Howl Cambodia

Category: Monsoon Solitaire

  • Being Here, Now

    Being Here, Now

    Martin Bradley

    Metta Metta Metta

    Sadhu Sadhu Sadhu

    Phenomenal city, Angkor, Cambodia, clutches grateful stationary traveller to gracious bosom. Held tightly, succoured, kept safe from all harm, pandemonium, in nowness past/future constituting irrelevancies.

    Majestic ancient city, Angkor, its Wats preside, city of peace, saffron monks, carved stone, apsara angels, sunrises, tangled roots man and nature.

    Before day rush dawn whispers meditavely.

    Bird murmuring orange blue morning, bamboo stem silhouettes sway momentarily. Cloud wisps don pink cloaks against eggshell blue. Wat Damnak dawn chants spreading Metta, Karma, Dharma recollections.

    Gentle gamelan vibrates through freshly diurnal blue skies. Occasional white clouds wander tropics overseeing day’s arrangements. Sun incandescently smiles.

    Now stationary traveller, behatted, promenades past sweet jasmine, frangipani, grilled bananas, street coffee perfuming air, smiles, slight bow greets alleyway family opposite Hospital for Children, offspring in hammock, mother prepares boiled rice, samlor soup, prahoc, moves aside, traveller passes. Solitary save for whispering birds, secret, coy, Khmer children smile. Stationary traveller ventures through once laughter-ridden alleyways spread between bustling Samdech Tep Vong Street, Wat Preah Prohm Rath, The Passage, Covid global sadness silent closed or closing, torn A4 rent, sale, contact……vacant for canine dreams. 

    Alleys upon alleys once people bright, vendors, toe nibbling fish tanks, lanes become ghost alleys, remembrances of Bayon, Angkor Wat,Tonle Sap Lake visiting hipsters, students, new agers, families, lovers playing at raiding of tombs, shapely in shorts, leather walking boots apsara posing, painting red piano, yellow submarine, purple mango, blue pumpkin. Smile not reaching eyes. Selfie taking ego fanning charity acolytes pumped with goodness not Covid returning.

    Out, Street 9, chilli salted cockle vendors, hot grilled chive cakes sellers, Psa Chas bound, tuk tuk, motor cyclist, cyclist avoiding, secretive market bursting forth fragrant essences, kaffir lime, lemon grass, fish wort, coriander. Bright fish eyes watch dimmed candle lit narrow aisles, porcine snouts, bovine tails, feet, livers, hearts of chickens, purple octopus. Khmer purveyors, straw heat wearing sun wrinkled faces project welcoming smiles, marble eyes bright. Kuy teav noodles, pork broth, beef slices, deep-fried garlic,herbs, breakfast soup lost in translation. 

    Slim Khmer vegetable selling angel ever smiles with eyes, profers king oyster mushroom, enoki, galangal, turmeric, customer pulls garlic, ginger, carrots into metal pan, extracts fresh flat rice noodle into dish, pays, leaves for plastic bag of one kilo rice.

    Steung Siem Reap, leaf strewn, azure sky reflecting bridges watching anglers. Scoopy processions carrying brief reflections of damsels, long black hair, faces soft blue paper masked, travelling over bridges, beyond to families, college, work, secrets and lovers.

    Sun kissed bright mornings merge into golden orb drenched drying days, bringing breeze, bamboo taps on kitchen mosquito screen, inescapable warmth. In white painted rooms, browning ceiling fans slice air caressing hirsute arms, scent of Jasmine joss. Sun browned white fingers type on hard black plastic keyboards, pause, reach for frosty glass ginger water. Fingers drip welcome condensation cool. 

    Khmer pasts, Khmer futures begat times of cleansing, thunderously saturating equatorial rain. Night streets glisten iridescently proudly revealing momentary clarity, splendour. Tu tuk drivers press through rain onslaught. Tourists too few to deny.

    Cooler Krousar (family) Café evening encountering International School English teacher nest, stunning ebony type-dancer, brown eyes, hair recalling Henrix. Siem Reap haven for strong North American females, Irish Catholics, Metta bums replacing Majid for Wat. Night walk return, intermediate neon reveals pot holes, Street 27 sleeping dogs left to lay, grilled fish scents, barbecue spiced meat, red ants. This night Khmer star abundant skies grace stationary traveller with cosmic splendour.

    Metta Metta Metta

    Sadhu Sadhu Sadhu

  • The Two Suns

    The Two Suns

    Joss McDonald

    Winds are blowing from the north-east today. The small seventy-seater plane sways from side to side as it descends towards the tiny runway. A tarmac so small, I contemplate whether the plane could be whisked right past the end and into the sea that borders it. 

    The plane lands safely. 

    I unclench my hands from around the armrests, unbuckle my seat belt, and gather my belongings. Outside, an auto-rickshaw awaits to take me to the jetty. Thirty minutes later we arrive, albeit minus an actual jetty —

    I follow my driver as we weave past some dogs, through what appears to be somebody’s yard. The dogs bark. They seem worried I’ll be a threat to their loot of garbage strewn around the dirt. 

    We arrive at the water’s edge where a longboat is waiting to carry me to my destination. A boy takes my carry-on suitcase. It turns out he will also be the captain. I gingerly climb into the boat. I am his sole passenger. Packed around me is the clean linen we stopped to collect at a laundromat on the way here. 

    Thankfully, the tempered wind has lessened. We head across the peninsula. The boat rocks back and forth- the top of the sides almost kissing the water more than once. As we enter the bay, the ocean becomes tranquil. Before me a white beach, dotted with palm trees, glitters in the sun. Secluded behind that is where I’ll be sojourning. 

    The journey has taken an hour. When the longboat pulls close to shore, I gather up my skirt, ready to be christened by the shimmering blue sea. Then, stepping onto the beach, the sand molds itself around my feet. It will become my shoes for the next few days.

    Paradise.

    I arrive at lunchtime. A table is spread with local cuisine. Instead, I’m drawn to the scenery that captivates and encompasses me. I look outwards, peeking through the trees, at my view of sparkling turquoise. Gazing to my left, a longboat sits perfectly framed between two palms. The waves, softly lapping a few meters in front, are hypnotic.

    Having only recently recovered from Dengue, travel and the bumpy flight have taken its toll on my body. The serene beauty of this location soothes me though. It is the balm I didn’t know I needed. I could sit here forever in this reverie.

    Day turns to evening. On the beach I watch the sunset. The sun burns crimson, it’s reflection seared across the water. A strip of water looks like it could be on fire. -A yellow flame that fans out to orange, fringed with red edges. Slowly, the sun lowers itself behind a mountain. 

    Winter monsoon will last another month. The heat of next season hasn’t begun to build yet, so the night air is cool. I put on a jumper to sit in the open-air restaurant. After dinner and wine, I head to bed. The pillows are like cumulus clouds that lull me to sleep.

    My alarm chimes to wake for sunrise. I climb out of bed, step out of my room and onto the balcony. Over the bay, the sun is competing with itself, trying to eclipse last evening. A hint of magenta is everywhere I look- the sky, the beach, the ocean. Fishing boats’ motors are humming at shore. The rise of the sun illuminates the oxcart that is arriving to carry away a night’s taking.

    Soon the sun is fully up.

    I float a few feet back to bed. This 18 degree morning is frigid now that I’ve become climatized to living here in South-East Asia. I swaddle myself in my duvet and reflect on what I have beheld. I smile and I declare sunrise the winner of the two suns. What I have witnessed was not a dream. For I have been blessed to hold court here with both.

  • THE KINGDOM

    THE KINGDOM

    Nick Marx

    “Go lightly on your journey. Leave no footprints in the sand.

    The path that you are treading is on someone else’s land.

    There’s no problem with your presence. Glad to have you passing through.

    Please take comfort on your journey, and I’m sure you’ll love the view.

    Take nourishment and shelter, but use only what you need,

    Do be gentle with the creatures and don’t fell too many trees.

    There is all that you could want here, on the land, in woods and streams,

    But be careful on your travels, it’s more fragile than it seems.

    There are many gone before you who have caused no small distress,

    Though it’s someone else’s property they’ve left a fearful mess. 

    The damage that they do could maybe soon obscure the sun – 

    And I’ve heard the birds and beasts are now all leaving one by one.

    It isn’t theirs to vandalise – nor yours – so please take care

    On your journey through a property so plentiful and fair.

    You ask me where you travel, and the name we give this land?

    We know it as “The Earth”. It’s all we have, please understand.

    Now you want to know the Landlords, those you feel you ought to warn?

    We all journey through The Kingdom of the Young Ones Not Yet Born.”

  • MY WORD WITH GOD

    MY WORD WITH GOD

    Nick Marx

     And now as I aspire to stroll about Your Globe once more,

    Deliberate and slow, picked myself back up off the floor,

    Now I’ve lost so much of value for what seems a pointless plan,

     I now hope that I’ve become an infinitely wiser man.

    I’ve been punished for a crime I saw no choice but to commit,

    The penalty severe, no other option but submit,

    And now I know although my life may never be the same,

    And also know that some might say I’ve just myself to blame,

    I’m clear, despite events, there’s not a chance I’ll ever change

    As I travel down a path that is to me a little strange.

     I still rage at the injustice dealt lives other than my own,

    My fury aimed at deeds I know the gods will not condone.

    And now finally I see that there’s another side to pain,

    And hope You’ll not request I go through similar again,

    When next I seek assistance, and before You heed my plea,

    I ask You’ll care for other beings needing help far more than me.

    Now that You’ve created man, Your vagabond, Your sick buffoon,

    Only creature in the Universe so sadly out of tune.

    Increasing his own numbers, desecrating all he needs,

    The solution to his problems – create more mouths he cannot feed.

    Now his thoughtless self-obsession is so total and complete,

    Matched only by his all-consuming cruelty and conceit,

    As he causes constant mayhem, yet still asks for a reprieve –

    Not a coat of many colours, his own straight-jacket he weaves – 

    As he prepares one last assault upon this green and vibrant World,

    With his hands around his weapons of destruction tightly curled….

    From every creature on the land and in the air or in the seas,

    From antelope and anteater to wasps and bumble bees,

    From moth and fragile butterfly to porpoises and whales,

    From majestic golden eagles to partridges and quails,

    The next time that you hear his cries, to “Save him if You can!” 

    Please tend these other creatures before You next look after man.

    Now I’m re-entering this World from an eternity of rain,

    And now factors of importance come to focus once again,

    And now we’re absolutely certain we’re the only ones to feel,

     So determined that our self-inflicted scratches You should heal,

    And now our ears no longer listen as through sightless orbs we peer

    Along a road so straight and true, down which we’re far too blind to steer,

    I ask, “Is man the potentate or just some crazy loon?”

    And am I but one more as I emerge from my cocoon?

     From every fin and every feather to each tiny tuft of fur,

    From every terrifying roar to soft contented purr,

    From gently waving tentacle to shiny, silver scale,

    From every iridescent wing to long prehensile tail,

    From fang and bill and mandible to canine tooth and claw,

    From trunk, and horn to cloven hoof or softly padding paw,

    When next you hear the pleas, both from myself and other men,

    Before You see to our abrasions ….. care for them.

  • Torrential

    Torrential

    Sam Plummer

    Torrential, sun-streaked

    Drawing across the paddies like a veil

    Buckling banana leaves and awnings.

    Kaleidoscopic pagoda roofs cascade into lily ponds

    Nourishing paddies, revitalizing rivers.

    Life-giving and eternal.

    Torrential, lightning-blitzed

    Smothering the city like a shroud

    Scattering motorbikes and lives.

    Thundering off veranda roofs to shatter the neon reflections

    Flushing sewage, plastic and dreams.

    Dark and ominous.

    Torrential.

    The monsoon tests our lives.

    Washing our bastions downstream

    to be reclaimed by culture

    reclaimed by nature.

    It’s torrential outside

    sisyphean and miserable. 

    I shouldn’t be alone.

    I should be with family, friends

    comfort and cheer

    to deflect the hopelessness

    of building monuments in foreign lands.

    Instead, a pen and a bottle of whisky.

    Who else can save their souls? Save mine?

  • A Smiling Idiot in an Indonesian Village

    A Smiling Idiot in an Indonesian Village

    JR Sinclair

    I had never been completely on my own, relying entirely upon myself, until I travelled overseas in my early twenties. Being alone among people I did not know, while also realizing that no one knew exactly where I was, gave me a euphoric sense of freedom. I was keenly aware of the feeling because it was so intense that at times I wondered if I might not be going a little bit crazy: I would catch myself with a silly grin on my face, not a look of joie de vivre, but unadulterated joy like the smiles of Evangelical Christians who have clearly been provided with all the answers, and are so ecstatic about the lack of uncertainly in life, that they use facial expression to share this feeling with the entire world. 

    This monstrous happiness would usually coincide with me being not entirely certain where I was, but not lost, because I was exactly where I wanted to be. To onlookers I must have appeared like just another stoned backpacker, but I was as straight as a die, just thrilled by the process of breaking a mould that no longer quite fitted.

    While in the throes of my newfound freedom, I would play this little game when I arrived in a new town. I would ask myself, ‘What kind of person will I be today?’

    To go along with my chosen personality—be that an introvert, an extrovert, or whatever took my fancy—sometimes I even adopted a new name, but that became complicated when I met people I wanted to stay in contact with. To avoid the embarrassment of explaining to those people why I was not who I said I was, my name changing became confined to my first and middle names: some days I was John, some days I was Ross, and  occasionally I was even John Ross.

    Such feelings of freedom reached their zenith one morning when I was on a local bus travelling between two provincial towns in Central Sulawesi. I was looking out the window at what seemed like the middle of nowhere when all of a sudden I shouted, ‘Stop!’

    The people on the bus seemed surprised and somewhat bemused that I would want to stop in such a place; there were no houses or people anywhere in sight. The bus driver kept asking me if I was sure I wanted to get off.

    Up until that point in my life, a rural road in Central Sulawesi was the most out-of-the-way place I had ever been. 

    After the bus roared off and the dust settled over a natural stillness, I noticed a small track on the uphill side of the road. The track was clearly not suitable for larger vehicles, but there were signs that motorbikes and oxcarts used it, so I figured it must lead somewhere. It was a dirt track with rough fields on either side, where jagged tree stumps and smouldering piles of wood were interspersed with recently planted cassava stems. 

    I started walking up the track and ended up following it for several days.  

    Later that afternoon, and in the afternoons that followed, when I came across a village at a time that seemed like a sensible hour to stop, I asked for the Village Head. After a short negotiation to agree on a price, the Village Head took me to one of the villages houses where I stayed the night. 

    The houses were simple 1-2 roomed dwellings with iron roofs, walls and floors made from rough-hewn planks, with the only modern amenity being light from a single Butterfly lantern hung in the centre of the main room. Food was cooked on wood-fired stoves in a separate building, where the women worked while the men talked.

    The evening meal consisted of rice and vegetables with a little meat. On my first night, a single tin of curried chicken was opened and placed beside a bowl of rice in front of me. It was such a small tin, and there were so many people in the room, it was almost impossible to take only my fair share. 

    Evenings involved sitting on the porch with the family exchanging more smiles than words, except with the old people, who assumed I understood everything they said and proceeded with long one-sided conversations.

    One Village Head seemed particularly pleased to meet me. If the whole experience had not seemed so otherworldly, his roguish grin and humour-filled eyes would have been sufficient warning that he was up to something.

     We sat on a mat together in stilted conversation while his wife served us cups of tea and sickly-sweet cakes.

    Not long after my new friend established I was Christian—if I could communicate it I would say ‘raised a Christian’ and let people assume what they would—another man joined us on the mat with a young woman I assumed to be his daughter. 

    I sat and nodded and smiled not understanding 99% of what was being said, and certainly not understanding anything about what was happening. It was not until the third father and daughter, in a procession of fathers and daughters, that I began to suspect that these young women were being presented to me as prospective brides. 

    I could pick up the odd word in the sentences of the men; their daughters did not say a word. My suspicions were further raised when a sentence directed at me, with accompanying gestures directed at the young woman, had a word I recognised. 

    The word I recognised was, ‘love’.  

    With patched-together phases from my dog-eared phrasebook, I confirm my worst suspicions that I was indeed an eligible bachelor. 

    I must have seemed uncomfortable, yet the men could hardly contain their pleasure at the proceedings. The young women seemed less pleased by the goings-on as they flushed red with either embarrassment or anger.  

    The last of the young woman to sit on the mat—I shut the occasion down by lying about my marital status—was the only one to look at me and she studied me intently. When we made eye contact, she did not seem entirely repulsed. I wondered if she was sizing me up as an option to escape from a place where women were offered up to strangers. But then, that was possibly not what was happening at all, and I may have completely misinterpreted the entire situation. 

    It would not be the last time. 

    In every village I visited along that track I was asked my religion. 

    Muslim villages were no less friendly, but in them I did not seem to be considered an eligible bachelor.

    (The Muslim villagers were part of a grand scheme called Transmigration designed to ease the population pressure in far-off Java. Transported to remote often marginal frontier places, families were given land and supplies and left to eke out a living as best they could. The Christian villagers were rural poor from Sulawesi pushing into the forest in search of a better life. I planned to return to the area to work with a local conservation group, but the project was scrapped due to an outbreak of communal violence: the Christian and Muslim villages had subjected each other to the most horrific attacks. At the time I was first there, I would not have believed something so gruesome was possible. By the time I heard the stories, I had spent several years in Papua New Guinean. I had seen there the incredible potential for violence between neighbouring villages of different cultures that, to an ignorant outsider, appeared very similar, but in their reality share little in common other than deep-rooted mistrust and animosity)

    While I sat and drank sweet tea in the mornings before heading back out on the track, I would watch the men of the village heading out into the forest with chainsaws and air rifles. Under the Suharto dictatorship at the time, it was illegal to own firearms, so Indonesians made ingenious homemade air rifles; not the slug guns and bb guns of my childhood, but weapons capable of bringing down large birds, monkeys, and even small game. 

    I saw birds and lots of butterflies, and occasionally I heard a group of monkeys in the distance, but my walk was not the wildlife experience you might expect when so close to tropical rainforest. 

    The track I followed mostly skirted the edge of the forest, and walking along it was the first time I encountered tropical rainforest rapidly retreating to the sound of chainsaws and the smell of burning wood.  These were sensations I would experience repeatedly in the years that followed, and ones I have spent the last 30 years trying to stop, at least at the industrial scale. 

    The track eventually landed me back on another road—or it might have been the same one I had left several days earlier—where I hailed a passing bus, that took this smiling idiot, further along the road…

  • The Monsoon Inside

    The Monsoon Inside

    Josh Clayton


    Awake,
    Blue sky,
    Clear headed, step away
    From the a/c room that shows no trace,
    Of the oppressively humid day,
    And the reality of everything still to face,


    Deep breath,
    Rev bike,
    Could be a nice day,
    Cool breeze against skin,
    “Maybe it stays that way” you say,
    Ignoring the monsoon that waits within,

    Hard work,
    Keep going,
    Clothes get heavy with sweat,
    Are those clouds you see in the distance?
    Did I prepare for a day that is wet?
    Is that doubt seeping into my conscience?

    Fake smile,
    Push back,
    Hope that somehow the dam won’t break,
    And it stays sunny throughout the day,
    Maybe it won’t be more than you can take,
    Though you don’t believe the words you say,

    Failure,
    A waste,
    Everything you planned unfinished,
    Black clouds now cover the sun,
    All confidence diminished,
    No choice now but to run,

    Leaves fly,
    Dust swirls,
    Vortexes formed in the gale,
    Batter the eyes from every direction,
    No rain jacket or poncho, again, a fail,
    The first drops fall as tears form in your vision,

    Lightning,
    Thunder,
    With fury the skies rend in two,
    The monsoon inside now unchained,
    Within seconds soaked right through,
    Unable to feel anything but pain,

    Plod upstairs,
    Nothing matters,
    Drenched clothes slosh to the floor,
    Where no one can see you cry,
    Hidden away behind a locked door,
    Alone as the monsoon rages inside,

  • The Riverbank

    The Riverbank

    Laurence Stevens

    A riverbank and a conversation between father and son sets the scene for this ‘Monsoon Solitaire’ entry from Laurence Stevens.

    The mountains surrounding the river were thick with trees and mottled dark and bright green from where clouds blocked the sun. The river ran smooth, shining like a rink of rippled brown glass. Close to the bank the fishing boat bobbed in the water and was tied to the bamboo jetty by a length of frayed blue rope. The boat’s chipped white paint had been baked pale yellow by the sun and a brown water mark stained halfway up the hull. On the deck, the father lay snoozing underneath a stringed tarpaulin as he awaited his son. 

    The roar of a dry motorbike engine filled the yard. The father turned his head and saw his son lugging a trailer of rattling wooden planks and tools with the rusted 87’ Honda Dream. Chickens clucked and flapped through the cloud of brown dust the bike left in its trail. The boy pulled up next to the riverbank and turned the key in the ignition, killing the engine in a splutter.

                “Did you find everything?” said the father.

                 “Everything,” said the boy.

                “Did they understand you?”

                “Of course,” said the boy.

    The father got up and stretched out his arms. A weak breath of wind stoked the breeze as he stood, and the dry wood of the boat creaked as he descended the ladder to the jetty.

                “Throw me a beer,” said the father.

    The boy opened the orange plastic cooler, plunged his hand into the iced water and grabbed a semi-frozen can of Angkor Gold, throwing it to his father. The father cracked open the can and drank. It was slushed with ice but went down his gullet refreshing and delicious.

                “What do you know about boats?” said the father.

                “They float and take you places,” said the boy.

                “That’s the short of it,” said the father.

                “I don’t think this boat will, though,” said the boy.

                “Why not?”

                The boy looked at the boat.

                “There’s too many holes, and the wood looks rotten. When it rains, it’ll sink.”

    For 20 years, the former owner had sailed the boat into the Gulf of Thailand to net mackerel and longtail tuna. The fisherman’s sinewed body had been tanned a dark brown by the sun, and he’d been glad to be rid of the boat so he could settle on land to grow mango and short fruit. 

                “Holes can be patched,” said the father, taking another swig of beer.

                The boy’s face hardened.

                “I think it’s sailed as far as it can go.”

                “Maybe, but the winds will turn soon, and she will sail upriver, renewed. Mark my words,” said the father.

                The boy’s eyes rested on his father.

                “What?” said the father.

                “Nothing,” said the boy. “But why do we have to leave and go up the river?”

                “There’s nothing here for us son, not anymore.”

    “But what about…” said the boy, looking back towards the yard.

    “It’s ok,” said the father, placing his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We can’t stay on the riverbank forever. I am old, but you will soon be a man, and the world is that way,” he said, pointing upstream.

    The boy looked from his father’s shimmering green eyes to the fishing boat that had been whittled by storms and high seas.

    “Maybe she’ll sail, if we fix her properly,” said the boy.

    “She will. Now, help me with the tools,” said the father, smiling.

    The father and the boy walked to the trailer. The father grabbed three lengths of timber and a metal toolbox from the trailer, throwing the stack of timber up onto his shoulder with ease.

    “Bring the hand plane, we will need it,” said the father.

    The boy picked up a tool shaped like a shoe, with a circular brass handle at either end, one slightly larger than the other. As they reached the boat, the father stopped and waited by the ladder.

    “Welcome aboard,” said the father, holding out his hand and motioning the boy forward.

    The boat sank and swayed under the boy’s weight as he climbed the ladder and boarded. It was a strange sensation that seemed to treble in power as his father clambered aboard after him. They set the tools and planks down on the deck, its pale-brown panels run smooth from decades of trampling footsteps. On the bow a gaping hole looked like an escape hatch and deep grooves from the pull of ropes pitted the stern. There was much work to be done, the father reflected.

    “When will we leave?” said the boy.

    “Soon. The fish spawn in upland lakes when the river’s low, but when the rains return, and the rivers rise, they’ll spread. We’ll catch them for food.”

    “But what about the storms?”

                “Storms make the trees drip fruit, and the frogs come out their holes, and snakes follow to feast upon them. Our larder will be full by the time we reach the city.”

                “Will it be the same when we go upriver?” said the boy.

                The father paused and grabbed the hand plane. 

                “No, it will not. And it will not be easy.”

                “Then why leave?”

                “Do you wish to stay here on the riverbank for the rest of your life?”

                The boy looked away to the mountains. The shade of green grew darker as the afternoon approached.

                “No, but why can’t we go downstream to the sea? We can go the beach, and fish for tuna and stingray, like usual. We can swim in the ocean and sleep each night under the stars.”

                “We head for the city. One day, you will come back the owner of this plot of land, and then you can holiday by the seaside. You will need to take care of…” 

    The father’s voice trailed off as he looked back toward the yard. 

    “We all have a journey we must take,” said the father, returning his gaze to the boy. “Come, pass me the tape measure. We will need to patch the hole on the bow.”

    “You won’t leave me once we’re there, will you?” said the boy.

    The father stopped and stared at his son a moment.

    “I can only promise that by the time I leave, you will be ready,” said the father.

    “Ready for what?”

    “For life, my son, and for wherever it leads you.”

    The boy looked to the mountains. They were dark green.

  • Monsoon Solitaire: Terms and Conditions

    Monsoon Solitaire: Terms and Conditions

    Terms and Conditions 

    1. The submitter of the piece must be its author / creator.

    2. We accept non-fiction and fiction, poetry, photo-essays (with accompanying word commentary), and other word forms subject to HOWL approval. 

    3. The work must be considered to be consistent with the theme of ‘Monsoon Solitaire’ as circulated on the HOWL web-site. Pieces that bear no obvious relationship to this will not be considered. We accept that this is not an exact science and will use our discretion when determining suitability. 

    4. The submitter retains all authorship rights to their piece, but agrees for it to be used by HOWL for promotion purposes and for inclusion in online and print publications operated by HOWL. Any other publication will only be undertaken with the author’s approval.

    5. Only TWO submissions per person please. The submission of multiple entries above this number will see the writer voided from the competition. 

    6. The submission must include the author’s real name for administrative purposes; pen names can be used for publication, but the request for this should be clearly stated. 

    7. Legal ID will be required for the collection of an award (this is to ensure the award is given to the correct person and to negate the possibility of multiple submissions under assumed names).

    8. All works should be:

    – Submitted in English, as a Word document, Cambria, 12 pts, 1.5 line spacing, please.

    – Be original and written by the submitter.

    – Number no more than 1500 words, excluding title and author details (word count will be checked). Submissions underthis number are also welcomed.

    – Because of time constraints HOWL are not able to edit any received work. It will be expected that all submitted entries have been edited to a high standard by the submitter. We regret that entries that do not meet this threshold will not be able to be accepted.  Howl suggests that you have a third party check your work prior to submitting.

    – Entries should be respectful of Cambodia cultural and social environment, including political. 

    9. Prize

    • The award of the First and Second place will be decided by the following:

    – Online voting (facebook, if we can make this work)

    – The number of views on the HOWL web-page.

    – The decision of judge(s)

    – Audience feed back at a HOWL web jam event, scheduled for December 2021, in Siem Reap, or at date chosen by the HOWL pack

    • The prize-winners will adhere to the terms and conditions of the prize as laid out in the document prepared by Song Saa Private Island (SSPI).
    • The prize CANNOT be on-sold to a third party or transferred for cash. If you are unable to use the prize within the terms set by SSPI, the prize will become void, with no compensation provided.  

    10. Important Note: Audience response at a Word Jam event, scheduled for December 2021, if conditions permit, will be used to help judge this competition, with writers being asked to read from their pieces.

    Submissions will still be considered for the prizes, even if a person is unable to attend, although attendance will improve likelihood of a winning place.

    A shortlist of the entries judged as the best received will be circulated and the authors contacted at least a month prior to the Howl word jam event, and these writers will be offered the opportunity to read from their work. The chosen authors will be expected to cover any expenses associated with their attendance at the event.

    The ultimate decision of the places will rest with HOWL, and no dialogue will be entered into regard places etc.

    11. Any other matters arriving from the operation and the completion of this competition will be resolved at the discretion of HOWL, with care being taken to achieve outcomes that are fair and equitable, with all decisions final.

    12. In making your submission it is assumed that you have read the terms of conditions presented in this document. 

    HOWL appreciates your time and interest in this competition. We apologise for the official nature of these terms and conditions, but consider them necessary in order to avoid confusion and misunderstanding – they are here to help and avoid misunderstanding.

    We very much look forward to your entry.

    Thank you. 

    Dr. HOWL

    5th May 2021 

  • Monsoon Solitaire

    Monsoon Solitaire

    HOWL is seeking contributions to a new anthology, to be published in 2021. The theme is ‘Monsoon Solitaire’, a title inspired by the people, place, events and spirit of the monsoon. As much a mood as a location, it is not bound by geography, but defined by a notion of what is inspired by the winds of the ‘torrid zone’. Contributions can take the form of poems, essays and photo-essays, which will be posted on HOWL’s media platforms, with the best being submitted for publication in the 2021 anthology. For written submissions the limit is 1500 words.

    Prizes: Best piece 1st and 2nd, as voted at our next ‘World Famous in Siem Reap’ Word Jam.
    Closing date: 30th September 2021