sanemagazine: wonderful rubbish

The following is a brief excerpt from William Murphy's first novel, Curious, a "blend of science, mystery, genre, comic, and romantic (albeit it surrealistic) fiction, with pigeons." More on William below...

His arm had been cut off, rather neatly, right at the shoulder where, should someone pat him there, he'd be at a loss to say whether he'd just been patted on the arm or on the shoulder.
"I can heal that for you, you know." The rather greying figure of Saint Francis touched Fob lightly on the arm.
"You can? It's not going to do a whole lot of good, you talking to the pigeon now, now is it?"
"I am practised in the art of healing."
"Your big thing was talking to animals, I don't recall anywhere where it says you've a knack for getting people's arms back on."
"And how much have you read on myself?"
"Well, not a whole lot, admittedly, but still... I don't recall a whole lot past the animals... not that I fault you for it, I'd just rather you stop poking my arm, as, oh Jesus, and would you stop poking me with my own bloody arm? A little decency, please." Saint Francis hung his head and proffered the arm.
"Thank you. Look, I'd rather you didn't, as I'm sure you're quite nice and all, and I don't blame you for the animals thing, not at all, if they have anything interesting to talk about, which I'm sure they do, but I'm not about to entrust yourself, a fine gentleman in every other regard except for the fact that insists he's a 12th century saint who also happens to have recently escaped from the holding cell at the local police station and, I would like to note, had, in his possession until very recently, a pager which, when set off, apparently really pisses off pigeons."
"Erk..."
"It was a nice enough offer, still." The voice at the point where his elbow would be, were it not swaying gently from his other hand, was Mrs. Crattan again, still holding the notably still unused sawed-off shotgun, her shower cap slightly askew, and showing signs of recently having been pecked. Saint Francis was nodding in agreement with her, though he was beginning to look off towards the river's edge.
A flutter could be heard behind the bins against the wall and a sheaf of papers flipped in the moonlight and reflection of moonlight in the puddles.
"Any idea how I might get my pager back?"
Fob, upon turning (both rather red and towards the old man), saw that Saint Francis was not, indeed, addressing either himself or Mrs. Crattan, but a squirrel, perched on the railing by the river. This didn't quite make things better, but it stopped him from beating Saint Francis with his recently severed arm.

disclaimer:
William Murphy is a former Sane Magazine writer who couldn't take working with the Head Editor's wild mood swings, lavish parties, and the fact that he had to commute from Worcester, Massachusetts to Dublin every week or so. He retired from the magazine in 1998 to concentrate full-time on writing. He also had the endearing habit of ignoring deadlines, submission dates, repeated requests from head editors, and a strong dislike of grey gerbils for some reason, all of which also contributed, in some manner or another, to his retirement from the magazine.
He presently lives in Worcester in a three decker on Hillside Street with his new dog and a limp, apparently acquired whilst attempting a particularly inventive evasion of a deadline.
His early promise of, as mentioned, "science, mystery, genre, comic, and romantic (albeit surrealistic)" seemed a perfect fit for Sane Magazine, when it was dubbed "surrealist minimalism" by learned critics (and henceforth romped through maximalist, chauvinist, turtle-inclined, and cherry-flavoured surrealism in turn, each one with it's own special, and largely unforeseen, set of problems, existential or otherwise). One of his more notable final efforts was Quotidian Avalanche, which unfortunately seems to be misplaced at the moment. It mentions Liverpool, though, and is terribly funny, honest.
He is currently at work on what will be his second novel, entitled Sleep(s) on Chickens, which he presumably expects to finish. Some day.


				Bee Loud Glade
		archives horoscopes accessories contacts theatre fables home Add Sane Magazine to your My Netscape.		The following is a brief excerpt from William Murphy's first novel, Curious, a "blend of science, mystery, genre, comic, and romantic (albeit it surrealistic) fiction, with pigeons." More on William below... His arm had been cut off, rather neatly, right at the shoulder where, should someone pat him there, he'd be at a loss to say whether he'd just been patted on the arm or on the shoulder. "I can heal that for you, you know." The rather greying figure of Saint Francis touched Fob lightly on the arm. "You can? It's not going to do a whole lot of good, you talking to the pigeon now, now is it?" "I am practised in the art of healing." "Your big thing was talking to animals, I don't recall anywhere where it says you've a knack for getting people's arms back on." "And how much have you read on myself?" "Well, not a whole lot, admittedly, but still... I don't recall a whole lot past the animals... not that I fault you for it, I'd just rather you stop poking my arm, as, oh Jesus, and would you stop poking me with my own bloody arm? A little decency, please." Saint Francis hung his head and proffered the arm. "Thank you. Look, I'd rather you didn't, as I'm sure you're quite nice and all, and I don't blame you for the animals thing, not at all, if they have anything interesting to talk about, which I'm sure they do, but I'm not about to entrust yourself, a fine gentleman in every other regard except for the fact that insists he's a 12th century saint who also happens to have recently escaped from the holding cell at the local police station and, I would like to note, had, in his possession until very recently, a pager which, when set off, apparently really pisses off pigeons." "Erk..." "It was a nice enough offer, still." The voice at the point where his elbow would be, were it not swaying gently from his other hand, was Mrs. Crattan again, still holding the notably still unused sawed-off shotgun, her shower cap slightly askew, and showing signs of recently having been pecked. Saint Francis was nodding in agreement with her, though he was beginning to look off towards the river's edge. A flutter could be heard behind the bins against the wall and a sheaf of papers flipped in the moonlight and reflection of moonlight in the puddles. "Any idea how I might get my pager back?" Fob, upon turning (both rather red and towards the old man), saw that Saint Francis was not, indeed, addressing either himself or Mrs. Crattan, but a squirrel, perched on the railing by the river. This didn't quite make things better, but it stopped him from beating Saint Francis with his recently severed arm. disclaimer: William Murphy is a former Sane Magazine writer who couldn't take working with the Head Editor's wild mood swings, lavish parties, and the fact that he had to commute from Worcester, Massachusetts to Dublin every week or so. He retired from the magazine in 1998 to concentrate full-time on writing. He also had the endearing habit of ignoring deadlines, submission dates, repeated requests from head editors, and a strong dislike of grey gerbils for some reason, all of which also contributed, in some manner or another, to his retirement from the magazine. He presently lives in Worcester in a three decker on Hillside Street with his new dog and a limp, apparently acquired whilst attempting a particularly inventive evasion of a deadline. His early promise of, as mentioned, "science, mystery, genre, comic, and romantic (albeit surrealistic)" seemed a perfect fit for Sane Magazine, when it was dubbed "surrealist minimalism" by learned critics (and henceforth romped through maximalist, chauvinist, turtle-inclined, and cherry-flavoured surrealism in turn, each one with it's own special, and largely unforeseen, set of problems, existential or otherwise). One of his more notable final efforts was Quotidian Avalanche, which unfortunately seems to be misplaced at the moment. It mentions Liverpool, though, and is terribly funny, honest. He is currently at work on what will be his second novel, entitled Sleep(s) on Chickens, which he presumably expects to finish. Some day.


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