"Hello again."

"Hello again."

"Do you know anyone called Reno?"

Alternative wording

"Any idea where Reno lives?"

"The only one I can think of is the man in charge of Renotel. Is that who you mean?"

"Must be. Do you know where I can find him?"

"I wouldn't have a clue. That side of life is closed off to those who dedicate themselves to greater pursuits than financial gain."

True. That money goes quite some way to systematically dividing the population, whether people like it or not.

"You'd be better off asking someone who clearly has a lot of economic weight to them. Certainly not artists."

"Who else could it be?"

"Alright, I get your point. What about him?"

"I need to find him. Where might he be?"

"You said you couldn't finish this book. What was wrong with it?" (Show her 'Blood Type: Hecatomb'.)

"The writer clearly lacked intention and seemed incapable of inserting surface level sense into his prose, let alone subterranean meanings worthy of excavation."

Or those meanings were embedded so deep that she failed to dig them out.

All HOLOCENE did was hunt for meaning... especially, perhaps, where it doesn't exist.

"Perhaps you didn't read the text close enough?"

"I assure you, if I was incapable of finding any worthwhile connotations then no one is going to. That is a failure of the writer, not the reader."

"Still, you may find something in it that I didn't. It's happened before."

"If you still want to give it a go, you should find it in the sci-fi section. Good luck!"

"That's a shame. I was hoping it may have some merit, no matter how obscure."

"Yes, I wouldn't recommend it, but I'm also not one to discourage people from reading... even if what they read is drivel."

"I only need it as reference. I don't intend on reading it."

"That's probably for the best. Is there anything else?"

"That's probably for the best. You should be able to find it in the sci-fi section. Good luck!"

All HOLOCENE does is hunt for meaning... especially, perhaps, where it doesn't exist.

"Have you read this book by any chance?" (Show her 'Blood Type: Hecatomb'.)

"I tried to but I couldn't finish it, which is always a sign -- I aspire to finish every book I pick up." She gives you a look weighed with her judgement.

"What was wrong with it?"

"Do you know a book titled 'Blood Type: Hecatomb'? I'm looking for a copy."

"Yes, actually. A title like that tends to linger in the memory... which is probably the only positive comment I can give the whole book."

Not surprising. HOLOCENE's worldview isn't shared by many -- if anyone -- except the author of that particular book.

"I saw it among the collection in the Honour Book Stall a little while ago, but it may have been taken since then."

"What was your problem with it?"

"Well, I didn't finish it, which is always a sign -- I aspire to finish every book I pick up." She gives you a look weighed with her judgement. "But to answer the question..."

"Thanks, I'll have a look."

"If it's anywhere, it'll be in the sci-fi section. Good luck!"

"I've formed an opinion on your latest issue now."

"Yes? What did you make of it?"

"I'm honoured to have had a poem accepted alongside such obvious quality."

"I'm glad you feel that way. We aimed high at the Review so it's an achievement to make the cut. I hope you can take that with you."

It feels like your brain is being massaged, each stroke bringing a wave of blissful pleasure.

"Pretty sure my poem was better than any of those."

"Without meaning to be rude, you really weren't, and I say that with the utmost objectiveness."

"Have you seen a guy in a suit and glasses in here recently?"

"Not to my knowledge. Our contributors tend to look a bit less put together than that."

A rapid montage of people entering and exiting this room over a series of months. All of them wear loose-fitting outfits in mismatched colours.

Artist types have their own uniform -- usually, whatever constitutes the opposite of formal.

"I read your latest issue, by the way."

"Brilliant. What did you make of our selection?"

"Tell me about this Review of yours."

"It's a journal of contemporary Poetry. Is there anything specific you'd like to know about it?"

"What kind of poetry do you publish?"

"The Review is open to all genres: Lyrics, ballads, elegies, aubades, pastorals, paeans, even the occasional eclogue."

All these rare words roll off her tongue like a second language.

Pick one out, show her that you know your stuff -- you know, as a fellow poet.

"Eclogues are among my favourite."

"Ah yes, the yearning for an idealised 'state of nature.' A largely discredited genre, but one does occasionally find the most surprising inversions on the theme."

See? She loved that. And she did all the hard work for you.

Getting the target to fill in the blanks for you -- good form.

"All of those can't be real? I've not heard of half of them."

"Really?" She looks at you incredulously. "I suggest you do some research if you want to become a published poet. Knowing the frameworks in which one creates is paramount."

A hint of suspicion.

"Sounds like you publish anything."

"Some of these styles are disparaged in today's market, it is true. But we like to keep our ears open for anything that has potency, regardless of the form."

"As seen in your latest issue?" (Show her the magazine.)

"Yes, that's right." She can't help a smile escaping her. "We'll be finished with the next issue soon, so please expect it."

"Can I get a copy?"

Alternative wording

"Can I get a copy? I gave my previous one away."

"Please do. One becomes inundated with them in time."

"You'll find some in that box over by the door. Feel free to take one gratis."

"Is it really just the two of you here?"

"We are still a modest operation, I have to admit. For the moment, it's only myself and my subeditor." She glances in the direction of the other woman.

"We keep each other company, don't we, Haya?"

"I'm impressed you publish this whole thing yourself. Big job."

"It's true. Even without full staffing, the printing presses still take up so much space."

"You're her boss, basically."

"Er, yes. I suppose."

It's like she was suddenly thrust upon a stage, all her lines unrehearsed.

"I prefer a flatter org structure myself."

"Well... I..."

"Haya made the Review from nothing. She's more than just the boss here."

(Turn to Haya.) "Do you always let her speak up for you?"

"Certainly not." She adds nothing more.

"Very generous of you to let your subeditor have the big desk."

"She has a lot of things to put in it, what with her triple role as custodian, janitor, and my assistant."

Janitor? That's why she's the one who let you in -- she's in charge of the doors.

Including the one in the basement asking for a code.

"Wow, you run a tight house."

"I do. But it's our sponsor that is responsible for assigning her those roles. I just focus on running the magazine."

"Keeps her mind fully on the art, doesn't it, Haya? Just what the Trust appreciates."

"It's been a great help."

Her intonation is deliberate, forced. Direct to camera, gun just off-screen.

She's getting döm'd by her sub.

"Why don't you hire other people to do those jobs?"

"Our sponsor takes responsibility for staff and premises, while I remain in charge of the magazine. It's an arrangement that allows one to focus."

"I get it. Gotta keep the lights on somehow."

"Being a boss doesn't come natural to everyone."

"I'm sure that is the case. Here, however, that isn't a problem." She crosses her arms, sleeves billowing into each other.

She doesn't lack what's required of a boss, something else has dismantled her authority.

Having EMTERR as a sponsor doesn't come without a hefty price. She's paying for it in some way.

Must be something to do with her sponsor, the Civilisation Trust -- arrangements like that often come with a hidden cost.

Must be something to do with her sponsor -- arrangements like that often come with a hidden cost.

"Glad we cleared that up."

"There was nothing to clear up. I am in charge of the magazine and that has always been the case."

A TACTICALLY WORDED RETORT. SOMETHING HAS BEEN OMITTED.

She only said she's in charge of the magazine -- not the subeditor, nor the building.

"Great art is forged within great hierarchies."

Nod at them both and smile politely.

"We certainly do!"

Her jaw is bound tight.

A high-pressure system hovers between the two women.

(Nod to the board.) "What are you working on here?"

"Those are all drafts for our next issue. Each page is laid out, already formatted, now the job is to decide on their sequence."

Finding order. She enjoys this, it keeps her together, grounded.

(Lower your voice.) "I don't think your subeditor really gets poetry."

"Oh?" She matches your hushed tone, glancing over at the woman. "What gave you that idea?"

"She's tallying up metaphors like she's going to audit them."

"You mean her metre exercises? I can assure you that there's nothing sinister about them. There's a reason we call it an 'artistic practice'."

Probably covering for her. Possibly in denial about her subordinate's incompetence.

"You're not saying you need to practice your poetry reading?"

"Appreciating the arts and creating them are two very different things. Few of us are blessed with both gifts."

"I don't think she even likes poetry."

"Fine. This isn't my area of expertise." (Let it go.)

"No need to be so harsh on yourself. In my experience, amateur poets like yourself know more than they realise, they just need the right feedback."

Poetry is your area of expertise while you're in here, remember? Please try to uphold your cover at least a little.

Some people's baseline is kindness.

"I think she's using it to formulate esoteric coded messages."

"She doesn't seem like our kind." (Put your hand against your mouth.) "You know, creative."

"As I understand it, that's why she is here -- to learn on the job. There's a reason we call it an 'artistic practice'."

"Maybe I got it wrong. Forget it."

"That's probably for the best." She straightens herself out. "Anything else?"

(Lower your voice.) "I don't think the woman over there really gets poetry."

"How does this place stay in business?"

"We're very fortunate to enjoy the support of a small yet dedicated readership."

This is the answer she wants to give -- carefully avoiding any mention of her 'sponsor'.

"What about the support of your sponsor?"

"Yes, you're right. We receive the occasional grant from The Civilisation Trust too."

A shudder from your filing cabinet of memories. You've heard that before somewhere...

"What about the support of the Civilisation Trust?"

"Ah, well, that too, naturally." She clears her throat.

"Are there really that many avid poetry readers in Portofiro?"

"At the moment we have two hundred and sixty two individual subcribers, plus of course schools, universities, and libraries."

"And that's enough to keep afloat?"

"Well, that and of course the Civilisation Trust patronage I mentioned."

"No. That is... We receive the occasional grant from The Civilisation Trust."

"Sounds lucrative."

"How dedicated are we talking?"

"Oh, highly! In fact, many of our contributors are readers who feel called to join the ranks of those published in this review."

The venn diagram is a perfect circle.

"So they're... paying themselves?"

"No more questions about the magazine, thank you." (Go back.)

"Of course. Anytime."

"I have more questions about the Noscorrentes Review."

"I imagine you do. Please, go ahead."

"Is there anywhere I could write poetry around here?"

"This is a publishing house, not a writing room. Besides, this kind of environment is not conducive to the kinds of inspired verses for which we hunger."

"Where can I unleash my creativity then?"

"I would suggest you find your own desk to write at. You must have one at home?"

There was a desk back at Foto 24 -- the one with the red folder on it. That would work.

"My advice would be to make sure it's quiet and allow yourself time to contemplate before you commit to paper."

The only place that even half belongs to you in this city is the upstairs room at Foto 24. Find a desk in there and get to work.

"What makes a poem worthy of publication?"

"Evidence of abundant poetic reserves. In particular, those that are unflinchingly extracted."

The inner core of people. She wants them to rip out whatever makes them tick.

Classic poet. Can't describe anything without a gamut of trisyllabic words.

"Poetry is a natural resource, nothing more, nothing less. Your work is to mine that resource, at great personal cost, and ours is to refine it into the rarified commodity that our readers demand."

"Natural process, got it. Already in there, basically."

"You have it in you. But you must be fearless in extracting it."

"Can you say that so a normal person could understand?"

"Absolutely not. A poet should never dumb down her verse for the sake of being understood. It is on you to interpret the meaning."

THE SPECTRE OF 'ART FOR ART'S SAKE' REARS ITS DECADENT HEAD.

Glad someone's standing up for The Word around here.

"But that makes poetry inaccessible to everyone but the elite. It should be for all."

"Ah, the usual argument." She rolls her eyes. "No, the poet should prioritise expressing themselves on the page. Trying to do anything else only blunts the art."

"Sounds a lot like intellectual posturing to me."

"Most of the time it is. But sometimes art has value for the author alone, acting as a vehicle for their most profound emotions and thoughts."

"Simply by existing a poem may have already fulfilled its purpose."

"You're right. Pure expression is all that truly matters."

"Oh, that was easy. Usually this kind of debate goes on for hours with neither side backing down. How refreshing."

Nod politely. (Stay out of this.)

"Sorry, that might have been a little acerbic. I'm passionate about this."

"Any favourite poets?"

"That is impossible for me to answer. I don't have favourite poets, only favourite poems."

Not a people person, then.

"I was only asking."

"If you're after some samples for inspiration, I recommend browsing our latest issue... again." She clears her throat.

"Till the fields of scripture, roll through the briar, make dreams out of scars, verses from fire."

Decent word economy, shame about the inconsistent imagery, but it's pleasing enough to the ear.

"Not bad. You could do with working on your metaphors."

"Might I suggest, if you want to move into critique, that you learn how to highlight the poet's strengths and aim to uplift them." She turns away from you.

Critiquing the critique. Classic trait of those who struggle to take it but love to dish it out.

"One of yours, I take it?"

"Not quite. I took one of LaGrace's stanzas and tweaked it to serve as motivation for those who aspire to our pages. It's in all of our issues under the submission guidelines."

"Is that supposed to be inspiring?"

"It is, and many of our readers have said so." She turns her nose up. "It's in all of our issues under the submission guidelines."

"Irrevocably beautiful." (Smile at her.)

"Isn't it? I took one of LaGrace's stanzas and tweaked it to serve as motivation for those who aspire to our pages. It's in all of our issues under the submission guidelines."

"If you're after some samples for inspiration, I recommend browsing our latest issue." She clears her throat.

"Alright, favourite poems then. Go."

"Forget it." (Go back.)

"Gladly. I don't find that kind of categorisation useful."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you." (Conclude.)

"Please do."

"If all poets are this dramatic, I'm not sure I want to become a proper one."

"It is our nature. Trust me, you have it in you, but you must be fearless in extracting it.

"You make poetry sound very visceral."

"Oh, it is."

A shadow passes over her face. In the darkness, her pupils momentarily dilate.

Petrol fires blackening the sky over razed jungles. Mountains levelled under the ant-labour of a thousand slaves that lived and died to produce a single, gleaming shard...

"So, can I submit a poem?"

Alternative wording

"I'd like to submit another poem."

Alternative wording

"I'd like to submit a poem."

"Again? I admire the ironclad persistence."

Translation: please, stop, I can't take this any more.

Hand her your highly personal poem.

She takes your work and examines it, vocalising each verse with increasing volume as she goes.

Her face softens -- an expression you haven't yet seen.

The words sing above the quiet hum of the machines in the room. They ascend through the ceiling, past the clouds that line the world, entering a realm lit perenially by the shimmer of godbeams.

"Well... the material is there, I can't deny that. There are signs of craft."

"Really?"

"We don't do handouts at the Review. If I say it has substance, it does."

"Now I will elevate your piece to the craft standards of the Noscorrentes Review." She looks over to the other woman. "Could you get the door for me, please?"

"Of course, Haya." She pauses in thought. "In fact, why don't I take this one? I could do with the practice."

Blood. Flash. Hot! Craving...

"Hold on, are you sure you can handle my verse?"

"Of course. I've been shadowing Haya for a little while now. I can handle one little poem."

"I'd much rather have the Editor-in-Chief look at my work."

"I'll make sure I pay special attention to the syllable length and stress patterns, Haya."

"Why don't you..." She turns to you. "Head to my downstairs office and I'll be with you shortly. I'll just make sure my pen's working."

She touches the red pen around her neck and smiles.

"Isn't it flooded down there?"

"Why do you think she wears those rain boots?" She flashes her brows, then turns back to the board.

"I thought it was a filing room down there? It's an office too?"

"I couldn't tell you. Down there is her domain." She shrugs, then turns back to the board.

"There's an office down there? I thought you said you haven't been into the basement?"

"I haven't. Down there is her domain." She shrugs, then turns back to the board.

"Does she normally do this?" (Nod to the subeditor.)

"Not usually, no." She turns back to the board. "At least it gives me more time to go over these proofs."

"Wish me luck."

"Luck is for those without the necessary talent." She turns back to the board. "At least I have more time to go over these proofs."

"That's a pretty good idea." (Go along with it.)

"O-okay, then. If you're both sure about this."

She's holding back -- as if not doing so would not be good for her.

"I knew it. Born poet."

"If this is your first endeavour in poetry, then I can certainly see why it might appear so."

"This was the most brutal thing I've ever done."

The Editor-in-Chief gives you an encouraging smile.

Give her your ultra-minimalist poem.

She takes your work and examines it, subvocalising as she goes.

You glean she is... largely unimpressed.

"I'm sorry, I have to say, this poem lacks all substance."