(atmosphere?)
Friday, May. 18, 2007 - 10:16

Oh yes. I was going to post my first attempt at an entry for the Exciting Writing Contest.

As you can see, it starts out with a glimmer of promise - the first clause is okay, maybe the first couple of clauses - but it soon degenerates into my usual poo pile. Without further ado:

In a manner of speaking, I really shouldn't have been where I was after my bike got a flat and I found myself lost wandering down some road through some countryside full of vineyards and hills and pebbles that got stuck in my sandals. Luckily for me I was soon rescued by a man on a motorbike whose language I couldn't speak but whose name was Pietro, I think. He took me to the nearest village and I got on the next train headed north but had to get off mid-trip at a town on the sea - the water was too blue to leave.

Shortly after arriving in the town I found another American, another female wandering alone, but after a short conversation in which I imparted to her the recent loss of my lover Juan Phillippe to malaria and subsequent dalliances with various personages and she imparted to me the lack of anything interesting at all ever happening to her her entire life, we abandoned each other. I decided she was boring, she decided I was wanton.

I found a nice family to board with and spent the next week staring at the sea trying to figure out where I was and where I was going. It became a habit to spend the afternoons at a small cafe in a winding street with no view composing letters to no one. I ate a lot of gelati and drank a lot of cafe au lait.

One afternoon while composing a particularly heart-wrenching letter I was approached by a man who started speaking to me in Spanish with a heavy Russian accent. I told him in Welsh that I didn't speak Spanish or Russian. He said something in Albanian, I responded in Dyirbal, then he asked me in Malagasy if I spoke English. "Mais oui," I said.

Soon thereafter I was in his two-seater on the way to Burkina Faso. The plane crashed into the Tyrrhenian Sea immediately after takeoff; the man didn't survive and I had to swim back to shore, where I had no choice but to resume my daily life.

Eventually the nice family I was staying with began demanding payment for my lodging, so I took a job at a small bookstore selling Turkish romance novels and South African comic books. The pay was barely enough to cover room and board but it gave me time to write my letters.

One day a man came into the store - a notable event in itself, because the market for our wares was very restricted in that town. He was sweating and seemed panicky.

"Don't ask questions," he panted. "Just play along."

"Woah," I said, "calm down, dude."

Before we could say any more, two men in suits and dark sunglasses rushed into the shop. Seeing me, they stopped short and pretended to look around the store. They began browsing in the historical romance section.

The sweating man took my hand and began kissing it.

"Jenny, Jenny, come back home with me," he said.

"Damn it, you son of a bitch, let go of my hand," I said.

He became even more panicky and tried to plead with his eyes. I rolled mine and pulled my hand away.

"You can't just come in here and start bossing me around," I said. "And you stink. When's the last time you took a shower? Get out."

He left. The men in suits began following him. "Excuse me," I said. "You need to pay for your books."

They came to the counter. "Turkish Delight, what a clever title," I said, ringing up their purchases. "Ceyda Periganovlu, never heard of her. I'm sure it's great, though. Ooh, horses, kidnapping, looks like a great plot."

The men left and the rest of the afternoon proceeded uneventfully.

That evening, wandering the lanes of the town, I came upon a small courtyard I had never seen before. I entered it. The sweaty man was sitting on a stone bench. He had showered and was no longer sweating. He gave me a wry smile.

"You came," he said.

"Don't call me Jenny, ass-head," I said.

"Then tell me your name."

"Toowomba. Regina."

"My god. You're not...?"

"Yes."

"Do they know you're here?"

"They think I'm dead."

"With him?"

"I don't know what they think, but probably. And you are...?"

"Black. Agent Black."

"I've heard of you. You do good work."

"Thank you. But I'm nothing compared to you."

I inclined my head graciously. The air smelled of jasmine and orange blossoms. Agent Black was dangerously handsome. I swooned. He caught me before I hit the ground.

And thus began the most hedonistic two months of my life. When it ended I was pregnant with god-knows-whose baby, the proud owner of a baby albino elephant, and wanted on three continents. Agent Black, whose real name was Jimmy Jones, is buried with our dog Chi-Chi in a shallow unmarked grave on the coast of Sierra Leone, the secret plans still hidden on a microchip implanted in his left buttock. I did avenge his death - the Burlesky clan will never regain the prominence they once enjoyed, and Bambino Burlesky, needless to say, is swimming with the fishes.