I gaze down upon the untouched landscape beneath me. Uncorrupted, desolate and beautiful. I rest my tired legs and attempt to absorb every detail with my humble eye. Every crest, every wave, every ripple in the vast ocean of clouds. No lights to flicker in the distance except the final, dying embers of the sun’s warm glow. I descend, replenished, into the cold abyss of society with nothing to cling to within my confined space in the mechanical pecking order of human nature, but dreams of escape. I begin to caress my very memories, out of fear that I shall never see them again.

Yet Mrs Foster wore a sugary pink jumper.

Like an airy plump cake stuck atop a lumpy psychotic Iceberg.

A tyrannical middle-aged Tiger Shark of an iceberg.

All the children wondered, clinging to their desks jut to make it to lunchtime.

Why would a rhino wear a lamb’s hide?

Perhaps she had eaten one.

Or more likely both.

Or seven hundred.

From the bottom up.

And forgotten to remove the skin.

on a hot summer day

a day like any other one

On the way I encounter

old women and men

sheltered from the sun

Some women wear black

nothing but black

for the rest of their lives

They’re grieving widows, you see

As a child, a silly thought

occurred to me:

Do they wear black underwear, too?

Do aprons count?

Walking

down to the bakery

The whole street smells

of freshly baked bread

Instant happiness

A quick transaction later

I stand outside

with a warm loaf of bread

in a paper bag

looking

into the sunshine

feeling

the hot sun on my face

hearing

cicadas buzzing

quiet

A soft breeze runs through

my hair

Life

is truly perfect here.

Embraces never forgotten

You were the best in us

A Light in the wild

Clearing in the trees

Eyes that saw only what could be

You were blind to limitations

You were a cure for the greed

A poultice to the misery

We were climbing mountains in your eyes

The light has went out

The forests grown wild

The world without your presence

I could not imagine

You are gone my friend

And the embers of my heart grow cold.

Only faint figures and gravestones,

With rising jagged treetops stretching into open sky,

Prickling above the mist and surrounding the gate to which only the good may pass.

Bolted like an avalanche of dark, frothy chocolate.

Hillsides, glades, parks, the front bumpers of cars,

all these places she went and more,

never tiring, always grinning, never thinking.

Especially never thinking.

With the seemingly endless cycle of going to class and going to work I hadn’t taken my phone off silent mode for a long time, so I missed the call when it came through. It was sometime later that I looked at my phone and saw that I had a voicemail message.

“I’m in trouble.” It said “No police.”

The call had come from an international number. Obviously I recognised the voice and knew that trouble had a tendency to follow this person around. But what could have happened that they would be in a different country? And why did they not want the police involved? And what did they think I could do to help them?

They know me: I don’t have any special skills or training in detection or hand-to-hand combat like a character in a movie. I’m just a guy who studies at uni and has a shitty part-time job which barely pays the bills. And then I realised: they know me. They phoned me because they know that I wouldn’t just let it go. They know that I always find a way to fix things; but I had no idea where to start with this one.

Photo inspiration – from a photo or postcard expand the ‘what if’ scenario to include the scene shown.

The sun shone bright, as was its want, as the hour approached midday. The bus stop was nearby but I didn’t have a timetable to know exactly when the bus would arrive. So I gathered up my things and wandered across to see what was what. The departures listed on the bus stop suggested that one would arrive soon. There were other people waiting at the stop so I nurtured hope of imminent arrival.

Time ticked by as we grew hotter like mad dogs and Englishmen and still the bus didn’t arrive. I cursed this country and its lackadaisical attitude towards public transport and, in fact, everything it did. How could I be expected to achieve anything when I was surrounded by people like this? I imagined my situation like a Hollywood movie, where I was like James Bond on a global adventure to save a damsel and possibly the world along the way. But this was real. The threat was real, or at least the danger I felt for my lost friend was real to me and I was standing here waiting for a goddamn bus! James Bond always had some ridiculous supercar and seemingly infinite funds as he called up his numerous contacts to help him get what he needed but I had to scrape together enough for the cheap-ass flights I’d taken to get this far and now I was melting in the sun waiting for a bloody b-

The bus pulled round the roundabout as though the driver hadn’t a care in the world. The people at the bus stop looked relieved and began standing up as the bus approached. At last! I felt a surge of energy spurring me on in my quest which was quickly replaced by a fast building anger as the bus continued on past us with no indication of slowing down, let alone stopping! In my head I constructed scenarios which all ultimately led me to prison and the end of my mission. I looked around frantically, wouldn’t one of these other people do something outrageous?! I was distraught and about to panic when the bus brake lights showed and he came lazily to a halt some twenty yards up the road.

The doors of the bus opened and I couldn’t believe it when a gust of warm air washed out over me. Warm air! It was scorching outside the bus; it had never occurred to me that it would be hotter on the inside. It became quickly apparent that the bus had no air conditioning. Truly, this place was akin to Hell. I had to find my friend quickly and get us both out before I went mad. I boarded the bus and pushed forward – more was at stake here than just me: it was time to save the world, Bond style.

I get up and stumble through my well-lit corridor, like an animal caught in the headlights and tediously begin my morning routine as I enter the family kitchen. Daylight is pouring in from all angles, life outside is bright and so alive. I put the kettle on and routinely look out of my kitchen window into the back garden. outside my four cats and two dogs are playing happily together, blissfully unaware and uncaring to the harsh reality in which they exist. The kettle pops and so my day begins. once my coffee is made is stumble back through to my dimly lit room. I don’t see a point in eating breakfast as I don’t need much energy for my daily routine. I sit down, sip my coffee and try to figure out how to escape these four walls, without actually having to leave them.

I am both immersed in my surroundings and also completely free to the openness of space, lost.

But soon I am open to this slower pace of life

and the mountains stop suffocating me

I sink deep within them and am cradled by the grass.

The stillness and dignity of nature reminds that I too am  just a corpiral being

existing in the moment

and I remember to just breathe

and be.

- Why?

- It’s dirty.

I was stroking a dead bird with one extended forefinger. The forefinger of my right hand. My left hand was tucked between my legs as I crouched down, careful not to let the knees of my lilac leggings with yellow flowers touch the damp, brown mulch of the forest floor.

- Isn’t. He’s clean – he feels clean. And soft.

- No, birds are very dirty. Especially dead ones you’ve found on the ground. Leave it alone.

- Why are they, Mum? Why are they dirty?

She sighed a deep sigh that shook her scarf and her earrings amongst all her hair.

- Birds go places we would never go. We don’t know the places they go. That’s why.

I withdrew my finger but continued to peer. And marvel. The dead bird was the most beautiful and terrifying thing I had ever encountered. My mother had begun to walk away from me; I bit my lip as I watched her but I remained where I was. I wanted to open up his wings, turn him over to see his tail. Rooted like a tree amongst so many other trees, I could and would not move, could and would not tear myself away from the soft stillness, the thin curled feet, the closed eyes. Which would be black beneath, and shining.

May 24 – 27, 2012

The Elizabeth Kostova Foundation offers its fifth annual summer fiction writing seminar in the ancient town of Sozopol (Apollonia), Bulgaria. The seminar program consists of intensive daily fiction workshops, roundtable discussions, guest lectures and literary readings by faculty and participants. Fiction writers from Bulgaria and fiction writers from English-speaking countries, including but not limited to the U.K. and the U.S., are invited to apply. A total number of ten applicants will be selected for participation and funding.

SCHOLARSHIPS

Five participants writing in English and five writing in Bulgarian language will receive scholarships regardless of country of residence. A scholarship covers tuition, room and board, in-country transportation, and 50% of international travel expenses.

PROGRAM AND FACULTY

Morning workshops will be led in English by Elizabeth Kostova (US), the author of the best-selling novel “The Historian” (2005) and “The Swan Thieves” (2010), and in Bulgarian by Krassimir Damianov (BG/ESP), the author of “Diary of a Butterfly” (2008) and “The House of the Hanged” (2009).

Guest lectures will be provided by Barry Lopez (US), the author of the award-winning “Of Wolves and Men” (1978, 1979, 2004) and “Arctic Dreams” (1986, 2001), and Deyan Enev (BG), an award-winning writer, the author of “Ezi-tura” (2000) and “Circus Bulgaria” (2010).

The program in Sozopol, Bulgaria, includes also roundtable discussions, meetings with distinguished international and Bulgarian editors, publishers, translators, as well as literary readings.

One-day follow-up events are usually organized in Sofia, Bulgaria, as part of the long-term program of the Elizabeth Kostova Foundation called “CapitaLiterature” (2011-2019).

• To learn more about past programs and participants, please click here.
• The get a closer look into the seminar’s events, please check our audio/video channel.
• To read lectures from previous editions, please download our e-handbook in [pdf] or in [mobi ] version.

APPLICATION PROCESS

In order to apply, the applicants must complete an online submission form and attach all the required application materials to it: a biography, a statement of purpose and a fiction writing sample of 10-20 pages. A letter of reference, sent directly to the Elizabeth Kostova Foundation via e-mail by the reference, is required in addition to the online application. The reference letter should be sent to silieva@ekf.bg.
Only online applications will be accepted!
For detailed instructions on how to apply, please visit: http://www.ekf.bg/sozopol/apply.

APPLICATION DEADLINE

March 7, 2012

CONFIRMATION

All candidates will receive an e-mail from sozopolfictionseminars@gmail.com that their application has been received shortly after March 7, 2012. Please be certain that your e-mail account is set to receive e-mails from this address. If you do not receive a confirmation within one week of the deadline for submissions, please contact: sozopolfictionseminars@gmail.com.

NOTIFICATION

All approved applicants will be notified via e-mail by April 15, 2012. The results will be published on the website of the Elizabeth Kostova Foundation not later than April 30, 2012.

ELIZABETH KOSTOVA FOUNDATION
www.ekf.bg

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If you are on the lookout for talented Bulgarian writers, the first website for contemporary Bulgarian literature in English might be the right place for you to get started: http://www.contemporarybulgarianwriters.com/!

The front passenger seat was completely destroyed, caved in, just unrecognisable scrap metal, all the windows smashed and the car was on its roof. What if you had been in that seat instead of in the back with me, holding my hand as the car flipped and scraped and crashed? What if I killed you?

Two young men, students, sit together at a table for two, perusing the menu. They are dressed in sportswear; perhaps they have just been for a run, or to the gym? They both seem uncomfortable in the setting of the café, but I can’t seem to work out why. Are they embarrassed by their clothing choices, perhaps they feel that they are a little under dressed for the occasion?  They seem to be healthy guys, unusual for the typical student. It is possible they could be training for something, although that is just an obvious guess. They order water to drink, and fill up on bowls of salad before their main meal arrives. Their main meal arrives, a juxtaposition to their attire and glasses of water – a pizza. It is a large pizza, complete with a crust stuffed with cheese, loaded with deliciously fatty toppings. To me, a humble onlooker I surmise that the pizza is a futile effort to seem macho, or manly. Cynical, yes I know, however their frequent self-conscious glances give weight to my theory.

Our waiter, or server, whatever you wish to call him, is an eager chap. He is tall, broad and dare I say it, slightly rugged in appearance. Such an appearance makes him seem quite out of place here. I fancy that he should be outdoors somewhere, chopping down trees, teaching people to rock climb on the face of a cliff, or even building something. And yet, here he is waiting on customers, eager to cater to their every need, an attitude of someone who hasn’t been on the job long I would wager. He is a pleasant enough guy, helpful and I hope the more experience he gleans from the job, in particular in the form of irate, unreasonable customers, doesn’t dampen his kind nature.

new home
on earth
and to remain

It’s freezing without gloves, but the walk is too short to bother. Sky is still grey – Sun isn’t sure if it wants to rise so early, just like me. The air is cold and feels like I get to inhale deeper breaths than usual with every draw. The bus arrives immediately and is quite full – am on time. This one doesn’t pass the big, old, black church with bright red doors, which
I like to be fascinated about every time I pass it. Many little shops in this area – each one in different colour. Central Taxis – Blue and yellow sign I’ve always noticed but never read. Next, a small, fancy cupcake shop in which it seems like cakes are being displayed at random times. I never walk around here, only imagine buying one of those white, sparkling cupcakes to see who sells it to me – who creates them. Perhaps then I could understand their unusual approach to cake display.

The sky is especially grey today, but despite that I am glad I got out of bed to make this a good day.

Almost there, just getting off the bus, through the scenic yard and a shade of smoke, created by fellow students on their way to this new, serious day in uni. Then 4 more, completely useless doors need to be gone through and the coat comes off.

FROM

Sun has given golden lining to a few clouds, it makes the sky look brighter, but still can’t beat the greyness. Didn’t get to see the view of the city for I was running to catch the bus. This one takes another route – a longer, though nicer one through Morningside – and passes the amazing church. Am unusually pleased with the timing and reading I’ve done. This is a good, bloody freezing day.

Between small shops and cafes, all these trees and bushes are sitting in the same spot all year growing, changing form and colour. Traffic around is their routine, their every day life. Our glances are their socializing – right? Probably not, they don’t need this. They just need the sun, the wind, the ground, nothing else matters. The only interaction between flora and humans should be tolerance.

Chocolatier, florist – I wonder, for what occasion would I buy anything from there? Bruntsfield – nice for walking with a doggy, I used to really enjoy it.

The church! So smokey, old and ornamental – amazing.

Am off to make the most of the day. Revelation – the best way to get close to motion sickness is to write in a moving vehicle. Check. A nap first.

The day is done; time to go home. There is a chill in the air and the sky is dark, people huddle together under the shelter, patiently waiting for the bus. It appears soon enough and a great queue forms, as everyone is eager to get into the warmth. We pile on; almost all of the seats upstairs are taken by the time the bus pulls away. The air is filled with chatter – discussions of workloads and opinions on lectures dominate the conversation. The streets pass in a blur, the return drive always seems to be quicker. Every so often the bus lurches to a stop,  where choruses of ‘goodbyes’ and the sound of bells punctuate the journey. Frequently, a shop window will catch someone’s eye, a dress shop, a fast food place, the Cameo cinema. These little observations add to the wealth of conversation, creating dinner invitations, weekend excursions and musings about where you would wear such beautiful outfits. Companions continue to leave, and the top deck gradually becomes emptier. Soon it is almost my stop, I press the bell and make my way down the treacherous steps whilst the bus is still moving – much to the amusement of others and myself. Finally it stops, and with a smile and a nod to the bus driver I step out into the cold. The streets are lined with students, and I wind my way in between them, eager to get home. Everyone has the same expression – pain at the wind buffeting their faces, and tiredness, the product of spending a long day at university. My feet pound on the pavement, I’m finally almost home. I pick up the pace as I walk through the dark secluded close, until I reach the street lights. Rounding the corner, I scramble for my keys, unlock the outer door, curse that the light is broken, put my key in the flat door and I am home. Finally.