folyosó

Réka Haluska and Napsugár Molnár

Antonio Markspen

This little brochure is the short summary of my Best Seller (on Earth) called My Getaway from Plorlour.

I would like you to read this not for my own wealth and sake, but for my planet’s citizens. Let’s try to help them together.

Let me start by introducing our solar system:

Our planet has a very strange sun that only emits colorfully reflectable light once a month, on the 11th.

That day may be the time of your life, but do not let this fool you.

THE COLOUR DAY

Firstly, I will tell you about the day only your richest Earth fellows are familiar with. Yes, this is the only day when you can travel to our planet.

It starts when our own “time square” in the captial city reaches zero. Different time zones’ colourful 24 hours start at different periods of the day.

Everything from that point on is seen colourful, just like the way you see things on Earth every day of your life.

Shops open, people paint buildings, themselves and even others with paint bombs. This tradition is called bovali. There are festivals everywhere, neon signs are lit and nightlife is blooming. Everyone has a day off of work; even the shops are automatic, as we have very advanced technology.

It is a tourist attraction for the Earth’s top-tier man.

You get fireworks, laughs and everything you want.

But reality hits when the colour day is off.

THE GREY DAYS

Let me show you the other side of the “story.” The one no one talks about and no one knows about.

Unlike the glorious color day you all know, the rest of the days are cold, bland, rigid and something no one would be eager to visit.

Every single day looks the same, you wake up, go to work, buy groceries, go home, eat, sleep and repeat. This boring cycle is mindrotting, but in the moment you feel like it is worth it for that one day. To spend money, go on programmes. But in reality, is it really worth it?

From my perspective, it is  not. But there, they fill your mind with propaganda, the type that makes you think that this is the greatest planet in the whole universe. A place where people have a reason to keep going. They tell you that on Earth, every day is colourless, which makes you unmotivated to get away from Plorlour.

Now to focus more on the colourless days, I will try to express how depressing all of it is. The atmosphere almost feels like a weight on your shoulder that you can not get off. Most people have mental problems and depression caused by the hopelessness. But how could they be happy? Nothing to do besides work, no entertainment, no funky stores open, no cafes, no clubs, no cinemas, nothing. Everything feels pointless.

I have a request and idea I would like your help with. I think we could make glasses/lenses which polarise our sun’s light in a way that everyone could see colour. Every. Day. This could give hope to my humans and could help maintain our planet.

Credits:

Story and book: Sára Radó, Veronika Török, Matilda Ősz.

Streetview and cover art: Matilda Ősz.

Zsófia Éva Zsiga

Maybe in September I met my trout fishing in America. Over the past months I always brought my trout fishing in America with me everywhere, but within the past few days something weird happened to me and my trout fishing in America. Our connection changed a lot. So the thing that happened is that sometimes my trout fishing in America just disappears like nothing happened. It is a really strange thing because my trout fishing in America never did that before, ever since we got to know each other. When my trout fishing in America is away from me, I am happier than ever. My trout fishing in America is bad for me, because it can control my feelings, my thoughts, and everything about me. It made me feel so much worse than I ever felt about myself. I am so tired of the things I think about, the way my brain works and the things I do when it is by my side. When my trout fishing in America found me, I felt like our meeting was written by someone who is known by almost everyone. It’s as if the one that knows everyone and the one who is known by everyone had given me a challenge. It was really strange but I got used to it. Now that my trout fishing in America is gone sometimes, I don’t know what to do with myself, how to fix my life, how to recreate everything about my life like it was before our meeting. Now my life has gotten strange when it isn’t around me. Everyone is asking about my trout fishing in America, but i don’t even know it well enough. It’s like no one can know my trout fishing in America enough. My trout fishing in America is the strangest thing I ever experienced in my whole life, and I can’t really get away from it. I feel like I am attracted to my trout fishing in America; even though it isn’t good for me, I really miss it. I thought it would be great to get away from it, but it turned out I can’t really think about anything else when our connection is broken. I wish I could explain it better but it is really hard for me to talk about my trout fishing in America.

Note from the editor: This is one of twelve pieces in the Spring 2022 issue of Folyosó that play with the concept of Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America.

Zóra Luca Tulik

One dark stormy night, an tall old man arrived, at a little ruined pub by the name of Trout Fishing in America located near a remote village the name of which has long been forgotten. The pub had only a few guests, an errant man who carried a dirty bag and a cat with only one eye, and four young knights who were on their way home but just stayed because of the night. The old man was hungry and tired, but he didn’t have enough money. Hearing this, the honorable knights decided to invite the old man for dinner in exchange for hearing a lovely story.

“Long ago,” the grey-bearded man said, “the villagers started to notice that every second day of the month a billy goat disappeared and a day later his skin showed  up on the mayor’s door. First they thought it was a freebooter who was angry with the mayor, but after the mayor died of old age, the disappearances kept on going. The old hunters said a huge monster who lived at the top of the hill was the one who ate the goats. On one of their hunting trips they saw it was three metres tall, it had arms and wings so long that it pulled them after itself when walking. It had claws and horns, and it wore a wolf fur coat whenever it went to the village. The youngest and bravest son of the mayor decided to go to the top of the hill to kill the monster once and for all, but he never made it back. His mother found his skin spread over his bed the following morning. To this day on stormy nights, as it is tonight, you can hear screams, though no one knows who is screaming.”

A long silence followed the words of the man, the faces of the knights anxious as if waiting to hear a scream. After a  few minutes the young knights burst out laughing at his story.

“This is like a fish-wives tale my nanny used to scare me with.” the youngest knight said.

“Well the fish-wives in the village certainly believe the story. Even my mother would never let me go to the hill as a kid, and mind you well, my mother is a brave soul,” the old man said solemnly with a smile.

“Very well, old man,” the young knight said with a grin, “we’ve heard your story, but we have a long journey to our homes in the castle and an early morning to wake up. Let’s go to sleep.” They all walked up the stairs, each to his own room.

At night the guards of the village heard the screams, as was usual on the stormy nights, and one of them swore he had seen a tall old man go along the river towards the hill, wrapped in a coat made of wolf fur. His arms almost touched the ground and he was dragging something shiny that looked like armour. No one took the guard seriously, as he was the mayor’s grandson and for years had drunk a few gallons of wine every evening, because he didn’t want to have nightmares where the monster visited him.

In the morning the owner of the pub was waiting patiently for his guests to come down, but when the maid came to change the beds, he was forced to go upstairs. He opened the old man’s door, but no one was inside, and the bed was untouched, as if he had never been there. He went to wake up the knights. As he opened the door he recognized with horror that all that was left of the knights was their skin laid out on the beds, and all their shiny armour was missing….

Note from the editor: This is one of twelve pieces in the Spring 2022 issue of Folyosó that play with the concept of Richard Brautigan’s Trout Fishing in America.