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Letter to the Editor (Re: Seasons on a Gravestone)By Maxwell Demian
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Hello Sir,
I was very moved by your short story, Seasons on a Gravestone. I had heard about your writing from a friend of mine, but had not had the chance to read it until now. The story of how I came to it is a long and winding one...
Several weeks ago, I had gone to a village on the Indo-Burmese border to visit one of the preeminent chiefs of the Konyak Naga tribe. This particular village lies half in India and half in Burma: the headman's house itself is perfectly split by the international boundary, which means nothing in those parts.
After much difficulty in reaching the village, I arrived to learn that the chief had died the day previous, due to complications from alcoholism and opium addiction. My great disappointment was somewhat leavened by the invitation to the dissolute man's funeral.
The following day, the funeral was held with great pomp and circumstance. A mithun, a gigantic semi-domesticated beast, was brought in from the jungle for slaughter and dignitaries from villages many miles away, on both sides of the non-border, came to partake in the feast. Unfortunately, I did not remain in good standing long enough to enjoy any of it myself.
You see, prior to the feast, troops of rifle-toting, skull-wearing, feather-bedecked warriors performed ceremonial dances before the corpse of the chief, which was laid out within the anteroom (if you could call it such) of his longhouse.
Despite the proximity of the chief's eighteen wives and countless children, each warrior fired his rifle with the frequency and carelessness of a Texan gun aficionado. I, though terrified, thought one of the bullet casings would make an excellent souvenir and leaned forward to fetch one that had pinged right in front of my chair. Upon seizing it, however, I myself was seized. I later was to learn that I had broken one of their most powerful taboos.
I learned this after reaching the jail (again, if you could call it such) where I now reside, after a forced march deep into the Burmese hills within the Sagaing Administrative Region, I believe.
The website of your literary group is the only access to the outside world which they permit me, as they find the writing herein to be so figurative, even hermetic, as to not provide any resources with which I might make my escape. In this, they are mistaken. I have already concocted an escape plan based upon your short story Seasons on a Gravestone and hope to unfurl it in the coming days.
Thank you for potentially saving my life in these dire circumstances.
Sincerely,
Alex
I was very moved by your short story, Seasons on a Gravestone. I had heard about your writing from a friend of mine, but had not had the chance to read it until now. The story of how I came to it is a long and winding one...
Several weeks ago, I had gone to a village on the Indo-Burmese border to visit one of the preeminent chiefs of the Konyak Naga tribe. This particular village lies half in India and half in Burma: the headman's house itself is perfectly split by the international boundary, which means nothing in those parts.
After much difficulty in reaching the village, I arrived to learn that the chief had died the day previous, due to complications from alcoholism and opium addiction. My great disappointment was somewhat leavened by the invitation to the dissolute man's funeral.
The following day, the funeral was held with great pomp and circumstance. A mithun, a gigantic semi-domesticated beast, was brought in from the jungle for slaughter and dignitaries from villages many miles away, on both sides of the non-border, came to partake in the feast. Unfortunately, I did not remain in good standing long enough to enjoy any of it myself.
You see, prior to the feast, troops of rifle-toting, skull-wearing, feather-bedecked warriors performed ceremonial dances before the corpse of the chief, which was laid out within the anteroom (if you could call it such) of his longhouse.
Despite the proximity of the chief's eighteen wives and countless children, each warrior fired his rifle with the frequency and carelessness of a Texan gun aficionado. I, though terrified, thought one of the bullet casings would make an excellent souvenir and leaned forward to fetch one that had pinged right in front of my chair. Upon seizing it, however, I myself was seized. I later was to learn that I had broken one of their most powerful taboos.
I learned this after reaching the jail (again, if you could call it such) where I now reside, after a forced march deep into the Burmese hills within the Sagaing Administrative Region, I believe.
The website of your literary group is the only access to the outside world which they permit me, as they find the writing herein to be so figurative, even hermetic, as to not provide any resources with which I might make my escape. In this, they are mistaken. I have already concocted an escape plan based upon your short story Seasons on a Gravestone and hope to unfurl it in the coming days.
Thank you for potentially saving my life in these dire circumstances.
Sincerely,
Alex
