RIFLES

42200194_10215932767086371_3827564636744450048_n

Rifles

Translated by Andrew Michael Brown

The firing squad is in place for the new government’s first execution. There’s a festive atmosphere in the crowd, and national media’s live-streaming of the event is also available to spectators at home. We haven’t watched a public execution in 142 years, since 1876, back when the slave Francisco was hanged in the town of Pilar in Alagoas state. Now, it’s a different method. Handsome imported rifles will put down this traitor to fatherland and family values, a short and frightened little fellow accused of writing criticisms of the government’s improprieties. The public supports it and that’s all that matters, the new President announced to a press corps readied for the spectacle. Corporate sponsors include a cosmetics company and a bank.

During the week, through consistent announcements, the media covered the upcoming execution with a certain sobriety. But gradually, as the audience grew larger than expected, livelier spots began to emerge, like ads for football and Formula 1.  On TV news shows, reports profiled family and friends of the soon- to -be- deceased, and,  despite their sadness, expressing optimism for the government’s innovative ways of directing people to respect authority and preserve traditional values.  “It just couldn’t stay the way it was,” noted the defendant’s mother, an enthusiastic supporter of the new regime.  In a show of patriotism, she didn’t shed a tear.

Fuzis

O pelotão de fuzilamento está a postos para a primeira execução do novo governo. Há um clima de festa na plateia e os telespectadores também poderão acompanhar o evento transmitido em cadeia nacional. Desde 1876, há 142 anos, não víamos uma morte pública, demandada pelo Estado, quando o negro Francisco foi enforcado no município de Pilar, em Alagoas. Agora, o método é outro. Belos fuzis importados abaterão o traidor da pátria e da família, um sujeito assustado e baixinho, acusado de escrever impropérios contra o governo. O povo apoia, é o que interessa, disse o novo presidente a uma imprensa já preparada para o espetáculo. Os patrocinadores são uma empresa de cosméticos e um banco.

Durante a semana, em chamadas regulares, a TV anunciou o fuzilamento com certa sobriedade. Mas aos poucos surgiram vinhetas mais animadas, como nos anúncios sobre futebol e Formula-1, pois a audiência tem sido acima do esperado. Nos telejornais, matérias com a família e amigos do futuro morto que, apesar de tristeza, viam na medida governamental uma forma inovadora de conduzir o país dentro de padrões de respeito à autoridade e preservação dos bons costumes. Não dava para ficar do jeito que estava, observou a mãe do réu, eleitora entusiasmada do regime recém-inaugurado. Numa demonstração de patriotismo, ela não chorou.

Additional editing by Helena Cavendish de Moura

Not for the faint of heart: Fiona Padfield

Fiona Padfield is a formidable woman.  I am very fond of her writing style: bare, honest and introspective, her narrative gently breaks down the societal structures that imprison women: the UK’s sexist court system and the general public debate on women’s bodies and learned perceptions. 

Her writing style allows emotional and moral forces to dwell effortlessly in her stories. Her fiction is dialectic and there is no surprise here: Fiona is an accomplished English playwright and actress who became a national sensation with her controversial play Strip, directed by Sir Peter James at the Lyric, Hammersmith, and Snapshots, which was produced at the Manchester Royal Exchange and directed by Braham Murray. She now lives and writes from a farmhouse in the Welsh countryside. 

Here is Fiona being outrageous and brilliant, upsetting and exciting critics and audiences in London:   http://www.fionapadfield.com/strip.html

“Dialogue is boldly replaced by an almost novelistic narrative style…The play be giving voice to the views of a striper and a so-called sexual deviant – subjects that society generally keeps under wraps – rouses interest in the first place. In this case, there is the additional intriguing fact that Padfield herself spent six months as a stripper. At any moment, then, one feels that she may be speaking with autobiographical veracity through her fictional character. Padfield gives a fierce, concentrated performance…“

Kate Bassett

THE TIMES

She kindly sent Casa Forte Press this short piece which I very much love.

https://casafortepress.com/2018/10/09/about-a-friend-by-fiona-padfield/

 

 

About a Friend, By Fiona Padfield

About a Friend  ©. copyright Fiona Padfield ‘92

390288_2581603973710_1983166428_n

There was never a moment when we met or introduced ourselves; we just knew each other and treated each other with respect.  I was, after all, his future wife; well, I presumed I was.  He would interrupt our conversations each evening to discuss the type of door knobs and window frames he had ordered for our house – once we were married.  I always agreed with his choice.  He favoured round, brass door knobs and simple window frames.

His hair was shaggy and grey and curly like a Dulux Paint dog on top, falling into heavy dreadlocks at the back.  His skin was covered in grime and his finger nails black, so I didn’t like to get too close, but he didn’t smell.  He wore a deep blue velvet jacket, sometimes a shirt beneath it, and jeans.  He had large, doll-like eyes with long lashes.  With his eyes and his lithe movements, he reminded me of a gazelle.   I don’t think I ever knew his name, nor he mine.   

He started leaving an apple or a crunchy bar on the bonnet of my car; he never admitted to it, but I caught him at it once or twice and like an animal about to be trapped, he disappeared.  Sometimes, if he’d left his offerings without being seen, he’d feel safe enough to pop out from behind a wall or parked van and watch me find my gifts.

He invited me to lots of parties.  The first was at midnight on the corner of New Bond Street.  I arrived on time.  He was delving into a cardboard box he’d placed on the window sill of a shop.  ‘Welcome to the feast!’ he said as he saw me and started to take crunchy bars and tins of ‘coke’ out of the box and line them along the pavement for me.  Eventually I tried to avoid his parties because they took a little too long and I was often late for my next performance.  But he didn’t stop giving me presents.

He started to leave odd pieces of material across the car – beautiful Indian cloth with golden thread woven into it, and lengths of rich black velvet, then clothes – new clothes, designer clothes complete with labels and price tags, and later, Victorian costumes.  Some were unfinished.  I’d turn a corner and catch his large eyes peering at me, then he’d vanish.   I wondered whether he’d raided a theatrical warehouse.  One night the pavement was lined with red velvet and my whole car, bonnet, windscreen and roof was draped in finery.  I removed it as quickly as I could, trying not to look conspicuous, and stowed it away in the boot.  When I tried the clothes on at home they didn’t fit; they were much too large.  I wanted to find out where he came from, but if I broached the topic we’d be off touring through the passages of our future house.  He was eloquent and, I suspect, highly educated.  

I noticed another couple of strippers becoming friendly with him, and felt a little jealous, but I knew I was his chosen one – he didn’t bombard them with presents.

I never said goodbye to him.  He just disappeared from my life as he had entered it.  I couldn’t trap him or catch him or help him or know him.  I could only, I suppose, love him a little.  He made me feel safe.  I had my own private bodyguard who followed me around the streets of Soho till three in the morning, and I was grateful.

A true story (700 words)

About JD Hollingsworth

fullsizeoutput_58d

Only a writer with such a diverse set of skills, life experiences, and writing instinct could produce the original and radical prose which I am thrilled to represent here. Long-time exhibition fabrication specialist for several New York art institutions, including the Guggenheim and MoMA, Georgia native JD Hollingsworth writes from his Brooklyn home where he’s produced his first two books, soon to be published by Casa Forte Press. These novellas – which the author also illustrates – are set in a mythical town in South Central Georgia. A somewhat reclusive artist,  it is an honor to me that Hollingsworth has entrusted Casa Forte Press with his work.

Equipped with a rich arsenal of words, from the vernacular to the Latin nomenclature of biological taxonomy, popular history and culture, Hollingsworth gives us gripping, enthralling, and deeply moving stories set in a universe filled with mythicism. It’s as if Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Macondo was set off  I-85 South and immortalized in the  Southern Gothic.


 LATEST:

“Doug Hollingsworth Pens a Masterpiece,”

By Pete McCommons, Flagpole Magazine.

“Hollingsworth has written a masterpiece… and it is stunning. … His ear for language, his eye for telling details, his sense of humanity caught in the forces of good and evil, with the cosmic shooting right into the everyday… (his) words spin their magic over us so that (these characters) rise into the realm of great literature, because this becomes not just a story, but life itself.
This book is layered, and it goes deep.”

Read more…


A fascinating read!”

“With irony, subtle poignancy and humor, JD Hollingsworth explores alienation in late 20th Century America through inventively evoked sociocultural contexts.  His characters—cynical loners, self-deluded dreamers or simply survivors—teeter on the edge between misfit and Everyman.  In a world where meaningful bonding has failed, “the lonely, the horny, the angry and thirsty” seek human connection in whatever tawdry or grotesque watering place they can find. Although Hollingsworth sets his stories in both the rural South and the urban North, his depiction of the denizens of an imaginary town in rural South Georgia is particularly brilliant for its portrayal of a layered multitude of social identities that historical forces have created. In Hollingsworth’s writing, material culture becomes a language in and of itself, and oral speech patterns, demeanor, and wardrobe and various other accouterments form part of the peculiar and fascinating social discourse. A fascinating read!”

Martha LaFollette MillerProfessor Emerita, The University of North Carolina at Charlotte


CARMEN DISAPPEARED by Lula Falcāo

Translated by Andrew Brown and Helena Cavendish de Moura

 

Carmen disappeared. For some years, I’ve been chasing clues in every possible way, here, there, and there’s no sign of Carmen.

I return to the condominium complex and ask the older neighbors whether they have any recollection of  Carmen. No one remembers.

Nothing in relation to her, even after thirty years. No one has heard, not even from afar and it seems as if this was not the place to look because Carmen’s name simply vanished from the collective memory, just like that, as in a spell, and it is haunting that someone so striking can be forgotten this way. 

Carmen exists or existed.  Some friends recall her but haven’t seen her since those days.  She is in a photo. A face simultaneously tranquil and agitated, because only Carmen could elicit such feelings of ambiguity. You can tell the initial gesture she makes in order to escape the framing, hurried, moving out of focus; she wasn’t showy and didn’t like to pose—she thought it was phony. 

She wore glasses and liked her few friends. 

In any case, I took it upon myself to find her, I knew it would probably lead to disappointment, and my investigation would explain why no one noticed her existence. 

In any case, I move forward, with only information from memory. 

From other people’s memory, I need the exact point at which Carmen fell into forgetfulness and why. There is one problem: I don’t know Carmen’s last name. 

She was so critical. She looked like these people today, kind of hopeless, but finding herself interesting for thinking that way.

One day, at the beach, by the end of the afternoon, as in those days, Carmen was the first to notice the stereotypical scene; she hated Luaus and other such festivities. 

While others gorged on it as if it were the fountain of youth, she’d weave a  story about a lost generation and great battles ahead. But she conveyed these things in a tender way, without detracting from anyone ’s enjoyment at being stoned, gazing at the sky, or blowing kisses.

I imagine that today Carmen would say that looking for missing persons is a stale recourse—reminiscent of  Bolano’s Savage Detective–but in relation to Carmen perhaps it was different: she would also find a way to say go ahead, it just might work.

Perhaps she suggests that I search for her some other way, without trying to find her, as could now be the case. She once said that only process exists; the rest, including power and glory, pure illusion.

 

Finally, I record her forceful irritation.  She quibbled too much with warnings and popular sayings and phrases in general and corrected the condominium association’s newsletter with a pen.

“Why does God give us the cold that suits the cover? Why not give the cover that suits the cold?”. We were glued together at a time when it would seem strange for a guy to go out every day with the same girl and nothing happened between them. 

There were other distractions, the universe, and its stories, maladjusted theories about everything along with Carmen’s incessant badgering of a world in which she disagreed with just about everything. 

 

Despite this, when she was certain,  a benevolent charm.  She never said I told you so. ”. She sided with the underdog,  helping him find an honorable escape. And was too pretty to be forgotten so suddenly. Never using beauty for personal advantage, instead, she awakened other beauties and even a certain dose of authority. 

We were her friends and followers. A rare crowd with a woman in command. 

What was impressed upon me was the honesty she conveyed as she spoke on any subject. She may not have exactly understood what it was (about), but little by with what she had available, she would, in the end, up at an idiosyncratic point of view. 

Sometimes an idea. She was the first person to tell me about gravitational waves and other phenomena which at the time were mere speculation. 

Carmem grasped physics, read Rosa Luxemburg and followed football. 

Carmen Disappeared, by Lula Falcao

22104398_10213150376168337_6524037777825365986_o

 

Translated by Andrew Brown and Helena Cavendish de Moura

Carmen disappeared. For some years, I’ve been chasing clues in every possible way, here, there, and there’s no sign of Carmen.

I return to the condominium complex and ask the older neighbors whether they have any recollection of  Carmen. No one remembers.

Nothing in relation to her, even after thirty years. No one has heard, not even from afar and it seems as if this was not the place to look because Carmen’s name simply vanished from the collective memory, just like that, as in a spell, and it is haunting that someone so striking can be forgotten this way. 

Carmen exists or existed.  Some friends recall her but haven’t seen her since those days.  She is in a photo. A face simultaneously tranquil and agitated, because only Carmen could elicit such feelings of ambiguity. You can tell the initial gesture she makes in order to escape the framing, hurried, moving out of focus; she wasn’t showy and didn’t like to pose—she thought it was phony. 

She wore glasses and liked her few friends. 

In any case, I took it upon myself to find her, I knew it would probably lead to disappointment, and my investigation would explain why no one noticed her existence. 

In any case, I move forward, with only information from memory. 

From other people’s memory, I need the exact point at which Carmen fell into forgetfulness and why. There is one problem: I don’t know Carmen’s last name. 

She was so critical. She looked like these people today, kind of hopeless, but finding herself interesting for thinking that way.

One day, at the beach, by the end of the afternoon, as in those days, Carmen was the first to notice the stereotypical scene; she hated Luaus and other such festivities. 

While others gorged on it as if it were the fountain of youth, she’d weave a  story about a lost generation and great battles ahead. But she conveyed these things in a tender way, without detracting from anyone ’s enjoyment at being stoned, gazing at the sky, or blowing kisses.

I imagine that today Carmen would say that looking for missing persons is a stale recourse—reminiscent of  Bolano’s Savage Detective–but in relation to Carmen perhaps it was different: she would also find a way to say go ahead, it just might work.

Perhaps she suggests that I search for her some other way, without trying to find her, as could now be the case. She once said that only process exists; the rest, including power and glory, pure illusion.

Finally, I record her forceful irritation.  She quibbled too much with warnings and popular sayings and phrases in general and corrected the condominium association’s newsletter with a pen.

“Why does God give us the cold that suits the cover? Why not give the cover that suits the cold?”. We were glued together at a time when it would seem strange for a guy to go out every day with the same girl and nothing happened between them. 

There were other distractions, the universe, and its stories, maladjusted theories about everything along with Carmen’s incessant badgering of a world in which she disagreed with just about everything. 

Despite this, when she was certain,  a benevolent charm.  She never said I told you so. ” She sided with the underdog,  helping him find an honorable escape. And was too pretty to be forgotten so suddenly. Never using beauty for personal advantage, instead, she awakened other beauties and even a certain dose of authority. 

We were her friends and followers. A rare crowd with a woman in command. 

What was impressed upon me was the honesty she conveyed as she spoke on any subject. She may not have exactly understood what it was (about), but little by with what she had available, she would, in the end, up at an idiosyncratic point of view. 

Sometimes an idea. She was the first person to tell me about gravitational waves and other phenomena which at the time were mere speculation. 

Carmem grasped physics, read Rosa Luxemburg and followed football. 

About Fiona Padfield

Fiona Padfield is an accomplished English novelist and playwright who became a national sensation with her controversial plays Strip, directed by Peter James at the Lyric, Hammersmith and  Snapshots, which was produced at the Manchester Royal Exchange and directed by Braham Murray. She now lives and writes from a farmhouse in the Welsh countryside. 
Her life story has certainly provided enough material for great fiction. Raised in public schools, she has worked as a stripper, actress, teacher, writer, farmer and very importantly, the formidable mother of two very talented children. 
The daughter of one of the UK’s most prominent historians, Padfield has braved cultural and psychological no-go zones in the UK with some brutal honesty and original prose, unleashing controversy, nudging what often appears to be some unshakeable societal pillars in the UK  with her novels and plays. 
Her latest novel, Allegation 17, is, to say the least, very topical and controversial.  It is a shocking but empowering read given our news environment and the social, gender ebullition we are undergoing. Her narrative style is dialectical, a multi-layered dialogue between the inner and outer world of a depressed woman who has to face the UK’s notorious family court. It s based on a true story.

 

Here is more about Allegation 17, which you can find on Amazon.com

 

For more, go to http://www.fionapadfield.com

ARTICLES ABOUT FIONA

fullsizeoutput_57c

 

https://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/it-was-a-dirty-job-i-had-to-do-it-its-a-familiar-story-the-actress-needed-an-equity-card-the-soho-1501809.html

 

fullsizeoutput_57b

About Lula Falcão

 

30036_388211061197_8127342_n

Lula Falcāo is a veteran Brazilian journalist and political activist whose work can be found in some of Brazil’s top national publications such as O Globo, Veja Magazine and the Estado de São Paulo.  Born and raised in Brazil’s northeast region,  Lula now lives in São Paulo where he has published numerous short stories and two books: “Iberê Segundo Paulo” and “Todo Dia Me Atiro do Térreo.”  He is the co-author of Frevo-100 Years. Lula is known and respected in Brazil’s intellectual circles for his incisive wit and cultural breadth of knowledge, his self-effacing humor and his advocacy.  

For more about Lula Falcão’s work:

www.http://www.lulafalcao.com.br

 

Books: Todo Dia Me Atiro do Térreo, Bookess.

Soon to be translated into English by Casa Forte Publishing

Lula_Falcao_TUITEIRA_capa_BAIXA

 

935857_10151486540406198_1732525887_n

 

Ibere_Capa_Racunho_03_FepeCVM

 

 

 

 

 

Sea of Mud

BY LULA FALCĀO

Translation: Helena Cavendish de Moura with special thanks to Andrew Michael Brown

REGENCIA / LAMA

The ship propels from the earth that dissolves into the ocean and sludge can be seen from its bow and stern. On the radio, on the last contact, they were informed of the existence of a phenomenon,  still unnamed.  

The authorities’ main concern was to avoid panic, but that was two days ago. It remains unknown whether there are authorities still left on the continent or whether there even still is a continent. 

Through binoculars: everything passes slowly, a sluggish and pasty tsunami traveling as at the beginning of time, in two directions.

We have no ideas for a partial solution to the drama that is unfolding and could change everything.  At some moment it will be necessary to warn passengers that the port of destination no longer exists —nor does the port of origin.  

On board, however, the cruise goes on as a cruise and not like an emergency retreat: casino gambling, tidy beds, elderly couples on their final voyage.

The vessel is immense and passengers aren’t aware of what is taking place.  Everything was normal when they embarked.

To fend passengers off the deck, a falsified weather alert for thunderstorms is issued.  

The ship is safe, the crew lays brochures on display, and there is much merriment onboard. Everyone on the command bridge is attentive and concerned. 

Adélia is in her cabin. She looks through the hatch and sees disoriented birds. It’s probably nothing. She knows nothing about birds and their migrations.  She thinks of Otavio, of last night, and the tedium of cruises.  Why would a man be on his own, in a 230,000- ton transatlantic cruise ship with 5,999 strangers?

The sea is agitated, but it doesn’t rattle the cruise ship. Waves of mud are still far off,  far back and beyond, but we still have an advantage, the commander emphasized, thinking again that it could be just one wave instead of two. 

At a certain point, it closes in on us, whirlpools and swallow us. 

Another officer excused himself and asked how long this advantage might last —as it traveled from opposite sides—and where and when would it stop. 

The Captain scratched his forehead, as in a film, and replied that he’d change the course in order to sail between these two mud-covered Himalayas.  

Under the best of circumstances, we will be on a Fjorde.  In the worst, in a solid Pororoca, a paste from the end of the world. He knows a bit of geology.

Cut-off from communication with all places on earth, the lone ship swerves South, under a nebulous sky. Passengers are here to forget about their lives onshore and it isn’t worth concerning them with unpleasant news. The captain looks at the sea, asks himself from within himself, what could it be,  the texture of this sludge. 

Information released on the latest communiqué states that the phenomenon was not localized and reports inaccessible areas, ports destroyed, cities sliding away with the tepid lava. 

Suddenly, a roar and later,  silence. Passengers remained without internet. Once again, the Command blamed the mainland for this storm. And the storm, which the Captain did not expect, and of which he had lied about, was, in fact, just developing. 

An attack on opposite sides, between the still distant sludge and enormous typhoons of water. The transatlantic, nearly taken over by the waters, trembled. 

All along,  Adélia treats it like it’s a show. Her friends not so much, clenching their hands to the bed frame with horrified faces. 

A disaster imminent, Otavio and Adélia have a chance encounter in the corridor. And subsequently, in conversation, one that seemed more natural and complicit than the night before, they raise questions regarding the ship’s destination and of the public in general. 

They know it is the end or something like it. 

They decide to conduct an investigation,  like passengers in The Winners, which Adélia read during adolescence. 

But then they don’t. They want to get on to the deck in order to see what is happening in the sky and the water.  All doors are locked. 

They become suspicious when they come across the staff while deciphering their faces. An officer passed by wearing heavy make-up disguising her panic. 

To Otavio, it was the sobbing of another high-ranking officer who wailed while covering his mouth with both hands;  fingers moved upwards to dry the tears. 

On the bridge, a change of politics. There is nothing left to hide.  

The Captain just made the decision make an address and communicate what is happening. The good news: the giant mud wave came to a halt. It solidified in the sea several meters from the ocean floor creating a wall in the horizon’s new frontier, between passengers and the former continents. 

Everyone should remain on the ship which, for technical reasons, would drop anchor right on location.  It would be of no use to move forward without knowing whether there is still anything left ahead.  

To return, the same issue. The way out of this would be to remain still while waiting for outside contact. 

A speaker announcement states that passengers will receive a communique in their cabins concerning the situation. 

Everyone thinks about the storm, while the Captain and a press attaché stand on the bridge discussing the terms of the communiqué whose unprecedented nature causes some compositional challenges. 

What to say? Has the landscape changed? Could everyone’s relatives be dead? 

Only that which is known will be said, the Captain orders. 

A rogue wave, an alien topography, the clay mountain on both sides-caused by unknown factors—and the end of the storm; that’s all. The network is still down. 

The swimming pool is once again open to the public.