Collectively written erotic stories from Queeristan

All photos by YY

On June 1st, the 4th Queeristan festival in Amsterdam hosted my workshop in collective writing of porn, co-organized and co-facilitated by Bibliotheque Erotique's very own Lilly Miao. At the workshop, attended by twenty wonderfully relaxed people, we started by introducing ourselves with our porn name (invented at the spot), accompanied by a gesture and a sound that goes along with it. 

Olive, do you want to grease me? 
Yes, please. Blind-folded, on a trampoline with tarantulas crawling on my back and you biting my neck.

We continued by playing Definitions (or Question and Answer), a Surrealist game played in pairs, in which a question is written down and the paper is folded to conceal it from the next player who writes an answer. 

Do you think politics are sexy? 

Yes, nearly every day.

When will you be ready for the sexual riot against the government?
With full moon on a hot summer night, feeling turned upside down.

That is how we prepared for the climax: the collective writing of gender- and genre-fucking stories of our own. Again, we relied on Surrealist writing exercises; this time on Exquisite Corpse, a game for groups of four or five people in which each participant begins by writing her own story. Ten minutes later, he passes the piece to the next person. After reading it (or not), ze continues where the other person has stopped. The workshop is finished when everyone has written a part of every story.

Which place would you use for an erotic story to get an atmosphere that arouses you?
The experience was more intellectual-political than sexual, but it made me question sexuality in a different way.

The workshop ended with a reading and lots of hugs! Below, you can read some of our mistress-pieces. Check Bibliotheque Erotique's FB album for more photos, taken by YY. More stories are going to be published here and on Bibliotheque Erotique's webpage once we transcribe them. So, this is how we did it together ...

Question and Answer

How was it yesterday night?
Yes! I was drunk!

Tell me a fantasy that makes you feel guilty.
Spank me. Harder now.

If we were lovers, would you join me and my friends in a sexual private exploration?
Yes, definitely yes, would love to.

Do you remember how the first porn you watched made you feel?
For me, it’s arousing to sense the smell and sounds and touch of a person (in a situation with an erotic tension).

Describe the appearance of a person or object you fantasize about.
A woman making eyes at me across the room, we arrange to meet at midnight on a canal. I fuck her with my hand, we finish, we both walk away without speaking.

Did you ever have an erotic fantasy with your mother?
If I ever have a penis, I will explore all kinds of territories that I can’t explore now.

How would you like to have a sexy dinner with me?
With my tongue.

If I were an orange, how would you like to eat me?
Standing in front of a church, clearly using protection to make it safe.

What kind of food would you be for your lover or someone who you would like to eat?
Yes, of course. Several times, especially on public holidays and my birthday.

What has been your most surprising sexual experience?
I’d like to play with them while they play cello in an empty auditorium.

Which colour do your latest lovers tend to wear most?
I would like to try them all.

What was the best sex you ever had?
I would go for mellow mostly, aggressive occasionally.

What is your secret fantasy, if you know it?
Yes, please, take me to your secret garden and show me your flowers of passion.

Would you get naked on the street in front of everyone? What would you tell the people around you?
It was on the train, we both got naked and just stared at each other for an hour without touching while all other passengers were masturbating.

Do you belong to any religion? Do your sexual and spiritual practices intersect?
Because I like to sell myself.

Why did you become interested in spirituality and sex?
Because I want to push it further.

Where would you like to be touched?
In a mountain shelter, during a cold night.

Would you like to come with me to a waterfall to become wet in two seconds?
Yes, slowly, slowly, like a lazy snake on a hot summer day.

Where do you want me to start touching you?
In an old theatre, we are naked, reading for each other.

What kind of role playing games would you like to play?
Long black smooth hair, elf ears, and lips thirsty for kisses.

Exquisite Corpse

At the market - I
You were strolling around in your boots – it was midday and the sun was bright – and you stepped in front of me. I was standing behind my market stand with fruits and I was getting nervous. You looked right into my eyes and asked for a pound of strawberries.

“Why always strawberries,” I asked, “don't you wanna try mango?”

“Oh, mango, yeah, I like mango! My boyfriend actually named me Mango.”

Yellow skinned, sweet sometimes, stingy on the tongue, the taste hard core deep … Mango!

At this point, I thought: How should I eat the mango? By peeling off the skin of the fruit or by cutting through the flesh, to the cone, bit by bit?

“Hmmm, mango – yes please, a mango," I cried out loud and joined him behind the stand. I was holding that juicy fruit firmly in my hand.

“Can you cut it for me? I need to taste it badly.”

He took a knife, made a slit all around the mango, handling the fruit with the utmost care. Then his fingers pressed the two halves in their tight grip, stretching the slit open to uncover the hard pit. He discarded it. As he was handing me the cut fruit, his fingers were drenched in fresh sticky mango juice.

For a brief moment, our hands touched. We looked at each others eyes deeply – and kissed.

Fuck the mango!

That kiss was like dope. I couldn't think anymore. We were both hard and turned on. We were both lost in our intimacy, there was nothing else anymore around. He pulled my pants off and started touching me. With my boot, I pushed him to the market stand, took his pants off and fucked him.

It was intense, people were shocked and stunned, and they stopped moving. The atmosphere was super-sexual; it was like we had spread a sexual magic powder in the air. After a few minutes, the whole market turned into an orgy market!

























At the market - II
It is a rainy day in 2030, and I mean a rainy day. There is an open street market in the center of Amsterdam. The fish seller will usually stand at one of the river banks, with his collection of fish – especially on a rainy day. He will walk with his smelly fishy boots to welcome his customers.

All the fish are naked. I mean skin open naked, stretched on a 2030’s display table. They are in plates that look like Italian fish beds.

I ask for a pinkrosebudfish.

“Look how fresh it is, it just came out of the gen-tech facilities,” he says.

He takes his sharp knife and makes a quick incision along the fish belly which blossoms, revealing its fuchsia interiors.

I am wet.

He offers me a piece of that raw flesh and I immediately grab it and put it in my mouth. I close my eyes while chewing, and visualise the perfect dinner that fish could make; the herbs, the temperature, the wine. I open my eyes and glaze him so hard that even the dead fish feel the tension.

Was it a dream? I saw the fish jumping onto each other. Or were they dancing?

Suddenly, I saw myself lying under the fish, wearing nothing but my body skin, and the market person moving the fish up and down, from head to toe, over my body again and again.

This time, it felt so intense that I shouted out loud: “WAAAAW!”

Or was it just a dream?

At the market - III
It was the afternoon of May 2nd, a warm day at the street market. I wanted to make Gemsta: stuffed tomatoes and peppers with rice, baked in the oven. I was looking for big green peppers and juicy red tomatoes. The smell of the spices and the fruits in combination with the sweat of the people made the atmosphere at the market very attractive.

I felt myself almost fainting, and my knees got weak. I almost fell.

Two hands held me tight but very gently from behind to break my fall and I heard your voice saying: “Hoppla, are you okay?”

I turned around and saw you looking at me; and actually, then I really wanted to faint. Your lips were smiling and I wanted to get kissed all over; I wanted to get sucked into your mouth. I forgot all about my cooking plans.

Your mouth today, with hot-red lipstick, not my favorite color, but it is watery as usual. I want to suck those full-fat meat lips like I sucked your other two lips a while ago. What did they taste like? I forgot. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I will explore them again.

A fresh taste, today, here, at the market, in front of strangers passing by. Let me get wild with these lips; forget about the peppers, these hot-red peppers are never going to be on my plate again. I will put you on my main course tonight.

My daydreaming was making me lose control. I felt my body was shape-shifting right there in the middle of the market. My limbs now exposed were curling into new textures, and acquiring a taste of their own. They now were standing there as plump juicy tomatoes and heaps of fragrant red peppers.

Passers-by got all curious and excited by my transformation. Hands were touching my vegetable skin. Noses smelt my tangy perfume. Fingers were pressing my juices.

Good money was spent to buy me, piece by piece.

Once dropped off, I will end up carefully heated, smothered and greased, and tasted by the lusty velvet of your lips.


At the bike shop - I
Masha, the former bike race champion from Ostblok, entered the bike repair shop on Queeristan Street. It was to be her first day at work there, and it didn’t look good: the shop seemed abandoned and dusty. Moreover, there were pictures of current bike champions on the walls.

She heard noises in the back of the shop. She followed them and found what she was always looking for: Boris’s dog! Since she always wanted to be in one of Boris’s sexual fantasies, she decided to return at midnight wearing nothing but what she was born in! And she did.

When she came back at night, she noticed that she was not alone. Boris was at the shop as well. He did not notice Masha because he was too busy. Not for nothing he has a dog with such a big cock. He was obviously using it intensely in his everyday practice. They were intensely busy with a blow job in a 69 pose.

Masha was upset. There was no place for her in this setting.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” a harsh voice interrupted her observations.

“I, i, i ... I’m sorry, I returned to fuck Boris’s dog but I see they are busy.”

“Oh, I see, maybe I can help you,” the person grabbed Masha’s hand. “Will you follow me?”

“Ok.”

They entered a room that was totally dark and smelled of animals.

“Let me introduce you to ... FickFackFuck – my horse. Do you like him?”

Masha did not answer. She immediately went to the wooden construction and bent over.


At the bike shop - II
I open the doors of FickFackFucks Bike Repair Shop and I am already trembling with excitement. The thought of FFF biting my neck makes me wet in three seconds. I let my finger slip in my slit to feel my wetness.

“Hello Masha, what are you doing? How are you? Great to see you,” FFF says, unzipping her greasy jacket.

“Huh!”

“So it is!” says FFF and slides her dirty black fingers into Masha’s pants.

Masha leans back on the front tire of a bike in repair, standing upside down. That is, the bike is upside down. She grabs the handles and starts to grind against the bike wheel that sinks in her butt crack while FFF’s fingers’ reach her from the front, creating an alchemic mix of grease and juice.

In the meantime, Boris was jaggin’ wildly around the corner. Not just jaggin’, but what is called French Jagging. The wet nose of his dog with a big cock was just next to his dick, which was about to explode. Moreover, the dog obviously came there by bike, which was broken and still had to be fixed.

But more about that in Part II.

Please, get back to us soon. We love U.


At the bike shop - III
It was a cold winter night in Slovakia. Masha was reaching her highest point of dissatisfaction and desperation in her sexuality while Fick Fack Fook was fickfackfooking Chache wildly, untimely.

As Boris was filming the beautiful mass, he found a way to help Masha.

“Do you want a glass of water?” Boris asked Masha.

“So sweet. What do you want back for it?”

“Help me to get satisfaction,” Boris said.

“Can I help you?”Masha asked and turned red.

“No, I totally don’t want you,” answered Boris.

“You know,” said Masha, “I have a solution. In our writing group, there is someone called Arabic Boy. He would definitely be happy to help you. I will go and get him.”

In a minute, Arabic Boy appeared and did his classic hip movement. This time, Boris turned red but there was no way back.

“Are you looking for satisfaction, Boris?” said Arabic Boy.

He came closer without touching Boris. Then, he sat down behind him and whispered in his ear:

“What does satisfaction mean to you?”

As Arabic Boy breathed in his neck, Boris felt goose bumps spread all over his body.

Masha was filming them. She didn’t have a microphone, so FFF provided the soundtrack with his “Ooohs” and “Aaaahs”.

Arabic Boy and Boris got tangled and tangled more, and when they screamed in satisfaction, Masha knew that – at least for them – the cold winter was over.

The film screening at Queeristan Film Festival 2050 was a success. The audience was hot, wet and loud.


At the bike shop - IV
It is the first wonderful summer day, and there are lots of visitors at the bike shop. It is Saturday and everyone wants to go cycling. A long line forms in front of the shop while Mozart’s music is heard from the inside.

It is very hot and people are getting irritated.

The guy who works at the shop goes to the toilet and doesn’t come back.

Someone claims s*he has to skip the line. S*he has to bring some new tubes and chains to the shop owner.

“All right, all right, go on.”

“Thank you,” says s*he and enters a room at the back of the store.

“Hey Boris, I got you some new tubes and chains.”

“Hey Chachi, that’s great, just leave them there, I’m busy now.”

But s*he does not leave the room.

“Uhm, what are you waiting for?” says Boris.

“I wanted to get your attention for a minute. Look at me.”

Boris puts down his tools and his eyes meet Chachi’s. Only then, he notices the metallic sparkles in her_his eyes, flying in his direction with the speed of a 3-gear bike. He is pulled towards the visitor and finds himself on his knees, licking the wet tubes in Chachi’s strong hands.

He is entranced. When he opens his eyes, he notices the customers. They have entered the shop and formed a circle around them. They touch themselves and moan loudly while Mozart’s music disappears in the background.

You might think this is the end of the story – but not yet!

Everyone was very patient. It was going in the direction nobody would expect. Fireworks everywhere, everyone was taking part in this Shortbus! A drop of Eternity!

The end (that would always continue)!

Svetovi drugih - priče iz Sarajeva

Zadnja delavnica skupinskega pisanja feministično-queerovske znanstvene fantastike Svetovi drugih je potekala 9. septembra 2011 na festivalu ženske angažirane umetnosti PitchWise, ki se je letos šestič odvijal v Sarajevu. Podobno kot na prejšnjih delavnicah smo se tudi v Kulturnem centru Sarajevo ravnale po nadrealističnih receptih za skupinske besedne igre in se poželjivo ozirale k feministično-queerovskim svetovom, ki zaenkrat spadajo še v znanstveno fantastiko.

Pravila iger 'definicije (vprašanja in odgovori)', 'pogojniki' in 'izvrstno trupelce' lahko v angleščini preberete na tej povezavi. Spodaj lahko preberete prvi izbor povedi in zgodb s sarajevske delavnice, napisanih v slovensko-hrvaško-srbsko-bosanskem jeziku. Seznam bo popoln šele, ko bo vsem udeleženkam uspelo dešifrirati vse pisave in prepisati zgodbe.


Na delavnici so sodelovale: Kristina Andrić, Džejla Bektić, Berina Džemailović, Vesna Đorđević, Dragana Đukić, Ivana Gordanić, Maja Halilović, Amina Herak, Nedžiba Idrizović, Ilona Jerič, Lidija Kajtazi, Tamara Karanović, Selma Kešetović, Anja Tedeško, Ana Vilenica in Safija Zairović.

Udeleženkam se zahvaljujem za sodelovanje, Fundaciji CURE pa za vabilo na festival in izjemno gostoljubje.



Definicije (Pitanja i odgovori)

Šta misliš o današnjem danu?
U svemiru ima svega.

Koliko je sati?
Mnogo.

Šta želiš?
Puno malih slatkih zečeva.

Znaš li šta je ljubav?
Ponekad kad se ne nađe drugih izgovora.

Šta je megalomanija?
Svemirska pita iz antigravitacijskog brašna.

Jesi li ikad se digla u pola noći i zavijala sa vukovima?
Zato što je neko bacio ciglu.

Voliš li banane?
Sve je super, treba se udubiti u sve i zavijati s vukovima!

Ili znaš gde je otišla banana?
Tamo gde helikopteri šume u komšiluku.

Zašto žirafe ne jedu grožđe?
Izbledeće, plašim se.

Koliko ti je dobar vid?
Deset podeljeno sa dva.

Koliko si queer danas?
U slavini ima vode.

Šta je smisao života?
Diktafon, fotoaparat i hljeb.

Kako nastaju mobilni telefoni?
Pa ljepo bona, kako neznaš!

Koliko je visoko?
Pa zavisi koliko pingvina bude gladnih.

Zašto nisi kupila ružnati šešir?
Zato što su brojevi nestalna kategorija.

Kada ćeš obojiti obrve?
Kad se popiškim u travu.

Koliko si kolačića pojela?
Trudim se, da ne razmišljam o tortici.

Šta misliš kad šetaš ulicom u zadnje vreme?
Da ima ljubavi i vatre.

Kondicionali

Ako se budemo zadržale duže u pustinji, sačekaću sljedeću komercijalu.

Ako bi se ti zaustavila nasred ceste, onda bih ja otišla na pitu ispod sača.

Ako bi jahala konja, onda bi jela šampite.

Ako se nasmiš, organizirat ću uništavanje njihove štampe.

Ako krenemo odmah, možemo uhvatit leteću metlu.

Ako sutra mačka zaspi, popeću se na traktor.

Kad bi pala kroz staklo, meditirala bih kraj reke i sjedinila se s prirodom.

Kada bi imala uber awesome superpowers, onda bi pobjegla u kanalizaciju.

Kad bi se našla u liftu sa Madonnom, onda bi se smijala do kraja života.

Kad bi se sunce ugasilo, onda bi letjela.

Kada bih imala svu moč u državi, onda bi svi vodili ljubav i sadili drveće.

Kad bi Sarajevo bilo u Africi, nekako bi pronašla izlaz.

Kad bih se našla u drugom tjelu, onda bi ljudi imali više strpljenja drug z drugim.

Kada padne lopta, ja ću plesti goblene.

Kada bi uzela nož i gulila krumpir, ostavila bih sve i preselila se na Veneru!

Kada bi krenula prema mjesecu, otišla bi na prstima, da te ne probudim.

(Kratki) odlični leš

Zeleno oko skida se u šumarku u ormaru.

Tristohiljada livada spava kod plave rjeke.

Lepa zebra ide u ljuti indigo.

Nadjačani grah voli dlakavu ružu u lošem stanju.

Svilena zubdana trči prema šarenom kišobranu.

Ljubičasta banana je pojela čupavu pećinu.

Ljubičasta banana trči u ljepoj ljubičasto-crni kugli.

Lijepa olovka ide prema pospanom suncu.







(Dugi) odlični leš 

Kada bih imala svu moč u državi …
Kada bih imala svu moč u državi, onda bi svi vodili ljubav i sadili drveće. Zašto ne sadimo drveće od novca? Zašto još to nisu izmislili. Zašto nisu izmislili food drvo? Onda bi sve lakše bilo. Ipak zadovoljni smo i ovim našim nemutantskim drvećima. Ljeti su monotoni, dosada. U jesen mijenjaju boje ko osječaji šarenilo. Svaki list pada različito, nema monotonije. Sve šuška, listovi plešu. Kao da vode ljubav.

Zašto se ne probudiš jedan dan sa uber awesome superpowersima i možeš da vladaš državom? Diktature treba. Pohapsiti i zatvoriti sve mrzitelje prirode. Zašto svi ne odemo u šumarak na potočić spojit se sa unutrašnjim mirom, da vodimo ljubav? Budimo hipijevi. Ljubav nije za pičkice, pička si ako mrziš ljubav. Zašto svi ne zaboravimo na se, udružimo se, napravimo ogroman kolač i usput sadimo drveće; vračamo staro. Legalizujmo gay brakove.

PIČKA. PIČKA. PIČKA. Volimo pičke. Ja znam, da je volim. I sada, lijepo da se izrazim, nabijem vas sve na svoj fantomski kurac. Mene vaše norme ponašanja uopće ne zanimaju. To je valjda neka ironija. Zato što slavim nježnost, moram da se borim, da iznalazim nove načine da spasim sopstvenu kožu od vaših stigmi, vaših značenja. Prošla su vremena kada je John Lennon zajedno sa Yoko Ono upozoravao, da ne posežemo za nasiljem, jer kada vas isprovociraju za nasilje, znaju šta će s vama. Ne znam, nalazim se na ivici svijeta, sa slušalicama na ušima iz kojih trešti ljuti glas Marylna Mansona: FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

Jebeš ti to sve. Sve je to ludo i bolesno. Boriti se za ljubav – bolest uma, koja vlada svjetom i to svjetom koji je izmislio jedan kuronja u svom officu. Zato i samo zato volite se, poštujte jedni druge, vodite ljubav i sadite drveće. Zar to nije poanta života? Što ti više treba? Haj sad reci. Nema veze sve će doć na svoje kad se digne revolucija na planeti zemlji i potamani svakog kuronju u officu i spali ga na lomači. Strpljen spašen.
 

Već pet godina živi u tišini 
Već pet godina živi u tišini i bulji u svoje sove, pčele, vrane, jabuke, kruške. Nikad neće nać ono svoje pismo al nema to veze jer je nabavio novu antiknu uniformu i prodat će je na dražbi kao i ono prošlo, da može nastavit živjet u tišini. Prostor tišine. Da se barem nalaziš. Tu. Da ne ovisiš o drugima, o osjećajima. Da ne budeš stvar. Da promijeniš sebe. Vjetar vijori tvoju kosu. Opusti se, kažeš si, sve se treba proći. Nemoj da ta tišina preovlada s tobom. Nije ni toliko dobra. Uniforma će se poderati, novac od uniforme će biti potrošen. Ne možeš kupiti sreće sa njim. Preovladava s tobom. Daj si reci: Današnji dan nema granica, ne nosi pasoš sa sobom. Nemoj postati pjesnik tame i tišine …

Pjesnikinja udahnula dim cigarete i pogledala kroz prozor. Ostao joj je jedino sredstvo bijega u drugi svjet. Razmišlja: Hvala na ovoj cigareti. Razmišlja opet: Kako ljepo život prolazi … kao i ova prokleta cigareta. Ne može napolje. Zatvorena je u ovoj ludnici duži niz godina. Dali je pitate tačno za broj, ne bi vam znala reći. I da li je to zaista važno? Zatvorena zajedno sa ostalim pacijenticama i tišinom dočekuje zoru. Tretiraju je kao dijete iako je odrasla žena. Zna ona i zašto. Dijete ne sanja slobodu, nego dobrog gospodara, nekoga tko će u njegovo ime, u ime njegovog dobra, osloboditi ga odgovornosti.

Nakrivila je šešir i zagledala se u svoj odraz u ogledalu. Čuvaj se slike, rekao je Lacan. Iskrivljena stvarnost. Uvijek iskrivljena stvarnost, ali i ta razarajuća spoznaja, da nova ne postoji. Nalazi se u sobi punoj odraza, refleksija i ne zna koja je ona. Da li je njezino tijelo uopće materijalno? Dali postoji u vremenu i prostoru? Postoji li vrijeme i prostor? Kako da ona sada kaže svojoj majci da je zove bog, a ona pere suđe? Odaziva li se uopće netko tom pozivu? Problem je sav u tome: ona to ne želi raditi, ali mora, jer nema nikoga drugog da preuzme tu paklenu ulogu. Lakše je izbrati komfor svakodnevnog ponavljanja. Obuci opeglane košulje, obuj lakirane cipele. Pričaj nešto lijepo kao „Ništa nije završeno dok je čovjek živ“ ili „Sve se može kad se hoće“. Hoće li netko jednog dana znati, da je postajala u vremenu i prostoru? Čemu taj strah od nestajanja? Da li zbog toga piše?

Jako zajebano vrijeme, naglas razmišlja pjesnikinja, vrijeme je da lik koji želi predati svoje pismo okonča misiju i shvati, da je izmišljen lik.


Zeleno oko skida se u šumarku u ormaru 
Zeleno oko skida se u šumarku u ormaru. Zeleno oko zagleda crveno oko. Zeleno oko je ljuto. Reži! Neko joj je uletio na teritoriju. Zeleno oko i crveno oko počinju borbu na život i smrt. Ovako ta borba izgleda: dva oka zure jedna u drugu. Povremeno škilje, namiguju. Tešku artiljeriju čuvaju za kasnije.

Moglo bi se reči da su te oči u određenom raskoraku, neuhvatljive na istoj razini sporazumijevanja. Jer zeleno oko služi kao refleksija crvenom oku, a i crveno oko shvata da mu je zeleno ogledalo.

Kažu da so oči prozor duše ali zelenooka Azra nije vjerovala u dušu, samo u precizne anatomske činjenice kakve je prižekljivala od sada određenog i savladanog Fuada. Izgledao je tako krhko među tim žutim lišćem, ne znajući da li da moli za milost ili da traži još. Ipak, ta drskost ... Koliko god mislila, da ga je pritisla i uništila mu svaku priliku da ponovo sakupi rasuti identitet, bilo je nečeg ponosnog, nesalomljivog u tom preljepom dječaku.

Sunce je sišlo u šumu. Objasnio je crvenom i zelenom oku da su dijelovi cjeline i da oba oka pripadaju sunčevom spektru boja. Crveno, zeleno, žuto, plavo oko. Sve te boje je posjedovao taj dječak, smatrala je Azra. Čak ga se malo i bojala zbog tih boja, jer je čudno izgledala zelena irokeza na glavi, ljubičasto i crno oko, jaka čeljust, poderana odjeća, lanci, čizme i duša na jakni. Tačno je znala kada on prolazi pod njenim prozorom. Svaki dan u 17.00 je dolazio da se rukuje s nekim tipom koji bi mu dao paketić a on njemu novac. Redovno ga je promatrala i uvijek se pitala šta li je u tom paketiću i zašto svaki dan. Ali nije previše razmišljala o tome sve dok ga je ona mogla vidjet.

Jednog dana se nije pojavio. Umjesto njega je drugi dječak kasnio. Svaki dan, različito vrijeme. Zeleno oko je počelo suziti. Duša je slomljena. Nema ga. U paketiću je smrt. Zašto nije uzeo njen paketić ljubavi i života? Oči su ogledala duše, ljubičasto i crno oko. Ne mogu prežaliti. Otišla je do tipa po paketić. Krenula je za svojim očima sudbine. Umrla je. Na rajskom kolodvoru izlazi iz voza, čekao ju je s ružom, rozom.

In Other Wor(l)ds stories from Berlin

The In Other Wor(l)ds workshop took place at the f.a.q. Laden in Neukölln on February 19th on the occasion of Lad.i.y.fest Berlin. We played several Surrealist writing games in Sci-Fi settings with feminist-queer aspirations: Definitions (Question and Answer), Conditionals and two versions of Exquisite Corpse. In the first version, we collectively (de)constructed sentences like “The sexy robot slapped a strong community”, in the second we wrote short stories, based on our favourite Exquisite Corpse sentences.

The following mistress-pieces were written by Nina, Laura, Tanja, Dare, Sybille, Katha, Raoul, Cy, Tina, Audrey, Sabine, Skyler, Tea and another (for now) anonymous participant. The list of stories will expand as soon as we manage to decode our exquisite handwritings. Until then – enjoy the ones below …

Many thanks to Lad.i.y.fest organisers for hosting the workshop and the Slovenian Embassy in Berlin for donating the wine! (The Surrealists were right: “The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine!”)

Definitions (Question and Answer)

What is your idea of queer science fiction?
Biting the dog again and again.

What does a star look like?
Like the cow that went up the mountain.

Why is it cold?
Because the night belongs to the creatures.

Is there such a thing as luminous wonder?
Depends on the light.

Must there be light at the end of the tunnel?
Look, the teddy bear is acting like a cat!

What is the best place for a secret?
That would be just too complicated to answer.

Which pizza do you like? Peperoni?
No, the one with the book from last year.

When is it the time to fall in love?
I don’t care. Let’s just do it now.

Why are sad people so complicated?
Because blue robot ponies don’t have a sex.

Why did the Snowqueer slip on the pavement?
Because the stars are pink and there is a huge teddy bear jumping on the top of the mountain.

What’s your favourite way of making sure you’re really awake for class in the morning?
I look for a fly that flew millions of years ago in a tropic forest and got trapped in amber.

Where did you find this book?
That’s misleading the truth written in the book.

Why did you sell that pink car?
Because the nuns told me so.

How can you travel from London to Siberia?
Look for a white rabbit with your answer in her mouth.

What would you do if you noticed you peed in your pants after laughing too hard?
It’s quite simple: you would want to try to cover it with a large carpet.


Conditional

If you walk into a queer party and you can’t find anyone who looks like you, then you can fit two green jellies inside your trifle spacesuit.


Exquisite Corpse
Follow the links to reach the stories based on the first three sentences.

An ambitious thought is swimming with the multiple cyborg.

A beautiful facility manager is insisting on a heart-breaking glass window.

A wild teddy bear cried over a deconstructed baby.

The yelling princess hurt an apple-shaped glitz business.

A stupid bicycle basket fell onto a terrible caterpillar.

The beautiful bowling ball is spitting a slow cigarette.

A blue ant sculpted the queeriest crocodiles!

An amazing power is playing with spicy gloves.

A rather curious box will devour an exhausted mirror.

The wonderful Amazons danced with a very used box.

The phenomenal train met a furious birthday cake.

The sexy robot slapped a strong community.

A precious cupboard secretly fell on Cinderella.

Part 1: An Ambitious Thought ...

In Other Wor(l)ds stories from Berlin - Part 1: 
An Ambitious Thought Is Swimming With the Multiple Cyborg


I. No Escape
The ambitious thought is swimming with the multiple cyborg. The flowers are falling from the trees, the birds are singing out loud and there's a terrible noise that seems like thunder: it is the nostalgic voice of another cyborg coming from the distance and it sounds like the saddest song on Earth ... Our multiple cyborg decides there and then ...

… to go to Earth and look for the other cyborg and maybe save it from its sadness. But the 1st cyborg had forgotten how people live on Earth. It was seen by the anti-terrorist forces and put in jail. There, it heard so many sad songs that it couldn't recognize the one it heard on its planet. As the 1st cyborg had no gender, the guardians put it in a cell in the women's quarter, alone, because in their world, if you are not a man you are not something else but assimilated to women. So the 1st cyborg descended deeper and deeper into sadness and soon its mission was forgotten. It thought only of the sad songs and its inability to fit into one gender box or the other. Teardrop after teardrop fell onto the concrete floor until one day one of those salty teardrops tore a hole in the floor, opening a trapdoor and sending the 1st cyborg down down down until it landed at the feet of the cyborg it had intended to save from sadness when it came to Earth.

“Hi, there you are! I was waiting here for you, really sad and terribly alone,” the other cyborg said.

“Yes, I heard your sad voice and so I decided to look for you and free you from your sadness,” the 1st cyborg explained, “but now I see this idea was too romantic. Since I've been caught and trapped here, I've become just as sad as you are.”

“Yes, but at least we're not alone now, and maybe we can escape from here.”

The other cyborg already looked a bit happier.

“But we are in a prison, there is no way to escape!”


II. The Supersonic Message
An ambitious nostalgic thought is swimming with the multiple cyborg. The cyborg carried this thought for a really long time. Thoughts were falling from its head like a fish bowl kicked so strong that all the fish fly far away ... Anyway, a head full of thoughts and some strange memories: memories from the wild sex party they threw last night.

What was that? Nostalgic thoughts? They represented what the cyborg has been longing for: cyborgs from all kinds of places, dancing to slow motion songs in ballerina suits. Oh, for sure it felt like swimming. Swimming in a sea of metallic kisses and passionate oil. That was when the multiple cyborg remembered that special robot that looked like a piece of machine from the future in 1920. All kinds of thoughts started to return to its head: “I’m gonna organize a play party this evening!”

The cyborg thought of sending a supersonic message to the whole galaxy, one that can be translated as: “Welcome to the strangest place in the universe! Everything is possible here: fucking cyborgs, aliens, robots and maybe lost humans … for one night in our timespace but in your timespace, it could represent more or less, it depends!”

The cyborg sat back, satisfied with its message. Smiling to itself, it pressed its scrawny grey thumb on the ‘send’ button.


III. Revenge of the Lonely Cyborg
The ambitious nostalgic thought is swimming with the multiple cyborg. The thought swims backwards, against the current, passing through channels and bouncing off rocks and fallen tree stumps, further and further into the past. The cyborgs swims alongside the thought, guiding it around islands and through marshy areas. While floating under a bridge, one lazy summer afternoon, the thought questioned itself.

“Why am I going backwards?” it said loudly to itself. One of the older cyborgs raised his wide head out of the water and answered: “Because you must revisit the past before you can move into the future.”

Slowly floating, the thought wondered what he would find in his past. At this point he couldn’t remember where he was coming from nor which way he had gone so far. Only when he bounced against a rock or a tree stump, he had a short flashlight of memories, astonished and confused about the way he had made so far. Where was the beginning, his origin? Or was there no origin at all? Would he just lose himself on the journey, fragmented and untraceable? And then, even if he could follow the way back to one origin, what would it tell him about the future?

Probably that he should take care of the dog more often, or write some letters to his family – the kind of precious advice that life is teaching you all through. Or: don’t step on the line, try to walk the sidewalks without stepping on the lines because that brings bad luck.

Anyway, the cyborg was lonely. A forty year old cyborg with no hopes for a future (technology doesn't last that much), thinking and meditating all day long: why nobody told me that technology doesn’t last forever, that we must be trashed too, necessarily, at a certain point? Why nobody teaches us this in school and we have to learn it the hard way ... when our metal is only good for ironing?

Even the complaining and meditating took too long, so our cyborg took a life-changing decision: “I am going to crash to the Earth, in a techno-pole, to show them where technology leads: to death ... Ah, ah, ah, I am becoming diabolic because no hope is left, no future for me, no future for others! I am going to destroy all 'scientific centers' and put bombs everywhere! Maybe the survivors will find parts of my body, maybe they'll wonder how a cyborg could be so lonely?! They might understand that all planets are perfect and loneliness exists everywhere …”


IV. In the Here and Now
The ambitious nostalgic thought is swimming with a multiple cyborg called Az. It lives in another world, far from us. Whoever built it had in mind an ideal world. Az should be clever, free-minded, not straight, but it met another cyborg called By, lost in this ideal world.

By: It’s boring, we don't have to fight anyone!

Az: I don’t agree! This world is so wonderful, no more discrimination! Everyone can live freely!

By shook its head sadly: “What good is freedom if it wasn't fought for? Furthermore, what do we learn by relaxing in this peaceful paradise? Is there no challenge here, can't we use our minds for a single moment?”

Az didn’t know what to say. It arrived to this ideal world just a few days ago: “How long have you been here?” it asked.

“3 years, 99 days, 4 hours and 36 minutes,” By replied.

Az: “And what did you do all this time? You just seem to be bored with this perfect place and you’ve forgotten what it means to fight. Now the fighting for freedom looks like a great heroic adventure to you but don’t forget about the all pain and suffering it causes!” Az looked a bit furious because his beautiful thought was questioned that way.

Oh, stop telling me what to think,” By replied angrily, “you came here with your fantastic thoughts about perfect life, telling me your wisdom – but you didn’t live this life! What do you know about it?”

“The point is that when you arrive to the ideal world, nothing is like you imagine it would be. When you live 'this' life, the ideal world is far away, unreachable. And it seems to be perfect because our reality is 'here'. Our reality doesn’t taste good, the ideal world does. But the ideal world is not here.”

When By stepped into the ideal world he couldn’t believe it because it had became part of the 'here' and the 'here' is where we experiment, what we live. And if we live something we don’t like, then we have to fight to change it. This desire for change, even in the paradise of the ideal, was too shocking for By, who realized that he was never living in such an ideal place, that this static picture was an illusion of reality. When By met Az, he realized there were many things that needed to be done. And that’s when he joined Az in the fight. He also realized that Az was not a 'he' but a 'she' and that by calling 'him' 'he' was trying to see the world as a place made only for him.

When he saw that there were others, different ones, and saw a part of the fight as well, he started to call Az for what she was, a complete cyborg, independent of pronouns. And both kept on fighting together. Ideal world or reality, call it as you want. The fact is that they are fighting HERE.


Part 2: A Beautiful Facility Manager ...

Part 2: A Beautiful Facility Manager ...

In Other Wor(l)ds stories from Berlin - Part 2: 
A Beautiful Facility Manager Is Insisting on a Heart-Breaking Glass Window
 

I. Clashing Histories
A beautiful facility manager insisted on a heart-breaking glass window.

“Give in, give in to my beauty!” shouted the manager. By now she was in despair. Normally, her charms always worked, no matter how pressing the window’s heart-ache was. This window didn’t make a screech. One if its panes moved slightly, from left to right, as if to say: “No.”

“What do I have to do to heal your shattered window-heart? I tried duct tape, chewing gums, even the new subparticle glue … Please, talk to me!”

Was this a dream? A bad one, it seemed. A kind of nightmare. Since when did he notice that this special window was talking to him? And why did he think it was female? Nobody knew he liked women. It was forbidden, the machines didn’t want it. Why was he so sad about the broken glass? He couldn’t remember. This shouldn’t be happening. The machines. Was evolution really this bad?

He was male. That was the only thing he knew.

“Go to hell,” he shouted, “go to hell, all of you!”

Stretching Robin woke up. He looked over to the corner where he kept the window. She was still there. Shattered. And his dream slipped away from him.

“Time for another appointment with the high Wita. Stay there,” he said, “and don’t move.”

Talking to a mirror again, oh dear. He crawled up the ladder and into the air vent that protruded insignificantly into the room. He had to make his way to the bowels of the ship. It was magik time. He had to witness the Ritual.

“Psst.”

He heard a sound as he tried to wriggle him ample hips through the small hole. He paused, sweating. No other life forms apart from the Facility workers were allowed in the ship. That’s unless you count the witches. And of course, no one knew about them.

“Psst.”

He heard it again. He lowered his feet down onto his screen shelf where all the Universe’s oracles were kept. He pushed his shoulders through, and bruising the right one, he landed with a bump on the second layer of his cabin.

The only thing with even a vague Life-Energy was the mirror. But that was impossible. Surely the forces had died long ago with the genocide that had rid the planets of all humans. Womyn. Was that how it was spelled? He wasn’t sure. The histories seemed to clash.

Moving over to the mirror, he observed his long lashes repeated in her eyes.

“Why the fuck mirrors? Are mirrors glasses? Window-glasses? What a stroke of genius of fate. Of course, at this point people did not believe in faith, a somewhat anachronistic concoction, anymore. But then, in spite of technology, how do you know – to have picked mirrors as the last remnant of life-energy?

The thought of recovering a mirror, that symbol of vanity and coherence of the self, tickled Robin’s sense of glory. He pictured himself as the hero, just like in the texts he had at one point read in brain training.

Robin the hero would save those he loved most – women, womyn – and himself, rescue them from the planet where it was possible to survive only with the help of mirrors. Robin didn’t know exactly where to but knew how it should look like. He gave the idea a second thought and suddenly he wasn’t sure anymore if he knows where to go. Sure about the need to leave and sensing that the journey away from the planet will be long and exhausting but nonetheless necessary, Robin started preparing for the journey of his life.


II. Potatoes Don't Have a Gender
A beautiful facility manager was insisting on a heart-breaking glass window. She was sitting in a large oval room, surrounded by kaleidoscopes of windows. Rainbow-light was reflecting everywhere, bouncing off her hair, giving it the colour of the old flags she had seen in the history Portals, carried on poles by strange women with short hair. Her salopettes were slightly wet with sweat and she was sitting surrounded by fragments of broken glass.

A short, curvy figure walked up to her: “What are you doing, Ariadne?”

“Shh!,” the other said. Her stained fringe shook irritably: “'I'm concentrating.”

It had taken her so long to get to this point, she felt. And yet only a few hours ago she had been sitting in the mess-cafeteria, sipping her tomato juice with Vox. And now they were here, at last. And she had to concentrate. Hard. Or everything might be lost.

Vox ate her mashed potato hungrily. Ariadne was acting strangely. Quiet, frowning. Holding her tomato juice in her hand, barely drinking it and eating nothing, even though they had a busy day of Lyte Krystal mining ahead. What the hell was going on with her?

Annoyed, she finished and slurped down her cold, luminous energy T. In a way she felt manipulated, as if she was in some kind of sarcastic system of cow-willing-sipping luminous energy T in the morning, replenishing, just to pour all the energy into the Lyte Krystal. On the other hand, their plan was projecting an arduous night ahead.

While sipping on the mashed potatoes (yes, they could be sipped as well if X-rayed with the sharp light of the awakening morning), they were sorting out the last details of the night that was lying ahead. They didn't let themselves be bothered by the annoying phone ringing, or by people who were passing by, iodizing in wonder at the two persons sitting on the floor, surrounded by glass-spirals, eating breakfast and talking just as casually as if they were shopping at the market. No, they didn't let themselves be disturbed by the BIG ONE, who was flying into town and who was way more important than any of their human concerns.

Ariadne's concentration period was finished. She opened her eyes again and instantly the rainbow-light disappeared from her voluminous hair. As she looked around herself, nervous about the BIG JUICY ONE's arrival, she noticed that her hair looked even longer and darker in the shattered glass reflection. She wished she could cut it right there, at once, just like Vox did after seeing the holographic representation of her strong predecessors' history of struggle against the BIG ONE. What worries! Now, only a hundred years later, she and Vox were on a diplomatic mission to introduce the BIG ONE to the new mashed potatoes recipe which healed the heart-break off all species, BIG and small.

Everything became great as Vox accepted the new wisdom. And everybody really loved the BIG POTATO ONE. Potatoes don't have a gender. Who knew it would be that easy? And it all started with a facility manager ...


III. Metamorph Now!
A beautiful facility manager insisted on a heart-breaking glass window. So he looked at it. Why do these cyborgs always destroy windows? That was his life: queering ponies, broken crocodiles.

“Mr. Suffer?”

Oh, no. He hated to be called by his real name.

“Yes, divine queen of perverts?”

Cyborgs are so logically engaged. You can’t win.

“Why is there a teddy lying on the second floor?”

“I don’t know. Do you wish that I metamorph it?”

“No, thanks.”

And then he saw it. The face in the window. Again. This planet was a mess.

He looked down and returned to his work. They called him Mr. Suffer but nobody knew his real name. He forgot it a long ago, in the Third-Iron-Age. And no one bothered to give cyborgs a name these days. There were too many of them … us … no, them. So hard to think of the trillions of slick figures of his kind. And of course, that is what the humans always wanted. To de-figure them. To take cyborg culture and hide it from all second-class citizens of the Eleventh Galaxy. No wonder, he thought cynically. With the combined life-force of these eternal lifeforms, a revolution could be staged.

“Screech.”

Again he heard it, that sound that his Professoress once described as the sound of fingers scraping a blackboard.

“Screech.”

Quickly, he looked up. Nothing.

“Queenie, oh queenie,” he mumbled.

His Supervisoress reappeared.

“About that teddy: can you metamorph it after all? Its fuzzy little legs are bringing out my maternal instincts.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Typical, he thought. She was scared.

Scribbling little letters which don’t deserve their name onto the surface of the table, the divine queen of perverts was pondering: “Is there a difference between Teddies and Cyborgs, and if yes, who gets to name them? In a way, Teddies had been just very lucky but maybe also strategic in selling their fuzzy legs as completely inoffensive; so trivial and cute that revolutionary metamorphosis could not be thought of.”

Queenie started thinking aloud but just couldn't get it why the Cyborgs were always said to be biologically engaged. After all, she never saw any Cyborg sharing its desire with another Cyborg. At least not with her own eyes. Or was she simply ignorant? Maybe she imagined desire in a certain way, thought it had to assume a certain shape ...

In this moment, Mr. Suffer realised he was in his own world. There were still teddies around him but no cyborgs in sight although he could swear he smelled the overwhelming saliva from their mouths ... not in sight but surely present. Instead, only a sales-person was looking at him like he was insane. He was sure that this sales-person thought so, but he didn’t care about it. Cyborgs were around him and they might have desires, too (he just didn’t see them) ... and he himself ... yes, he himself ... a small flash of insight grew … became huge ... yes, he desired them! He desired THEM!

“Oooh! Cyborgs,” he screeched like a nail scraping against rusty metal, “why wasn’t I constructed as an autoerotic cyborg, why can’t I just please myself?!”

“Don’t despair,” shouted the divine queen of perverts, “metamorph! Metamorph now!”

“Yes, I am ... am ... mmh ...”

His electronic consciousness faded out for a second, perhaps a century. When he opened his eyes again, he realized he was tied to the iron frame of a velvet-red bed. A dozen fluffy and warm teddies were sitting on his chest, salivating with desire and gazing transfixed into his many compound eyes.

“Who am I,” he thought, “what have I become?”

Perhaps it no longer mattered ...


IV. One grows, one grows up to the task of growing
A beautiful facility manager was insisting on a heart-breaking glass window. The window belonged to a fancy shop with antique teddy bears. They were not in the best shape, some of them were missing legs, some of them had no head, but looking at them, the facility manager could cry tears – so beautiful they were in their uniqueness! They were to be exhibited, the facility manager decided, and so s_he went against the conviction of her_his colleagues and clients who thought s_he's gone crazy. S_he was standing in front of the shop, looking at it from a distance, aware of the treasure that was lying behind the wooden bulk windows. S_he was thinking of teddy bears and their heads and legs and bellies and filling that was partly pushing to the surface of their beings. S_he could almost smell their fur, it had the sweet odour of years of humidity.

“Aaa-khm!”

The facility manager moved her/his beautiful head towards the sudden sound. What was that?

“Aaa-khm,” repeated the sound and by now (s)he knew that this was not some random noise from the street, not the cracking of the boards that covered the window – no, the sound was coming from behind the boards. (S)he brought her perfectly violet nose closer to the window and looked at the damp teddy bears from real close. One of them seemed to move slightly, as if to stretch its muscles. Suddenly, it pulled out a sign that said: “WE ARE NOT EXHIBITS. FLUCK YOU!”

“What?”

“Which part of the sentence you didn't understand?”

“Maybe the 'Fluck you' part.”

“C'mon, I'm a bear. Do you expect a perfect pronunciation or what?”

“I didn't even know that a toy is able to talk.”

“I'm lonely. And my name is Zoo, by the way.”

“What kind of a name is 'Zoo'?”

The bear seemed to grow: “What kind of a job is a 'facility manager'?”

“You're a naughty little bear.” Am I really talking to a bear, she thought in the mean time, I should visit the doctor. While it wondered, the bear apparently returned to its inanimate stasis. And then: “Naughty little bear, am I? Are you trying to dominate me or what?”

Aa-khm laughed: “Well, I guess they don't call you 'Bears' for nothing. Who would think that toys are into BDSM?!”

To her/his surprise, the teddy laughed heartily with her. Did it understand? No one, not even the Sybil-IV's got his/her jokes. They were too old-fashioned, filled with references to a time long gone. So s/he kept laughing, hysterically now, the sound coming deep from hir belly.

“Look, shut-up,” the teddy bear hissed, “you've got to get me out of here. I'm old and trapped. Look, my shagging is starting to get mouldy.” Zoo held up a leg impatiently, showing Aa-khm the newly-formed star crystals. Zoo was here for too long and too frustrated to bandy about PleasSex with a facility manager. However, s_he was pleasantly appealing. Zoo quickly thought about how simple it was for it to label people as appealing or not. Where did it learn that? Behind the glass window, checking out passers-by.

Like a balloon with its sides stretching, Zoo became larger. A kind of an unpleasant feeling, but one grows, one grows up to the task of growing, stretching, filling up space. Like a yeast dough with a slightly fractured surface. Fractured? It started with some cracks, cracks turning into fractals, like sprinkled sugar all over the place. A kind of slow-motion but steady, then a point of fullness, a point where glass resistance is overwhelmed by Zoo's mighty belly, crashing and cracking, shattering all over the floor. The glass window is broken, and so is Zoo's mightily enlarged heart. Literally.



V. Embizzle's Home

A beautiful facility manager was insisting on a heart-breaking glass window. Glass had proven instrumental to Embizzle's daily routine at least once or twice before. Its power to break people's hearts, literally, helped her once to dodge a ticket checker, another time to stop a night train from departing on time.

Looking at the window frame, Embizzle could not help giving in to the – what was by now thought to be obsolete – way of insulating living units. So Embizzle was choosing the occasions, the moments when it used its power very carefully and sparsely. It always focused on something that was incredibly important to it or to those it loved. And it loved people very much. Throughout the years it would observe how its use of power made people do things they wouldn't do otherwise but were just more right – they brought more equilibrium and justice (however vague this concept might be). However, when people would act in a more just way, their hearts would turn bigger and bigger until they would explode.

Embizzle itself was hurt by it and now, at this point was wondering whether the glass windows were the key to get rid of all this pain. After all, the glass was supposedly emotionless – and motionless. But wasn't there always something, someone behind the window glass?

Embizzle tried to look through the dusty window but only saw its own reflection. Its beauty was typical of its species: vertical eyes, horizontal nose, vertical mouth et cetera. But Embizzle was used to her face. So used, xe no longer noticed it. Right now she knew only one thing: her reflection in the dark dusty window was on her way, preventing her from seeing what was behind it. So s/he smashed the window with her fist.

She was surprised to see how easily the glass broke. How soft. It melted away and she was surprised again. The window was hiding a different room. There stood a scientist and mumbled: “Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

Embarrassing. Her beloved H was a small scientist? An ant? An insect with a writing pad in its hands? Ridiculous?

Embizzle wished she hadn't broken the window. This story was going to end really bad and she knew who would suffer in the end – herself. Looking at the scientist she noticed something strange about the creature. Although it definitely had insecticide characteristics it also had the same slightly slanting eyes as H, Embizzle's own long mouth. But, as well as this, the scientist had long white fingers, which were writing feverishly in a book. Looking at H, her own heart was breaking.

“Hello Embizzle.” The creature smiled: “Recognise me? I am your syster.”

And Embizzle knew then, where her ana…est dreams and skills had led her. Here. Home. To this beautiful, tri-specied creature, truly a child of the anti-speciesist Order's own philosophy. Looking at her, Embizzle knew that her hardest work had only just begun. Instead of breaking hearts, she would now have to learn to mend her own.


Part 3: A Wild Teddy Bear ...

Part 3: A Wild Teddy Bear ...

In Other Wor(l)ds stories from Berlin - Part 3: 
A Wild Teddy Bear Cried Over a Deconstructed Baby


I. One-Way Baby Route to Neukölnoid 
A wild teddy bear cried over a deconstructed baby when Elija awakened on its new planet. The sun had just risen and the tidy hills were covered in a kind of pinkish light. Even Elija's skin looked a bit pinkish. Except for the teddy bear and the baby everything seemed to be empty. Just these hills (Elija remembered them from some kids show), everywhere. When Elija looked closer, she saw that the teddy bear's tears were small little wool balls that started rolling down the hills and when they got stuck somewhere, they sprouted little trees with wool-ball leaves.

The baby didn't know it was deconstructed, it didn't care. It started playing with the wool balls and wool-ball trees. Elija didn't know what to think about all this, but then she thought that she also didn't have to, and started playing with the baby, throwing wool balls and piling the up. The teddy bear was still crying, so more and more wool rolled down the hills. But when Elija and the baby stopped touching the balls, the teddy stopped crying immediately. It started singing and the baby began to reconstruct itself.

When the baby was in one piece again, Elija noticed that somebody was shouting. A lot of creatures here, she thought. She saw the shouting one crawling on the sand towards them very quickly. It was a giant blue slug, now heading for the baby. It hugged the baby while softly talking to it and seemed very happy.

The happy times were over and done! The community did not approve those happy F-E-E-L-I-N-G-S, as they called them, in the stratosphere of deconstruction. The teddy bear unveiled his mask – it never cried, that was just woollen leakage coming from the old grandpa disguised in a fluffy bear. This was a strategy employed by the people of the planet of Media Deconstruction to deconstruct semi-innocent babies! Then they would use the babies as prototypes to live on planet Earth.

The way to stop this circus was to save the babies by transporting them to another dimension called Neukölnoid where no teddy bear could find them. As we speak, the new babies are coming to their new habitat. And yes, it's a one-way baby route to Neukölnoid! The robots of Neukölnoid will be happy to adopt these new imported life forms.



II. “Bahbahbuaha ...”

A wild Teddy Bear cried over a deconstructed baby.

“Not again!” said the baby, this time completely deconstructed. Teddy Bear had done this before. The last time it was when the omnipresent Robot had a massive jet-lag and started deconstructing the baby furiously.

“Look,” said the baby, “I think someone is manipulating with our time and space coordinates. That's why you leak tears, my dearest Teddy bear.” As soon as the baby said that, the Teddy Bear started vomiting uranium jelly candies.

In that moment, Ara the Third of the 3 Homeless Companions, randomly travelling through the space, entered the enormous bathroom of their ship. She spotted the candy and started to collect it from Teddy and stuffed it into her mouth.

“We have to do something,” Teddy Bear gasped.

“I like the candy,” Ara the huge parrot said. After she took a look at the baby she changed her mind: “OK, I do have an aunt on Planet B3, she is a witch and maybe she can help us. But we probably need the candy to pay her, so you need to stop eating it.”

They found a hygiene products bag in the bathroom and held it under Teddy's mouth to collect the candy. When it was full they left the bathroom and hitch-hiked to Planet B3.

During their travel the baby deconstructed more and more. Its body became only texts and discourses, its gender was gone long ago. But its shit was still real and they had forgotten to take enough diapers along. They used whatever they could find in the various spaceships and spaceship stops but they were still very happy when they finally met the witch. But something was wrong with her.

“Oh, my babyyy,” the witch screamed with tears in her eyes, “I've been searching for you forever.” She took the baby under her hairy armpits, watching it closely.

The baby made babbling sounds: “Bahbahbuaha ...”

What happened to it during the journey? Where did all its words go? Did it lose them? And what did it receive instead of words? The witch smiled happily and looked a bit scary with her black yellow sharp teeth.

“Finally you are ready, baby. The only purpose of your journey was to bring me the total power of deconstruction. I will see, finally see! I'll be the last and final judge.” And so she kissed our little deconstructed baby and sucked. She sucked until nothing was left except for the little crying Teddy Bear.

Back to Introduction
Back to the workshop invitation where the writing technique is explained (in case you were wondering what on Earth this is).

In Other Wor(l)ds workshop at Lad.i.y.fest Berlin

My next writing workshop is going to take place at the 2011 winter edition of Lad.i.y.fest on Saturday, February 19th from 12.00 to 15.00 at the f.a.q. Laden in Jonasstrasse 40 in Neukölln, Berlin. 

In Other Wor(l)ds: Collective Writing of Feminist-Queer Science Fiction

At the workshop, we are going to hold hostage individual authorship. We won’t wait for inspiration and we won’t worry about controlling the narrative either. Instead, we are going to play with the rigid conventions of genre and gender by disguising feminist-queer ideas as utopian characters of our choice.

The roboladies of Hermannstrasse.

The workshop will start with a short discussion about feminist-queer science fiction and the ideas or characters we would like to explore in an utopian setting. We will continue by playing several Surrealist games in “automatic writing” in order to relax and prepare for the climax: the collective writing of gender-fucking and mind-bending speculative stories. To amuse ourselves, we are going to conclude the workshop with a reading of our mistress-pieces.

We are going to play the following games: Definitions (or Question and Answer), Conditionals and two versions of Exquisite Corpse. The game descriptions below are taken from Mel Gooding's A Book of Surrealist Games (Shambhala Redstone Editions, Boston, 1993). In Gooding's words, these games can be played by anyone. The strange conjunctions, humorous or poetic, that they generate give them their point since the exploration of chance with automatic techniques is central to these and many other Surrealist games. 

The two faces of Ardra (from the Star Trek series).

 

Definitions (or Question and Answer): the game is played in pairs. A question is written down, the paper folded to conceal it from the next player, who writes an answer. Remarkable facts emerge. 

Conditionals: for two or more players. The same procedure as before, but in this case the first player must write a hypotetical sentence beginning with ‘If’ or ‘When’, then conceal it. The second player writes a sentence in the conditional or future tense. 

Exquisite Corpse: for a minimum of three players. Each writes on a sheet of paper a definite (‘The’) or indefinite (‘A’) article and an adjective. The sheet is folded so as to conceal the words, and passed round to the next player. Each player than writes a noun, conceals it, and the process is repeated with a verb, another definite or indefinite article and adjective, and finally another noun. The paper is unfolded and the sentences read out. Players may agree on small changes to ensure grammatical consistency. The game acquired its name from the first sentence obtained in that way: “The exquisite corpse shall drink the new wine.”

 

Konrad Potthoff's Wilhelmine meets Rosie (from The Jetsons).

I modified the game Exquisite Corpse in order to use it for collective writing of stories at In Other Wor(l)ds workshops in the following way: for four or five players (or several groups of four or five). Each participant begins by writing her own story. Ten minutes later, he passes the piece to the next person. After reading it (or not), xe continues where the other person stopped. The workshop is finished when everyone has written a part of every story and they are read aloud to ourselves or to the audience that can endure it;) 

The workshop will be in English. Please, bring a pen and some paper! 

Open to all genders, no application necessary. 

Stories from previous workshops can be read here and here.

Dogodek je podprlo Ministrstvo za kulturo Republike Slovenije. / Supported by the Slovene Ministry of Culture.