‘Ah, tell me this is not true, somebody’s reverted to their sadistic shenanigans or what!’ the hotel manager maundered, skidding out the hotel lobby hitting the street, his staffers following suit moments after being alerted of the buzz outside. So observing at close the gynoid with hallucinatory drive pushing herself unto the edge, the artificial body clinging to a semi-real life; he chuckled his head off, ‘far-out as it may sounds, this person still’s a nutcase!’
‘How is this supposed to make any sense?’ the receptionist went sticking oars.
‘Read our terms of service, no?’the hotel manager shot back, pitching himself toward front of the throng, he croaked in confusion of this heated imbroglio.
‘Skimmed and chunked thru text, all I can say, explain that.’ Added the receptionist.
Matthias only didn’t know it was high time to clear the scene, and he wasn’t to suspect, not until when suddenly he felt her heavy eyes on him, doubt-charged, that’d affect him for the rest of the night; he collected his camera, and crept away past the provisional preachers and groakers, as their fleeting sensationalism spewed up the instant her threats decidedly assumed a tragic denouement.
‘Forensic investigators should be here any minute.’ Said the receptionist.
Not so far away.
‘Who could imagine all the strum and drang someone like him would put you through!’
‘Ah Spencer don’t, you don’t have to start this over, not to misconstrue this for that; give me some space and I’m all yours—’ Madam Arenithe quietly requested, togging herself in a cloak and topcoat, taking it out the store as she lately used to.
‘You lost it woman!’ he thought it was time to tackle her issue,‘you’d gotten a bad soft spot for the young man, isn’t it? when it all was about the sassy girl, Hoyden, when morning after morning you frittered them away in the house of God, we said alright, sooner than later she’ll learn to get over it, and you did; but the bad came to worst, the boy went after the girl, and the caring Madam was left for herself, gone her boy; she was left for the rowdy bullyboys, to swallow threat after threat; and we said alright, she’ll get along and run the store; but now this, talking of misconceptions and giving me time, oh no, it’s not I who craves the attention Madam, it’s this iodoform-smelling hovel where two elders made a living while broken souls sought a cure—the wretched place you’re once again leaving, for a sublunary hour of boozing and schmoozing out of despair.’
‘Listen dear meliorist,’ she glared, ‘unless you’re all set to break a lance for this wretched hovel, don’t hen-peck me of your pent-up frustration; for the time being, it suffices this old hag to booze and schmooze around.’
Today, on a July 15 morning; attracting a broad flurry of readers, the Zentrum Gonzo’s front page tag phrase parodying the triple Os’ leader’s statement, in all caps it re-stated;
A PROTECTION OF HUMAN RESIDENTS FROM OUTER NETWORK OF ENTITIES SEEKING TO IRRADICATE THE STATE, or! A PROHIBITION ON HUMAN RIGHTS WITH OVER-NATIONALISTIC ELEMENTS SUBVERSIVELY IMPOSED ON THE STATE, THE ZENTRUM P.H.R.O.N.E.S.I.S EDICT? VETOED, POOH-POOHED, AND CLASSIFIED.
To be continued.
About the Author
Ayoub El Yazidi (born 15 December 1991, Mogador), is an English novelist who writes under the pen name Maxwell F.J. Kaeser, with his breakthrough debut, The Rhevireon Chronicle, a speculative fiction novel, first published in the US, 2014; a de facto first work of Anglophone literature in the Middle East and North Africa, by an Arab native.
Raised up into a middle-class Moroccan family, he spent most of his boyhood in the town of Tata, southeast of Morocco; alluring in its own right, however secluded from rest of the country, entrenching on a tract of the Lesser Atlas bulging over the fringes of the Sahara, it was effectively far off the constructive West-bound currents sweeping the north, the West which he admired.
There, being fascinated with architecture, science, Hellenic/Persian histories, and the Western way since an early age, Kaeser, self-taught, proceeded to work on the first volume of his work, The Ascent of the West, at eighteen years of age. Done with writing the initial manuscript over a three years span, divided between research and writing, way back in 2012, he sought to get published in the States, only to get rejected by most of the 40 literary agents he’d contacted, while the rest didn’t respond at all. Max F.J. Kaeser eventually finished his final manuscript in 2014, aged 22, landing a deal with a US small press.
Today, he lives in the coastal city of Agadir, Morocco; one year away from earning his B.A. in Anglo Media studies.
www.maxwellkaeser.com
The Rhevireon Chronicle: The Ascent of the West Page 16