Newham Writers Workshop Anthology 1999

		KIERON BURCHILL 1998/99 has been my first year with Newham Writers Workshop. Before joining the workshop I concentrated mainly on poetry and travel writing, of which the article below is an example. Since joining the workshop I have begun to experiment with other forms of writing, particularly Short Stories and Fiction. As I write this I am in the final stages of preparing for an epic overland journey from Istanbul to Sydney, and by the time the Anthology is published, I should be somewhere in India, that is if India and Pakistan don’t go to war over Kashmir before I get there. In which case you should be able to recognise me by the way I glow in the dark! HEART "HEY YOU!" barked the voice, a Turkish voice, from somewhere in the crowd behind him. "Hey you! You dropped something!" Shocked into action as the word dropped, crashed through and landed in his consciousness, Mark immediately began turning a slow half-circle, sub-consciously patting his pockets and palpating his bum-bag while scanning the ground urgently, almost defying it to contain one of the items his hands were even now beginning to locate about his person: passport, wallet, camera, keys. As had become usual at this time of the evening, after a long day sight-seeing, he had been silently lagging behind the rest of the group wrapped up inside his own peculiar bubble of daydream and apathy when that one word, spoken in English, popped the bubble and interrupted his progress. Having satisfactorily concluded one of his searches (passport, wallet, camera, keys), Mark gave up looking for lost objects among the melee of legs in front of him and looked instead for the person who had spoken. Lifting his gaze towards the only stationary figure in sight, he encountered two curious brown eyes anticipating his attention; but watching him, not looking at any object on the ground. Expanding his vision to include the evening attire of a restaurant tout he remembered palming off some time ago, Mark instinctively stood back raising his eyebrows in silent challenge. "You dropped your heart," said the man, shaking his head sadly at the loss. "You never find it again." Mark blinked absently while his brain booted up the new subject matter. Bit by bit a picture began to assemble in his mind’s eye. It was a picture of himself Mark realised, but one taken from an unusual angle. Standing there in that tiny Istanbul square, with the now hidden sun back-lighting a skyline as distinct as his own Cape Town’s, Mark felt the cool onshore breeze sweep off the harbour and blow through his soul, raising goose-bumps on his conscience. Was it true? He wondered uneasily. Had all this travelling turned him into a heartless bastard? In growing discomfort he shuffled quickly through all the possible excuses in his mind; postcard-like images of touts, pick-pockets and crooked cops spooled through his head as his memory wend into rewind. All to no avail. For even good excuses make poor companions for inquiring minds. It was true, he grudgingly admitted to himself, that he had a tendency to patronise officialdom, carpet salesmen, restaurant touts and the like whom he met while travelling in third world countries, also that he tended to judge these countries and their inhabitants against the yard stick of his own. Could this be so wrong? Eventually Mark faced up to the real question. The one he had been trying to avoid for some days now: What was the good of all this travelling if it only brought out the worst in him, made him appear to be a lesser person than he knew himself to be? Seconds passed and still no answer arrived. Fortunately, as he began to contemplate the enormity of his failure and the void of time he might have wasted, the mists of despair cleared slightly revealing a possible escape route. No, he realised, relief seeping through his body, travel itself was not to blame. Travel was merely the detergent, washing previously hidden prejudices, like scum, to the surface. You dropped your heart you dropped you dropped your heart you dropped! The tout’s words mingled and bounced around inside Mark’s head, dragging him back to reality. Back to the early stars still clearly defined against the darkening sky; back to the subtly outlined domes and spires imprinting their religion proudly upon the horizon; and back to the tiny restaurant square still busy with the noise and smells of recently groomed customers. What could he do? What should he say? Re-focusing his eyes on the little man in the near distance, Mark tried to mould his feelings into words, naively hoping to reverse the first impression already made. Just as suitable sentences were beginning to line themselves up inside his mouth though, he noticed, as if for the first time, the magnitude of the language barrier confronting him, and sensibly abandoned his attempted apology. Smiling slightly instead, Mark bowed a little bow towards the victor and bent slowly to retrieve his heart from where it lay on the cobblestones by his feet. He wiped most of the dust off it, blew the rest off and returned it lovingly to his shirt pocket. Then he nodded once again, in farewell, turned and walked away. Passport, wallet, camera, keys! heart.