my might, I tried to put one foot infront of the other. Damn! No good. A terror paralyzed me, right on the threshold. As though some barrier protected me from a sudden onslaught of informants and militsya. They were, in my mind, of darkest imaginings, all waiting in the darkened corners, aimed to pounce like beasts on prey. Without thinking, and acting on sheer terror, like a reflex, I grabbed hold of the door jambs, fingers and nails dug in the splintery wood like a mad asylum’s patient’s. A frantic beast might have more composure than I.
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Cracking open the door, she pokes her head out, made certain the hall was clear of noisy neighbors loitering in the stairwells. They’re good informants, you know. Love thy neighbor, they say!
“Keep doing this, and they will be after us, you fool! Be quiet and follow my lead! I know what I’m doing!” Tatusya insisted as she led the way down the stairwell. With no choice, I obeyed and followed her. I dreaded every step. Each footfall on the hard stair step felt like a thundering echo in the deafening silence of the winding stairwell.
Every door, I locked sight, watching like a guard, lest some intrusive bastard stuck his or her head and caught sight of us. Was I too paranoid? Ah, but can you blame me?
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Nightmare
Finally, we were out. Quickly, to block my escape, she shut the door, softly, with a click, locked with her key. Dropping her key in her fashionable purse, she clicked it shut and darted an accusative glare at me.
Red, No. 1 by Tete Depunk 59
“Damn you, Dusya!” hissed Tatusya again she seized hold of my coat belt and yanked. She yanked again, trying to pry me from my deathgrip on her jambs. You WILL get us caught, making this commotion, you fool! Let go and let’s go! Damn fool!” She whispered vehemently, as though her tongue became a knife which she thought she could cut the cords that held me back. Somehow, my knees buckled, and legs limped out, like failing in water. I found myself clambering and tripping as she dragged me over the threshold.
Betrayal and prison do things to a man and his mind, brother! Finally, we merged outside. in
“Ah, you’re in a rush, Dusya…” Tatusya held onto her hat apparently, I nearly dragged her running across the avenue as we reached the Park.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Nightmare in Red, No. 1 by Tete Depunk 60
Can you believe it was nearly 3 months I had been outside? 3 months ago, I had just been released from prison. 3 months ago, I took the train to the Capital with Kirka and the Kompolka. I loved it like a monk loves his holy cell, cot, icon, and stand for his Gospel. Now outside, the open air felt heavy, yet light. Almost liberating. Why does liberty feel so heavy? Because of danger. The city seemed so different. Foreign. Yet familiar. Like the altered face of a lover, so marred by something cruel, yet their lover still loves their face, scars and all. Even the way the soles of my shoes clacked over the cobbles sounded different. Hollow. Empty. Joyless, almost. I was not a cadet anymore, and nor was the Capital, and this avenue, the same, either.
Across from Platovsky Avenue laid the old Park, Aleskandr Garden. It was a handsome park. It felt like a magnet, yearning for sweet memories of youth, drew me urgently to the old Park. I even outstepped Tatusya for a few moments.
“Sorry, Tatushenka this Park holds too many memories for me. I’ve missed it, like an old friend.” I confessed.
I felt unguarded, letting my softness emerge before this odd woman. See me as I am, a tender hearted boy, fresh from the academy! Or rather, see me as I was, Tatushenka. Tatusya remained glued to my side, resting her head on my upper arm like a prop. “Old memories, hmm? I have memories of this place, too. Concerts. Outings. Charming days of spring when families came out and sprawled on the green grass or walked amongst the lime trees. Here is where I met my Polya. Or should I say, where she found me.” reminiscenced Tatusya. Her voice trailed off in an airy whisper, as though the joy of her memories, like mine, too faded away like wisps of smoke in the early morning. We went past the arched entrance, battered, pitiful thing now. I knew the Counterrevolution took its toll with our shells and the Reds’. We reached the rows of lime trees, still there, if you can believe it!
The moon casted the faintest glow over the rippling blades of grass, all dried and withered from the winter’s frost. Reeds broken at their tops from the relentless winds. The dip and roll of the hills that sloped gently. The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Nightmare in Red, No. 1 by Tete Depunk 61
My eyes, so accustomed to night missions, took in sight pretty well. It was here, as much as it pained me, I saw the view of the Steppe.
In the black of night, I made the outline of the Steppe, emblazoned on my mind and eyes like a hallmark stamped in steel.
How many days had I spent in my youth, racing my horses there?
How many days did I spend on the dear Steppe, part of myself like blood and heart? I took a deep breath.
I wonder if Enkidu, whenever he saw the expanse of wilderness as he ventured into Uruk, ever yearned for its wideness, if he ever missed his herds that welcomed him once, but now turned their backs on him? Did he too feel this pang?
“I miss it.”
“Miss what?”
“The Steppe. Silly, I know. It’s still here. But then again, it is gone. The way I knew it.” I observed, almost bitterly, but too pained to be bitter even. I didn’t realize, but I had let go of her, and leaned, hands on the railing, almost leaning out. She took my arm again, and drew back on the pathway of the arbor. She pressed her cheek against my arm and drooped against me. In her funny little way, she comforted me like this, making me feel useful as a distraction. She muffled her voice into my coat sleeve, “Everything is gone, in a way. Even if the remnants remain, it’s changed so much.
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Red, No. 1 by Tete Depunk 63
How strange it is, to find yourself in a place you’ve lived so long… and most it remains. But all of it is changed. Altered… so much, it feels a foreign place. You feel like a foreigner in your own home.
Perhaps that’s the worst lost. It’s not a complete loss. But it’s the truest of loss. How do you regain something like this back? You can’t.” Tatusya observed. Her voice hung heavy in its own loss, too. She lost much, too. Her world was smaller than mine, but she had it all taken from her, too. Even her Polya, whom I surmised, was all she had for family, when she came to the Capital.
The Unconventional Courier September
I let my eyes dwell on her for a very long moment. I observed her face, and hung onto her words, silently agreeing word for word what she said. “Yes.” I finally spoke. With my free hand, I brushed my fingers over her gloved knuckles for a prolonged moment, out of an instinct. “Yes, that’s worst of it. We can never regain all that back. And I wonder… if you, or I, can belong in this new place? We’re in a foreign land, and we’re foreigners. Will this new land accept us? Can we accept it?” I confided into her, letting my fears spill out, or rather my sorrows.
Nightmare
How can I fear this now? I’m too tired to be frightened of this new world now. I had more things of this new world to be terrified of. She paused for a moment before she replied. 2022 in
“It’s up to you.” She said simply and firmly. In her eyes, I caught that flint hard glint, that proud hardness, that dignified quiet ferocity that could launch the most dejected soul into battle.
(Interval: Andrei and Tatusya enjoy most of the evening, in Aleksandr Park in the city... until they are caught by a Militsiya on guard...) Depunk
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Nightmare in Red, No. 1 by Tete
“But this world, even the Steppe, can be yours again, as strange and alien as it all is now. You’ve got that much to gain back.” She concluded with a decision of finality.
“Can I really, though?” I asked, uncertainty still hounding me.
“Maybe not. Or maybe we can accept it, in our own way. We shall see. You will have to accept the world on a greater scale than me, when next week comes, Dusya. I’ll remain behind, little Tatusya in her safe, little tomb.” She sunk her face into her coat collar, muffling her voice and hiding half her face. She then turned to me and locked her eyes with me.
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Teté is an unconventional writer, artist and podcaster, whose passions run gamut from comics to Soviet Era Literature, to Shakespeare to Scrapbooking. She is currently working on a novel series, "70 Fierce Years", and several subsequent novel series. You can read a preview version of her novel, "70 Fierce Years" on Tapas!
About the Author The Unconventional Courier September 2022
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in Red, No. 1 by Tete
Teté also co hosts/contributes to "The Nuts and Bolts of Writing Podcast". You can find Teté through: Twitter: @ Punk Tete Instagram: @ Tete.DePunk
Nightmare Depunk
Available Plot Points The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Available Plot Points by Shawn Scott Smith
The angle of the pen falls swift on paper, Pieces of the puzzle surrounding ocean dew. So many hearts can be heard in the wind, A seagull's gaze upon the multitude of sand. And I rest my head on your shoulder, Torches at night following the bellows of children,
By Shawn Scott Smith (Twitter: @ luckycreature Website: @ luckycreature.com )
The doctor's carriage in rapid heat, Stiffness falls over the land of pity, Hot, delicate cinnamon rises from a window.
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And I rest my head on your shoulder. The man in the fine suit speaks in licorice, The men below chant in automation, Casual cloth folds over and under, The lone woman silently screams, And I rest my head on your shoulder. Together a chalice and a burden, Penniless and golden all at once, Once a river carried blood upriver, To steal a dream of woven sins. May I rest my head on your shoulder? Please? Shawn Scott Smith, 2022
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Available Plot Points by Shawn Scott Smith 67
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Available Plot Points by Shawn Scott Smith 68
Shawn Scott Smith is a writer, and enthusiast. He lives in Asheville, NC with his wife, Jessica C. White and son Milo. All of his adventures are documented on his website at luckycreature.com
About the Author
5 Poems The Unconventional Courier September 2022 5 Poems by Ivan De MonBrison
By Ivan De MonBrison (Twitter: @ IvanMonBrison Instagram: @ ivandemonbrison)
-IToeachdayitsowndeath Butwedon’tknowwherewearegoing Thereareinthelibrary BooksthatIhaven’treadinalongtime Eachbookislikeatombenclosingsome thoughts 69
And it must kill something to live on Strange logic
Maybe there is only a second between me and my death
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 5 Poems by Ivan De MonBrison 70
It was useless to sign -IIII must learn to count
But I forget every time the numbers
Nobody knows these names anymore
II
Yesterday I was watching the beginning of a very old movie, I could see on the screen all the names of the people who had made this film
And I said to myself none of them is alive today
In nature an animal can be killed at any moment
It is a game -VI just understood at fifty three years old that my father should never have told my mother to stop working He worked himself even for his own mother who was a horrible woman She was able to keep him under her power
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 5 Poems by Ivan De MonBrison 71
-IVIt’s been a long time since I’ve been in the Père La'chaise cemetery located on a hill
Fatal error -Ivan de MonBrison
There are many tourists up there in the summer They look among the graves for the names of famous people
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About
Ivan de Monbrison is a French poet and artist living in Paris born in 1969 and affected by various types of mental disorders. He has published some poems in the past. You can follow Ivan de MonBrison: Twitter: @IvanMonBrison Instagram: @ivandemonbrison Website: https://sites.google.com/view/ivan monbrison/home the Author
de
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The twin crows of heat and soul ship off, put a hand to the stone and feel equal pressure returned.
The Sixth Day of the Lunar Calendar
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 The Sixth Day of the Lunar Calendar by S.G. Mallet
The Sixth Day of the Lunar Calendar & Other Poems By S.G. Mallet
Fig seeds inside the poem begin to take shape out for a walk, intuit the shock of which wine flute glass
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 The Sixth Day of the Lunar Calendar by S.G. Mallet 74
The apricot blossoms I’m taken with the way the cardinal points.
Smatters over what linoleum heart, menthol blonde, the chin’s tenacity betraying what heart’s silent-n in kiln. But a soul? I’d sooner poison your drink. I find that I can hardly define organs within systems. Aspens shivering through light wind, the coins of light thrown heat is what we make of it.
Flat Circle as Primary Hierarchy
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 The Sixth Day of the Lunar Calendar by S.G. Mallet 75
Extant Branches of the Library of Alexandria Found Beneath Your Hometown Neither swept through by sea air, nor the waves waves cause — it’s not like the aorta sorts each necklace necks grace. Horror revolves fourfold: not the smith; the armorer. Inverted nun, we have conditioned air, all chess games are first iterations variegated syntaxes, what joy(s) hope(s) for, let’s say variegated.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 The Sixth Day of the Lunar Calendar by
Mallet 76
Plank Length Charbagh from the loops of any acorn, evening through desert glass, all possible worlds flown at mascle half mast. I was cosmogony: if russet(s) sprout(s) new limbs in the dark. S.G. Mallet S.G.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 The Sixth Day of the Lunar Calendar by S.G. Mallet 77
S. G. Mallett was born in MD and lives in QC.
He is the author of Disparate Logoi (ABP) and Markov Chainmail (forthcoming from Cactus Press).
He holds philosophy from Concordia University, manuscripts for Atticus Review, and poetry for Sepia Quarterly.
About the Author
Lost Is The Name & Other Poems Alexander Etheridge
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Lost is the Name Lost in a silent land or swept up by a cloud of whispers. Entire worlds left alone in deep space, abandoned to their savage winters, their burning stretches of ice over mountains and empty valleys.
By Alexander Etheridge
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 79
❃ Lost is the name of God, and dim are the nights when our snowy dream meets the mind of every dead dreamer each of those drifting through cold forests of paradise. ❃ Lost are the lives blazing by. Who are we after such ruin? Without knowing it, lost is all we ever wanted gone, blind, and broken is what we cherish. We dream on with a dark joy.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 80
Our One Star
There’s whispering in the hills all night from orchard trees there under stars slowly becoming something else another kind of light another kind of mind thinking one thought of changing fire And our own ghostly star once with petals of unbearable heat
Our Black Carriage
We ride slowly down our shadowy path, in our horse-driven funeral carriage. We forget the same faces in the same rainfall, we forget being forever vanished. Our memories lose themselves. The way home is stony and barren we’re following a hush through blue desert cloudfall. We’re abandoned by everything abandoned and gone is gone.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 81
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 82
What returns after so long, what comes back to the heart is an ancient way of dreaming, like seeing with eyes of an underworld, an otherlife. We ride over the creaky bridge, invited by a pure grief, a perfect word. Go with me to the far side of lightlessness, where the first thought was born — thinking itself into oblivion, held in our hands, almost there eternal and never, riding with us through fresh rain, here under the halfmoon.
Continuum Thunder-welts rattle a lush of wickerbranches outside my window — drifts of ashy stars over lakes and burials, Heaven’s faces closed over with light, mud tracks of horseback armies mirrored in a bead, candles, turns of smoke in choir lofts. A fire going out. A fire lit. ❃
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 83
Tracked into breezes by wildfire, figures wilting in petal smoke, delicate as onion feathers. Incineration and a next world, flowers light as glances . . . fire-lifted, the flowers change. Earth written by scent and ash, then falling from sense to come up in our eyes another day. ❃
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 84
One sustenance each time the echo sends the voice back up. Two poles and a white connective heat . . . Faces in the photograph changing at the speed of trains. ❃
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 85
Letter to Franz Wright For a long time you didn’t speak a word, waiting by snowy windows in an empty room — even you weren't there. Avid and bereaved, you read the stormclouds. You told me to write what I don’t know, to become rain, to taste black grains of eternity. Where are you now, what book are you beginning? Go with me again to the outskirts lead me through my own midnight hail, up a mountain path to the choir lofts of Heaven.
For a split second we can watch the same lightning, the same shadows . . . I can see it, the page you left unfinished an elliptical miracle, and I’m grateful to be burning alive, grateful for questions you gave me, who’ve I been, who’ll I become in the nothing, and in nothing but pure light? Alexander Etheridge
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 86
Alexander Etheridge has been developing his poems and translations since 1998. His poems have been featured in Scissors and Spackle, Ink Sac, Cerasus Journal, The Cafe Review, The Madrigal, Abridged Magazine, Susurrus Magazine, The Journal, Roi Faineant Press, and many others. He was the winner of the Struck Match Poetry Prize in 1999.
About the Author The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Lost Is The Name & Other Poems by Alexander Etheridge 87
Poems Nicholas Leonard Holt Leonard
The railroad veins along my armswill any fingers branch above their tracks? Daydreams derailing in the rainI beg! Will any angel stop my fall? Will any angel stop my fall? Will heartbeats chug to what I want?
A girl who has Hollywood’s forgotten drawl. Her figure’s waiting in the smog. I beg! Will any angel stop my fall? Will any angel stop my fall?
Holt
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The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Poems by Nicholas
by
By Nicholas Leonard Holt
(Instagram: @nicholasleonardholt) 1. With weary breath, my fingers stretch, prepared to catch my wincing face. This bachelor- he’s in distressas all this Love is put to waste.
I hear the violinic whine of life. They put my thumb above the button next to skip to songs about the 9 to 5.
A poet’s heard it more than once or twice. It’s sent them down inside a mindful depth to catch the violinic whine of life. It’s humming on the road a child finds before the bus kidnaps another guest, before they’re taught about the 9 to 5.
And when I’m asked about a job I’d like, my skeptic glare will not confess:
I hear the violinic whine of life. Despite the rules and risks, I’d rather write. Tiger in a zoo. Poet at an office desk, encaged inside a tyrant 9 to 5. The thing a founding father would protect; my destiny, I’m meant to manifest. They heard the violinic whine of life, and yet so many play the 9 to 5.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Poems by Nicholas Leonard Holt 89 2.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Untitled by Nicholas Leonard Holt 90
About the Author
Nicholas Leonard is a poet from Massachusetts. He’s the author of underground esque poetry collections like Love, Lost Below The Lunar Lampposts, poetry narratives like Soliloquies In The Afterlove, and obscurely poetic novellas like Penelope Phosphene and You’re Not Invited To Lennena Bloo’s Wedding.
You can follow Nicholas Leonard Holt: Instagram: @nicholasleonardholt
You can find more of his poetry on his instagram account @nicholasleonardbookedits
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 91
Creators' Corner
Fortunus Games: Same here. One of the movies that did this really well was Pixar's Lightyear, which we both really enjoyed. I also enjoyed how it challenged our ideas of what a kid's film should be like.
Q: What inspires you in a story?
Tete DePunk: Any solid story that shows strong, flesh out characters. And any story that can impart a genuine learning experience for me, too. Stories and characters should make us think and relearn ideas and beliefs.
Yukta Muniraj: In a story, I feel people and life itself inspire me. When I look around me and the people in my life, there are times when they open up to me with their vulnerable selves, and I hear so much from them. Every single person has their own story. When I start to write, I always take inspiration from what I hear from friends and colleagues. I mix up their stories and intervene with them. The most important thing that I have learnt is that when having a story is "Emotions". We all connect to emotions and when that is missing, we do not read them, not just in stories but in songs or movies either. They hold stories and emotions. We like a song when it sounds good, but we love a song when we understand and connect to the emotion. The same goes with stories.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 92
Alexander Etheridge: I write poems, and I find inspiration from a number of sources. Often it's the fantastic poetry of someone I'm reading other times it may be a memorable line from a song or film. And of course my love poems are inspired by wonderful ladies. I'm also fond of writing various series of poems around a particular subject.
I've done a series about walking, and a series of "fables," also a group of poems about nightmares. I look for inspiration everywhere, and I'll take it any way I can!
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 93
Ivan de Monbrison: If it's prose, the story is a sort of a diary, I make myself write every day for a certain amount of time, the story is made of pieces of my daily life. Usually what triggers the beginning of the process can change over the years, it can be a break up, a loss, a trauma... The process will stop when I get the feeling that I can't go on anymore , because it puts a big pressure on me. If it's a poem, it's usually made with recurrent mental images that I have, these images are like bricks with which I build a wall, the more images, the higher the wall, the longer the poem will be.
Chaitali Nath: I believe it's the idea of the movement in the storyline, which comes with its own set of character developments, which is the most inspiring part for me. It's literally like watching your characters grow into their own people, mould their lives a certain way, be their own people and choose things, concepts and ideas that they would probably not have chosen earlier, and yet be the same person at the core, while they walk into their fated positions at every other pedestal, it's what makes me feel so happy.
It makes me feel like the story is actually very real, and just as equally a part of the Universe as the perceived reality, because I am a strong believer in the fact that what is destined for one will find its way to one, regardless of other things and things will actually happen in that way to drive the change. It feels very life-like to see it actually fall into place that way, and that's what inspires me most.
Chaitali Nath: (continued)
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 94
But
Discuss! 95
The Problem of Vision Talking Heads writer has the liberty to create a work for whatever purpose they are aiming for. what happens when the author's vision overrides the creative and character integrity of the story?
A
The Unconventional Courier September 2022
One of the reasons why the protagonist of your novel, "70 Fierce Years," Andrei, works so well is because you never got carried away by the grandeur of your vision. He is simply just himself. He's not defined by his time period, his station in life, or the aesthetics of his story. He's allowed to be himself and you let his voice guide you as you write. That's why he feels so alive.
That is very true! We saw that this year when you decided to get rid of some of your characters, such as Zindel and Kai.
Starting a story from from a theme or a plot idea can make for a remarkable and original piece. But if you want your characters to feel real, ask yourself not what "a soldier" or "an introvert" or "a medieval woman" would do, but what your character would do. We are not labels, but the sums of our experiences, so however grand the scope of your work is, don't lose this from sight. However obvious it sounds, it's often easy to lose ourselves in grand visions or, conversely, in our own minds, and forget that we want our characters to be their own individuals, not pawns of plots, or messages, or reflections of ourselves.
Fortunus Games
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If an author is too wrapped in the grandeur of their vision, the story, followed by the characters, falls flat.
R.N. Roveleh
Tete DePunk
It is true that happens at times when you are writing a character. You lose their style of personality as you write. It takes consistency to stay with the character and even your mind has to think like that character when you write.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Yukta Muniraj
While I understand the point about an author's liberty, it's just that we authors are only makers and delivery personnel of these people and their worlds, not their owners or masters, who can/should throw them around like objects to fulfill our own motives.
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When our concentration breaks or motivations come down, I feel that an author's vision overrides the character. I feel the best way to get over this is to take some time off, think about it, and resume when you feel you are ready to dive into the mind of the character. Chaitali Nath I believe that's not very real work if it loses the integrity. Just like people who have no integrity of their own, no morals, are not people to be trusted or laid back on, stories like that don't hold much ground. Fortunately or unfortunately, I've had the chance to read certain stories of this kind, and according to me, they feel very superficial and absolutely lack even the slightest of gravitas that a story should have.
Chaitali Nath (continued)
I'm sure most characters will surely reach where we expect them to, and even if they don't, they'll reach where they're best fitted, and that'll be more than enough.
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A lot of people need to understand that every character that is created is a real thing in itself, even though it might just be in your mind at that point in time, it's just as real as a living, talking human being, and it must be allowed to grow naturally through its own path.
About Chaitali Nath: Chaitali Nath is an Indian author. She had written her first book, Soul Spoken, at the age of 16, which was released in 2018, while she was a student at Delhi Public School, Siliguri.
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Interview with Chaitali Nath Interview with Chaitali Nath
Now 19, and currently a student at College of Medicine and Sagore Dutta Hospital, Kolkata, To You is her second release.
In her own words, she is a very simple woman, yet a paradox. She is a woman who values integrity, loyalty and punctuality in the highest sense. She enjoys reading, learning and listening to music. A courageous and curious human, she tries to find beauty in whatever life may be able to offer. You can follow her on Twitter @chaitalinath14 and Instagram @chaitalinath.
Interviewed by Tete DePunk
Recently, we were privileged to interview writer Chaitali Nath, author of “Soul Spoken” and the recently released, “To You.”
We sat down for a thought provoking discussion of her work and the themes she explores: of Love, Loss, and healing. We asked Chaitali Nath how she tackles these expansive themes and fits them into clear narratives. 99
What inspired me to write To You was the everyday happenings that keep happening with all of us. I'm someone who's very observant, to the extent where people think I'm spying on them (laughs). And to see people miss out on so many small, beautiful moments of life each day was something that made me really sad, so I wrote this book to ensure they didn't really miss out on those moments. What inspired you to write “To You”? What is the meaning behind the title, “To You?” Is this to a specific person, or to a collective audience? The book is dedicated to Sushant Singh Rajput. There was no more apt title to a book dedicated to someone like him, other than something that was just this simple, yet carried so much depth and gravity to it. That was always the way he carried himself, and somewhere, that was the way I wanted the book to be. You dedicated this book to Sushant Singh Rajput. Is this person a significant figure in your life and the book’s inspiration? Sushant, in short, is somewhere the reason I am the way I am. I've learnt so much from him, and still continue to (despite his passing away), it's just not possible to put into words how significant a personality he is for me.
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The book is divided into 6 chapters, which delve into the different aspects of love, loss and healing. The chapters are named The one I love/The one who loves me, The one not meant to be, The one I lost and loved, The one who loved but couldn’t understand me, The poet I loved, and To my younger self. The titles are somewhere self explanatory as to which themes each chapter explores, but there's definitely much more it than just what the title speaks of.
The book isn't exactly inspired by his life or the people he met, the people he interacted with or had bonds with. It's somewhere more inspired by the way he taught all of us to live life, to be mindful of each moment and live life fully. The themes of “To You” are Love, Loss and Healing. How do these themes show in the book?
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Has writing these themes helped you deal with these aspects in your life?
Writing, like I said, has been therapeutic for me. It's helped me understand myself, and in the process, learn to heal myself. How do you approach writing these themes in your writing style and work? My general approach to writing things is to write about a moment or a fragment of a memory. Like they say, 'When you want to write about man, write about a man', and that's the best advice that can be given to someone. It makes it very personal, while keeping it just as relatable and intact in its meaning.
I feel writing brings to me a sense of calm and mindfulness that nothing else really does, it's very therapeutic. For me, to sit down to write is generally a soulful experience which genuinely has helped me experience so much and understand emotions in so many new ways. I wouldn't deny writing to be a great way for the same, but I also wouldn't say it's the best way. Things can be different for different people.
Exploring these themes, do you feel writing is the best way to figure out these concepts and express them?
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Lastly, for writers wanting to tackle deep themes, what advice would you give?
It's unnecessary to write about everything at the same time, it's just draining. It also, somewhere, confuses the reader, who loses track of the original meaning you were trying to convey.
Keep it simple, that's it. That's all you need. Break it into the smallest fragments possible and write about each of them separately. It will make sure each piece retains its own meaning, and that your work, as a whole, is able to convey the meaning you'd set out to convey. Thank you for the questions. They were lovely.
Think about which part of the theme you want to write about, at a given time, and write about that.
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No matter who you may be, where you may be, and how you might feel at this point of time, the book is just a letter to you, from you, by someone who's just like you.
A book about love, loss, and healing. To You, takes you on a journey through the life you've already lived, showing you what you always oversaw, making you feel what you could never find the time or space to completely feel and making you the individual you were always meant to be.
We at The Unconventional Courier gives our heartfelt thanks to Chaitali Nath for this exceptional interview. with Chaitali Nath
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About “To You”, a novel by Chaitali Nath:
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Interview
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Artist Spotlight: Machiavelli33 (Patrick Tsao) Artist Spotlight: Machiavelli33 (Patrick Tsao) (Twitter: @machiavelli33 Website: www.patricktsao.com) 105
The Unconventional Courier September 2022 Artist Spotlight: Machiavelli33 (Patrick Tsao)
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Machiavelli33 (Patrick Tsao) is an illustrator, comic maker, game designer, DM, purveyors of madnesses and wonders in equal measure. You can follow him here: Twitter: @machaivelli33 Website: www.patricktsao.com
Looking Ahead Evading Time by Ryan Keating The Mayakovsky Style Poems by TD On My Own by Marija Rakić Mimica The Unconventional Courier September 2022 107
U n t i l t h e N e x t I s s u e ! O c t o b e r 2 0 2 2 "There is no real ending. It's just the place where you stop the story." Frank Herbert
