Christopher Allen's Blog, page 4

We Are Fire -- The Dance of the Devils by Michael Sealey

It is two o´clock in the morning in Calpe on the Costa Blanca. On duty at the top of the main high street is a fire engine. Waiting alongside it are six firemen prepared for action. Flame proof suits and yellow helmets; fire extinguishers to hand. Down the street, sloping between shops and apartment blocks all the way to the beachside square of Plaza Colon, are groups of anxious people. Not all of them are young but all are tense in anticipation of the event. They are dressed in trainers, worn jeans, and jackets zipped to the neck. The highest risk takers wear hats and scarves to cover their faces. They are there for the Fire Running ( *Correfoc ).
With every passing minute our apprehension increases. Nobody knows where the warning explosion will come from. All of a sudden the electricity supply to the town centre is cut off and the streets are plunged into blackness; no street lamps, no shop illumination and no traffic as the access roads were blocked by police. Everyone is silenced in that deathly hush which only the still of the early hours can bring. The tension mounts until an ear-splitting, window rattling explosion from a side street rips through the darkness.  Groups of startled people glance nervously in every direction and jostle for positions of advantage in the road or on pavements, in doorways, behind bus shelters or beside the slender trunks of orange trees planted along the roadside. But there is no hiding; the theatre of fire is about to begin and the entire high street is its stage.Without warning a cacophony of sound, a wild, demonic techno beat from a blacked-out mobile disco machine rushes out from a side street. It screams an insidious, panic provoking rhythm that throbs decibels to send us deaf into hell. From out of nowhere comes the attack. A dozen devil dancers in satanic garb run from concealment in the side- street shadows; each under a peacock fan of fire sprayed from an arc of pyrotechnic tubes projecting from backpacks. They dash into the crowds turning and twisting as they dance to the frenzied techno discord. The bravest onlookers dare to taunt the devils in defiance of their attack whilst others scatter to the middle of the road, out of range of the fire and the sparks. They think they are safe but above their heads a giant catherine wheel, suspended on wire, screeches and spins into a flaming life that showers its sizzling sparks onto the fire-runners below. They run down the street but the fiery wheel spins downhill along the wire in pursuit of them. There are shrieks of fearful excitement as the furies of hell run amongst them again with lances spitting volleys of sparks at their feet and above the heads of everyone in their zig-zagging path.We danced beneath the incandescent showers; a reckless rave in a surreal world unpoliced by personal safety. The more that danced and didn’t catch fire, the more joined in and the street became a seething stomp of pyromaniac abandon. We were River dance on hot coals.  From behind us came the revving of a frenzied engine. A motor bike from Mad Max gunned its engine amongst us; engulfing us in a pall of crimson smoke as it released festoons of rockets and fireworks in every direction. Its apocalyptic driver ignored the difference between roads and pavements; there was no escape. The crowds scattered once again only to be confronted by the contorted snaking of a Mephistophelean dragon firing salvos of volcanic brimstone from its cavernous throat.Possessed by the pandemonium, we writhed and spun in a mythical world like spectres in a banshee storm; suspended in a timeless tale of good in defiance of evil. We ran the fire till we reached a sulphurous blockade in the square below. Plumes of smoke rose to obscure a bristling armoury of pyrotechnic might mounted on a platform like a launching pad to Hades. Onto the platform leapt the devil dancers, gyrating grotesquely to the relentless, pounding beat as all around them an incendiary arsenal of fire-crackers, and bazooka muzzled rockets with comet-like tails erupted skywards and cascaded down in awesome fountains of colour.When the last cluster-bursts fell to earth like the golden fronds of a hundred palm trees, the devil dancers pranced with raised arms beneath the burning legend SOM FOC - ( WE ARE FIRE) . The crowd applauded and roared their approval. The theatre of fire was over but our adrenalin told us we craved for more. At three a.m., we turned towards our homes. The lights came on in the town centre. We showed each other the scorch marks in our clothing, like the scars of battle. Some had small red burn marks on hands or necks. A town hall banner hanging from a lamp-post had caught fire. Nothing serious. We had survived the fire-running. We had challenged the wraiths of evil and we were aglow.
*Correfocand Som Foc are from both the Valencian and Catalan dialect where the fire-running originated in the twelfth century.________________________________________________

Michael Sealey moved to Spain with his family in 1991; since then he has worked as an English teacher and translator. His interests are the well-being and success of his family, writing, ecology and local festivities and history. He has been involved with a campaign to prevent the development of Calpe’s natural resources.
"We are Fire -- The Dance of the Devils" was highly commended by Graham Mercer, the 2017 judge of the I Must Be Off! Travel Writing competition. He had the following to say about "We are Fire -- The Dance of the Devils": 
'The “Fire Running” festival is (at least outside Spain) a little-known and obviously exciting cultural event. The writer captures the excitement by using predominantly short sentences, giving the article a fast-moving immediacy and tension. And I like the refreshing Spanish indifference to over-officious “health and safety” regulations that in countries like my own would have this “River Dance on hot coals” stopped or robbed of its vital intensity.'  

Tea with Keiko by Maria Howard

We meet at ten o'clock on Sunday at Jodo-Ji temple in Onomichi, a port on Japan’s inland sea. As instructed, I toss 100 yen between the wooden slats at the entrance and prostrate myself in front of the altar. Explaining the fluidity between Buddhism and Shinto in Japanese culture, Keiko then leads me to the nearby shrine where we bow, clap twice so the gods hear us, bow again. This ritual done, we walk through narrow streets until we reach an old house with dark roof tiles and an elegant wooden gate. I remove my shoes and recall Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s In praise of shadows as I take in the screen doors and chiaroscuro light particular to Japanese interiors. 

Keiko sits me down in a room with rattan chairs, an old television set and a Miffy clock, and introduces me to the ancient art of the tea ceremony. She offers me a slice of pound cake -- ‘green tea is bitter so first we eat sweet’ -- and warms a bowl with hot water, wiping it down carefully with the slow actions prescribed by tea masters hundreds of years ago. Next comes the matcha. The powdered tea is acid green, an almost unnatural colour that the austerity of the wabi sabi ceramic throws into dramatic relief. Keiko pulls out a wooden whisk and whips the tea into a foam like a barber lathering up his brush; ‘This is the most important part. I put my energy here.’ She passes me the bowl with two hands; ‘When you drink you bow. Hold like this and turn out of respect for the host. Or hostess.’ I do as she says and turn the bowl clockwise before taking a sip of the thick tea, enjoying the feeling of the glaze on my lips, the heat on my hands. 
As I drink she talks to me about energy, or ki. An artist who spent ten years in Manhattan’s TriBeCa, Keiko is also a healer and yoga teacher. She returned to Japan to look after her late mother and now lives with her sisters, putting her energy into the house and the people around her; ‘You know arigatō? Arigatō has very good energy. Sometimes three or four of us get together and we say ah-ree-gah-toh.’ She stretches out the syllables of this simple thank you until it takes on its own sacred meaning.  

Then, ‘showtime!’; the ceremony is over and Keiko makes strong black coffee before showing me her portfolio. She explains how she spends hours at the market talking to the flowers; ‘who will be my model today?’ I ask how they reply; ‘They shine!’ We talk for a while about the flatness of Japanese art and as she packs away her drawings she asks where I’d like to go for lunch. ‘I leave myself entirely in the hands of a local,’ I say, and we make our way out of the shadowy house and onto the bright streets of Onomichi.

_______________________________________________

Maria Howard is a freelance writer and curator currently living in Glasgow. Last year she quit her full-time job as an editor for Christie's auction house in London to travel from the bottom to the top of Japan in three months. 

"Tea with Keiko" was highly commended by the 2017 judge in the I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition. He had the following to say about "Tea with Keiko": 

'The subject matter is familiar to many who visit Japan, I would guess, so no surprises or excitements there. But the essay seems to encapsulate, for me, the quiet, mannered, ceremonial side of traditional Japanese life. Again there is an economy of words and some attractive imagery – the “chiaroscuro light particular to Japanese interiors” and the “acid green” of the powdered tea, “an almost unnatural colour that the austerity of the wabi sabi ceramic throws into dramatic relief”

'“Wabi”, I am told, can be translated as “tranquil simplicity”, a phrase that (appropriately) describes the essay itself.  And there is a wonderfully ironic twist at the end (hopefully intended!) when Keiko, after hosting, with meticulous attention to detail, an age-old ceremony devoted to tea, “makes strong black coffee”.' -- Graham Mercer

Thirteen Days of Hiking on Corsica -- Cascades de Purcaraccia

The deceptively easy path near the start of the trailIf you're headed to the mountains on Corsica, chances are you'll happen upon Bocca di Larone, a popular starting point for several of hikes. You'll at least drive by it on your way to Col de Bavella, the starting point of our second hike to the Paliri Hut. Today we're off to one of the most popular pools on Corsica--with a zillion other tourists. It's August.

To reach the trail, follow the stream of tourists down the mountain from the crowded parking lot at Bocca di Larone. In the curve you'll probably overlook the entrance to the trail, especially if there's a caravan parked in front of it (and there will be a caravan parked in front of it). It's textbook inconspicuous. There's no sign, just a path leading into the scrubby mastic trees.

This shady, gentle path lures all manner of sandal-wearing tourists in bathing suits or pretty pastel summerwear. Nothing in our guidebook actually warns us to wear proper hiking shoes, but we're no dummies. After 30-40 minutes of tramping through the woods, you'll notice the terrain gets rocky, then rockier, then so rocky that you shouldn't go on if you're wearing twelve-year-old flipflops and pastel summerwear.

There is one particularly perilous crawl over an enormous boulder. If you slipped and fell off, you'd break your neck. And I guess that's your choice. But maybe you shouldn't take your six-year-old child over it if he is--I can't say this enough--wearing flipflops and has never climbed over a perilous boulder before. This trail wins the prize for no information about how dangerous it is. I suppose the authorities rely on tourists using common sense. My tip: Wear hiking shoes and lean into the mountain when you're climbing over boulders. Don't jump from one foothold to the next. Those crazy people who run down rocky descents at breakneck speed have been doing it so long that they know every pebble in their way. It just takes one turn, one snap of the ankle to ruin your holiday. And now I sound like your mother.Your mother is a sensible person.

If you're daring, though, and you're wearing the right shoes the rewards are nice. The trail leads into a canyon with lots of pools and serene hideaways. One of these in particular (on the right) was so peaceful and airy, I wanted to stay there all day. It was like a cathedral with a massive wall of stone on one side and the woods on the other. The light was as refreshing as the trickling water and the crisp air. I could spend the rest of my--

"Move along," Iggy barks. This eerily serene place sadly isn't our destination. We're headed to the next pool, not too far away, where a dozen tourists are already splashing around in the water--which is the opposite of serene. It's a popular place to swim and jump from the cliffs. We join hikers of all ages and abilities crawling up and inching down sheer cliffs: a few with pretty white trousers and dirt all over their behinds from scooting down cliffs they didn't expect, risk-loving teenagers climbing higher and higher to jump into the pool below from the most dangerous spot possible, their parents screaming at them to come down from there right now as they do back flips into the crystal-clear water, so crystal clear in fact that it's impossible to guage how far below the water the massive boulders are.

Then the canyoners come--groups of Italians using the waterfall as a slide. It looks fairly safe, but there's this bump at the end that surprises everyone but me after a couple times. It's kind of fun to watch their expression change from exhiliration to ow-I-wasn't-expecting-that--all twenty of them. Some chiropractor in Italy's making a lot of soldi this week.

This is paradise, but you'll hear the occasional helicopter coming to the rescue of a hiker who's twisted his ankle or slid off a boulder.

I must be off,
Christopher

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Christopher Allen is the managing editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. His debut flash fiction collection is forthcoming from Matter Press. Allen's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Indiana Review, Juked, FRiGG, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and others. Read his book reviews in Necessary Fiction, The Lit Pub, Fiction Southeast and others. In 2017 Allen was both a finalist (as translator) and semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions. He lives somewhere in Europe--for now.   

Thirteen Days of Hiking on Corsica -- The Tavignano Valley

Along the Tavignano River, CorsicaYou will no doubt remember my first tip from our first day of hiking on Corsica: Book your accommodation as close to your hiking destination as possible to avoid the notoriously slow traffic on the main roads. So for our third day of hiking we set out for Corte, 87k to the north of our holiday house in Solenzara. We are lucky, though--as are the two hitchhikers we pick up: To ge there it takes us seventeen pop songs or just under two hours of lively interrogation from our new ride buddies--why can't hitchhikers just sit there and listen to you sing? But we learn so much about the island. Corte, for example, is the only city on the island with a university.

"So I guess Corsica," I say, "is far more town than gown."

No one in the car knows what I mean, and the new Pink song has just come on anyway--the sixteenth pop song, so we're almost there. As Corte appears perched on its hill in the distance, the more talkative of our hitchhikers leans forward and points to the mountain behind the town.

"See you ze ziggy zaggy the mounTAIN upwards?" Or something like that. There is indeed a bit of a ziggy zaggy formed from darker vegetation on the zigs, lighter vegetation on the zags. "This is the way to L'Arche," he says like this L'Arche business is heaven.

"Oh! Larch, yes!" I say. No idea. I just want to walk up a steep mountain and burn 2000 calories. The zigzag looks a bit boring to be honest, but I'm easy. And--I've forgotten to say--it's hotter than hell outside.

We let the two sweet souls out at a petrol station so that they can get their next ride to the north. Then we turn around and Ignatius the Cartographer's Accountant parks on the side of the road.

"What's going on?"

"We're not hiking up that mountain," says Iggy.

"Huh? What the problem? Is it the ziggies or the zaggies?"

"It's hot."

"Tell me about it."

The mountain is kind of barren, OK there's not one tree, and it's sweltering. Iggy wants to walk in the shade. I can't blame him, but I'm also not one to miss an opportunity to ridicule.

"Wuss."

It's almost 11:00 and we haven't even started our hike. It was supposed to be an arduous five-hour hike up a steep mountain. Now I think Iggy is thinking about going shopping in Corte and getting drunk on fruity drinks in a café.

"I want mounTAIN," I say. 

In the end, a compromise is struck. We ditch the hike in the sweltering sun in favor of a path closer to the Tavignano river, with shade, cows, and the irritating jabber of children splashing around in the river. Then we immediately get lost because we miss the turn that would take us a few dozen meters higher to the actual trail. Why? Because we're following the cows. Tip number one for the Tavignano Valley: Don't follow the cows. They are not going where you're going.

Tip number two: Bring twice as much water as you think you'll need. Corsican hiking trails are not like the trails of Germany, Austria and South Tyrol. Usually, there aren't well-maintained restaurants at the top just dying to sell you water and wine. You're more likely to find a haggard hiker with his head in a creek, drinking like a cow. It's a rugged place.

Pack that water, though, and come to this beautiful place. The farther you walk up the mountain, the fewer people you'll see. Most tourists stay in the valleys and bathe in the pools there. If you walk a few hours up the mountain, you'll have a better chance at being sort of alone with nature. You'll need to be fairly fit with the right shoes, but it's all doable. A good sense of orientation also helps.

"Where the hell are we?" I ask when the path narrows to a 10-centimeter thread covered in cow poo.

"We need to be up there." Iggy points to what looks like a level place about 100 meters up the mountain. Twenty minutes later, we're on the real path thanks to cows who've blazed a trail to it (so I guess some cows do actually want to go where you're going).

In the end, this trail is of medium difficulty with a bit of crawling over steep rocks. Mostly, though, it's a gentle path. The reward is a crystal clear pool at the end. You can't miss it. When you see the footbridge across the Tavignano, you'll know you can soon take your shoes off and cool your feet in the water. We lie on a broad, flat stone in the middle of the pool and fall asleep without a thought in the world for the two-hour hike back to our car.

Stay tuned for more Corsican hikes. Also, the winners' of the I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition will soon be published here at I Must Be Off!

I must be off,
Christopher

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Christopher Allen is the managing editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. His debut flash fiction collection is forthcoming from Matter Press. Allen's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Indiana Review, Juked, FRiGG, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and others. Read his book reviews in Necessary Fiction, The Lit Pub, Fiction Southeast and others. In 2017 Allen was both a finalist (as translator) and semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions. He lives somewhere in Europe--for now.

 

What Strangers Do at [PANK]

I have a troubling story at [PANK]. I'm thrilled to have a story there. A dream. But it's a story that you will not be reading to your children and one you probably will find difficult to read to yourself. I actually read it aloud for the site--and that was difficult for me. There are three rape scenes in the reach of 750 words, so this is about as far away from the light travel-escapade humor of I Must Be Off! as I can get. But still this is me. And this is the world we live in.

A few years ago I was slammed to the floor of a kitchen in Nice. I wasn't raped in the sexual sense of the word, but I was violated (the sexual assault story is yet to come). The vision in my right eye has deteriorated, and I will never go back to Nice. The feelings of violation and betrayal are all so real--too real--to me in this story. All the levels of strangeness and strangers in this text are deliberate and painful. When readers react with the words "horror" and "gutted," I see it. I feel it. I'm usually a humorist. I look for the punchline. There's no punchline in this one.

I must be off,
Christopher

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Christopher Allen is the managing editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. His debut flash fiction collection is forthcoming from Matter Press. Allen's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Indiana Review, Juked, FRiGG, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and others. Read his book reviews in Necessary Fiction, The Lit Pub, Fiction Southeast and others. In 2017 Allen was both a finalist (as translator) and semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions. He lives somewhere in Europe--for now.    

Thirteen Days of Hiking on Corsica -- Col de Bavella to the Paliri Hut

On the trail from Col de Bavella to the Paliri HutDo you like narrow serpentine roads graced with sheer drop-offs, crumbly guardrails, and pigs running wild? Well, half-wild and not exactly running. They seem bored by the constant stream of cars. Col de Bavella is a popular starting point for lots of hikes. You'll never walk alone here.

Ignatius the Cartographer's Accountant loves serpentine roads. He thinks his modest station wagon is a Porsche as he cuts and hugs curves and I spew my breakfast out the window. On Corsica you'll be cutting and hugging a lot of curves; and as long as you're the driver, you'll be fine. But if you're not the driver and don't deal well with serpentine roads, here's a tip: Pretend you are driving with an imaginary steering wheel. You may feel a bit stupid at first, but keep doing it. You'll be surprised how easily you can trick your body into thinking it's driving the car.

The hike to the Paliri Hut starts from the parking lot behind the Auberge below the Bavella pass, so you'll need to walk back down the mountain a couple of hundred meters after you park--that is, if you find a parking space. During high season, the free parking lots fill up quickly. Then the €4 parking lot fills up. Then the parking spaces along the road. Then the patches of dust along the road that may or may not be parking spaces. There are cars everywhere, and people park adventurously. I'm sure there are a few cars at the bottom of these sheer drop-offs. My tip: Why the hell did you think Corsica in August was a good idea? Go to Corsica in May or late September. Avoid all these people and cars. The pigs are perennial.

 Village of Bavella below the passThis trail, wide and flat, wanders gently into the forest, enticing unfit walkers, unmotivated children, grandmothers in flip-flops. Even as the path waxes rocky and drops a few dozen meters onto the GR20, some walkers might still think Hmmm, that was a bit of a challenge, but I'm sure the trail flattens out again. These flip-flops made mostly of sequins are fine, and I'm sure I'm unsteady only because of the two glasses of wine I had at the Auberge. The trail does not flatten out again. Those flip-flops are not the right footwear. The wine? Who am I to judge?

Depending on your condition, walking to the Paliri Hut will take you between one and two hours up and down rocks (an altitude difference of 600 meters). My tip: If you're not used to crawling up, over and down rocky trails, make sure you have trekking poles for balance and stability when you're walking down steep rocks. As rocky and steep as this trail is, though, it's not really dangerous. There are only a couple of places where you are precariously close to a sheer drop-off. You're more likely to be killed in your station-wagon Porsche, dodging a pig or a goat on the road.

Now if you're like me--meaning that you tend toward total ignorance when it comes to abbreviations like the GR20--you wrinkled your forehead when I mentioned it above. What is the GR20? The GR stands for Grande Randonnée (French), Grote Routepaden or Lange-afstand-wandelpaden (Dutch), Grande Rota (Portuguese) or Gran Recorrido (Spanish) and indicates a network of footpaths in Europe. They are easily recognizable by their red-and-white-striped markers. The GR20 refers to a 160-180k (opinions vary) network of trails on Corsica from Conca in the south to Calenzana in the north. If you hike the GR20 all at once, it usually takes two weeks. If you do this, you'll have to stay in a refuge or gîtes d'Etape or pitch a tent close to one. Camping elsewhere is forbidden (but we saw people doing it).

Fun Corsica Fact: François D’Haene set the fastest known time for completing the GR20 in June 2016. He did it in 31 hours. My take-away? I think François must be one of those people who think the GR20 is closer to 160k than 180k.

I must be off,
Christopher

_____________________________________________________

Christopher Allen is the managing editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. His debut flash fiction collection is forthcoming from Matter Press. Allen's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Indiana Review, Juked, FRiGG, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and others. Read his book reviews in Necessary Fiction, The Lit Pub, Fiction Southeast and others. In 2017 Allen was both a finalist (as translator) and semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions. He lives somewhere in Europe--for now.  

The Fifth Annual I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition -- The Winners!

Thank you to every writer who shared your adventure with us. I am amazed every year by the breadth of experience entrants bring to this competition. The worst part about a competition is that almost everyone who enters will be disppointed in the end. The best part is the opportunity of making at least a few people happy by recognizing their talent and hard work. This year, thanks to the addition of entry-fee proceeds, I'm increasing the second place prize to €75 and adding a third place prize of €25!

This year's judge, Graham Mercer, has made the following choices:


First Place"Forbidden Fruit" by Fiona Dixon (UK)
Second Place"Old Foreigner" by Fiona Rintoul (UK)
Third Place"A Hit in the Himalayas" by Scott Morley (USA, South Korea)
Highly Commended"Straight in the Eye" by Mandy Huggins (UK)"We are Fire: the Dance of the Devils" by Michael Sealey (Spain)"Tea with Keiko" by Maria Howard (UK)
Congratulations to all the winners, whose work will be featured at I Must Be Off! in autumn 2017.

I must be off,
Christopher

_____________________________________________________

Christopher Allen is the managing editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. His debut flash fiction collection is forthcoming from Matter Press. Allen's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Indiana Review, Juked, FRiGG, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and others. Read his book reviews in Necessary Fiction, The Lit Pub, Fiction Southeast and others. In 2017 Allen was both a finalist (as translator) and semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions. He lives somewhere in Europe--for now.

Thirteen Days of Hiking on Corsica -- Tizzano to Cala di Conca

Rock formation on trail from Tizzano to Cala di ConcaThe few weeks before I left for Corsica, my French clients assured me that I'd probably die in a forest fire set by a crazy arsonist. And if I didn't meet this fate, I'd certainly be shot or at least shot at. All the road signs, they said, are riddled with bullet holes. So of course I was glad to finally be embarking on a truly dangerous adventure--which I've returned from, a spoiler I guess.

Over the next few weeks, I'll be sharing my hikes on Corsica for those of you who think this island might be for you, forest fires and bullet-hole-riddled street signs notwithstanding. I'll be giving some tips on how to maximize pleasure and minimize hassle. And I'll be sharing some photos, mainly of rocks. Brown rocks. Gray rocks. Small ones. Big ones. Wet ones. Dusty ones. Corsica is a medium-sized box of rocks--actually the fourth largest heap of rocks in the Mediterranean Sea.

My first tip: book your accommodation close to the area of Corsica you plan to visit the most. There are lots of camping facilities and a range of bungalows to choose from in the mountains or on the coast. If you plan to hike in the mountains, stay in the mountains; if you plan to broil your poor skin on the beach, stay near the beach. The main roads--and there are only two or three--are jammed with cars from morning to night. Plan two centuries longer than you think you'll need. Traffic jams on Corsica are notorious, but if you avoid the main roads altogether, you won't have to worry about them.

So for our first hike, Ignatius the Cartographer's Accountant chooses a place a million miles away. We set out down the main road in the direction of Bonifacio, a drive that might take an hour with light traffic. It takes us five. It might have taken us only four hours, but Ignatius the Cartographer's Accountant makes a wrong turn and keeps driving in the wrong direction until a nice, elderly couple asks us if we need help. We can't understand much of what they say, and they can't understand much of what we say, but it's a sweet exchange.

"Tizzano!" I yell out the car window, coughing in the cloud of dust from our cars.

"Ohhhhh!" The man waves his hands around like You are nowhere near Tizzano. Tizzano is on another planet. Your children will be grown before you get to Tizzano. Forget Tizzano. OK, so I actually understand quite a lot.

In the end we understand that we need to turn around and turn left--which turns out to be right--after we pass the hospital that we passed a century ago. 

The tiny town of Tizzano is our starting point. Actually, the end of a poorly maintained dirt road 30 minutes beyond Tizzano is the starting point. This trail, Tizzano to Cala di Conca, is billed as one of the "greatest walks of the island" in our German guidebook (a five-hour walk). When we finally arrive in Tizzano at the end of that dusty, potholed road, we are all too ready to get out of the car, but no one is up for a five-hour walk. It's already 2 p.m.

Tizzano to Cala di Conca is actually a good initiation to Corsica. The path along the coast is mostly flat but with a few ups and downs over rocks, rocks and more rocks. The rock formations are the stars of this walk, but the little coves and bays you'll encounter along the way are close runners-up. There is even the very occasional bar or restaurant on this path, which is not the case in the mountains.  

The coast along the path from Tizzano to Cala di Conca, CorsicaCorsica Fun Fact: Ajaccio, the capital city of Corsica--or the head office of the Collectivité territoriale de Corse--is the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte.

Stay tuned for more Corsican hikes in the coming weeks. And also keep an eye out for the winners of the 2017 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition. The long list and the shortlist have already been published. If the title of your entry is on one of these lists, congratulations! Sadly, if the title of your entry does not appear on the shortlist, this means it is no longer in the running. Thank you to everyone who entered this year. As blind judging is still in progress, please do not share the title of your entry on social media. Good luck to everyone on the shortlist!

I must be off,
Christopher

_____________________________________________________

Christopher Allen is the managing editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. His debut flash fiction collection is forthcoming from Matter Press. Allen's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Indiana Review, Juked, FRiGG, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and others. Read his book reviews in Necessary Fiction, The Lit Pub, Fiction Southeast and others. In 2017 Allen was both a finalist (as translator) and semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions. He lives somewhere in Europe--for now.

The 2017 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition -- The Shortlist!

Congratulations to all of the solid writers whose travel pieces have made the 2017 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition Shortlist. Such talent makes choosing winners very hard. You have taken us around the world again with smart, crisp prose. Each of these entries is a gem. A very special thanks goes out to every writer who sent us your work. We hope you'll keep sharing your adventures and keep sending them to I Must Be Off! Due to the high number of entries, we regret that we cannot respond to every person individually. If the title of your entry is not on the list below or on the longlist published at the beginning of August, sadly the road ends here. Next year you'll have another chance. Please take a few minutes and read the winning pieces from the last five years as well as the  interviews with previous judges here at I Must Be Off!


The 2017 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition Shortlist: 

A Hit in the Himalayas
Becoming Habesha
Conquering the Mountain: Peru with a Pacemaker
Conrad Maldives Rangali Island
Forbidden Fruit
Greek Yogurt: The Real Deal
Horizontally, With Opera in the Background
I wonder for a moment if I am in Heaven
I'm not one for sitting...
Japanese Surprises
Knight of the Night
Mothers of the World Unite
Old Foreigner
On the Way to Queen of Hills -- India 
Roots
Starry Night
Straight in the Eye
Tea with Keiko
The Cairo I Choose to Believe in
The Heart of Darkness
The Himba: Between Two Worlds
Tidings of Tussac Grass
We are Fire -- The Dance of the Devils
Winter Weirderland


Best of luck to all the entrants,
Christopher


__________________________________________

Christopher Allen is the managing editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. His debut flash fiction collection is forthcoming from Matter Press. Allen's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Indiana Review, Juked, FRiGG, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and others. Read his book reviews in Necessary Fiction, The Lit Pub, Fiction Southeast and others. In 2017 Allen was both a finalist (as translator) and semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions. He lives somewhere in Europe--for now.

The 2017 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition Long List!

It's been another great year of travel writing. Just over 500 entries from all over the world came in this year, most during the free-entry period. If the title of your piece appears on the list below, you are still in the running to win the 2017 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition. Sadly, if the title of your piece does not appear on the list, this means the road ends here for you.

The standard of writing has been very high this time. Arriving at a long list among such strong entries has been difficult. Congratulations to everyone who has made it this far. You are all gifted writers. And to those who are not on this list, thank you for giving us the opportunity of reading your writing. I hope you'll try again next year.

The 2017 Long List (in alphabetical order)

As blind judging is still in progress, please do NOT indicate which piece is yours if you share this on social media (Facebook, Twitter, etc.).


A Bulgarian Rosary
A Guilt-Tinged Antidote to Winter
A Hit in the Himalayas
Albania
A Life Less Ordinary
All Species Meet Their End
American, not blonde
An Evening in Kampot
April in Paris: Two Vignettes
A Provincial City
Armageddon Road
Becoming Habesha
Becos
Being Enchanted Again
Berlin Winter
Connemara: Home and Away
Conquering the Mountain: Peru with a Pacemaker
Conrad Maldives Rangali Island
Diving the North Wall
Forbidden Fruit
Greek Yogurt: The Real Deal
Hello, Vietnam
Hiking Ben Bulben
Horizontally, With Opera in the Background
How to Explain Nebraska
I wonder for a moment if I am in Heaven
I'm not one for sitting...
In a Very Smally Country, Phonsavan, Laos
Japanese Surprises
Knight of the Night
La Nebbia
Lunch in Brigadoon
Mothers of the World Unite
My Mont Blanc
New Lands, New Experiences
Nowhere is Now Here
Old Foreigner
One Night in the Thar Desert
On the Rocks
On the Way to Queen of Hills -- India 
Passport Check on the Way Home
Placing Age in Perspective
Roots
Speeding through Chiapas, S-l-o-w-l-y
Squat
Starry Night
Straight in the Eye
Sunday in the Park
Sustenance
Tea with Keiko
The Cairo I Choose to Believe in
The Heart of Darkness
The Himba: Between Two Worlds
The Intersection of Life
The Last Resort
The Miracles of St. Naum
The Moose and the Birch Trees
The Museum of Broken Relationships
The Night of the Piranha
The No Man's Land Between Life and Death: Varanasi
The Real Girl
The Spider Web People of Manila
The Storm
The Time Trails
The Trip to Lissos
Tickled by Carrots and Foraging for French Fries
Tidings of Tussac Grass
Towering Dignity
We are Fire -- The Dance of the Devils
Winter Weirderland
Yellow Line Heading North


Congratulations again! Keep an eye on I Must Be Off! at the end of August when the shortlist will be announced. As stated above, blind judging is still in progress, so please do NOT indicate which piece is yours if you share this news on social media.

I must be off,
Christopher

_________________________________________________

Christopher Allen is the managing editor at SmokeLong Quarterly. His debut flash fiction collection is forthcoming from Matter Press. Allen's fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in [PANK], Indiana Review, Juked, FRiGG, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and others. Read his book reviews in Necessary Fiction, The Lit Pub, Fiction Southeast and others. In 2017 Allen was both a finalist (as translator) and semifinalist for The Best Small Fictions. He lives somewhere in Europe--for now.