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EdTech: A Digital Revolution

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How the Global Pandemic is reshaping the Education Sector

The education industry is on the cusp of a Digital Revolution. Educators around the world are aware of the increasing importance of technology in teaching and learning. Technology can be used both as a platform and interface for facilitating learning experiences, and as a mode in which students need to be literate. 'Future-ready' conjures up sci-fi-esque scenarios of humans interacting with a host of 3D or even 4D interfaces. The current pandemic has emphasised just how important Educational Technology will be in our immediate future. There is great uncertainty around how...

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How the Global Pandemic is reshaping the Education Sector The education industry is on the cusp of a Digital Revolution. Educators around the world are aware of the increasing importance of technology in teaching and learning. Technology can be used both as a platform and interface for facilitating learning experiences, and as a mode in which students need to be literate.

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Should ethnic identity impact upon the ethical responsibilities of a fiction writer?

Fiction writing entangled in identity politics is no new phenomenon. In 2016, Calvin Trillin's Chinese food poem 'Have they run out of provinces yet?' caused a stir between those who recognised it as a poorly written attempt at satire; poet Jenny Zhang said: 'Don't say "it's self-aware parody!" just say: "I accept this has no value except as an example of failure,' and those who considered it to be outright racist. Whilst I accept that the poem was claimed to have been written to satirise white middle class foodies, somehow the satire didn't manifest, and the poem did leave a bad taste in the mouth.

In 2015, Micheal Derrick Hudson of Indiana caused consternation with his poem 'The Bees, the Flowers, Jesus, Ancient Tigers, Poseidon, Adam and Eve'. It wasn't the content of the poem itself that was considered problematic, but the poet's pen name 'Yi-Fen Chou'. An editor of the anthology, Sherman Alexie, initially angrily described this as an act of 'colonial theft.' Alexie felt the choice of pen name was a betrayal. Alexie later justified his decision to keep the poem as part of the anthology, claiming, 'If I'd pulled the poem it would have implied that I chose poems based only on identity. But that's not what happened. In the end, I chose each poem in the anthology because I love it. And to deny my love for any of them is to deny my love for all of them.' I'm glad Alexie's love of the literature won out in the end. Though I am not sure Hudson's motives were about creating academic debate, I acknowledge the value in thinking about what role our identity as writers, plays in the way our work is received by the world, and what ethical responsibilities, if any, might be bound up in that.

As much as I would love to just be 'a fiction writer', with all of the creative freedom which that entails, I am also a caucasian writer, an English writer in Hong Kong. There are some stories which I still feel uncomfortable writing, unless they are heavily researched; for example, the every day life of native Hong Kongers. I'm aware of my own country's historical legacy in Hong Kong, and the previous impact of the authorial 'gaze' in global mechanisms of colonisation and white privilege. This awareness has led to a growing self consciousness which I feel more keenly in my creative life. Working in various countries has meant that more of my life experiences have happened outside of my country of origin, and as such, much of my potential writing material could focus upon those experiences. I feel that it could, yet at the same time, I feel a hesitancy, a hint of self-censorship, when stepping into the voice of a character of another ethnicity. As much as I wish I didn't, I feel that the color of my words matter. And at the same time, I rail against this idea, as it feels like a self-imposed version of the Orwellian Thought Police.

Tash Aw's review of Karen Connelly's The Lizard Cage, highlights for me the kind of criticism which is unavoidable in the act of writing of a culture that is not one's own, with comments such as 'w ith a political backdrop that feels forced and cultural details that are not always convincing, much of the power of this potentially devastating novel is lost... Connelly often seems too anxious to convey her extensive experience of the modern state of Burma; the weight of information she provides obscures rather than heightens the sense of a country in crisis.' Aw criticises Connelly in effect for trying too hard to be culturally sensitive. Yet perhaps this form of criticism is better than that directed at Calvin Trillin. Whatever fiction writers produce, we can't please everyone, so perhaps writing with unfettered importunity isn't such a bad guideline to follow.

There is the fiction writer in me, who agrees with Lionel Shriver's keynote speech from the 2016 Brisbane Writers festival, when she said "the type of fiction we are 'allowed' to write, is in danger of becoming so hedged, so circumscribed, so tippy-toe, that we'd indeed be better off not writing the anodyne drivel to begin with."

This part of me shouts o f course Fiction writing by it's very essence should be free and unbound by any kind of real-world concern. Fiction writers mine the mind for raw material, we imagine, create and craft. If we start to feel bound by political concerns it feels like the beginning of a steady erosion of human imagination. We can't create, if we are cautious or downright afraid of offending someone. In Maslow's hierarchy of needs, 'safety' is near the bottom and self-actualisation is near the top. Creativity is in essence a form of self-actualisation, we express ourselves directly from the heart and from the mind.

A couple of years back I wrote a story about a group of four tourists in Cambodia. I wanted to write the story because I am fascinated by the culture and history of Cambodia. I visited, and this story was borne out of my experience there. Why shouldn't I write about a country which is beautiful and genuinely fills me with awe? Yet it is difficult to write about a culture that is not one's own with a level of sensitivity that does not sound disingenuous. I felt myself reproducing colonial tropes of aestheticism and exoticism. In the end I got around this problem by making it a self conscious narrative, that mentioned the old tropes of 'Orientalism' directly. It felt like a crude fix, (after all, this was just a fictional story) but one which allowed me to overcome an internal tension which perhaps will alleviate over time. Or perhaps it will not. Either way, it is an interesting form of cognitive dissonance to consider.

More recently I wrote a story based in the Mixteca region of Mexico. My protagonist is Mexican and a suggested member of a cartel, scamming tourists out of money. Does this feed into negative stereotyping? Yes. And how terrible that a white woman wrote this story, some might say. Except, it really happened to me. The story is a fiction, built upon a real, experienced reality. This is the messier side of identity politics in writing. There are realities which can not be carved up so easily and reserved for writers of colour, or LGBTQ writers, or any other loaded political identity and I say this as a gay woman with an Indian partner. (though why I feel the need, says something in itself.)

I don't think that posing to be a writer from another ethnicity in order to get published, is ethical in terms of taking up space reserved for previously lesser heard narratives, impacted by historic power structures and white privilege in action. I believe, however, that having and feeling the freedom to write a character with the voice of another ethnicity is important for two reasons;

Firstly, fiction is one of the few realms adults have left as a playground for our imaginations, and secondly, and most importantly, writing in this way requires empathy, the type of which I feel is sadly lacking in our world at the moment, with the global media's grand narratives of polarity, the overused and oversimplified 'us and them' rhetoric. If we allow the color of our words to dictate and restrain our imaginations, I fear that we are losing something irreplaceable. If we can't imagine what it is like to be someone different from ourselves, then how can we ever connect and attempt to bridge the social chasms in our world? However, if we are sensitive to the color of our words, not allowing them to dictate or censor what we write, but rather making us write with a more conscious awareness of our place in the literary and cultural landscape, perhaps our cultural empathy will deepen, which can only be a good thing.

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Fiction writing entangled in identity politics is no new phenomenon. In 2016, Calvin Trillin's Chinese food poem 'Have they run out of provinces yet?' caused a stir between those who recognised it as a poorly written attempt at satire; poet Jenny Zhang said: 'Don't say "it's self-aware parody!"

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I made this for when online teaching became the norm.

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Heart in Art is a podcast dedicated to connecting people through their love of arts and creativity.

Heart in Art is a podcast dedicated to connecting people through their love of arts and creativity.

Profound

A very interesting and thought provoking podcast! Loved it!

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Heart in Art is a podcast dedicated to connecting people through their love of arts and creativity. Heart in Art is a podcast dedicated to connecting people through their love of arts and creativity. A very interesting and thought provoking podcast! Loved it!

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Open to Change | Yoga and Meditation with Dani Van De Broucke

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Open to Change Yoga | Online Kundalini Yoga and Meditation lessons with an Instructor who really understands mental health |

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The Importance of Acceptance

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What acceptance is not; a passive tolerance of mistreatment or injustice. A license to become a doormat or let people and situations trample you and your own wellbeing.

What acceptance is: That will take a little more explanation, if you'll bear with me.

I'll demonstrate the difference acceptance makes in my life with reference to a recent scenario that I experienced. When I moved back to the U.K, I was buying a house (a notoriously stressful event) and was waiting on some funds to reach me from Hong Kong. Due to covid and the backlog that has created in all communication and postage, these funds took over 6 months to arrive. At one point I could have lost the house sale as a result. If I wasn't practicing acceptance in my life, those few months could have been hellish.

They could have looked like this: me on the phone to various people, angry, shouting and demanding things be expedited. I could have spent every night worrying about it, unable to sleep, stressed and projecting into the future about how terrible things were going to turn out, how I'd have to start looking for a place all over again, and how much time I'd wasted. This is what life looks like when we rail against the way things are in the now. We create suffering because we refuse to accept the situation and constantly push against it in some futile attempt to impose our personal will on it, to control it.

With acceptance, the same situation looked more like this; I still made numerous calls to people, but I communicated calmly, firmly and politely. I didn't project into the future or mourn the future loss of a house I hadn't even yet bought, but I spoke with others and came up with a solution. When the worries came, I acknowledged them and let them go, reminding myself, I'm not in control of the outcome of any given situation. All I can do is my part and the rest is up to others, the universe etc. Of course acceptance is easier to practice if things eventually turn out the way you want them to, however, the real point of acceptance is understanding that we can influence events, but never control outcomes.

Acceptance is a continual practice, which involves recognising whenever you feel resistance to the now. e.g. I hate washing the dishes, I wish it wasn't raining, oh it's a shame that person had to show up, I wish that...... Any time we feel resistance in the moment to what we are doing, or to some aspect of reality, we are in the opposite of acceptance, and that is a root cause of suffering.

Just a reminder that acceptance is not the passive 'lying down' and acceptance of injustice or mistreatment. In those situations, we must always speak up for what is right. What we all must be careful to understand though, is that our actions can influence outcomes, but not control them. We do what we can and then let go, accepting the reality of any outcome.

This is a conscious way to live as it keeps us accountable for when we are personally railing against the reality of any given situation and creating our own suffering. We often blame external factors for our stress or our anger, but these are just feelings that arise within us. The external factor will persist, whether or not we are angry or complaining or shouting at it. We can choose the way we manage our internal response to external events, and acceptance is the mechanism by which we can begin to practice this management of our inner worlds.

Why not try practicing some acceptance today? Start small, try to release your resistance to something you do every day but don't usually enjoy, for example, washing the dishes or cleaning the kitchen. Just immerse yourself in the experience and try not to mentally resist it. Have a beautiful day everyone.

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What acceptance is not; a passive tolerance of mistreatment or injustice. A license to become a doormat or let people and situations trample you and your own wellbeing. What acceptance is: That will take a little more explanation, if you'll bear with me.

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Afterness: Literature from the New Transnational Asia

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Afterness: Literature from the New Transnational Asia

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My poetry is included in this Anthology.

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Going Viral: How to move beyond the hysteria of news media

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How to move beyond the hysteria of News Media
'Armed gang steals toilet rolls in panic-buying hit Hong Kong.' This could be a contender fr the best (or worst) headline of all time. A couple of weeks back, Hong Kong supermarkets ran out of toilet rolls, house cleaning products and noodles and rice, due to panic buying. Much of Hong Kong's stock originates in Mainland China, so a rumour got out that Covid 19 based restrictions on exports would mean a shortage. As the Hong Kong Free Press stated: ' Unverified videos, origin-free photos, and other misleading media sources are quickly believed by a wide portion of the public and create an atmosphere of uncertainty and fear.' This atmosphere resulted in 'overly reactive' consumer-based chaos. "A delivery man was threatened by three knife-wielding men who took toilet paper worth more than HK$1000 ($US130), a police spokesman told AFP." Now, if we calculate the potential benefit versus risk of this toilet roll heist, the insanity becomes obvious.

Many, including us who currently live in Hong Kong, sit back and judge how crazy other people are being. Yet, fast forward one week, and I had bought back my own box of masks, toilet roll and bleach, from a work trip abroad, worrying there might not be any left due to the panic buying. So we can see how panic-buying quickly becomes a circular problem. This week, Covid 19 started to seriously interrupt daily life in Italy. The panic rush on foodstuffs this time, impacted meat, bread and pasta. This behaviour has since spread to a lesser or greater degree, around Europe, and now Australia, leading to the BBC's article 'Epidemic or Infodemic?'

Mis/information about Covid 19 has spread virally. The link between social media and the fast transmission of information is a known focus of academic study. In this case the term 'going viral,' relates to the 'infodemic' aspect of Covid 19 moving just as quickly, if not more so, than the actual virus. So, why does some online information travel so speedily?

The go-to answer in this case, would be that Covid 19 feels frightening, thus people want to validate their fears, and then warn family and friends. Fear is a real emotional 'contagion.' There are countless examples throughout time and geography of how hysteria surrounding the fear of an unknown, intangible but (even supposedly) injurious source can spread through a community at lightning speed. e.g. Mcarthyism in America, the Salem Witch trials, even contemporary Ghana . So, the emotional contagion of fear is a definite factor. But that is only a small (plus, the more obvious) part of the story. The rest of answer lies in the way we consume media, and the communication techniques embedded within our modes of transmission.

When news media was in print only, fewer people obviously had access to the means by which to produce and distribute news. The responsibility to fact check, to ensure the ethics or 'suitability for consumption,' (interpret that as you will) lay with a small number of people. Back in 1500's England, the press lay under royal jurisdiction, whereby the crown imposed strict controls. Fast forward to the modern day, and Article 19 functions as the current journalistic regulatory body.

However, consider the fact that now vast numbers of people in the world with internet access have the power to upload and effectively publish information for anyone to see. The filter between author and audience has been removed. In many ways this is a good thing, as it allows more people to have a voice, who previously have gone unheard. Yet paradoxically, that is also the weakness of this system.The onus now falls to us, the new gardeners of the digital landscape, to filter what is out there, and what we choose to believe. I develop my own sense of responsibility by asking myself these questions;

1. What information do I choose to plant in this digital landscape?

2. What sources do I choose to dig out, expose for the rot that they are, and ignore? (before the weed chokes out the whole garden)

3. What do I want the aesthetic of our shared digital landscape to be? What will I choose to focus upon and what aspects will I allow to fade subtly into the background?

This sounds very idealistic, but how am I supposed to sift through the dirt? How can I tell what is true or not amidst the wilderness of fake news and fear mongering? There are some key aspects too look out for, and some super useful sites to help everyone do just that.

-A good site is the International Federation of Library Associations. In a nutshell they ask you: consider the source of the site-is it a large international organisation, or written by an unknown organisation with a vested interest in pushing an agenda? Who is the author? What date was the site last updated? Are there supporting sources? And finally: can you read beyond the outrageous headlines? -otherwise know as 'clickbait'-to hook you in like a little fishy.

adfontesmedia.com has a handy 'media bias chart', which helps you to consider your own political biases, depending on which news sources you regularly consume, along with identification of poor news sources, 'fake news' and the more trustworthy, fact based ones.

Finally, snopes.com is a reputable fact checking site if you just can't tell for sure. You type in the headline or your question, and they give you a breakdown of true and false claims, along with a detailed explanation of how they arrived at that conclusion.

Essentially, news that ranges from outright 'fake', to unfairly biased, over relies on emotive language- designed to create emotional 'contagion,' hyperbole (exaggeration) and selection bias, which is a focus upon selective pieces of information that support an already established claim, with little to no fact checking. All of this leads to fear-mongering, and the kind of sensationalist headlines which led to the journalistic term 'if it bleeds it leads.'

Today, I try to contribute to preventing the spread of viral misinformation and fake news. I choose to be more mindful about the information I consume and choose to propagate in the digital sphere. I believe that together, we can move beyond the virus of fear and weed out the fake news choking our digital landscape.

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How to move beyond the hysteria of News Media 'Armed gang steals toilet rolls in panic-buying hit Hong Kong.' This could be a contender fr the best (or worst) headline of all time. A couple of weeks back, Hong Kong supermarkets ran out of toilet rolls, house cleaning products and noodles and rice, due to panic buying.

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Literary Reading on the theme 'Reinventing Oneself.'

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Pedagogical article on Theory of Knowledge P 16-17

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On Garcia Lorca's 'Duende'

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A medium term plan for teaching 'Persepolis' by Marjane Satrapi

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Create a new document and edit with others at the same time -- from your computer, phone or tablet. Get stuff done with or without an internet connection. Use Docs to edit Word files. Free from Google.

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Heart in Art is a podcast dedicated to connecting people through their love of arts and creativity.

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Creative Fiction

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David Angel Jnr's. mother Maria, lives in a blue town house in Oaxaca. Years ago, David Jnr. and his younger brother Miguel helped their father David Snr., paint the outside of the house. This was long before David Snr. passed away. When Maria and David Snr. were courting they sat in the garden of Frida Kahlo's blue house holding hands. She said she thought it was beautiful and he had replied so was she.

On their wedding anniversary, David Snr. enlisted the help of his boys to paint the house the same color as Kahlo's to surprise Maria. They filled the white window boxes with Maria's favorite, orange dahlias. David Jnr. and Miguel stood back and admired their handiwork. The fresh colors beamed out at passers-by. David Jnr. would never forget his mami's face when she arrived home. A big smile with sunlit tears. She hugged Papi and then held out her arms to David Jnr. and Miguel. They were together. A family. The afternoon sunshine beamed from David Jnr.

That was over forty years ago. The blue façhado is now sun bleached and chipped around the window frames. The window boxes are empty.

Earlier this week, on Sunday evening, Maria's neighbor found her, collapsed in the garden at the front of her house and called an ambulance.

As Maria awoke in the hospital bed later that evening, the nurse asked if she had family to call, but Maria said no, she wouldn't allow it.

"It's a big week for the boys. I don't want to distract them from their business."

"I'm sure they'd be upset if they found out you never told them. Let me call them." The nurse checked the heart monitor, and wrote something down on a clipboard.

"I want no fuss." Something in the Maria's expression stopped the nurse. So, despite deep misgivings, the nurse did not call the 'boys,' but instead a friendly neighbor, after negotiations, of course.

Maria was discharged from Clinica Hospital Carmen on the Monday afternoon and went home with angina tablets and doctor's orders for bed rest.

On Thursday, Maria was feeling somewhat brighter, spending the day completing odd jobs around the house. The lace headrests on the green leather armchairs in the lounge were whiter from being washed. The wooden table in the dining room reflected two thick stripes of light coming through the space between the window slats. The room smelled of furniture polish and the clock ticked thickly into the soft silence. Maria didn't know it, but David Jnr. was currently on his way to Oaxaca for a visit, travelling from San Balthazar Campeche. David hadn't seen his mother in more than a month.

In approximately three hours' time, Maria will collapse again. This time she will be inside the blue house and her neighbor will not find her. Maria's heart will stop this evening. If David arrives at the blue house within two minutes of her collapse, then he might be able to save his mother.

Puebla is more than a full day's drive from Oaxaca. The morning took David only as far as San Balthazar Campeche. He stopped along the way to buy his mother some flowers. Her favourite, orange dahlias. In truth, he bought Mami the flowers to assuage some of the guilt he felt for not seeing her more often, but if anything, they magnified the feeling. The bouquet was wrapped in yesterday's newspaper on the back seat of his car, the sickly-sweet smell of its presence, suffocating him.

Mulling over the details of the morning, David wound down the window and lit another Marlboro. The tip glowed yellow, a plume pooling against the brown smoke stain on the roof of the Nissan. Outside, corrugated tin roofs began to appear on the horizon of yellow scrub and flowering cacti, there was a small village up ahead. As the houses came slowly into focus, his cellphone glowed green and rattled against silver change in the tray in front of the gear stick.

"Que onda? Si. Si. No hay bronco. Si. Ahorita. Hay un chingo de trafico. Si. A huevo, a huevo. Adios"

His brother. Golden boy. What a pain in the ass. When did you last call ma? She misses you. You should stop by more. Are you there yet? He was taking all day to drive there, no? Miguel couldn't even let him get there in peace. David wasn't so far away now anyway, he just passed a sign for Huajuapan de Leon. He'd be at Oaxaca soon enough. He tossed his cell phone back in the glove compartment and rooted around for some chewing gum. He was chewing so hard he almost bit into his cheek. He knew Mami would start again.

"Come to church with me baby? It's been so long. It would make your mami so happy, David? Did you forget how preciosa es?'

David's childhood home was around the corner from a zocalo, surrounded by rust coloured buildings, the green shade of trees and the Church of Santo Domingo de Guzman. There was a time he had been a good Catholic boy, when he had attended mass every Sunday and sang in the choir. Back then, it was really something, sweeping across the worn stone floors in crisp, white altar boy robes looking up at those golden baroque arches and the frescos on the ceiling. He really felt something like spirit stirring in his belly. But then, one day, he just stopped going.

Now the road was clear ahead, David put his foot down on the accelerator, whilst chewing still harder on his gum.

His mami had tried everything to get him to go. Ordered him, grounded him, made him go without dinner, pleaded, shouted then cried. Then, when that didn't work, she had gone through the whole cycle again, trying to find out why David refused to go. Eventually, she gave up, though had never really forgiven him. David had given her a few reasons. He'd never been a very good liar. His eyes had a habit of shifting from side to side whenever he tried to lie. So, Maria didn't believe him. And it had been a big invisible question mark hanging over their relationship ever since.

David just glanced up in time to see the large bumper and the rear-view window of a white Dodge Caravan coming closer and closer. He pounded his foot on the breaks but it was too late. His forehead hit the dashboard and he somehow bit the steering wheel and his lip at the same time.

"Mamon!" David touched his bleeding lip, whilst holding his jaw, pain shooting through the side of his head. He glared out at the Dodge and slammed the horn on his Nissan. Why the hell did they stop in the middle of the goddamn road!

Three blonde women and two brown haired guys got out of the Dodge, all Caucasian. They stood looking at the back end of the Caravan. Blonde women. David felt his face contort in an ugly way. It was then that he noticed the green and yellow sign on the side. Europcar.

Back when he was a kid, the day David stopped going to church, he'd come home from school early. They weren't supposed to go off school premises but David knew his Mami was out of town and Papi was at work. School food was awful, so he sneaked home. He arrived at the back door, and turned his key in the lock slowly. He planned to go through the kitchen and up to his bedroom and eat the churros and Coca-Cola he had hidden earlier.

As the door closed behind him, he thought he heard a muffled sound, from the salon, but he froze very still and waited it out. No-one could know he was home.

After a moment, the noise began again, a murmuring and shuffling. David's heart felt like it was on pause. Perhaps it was a burglar, and if it was, in this moment, David was the man of the house. He thought about what his Papi would do. He would defend his home for his family. But David Jnr. wasn't quite feeling up to the challenge. As his courage deflated, he sank down onto all fours, like a cat, and crept, steadily towards the sound. The closer he became, the more rhythmic and consistent the sound. It was like the squeak of leather and a creak, like when mami was in the rocking chair reading. But mami wasn't here.

The door to the salon was slightly ajar, and David Jnr. drew in his breath as he sat on his ankles and peered around the door. Papi's naked ass. His pants were around his ankles. But Mami wasn't here. This chica had blonde hair and he could see her long white legs crossed around Papi's back. She kept saying

"David. Yes. David." Which made David Jnr. blush, because he'd never seen a naked chica before, and for a second he sat watching and imagined it was him and not his papi. Then, the chica's arm knocked over the thin, rectangular glass vase of mami's orange dahlias on the coffee table, next to the couch. Water dribbled across the table onto the carpet. David Jnr. bit his lip to stop himself from shouting at his papi.

He shuffled backwards towards the kitchen, got up and hauled himself through the back door, slamming it behind him in his hurry to escape. He sprinted back to school without stopping, sweat and tears stinging his eyes. How could his Papi do this to Mami? He thought back to the time outside the blue house, when he had felt filled with sunshine, except now the sunshine turned into a boiling red cloud and David Jnr. felt like his heart might burst with anger at Papi. Family, love, the blue house, the flowers. God. It was all just a scam. None of it was real. Fake, fake, fachado. As David ran out of energy and slowed to a stop, he was in front of the school gates once more. His face burned red and his stomach felt tight. He bent down, hands on his knees and a thin string of bile trailed from his lips to the ground.

Fucking gueros! What the hell are they doing out here anyway? Always ruining everything. His tooth felt cracked, he prodded at it gently with the tip of his tongue, wincing. They should learn to drive for a start. He got out to assess the damage. One of the headlamps was out and the grill shattered, hanging down in two pieces. Locals started to gather at the side of the road, talking amongst themselves.

"Cojones! David wasn't sure which was more painful, the damage to the Nissan, or his damn tooth.

One of the locals, a broad guy with a beard and ruddy cheeks sidled over.

"Hola. Are you ok friend?"

David frowned. "No, I'm not! My car and my tooth are fucked. These fucking assholes" he gestured to the gueros in front.

"You speak English? Asked Cheeks.

"What's that got to do with anything?" David crossed his arms.

"They are English. I can help you out, friend. I speak English."

"Listen." David began.

Cheeks interrupted "I can help...but I want a cut."

This guy is too slick, thought David. It can't be the first time he's pulled this one.

"What? It's my fucking car that's battered to pieces. Who they hell are you anyway?"

"I live down on that lane, there" Cheeks pointed to a small track the other side of the road. I saw it happen. I can vouch for you my friend" He winked at David. David looked sideways at Cheeks. This guy came on the scene pretty quickly. There never was any shortage of opportunists among the Mixteca.

"Why did they stop in the middle of the road anyway?" David asked.

"A dog."

"A dog! They stopped for a fucking dog? Ow." He clutched his tooth.

"The old guera was driving." David and Cheeks laughed.

"Ha. Figures." Spat David.

"What'd y mean a cut?" David nodded his head and eyed Cheeks.

"I'll translate and get them back to my place. We stall them. You call friends. They don't leave until they pay. I have hidden a 10 millimeter. Understand?"

"How much do you want?" Asked David.

"30 percent."

"Hmm."

"Think you're gonna get anything out of them when you don't speak English?"

"They might speak Español."

"I doubt it. They're green enough to drive around here and stop for a fucking dog."

"You have a point."

"Are we on?"

David sighed and winked at Cheeks. "Ok. Ok." David knew could always turn this situation around once the gueros were out of the way. His guys could pull their guns on Cheeks next and take the full cut themselves, easy.

"You go to them first." Cheeks called over his shoulder, wandering off.

David opened the car door to help himself to another Marlboro. He lit and inhaled deeply. Anything to take the edge of his god damn broken tooth. Now to deal with these crazy gueros. He shut the door and walked slowly over to the group that had formed at the back of the Dodge.

"Me debes dinero. Que dano mi coche" David demanded as he walked over. No point in niceties-he was in pain. His demand for money didn't seem to go down well with the younger guero. His white face turned pink and David could tell the boy was getting angry. Still, no matter, he'd carry on getting them good and wound up before Cheeks took over. David raised his voice and repeated himself, throwing in a few arm gestures for emphasis.

Cheeks came strolling back over to intervene. His English sounded pretty good. David relaxed. Cheeks worked his magic, making calls and persuading the gueros he was there to help. The gueros got back into the Dodge and started to drive towards the lane where Cheeks lived.

David got back inside his Nissan for a moment and called up his boys.

"Antonio? Que onda. I need your help. Come and bring the boys. What? I pranged the car. A bunch of gueros. I need your help getting some dinero. I know. I know. Si, si. Can you get here in 10 minutes? Si. Si. Adios. Yes, the Mendoza and....si si. Beretta."

David shook his fists at the gueros. He kept his eyes on the tallest blonde guera. He looked at the pistol in his glove box and imagined what she would look like with a perfect hit in the centre of her forehead. He imagined dragging her body to the back seat of his car and fucking her before he threw her onto the side of the road and drove away.

He stamped out his Marlboro and put his seat back as far as it would go, lost in his torture fantasy whilst waiting for the others to arrive. His work, for now, was done.

David's cell phone started to vibrate from the glove box. He reached over. It was his brother again, Miguel. He was probably was just gonna make him feel bad he missed Mami's lunch already. David turned off his cell phone. Family could wait.

David hadn't noticed, but Maria's orange dahlias had fallen from the back seat underneath his chair. The act of sliding back the chair caught the orange and yellow stained velvet petals in the black metal runner of the seat. The head snapped off one flower and the moisture bled out from the petals onto the metal.

Cheeks was still working his magic, the gueros were going inside his house now. Everything was going to plan. David hoped the boys would arrive soon. He didn't have much time.

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David Angel Jnr's. mother Maria, lives in a blue town house in Oaxaca. Years ago, David Jnr. and his younger brother Miguel helped their father David Snr., paint the outside of the house. This was long before David Snr. passed away. When Maria and David Snr.