Creative Writing Submissions Wanted For New Magazine

[candy27]

We are currently seeking submissions for the premier issue of our publication entitled "Timbuktu." This magazine is an imaginatory travel journal composed of creative writings by both famous and unknown authors & poets. Each issue will centre on a specific city, one that you will have heard of but likely will never have visited.

The city we have chosen to focus on in the first issue is Timbuktu, which is also the title of the publication. Future issues will be subtitled with the chosen location of that particular issue.

Timbuktu perfectly embodies the ethos of our publication. It is a distant and outlandish place, and is the epitome of the unknown. Everyone has their own idea of what the city may look like but in reality few have actually experienced it.

Future issues of the publication will be based on: Jakarta, Minsk, Helsinki, Kathmandu & Calcutta.

The whole idea of the publication is to commission creative writers to contribute imagined short stories, poems, haikus and other forms of writing all based on the publication’s themed city.
Contributors will only be allowed to use their preconceptions and existing knowledge of that place as an inspiration for their work.
This way all content will be linked by the subconscious of both the writers and the readers and will work together to create an overall impression of the location.
Each reader’s pre-existing knowledge or indeed exposure to the city will shape their own individual experience as they read the amalgamation of literary works in the publication.

We are looking for any form of creative writing, including (but not limited to): short stories, streams of consciousness, poems, haikus, etc.
If you are interested in having your writing published, please submit a piece inspired by our theme of "Timbuktu" by the 24th of February for consideration.

For more information or to submit work, please email us: [email protected], follow us on twitter:https://twitter.com/#!/Timbuktu_Mag, or join our facebook group: https://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=gr ... 8120074138

[Messiah]

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A Google-eyed View of Timbuktu


Tuesday 10th

Due to the threat of terrorism, the British Foreign and Commonwealth Office has urged tourists not to visit Timbuktu. However, I am not your typical tourist. Far from it, in fact.
When a local journalist heard that I was travelling there, to ''write'' about the Fowler kidnapping and the terrorists who captured him, he warned me, 'Al-Qaeda is a small but deadly presence in the Sahara. They have committed acts of terrorism in Timbuktu, among other places. This has been devastating for the local economy.'
In Timbuktu, about sixty per cent of the economy is based on tourism. However, the threat of terror attacks has pushed it on to the UK travel blacklist. Despite its illustrious history, modern-day Timbuktu is an impoverished town, poor even by Third World standards. A chimerical Shangri-La - where romantics seek love, and the sinful, redemption - the reality of Timbuktu is harsh, cruel and ugly—as the South African citizen kidnapped there on Friday discovered. These days, the stock in trade of much of The Republic of Mali is banditry. The activities of armed groups, including terrorists, and the threat of kidnapping, has left this landlocked country in Western Africa teetering on the brink of economic collapse.

'Timbuktu and northern Mali have long been attractive to adventure travelers,' the journalist continued, 'but now the United Kingdom is warning Westerners not to go there.'
'I'm not a Westerner,' I replied, sipping an espresso with milk and no sugar.
'This latest attack has prompted the town's authorities to order a plane to evacuate all foreigners from Timbuktu.'
'In which case, I should find things a little less crowded. I've never been one for hustle and bustle.'
'Only last week the Mali police arrested three suspected terrorists accused of kidnapping five Westerners and killing one other in late November. The tourists had been staying at the Hotel Amanar. The gunmen burst in as the men were dining.'
'Eating out can be a risky business,' I suggested.


Wednesday 11th

In the ancient caravan city of Timbuktu I was summoned to a rooftop to meet the salt merchant, Col Ascofare.
'Absinthe?' he enquired of me, lighting a cheroot.
'Tea,' I replied. 'Hot and sweet. I never touch the hard stuff.'
'Never?'
'It's an old story....'

The town of Timbuktu sits just above the sluggish brown Niger River. Founded one-thousand years ago, and famous as a major trading centre for gold and salt, its books and letters are historic, magical, romantic. However, in reality it is neither mythical nor exotic: There is a dark side to modern Timbuktu. Meanwhile, the Republic of Mali is a country on the front-lines of a new war on terror, with al-Qaeda in the Maghrib operating freely in its northern regions, including cities like Gao and Kidal. It is yet another frontier in the global struggle against transnational terrorism. Kidnapping stories - and myths - are told, seen in the movies, passed from mouth to mouth, generation to generation, all over the world: Russia, America, Cambodia, Great Britain, Uganda, India, Spain, Sierra Leone, Germany, Israel – the list goes on and on and on. It is pure, ontological terror.

I had heard that the merchant had information about a Frenchman who was being held by terrorists somewhere deep in the folds of Mali's northern desert. Terrorists had been involved in kidnaps in the region on a number of occasions recently, including cases in the city of Mopti.
'Who are these Mali terrorists?'
Col Ascofare nearly choked on his lamb stew. 'They are on a desert strip,' he spluttered. 'They source fuel and food from three or four known cities, including Timbuktu and Gao.
'And what of their threat?'
'All foreign tourists have been evacuated from Timbuktu. That was last Saturday. The terror threat is also currently high in Bamako, our capital city.'
'I know that, sal macaque; I'm not here for a goddamn geography lesson.'
'No, of course not. My apologies,' mumbled the salt merchant submissively. 'In a bewildering turn of events,' he continued, toying with his food, 'a terrorist reportedly associated with the Indian Mujhadeen surrendered to the Timbuktu police. This, also, was on Saturday.'
'He sounds just the man to have a little chat with.'
'But he is not al-Qaeda.'
'They're all in it together,' I replied, lighting a Madison. 'Where are they holding him?'
'The prison in Taoudenni,' Col Ascofare replied, spooning up a mouthful of grissle and gravy. 'It was built in nineteen-sixty-nine, during the regime of Moussa Traoré. Up until ninety-eight it was used to detain political prisoners, many of whom were government officials accused of plotting against the then regime. The prisoners were forced to work in the salt mines. Many of them died. The prison lay in ruins for many years, but was recently rebuilt. To the east of the prison building is a cemetery containing one-hundred-and-forty individual graves, of which only a dozen display the name of its occupent.'
'One name is all that I need,' I said, tossing a handful of coins on the table and standing up. 'I'm sure that a little gentle persuasion will have our friend singing like a bird.'


Thursday 12th

Humanitarians may shun waterboarding, but it certainly does have the desired effect.
Ansongo, here I come.


Friday 13th

Ansongo, a rural commune in south-eastern Mali, lies on the left bank of the Niger River, 90km south of Gao.
'Well, well, well. If it isn't my old mucker, Abu,' I said, addressing the hook-handed cleric. 'I always wondered where you'd gotten to after Davey-Boy kicked you out of Finsbury Park.'
With a grin that spoke of retribution, I reached for my heat. Blindsided, the fat bastard never saw it coming.
Job done. And now I'm of a mind to see the sights of ancient Timbuktu. After all, one never knows for how much longer it'll be standing.
Wearing a pair of najdi sandals, I tread gingerly as I make for the exit, skirting the shards of his shattered left eye.



The Tourist

Jeroboam Cornute gambolled across the rubble of Sankoré mosque bringing to an end the lives of those unlucky enough as to have survived the explosion. It was a bullet to the temple for each and every one of them, locals and tourists alike. He had never been one to discriminate.
Architecturally, the mosque, built during the declining years of the Empire of Mali, in the early 15th century, had been of the traditional Sahel style. Considered remarkable for its large pyramidal mihrab, it had been demolished in the style of the Carlton Hotel, Beirut – twenty-five tons of TNT on an old Bedford truck.
The weather for the time of year was hot and dry. He despatched the last of the whimpering Malian Muslims and took a sip of ginger beer from his monogrammed hip flask; an action which served to remind him of the fact that he was late for an appointment at Djinguereber mosque. The initials on the flask were not his own—Jeroboam had liberated it from a fellow that had had no further need of it; not now that there was a hole where his throat used to be.
A woman in yellow robes walked past, accompanied by a child of indiscernible age and sex. He tossed the child a couple of live rounds and gave it a crafty wink.
'Get some practice in,' he said. 'You never know when I might decide to pay a return visit.'
Whistling a tune by Jamie Cullum, the Machine Gun Messiah took out his pocket map and compass and headed off into the sunset.



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