Fiona Mossman
1. THE DISPATCHDispatches from Afar
Dispatch from Atarantes: there is indeed desert here, but of the people there is no sign. It is said that they are people who live with no names, who eat no meat, who have no dreams. Here in the endless sand, we could see why.
Dispatch from Terra Australis: there is no place south enough. We are so far south, but there is still more. No River of Islands, though, no Land of Parrots. Instead there is a sky bluer than any we have seen before, and unfamiliar stars at night.
Dispatch from Shangri-la: beautiful, but only for so long. The storm that bent the silver trees to breaking and flooded the valley with the broken mountain was unexpected. We will keep looking.
Dispatch from Pictland: it’s strange, we were expecting more of a welcome here, but perhaps we arrived too late. There is a scent on the air here like honey, and there are many pricking plants underfoot. When will we find what we look for? No-one to ask. No-one to tell us.
Dispatch from Atlantis. There is a sound here that reminds us of you, a long low rumble that vibrates in time with our heart. This is a place full of lost things. We don’t want to linger long here.
Dispatch from the Northwest Passage: connections are never what you expect. The ice makes the journey difficult, but we must continue on. Only birds watch us here, carving their passages through the air.
Dispatch from Cibola: there was a mistranslation. A wasted journey, one destination mistaken for another. It is understandable. After all, we have been at this for a long time. At least this is a pleasant place. Perhaps we should rest.
Dispatch from Venice: there are dreams aplenty, here. But there is something underneath that smells dank, rotting. We find ourselves not wanting to taste it.
Dispatch from Limbo. Endlessness, endlessness, so dark and so loveless. We miss the sun. Why is there no sun here? It is not hell, after all. But it is certainly a place without light, and that makes it its own kind of hell.
Dispatch from Camelot: such shining here, such beautiful people, such a young land. It all smells fresh and it seems like it is perpetually spring. We keep looking to the horizon, waiting for storms.
Dispatch from Shambhala, where only guides know the right mountain pass to lead us in and the wrong ones lead travelers astray, to wander forever. We can see the appeal in trying, even in the face of certain failure. But for us, this is just another destination. We sing the song and breathe the sweet, pure air. When will we be able to stop traveling?
Dispatch from Ithaca: for most people here there is plenty of occupation, and little rest. But traveling is all we know and we find it hard to still ourselves long enough to concentrate. The sea is so blue at noonday, but when we put some of it in a jar to take with us, it no longer seems as vibrant.
Dispatch from Xanadu where ghosts greet us, and we remember the living. The road was hard and long to get here and it feels like we got here centuries too late. But we are not to be put off. The search continues.
Dispatch from Arcadia: paradise does exist. But it’s bittersweet where you are still searching for something that is missing. They ply us with fruit and honey, but all of its lures cannot anchor us here. We will be gone by the next morning, no matter how perfect the sunrise and how beautiful the dew.
Dispatch from Ultima Thule. It is far away, and we wonder, sometimes, whether we have gone so far and never come near to what we seek. But if we keep onwards, we must, in time, come close, at least. Here there are many gulls, and their shrieks are uncanny as they circle above our head. We find ourselves tired.
Dispatch from the banks of the River Lethe. It is slow here, so slow. We think that we will rest, and lay our body down. We have been so long traveling, after all. It feels good to lie down.
2. BUREAU INVENTORYA pile of post-it notes with tasks both done and not done
A tin that says ‘Thank you for looking after my cat!’, filled with pens
A wooden keyboard with Elvish keycaps and a quote from Ursula Le Guin lasered along the top, made by my partner
A small turquoise hourglass
A pile of books and notebooks
3. BIOGRAPHYFiona Mossman is a writer from the highlands of Scotland. She adores short stories and her writing is often inspired by fables and folktales. She has studied literature and book history and works as a librarian in Edinburgh. Some of her writing can be found in Analogies and Allegories Literary Magazine, The Journal of Imaginary Research, and the Creatives series from the Scottish Mountaineering Press; she also has a chapter forthcoming in an academic book, The Mountain and the Politics of Representation.
She loves exploring strange places.