Adelaide Literary Magazine No.1, December 2015

 

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International independent Quarterly Literary Magazine

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INDEPENDENT QUARTERLY LITERARY MAGAZINEIDEADELAIDE Independent Quarterly Literary Magazine Revista Literária Independente Trimestral Year I, Number 1, December 2015 Ano I, Número 1, Dezembro 2015 ISBN: 978-0-9896962-8-9 (paperback) ISBN: 978-0-9896962-9-6 (e-book) Adelaide Literary Magazine is an independent international quarterly publication, based in New York and Lisbon. Founded by Stevan V. Nikolic and Adelaide Franco Nikolic in 2015, the magazine’s aim is to publish quality poetry, fiction, nonfiction, artwork, and photography, as well as interviews, articles, and book reviews, written in English and Portuguese. We seek to publish outstanding literary fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, and to promote the writers we publish, helping both new, emerging, and established authors reach a wider literary audience. We publish print and digital editions of our magazine four times a year, in September, December, March, and June. Online edition is updated continuously. There are no charges for reading the magazine online. (http://adelaidemagazine.org) A Revista Literária Adelaide é uma publicação trimestral internacional e independente, localizada em Nova Iorque e Lisboa. Fundada por Stevan V. Nikolic e Adelaide Franco Nikolic em 2015, o objectivo da revista é publicar poesia, ficção, não-ficção, arte e fotografia de qualidade assim como entrevistas, artigos e críticas literárias, escritas em inglês e português. Pretendemos publicar ficção, não-ficção e poesia excepcionais assim como promover os escritores que publicamos, ajudando os autores novos e emergentes a atingir uma audiência literária mais vasta. Publicamos edições impressas e digitais da nossa revista quatro vezes por ano: em Setembro, Dezembro, Março e Junho. A edição online é actualizada regularmente. Não há qualquer custo associado à leitura da revista online. (http:// adelaidemagazine.org) REVISTA LITERÁRIA INDEPENDENTE TRIMESTRAL FOUNDERS / FUNDADORES Stevan V. Nikolic & Adelaide Franco Nikolic EDITOR IN CHIEF / EDITOR-CHEFE Stevan V. Nikolic stevan@adelaidemagazine.org MANAGING DIRECTOR / DIRECTORA EXECUTIVA Adelaide Franco Nikolic adelaide@adelaidemagazine.org GRAPHIC & WEB DESIGN / Stevan V. Nikolic PORTUGUESE LANGUAGE EDITOR / EDITORA PORTUGUESA Adelaide Franco Nikolic EDITOR & SALES / PORTUGAL João Franco jfranco@adelaidemagazine.org CONTRIBUTORS / CONTRIBUIDORES Christina Borgoyn Keith Madsen Mahreen Ahmed Paula J. Roscoe Pedro Abreu Simões Kathryn Esplin – Oleski Samuel Robert Piccoli Mike Wolton R. Leib (pen name) Doug Oudin Jody Rawley Anna Aizic Manuel Neto dos Santos Jearl Rugh Robert J. Lowenherz, Ph.D Heena Rathore Josh Truxton Parinitha Prasanna Scott Kauffman Published by: Istina Group DBA, New York e-mail: info@adelaidemagazine.org phone: +351 918 635 457 Copyright © 2015 by Adelaide Literary Magazine (http://adelaidemagazine.org) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Adelaide Literary Magazine Editor-in-chief, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. 2

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CONTENTS / CONTEÚDOS EDITOR’S NOTES: Where are we coming from and where are we going to? FICTION / FICҪÁO POETRY / POESIA LETTERHEAD Poems by Christina Borgoyn MAR REVERSO Poemas por Pedro Abreu Simões THE TOP OF THE WORLD By Keith Madsen WHITE IS THE COLDEST COLOUR By John Nicholl MOIRAE By Mehreen Ahmed AS DUAS CIDADES By João Franco THE MAGIC HOUR By Kathryn Esplin-Oleski COOKIES By Mike Walton A TALE OF TWO CITIES By Charles Dickens A GIGANTE By João Franco WEEKEND IN FARO By Stevan V. Nikolic O DESFILADEIRO DE AMO - A história do último unicórnio / Fim de semana em Faro, Capítulo Dezanove Stevan V. Nikolic / Traduzido do Inglês por Adelaide Franco Nikolic DELUGE By R. Leib FÍBULA Poemas por Manuel Neto dos Santos INTERVIEWS / ENTREVISTAS WHY ADELAIDE? - Interview with the founding editors of the Adelaide Magazine BEING CONSERVATIVE FROM A TO Z An interview with author S.R. Piccoli Interview with author PAULA ROSCOE BOOK REVIEWS / CRITICAS LITERÁRIAS BECAUSE YOU’LL NEVER MEET ME By Leah Thomas I’LL GIVE YOU THE SUN By Jandy Nelson THE FORGOTTEN GIRLS By Sara Blaedel FIVE WEEKS TO JAMAICA By Doug Oudin AIPLANE DOWN By Jody Rawley PRO FORMA By Robert J. Lowenherz, Ph.D. RAVEN WINGS By Jearl Rugh THE MAN IN THE IRONED SUIT By Josh Truxton DAUNTLESS By Parinitha Prasanna I'LL FIND MY OWN WAY OUT By Scott Kauffman NONFICTION / NÁO-FICҪÁO THE CIRCLES OF LIFE By Anna Aizic MEDICINE MAN By S.R. Howen DIVISION OF THE MARKED By March McCarron ENTER TO WIN By Kirsten Jany THE CHINESE SPYMASTER By Hock G. Tjoa SOMEPLACE NORTH OF HERE By C.H. Lowe SECRETS OF THE REALM By Bev Stout BEHIND BLUE EYES By D. M. Wolfenden SOME OF THE OLDEST KNOWN SURVIVING BOOKS BEING CONSERVATIVE FROM A TO Z By S.R. Piccoli A SECRET ULPAN IN THE COMMUNIST ODESSA By Anna Aizic BETWEEN TWO HARBORS Memoirs of a Catalina Island Harbormaster, By Doug Oudin 3 ART & PHOTOGRAPHY / ARTE & FOTOGRAFIA IMPRESSIONS OF FARO By Stevan V. Nikolic HAPENNINGS / EVENTOS NEW TITLES / NOVOS TITULOS

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WHERE ARE WE COMING FROM AND WHERE ARE WE GOING TO? Book publishing industry is in the midst of its historic transformation with nobody able to predict the final outcome. With local independent bookstores trying to find new ways to bring customers to their doors, several bankruptcies of the major book retailers, amazon’s and Google’s offensives in all aspects of book production and distribution, panic of the book publishing professionals in the face of e-reader, indie and POD publishing, it would seem that literary endeavors of all kinds are under attack in this digital age. Nevertheless, literary magazines are doing as good as ever. Maybe even better, taking into account that the membership of the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses, one of the main associations of literary periodicals, has more than doubled in last ten years, from 230 to more than 500 publications and small presses. So, what makes literary periodicals immune to big changes in the world of creative writing and publishing? Well, different journals have different business models, but many are nonprofits or attached to educational institutions, and generally, all depend on support of dedicated readers rather than appealing to mass audiences. Literary magazines generally do not make large profits because they do not cater to mainstream audiences who have commercial tastes. For those authors who want to see their work published in literary magazines, it’s important that they subscribe to literary magazines in order to help keep the market for creative writing alive and well. 4 As many other literary periodicals, Adelaide Literary Magazine (ALM) typically publish short fiction, poetry, essays, excerpts from novels, book reviews, overview of new book titles, as well as art and photography. Our focus is very wide, and range from mainstream literature to specific topics, such as nature, politics, or esoteric. We strongly encourage submissions by new and indie writers. Our goal is to find, present, and shine the spotlight on great writing, regardless of the author’s experience level. It is public knowledge that many well-known writers got their start in the pages of literary magazines. So, our goal is to accommodate a nesting place for bestselling wordsmiths of the future. Generally, we try to have and maintain a literary feel. Emphasis is on style and insight. At the same time, we are not trying to build a set of strict editorial standards. We desire each issue to be unique and different as much as possible. For this reason, we are inviting new “guest editors” for each subsequent issue, giving them liberty to get their own approach to whatever is that they want to deliver. The main word in our editorial policy is “opportunity.” Giving opportunity to all those authors who seek to express themselves through the pages of ALM, without making a final judgment of the importance and value of what they have to offer. That doesn’t mean that we would publish anything submitted to us. It just means that we are open to innovations, experiments, and even controversies.

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By connecting ALM print publication, ALM website, ALM blogs, ALM blogtalkradio broadcast, and possibly latter and live stream video, we want to form an open platform for literary expressions, consisting of different media, where writers and indie authors would feel comfortable presenting their work to wide and diverse audience. Literary magazine subscribers are typically sophisticated, dedicated, and opinionated readers. Literary magazines are good testing grounds for any writer desiring affirmation from his readership. We encourage our readers to write to us, participate in the live blogtalkradio broadcasts, and express their opinions. Their opinions are very valuable to us. More so, taking into account that often, many litmag readers are writers and authors themselves. We ask all our contributing authors to subscribe to ALM, not only as a sign of support, which is very important for our survival, but also to use ALM as a valuable source of inspiration and reference for the benefit of their own work. So far, about 40% of our contributors are regular subscribers as well. In some very old esoteric rituals, one can come across particular question: “Where are you coming from and where are you going to?” The answer is: “Coming from the West, traveling East, and in search of Light...” If somebody ask me the same question in reference to ALM, my answer would be probably the same. Creative writing of any kind has been always the source of great light for the humanity, and it is our desire and duty to do our part in the noble endeavor of finding and bringing that light to our readers. Are we going to succeed? Only time will tell. Our intentions are good and we work diligently to improve all aspects of the ALM project. We still need to develop and strengthen subscribers base. Being an independent publication, our main source of support comes out of subscriptions. Mark Twain once said: “The time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.” This quote is probably the most appropriate to describe my feelings about literary magazines in general, and about ALM in particular. The greatest advantage of running a literary magazine is in having an opportunity to make it better with each subsequent issue. Our first issue is done to “our satisfaction.” 5

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Keith Madsen is a writer and minister who has served churches in Kansas, Washington, Oregon and New Jersey. Currently he is the Pastor of the Community Church of Issaquah, Washington. Keith has had a love of writing all of his life. He has used his writing talents in a variety of ways, including writing fiction, composing material for religious education, and writing plays for use in church and community theater. He has published three novels (Searching for Eden, The Shard Fence, and The Fellowship of the Fish) through Club Lighthouse Publishing in ebook format. His short stories have appeared in Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, and Talking River. Keith finds that being part of helping characters come alive is one of his greatest life pleasures. He lives in North Bend, Washington, with his wife Cathy. THE TOP OF THE WORLD I’m standing on the top of the world Though others less schooled might say The top of the steps Of the Multnomah County Library, Portland, Oregon, Downtown Branch. The top of the world Is neither bitter nor cold, The warm air of my insulated soul rises above it all Rises above the shivers of uncovered hearts on windy street Rises above the teeth chatter of icy word Rises above the distance Those below see as safe. The secret of my warmth Emanates from the friends within The hallowed walls of this repository Friends not of flesh, but of word Friends who speak with the gentleness of Ink and paper I will myself to know them all I will myself to carefully peruse Each book In this bastion of learning Each book In this library where I live. 7 This poem launches my morning. Each word the same each day. One change of tense, one alternate word, one variance of cadence, and I wouldn’t know which door to enter, which place to sit, which book to read. I would have to go back and start my day all over again. The words begin their flow toward my mind, starting with my first breath of morning air, drawn in from my sleeping place underneath the Burnside Bridge. By the time I finish my ascent to the top of the library steps, they are flowing onto my tongue, and I whisper them to my soul, to let my tender inner core know I have arrived at home. You notice I did not say, “I have arrived from home”, because the library is my home. I have a right to claim it as my home because I am there more than anyone else in this city; more than the people who work there, because they have shifts; more than the people who use it, but have jobs elsewhere they must attend to; more than the so-called patrons and county officials who made the decision to close it on certain days, closing ME out, but are hardly ever there themselves. This library is my life. Do I not have a right to life? People judge me. They do. They think that because I wear second-hand clothes that often do not fit or match (I know they don’t match – do you think I am blind?), that I am unschooled and ignorant. Do they comprehend Stephen Hawking’s argument for a Universe closed in on itself, which he makes in A Brief History of Time? Do they understand what Paul Farmer says about

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how our country’s policies have contributed to the problems in Haiti and other underdeveloped countries? Have they wrestled with grace and legalism in Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables? Do they know what Dostoevsky’s novels meant to people seeking faith in Russia under Communism? Why do I even bother? They all want plain speaking, when all I can offer is a flow of feeling which comes from beyond me. The Peacemaker came up from behind me, the second person from the street to enter. He reached up to put his hand on my shoulder, but paused short of that goal as he saw me already flinching. “Not wishing to intrude, Mister Yeats,” he said, “but I liked your entry poem today. I would have given it an ‘A’. Do you ever write them down?” Why was he asking that? To judge me? I shook my head. “Well, I am a fan,” he said, “a fan of poetry, and of yours in particular. Just wanted you to know.” He moved on. At least the Peacemaker listens to me in his small, inadequate way. I know many of the people in the library, and none of them want to listen to me at all. I’m not sure why. Intimidated, perhaps. I quickly found my place in my reading; not in one particular book, but in the stacks of books. I was working my way through section 215, “Science and Religion.” I was now ready for my next selection, Frances Collins’ The Language of God. All about DNA, arguments for Creation, and how faith and science relate. The book would give a contrasting perspective to Stephen Hawking, so I was looking forward to it. I wasn’t five pages into the book when an entire street family sat down next to me. Understand that when I say “street family,” I don’t mean an actual family that had been thrown out on the street, but rather a variety of homeless people who had decided to be a family to each other while in their transient state. I had encountered a number of such families, but I had spurned that direction myself. Didn’t need it. My books were my father, mother, sister and brother. Anyway, I had encountered this street family before, and they all talked like magpies, even in a library designed as a sanctuary against such garrulous interference. I tolerated it for about five minutes before putting down my book and shooting them my most vitriolic glare. “Dude!” said the effeminately-dressed black man around whom this family seemed to cluster. “Ya musta smoked ya’self some really nasty stuff, ‘cuz 8 They think they know what is happening in Iran and the Middle East. But do they even know who Mohammed Mossadegh was? Do they know Iran used to be Persia, and Cyrus the Persian was the one who freed the people of Israel from bondage and sent them back to rebuild their home country? Do they even remember what happened in Iran-Contra? But they call me ignorant. They say, “Mister Yeats, he speaks of his life in a poem And the words don’t even Rhyme.” Thus saith the masses addicted to the poetry of Hallmark. As I look out at those masses from the top of the library steps I just want to scream; I want to scream, “Stop running! Learn the TRUTH!” But I know they would never pay attention. They might throw a dollar or two in my direction, thinking that is what I want (and what else do these bums want, anyway?), but they would never be so generous with giving their minds, with giving their ears, with giving what I want above all else. So I turned from my searching and ran for shelter. Hey, Mister Yeats!” said the young man who unlocked the doors. “How are you doing today?” “An answer to the status of the moment Lies not in that instantly evaporating breath of time, But in the million moments before, caustically churning out The billion fearfully chaotic moments after, And in the time one takes Humbly off-balance, but alert, To envision them all.” The young man paused and looked into my eyes. “Okay. Well, I’ll have to think on that a while, won’t I?” And he moved on.

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it seems to be oozing outa yo eyeballs!” The others looked my way and nodded agreement. Having not been heard by my eyes, I spoke with my words: “Silence Empty of all sound Yet full Full of opportunity to hear Full of uncluttered windows to the world Full of the gentleness of void It does not penetrate brutishly But flows soothingly into the soul Massaging, eliciting, caressing, inviting Until you are lured into a different world A world outside your own inner darkness A world you robbed from me When you stole My silence.” said a Hispanic woman at the end of the table, “but I t’ink dees man he say for us to cierra la boca – how you say in Anglish? -- shut up our mouths!” I sighed in relief. “The miracles of Lourdes and Turin The water into wine, the river into blood, the dewformed manna The lame walking, the deaf speaking and the blind freed to see -All these pale next to this: I have been understood By a woman.” “Okay, that’s war!” said Camille, standing up. “One thing I know when I hear it is an insult to my gender. Maria, we sistas o’ color need to get it on, ‘cuz our white sistas here, they got no ghetto in ‘em; so Maria, stand and deliver!” The black teen grabbed me by the collar and pulled me to my feet. Did I mention this was a rather LARGE young woman? And although Maria was not as large, she most certainly looked streethardened. She now also stood and glared at me with her arms crossed. “All right you people,” came a quiet, but authoritative voice from behind me, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” A librarian. “Hey!” said Camille, crossing her arms and looking at me. “We didn’t start the fire, if ya know what I’m sayin’!” “I don’t care what you’re saying, and I don’t care who started it,” said the tall, masculine-looking librarian. “All of you – out!” My eyes widened and my heart raced. “Cut out my heart With a finely honed letter opener Cast me o’er the rail So I fall on my neck on hallowed marble banister Hurl me through a shattering window to the streets below, But do not, do not, do not Exile me from my home while living, From the friends gathered here From the books 9 One of the teenage girls sat wide-eyed with her mouth open. “Wow!” she said softly. “That’s so deep! I wish I were deep…” “Space Princess,” said a young black girl who was part of the group, “ain’t no way you wanna be deep. If you was deep, ya would be totally lost to us, because ya would never find yo way out of ya own haid! Hell, we would have to send someone from Search and Rescue into yo little brain, and girl, they’ve got enough to do already! Ain’t that true, Emi-Lou?” “’Fraid so, Camille” said a particularly attractive teenage girl to my left. The girl who had been referred to as ‘Space Princess’ furrowed her brow for a moment. “That’s true…” she said quite seriously. Then her eyes widened. “Maybe I should buy a new hat instead.” Everyone looked her way seeking an understanding of her last statement, but as far as I could see, no one found so much as a clue. Still the girl I now knew as Camille made an effort. “Girl, no one knows what’s in that little noggin o’ yours, but it’s true at least a hat would cover it up, so you go for it.” “I know I don’ understand so well dee English,”

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That warm and nurture My soul.” Camille rolled her eyes and looked over at the librarian. “He talk like that all the time, I guess. Must be a disease er somethin’.” “Yeah, I’ve seen him before,” said the librarian, speaking quietly. “And I don’t care. All of you, out!” “Camille!” I was in such shock that I didn’t pick up which of the other teenage girls said this. “I tried!” Camille protested. “What do ya want from me? I ain’t beggin’ no white dude to sit his white ass down next to mine, that’s fer sure!” The statement took me by surprise. Fear of rejection was something I was more used to feeling in my own heart than hearing in the words of another speaking about me. “Out of the darkness Of solitary cave Out of the quiet of dripping water And self-generated echo You call me And I creep Slowly, cautiously To the edge of threat To risk hello To risk abyss For you.” Camille stared into my eyes and then cocked her head slightly to the right, while narrowing her eyes to slits. “I’m not really sure,” she said, “but I think I heard a ‘yes’ in there somewhere. What you think, Emi-Lou?” The attractive teen came up and held out her hand. “Name’s actually Emily.” I shook it. “And maybe you can bring your books. Tell us all about them and your poetry?” I had checked out two books and I held them close to my chest like a swaddled baby. I glanced down the library steps again at the street and foot traffic below. Everyone was going somewhere, most in a hurry. I think it was the speed that made my stomach tighten up. Or perhaps it was that, of all the many directions people were heading, I hadn’t the least idea which one I might choose for that day. Normally, the only time I was out on the street was when the library was closed. On those occasions I tried to stay away from both the shadowy places which bred assault, and the even more frightening well-lit benches and plazas which bred conversation. I shivered. The girl Camille had called “Emi-Lou” looked over at me and gave me a half-smile. Then she leaned my way and whispered. “You know they let you check out books and take them with you, don’t you?” No poetry flowed, and my heart raced in panic. I would have to face a personal onslaught armed only with empty, impotent prose. “Take them with me where?” ***** I’m standing on the top of the world Though others might say Only the top of the steps Of the Multnomah County Library, Portland, Oregon, Downtown Branch. I see nothing, nothing, nothing But the frigid bottom To which I must now Descend. I had never had a need for a departure poem, and so this adaptation was the best I could do. A soft punch on the shoulder interrupted my thoughts. It was Camille. “Yo, Dude! Look, my friends are all sayin’, hell, like it’s all our fault you out here, so maybe you should hang with us. I mean, if ya want to ‘n all.” I looked over at the others. They didn’t look hostile, but how could you tell with teenagers and others of today’s unschooled masses? “I don’t know…” Camille turned and walked away. “Okay, I tried--” 10 I looked back over at Emily. She smiled a relaxed smile.

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“These friends I have are bound But not to me I share them with you If you brave to share yourself Bravely, openly, tenderly With me.” And so I descended from the top of the world. I can’t say I was always comfortable. When this family sits, where should I sit? When I could return to the library, would I return alone? But most of all there was the conversation. “How in the hell do you do that?” said Camille later that day after I had spoken. “Do what?” I said tentatively, fearfully. “How do ya jes – I don’t know – jes spout off a poem, all neat and pretty like that?” I could tell from her eyes she really wanted to know, but I had to suppress my initial lyrical reaction, because I knew it would not help. I took a deep breath and relaxed. I let the thought in my head come to my tongue slowly. “What is difficult…isn’t doing it,” I said. “What is difficult for me is…is NOT doing it.” The wonder was, she understood. 11

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John Nicholl wrote a multi-agency child protection good practice manual and various articles for newspapers and a national social work magazine during his career, but ‘White Is The Coldest Color’ is his first novel. He has worked as a police officer, and as a social worker and operational manager for the child guidance service, two social services departments, and the NSPCC. He has also lectured on child protection matters at several colleges and universities. The disturbing dark psychological suspense thriller from ex police officer and child protection social worker John Nicholl. WHITE IS THE COLDEST COLOUR CHAPTER 3 Cynthia Galbraith rose at 5:30 a.m. on Friday 10, January, as she invariably did on days when her husband was working. She showered, dressed in an immaculate white silk dress, carefully styled her caramel-blonde hair and skilfully applied her make-up, taking care to look her best. She suspected that her husband would treat her efforts with utter indifference; nonetheless, she reminded herself, she had to keep trying. After one last anxious peek in the dressing table mirror, Cynthia hurried downstairs, ensuring not to make even the slightest noise that may prematurely disturb her husband’s slumber… He wouldn’t be ready to get up until seven o’clock, and she’d need every available second to prepare for his eventual appearance. Cynthia rushed into the kitchen and began preparing breakfast in line with Dr Galbraith’s particular requirements… Every detail mattered. She placed a choice of two high-fibre cereals on the large stripped oak table, lining up the boxes so that each was exactly parallel with the other. She added an exquisite French Chantilly porcelain plate, a matching cup, saucer and bowl, a solid silver spoon, a jug of full-cream milk, a bowl of dark muscovado sugar, and a silver gilt toast rack, that she would fill with his preferred white toast at the correct time. Next, she poured chilled 13 freshly squeezed orange juice into a nineteenthcentury crystal wine glass, placing it precisely one -inch from the right side of the plate. Cynthia used a stainless steel twelve-inch ruler to ensure she got the distance exactly right, and checked the measurements time and time again… He’d be disappointed if she got it wrong. That could mean punishment, and the ruler had a sharp edge. Cynthia entered the hall and tensed inexorably as she heard the shrill tone of the doctor’s alarm clock permeating the air… He was getting up. It wouldn’t be long until he came downstairs. She had to get a move on. She raced back into the kitchen and switched on the toaster, double-checking that it was set to her husband’s precise required setting… Too light, or too dark, and at best, he would refuse to eat it. She checked again to ensure that everything was on the table and in its correct position… It had to be perfect. Nothing less was acceptable. A white linen napkin! How could she be so stupid? She hurriedly took one from a dresser drawer and held it up in the light of the kitchen window, confirming it was clean and totally crease-free. She took a deep breath, sucking the oxygen deep into her lungs… Thank God, immaculate. Surely it was good enough? Cynthia switched on the percolator and added her husband’s favourite fine ground Columbian

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