Christopher Allen's Blog, page 8

The Fairies of Faerie Glen by Michele Ivy Davis

When you reach the lochan (pond), you know you are close to Faerie Glen.In the Highlands of Scotland on the Isle of Skye is a magical place called Faerie Glen. You won’t find it on any maps, but it is real. I know, because I’ve been there. 
To reach it, you must begin at the sea and follow a narrow, twisting road up into the hills. There are no signs to mark its location, but you’ll know you’re there when you reach a small lochan, a peaceful pond surrounded by spikes of pink flowers. Go past the wandering sheep and lambs, down a dirt path, past a broken stone wall and a fallen tree, and up a steep hill.  You won’t see anything yet, though, for fairies are shy and their glens are secret.
Up, up you climb until you can see a waterfall across the valley. Turn the corner past the miniature mountains and knolls some say were made by the fairies running and dancing. That’s where the land flattens into a small glen tucked between hills covered in close-cropped grass kept short by the sheep.
High above you on one side is what looks like a rocky tower. This is Castle Ewen. Could this be where the queen of the fairies lives? The journey to the castle is difficult because the land falls away steeply on both sides. Most visitors don’t go there, for fairies don’t like to be spied on, but I’ve heard tales that the queen dresses in white linen and wears a crown of pearls in her hair.
In the grassy glen are spirals, hearts, and stars made of rocks that visitors have gathered. Walk through the opening in a spiral and follow the circle as it gets smaller and smaller. In the center you’ll find gifts travelers have left for the fairies. There might be a brilliant white feather, some shiny coins, or a few purple and yellow flowers, bright against the green grass. If you walk farther into the glen, you might find a miniature table made of stacked stones that holds a fern leaf, sheep’s wool, or charms and small pieces of jewelry. 

Bits of sheep’s wool, flowers, and coins left for the fairies in the center of one of the rock spirals visitors have made. I’ve been told the fairies repay these gifts with good luck for the giver.I suspect that when the moon is bright, the wee folk come out of hiding to admire what their visitors have brought, and repay their acts of kindness with good luck.
No, I didn’t see any fairies when I was there, but I wonder… When the ferns rustled as I walked by, was it just the wind? Or was it a fairy running deep into its fern forest to hide?
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Michele Ivy Davis is a California-based freelance writer and photographer whose stories and articles have appeared in various magazines, anthologies, and newspapers. She is the author of an award-winning novel, and traveled to the picturesque highlands of Scotland to explore the home of her ancestors. Learn more at www.MicheleIvyDavis.com.

Judge's Comment: Unpretentious, authoritative yet playful writing which delves deep into the secret world of the little people...'I've heard tales that the queen dresses in white linen...' What an original way for the reader to visit the Isle of Skye and discover its mysteries. 
 

The Seven Headless Dwarfs by Matthew Wolfe

The outdoors, "backstage" area of Disney World stood as a boundary between the organized chaos of family entertainment and the natural order of a wetlands. Alligators to the north. Peter Pan land to the south. I was a teenager in limbo. My own family for this trek to the Magic Kingdom was the roughly 100 members and supporters of The Barboursville High School Invincible Marching Band. I was a snare drummer running on little sleep. Actually, we were all a bit groggy. An over-night, 800-mile bus trip meant an all-night party of card games, pranks, silly songs, and serious make-out sessions on tour buses.


Now we were a bleary-eyed mob caught in the brilliant Florida sun, ready for Space Mountain and the Pirates of the Caribbean. There was just one little obligation we had to meet first: march in a parade through the lame “Main Street, USA” section of the park.   
After warm-ups and inspection, we waited in our hot uniforms and listened to people laughing and enjoying life on other side of a tall wooden fence. It was the eternal musicians’ madness of “Hurry up and wait”, and we were missing out on precious minutes in the “Happiest Place on Earth”. 
Suddenly a nearby gate in the fence burst open and the Seven Dwarfs marched in. They were in single file, Doc leading the way, of course, and Dopey at the rear. It was a glorious moment for me and my band mates, and we hailed them with “ohs” and “ahs.” Then things went south in a hurry.
When the gate slammed shut behind Dopey, the Dwarfs broke stride and soon resembled a small herd of staggering drunken elves. These chaotic and colorful creatures were all headed for the one bit of shade to be found, an arthritic maple tree with a picnic table beneath. There a large water cooler and a stack of paper cups waited on the table.
Just as they closed in on this diminished oasis, Grumpy decapitated himself.  
Which is to say the man in the costume removed his head. Well not his head. The head of Grumpy. 
I had always assumed Grumpy had a violent bent, but I figured he'd do in Doc first. Self-beheading is a rather desperate call for help.
Sleepy and Happy also removed their noggins. 
And there was nothing bashful about Bashful when he popped his top.
One might hope that Sneezy would at least sneeze his head off, but no, he removed it with his hands just like the others. Damned conformist.
Slowly (much slower than I care to admit) I realized these were real men in costumes, men who looked nothing like the lovable Dwarfs. One was, I am sure, an escaped convict from a Georgia chain gang. He and two others were white. The other four appeared to be Hispanic. All seven wore sweat like cheap make-up. Even now they could not wipe away the sweat, for their fingers were lost in fake-hand gloves.
As the shock began to ease, I looked at the thin and sweaty men inside. They were of average height and wore T-shirts and wife beaters as well as bandanas around their (real) heads to keep the sweat out of their eyes -- a scruffy lot to be sure. The Dwarf trousers came up to their armpits and were held in place by wide suspenders, contrasting their youthful faces with outlines resembling old men with their pants hiked up to their chins.   
Sleepy carried his head up-side-down by a bottom edge, near the neck. The white beard fell across Sleepy's half-moon eyes like a bad comb-over on an elderly stoner.
Dopey meanwhile carried his head in front of him, clutching it by the huge ears. Far from stupid, Dopey’s inner dude looked like William Shakespeare, complete with a goatee and a little earing.
Sleepy's inner man sported a three-day growth of dark whiskers, not the virgin white beard of his outer-narcoleptic.  
Once they reached the picnic table, the man-dwarfs placed their heads on the grass in a nice, straight row. It looked like a headhunter's wet dream. Then they removed their gloves and tossed them beside the freakish heads. The hand-gloves held their shape. This created the bloodless crime scene of a mass murderer with OCD tendencies. All the hard-boiled detective needed to do now was look for the “nice guy next door” with seven headless and handless bodies stuffed into his freezers. 
Then, horror of horrors: Happy produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from somewhere inside his oversized Dwarf pants -- I try not to imagine -- and soon five of the lot were puffing away, including Dopey, whom I am sure caved into peer pressure. Shame on you, Happy! 
Obviously it was break time for the crew, their state mandated 10 minutes per four hours of work. The little-tall-men worked for hourly wages, a weekly paycheck. “I owe. I owe. It’s off to work I go!” So much for our carefree diamond miners.
And there we were, a group of high schoolers quietly watching – amused, bewildered, and disillusioned. It was like discovering Santa was really just your parents, only somehow a little worse. A part of the Magic Kingdom lost its magic just as we stood at its threshold. Adulthood nipped at our imaginations, and the scent of melancholy, sweat, and smoke permeated the humid air.
Suddenly we were called to attention. There were four short blasts of the Drum Major’s whistle and my brothers in drums and I began playing a cadence. Then BOOM! The gates opened, and we marched out onto the stage of Disney World, leaving the seven half-dwarfs behind.
As we made our way down Main Street playing some tune from a Disney movie, I wondered something. Where was Snow White? What was her deal? Was she too good for the backstage likes of Dwarfs and drummers? I summoned a vision of Snow White and Cinderella sitting half-dressed in an air-conditioned dressing room and trash-talking Minnie Mouse while they smoked a joint.  It turns out adult fantasies can be damn good, too. 
Hi ho!
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Matthew Wolfe’s writing has appeared in Newsweek, Writer’s Digest, Reader’s Digest, Yellow Medicine Review, Animus, and Motif, among others. Wolfe is completing work on a user-friendly composition textbook.  He teaches unconventionally at Marshall University and Ohio University.   He’s also a free-lance Time Traveler.

Judge's Comment: Backstage in Disney World. Which of us has ever bothered to wonder what the 'unmasked' Disney characters do, think or feel when they're taking a break?  Have we ever imagined them as 'real people'? With quirky humour and absolute consistency in style, we are introduced to each dwarf in turn as they 'behead' themselves. Vivid descriptions:  'The white beard fell across Sleepy's half-moon eyes like a bad combover.'
 

The Chase by Moira Ashley

I gasped and sat up straight as a meerkat in the rattling Land Rover, but didn’t say a word. I’d embarrassed myself enough today. ‘Crouching lion cubs!’ had turned out to be nothing more than termite mounds; ‘White rhino!’ a sun-bleached rock.

The light was fading rapidly, both sky and dense fynbos the hue of the milky Rooibos tea we’d drunk on our refreshment stop a couple of hours before, high on the escarpment overlooking  the meandering Bushman’s river, on Amakhala Game Reserve, in Eastern Cape.

That afternoon, a feast of wildlife: inquisitive giraffes, velvety heads so close that their eyelashes seemed to stir the parched air round my head when they blinked; a family of zebra, moving bar codes over the belt of bush; a lone elephant -- minus his tusks, which might, according to ranger Martin, explain why he had been cast out by the other males. Dark tracks ran from his eyes down his creased cheeks. Not tears: he was in must and it was the dripping of excess testosterone which gave him his air of melancholy. We watched as he scooped up trunk-loads of dust into his mouth, to alleviate the all-too-common problem of toothache.
The animal was, said the ranger, probably on his sixth and last set of teeth. When these fell out, starvation would eventually lead to his death. The natural way of things, he assured us, unlike the senseless slaughtering that still went on in pursuit of ivory. As if on cue, the walkie-talkie crackled – one of the other rangers reporting a suspicious sighting. With a crash of gears and throaty burble, we bumped over to the perimeter fence, just in time to see the rear of a retreating vehicle. Thwarted – for now, but keeping poachers at bay was a never-ending problem.
We trundled westwards, a brief hiatus in the parade of fauna allowing us to study some of the flora on this unexpectedly green land: our elephant had resorted to dust, but bushmen had a choice of plants to assist with their dental hygiene. Martin leant out of the vehicle and plucked a branch from a brittle-looking shrub, peeling back the bark to reveal fibrous ends. Smelling vaguely of mustard and cress, it had antiseptic properties, and as I was chosen to demonstrate, aptly earned its nickname of ‘toothbrush tree’. The Devil’s Thorn bush growing alongside was altogether less benign looking and there were no volunteers to discover how effectively a strategically pierced spike numbed the gums.
Besides, the game once more demanded all our attention. A herd of wildebeest thundered past, savannah parting like the Red Sea as the earth shook: a prehistoric cave painting brought to life. Buffalo were more ponderous but ambled close enough for us to study their ribbed head armour, shiny as basalt, and the red-billed oxpeckers which rode their backs, obligingly ridding them of ticks. Was the warthog camera-shy because she sensed she was not as photogenic as the more svelte hartebeest, impala and blestok with whom she shared these plains? Her face, with its knobbly forehead, shovel chin sprouting bristles, and bad-tempered squint may have lacked conventional beauty, but it brought a smile to my face as I adjusted the zoom.
By dusk, though, they had all melted away; only a herd of eland remained, spiral horns piercing the horizon before heads dipped in unison as they grazed. But just ahead of us, at the edge of the track, surely…?
‘Cheetahs: female and two cubs’, Martin hissed. So I had been right! A half-shade lighter than the grass in which they lay, parchment-pale fur smudged with ink spots, the fleeting gleam of amber iris as a head turned.
‘She’s seen the eland’, he whispered. ‘Could be going in for the kill any time. Needs to get closer though.’
‘I thought they could reach speeds of 100kph in just a few seconds?’
‘True, but cheetahs are sprinters, not marathon runners. They tire quickly.’
The ranger turned the headlights off and cut the engine, careful not to interfere in the unfolding drama; neither prey nor predator must be given an advantage. While the cubs lolled in the ochre earth, the mother advanced fifty yards or so in a series of fluid, slinky moves.
The eland continued to browse, apparently oblivious. Two calves hovered on the edge of the group. Vulnerable. Was one of them the target? The cheetah dropped to the ground. ‘She’ll go for the throat when she strikes. But it could be hours yet. She’s still not near enough and she won’t want to move too far from her young.’ 
In a sudden swoop, black and heavy as a pelt, darkness descended. ‘Well that’s it; we’ll have to return to the lodge, guys.’ Martin’s voice pierced the soft night. Wordlessly, I slumped back in my seat, unsure if relief, or disappointment, were victorious.
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Moira Ashley is a retired lecturer who enjoys exploring countries near and far, with her husband, and has had several publishing successes in writing about her travels. Though, as someone who cannot swim, or even ride a bicycle without falling off, ‘adventures’ are rarely of the ‘daring physical feats’ variety!

Judge's Comment: We are dropped right into the middle of a South African game park: 'I gasped and sat up straight as a meercat...''. One of the story's strengths is the writer's self-deprecating humour: '"Crouching lion cubs!" had turned out to be nothing more than termite mounds.' Information about the wildlife is skillfully woven in to the author's personal narrative, with evocative images: '...the fleeting gleam of amber iris as a head turned...'
 

Muerte! Muerte! by Ben Woollard

The Sevillan river water ripples by the miniature castle landmark where we gather, three of us, here now for a show we’ve heard so much about. We wander over to the arena, as it is called, some surviving relic of Roman games, a coliseum in guise by any other name. The purpose of the day would make Hemingway proud: Americans venturing from their study abroad host parents' homes out into the thick of old Spain and its vieja cultura--the long esteemed, infamous bullfight. Curiosity has brought us here, although none of our small group could call themselves either an advocate or enthusiast for the concept itself, but this is Seville after all; and what is a summer in Spain without a glimpse at a thing so much discussed? 

The sun beats down as we climb to our shaded seats with an ample view of the ochre grounds circular before all present. The burnt earth odor of cigar smoke drifts languidly around the brimmed hats, buttoned shirts, and tinted glasses. I feel as if I’ve stepped backwards two thousand years into a red tint of Caesars, thumbs up, thumbs down, we who are about to die. It is not the blood of the gladiator that will be spilled before us today, but the blood of horned Taurus, valiant in its ritual end. We sit and talk nervously to each other, still unsure about how we will react to the scene about to unfold. I cannot tell if the tension is in the air or just in me as we wait for some commencement.
When the crowd has settled and the stillness reaches a climax, finally the beast in question is released into the circle. The bull romps about with nostrils flared and hackles raised, chasing the brightly colored fabrics waved around by the brave men at the edges of the field. The scene is one of apparent disorder, taunts and strewn dirt. Applause and trumpets follow as the story progresses. Out come armor clad picadores atop equally protected horses fitted with masks over their eyes, men with lance in hand. The cavalry approaches, dirt flying up from hooves, and in goes pointed metal, driven deeper and deeper even as the creature tries to gore and flip the horse and rider away with grit determination. I feel a conflicted mixture of cringe at the suffering inflicted and curiosity at such a complex and decadent rite. We see crimson leak from the bull’s back, painting the arena Pollock-style. Again a horseman comes, lunging spear’s shaft directly into the neck, this time coming away smeared with bull’s blood. More trumpets sound, vibrating the air giving the gods fair notice: here is your sacrifice. Man and bull continue to whirl pink and red around each other, dervishes in fatal dance. I can see the animal’s breath thickening, weight gained from pain.
Out comes another ornately clad individual, arms raised with spiked batons, praying mantis like, briefly holding pose before running directly towards the bull, stabbing the red and yellow spikes in as he avoids the horns, the colors of the day now clinging to the creature. This act is repeated twice more, with two more daring banderillas sprinting in turn into the fray, adding white to the medley. When the dust has settled six batons hang down over the now blood soaked sides. One of my companions is audibly muttering curses to herself, directed at the men on the field who would, in her mind, so unrightfully harm such a noble inhabitant of this green earth. I cannot say that I disagree with her sentiments, but still some war-god beauty fascinates me and holds my eyes on the work being done. The whirling begins once more, this time desperation seems apparent in the bull’s step, now having been dazed and weakened, perhaps realizing it stands on the sacrificial altar.
Out comes the matador himself, all chin raised gallantry, saluting the crowd with a removal of his hat. The crowd cheers for the corporeal representative of human domination over nature. Armed with a scarlet muleta the man steps out to face his foe, now blood crazed and delirious. Over and over the horns charge, each time missing the goading figure posing beside the fabric. He jeers and turns his back as his body’s well-being is almost stolen from him by a hairsbreadth. He seems almost pompous in his confidence, chest puffed out and chin raised, but I realize this is itself part of the role of the matador, to flaunt his fearlessness, to turn his back on death with a bow and a wave to the audience. Once the bull has been spun dizzy the sword is drawn and pointed in the proper direction: towards the beast to be slain. The matador stiffens, becoming suddenly serious as the moment approaches that will require use of his outstretched blade. Now it is the man that charges, aiming between the shoulder blades and the heart that beats beneath it. He charges once, and the sword falls, he retrieves it, charges again, and this time comes away with only the hilt visible above the now deeply embedded weapon. The crowd begins to wave white bandanas, shouting: Muerte! Muerte! Death! Death! The pink muleta wielding dervishes return to the circle, waving neon confusion into the profusely bleeding animal until it takes a knee, then two, snorting in the matador’s direction before finally lying down and acknowledging defeat as its life is drained drop by drop. The ears are removed and hung around the matador’s neck, a sign of respect and prestige for a fight well fought. Blood soaks the afternoon and I am left with the strange feeling of having my illusions about the present state of humanity shattered.
As we walk silently out of the Plaza de Toros, the crimson-golden sun now sinking closer and closer to the horizon, I think dazedly of the United States, and all our egoism in believing in the undeniable progress of our species. How far we’ve come, they say, from those foolish barbarians and superstitious ancestors, even I have thought myself on the crest of modernization, yet here I’ve witnessed blood sacrifice, and for what purpose I can’t quite be sure. I do not condemn the minority of Spaniards who attend, or even the bullfight itself; how could I when I myself watched in semi-sickened fascination? There is a beauty in the on goings of the coliseum altar, yet how wrong I was in assuming that such beauty had no place in our “civilized” world, how wrong I was in thinking it obvious that the blood thirst in humanity had been fully tamed. I have seen for myself how this contemporary world still feels the vibrations of instinct and sanguinary mob-mindedness, gripping tightly its need for sacrifice. We walk home along the late-day river gurgling calmly on as it divides the ancient metropolis. The sweltering heat finally begins to fade as we turn into city center and separate, homebound.
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Ben Woollard is an English student based out of Portland, Oregon, with a long-standing passion for literature, travel, cultural/ideological exploration, and the ways in which reality is constructed through symbols. Ben maintains a blog on his personal website, flowisforfree.com.
Judge's Comment: We accompany the writer to a bullfight in Seville. The sensitive subject is tackled in a nonjudgmental way, and leads us to question our own self-righteousness. 'I do not condemn...even the bullfight...how could I when I myself watched in semi-sickened fascination?' The images are stark: 'We see crimson leak from the bull's back, painting the arena Pollock-style.'

David and the Girl by Cari Oleskewicz

It is the end of June and hot. We are in a line snaking along the ancient buildings on via Ricasoli, around eleven a.m., and the girl is whining. She doesn’t care about the museum and she doesn’t want to do it and why can’t we have a gelato and where are we having lunch.
 
Her first time in Italy, and she is eight years old. 

I seem to have had no first time in Italy. Part of me originated here, and the familiarity seeps into my organs with each visit. This country and I have an understanding which explains every three-month trip that becomes four months and every return ticket home that gets abandoned.  

But my daughter is more American than me. Waiting for our turn to visit the Accademia does not impress her and Michelangelo means nothing. She’d rather be on the train with a bag of sour gummies, scrolling through the games on her iPad. 

Finally, we creep a little and the door is within reach. Too bad for the people behind us, who gave up because they were afraid they wouldn’t get back to the cruise ship in time. Too bad for the people in front of us, who five minutes earlier paid a handsome sum to some shyster selling “VIP tours” that guaranteed immediate admission. 

Inside, there is air conditioning and the happy news that my daughter’s ticket is gratis. She slumps through the first part of the gallery, completely disinterested in the marble busts and the charcoal sketches. The gift shop gets her attention and I tell her we can stop there on the way out. 

Then, we turn the corner. The corner that changes everything.  

I smile before I see it and my tumbling stomach hints at the hovering expectation. Tears spring to my eyes like they always do at this corner. I’m a sap for this: for Italian genius and the complete mystery of Renaissance creation. For the perfection of David on display and patient. I take my daughter’s hand and lead her around that corner. 

She gasps. 

With that gasp, the day has changed and so has the girl.

*
Almost two years later, we are living in Florence, just a few steps from that very museum. We have seen the sculpture a dozen times now, and every time it stops us at the corner and brings us to our best selves. For me, it’s everything: all of our world’s potential. The violence, the love, the doom – it’s all showcased in that perfect piece of white marble. 

Friends are visiting and the girl is excited to take them to the David. She’s showing off a little, but I’ll let her. She considers this her city. She is allowed to run unaccompanied down to the corner market for the breaded chicken sandwiches she likes. She asks to sip my wine at dinner. She’s taking art classes near Santa Maria Novella. All of her life is happening before she is 10, it seems, and I won’t be the one to temper her enthusiasm.

Neither of us is prepared for the lack of interest our American visitors have in seeing the masterpiece. They don’t want to stand in line and they don’t want to pay the 8 euro admission. Earlier in the week, they toured the Medici Palace to appease us, I think, and the girl didn’t understand how less than enthusiastic they were at Michelangelo’s works under the high dome. We love Day and Night and Dawn and Dusk. We expect everyone to. 

“We saw the copy of David in the Piazza della Signoria,” the friends say. “It’s just like the real one, right? Been there, done that.”  

The girl looks like she’s been punched. Turning to me, she is speechless. I shrug, and we continue to be the best hostesses we can be. 

That night, I tuck her into bed with a kiss and a promise that we can take a long bike ride and go to the park the next day. I’ll fall into my own sleep with a new contentment. The tugging will be absent – that tugging that says I should be a more stable, more conventional parent. It’s not true. I have done something very right, and I will drift into night congratulating myself on it. 

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Cari Oleskewicz is a poet and writer based in Tampa, Florida. Her work has been published in a number of online and print publications including Literary Orphans, Blotterature Literary Magazine, Pork & Gin, The Found Poetry Review and Sandhill Review. She is currently at work on a collection of travel essays.

Judge's Comment: Set in Florence, this tightly-structured story hinges around a dramatic turning point in the middle:

'She gasps.
With that gasp, the day has changed and so has the girl.'

A wonderful portrayal of a rich, conspirational mother-daughter relationship, and of the transformational power of artistic beauty. 
 

The I Must Be Off! 2016 Top Ten or maybe . . .

Eighteen! This year we received so many entries that we've decided to publish a few more than ten. Paola Fornari has narrowed the entries down to a Top 18. In the coming weeks, each of the pieces below will go live on the date indicated.

While first and second places have been decided, there is still a Readers' Choice Award to be won. This award is based on unique hits divided by the number of days live at I Must Be Off! Comments both here and on the I Must Be Off! Facebook page will be taken into consideration as well. It doesn't matter if the comments are positive or negative; only the number of comments from unique commenters matters.

Congratulations to everyone on the list below! We loved all of your stories so much that we just couldn't leave any of you out.

Top Eighteen and Dates of Publication
David and the Girl by Cari Oleskewicz -- August 15

Muerte! Muerte! by Benjamin Woollard -- August 17

The Chase by Moira Ashley -- August 19

The Seven Headless Dwarfs by Matthew Wolfe -- August 22

The Fairies of Faerie Glen by Michele Ivy Davis -- August 24

Wild Encounter by Graham Mercer -- August 26

A Thousand Cranes by Mandy Huggins -- August 29

A Day Out on the Death Railway by Toni Marie Ford -- August 31

The Good Times Roll by Maggie Downs -- September 2

The Great Out-There by Jonny Blostone -- September 5

Unaccompanied Baggage by John Philipp -- September 7

A Glimpse of the Future Coming from the Past by Paula Veselovschi -- September 9

The Heart of What Matters by Elizabeth Eidlitz -- September 12

Vladi's Castle by Nathaniel Morris -- September 14

A Very Cuban Lesson in Kindness by Ruth Colmer -- September 16

A Kiss of Oranges and Myrtle on Crete by Mihaela Lica Butler -- September 19

Finding Atlantis by Hal Ackerman -- September 21

This is Jalala by Nadia Elkadris -- September 23

I must be off,
Christopher

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Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Juked, Eclectica Magazine's 20th-Anniversary Speculative anthology, Indiana Review, Night Train, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and over a hundred other great places. Read his book reviews in [PANK], Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, The Lit Pub, and others. His creative non-fiction has appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Bootsnall Travel, and lots of other fine places. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net, the storySouth Million Writers Award, and the Pushcart Prize. He is the 2015 recipient of Ginosko Literary Journal's award for flash fiction and in 2016 took third place in the K. Margaret Grossman fiction award given by Literal Latté. Allen is the managing editor of SmokeLong Quarterly.

The 2016 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition -- The Shortlist!

Narrowing down the field of entries this year has been a Herculean feat, one I can't take credit for at all. This year's judge, Paola Fornari, has had her work cut out for her. The quality of writing this year has been stunning. Many many thanks to Paola for all the time she has put into reading and judging this competition. I know decisions have been hard. Since there is no theme besides "travel" for this competition, we have received a rainbow palette of styles, from humor to academic research, from poetry to write-ups worthy of Lonely Planet. In many cases it has been a matter of comparing apples and antelopes. 

Since we're getting down to the wire, I'd like to take a few minutes to explain where we'll go from here. If the title of your entry isn't on the list below, this sadly means the road ends here for you. Congratulations again if you were on the longlist! If you are out of the running, why not stick around and read the top entries when they are published in a few weeks? Doing so will help you prepare for next year's contest--and I hope you'll participate. We love hearing about your adventures.

Shortlist Entrants: Congratulations! You are on this list because your writing is exceptional. Out of 647 entries, you're among the top thirty. If your entry is chosen to be in the I Must Be Off! Top Entries of 2016, your piece will be published sometime between mid-August and mid-September, one entry every other day. The Readers' Choice Award will be based on the number of unique hits divided by the number of days live at I Must Be Off! Comments at I Must Be Off! and on the Facebook page for I Must Be Off! will be taken into consideration as well. Only the number of comments, regardless of whether they are positive or negative, will matter. The first and second place winners as well as the Readers' Choice Award will be announced on September 30.

Also, please remember that blind judging is still in progress. While sharing your achievement with family and friends is of course fine, please refrain from announcing this on social media. 

The Shortlist:

A Day Out on the Death Railway
A Glimpse of the Future Coming from Behind
A Kiss of Oranges and Myrtle on Crete
A Mountainous Garden of Blossoming Delights
A Thousand Cranes
A Very Cuban Lesson in Kindness
Bukasa Bites
David and the Girl
Eye Contact
Finding Atlantis
Muerte! Muerte!
On the Edge of Green Island
Out of Place
Pembera
Shakespeare Slipped through my Fingers
Shooting the Old Men of Durres
Swimming with Julius
The Bakalarities of Summer
The Chase
The Fairies of Faerie Glen
The Good Times Roll
The Great Out-There
The Heart of What Matters
The Seven Headless Dwarfs
This is Jalala
To See Anew
Turtle Watch in Culebra
Unaccompanied Baggage
Vladi's Castle
Wild Encounter

Again, congratulations to our shortlisters!

I must be off,
Christopher

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Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Juked, Eclectica Magazine's 20th-Anniversary Speculative anthology, Indiana Review, Night Train, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and over a hundred other great places. Read his book reviews in [PANK], Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, The Lit Pub, and others. His creative non-fiction has appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Bootsnall Travel, and lots of other fine places. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net, the storySouth Million Writers Award, and the Pushcart Prize. He is the 2015 recipient of Ginosko Literary Journal's award for flash fiction and in 2016 took third place in the K. Margaret Grossman fiction award given by Literal Latté. Allen is the managing editor of SmokeLong Quarterly.

The Fourth Annual I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition -- The Longlist!

If you need unquestionable confirmation that global warming is real, look no further than the entries to the 2016 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition. Hundreds of the 647 entries this year began with the broiling sun, oppressive heat, sweltering temps and lots of, well, sweat. The world is getting hotter, and so are the entries to the I Must Be Off! contest. Or people have stopped taking trips in winter.

We slogged up mountains with you, harrowed dives and dangerous drives. We got lost with you (and a few times robbed with you) on lonely roads and in sprawling urban jungles; but you also led us through a few real jungles--and up a few volcanoes. The adventures this year have been intense and often a bit scary.

But also funny. You sent us your snafus and blunders and lapses of judgment. You invited us to laugh with you, sometimes even at you. Some of you invited us to laugh at your husbands or wives. We enjoyed that. And we enjoyed learning from your (husband's) mistakes. In the end, we enjoyed learning something about life with you.

We accompanied you on your road trips, your train trips, your cruises and your flights. Whether you took us just around the corner or around the world in 20 days, we felt every bump--on Route 66, on your South African safaris, through the quaint towns of Bavaria and the bustle of Beijing. We rode with you through Ireland and India, Peru and the Philippines. We got lost in London and found in Finland. We loved your love-hate relationships with touristy destinations and your catty censure of places that just aren't what they're cracked up to be.  

We also felt your pain. Stories of loss, of war-torn regions and personal tragedy were represented in no small number this year. Sometimes we forget that we don't always travel for enjoyment; sometimes travel is a pilgrimage, a time of self-discovery and reassessment, a time for remembering a bitter past now whitewashed by trendy shops and pizzerias. 

You sent us animal stories. Lions, tigers and bears. Oh my. But also turtles, camels and cats, rhinos and elephants, horses and sea creatures, monkeys, buffaloes, bulls and birds (so many birds) -- and of course the dreaded mosquito. We loved them all. The most frequent animal of all, though, was the unpredictable -- sometimes gracious but often inhumane -- human.

Thank you to everyone who entrusted us with your work. We read it carefully. The overwhelming majority of entrants this year came from the United States, but a good number hailed from the United (for now) Kingdom and India. Africa and Oceania were also well represented. In fact, we received entries from every continent except Antarctica, who has snubbed the contest from the very beginning. And sadly, we did not receive one entry from American Samoa despite our repeated pleas. There's always next year.

LONGLIST ENTRANTS: As the judging is still in process, please refrain from announcing your elation on social media if you see the title of your entry on the list below. Of course tell your friends and family, but remember that the judging of this competition is blind and that this year's judge, Paola Fornari, must make her decisions without knowing the writers' names.  


From the four corners of the planet and out of 647 entries, here is the 2016 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition Longlist in alphabetical order:

A Day Out on the Death RailwayA Kiss of Oranges and Myrtle on CreteA Glimpse of the Future Coming from BehindA Mountainous Garden of Blossoming DelightsA Period of Time in a Place in TimeA Thousand CranesA Thousand New Friends: Free. Knowing your City: PricelessA Very Cuban Lesson in Kindness Back there Somewhere in IcelandBear Spotting in the KackarsBroader HorizonsBukasa BitesChanging Course in the Arizona DesertClose Encounters of the Wild KindCounting Turtles'Courage et Sang-froid' in Burgundy David and the GirlEye ContactFight for SurvivalFinding AtlantisFinding Muses and Magic in Monet's GivernyHunting with the HadzabeLost and Found in RussiaLucky Locks of China Maximum TranquillityMilagrosMiser on the Move Muerte! Muerte!My Ancestral Quest to a Remote Spanish VillageMy Last Five Dollars Nepalese Bean Time
On the Edge of Green IslandOut of Place PemberaRising from the Ashes Shakespeare Slipped through my Fingers Shooting the Old Men of DurresSomewhere, I BelongSpirit NationSwimming in Iran: IsfahanSwimming with JuliusThe Bakalarities of SummerThe ChaseThe Fabric of IndiaThe Faeries of Faerie GlenThe Glaciers are Melting
The God of the MountainThe Good Times RollThe Great Out-There The Heart of What Matters
The Land of the One-Horned Rhinoceros The Ramblin' Rose of Kingman, Arizona The Seven Headless DwarfsThe Third Story This is JalalaTo See AnewToo FastTurtle Watch in CulebraTwerking with my Muslim SistersUnaccompanied BaggageVerbs for RedVladi's CastleWelcome to PlavWhooping it Up and Down SumatraWild Encounter
Congratulations to every writer on this list! First and foremost, your work is on this list thanks to a very high quality of writing. 

To the hundreds of you who will not find your title on this list, please know that all competitions are in some way subjective. What doesn't make it here may make it to the top somewhere else--so keep working, and keep sending out your work. We appreciated the opportunity of reading ALL of your stories. And we hope you keep traveling and keep sharing your adventures with us.

Keep an eye on I Must Be Off! for the shortlist of the top 30 entries. Soon.

I must be off,
Christopher

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Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Juked, Eclectica Magazine's 20th-Anniversary Speculative anthology, Indiana Review, Night Train, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, and over a hundred other great places. Read his book reviews in [PANK], Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, The Lit Pub, and others. His creative non-fiction has appeared in Chicken Soup for the Soul, Bootsnall Travel, and lots of other fine places. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net, the storySouth Million Writers Award, and the Pushcart Prize. He is the 2015 recipient of Ginosko Literary Journal's award for flash fiction and in 2016 took third place in the M. Margaret Grossman fiction award given by Literal Latté. Allen is the managing editor of SmokeLong Quarterly. 
 

Contest Update--Submissions Closed!

First of all, thank you all for making the 2016 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition a busy task for myself and this year's judge, Paola Fornari. We have been around the world with you and back. All the entries are in and the final decisions are being made. A longlist of the top 10% of submissions will be published here in the coming days, so keep an eye on this space. If the title of your entry is on the longlist, you are still in the running; if your title is not on the list, this means you're entry has not made it further in the competition. This does not mean we didn't enjoy your work. In fact, I can say I loved reading all 647 entries this year. I can also say that I've done little else in the last couple of weeks, and I'm sure Paola can say the same.

To answer a few questions I've received:
All submissions have been read blind by Paola Fornari. All identifying information was removed before entries were sent to her. Of course gender and nationality are often revealed in the entry itself. All top-ten entries will go through a vetting process to make sure they have not been previously published (including posts on personal blogs) and they are not plagiarized. Due to the extraordinarily high number of entries this year, we regret that we won't be able to send personal rejections. Please refer to the lists published at I Must Be Off! to find out whether your entry has advanced in the competition. If your story makes it to the shortlist, you can expect an email from me; otherwise, please know that we enjoyed your work and we are grateful for your participation but--as with all competitions--some entries simply struck a more resounding chord than others.Again, thank you so much for taking us on your adventures. Keep an eye on I Must Be Off! for the longlist. We're almost there.

In the meantime, why not check out a story of mine that The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts published yesterday? 

I must be off,
Christopher

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Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Juked, Eclectica Magazine's 20th-Anniversary Best of Speculative anthology, Indiana Review, Night Train, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, [PANK] blog, Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, Bootsnall Travel, and lots of other good places. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net, the storySouth Million Writers Award, and the Pushcart Prize twice.

2016 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition -- Contest Update!

With just a few more days left to accept entries to the 2016 I Must Be Off! Travel Writing Competition, we have received an unprecedented number of submissions from all over the globe. This means that when July 31 has passed in American Samoa, we won't be accepting any more entries. I hope you hear that loud and clear, American Samoans.

I want to take this opportunity to thank the entrants. We have had such a great time reading your work the last couple of months, and we're still having a great time. We expect to receive incredible, compelling stories up to the last minute (looking at you, American Samoa).

As with all contests, there will be winners. I hope, though, none of you will see yourself as losers when you discover you haven't made it into the top entries. I worry about that. If this is the first competition you've entered, please know that just because you don't win one competition doesn't mean you won't win others. Keep sending your work out. Keep improving. Write something you love. I enter lots of competitions myself. I win some, and I lose lots.

We are on schedule to announce the longlist just after the competition deadline, so keep an eye on I Must Be Off! This year, due to the number of entries, we won't be able to send out personal rejections. If the name of your story is not among those on the longlist, this means yours is out of the running. But this also means you have the chance to revise your work and send it out again.

I wish you all the best of chances in this competition!

I must be off,
Christopher

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Christopher Allen is the author of Conversations with S. Teri O'Type (a Satire), an episodic adult cartoon about a man struggling with expectations. Allen's writing has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Juked, Eclectica Magazine's 20th-Anniversary Best of Speculative anthology, Indiana Review, Night Train, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, [PANK] blog, Necessary Fiction, Word Riot, Bootsnall Travel, and lots of other good places. A finalist at Glimmer Train in 2011, Allen has been nominated for Best of the Net, the storySouth Million Writers Award, and the Pushcart Prize twice.