Fly in the Head 2014

2014 ISSUE

Faculty Advisor: Michael Harris Cohen Editor-In-Chief: Mariela Hristova Editor: Anna-Mariya Ivanova Cover Design and Illustrations: Yulia Chernavskaya Layout: Ana Devdariani

Fly in the Head seeks submissions from AUBG students, alumni, faculty and anyone else tied to the Balkans.

We publish annually but read submissions year round.

Flyinthehead@Gmail.com facebook.com/FlyInTheHeadOfficial

You hold the new copy of Fly in the Head in your hands. Go ahead. Take it. Take two, if you want. No one will accuse you of stealing. Relax. Like all the best things in life, it’s free. Grab it and go.

At home, pour yourself a drink. Settle into a comfy chair. Put your feet up. Or stretch in bed.

The phone is ringing? Forget it. Feel how smooth that cover is. It’s smooth, right? Admire the art.

It reminds you of a painting you saw in Madrid. You adored that painting. It reminds you of a half remembered dream that left you baffled but happy.

You smell the paper. Paper owns a nice smell— you can’t get it from a Kindle or a tablet screen, that’s for sure. It’s like the ghosts of trees lurk in that smell. It’s an inviting scent. You close your eyes: paper. Glue. Ink.

You open your eyes. Where to start? You could read this issue from beginning to end. Or you could skim and see what grabs you. Relax. It’s up to you.

You have free will. Angels envy you.

You run your finger down the titles. You choose a story and thumb to the page. Someone calls your name from the other room. Maybe the same person who tried to phone? You ignore them. You’ve started to read. They call your name again and again but you don’t hear. The words are in your head, the flies are singing, and you are already gone.

This issue would not be possible without the generous help of: AUBG Student Government AUBG Admissions Office Panitza Library Staff Anush Babajanyan Dannie Leigh Chalk Michael Harris Cohen Jean Crombois Dilyana Dobrinova Emiliya Galimzyanova Melody Gilbert Sean Homer Angel Ivanov Evelina Kelbecheva Anna Kromin Tracy Minard John Rodrigue Ermir Suldashi Martin Wien Mark Wollemann

Fiction Sarah Abbott ........................Glass Houses Ana Devdariani ...................Lola Is Alright Mariela Hristova ........Cloud Shadows in the Sky Mayya Kelova .............She Didn’t Come To Pray Atanas Mihnev .................The Long Walk Home .........................Selling It Ilia Panayotov ..........Confessions of a Stalker Yoana Savova ........................On the Rails Kalina Simeonova .............................You

7 33 42 47 52 54 59 67 74

Skaptopara Spleen Lejla Dizdarević ........................Untitled 83 Mariela Hristova ........Between Two Destinations 86 Ermir Suldashi ....................The Ugly Stars 88

AAS/ACS Short Story Competition

Stanyo Zhalev ...................Red Planet Blues 91

Antonia Georgieva ..............Live And Let Live 95

Hannah Berg ........................Dream Society 99

FLYINTHEHEAD

Glass Houses Sarah Abbott

Mr. Ingram checks the mail three times a day, before every meal, as though it could be delivered more than once and as though any of the mail could be for him. On this day he walks out to the mailbox despite the sky’s sputter of rain. He wears his usual starched white shirt, but there is mustard on the pocket. From her kitchen window, Yvonne Henson watches him and wonders what he ate for lunch. A bologna sandwich? Hamburger? Something with mustard. Perhaps he really is getting infirm, as they say, and he just ate mustard. Shot it straight into his mouth like Corinna used to do with ketchup when she was too little to understand that it doesn’t matter if it tastes nice, you don’t eat ketchup by itself, and certainly not at Thanksgiving dinner when your grandmother is watching.

Mr. Ingram bends down a little—stiffly, like his back is made of wood—and opens the mailbox. His eyes, a once-vivid blue that waters down as the years wear on, trace every place inside it. The front, the back corners, even the pavement outside. He shuts the mailbox door, reaching into his stained pocket for a handkerchief. Mr. Ingram’s nose is always a little red from what his daughter-in-law calls, with a pat on the arm as she hands him a pink-flowered tissue, “a case of the old sniffles.” Old sniffles, he answers.

Like the old ones are any different from young ones. But she just laughs and looks at him like a puppy that’s done a surprising trick, and he huffs and blows his nose.

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Sitting in the bay window of her sunshine-yellow kitchen with her nose against the glass—something she’d scold Corinna or Colin for doing, but they’re at school—Yvonne gazes at Mr. Ingram as he makes his way, step by slow step, back to the front door of the neighboring house. He stops for a moment at the foot of the stairs, pretending to check his pockets, but she has seen how he waits longer and longer each time before going up the stairs. Three times a day, every day. She wonders if he dreads them because they are hard to climb, with weak knees and a bad back—probably that—or because he doesn’t want to go back inside yet. Taking a drink from the full wineglass in her hand, she understands that better than she’d like.

Yvonne wonders, too, if he is waiting for something. Something particular, a piece of mail that has been in transit for two years now, ever since Mr. Ingram moved in with his son and daughter-in-law. He begins to climb the steps—there isn’t a railing, even, maybe she could casually mention to Matthew and Shannon that a railing would be a good idea—his hands out for balance. On the third step, he reaches for the column on the porch and pulls himself up using it. Yvonne lets out her breath in a rush. She glances away, flushing, when Mr. Ingram sneaks a look around the neighborhood to make sure no one saw.

Last week, Yvonne had heard Matthew and Shannon mention assisted living as they got out of their Chevy Malibu. “It’s expensive, Matthew,” Shannon hissed. “And once you start you can’t have a change of heart. He’d be there till he dies and it’d be a thousand dollars a month, every month, and for all we know he’d live longer than us—”

“We can’t keep doing this, Shannon, we have to take care of him every day. Either we hire Home Health, or we talk about Sunnyside.”

Shannon shook her head, arms crossed. Their low voices filtered into Yvonne’s kitchen window, along with the late September air that smelled like freshly mown grass and falling leaves all at once.

“I don’t want to make a decision now. Okay? Let’s just wait a while longer, he’s doing fine on his own.”

There had been a long pause. “Okay. A little longer. But we need to be thinking about what we’ll do.”

Yvonne runs a finger around the rim of her glass. She watches Mr. Ingram twist the doorknob, scrape his feet against the doormat, and step inside. Yvonne knows she can’t say anything to Matthew and Shannon about the railing. They aren’t on that kind of speaking terms, anyway—never have been—and she doesn’t want them to talk about Sunnyside again. Not when 8

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Mr. Ingram can still pull himself up. She doesn’t let herself think about the day when he can’t, and takes another drink—more of a gulp, this time.

Mr. Ingram sits on his bed and pulls off his shoes. No mail. He rotates his ankles, doing the exercises that Dr. Ivans assigned him to help his muscles develop and his blood circulate. Weak muscles, arthritic joints, low blood sugar, bad lungs from the cigarettes he’d stopped smoking when Mattie was born. Always something.

The small room used to be Mattie’s home office. It still looks like one—a desk squashed against the wall, bookcases on the other side. Mattie told him when he moved in that he didn’t mind losing the office, but Mr. Ingram has never felt right about living there. He makes the bed every day and dusts Shannon’s frames every other day—book-club certificates, pictures of his son and daughter-in-law on their honeymoons. They’d gone to South Carolina the first time, when they were in their twenties and saving for a family. Three years ago they’d finally splurged and taken a second honeymoon to Europe.

Mr. Ingram reaches to the nightstand for his own frame, the only one he brought. It’s a picture of the family back in the seventies, before Martha started fighting with breast cancer while Mattie grew into a teenage Matt and an adult Matthew. He touches Martha’s face. She isn’t smiling—she rarely did—but there is light in her eyes as she leans her head on Mr. Ingram’s shoulder, her arm around Mattie.

Mr. Ingram stands up with one hand on the mattress and one on the nightstand. Putting the frame back, he checks the clock; almost time for Mattie to come home. He wants to do something, get his hands moving.

Going to the kitchen, he starts opening drawers—yes, he’ll need a cutting board, and mustn’t forget to wash his hands or Shannon will have a cow— and whistling the familiar melody of “It Had To Be You,” turning his face to the sunshine pouring through the windows. He doesn’t hear Matthew come in from work.

“Dad,” Matthew calls loudly, entering the kitchen.

“Hello, Mattie. How was work?”

Matthew doesn’t answer. Mr. Ingram is chopping carrots with a broad, keen-edged knife. It comes down hard, skittering close to gnarled fingers when it hits the wooden cutting board. “Dad, what are you doing?”

“Helping Shannon start dinner. Thought we might make beef stew.”

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“Dad, that’s a carving knife.”

Mr. Ingram stares down at his hand for a moment, seeming to examine the blade, then shrugs. “It’ll chop vegetables just as well, Mattie. Never could get a good grip on the little ones.”

Matthew closes his hand firmly around Mr. Ingram’s, over the handle of the knife. “Dad, let me do that.”

“I can do it.” Mr. Ingram tries unsuccessfully to shake off Matthew’s hand. His tight mouth is offset by jiggling wrinkles.

“Dad, your hands are shaking. You’ll cut yourself.”

Mr. Ingram hunches his shoulders—he’s shorter than Mattie now, though they were the same height ten years ago—and bends over the cutting board again. “It’ll be just fine. Stop treating me like a two-year-old, Matthew.”

“Then stop whining like one and let me cut the damn carrots.”

“No. I want to do this.”

“Shannon doesn’t even like beef stew. Give me the knife.” Matthew pulls hard on the handle. It comes free, but drops of blood spatter against the white tile countertop. He stares at the knife in his hand, a thin line of red along its top edge, and reaches for Mr. Ingram. “Shit. Dad, let me see your hand—”

“It’s fine, Matthew.” Mr. Ingram’s tense shoulders slump. “It just scratched me.”

“Dad, let me see your hand or I swear—”

“What’s going on?” Shannon appears in the kitchen doorway, her green scrubs dotted with kittens. “Bernie, did you cut yourself?” She raises her voice when she talks to Mr. Ingram. He wants to tell her that he’s hard of hearing, not completely deaf, but that would be impolite.

“No,” Mr. Ingram grumbles. “Everything is just fine, Shannon. Thank you.”

“Nonsense, Bernie, let me see.” Shannon goes to the sink and washes her hands with country apple-scented soap. Her graying brown hair is in a braid, the loose strands pinned back. “All right. Let’s take a look.” She gestures and Mr. Ingram, mouth tight, sets his hand in hers.

“Oh good, it’s only a scratch,” Shannon says. Mr. Ingram thinks to himself that yes, that’s exactly what he said—if only they’d listen. He is fully capable of cutting carrots and washing his own scratches, but Shannon and Matthew prefer to put him in a padded cell.

Shannon washes his hand under the tap and pulls Neosporin and a 10

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Band-Aid from a drawer. “What happened, Matt?”

“Dad wanted beef stew for dinner, so he thought he’d start it for you.”

Shannon’s lips purse, but she smiles anyway—an odd look, her upper lip squashed beneath the lower one. “Of course, Bernie. Beef stew it is.” She pats his hand and releases it, bandaged and clean. “Just don’t use the knives, all right? Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Mr. Ingram upends the cutting board into the sink; sliced carrots bounce along the countertop. “No. No beef stew. Whatever you planned on making is just fine.” Regretting the burst of temper, he shrinks back down, hands in his pockets. He walks out, a tiny hesitation in his step—a remnant of the bad fall two years ago that made it necessary for him to move in.

Sitting down on the living room couch, Mr. Ingram turns on the TV. A Lifetime movie is playing, one Mr. Ingram has seen many times before.

Matthew catches him tearing up sometimes, at parts like this one: I finally found you, my daughter, after so many years. I’ll never leave you again.

Mother and daughter embrace on the screen. They are crying tears of happiness while a man waits in the background—the mother’s new husband. Mr. Ingram hunches down on the couch, never mind what Dr. Ivans said about posture, and turns the volume up louder. Shannon brings him a bowl of stew. He thanks her, but it no longer sounds appetizing.

What he wants, more than anything, is to go for a walk in the falling twilight. To hear train whistles blowing in the distance, and see houses on the street glowing from the inside out. But the last time he’d gone for a walk, Matthew had insisted on running after him and keeping him company. It defeated the whole purpose.

With a sigh, Mr. Ingram turns the TV off. He’s not quite in the mood for this movie tonight. After putting his bowl in the dishwasher, he goes to his room.

The four walls seem narrower than usual, like they’re closing in—or Mr. Ingram is getting bigger while the furniture stays the same. Which is ridiculous to think about, since he’s been shrinking in height for a decade.

He looks at Martha in her frame until his eyelids drift shut.

Yvonne sneezes, startling out of a doze. Her mouth tastes strange.

Dry, like dust and cotton. She spits and sits up straight when the Swiffer, damp from her saliva, drops away from her face.

She’s lost a sock somewhere in between the kitchen and the living 11

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room. Distantly she remembers laying her cheek on the blue carpet, the Swiffer a down pillow. Yvonne is gasping now, wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. Her heart beats fast. Bad dream, it tells her, though she doesn’t remember. Yvonne staggers to her feet. The object she’d come in to dust—an old vase—is knocked over on the mantle. Shit, shit, shit, don’t let it have a scratch on it, what will Marianne say? Yvonne picks it up and runs a finger around the dusty blue glass rim. She traces a crack—tiny, like a hair.

No, oh no. She’ll notice.

On their engagement day, Marianne had given Yvonne and Noah the vase; it had been passed down through six Henson marriages. Yvonne remembered taking the glass in her hands for the first time, cold and surprisingly heavy.

Now Yvonne sits on the couch, the Swiffer falling to the floor. Stillness surrounds the house like a cocoon, the only noise the bellow of a far-off lawnmower. She winces and presses her palm to her forehead. Noah had apologized for their latest argument last night, before they’d gone to bed, and she’d apologized too; but it still felt wrong somehow. Like the more painful words were the ones they’d really meant, and the apologies simply smudged them—created streaks that diluted the impact, but spread it over more area. And it was over something so little. Why did it matter if they asked Marianne to have Thanksgiving at their house this year, instead of hers? They always did it at Marianne’s, and Yvonne had just wanted a challenge, something to keep her busy. But no, Noah wasn’t willing to even ask.

Bottle. The bottle. What time is it? Yvonne lurches to her feet, her hair flat on one side, and she puts the wine bottle—a good pinot noir—in the recycling. It’s in plain sight, but she doesn’t worry. Noah will never take out the trash anyway. The bottle makes a hollow thud as it hits the others.

Glass: strong, but so breakable. It makes her wonder what the vase would sound like, breaking into pieces sharp enough to cut, sharp as words.

Yvonne, you’re being unreasonable. It’s a holiday, not a competition. Yvonne, just stop already, will you? She walks back to the living room and picks up the vase, hands squeezing the belly tight as though to shatter it with pressure from the inside. Then the key turns in the front door. Yvonne turns the vase on the mantle so the crack isn’t visible and smiles, picking up the Swiffer.

“You look cold, Noah. Here, I’ll take your coat.”

He hands it to her, his eyes and smile fixed on the family painting behind her. Noah, Yvonne, Corinna, and Colin, both kids with one hand on the head of their golden retriever, Lucky. Yvonne misses Lucky. Misses 12

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having the dog’s breath against her knee during winter days when Noah was at work and Colin and Corinna at school. “Are the kids home yet?”

Yvonne glances at the clock. “Not yet. The buses seem to be running late.”

“Yeah, there was a wreck on the interstate—an oil truck turned over.”

Noah sits on the couch and turns on the TV. Yvonne starts the coffeepot, her head ringing. Too much; she’d drunk too much today, if she fell asleep on the carpet. But it doesn’t matter. Noah never notices, and it makes the days bearable—gives them a brightness, a glow.

Noah would have to look at her to notice.

When the coffee is ready Yvonne pours two mugs. She puts sugar and cream in hers—only a teaspoon of one percent milk in Noah’s—and carries them to the living room. Throat tight, she sits beside him on the couch.

She runs her hand over the red-and-gold embroidery on the green cushion.

They need a new couch. They’ve had this one for a few years, and she’s tired of the color, but she hasn’t been able to get Noah to go shopping with her.

“Noah?”

“Yes?” He doesn’t look away from the Two and a Half Men rerun, laughing when Charlie stumbles out of the bedroom draped around a brunette and a bottle of rum. Yvonne hates this show. Noah knows that. Why does he have to watch it constantly?

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay, sure.” He laughs again; the brunette just left Charlie and Alan’s house, and Charlie made an off-color joke. Yvonne doesn’t care to learn what it was this time.

“Would you please mute the TV, Noah? This is important.” Yvonne gets the words out through teeth that feel sewn together along their ridges, like the seam on one of Corinna’s short jean skirts.

Noah mutes the TV and finally looks at her. “Yvonne, I just got home from work. Can I please just have five minutes to not worry about anything?”

She stands up. “You can have all the time you want.”

“Yvonne, come on—”

“Noah, shut up and watch your stupid show.” Yvonne goes into the bathroom and closes the door, leaning against it. She stares at herself in the mirror. Newly dyed hair, lipstick, painted nails. Why does she do this? Why does she pretend that today he’ll listen, that he’ll really look at her?

It’s always the same. Like Charlie’s jokes. They just aren’t funny after you 13

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hear the same ones over and over. With a sigh, she sees that a few tears have messed up her mascara, and reaches for the tube in the medicine cabinet to reapply.

Late September becomes October, and October fades into November. There is no green left on the Pennsylvania leaves, a shower of red, orange, and yellow falling in a sunburst from the trees into the yards, sidewalks, streets. Mr. Ingram walks outside to get his mail, three times a day, every day. He feels invasive going through Shannon and Matthew’s envelopes. But he has to look carefully, because sometimes they just address them to Mr. Ingram and that’s him, too.

Nothing today. He will check again before dinner, just in case. Matthew has tried to make him use email—says that he can communicate with old friends, family members, stay better connected to the world. But Mr. Ingram has never touched a computer and has no desire to. There are some things he’s too old to learn, and in his opinion computers make things too easy. Too easy to hit send and then forget. Real relationships don’t hit send and forget until the next email arrives by the e-mailman, or however that works.

He takes all of the mail and tucks it under his arm. One less handful for the kids to carry in with their work things. Walking back down the sidewalk feels like walking a mile used to. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yvonne Henson looking out the kitchen window at him. She jumps a little when he waves—why does she look so guilty, it’s not like she’s doing anything wrong looking out the window—and waves back, with a little too much vigor. He wishes Matthew and Shannon would be on better terms with the neighbors, because Yvonne always seems very sweet. She used to walk out every weekday and meet her kids at the bus stop. He can’t remember the kids’ names—don’t they both start with the same letter? Silly when parents do that. Sometimes he and Yvonne would run into one another in the afternoons, when he went out to check the mailbox and she went out to the kids. Not so much anymore.

Mr. Ingram takes the first stairstep with a sigh. No pulling yourself up today, old man. Someone’s watching. Step by step, that’s how to do it, just keep moving. His knees protest his weight and his back does not want to bend. His body feels like a twig, hard but brittle.

On the second-to-last step he falters. His weight pulls him back 14

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instead of forward. Lurching out with both arms—not another fall, that’s what got him here in the first place—he wraps both hands around the porch column. Breathing hard, he stands with shaky legs on the porch. But he’s forgotten about the mail that was under his arm, and now it’s scattered over the steps and the grass behind him. He places his hand on the column and puts his foot back on the top step. The dew is already soaking into the envelopes, water-spots everywhere.

Mr. Ingram is getting ready to pick up the mail when he hears, “Wait, Mr. Ingram, I’ll get it.” Yvonne Henson is rushing toward him, her bright purple slippers out of place beside her ironed dress and curled hair.

“You just stay right there.” She bends down—makes it look so easy, had it ever been that easy? He can’t remember a time when it was—and begins to put the pile back together, piece by piece. “Needed some fresh air anyway.”

Yvonne joggles the envelopes in her hands, getting them straight before holding them out to Mr. Ingram. He is several steps above her still. Tall.

“Much appreciated, Mrs. Henson.” He clutches the pile on top and bottom.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Mr. Ingram. We’re neighbors. Call me Yvonne.”

She smiles at him; there is a smudge of pink lipstick on her front teeth.

“Yvonne, then. And I’m Bernie.” They both stand for a moment—a goodbye should go here, in this place in the conversation, and they know it. Yet they are outside doors and windows. They breathe deeply, tasting the first icy whisper of winter, somehow a wholly different flavor from air conditioning. “Where are you off to, Yvonne, looking so pretty?”

Her eyes close—so quickly, it almost seems a wink—and her smile fades. “Oh, nowhere in particular.”

“Come, now. You can’t waste that smile on four walls all day, can you?”

The smile in question flickers across her mouth once more, like the low flame of a candle. “Usually do.”

“That’s a shame. See, it brightened my day right up.”

Yvonne’s laugh is high-pitched, nearly a girl’s giggle. “You’re a flirt, Bernie.”

He winks. “You should know everyone’s got surprises. Us older folks have got more than others, because we’ve had more time to acquire them.”

He pats the mail with his top hand. “Thanks for the help, Yvonne.”

“Anytime.”

Mr. Ingram turns away with a wave, placing one foot in front of the other.

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He wipes them, meticulous, on the Thanksgiving-themed doormat.

“Bernie? Would you like to come to my house for lunch tomorrow?”

It seems to take effort for him to turn around—a series of inchsteps. Yvonne almost regrets making him do it, but then she sees the smile stretching across his slightly yellow teeth. He has one front tooth that’s much whiter than the others—a denture, she guesses. Funny how she couldn’t have seen that from her kitchen window. “I’d like that, Yvonne.”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Yvonne walks back across the Ingrams’ lawn. Her slippered feet feel the slide of every dew-damp leaf. She curls her toes in the mud before stepping back onto her own driveway. She doesn’t think about the dirt she will track into the foyer, only how good the dampness of the cool mud feels as it leaks through her slippers.

Mr. Ingram watches TV—another Lifetime movie. He smiles at the reunion of the amnesiac wife with her husband, who happens to be a prince of Monaco, though of course that bit isn’t as realistic as the rest. He doesn’t understand why his son laughs at him for watching this channel—at the end of the movie, everyone is always back together. He takes a final bite of his hot bologna and mustard sandwich as Matthew stands in the doorway and rattles the keys. “Dad, we need to leave for your appointment now in case there’s traffic.”

Mr. Ingram turns up the volume on the remote. “I have to see the end.” His once-granite jaw trembles. “Can’t I at least see how it ends?”

“We need to leave. There’s ice on the roads so I’ll have to take it slow.”

“There are two minutes left; surely we can wait two minutes?”

Matthew sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Two minutes.

But I need to get back to work as soon as we’re done, Dad, okay?”

“Of course, Mattie.” Mr. Ingram pats the couch beside him. “Have a seat. It’s a very good movie.”

“No, Dad, we’re about to leave. I’m good right here.” Matthew reaches for a brown wool coat on its peg. “Here’s your coat. Can you put it on while you watch? Please?”

“Sure, Mattie. Just a second.” Mr. Ingram doesn’t move.

“Dad.”

“Yes, Mattie?”

“Here’s your coat.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He takes the coat and places it across his lap, gaze 16

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still on the TV, where the reunited couple is kissing and hugging in a fancy square somewhere—Rome, maybe, or Paris. One of those places that’s old.

The end credits start to roll and Mr. Ingram is still looking at the screen. His lips move soundlessly, repeating the last line of the movie. And here we are, my love. And here we are.

Matthew takes the remote off the center console of the couch and hits the power button. The screen goes blank and black with an audible zap.

“Dad, are you ready?”

“For what?”

“Your appointment. With Dr. Jacobs.” Nothing. “The endocrinologist? She’s going to check your blood sugar, remember, she does it once a month.”

The fog in Mr. Ingram’s pale eyes lifts. “Oh, of course. Dr. Jacobs.” He stands up, shrugging on his coat. He’s had it since he was in his forties, and he’s now seventy-nine. Martha bought it for him, of course, and he resists any of his daughter-in-law’s attempts to make him wear a different one. It’s warm, he tells her. That’s what matters. “Let’s go, then.”

Matthew shakes his head as Mr. Ingram leads the way out. He locks the door behind him and they climb inside his Ford truck. “How was your morning?”

“Great,” Mr. Ingram says with a smile. It is a more enthusiastic answer than the usual “fine, just fine.”

“Yeah? What did you do?”

“Just took the mail in and watched some TV. Same as always. Talked to the woman next door a little.”

“Who? The Henson woman?” Matthew brakes carefully as he approaches a yellow light, even though the roads don’t look that icy to Mr. Ingram. In his day, he and his brother Miller would’ve raced to an empty parking lot and gone skidding at the first hint of ice. Of course, in retrospect, it was a bit stupid of them. But so is inching to a halt three feet back from the crosswalk.

“Yeah, that’s her. Yvonne.”

The light changes. Matthew goes forward, his eyes scanning the other cars. “Yvonne? Didn’t remember her first name.”

“Nice, isn’t it. She is, too. Nice.” Mr. Ingram stares out at the brown river along the boulevard. It is high and fast today, white caps forming and breaking in the blink of an eye.

“Really. They always seemed pretty snobbish, bulldozing the old Cal17

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loway house and building that monstrosity in its place.” Matthew grips the steering wheel tighter.

Mr. Ingram frowns. “Well, Yvonne was very nice.” When Matthew doesn’t respond, he adds with a slight edge, “And I’m having lunch at her house tomorrow.”

“You what?” They are almost at the doctor’s office now. “How did that happen?”

Mr. Ingram checks his pockets for his wallet and the cell phone that Matthew made him get. In his opinion, it’s not so good to always be available for people—they start taking you for granted—but he can’t convince Matthew and Shannon of that, with their computers and cell phones. So he lost the battle over the cell phone, but won the war over computer lessons at the senior center. “Never get too old to make friends, Mattie.” His breath against the window fogs the glass. “It will be nice to have a change of routine.”

Matthew pulls into a parking spot near the entrance of the office building. “Here we are.”

Mr. Ingram opens the door and swings his knees to the side, gathering strength to get out of the truck. Matthew winces when he jumps, the passenger door catching some of his momentum. The Malibu is easier for him to go to appointments in, but Shannon drives it to work.

They walk into the office. Matthew grimaces when he hears loud coughing and pulls out hand sanitizer. “Dad, you have a seat, I’ll sign in for you.”

“I can sign in for myself,” Mr. Ingram grumbles and limps his way to the window. His fingers shake as he signs his name.

“Hello, Bernie,” the receptionist says with a smile. “How are you doing today?”

“Better now that I saw you.” He grins at her and she laughs.

“Oh, stop it.” She shoos him away with a wave of her hand. “Dr. Jacobs is running a little behind, but we’ll call you in soon. Behave yourself until then, Bernie.”

“I’ll do my best.” Mr. Ingram comes and sits beside Matthew, who already has a well-thumbed copy of Good Housekeeping covering his face.

“Anything good in there, Mattie?”

“Well, it’s not Sports Illustrated, but it’s better than just sitting here.”

“If you say so.” Mr. Ingram waits in silence, watching the other people in the room, until his name is called at the door. “See you in a minute, Mattie.”

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“Yep.” The magazine doesn’t come down.

Dr. Jacobs, a portly woman wearing a purple-flowered dress under her white coat, checks his blood sugar and monthly glucose journal.

“Everything still looks good, Bernie.”

He smiles at her. “Well, good.” He stands up and holds out his hand.

Dr. Jacobs takes it, then immediately loosens her grip when she sees him wince.

“What’s wrong, Bernie?”

Mr. Ingram puts his hands in his pockets. “Oh, nothing. Just scratched myself the other day. Forgot all about it.”

Dr. Jacobs levels a hard look at him through her glasses. “Sit back down and let me see.”

Reluctantly, Bernie lowers himself to the seat. “It’s nothing, Dr. Jacobs. Just an accident. I was cutting carrots and Matthew… he wanted the knife and I didn’t hear him ask for it, and I got cut when we reached for it at the same time.” The lies come out of his mouth without conscious thought. He holds out his hand. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

She studies it for a moment, tracing the scabbing with her gloved finger. “Looks like it’s healing well. But, Bernie, you’re supposed to tell me about things like this in the first part of the appointment. You know, when I ask if you’ve hurt yourself or anyone else has hurt you?”

“I know.” He pulls his hand back. “Just forgot, that’s all. It was an accident.”

“All right.” Dr. Jacobs takes off her gloves and walks to the waiting room with him, keeping up friendly chatter. When they get there, she puts her hand on his arm, holding him back. “Matthew, hello. Could I talk to you for one second?”

Matthew folds his magazine down—he’s progressed to Glamour— and a frown forms between his eyebrows.

Dr. Jacobs’ easygoing smile seems stretched. “Bernie, just go ahead and have Margaret schedule your next appointment. I promise I’ll have your son right back.”

“Sure.” Mr. Ingram watches Dr. Jacobs lead Matthew back into the hallway.

“Uh-oh, trouble’s back!” Margaret says to him from the window.

“Everything good with Dr. Jacobs, handsome?”

“Oh, yeah. Just same as always.”

“Coming back in a month?”

19

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“Yes. On a Wednesday morning, if you’ve got it, it’s the easiest time for Mattie to get off work.” Mr. Ingram waits to be handed his appointment card, and then sticks it in his blood sugar journal. Matthew opens the waiting-room door. “Thank you, Margaret. See you next month.”

“See you then. Have a good one.”

“You too.” Matthew comes to stand beside him. Mr. Ingram tries to read his face, but can’t see anything—good or bad. “Mattie? Everything all right?”

Matthew doesn’t answer. “Are you ready to go, Dad?”

“Yes, of course.” They start walking back to the car. “I got the appointment for Wednesday morning next time, like you asked.”

“Thanks.” Matthew opens the door for Mr. Ingram and offers him a hand up. Mr. Ingram stares at him and doesn’t move.

“I can get in the truck on my own, Mattie. I’m not an invalid.”

“Dad, the truck is hard for you to get into. Just take the hand, all right?”

Mr. Ingram crosses his arms. “You just go around and get in your own seat, and leave me to worry about myself.”

“Fine. Do it yourself, then.”

“I will.” Mr. Ingram grabs hold of the handle to heave himself into the truck. Sure, it isn’t easy, but he’s going to do it for himself for as long as he can. Once he and Matthew are sitting in the truck, he asks, “What did Dr. Jacobs want to talk about?”

“She wanted to warn me.” Matthew turns the key in the ignition and the truck comes to life, heat blasting from the vents.

“Warn you? Warn you about what?”

“She said you’ve been getting a lot of cuts and bruises. She said if it keeps happening she’s going to have someone look into it.” Matthew spits the words out through tight lips, driving a little faster than he normally would— maybe a whole two miles above the speed limit.

“I don’t understand, Mattie. Look into what?”

They come to a stop sign. “She’s worried that we’re abusing you, Dad. You’ve got to be more careful, you can’t keep having accidents or they might not let you live with us.”

“But that’s ridiculous. I’m just an old man, I bruise when a flower touches me.”

“I know. But she wanted to hear about the cut on your hand, Dad, 20

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and I told her you hurt yourself when you were cutting carrots. She said that wasn’t what you said.”

“Because it’s not the truth. It was an accident, but I would’ve been just fine if you hadn’t tried to take the knife away from me.”

“It was for your own good. Look, let’s just drop it, okay?”

“Fine, Matthew.” A mixture of snow and rain begins to fall outside the car and Matthew turns up the radio. It’s an oldies station, but still only plays music from the seventies and eighties—not a real oldies station, Mr. Ingram always tells his son. The music usually fills space in the car, but today it too seems empty, while everything that needs to be said gets stuck in the bottom of Mr. Ingram’s throat like phlegm on a particularly congested morning.

Corinna shoves the door open as she comes home from school, her red backpack littered with buttons like splashes of paint. Yvonne is waiting in the living room, as usual. Her head is pleasantly buzzing—not too much today. Only two glasses of chardonnay with lunch. “Hi, honey,” she says.

“Bus was early today.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you have a good day?” But Corinna has already pushed past her, through the front door. She drops her backpack on the couch, which Yvonne has repeatedly told her not to do, and waits in the kitchen with her hands on her hips. “Mom, where’s the cookies?”

“I didn’t make any today.”

“But you always have cookies.”

“Well, I don’t today, honey. There’s food in the fridge and pantry if you can’t wait until dinner. Just don’t ruin your appetite.” Yvonne throws Corinna’s backpack from the couch to the hallway with a practiced toss like a horseshoe at one of their Fourth of July cookouts. Sitting on the couch, she absently rubs the diamond on her ring finger.

Colin is next to bang the door open. “Hey, Mom,” he says, dropping his bag beside the front door. Yvonne stifles a sigh. The front door isn’t as bad as the couch, at least. Colin had gone through a phase during backto-school shopping where he was convinced that no real middle-schooler would be caught dead with a superhero backpack, so up into the attic it had gone, replaced by this one with its camouflage pattern.

“Hi, Colin.” He’d also reached the phase where any and all endear21

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ments—love, dear, sweetheart, honey—made him blush deep red and hiss Mom! “Did you have a good day?”

“Yep.” He comes to sit beside her on the couch. “Ms. Ellis gave me an A on my homework for the first six weeks.”

“Good job, Colin.” She ruffles his hair. He rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest. “And what about the math test? Did you find out today?”

He smiles even brighter. “Yep. I got a C! Isn’t that awesome?”

Yvonne swallows a laugh and a groan at the same time. It sounds like a hiccup escaping. “No. But good try.” Colin throws himself down on the couch with a scowl. “Why did you get a C? We studied together for hours.”

“I know, but when the test came I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

His jaw works, eyes wide, but nothing comes out.

“What is it, hon—Colin?”

“Sandra Jones was sitting beside me and she smelled really good and she kept smiling at me.” His eyes get wider and wider as he talks. “And it was like all of a sudden I couldn’t do math anymore. It was scary.”

Yvonne laughs now. She can’t help it.

“Mom, don’t laugh! I’m not going to tell you anything ever again.”

Colin stands up and stomps to his room.

“Honey, stop, I didn’t mean to laugh,” Yvonne calls out.

“Don’t call me honey!” A door slams. Yvonne can’t stop laughing.

Have to remember to remind him that slamming doors isn’t nice.

“What’s funny?” Noah asks. She hasn’t heard the door open, and jumps a little at the sound of his voice.

“Oh, nothing.” Yvonne stands up, her laughter fading. “Here, I’ll take your coat.”

“Don’t mind that, what was so funny?” Noah puts a hand over his coat buttons when Yvonne tries to undo them.

“Really, it was nothing. Just Colin being a twelve-year-old boy.” She brushes his fingers aside. “Here, let me—”

Noah puts his hands on her shoulders. “Look, I can undo my own buttons.” Slowly, she lets go and turns around. “Yvonne.” He reaches for her hand, but she yanks it away and steps back so fast her head bangs against the mantle, and something else. Something that wobbles and pivots. Somehow she hears the thud, the ringing of glass shattering, before it actually happens.

She doesn’t look. It is enough to see Noah’s wide eyes—a mockery of Colin’s only moments earlier—staring at the floor behind her. “Yvonne, what have 22

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you done?”

“I...”

“Mom? Daddy?” Corinna pokes her head around the kitchen door.

“I heard something break.” She gasps. “Grandma’s vase.”

“Yes, honey, it was an accident.” Yvonne says it with a steady voice, taking her eyes off Noah—still frozen—to look at her daughter.

“Everything’s okay. Go finish your snack.” Corinna’s blonde head disappears. Yvonne turns to take in the wreckage.

It’s bad. Blue glass glints on the sand-colored hardwood floors. She wishes distantly she could’ve seen it in the process of falling, instead of seeing it whole and then in pieces, like a before-and-after. A cause-and-effect. “It’s a vase, Noah,” Yvonne finally says. “I will apologize to your mother.

But it was an accident. I’ll clean it up and we’ll move on.” No response. She moves closer, hesitantly reaches up to touch his arm, still covered in his black coat. He doesn’t move away. She’d half-expected he would.

“We’ll move on,” he echoes. Looks at her a long moment. Yvonne’s stomach turns with the blankness in his eyes, blank like a perfect sky. On a sunny day, you never realize how clouds complete the picture, how they protect you from the harsh rays of the light. The endless expanse of blue can be overwhelming, going on and on and on. “Of course. It’s only a vase.”

He kisses her on the forehead—a brush of the lips and it’s gone—and unbuttons his coat. “I’ll clean up,” he tells her. “I know you have to get dinner ready.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Yvonne moves across the room and sees Corinna sitting in the kitchen, sliding a big spoonful of vanilla pudding into her mouth. She doesn’t say put that down, pudding is dessert, not a snack. She doesn’t leave space open for Corinna to ask why cookies are a good snack but pudding isn’t, as her teenage daughter always does. She preheats the oven to 425, washes her hands, and pulls out a can of crescent rolls.

She is behind on dinner; the oven should’ve been preheated ten minutes ago. Yvonne listens to Noah sweeping the glass into a dustpan—a tinkle of sound, clink clink clink. It sounds like music, but in no key she has ever heard.

Yvonne doesn’t know what Bernie will like for lunch, so she makes simple things. Old standbys. It feels good to have her hands moving—even if they keep wanting to reach behind the stack of freezer bags in the pantry to 23

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the wine. No wine. Not until after lunch. She’s dug an old clock out of boxes in the spare bedroom to replace the vase on the mantle. Every hour, a cat is supposed to pop out of the top and meow in a sing-song, but it’s been broken for a long time.

Last night had been uneasy. Noah hadn’t said anything more about the vase—in fact, he’d been perfectly polite. So infernally polite that she’d wanted a blanket from the hall closet.

The doorbell rings just as Yvonne is putting the final touches on lunch: a sprig of flowers in the napkin basket. Fake, of course. But nonetheless, it is a gray, rainy day outside and the flowers are bright. She opens the front door. “Hello, Bernie. So glad you could come.”

Her breath catches when he holds out a bouquet of flowers. “Hello, Yvonne, hello. For my beautiful hostess.”

Even though she knows it’s silly, Yvonne can’t help the pressure that builds behind her eyes. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

“No, not at all.”

Bernie steps in, and Yvonne closes the door behind him. “The kitchen is this way. We have a dining room, but I thought we’d eat in the kitchen.

It has lots more sunlight than—”

“The kitchen will be lovely, Yvonne.” Bernie pats her on the shoulder.

Yvonne leads him in and overrides his offer to help with lunch. “No, no, of course not. I’ve already got it all ready.” She turns to the stove. “I made grilled cheese and tomato soup, and celery with peanut butter. Chocolate cake for dessert. I hope that’s all right.”

“Wonderful.” Bernie takes the fork with enthusiasm as Yvonne sets the plate down in front of him. “Shannon would scold me for eating the cake, of course,” he confides. “Shouldn’t, with my blood sugar, but I just can’t help it. I’ve got an awful sweet tooth.”

Yvonne pales. “Oh, no, I didn’t even think—I’m sorry, Mr. Ingram, we can have some fruit instead—”

With more strength than she would’ve believed he had, he latches onto his dessert plate. “Don’t be silly. It looks better than anything I’ve eaten all week. Just don’t tell Shannon, that’s all, she’ll have my head.” Slowly, Yvonne lets go and sits down beside him. Her own plate isn’t so full. “That can’t be all you’re eating, when you gave me a feast.”

“Oh, I ate a big breakfast.” Yvonne swirls her spoon through the red soup, but doesn’t lift it to take a bite. “Plus, it’s not like I exert myself much.

Nothing to get hungry over.”

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“Ridiculous. You’ve got two kids and a husband to take care of, you work as hard as anyone.” Bernie puts down his fork. “Is everything all right, Yvonne?” He almost misses it—the slight flinch, her forehead crinkling.

“Of course, Bernie. I’m sorry.” She lifts the spoon to her mouth and swallows. “See? Just fine.” He doesn’t move. “Please keep eating. The soup is only good warm, really.”

“As delicious as you made it, it would be good cold.” She smiles, but her eyes are still far away. “What’s wrong?”

“Just…” Yvonne’s spoon clanks against the table in defeat. She can’t eat. Not when this lunch reminds her so much of dinner the night before.

Corinna’s teenage sullenness, Colin’s pouting, Noah’s silence. “I’m a bit restless, Bernie.”

He sits back in his chair. “Family?”

She rubs her temples. “A bit. I’m sorry, it’s not good manners to let it show.”

“Don’t be silly.” He grins. “We’re neighbors. I’m supposed to know all about your business and you about mine. We’re just not supposed to let on we know.”

Yvonne laughs. “True.”

Bernie slurps more soup, dipping saltine crackers into it from a plate in the middle of the table. Yvonne still toys with her spoon, running it around the bowl and watching the red swirl. “Want an ear?” he asks. Her hand pauses in the middle of its circle. “I’ve got two of them. They’re a bit old, but I think they still work all right.”

“I’m sorry, Bernie. I didn’t invite you over to complain about my life, I promise.” Her lips are pressed tightly together, eyes a little shiny. “Not that I have anything to complain about.”

“And again I’ll say ridiculous. I’m seventy-nine years old, sweetheart, and all I’ve learned in my life is that everyone’s got something to complain about—and they usually do.” Bernie bites down on a piece of celery, hears the snap of it breaking, and hopes his dentures stay put. “Me, for example.

I tell you what, if Matthew changes the channel one more time to a football game when a movie’s almost over, I’m going to hide the remote while he’s at work.” Yvonne laughs and he eyes her over his grilled cheese. “Your turn to complain.”

“I… am bored. Nothing ever changes.” Her hands squeeze her porcelain bowl. “I wish that I had something to do besides try to hold a house and a family together.” Her hands relax and she picks up the spoon again, clear25

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ing her throat, but she still doesn’t eat. “Your turn.”

“I miss being able to walk without it hurting, and climb stairs without nearly falling.” Bernie finishes demolishing the celery and peanut butter.

Snap, snap, snap. The celery pieces are stringy against his teeth, and the peanut butter sticky. But they taste good. “Your turn.”

“I miss when Corinna and Colin were little, and they weren’t embarrassed to be around me. Your turn.”

“I miss my wife. And sometimes, when I’m being selfish, I wish that so many things didn’t remind me of her, because they make her impossible to forget. Your turn.”

Yvonne stares down into her cooling soup. “I’m not sure I want to be married to Noah anymore.”

As though saying the words cleared out room in her stomach, she begins shoveling tomato soup into her mouth. Bernie clasps his hands together and leans forward on the table. “Why do you say that?”

She swallows and pats her mouth with a napkin before answering.

“Because he doesn’t listen. I miss when we actually used to talk. It’s just… being married is something that used to be good, and make me happy, but it doesn’t anymore. I don’t know when it changed. But I’m not happy, Bernie.”

Bernie looks down at the table for a moment, examining the grains.

Then he looks back up at her. “Yvonne, how long have you been married to Noah?”

“Eighteen years.”

He reaches over and puts his hand on top of hers. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I know what you should do with your life. But I’ve lived long enough to see things change—to see people change. And do you mind if I tell you something?”

She squeezes his hand. “No. Of course not.”

“People sometimes have a narrow view of what happy means. You can have sadness and still be happy, if you know how.” He shakes his head. “I think people rely on other people and things to make them happy—like it’s something that can be given or bought wholesale. And when they still aren’t, it’s easier to just say it doesn’t work and give up.”

Yvonne flinches. “So you’re telling me it’s my fault. That I should stay with Noah.”

“No, Yvonne.” Bernie pats her hand. “I’m saying there’s a difference between happiness and joy. Happiness is temporary. I’m happy sometimes, when there’s a good movie on Lifetime or when my lovely neighbor invites 26

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me over for lunch and there’s chocolate cake.” Yvonne laughs. “But things like that don’t last longer than the time you have them. Joy is something else, something permanent that can survive unhappiness.” He releases her hand and their eyes meet. “I think what you mean, when you say being married doesn’t make you happy, is you don’t find joy in it anymore. And that’s real, something you have to figure out—what your joy is.”

Yvonne takes a bite of grilled cheese, her gaze a little distant. “What’s your joy, Bernie?”

He winks at her, his eyes bright. “Oh, I have to have my secrets, don’t I?”

Bernie waits on her to finish her food before he starts the chocolate cake. She protests, telling him to go ahead and eat; he waves a knobby hand at her. “I’d rather have an accomplice when I commit a crime against my blood sugar.”

They take a bite at the same time, eyes closed. “I like your complaining game, Bernie.”

He chortles. “Me too. But I like chocolate cake more. Tastes even better when I’m not supposed to eat it.” Then Bernie blinks rapidly, his mouth twisting.

Yvonne asks, “What is it, Bernie?”

He shakes his head. “Oh, nothing. Just realized I didn’t check the mail on my way over. First time in a while that I forgot.”

“Are you waiting for something?”

“In a way.” Bernie stands and picks up his hat. “My brother used to write to me. He lives in Colorado. Neither of us ever got into phones much; he never even got a number, as far as I know. But he used to write, a couple of times a year. And since I moved in with Matthew I haven’t heard from him.” He puts on the hat, pulling it down to his ears. “I don’t know if he got my letters telling him I moved. So I just keep looking in the mailbox and hoping.”

Yvonne puts a hand on his arm. “I hope he writes to you, Bernie.

What’s his name?”

“Miller,” he says with a smile. “It was my dad’s name too.”

Bernie walks towards the front door. “Wait,” Yvonne says. “Why don’t I give you a piece or two of that cake to take home? Just hide it from Shannon. I wouldn’t want her angry at me.”

Bernie grins again, his denture brighter than the surrounding teeth.

“Now you’re enabling me, Yvonne. This is the start of an excellent friend27

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ship.”

Cake in hand, Bernie waves on the doorstep and walks back to Matthew and Shannon’s yard. Yvonne smiles, watching him open the mailbox and take out the pile of envelopes.

Bernie doesn’t see her walk back inside and open the pantry, reaching behind the freezer bags. It’s cabernet today. He doesn’t see how she pauses a moment before the first sip—always the best, the warmest. But today it leaves an ugly aftertaste on her tongue.

Yvonne doesn’t see Bernie rifle through the envelopes and freeze, holding the one that says “Sunnyside Senior Living” on the return address closer to his face until it touches his nose. How this one time he pretends that he is the Mr. Ingram it’s addressed to—Mr. Matthew Ingram—and opens the envelope. Sitting in the bay window, Yvonne watches him take the stairs, one by one, and only thinks that coming over for lunch tired him out—look how slowly he’s moving now—next time she’ll take the food to him.

Yvonne puts on her coat; it’s only a few feet over to the Ingrams’, but it’s snowing and she’s fairly certain Matthew and Shannon won’t invite her inside. Honestly, you would think they’d have gotten over it by now—how their bid for the house lost to Yvonne and Noah’s. The old Calloway house had only had one more bedroom than Shannon and Matthew’s.

But some people really know how to hold a grudge.

She pulls on gloves and takes a piece of paper in hand, still a little warm from the printer. A bearded face in the upper-left corner peers up at her, Miller Wesley Ingram typed beside it.

Yvonne closes the door behind her, but doesn’t bother locking it. She will be back soon enough. She just has to give this to Bernie and then she’ll start the coffeepot. She folds the paper and stuffs it into her coat pocket before leaving the porch. Even though it’s only late afternoon, the first hints of dusk are falling over the sky. Another winter beginning. Her feet leave boot prints in the thin layer of snow that’s already sticking to the yard. Climbing the steps, she slips on an icy patch and has to catch herself on the column— the one Bernie uses when he thinks no one’s looking. She gasps, her breath a puff of white the same color as Shannon and Matthew’s siding, then takes a deeper breath and knocks on the door.

Footsteps echo on hardwood floor as they come toward her, and 28

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Yvonne fixes a wide smile on her face. It begins to hurt her cheek muscles after a few seconds, so she drops it. Why is she so worried? She’s coming to see Bernie, not Matthew or Shannon.

The door opens and a swirl of warm air hits Yvonne’s pink face.

Shannon stands in the entryway. She is dressed in jeans and a thick red sweater, which looks odd to Yvonne; to her, Shannon lives in scrubs, coming to or going from the hospital. “Hello,” Shannon says after only a moment’s hesitation.

“Hello, Shannon. How are you?

“Fine, thanks.” There’s another pause. “And you?”

“Fine. Thank you.” Shannon continues to stare at her, the door open.

Yvonne clears her throat. “I just have something I wanted to give Bernie?”

She flushes a deeper shade of pink.

“Oh. Of course.” Shannon stands aside. Yvonne tries not to notice that her mouth is turned down at the corners, like she isn’t happy about it.

“Bernie’s in the living room.”

“Thank you.” Yvonne wipes her feet on the Christmas rug and steps inside. She begins to take off her snowy boots, and Shannon taps her arm.

“No, no, that’s not necessary. Just leave them on.”

“But I’ll track snow all over the carpet. I’d really better take them off—”

“Don’t worry about it. You aren’t staying that long anyway.” Shannon covers her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”

Yvonne smiles, and again it hurts her cheek muscles. “Of course.”

Shannon turns her face away and coughs as Yvonne shoves her left heel back down into the boot.

“Shannon? Who was at the door?” Matthew appears in the nearest doorway, wearing a pink apron and oven mitts. He blinks. “Oh. Yvonne.

Hello.”

“Hello, Matthew,” Yvonne responds. She starts to regret the impulse to come over—why didn’t she just wait until Monday morning when Matthew and Shannon would be at work? Or, even better, she could’ve waited for Bernie to come to the mailbox and met him on the sidewalk. Still, here she is. And there is the piece of paper burning in her pocket. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. Just making dinner. And you?”

“Oh, I’m very well, thank you.” She forces yet another smile. “Don’t let me keep you from dinner. I’m just here to give something to Bernie and I’ll be right out.”

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Matthew’s mouth opens and closes once, then he nods. “Right. Well, nice seeing you.” He disappears back into the kitchen.

“Bernie’s right through here.” Shannon leads Yvonne down the hallway.

“You have a lovely house.” Yvonne points at a seascape on the wall.

“That’s pretty.”

Shannon shoots a glance over her shoulder and looks straight forward again. “Thank you.” They walk into a small room with an old brown couch and a boxy TV surrounded by several overflowing bookcases.

“Bernie, Yvonne is here to see you.”

Bernie turns around on the couch and smiles. He’s taken his dentures out for cleaning, and Yvonne tries not to stare at his gums. “Oh, Yvonne! Long time no see!”

Shannon mumbles something about helping Matthew with dinner and leaves the room. “Hello, Bernie,” Yvonne says. She sits down beside him and looks at a pile of books on the floor. They’re brightly colored, the corners worn from turning. “Children’s books. Do Shannon and Matthew have nieces or nephews?”

Bernie’s smile fades. “No, no. They’re both only children. Shannon volunteers at the hospital, reading to kids.”

“Ah.” Yvonne clears her throat. “That’s great.”

“Yes. She really enjoys it.” Bernie pats her hand. “Is everything all right, Yvonne?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Well, you just haven’t come over before.” He tilts his head to one side, studying her. “And after our conversation earlier I thought—”

“Oh, no,” Yvonne laughs. “I still don’t have any idea what I’m going to do.” She looks at the TV, somehow unwilling to show him what she’d found. Not yet. “What are you watching?”

“A Lifetime movie. Forget what it’s called. You ever watch Lifetime?”

Her mouth twitches. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Well, I like it,” Bernie says staunchly. “Even though Matthew insists it’s a woman’s channel—meaning no offense—I like it. It’s about people, you know? It’s about hope.” He stares at the screen, where a beautiful woman is lying on the couch with tears rolling down her face. “See, look at her. She looks pretty miserable, doesn’t she? But—” here he sits up straighter, hands on his knees—“the story doesn’t stay that way. You’ll see. Her baby’s been kidnapped and she doesn’t trust the dad, but in the end—oh, I don’t know if 30

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I should ruin it for you—it turns out it was her jealous mother-in-law that took the baby, and they all come back together.”

Yvonne watches the woman pick up the phone and choke out a few words between tears. “All of this melodrama has a happy ending, Bernie?”

He shakes his head at her. “You’ll see. You just watch it—doesn’t matter I’ve already told you how it ends. Once you watch one you’ll see.” For a long time, almost an hour, Yvonne sits with Bernie. She takes off her coat and forgets about what’s in the pocket.

“Bernie?” Shannon stands in the doorway of the living room. “Dinner’s ready. Here, I’ll turn the TV off for you.” She walks up to the TV and hits the off switch. “Yvonne, I’m sure Bernie has enjoyed you coming to visit.” There is a finality in her tone that makes Yvonne’s skin prickle, like it’s full of static.

Yvonne stands up and puts her coat back on. She remembers the piece of paper then, but in front of Shannon—right before dinner—well, it’s just not the time or place. It can wait. “I enjoyed visiting,” she says, turning and giving him a light hug. “See you soon, Bernie.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder and frowns at Shannon. “Shannon, I know this isn’t my house, but in my day you’d never let a guest leave without inviting them to dinner. Especially a neighbor.” When Shannon purses her lips, he sighs internally. He wishes that Matthew and Shannon would just open their eyes. He knows it’s hard for them to like the Hensons. They’d wanted to buy the house next door, with its extra bedroom, when Shannon was pregnant; but then the miscarriage and the loss of the house had come together, and seeing it get demolished, a new one built in its place, had made the damage too visible. But that wasn’t Yvonne’s fault.

Yvonne moves away from him, shaking her head. “Bernie, thank you, but I really need to get home myself—”

“No, Yvonne, he’s right. I’m sorry I was so rude—”

A loud knocking on the door interrupts both Yvonne and Shannon.

Shannon tucks loose strands of hair behind her ears and goes to answer it.

When she comes back, she’s followed by a pale-looking Noah.

“Yvonne.” His voice cracks between syllables. His hair is wet with snow and he isn’t wearing gloves. “I just… I came to see if Shannon and Matthew knew where you were. You weren’t home and the door was unlocked.” He swallows hard. “I was worried.”

Yvonne slips her hand through his arm. “I’m sorry, Noah. I got caught up visiting and didn’t notice the time.” She smiles at Shannon and 31

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Bernie. “Have a nice dinner.”

Noah holds the door open for Yvonne. Bernie goes to the front window and watches them walk slowly, arm in arm, across the lawn. But they don’t go to the porch right away; first Noah leads Yvonne to the sidewalk. He opens the recycling bin and pulls out something in each hand. Well, digging through the recycling is a bit strange, but that’s the Hensons for you. Bernie can’t tell what Noah’s holding; the faint streetlight hits the objects with a glint like glass. Yvonne takes a step back, her arms wrapping around herself.

Noah follows, stepping forward and embracing her. Bernie looks away.

Across the street, the Smiths are threading Christmas lights through the bushes. They glow red and green in the twilight. Snow keeps falling, already starting to cover Yvonne and Noah’s footprints in the yard.

Bernie closes the window curtains. Another winter coming—his seventy-ninth. And yet every time around the changing of the seasons is surprising, like it’s a new sadness to see leaves fall and a new joy when they come back. With a sigh, he straightens his hunched shoulders and takes the Sunnyside letter from its place in the mail pile. It’s time for dinner.

32

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Lola Is Alright Ana Devdariani

The air felt stale as I tried to gulp a lungful of oxygen. My hair clung to the back of my neck, uncomfortable and sweaty, my cheek too hot against the wrinkled pillow case. I groaned, flipping my pillow over to get to the cool side and kicked my feet free of the tangle of sheets.

Bracing myself on a forearm, I reached for the window, holding my breath as my fingertips scrambled to pull it open. The crisp winter air felt amazing against my fevered skin as I slumped on my back, catching my breath.

I glanced across the room at Gia’s bed, vacant and already made. My gaze settled on the string of ferry lights, pooled on her desk and spilling over one side of it, blinking feebly in the gloomy December afternoon light, and I tuned in to the sounds of our apartment.

In the kitchen the radio was on, and Renata puttered around, opening and closing cabinets. There was the tell-tale jingle of the cutlery drawer being pulled open and then a familiar clank-clank-clank of a spoon hitting the sides of a mug.

My grandmother used to say that stirring your tea loudly spoke of bad manners, and with all my pent-up anger against Renata, I was all too eager to agree.

I tugged the covers off and swung my feet over the side of the bed, 33

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toes patting the speckled grey linoleum in search for my flip flops.

I breezed by Renata without a word, heading to the bathroom just as Billie Holliday started to sing the opening lines to “Good Morning Heartache” from the radio perched on top of the fridge.

I hummed to myself as I went about my morning routine and flipped off the bathroom light behind me, just as Gia and Jake spilled through the front door, Seth hovering behind them in the doorway.

“You have got to be shitting me,” Gia laughed, attention focused on Jake as she thrust two paper cups into my hands and began to unwrap her many layers of winter clothing.

“The Bible says Adam and Eve, so I tapped them both,” shrugged Jake, hanging up his coat and tugging off his hat while dodging a jab in the ribs from Gia.

I smiled at Seth, ushering him inside and led the way into the kitchen, where Billie Holliday was still singing about Monday blues. Jake made a beeline for the radio and turned the volume up, leaning against the fridge with a blissed out expression on his scruffy face, while the rest of us folded ourselves into kitchen chairs, nursing our coffees.

“Oh, Lady Day, how you swoon me,” he sighed after the song was over and turned the volume back down, joining us at the table. “How’s it going, Lola granola?”

I snorted as Gia let out a groan, “Will you ever give up on that?”

“I think that’s the best one he’s come up with so far,” I pointed out and Jake beamed at me from across the table.

“Best of what?” Seth piped up, and I took a large sip of my lukewarm drink before recounting the story.

Back in our sophomore year, Jake, Gia and I snuck up onto the roof of our dorm, a bottle of wine in hand. And as we lay on our backs, inebriated and snickering up at the starry sky Gia sat up, leaning on her elbow and pointed a finger at Jake.

“Jake,” she said, “you’re so fake,” and then dissolved into giggles.

“Oh, Gia, you have no idea,” Jake replied, cheekily and we laughed again.

As our chuckles died down, Jake’s face became serious for a moment and he turned to look at me, his gaze intent.

“Lola,” he said and I raised my eyebrows in question, “Coca-Cola.”

We stared at each other for a moment, shoulders shaking with bubbling laughter and Gia pronounced my name un-rhymable. Yet, Jake had refused 34

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to accept defeat and months later, he still sprung rhymes at me, trying to find one that made sense.

“Any plans for the day?” I asked gulping down the last of my Mochaccino, just as Renata made a show of dumping her mug into the sink, before stomping back to her room, slamming the door shut.

“Gia and I were thinking of camping out in the library for the most of the weekend,” said Jake. “What crawled up her ass and died?” he pointed at the closed door.

“She and Ian spent two hours yelling at each other in Spanish last night before he stormed out,” I supplied, jumping at my chance to start complaining.

“I saw him smoking angrily by the shrubs around three in the morning,” Gia snickered.

“What about you?” I turned to Seth and he beamed at me in that unassuming way that always made me feel at ease.

“I was thinking of going out for lunch and then joining these two,” he gestured to Jake and Gia, leaning back in his chair. “Come along?”

“Only if you’re headed to Edible Complex,” I said, getting up to trash my paper cup. “I’m hungry for curly fries and Sophoclean puns this afternoon.”

“We can go wherever you want,” he nodded agreeably, eyes fixed on the screen of his phone, and I must have looked disappointed because Gia winced at me sympathetically and shrugged in a ‘what are you gonna do’ sort of way.

“I’ll be good to go in ten, okay?” I said, rolling my eyes at Gia as I shuffled to my room.

I closed the door behind me with a sigh making a beeline to my dresser. Two weeks ago, Seth and I barely said ‘hi’ to each other on the street, now he seemed to be around whenever I took the time to notice.

We bonded over excitement and alcohol on Gia’s twenty-first birthday and thirteen shots of tequila later I found my lips pressed against his, our mouths too dry and my head spinning in the flickering lights of the night club.

I woke up the next morning with my forehead pressed between his shoulder blades, the cotton of his t-shirt soft against my skin. There was no awkwardness between us as I scrambled over him and into the shower, just hungover camaraderie later as we put in a team effort to make breakfast.

He was kind and easygoing, and the sunny smiles he gave me made 35

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the tension in my shoulders ease into comfort. Before I knew it, I was provoking him into conversations, putting him on the spot to be decisive, to share an opinion that wasn’t a half-hearted agreement with whatever somebody else had just said.

“I don’t know why I like him,” I told Jake and Gia a few days later, frustrated. “He’s isn’t smart, he isn’t funny, we haven’t had a conversation about anything deeper than our preference of condiments that lasted longer than fifteen minutes.”

“You like him because he’s predictable,” Gia said, spooning peach yogurt into her mouth. “You know what to expect of him, it’s effortless.”

I sighed, she was right, of course.

“Cut the pity party, Spiegelman,” Jake chirped, collapsing next to me on the couch and throwing an arm around my shoulders. “One day you’ll meet the witty, brilliant, feminist love of your life, but until then, you can make out with Seth,” he grinned at me and got an elbow to his solar plexus for his efforts.

I made my bed haphazardly, tugged on my boots and pinned my purse between my knees as I crouched in front of the rearview mirror (a gift from Jake) propped upright against a pile of books, to put my mascara on.

“Lola?” Jake boomed from the kitchen, making me flinch and jab the mascara wand into my eyebrow.

“Coming!” I hollered back, scrambling for wipes to get rid of my impromptu Zachary Quinto-esque eyebrow, before grabbing my coat and dashing out of the room. *

On Sunday evening we decided to study in the apartment. Gia and I perched on our beds and Jake leaning back in the orange desk chair, occupying my table.

“Do you hear that?” Jake perked up, sitting upright, hand raised in a shushing motion.

“Is it-?” I asked, glancing at Gia as she hopped up from her spot on the bed, dashing to the window.

“It’s about time,” she drawled and opened the window, letting the frigid air in. It carried inside the screams that were starting to echo all around us.

“And the hysteria begins,” Jake sighed, a grin stretching his face.

Screaming into the night was a tradition that had been around on our cam36

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pus for years. Every semester, just as the finals rolled around and the students’ nerves started to run thin, while their wallets ran empty, they would take to screaming from the windows of the dorms in an attempt to relieve some stress.

“Listen to this, Lola,” Gia grinned at me, leaning against the windowsill. “These magnificent bastards, screaming their frustrations and insecurities out for the world to hear.”

I smiled at her as she beamed into the night, excited. Then she winked at me, laughter bubbling in her chest as she joined the first of the screamers.

I watched the way her broad smile dimpled her cheeks, the way her hair swung from side to side as she bounced on the balls of her feet, and felt sadness curl up inside my chest as my gaze drifted away from her and to the Norton Anthology of American Literature, weighing heavy in my lap.

During my two and a half years there, I’d never screamed from my window. I would hang behind Jake and Gia as they howled into the night, my skin buzzing with excitement, but I could never bring myself to let it go.

Let all the pent up energy explode and leave the pieces falling where they may. *

Although smoking indoors had been outlawed for a few years, a curtain of smoke hung heavy in the club, swirling in the flickering neon lights and seeping into my lungs. Strong arms wrapped around me from behind pinning me to someone’s chest and I looked up and over my shoulder, fingers digging into fleshy forearms to ease the grip. The guy grinned at me, wasted, and buried his head in the side of my neck, making me shudder.

I turned around in his grip, taking him off guard and shook him off, making a beeline to Seth and throwing my arms around his shoulders.

“Help me,” I said in his ear and he wrapped his arms around me easily, rubbing circles into my back as I caught my breath.

“Gotcha,” he said and I relaxed, dropping my forehead on his shoulder for a moment. He smelled nice, of soap and the faint spice of boyish cologne. I thought of how outside the club, both of us would smell of the same grody mix of alcohol and cigarette smoke, but right there, with the common denominator of the fume hanging heavy in the air we still smelled like ourselves.

I lifted my head to see Anika winking at me and I grinned at her 37

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as she swayed her hips in my direction, her thick, ebony hair fanning out behind her.

Anika was a new friend. We had taken the same elevator for five floors, three days ago. She had struck up a conversation about On the Road perched on the top of the book pile in my arms and the next thing I knew, Gia, Jake and I were playing charades, sitting on the floor of her dorm room, sipping discount sparkling wine from plastic cups, surrounded by a cluster of new people.

“You want a drink?” Seth asked and I nodded, disentangling myself from him and leaning against a nearby table as he made his way to the bar.

Jake and Gia took leave about an hour earlier, hugging me goodbye and disappearing into the crowd in the direction of the exit, each tugging a guy behind them as they went.

When Seth returned with our drinks, I leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek. For a moment we stood there, lips inches away from each other’s.

And then the song changed, a tangy guitar melody reverberating through the cramped space of the club and Anika appeared next to us, coaxing us to dance.

I rolled my hips in time with the music, distracted, thinking of the almost kiss and huffing at how much more I wanted to be kissing him to the sound of the Arctic Monkeys.

Anika tugged Seth towards the bar, dancing strangers quickly filling up the space they vacated and I leaned back against one of the tables, feeling restless, fingers clutching the glass in my hand as I sipped my blueberry screwdriver through a straw for something to do. I scanned the crowd for Seth, feeling my heart sink as my eyes landed on him and Anika pressed together, lips moving languidly against each other’s.

“So much for predictable,” I muttered and downed the rest of my drink, before weaving my way to the bathroom through the mass of bodies.

Halfway there, I rounded a corner, colliding into a tall figure. It was the guy from earlier. Now that I was facing him, I realized I knew him. We had taken composition together our freshman year and boy, had he buffed up in the two years since.

He grabbed my hand, guiding it to his waist as he pulled me close and I let him, “Arabella” still blasting around us. He ground his hips against mine, his arms circling my waist, the smell of his cologne too strong in my nose, and I felt my shoulders stiffen even as I continued to dance with him.

His hand made its way up my back, slipping into my hair, tugging. I 38

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looked up to protest, but he leaned in closer, skimming his nose over mine and pressing our mouths together in a kiss that was all tongue and little finesse. I held my breath as I forced my lips to move, trying to think of anything but the man in front of me. The hand that was not tangled in my hair moved lower, grabbing my ass and it was just the wake up call I needed.

I squirmed out of his grip, wiping my mouth with the heel of my palm and hurried to grab my coat from the pile of jackets heaped in the corner, by the bar, before rushing to the exit.

Anika called my name as I brushed by her and Seth, head down, not stopping until I was outside. I took a few deep breaths, ears ringing as I pulled on my coat, pushing the collar up to ward off the chill. It was starting to snow.

Although I heard no footsteps, I kept glancing over my shoulder, almost expecting to see Seth jogging after me, as I started on the well-worn route from the club to the dorms. But the road behind me remained empty, save for a bedraggled stray, trailing me at a distance, breath spilling out into a cloud of condensation around its head.

I stopped at the crossroad, deserted, save for a shabby Chevy waiting patiently for the traffic light to turn green. I huffed a laugh as the white stray—which for the length of our journey I resolved to call Alaska—sat by the edge of the pavement, a distance from my feet, and then smiled at the bespectacled man squinting at me from behind the wheel of his maroon Chevy.

It was the two of us for the rest of the way, as the snow began to fall in earnest, the heels of my boots clacking loudly against the pavement and Alaska huffing gently in the background. *

The morning after, I barely got to my 20th century American Fiction class on time. I collapsed into my seat in the front row, breathing hard, my heart beating rabbit-fast inside my chest as the professor swooped in, losing no time, delving into the structure of our fast-approaching final.

“It’s a supermarket exam,” he told us, shuffling his papers. “I’ll give you a choice because you’re all consumerists.”

But as he launched into a comparison of Hemingway’s parataxis versus Faulkner’s hypotaxis, I couldn’t help but tune out, feeling jittery and paper thin, the night before an uncomfortable weight on my chest.

My eyes followed the professor’s form as he dashed back and forth 39

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between the board and the middle of the classroom, zeroing in on a button of his black dress shirt. Second to last from the bottom, sewn on with orange thread.

My mind wondered how the button could have become undone, then to an image of the professor sewing it back on with an overlarge needle and the orange thread that he found in a drawer of one of the bedside tables in his one-bedroom rental.

As I pictured him sewing, looping the needle through the tiny holes, piercing the fabric, crisscrossing the threads, before repeating the motions, I felt my breathing even out and the knot in my chest loosen with each of the professor’s methodical movements. Until eventually, satisfied with his work, the professor in my head tightened the thread and snapped it with his teeth, snapping me out of my reverie.

I looked around to see people getting up and tugging on their coats, chairs scraping against the linoleum floor.

“None of us like ourselves, folks,” the professor called over his shoulder, wiping the white board clean, “we just have to live with ourselves.” *

When the evening finally rolled around, I found myself in the familiar setting of my room, the itch under my skin dulled down enough for me to concentrate on the hulking psychology tome, spread open on the bed in front of me.

I looked up as Jake slammed his coffee mug onto the table, the spoon ringing inside.

“I am one percent coffee and ninety-nine percent failure,” he announced, shoving his calculus textbook like it had personally offended him and got up, walking over to the window.

I looked at him standing there and set my pen down, pinning it between the pages of my textbook as I got up. I nudged him aside with my hip, and propped the window open. It was snowing again, the veil of flakes thick against the light of the street lamp across the street. A few rogue snowflakes made their way inside, peppering the window sill with tiny drops of water.

My body trembled, jittery, disproportionate to the steady fall of snow. I took a deep breath, feeling the sound build and the muscles of my diaphragm contract and then it was out. A beast unhinged, falling off my lips like an ugly, damaged animal, scurrying for freedom. I screamed until the breath in my lungs grew scarce and stopped only to gulp in greedy 40

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mouthfuls of air.

I turned to Jake, breathing heavily, as screams started to echo all around us, to see him grinning at me, Gia by his side, her smile all dimples. I wrapped my arms around them, the solid heat of their bodies comforting, as a sense of peace, however temporary, settled into my bones.

Later that night, I brushed my teeth, and took off my make-up, my motions a well-practiced routine. I tied my hair into a loose ponytail and flipped the light switch off. The rubber soles of my flip flops squealed against the linoleum floors as I brushed by Renata, who wished me a good night.

Gia was already fast asleep, ferry lights blinking in the darkness of the room, when I slipped underneath my covers. That night, as many nights before, I drifted off to lights dancing behind my eyelids and Renata’s throaty laughter muffled by the wall.

41

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Cloud Shadows in the Sky Mariela Hristova

42

It happened when we went to see CSKA and Levski, the eternal derby, as they call it. We were just 16 on that April twenty-seventh 1996.

Dad used to be a big football fan and he passed it on to us, too, but Danny got more of it I guess. Mom didn’t want us to go because the CSKA vs.

Levski matches were notorious for destruction of public property and fights, and I mean ‘sending each other to the hospital’ kind of fights. But Danny really wanted to go, guess playing in the Sofia High Schools League was not enough for him, he wanted real football, as he liked to call it, real football between the big old clubs.

And so we went to Bulgarian Army, CSKA turf. The police were already around the stadium, live barriers between the two factions under the crown of elms. Many of the officers, úshevi, as football fans often called them, walked among the crowds or stood watch at the entrance in their dark blue uniforms and black batons. A few wore riot gear and Danny joked that it made them look even fatter but he stopped laughing as soon as dad gave him one of his looks type ‘this is no laughing matter, junior’. Dad was never the kind of man to laugh a lot, and he never did after that April twenty-seventh.

We stood near one of the Gendarmerie vans on the side alley in Boris’ Garden, as far away as possible from all the shouting, song-singing, beer-drinking and creative name-calling directed at Levski devotees. Dan-

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ny wanted to move in closer with the fans, he couldn’t sit still—hands in pockets, he bobbed up and down as his eyes examined the mob and his lips silently sang along the CSKA hymn vibrating in the spring air. He never said anything of course, we had made a deal that we wouldn’t do anything stupid.

And a deal’s a deal, that’s what dad always said.

We slumped down in our graffiti-ed ‘Pesho was here’ seats and I looked around the stadium. I never was as big a fan as Danny, but it was exciting being there, I could feel the hairs on my arms tingle with static. The green grass was surrounded by a ring of blue and red, red and blue cheering and singing songs with already hoarse voices and moving in perfect rhythm with each other, swinging arms left and right. There was even a drum somewhere, going TA-TA-TATATA. Danny’s eyes were on fire, I could see the whole stadium mirrored in those sapphires.

Eighty minutes in the score was still 0:0 when CSKA started a counterattack and Danny jumped on his feet to cheer. Dad turned to him, his mouth opening to probably tell him to sit down, but then he shook his head and let Danny be. Maybe if he hadn’t, if he had been his usual strict dad self, he would not be blaming himself so much. But he wasn’t and Danny did not sit down and just when the CSKA assault was nearing Levski’s gate there was a loud bang on my right and my ears started ringing and Danny screamed, a scream so shrill and piercing, like nails on glass, like nails on blackboard, that I later found out I had pissed myself that very second. I tried to turn my head right to see him and there was a gap in his scream and I could hear the ringing again like a refrigerator’s buzz, I could hear my heart pounding in my ears ta-ta-tatata, I could hear the fans shouting, and then Danny screamed again. I never did get rid of that scream when I closed my eyes after that April twenty-seventh. Dad was already up when my head finally completed the long turn, he had Danny in his arms like back when we were kids and Danny would fall asleep and dad would carry him to our room to put him in his bed, but Danny wasn’t sleeping now, he was screaming and I tried to get up, to go to them , to ask what had happened, to ask Danny why he was screaming like that, to beg him to stop because he was scaring me.

But I couldn’t, I got a few centimeters off the seat and fell back into it again.

I was so heavy somehow, or my legs were so weak somehow, I did not know, but I had to get up because Danny was still screaming and I had to, I just had to. I pushed up with arms and legs, as hard as I could, and I was up now, 43

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but dad was moving away so quickly with Danny in his arms, pushing the people in our row and some fell back, some forward and dad was charging, so big now carrying Danny and he was almost at the end of the row when I started running. Or at least I thought I was running but it did not seem fast enough to call it running somehow and neither did it feel like running somehow because it was as if I was even weaker now, heavier now, I was fat, fatter than the policemen in their padded vests, and each time my foot hit the floor all that fat pulled, trying to drag me down, drown me into this sea of red flags and red shirts and red hats and red scarves, the white letters ‘CSKA’ looking at me, staring almost in awe. Dad was already on the aisle and he was running up the stairs to the exit, he was taking three steps at a time and he was so tall, so tall now carrying Danny. I ran after them, maybe I was taking three steps at a time, too, somehow.

Dad and I were sitting in the waiting area at Pirogov on those brown chairs with their filling popping out like puss out from the cracked fake leather. It was cold, I could almost see my breath, and the tube lights went bzzzz-plink above my head as the sterile white flickered. It smelled like every hospital I’ve been to, something between medicine, urine, sick-sweat and filth. But it was worse now somehow, like puke digesting in my nostrils.

Dad had buried his face in his hands, so small now, and trembled in silence.

The ring on his fourth finger was shiny, polished, with abrasions crossing the yellow gold, some deep like streams eroding the surface. Except … there was a brown drop of blood on it, blotting out my reflection. I swallowed hard, the sides of my throat slapping each other with a smack.

He was still sitting like that when mom walked in with steady, measured steps, tears rolling down her face. She hugged me tight, the smell of baked potatoes and chicken heavy about her. Unlike dad, she held herself perfectly still, hands with no hint of tremors. She whispered over and over that it was going to be just fine, that Danny was going to be okay, that we were going to get through this. I could say nothing, my tongue a dry morsel.

I wasn’t even crying. In my head Danny was still screaming. She hugged dad and he trembled and cried in her arms. He was mumbling unknown words but I knew what he was saying. He’d been saying it ever since they took Danny. ‘It exploded in his face.’

We saw Danny when they moved him to intensive care. He had a huge bandage around his eyes and forehead, like his head was half a volley44

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ball. The doctor was telling mom and dad about the surgery and possible treatment but the words slipped by me like cigarette smoke carried in the wind. He had already said the important bit. It was unlikely that Danny would see again.

“I want you to be honest with me,” Danny said as the nurse unwrapped the bandage. “Is the scar sexy?”

It wasn’t sexy. It was far from sexy. He had a star-shaped bulge of red tissue running from his right temple, over the burnt eyebrow, the eyelid, the ridge of the nose and to a small bit of his left cheek. Smaller scars ran over his left brow and lid, like dust from the red star, a comet tail.

Mom looked away from his face and on to mine. Her lower lip trembled, her eyes welled up and she shut them tight, forcing the water out and down to her chin. She then looked back at Danny, and again at me, and then once more at Danny. Each time her lip trembled more.

I turned to him, “Well, at least the unibrow’s gone.”

“Ha!” he laughed. “Good one, brother.”

“You sure you don’t need any help?” I shouted from the kitchen.

“Hey, I can do it. It’s been how long since I last tripped over something?” Danny shouted back. “Oh, yeaaah, about twenty minutes. It’s a record!”

His hand traced the yellow wallpaper, fingers tapping at the wall over the painted lilies, until it reached the doorframe and he entered the kitchen.

He took two steps straight, turned left and started the other four he usually did before he reached his spot. Only this time someone had moved the chair. He tipped it over and it rattled on the floor.

“Uh-oh, someone reset the clock. Time since the last attack of the blind man—zero hours!”

“So you can see a little bit in the left one?” I asked.

“Just like a shadow,” he waved a hand before his face. “Like when we used to tell each other scary stories at night and you’d try to get me to piss the bed by creeping up on me. But I always saw you. A shadow just a shade lighter than the dark.”

“Yeah, that always puzzled me. We’re supposed to be the same, yet I could never see as well as you.”

“X-ray vision, brother. That’s what you called it, remember?”

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I did remember. I used to say he had these red lasers coming out of his eyes that made it possible for him to see so well. But I couldn’t say that anymore.

Not while looking at the map of glossy red lines running across his face. Not while looking at the white clouds in his eyes.

I shut my own little orbs of sight and pressed the eyelids hard when Danny’s scream returned in my mind’s ear. I could smell it, too, the smoke from the explosion like lighting a thousand matchsticks at once; the male unclean sweat with a hint of ethanol and wheat around us; the flares fans had lit up. I opened my eyes. Danny was crying.

“I just,” he tried to swallow, “just,” he tried again. “I just want to see your face, brother, my face. Just one more time.”

“You can,” I pulled his hand and put it on my right temple. “You feel that? Just the same as yours.” I closed my eyes and moved his hand over my eyelids. “Just like yours, brother,” I let go of him.

His cold sweaty fingers traced my temple and eyelids again.

“I see that shadow you were talking about,” I said.

He jerked away, gasping, but I reached out. I wasn’t going to lose him in the darkness. He wasn’t going to lose me. My right hand hit him square in the chest while the left grasped at air. I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him in, as close, as tight as I could even though it hurt. He screamed. And then there was a gap. I heard porcelain break in the kitchen, chairs rattle, door burst open, feet stomp down the corridor while Danny shuddered, so small now in my arms. He screamed again, his arms wrapping around me like bandages and he shuddered once more. He squeezed even harder and my breaths wheezed in and out, and it hurt, but it was not my chest. Neither was it my lungs. It was my throat because I was screaming with him. I had been all this time.

Dad later told us that after the screams we had just stood tight in each other’s arms. Danny shuddering, I holding him. We had stood like that for an hour before we’d fallen asleep.

Were we okay, dad asked.

Yes, we nodded.

Did we manage to get some sleep, he asked.

Even dreamed, we answered.

What of, he asked.

Cloud shadows in the sky.

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She Didn’t Come To Pray Mayya Kelova

White and black—what a paradox. Black ravens walk among these white marbles and crosses. Live phantoms in a dead world, wearing masks of sorrow, regret, and compassion. The mask. Then these midgets, with the disgusting smile of an evil clown, and faces in mud, collecting the carrion— vultures. This is a real picture of the world, don't you think? These lost souls, sinners, bastards, loaded with shit; they don't know what to do with their garbage. What are these phantoms looking for here—forgiveness, to get rid of this shit? Nevertheless, they live with it. They do.

You see there, the swarm creeps slowly. One more mahogany box, oil-polished, with golden handrails. Men in suits, tradition. I bet their clothes cost more than a square meter of which you, betrayer, lie in. Even there they go with pathos. Good thing I can't hear their fake lament. But I do see it, and so do you. See that buffoon with a golden collar? Today he prays for the sinner in the box to save at least his soul. But, oh, God, if you ever existed, he is the sinner himself. We know, at the end of the day, another buffoon like him will do his work, singing prayers for this particular buffoon, with all the honors as expected. Hypocrites. Everything will go around. It does already. It was like this before you were here, and even before I was here, and it will stay like this. Trust me.

Now, you tell me, how dare you make me come here after all I've done for you? You knew I never loved this place, I'd never come here. Noth47

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ing could make me. No one, but you. You wanted to leave; I would never let you do that. You would regret giving up. They buried you without my permission; I am not gonna leave things like this. Things are going too easy for you. You have not paid the price for your mistakes. *

It smelled like burnt hair. Usually it was like this on Saturday mornings, when her neighbors, who had a small farm in the countryside, stabbed pigs and brought them to the city, to sell the meat. They had to clean it and cut it, but before that they had to slightly burn its skin, leave no hairs. The whole area would bear that awful singed hair smell. It was like this tonight.

The dark green hall of the porch was empty. Lida stood in front of the steps unmoving. Her inner voice and some external will called, there, up, home.

But it seemed like she was nailed to the floor. Chapa, a cross between a poodle and mutts, ran around her barking with all the strength it had. At some point it started running upstairs to the apartment and downstairs to Lida.

But the old woman's legs disobeyed; they were inflexible like two columns, the years did not pass them by. Any movement caused pain. The pain tortured Lida for two decades already, ever since she had reached her forties.

Eventually, leaning on her cane, she made a step forward, and one more.

Twenty five more left.

The worst nightmare; she knew, she felt something was wrong. That day her son, Vova, came home, totally indifferent to his mother. Not like he has never done that before. This time he did not bring alcohol, did not smoke a cigarette, did not even touch the mug with tea and his favorite apple pie that Lida had baked for him. He only closed the door of the bedroom.

He spent the whole day there in silence. Lida tried to enter the bedroom, to support her son, like it was when Vova was only six. He would come home mad, but Lida would hug him, and the problem was gone. Later, this trick would not work. She did not remember when her little Vovochka turned into mature Vladimir and when his problems would not be solved by her tender hug. Now she did not remember when he would simply hug her like sons do. Now problems were usually solved with the matter of money, its presence in her purse. Vova knew mom would help.

The air was magnetizing. Some hidden dark power did not let her move faster or move at all. Chapa was already near the door. Lida heard a little of its barking. In her mind, she said, “I am coming. I am trying.” But the only sound she could bear was “A-a-a, Vo-o-vvv-aa, Cha-a-a-ppp-aaa!”

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It seemed that even the porch walls were impregnated with the burnt hair smell.

As soon as she reached the point where she could see that door, to touch it, open it to help her son, she saw a fuss near the door. First-floor neighbors ran by to her apartment. Marina, her neighbor, did not let her in. She took Lida to her own place, saying something. She gestured a lot, caressed Lida. Her eyes were running from place to place. Then Lida heard this terrible sound that would pierce the ears even of a deaf person. “The Ambulance came,” Lida read on Marina’s lips. *

Forty days have passed from that night...

I still watch how kids play soccer in the back yard like we used to do together, drinking tea and eating apple pie. I remember how you played soccer when you were younger, but then you stopped playing. You found new friends.

You know I could not come...

They did not let me come. I did not know what was going on with my Vova. They kept me away. I hope they had good reasons. Marina, she tried to take care of me. You know, she always does it with everyone she thinks needs her help, to wash away her sins I guess. But if not for her...

You know I would not come...

You wanted to solve the problems the best way? Happy? Leaving me alone. I knew you didn't need me, I was a burden for you, a source of a shelter, cooked food, clean clothes, and yes, money. But I forgave you everything, always. It is also my fault that you became the way you were. My fault... because I left you. I created you.

That guy in sportswear, your so-called friend...

Everything changed when he became a part of your life. No time for me. You think I never noticed you sniffing , that your eyes looked like those of a lost sheep, and then how things got lost in our apartment? You think I never saw those ropes in blood, your late night walks, and ripped clothes?

You think I never mourned those broken lives of innocent girls left in the bushes? I still do…

You knew I would not say anything, and if I did, you'd show me your power. I forgave you everything, you ungrateful bastard. You know the difference between you and those hypocrites in black? They still live with all the baggage they have, they make money out of the drugs you were slowly 49

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killing yourself over. You lost yourself in narcotics and then in blood. But you had me. What did you do? You chose the easiest of solutions—you gave up, never even trying. Never. I did not know how to protect you. I thought you would overcome everything, you just needed time. When you left me that first night. I thought you left forever. I cried. I had never cried like this.

You came back changed. You were so thin; with a beard. During those three years you were away, the police would come almost every day. They asked me many questions. They even managed to bring a sign language interpreter. Eventually, they understood it was pointless, even if I'd known the truth.

Tell me how you dared after everything? I promise you will regret it.

They buried you without my permission; I am not gonna leave things like this. Things are going too easy for you: leaving all the bad things behind with me, making me now live with the burden of your sins, your regrets, your problems, as the price for all I have done for you. Thank you.

I will finish what you started that night, turn you into ashes, and do what I had to do forty years ago.

I was a young girl brought-up with people like me, with disabilities.

I never had friends, I was afraid, ashamed. You would feel the same, if you'd been born like me, but you were lucky enough in many terms. Life in silence is limbo, but I lived it...

After school I worked, collecting small appliances. This was the only thing you knew about me. I worked in another small town, I worked there until that ill-fated night. I was coming back from work and someone jumped at me, covered my mouth, he did not know me, he put his hand on my thighs, taking off my panties, ripping my dress. I tried to fight, he bit me, he did everything so quickly, like I was the last one in his list. I could not control anything, I gave up. I woke up in the morning, in the bushes. The only thing I remember is his ruthless face with huge green eyes. I wanted to run away from it, forget it, but this look chased me all my life through you.

I learned about you too late and I could do nothing, but keep you. I thought, I would not have kids anymore if I dared to kill you. To be a mother was an honor for me. I moved to another city, I changed my life. I dedicated everything to you. All I had was you. I loved you the way any mother loves her child, no matter what. Life was great. Only your eyes reminded me of that night. I was grateful to that night, it gave me you. The only man I had in my life, the only man I loved.

But I do not know who is worse—you or him. He gifted me you, you destroyed yourself. I cannot believe there was no other way. I would have 50

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given you money, you knew that, I would have sold the apartment if you needed it. Why did you do it? What was so terrible? Burning yourself? I know there were many reasons, your life was screwed up, but wasn't I worth living for? You did not think of me, never... After all I have done for you. *

Under the gray sky, a clergyman in white with a golden collar sings prayers. Men in suits carry the mahogany coffin, oil-polished with golden handrails. People in black walk after them, weeping. Little boys run around, gathering food left near the graves. On the left side of the cemetery, a massive woman breaks the cross off the grave and beats it in the ground. Her gray eyes are dim. Her wrinkled face is red. She pours something on the grave and tries to step back, but her legs disobey; they are inflexible like two columns. She slowly leans on her cane and steps back. She falls on her knees, takes off a headscarf, slightly smiles, but the tear comes. She lights the grave.

It smokes. She yells with difficulty, "B-b-burn-n-n-n."

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The Long Walk Home Atanas Mihnev

52

You kiss the girl you like and it may be November or it may be March. She goes home afterwards. You need to get home and it is three kilometers at least. You do not need a ride, in fact you can fly home, in fact you do fly home. So it seems at least, you blink and you are there.

You want to remember the touch of your lips and hers. Or rather just the moment before the kiss. Right after you sense her breath and right before your hair gets in your eyes just a little.

Why? Because of the wind. There is wind always, there has to be! Her hair is brown, or blond, or blue.

As you start pacing at the speed of mind and emotion, you heart still beats just so you can sense it. You try to keep the feeling of her lips on yours.

It dries away in about 73 to 77 seconds though, less if it is colder. Her name is Petya, Ivana or Hrisi. One night in Bangkok contained in a kiss. You do not feel like taking a cab or a bus or a jacket. You feel anew. You feel the desire to move your feet and you sometimes hop. You are in it, brother, you are falling.

You do not want to think about it. In the first two or three minutes of your blink-way home, you suppress your thoughts. You cannot anymore.

Like Mentos in a Coca-Cola Bottle, like an umbrella turned outside-in by the wind, they come out, they fly away. You start thinking. What is next?

Tomorrow when you see her for coffee, you will smile shyly. Would it be

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awkward to kiss again? It would be awkward to kiss again. It would not be awkward to kiss again…

You cross a red light, you do not care. You get hit by a car, you do not notice. You walk and you think. Chances are you would sing a song quite quietly. It would be reminding you of her. Truth of the matter is, you know so little of that person. You dare, though, to imagine taking her to a picnic, to the movies, to a concert. You do not know what food she likes, what movies, what music. In the beginning it is your idea of her that matters.

Maybe if she made you wait too long after you already knew you’d kiss her, you would know a little bit. And be so happy, and feel an achiever.

The emotion is not love by a long shot, it is stronger than liking someone, stronger than the sense of accomplishment. Above all, it is hope for the future. You might break up tomorrow- you have not even started going out yet. You imagine though, and the things you imagine…

Soon it is all in colors and pink rainbows, and she is in a white dress and has hair like in the Wash&Go commercials, and you are there in a blue shirt looking casual. Shapes are not differentiable anymore, colors spill over each other, you step in a puddle and you don’t even know. You may see the picture in circles or stripes, blue or violet. One thing is for sure, you see nothing in front of you. You may even be home and in your bed already, you have no clue.

This feeling is strange. It’s the emotion Saroyan called knife-like, flower-like, like nothing at all in the world. This is the feeling for future or fun, the feeling of together personified in one girl. This is the feeling of dream. You’ve been there, haven’t you?

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Selling It

Atanas Mihnev

I don’t always visit people before Christmas, but when I do, I make sure it’s worth it. I would usually sit in the respective house of my victim for several minutes before announcing myself. I get a feeling for people that way. This one was fat-ish and had a whole box of doughnuts next to her on the huge dark-brown bed. All the furniture was dark-brown, which made it easy for me to hide in the dark. I enjoy hotel-like decorations. People with hotel-like decorations get revelations.

To start with all the electronics around, the humongous 75 inch HDTV right across from the bed was turned on and a documentary flickered:

“Some animals, like owls may be able to hunt at night and rest at daytime. We are not those animals. We’re humans. No matter if you are a teacher or a pilot or a businessman, you should just sleep at night. This is what your organism has been programmed to do for a very, very long time …”

Boring. I also noticed an annoying digital clock with the large red numbers that are the same everywhere in the world, like a universal unit of measuring human lives or at least the minutes between tapping the “snooze” button. It is almost ironic—people have a button to compensate for the five minutes which they thoughtlessly waste before going to bed and which seemed so precious in the morning. Maybe there is a point to what this yoyo 54

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on TV was talking about after all.

A laptop lay on Lilyana’s knees. Her name is Lilyana, by the way.

Anyhow, she was watching porn and I thought it would be awkward to announce myself so I waited for a couple of minutes. She looked to the TV—I decided it would make for a good moment to read her mind. Her marketing mind onto the decision of this TV station, genuinely advising its audience to turn their TVs off. How stupid, she was about to think. I used the moment to present myself:

“Hey, whatchouthinkin?”

I love it when they jump, the laptop falling off this time, and I do not step out of the dark so they look in every direction, their feet stomping, hands in the air. People never know where to put their hands when in shock.

She stood up in her bed now, scared and sweating.

“Cute pajamas.”

“Who’s there?’

This is the most trivial question of all. I get it so often, I get annoyed.

This lady did seem intelligent from what I knew, from what I had in her file.

So I decided to play a bit more and turned on the TV. Only it was not the documentary anymore. I played a memorable moment from her life:

Lily was still in college. There was a Marketing professor on there, assigning her case studies. In this memory episode he said, “Anything could be marketed and everything should be marketed.” He was quite passionate when he talked and Lily could see herself sitting in the first row, less fat than now.

She had taken it for granted that when you apply for a job you complete an exercise in a sort of personal branding. You make yourself a brand, you package and sell yourself to the employer as if your life depends on it (and does it not?). She had done just that and landed a dream job two days before her Commencement ceremony, while everyone else was either high or amidst a deep philosophical inner discussion on the origins and purpose of their creation. She received multiple raises, a great social package, they even paid for her grad. school.

“So, tell me about them social packages, Lily.”

“Did you just read my thoughts? Did you just play my memory on the TV?”

“Yes. I did,” I stepped out of the dark.

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Imagine the view: true Voldemort, skinny and elongated, in a Santa costume. Lily freaked out and threw a pillow and a doughnut at me.

“You surely do not intend to kill me with these doughnuts. Maybe you should come to the realization that you have no weapons to destroy me.”

Lily slid down the wall into an embryonic position and started crying. I could read into her emotions that she was not scared for her life, rather she was afraid because she did not know what I was. Some people just sob and have a single tear drop down their faces when they cry. Not Lily, she was all out. I like such people.

“What are you?”

“Yes, I am the ghost of Christmas.”

She looked at me with eyes wide open.

“You mean Christmas past. Shouldn’t there be three ghosts to take me through my life?”

“Yeah, we don’t do that anymore. We use technology now to protect memories, too. Now, before we diverted into your hysteria here, you were thinking about your job. Tell me more. Tell me more. Was it love at first sight?”

I sang that last part. It’s from Grease. I am cool. Lily was a bit disturbed though, still embryonic, almost catatonic. Soon, she saw I was not going away and sat in a Yoga position and started talking.

“My occupation in the world of branding is splendid. I can sell anything. Truly. A nasty habit from my Liberal Arts education, though I still do every assignment the night before it is due. I tried to swear off it in my junior year, once again in my senior year and for the third time in grad school.” She picked up her laptop and pointed to the minimized PowerPoint presentation. “My essays and presentations done under pressure kept getting better, nearing the point of perfection. Even for the work, what is an essay really, or a presentation, or a song for that matter if not a way to communicate your idea to the others and convince them to believe in it, sell it, sell *it*. The professor you showed on TV told us that product quality, market research, data from consumers and demand for the product are only fifty percent of the deal. The rest is guts, the rest is how you present it. I disagree though, from the point of experience, ninety percent is how you present it.

The suckers who used the college formula or gave it too much thought are 56

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still in the cubicles. Those who asked the philosophical questions are all dead, or even worse—in the Peace Corps. And I have a corner office, man if you could see that office with its everything tastefully decorated.”

“Yeah, I can see the office alright. I also have it in our file on you.”

“Well I got that with my guts and my presentations done the night before. In fact, I have to finish one just now, so can you get through with what you have to do here? Will you show me my family back in the village alone this Christmas and then the first Christmas after I die, like you do in the movie?”

I paced on the dark-green ornamented, expensive carpet. but did not smile only because my facial muscles cannot form that shape.

“Normally I would.” I said.

“But to make it easier I will just ask you one simple question, and remember, you need not answer aloud for I hear your thoughts. What is it that you sell?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“What product is the presentation on?”

Lily laughed at the easy question, kind of small-mouthed for her large figure. And she went off to thinking:

It was milk.

It was cake.

It was water.

It was shoes.

Wow, she had forgotten what they were selling this time.

“See, the question does not make sense though.” And she laughed again. “It does not matter much what it is for the Marketing Mix to be determined. Quality never matters, or numbers, or competition. Once I invaded a market, ran over the local competition, family-owned, 150-year history, and achieved domination selling complete baloney. And this time around the product is actually good. It does not matter what it is!”

“Cut the protest, Lily. Who’s the client?”

It was a factory, they sold cookies.

Or it was a company, they sold vacations.

It was a law firm, they sold divorce.

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It was a college, they sold education.

It was a cartel, they sold drugs.

It was a political party, they sold candidates.

It was a church, they sold God.

And everyone bought it. Lily put her glasses on and gazed at me.

“I don’t know, OK? I don’t. You have your answer. Your point got across.”

That was what was on her mind. Indeed, I had gotten my point across and so I left, no need for revelations. It was never on Lily’s mind whether people needed it or not, whether they would get in an argument with their wives over buying it, whether it would kill them. As soon as I left she picked up her work with her TV and alarm clock and ridiculously big bed situated right at the middle of the room, every piece of furniture in that modernistic style. All in dark-brown and with a big mirror-covered-sliding-doors wardrobe embedded into the wall. And I thought she had bought that although she would never think about it. In all seriousness, she would never think or talk about how and from whom she had bought her lifestyle, her whole life. I knew she would tell you all about what she had sold though.

I knew our meeting left her shaken enough. I do not know what happened afterwards though. I don’t do follow-ups. I mean, what good will come out of that?

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Confessions of a Stalker (an excerpt) Ilia Panayotov

Original title, eh? And an original first line. It’s not all about originality, though. I’ve always said that originality, as good and necessary a quality as it is, is not enough to qualify whatever possesses it as good. For example, if I am a painter and vomit on the canvass, the result will be an indisputably original picture. Yet, that will not make it any less disgusting. Am I confusing you already? Or you are fed up with my abstract blabbing? Alright, I will get to the facts. But why did I start with such recondite philosophizing in the first place? Well… I couldn’t figure out a more original way.

My days start pretty much the same way: get up, forty push-ups, brush teeth, shave, masturbate under the shower, quick breakfast, out of the room and off to classes or to whatever I have planned to do during the remaining hours till I lay my head on the pillow again. Since I am taking a course overload this semester, I have lots of classes to attend and a pile of assignments to work on. Yet, my free and un-free time is mostly taken up by an activity which, even though sharing several important traits with academic study, is, in itself, quite different.

Let me put it this way: I am fascinated with people. Particular people. I am so interested in them that I would like to know things about them.

Particular things. More than that, however, I would like to be with them, to spend time with them. Particularly, all the time.

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It is interesting that I would have spared you all the brain-racking to comprehend what exactly I spend my time doing, if I had just said that I stalk people. “Stalker” is a label that you would have immediately stamped on my forehead; it would have simplified the situation for you and would have facilitated making judgments about my character. But labels are some of the things I hope to remove from your minds with this piece of writing, at least those regarding myself and my situation.

I can already hear your angry mental voices rising: “Who do you think you are? ‘I will remove labels from your mind!’ How arrogant!” Fine, I was arrogant. But I am not writing this to please you. I am writing this to express myself. So suck it up.

How do I stalk people? It happens quite naturally, actually. There is a person whom I am really interested in and with whom I have already communicated in a more than hi-how-are-you way. By “interested in,” I don’t mean sexually but in the general sense. We walk to classes together, converse, sometimes laugh, and then she (usually a she) leaves my company in order to do something else—study, talk with her parents, do the laundry, go out, whatever. Completely her business. Yet, I feel a strange emotion. It is akin to, to use a materialist analogy, having a more-or-less decent meal for lunch but still feeling not quite full. Perhaps, you should pass by the store on the way back to class and get a Snickers. Or a sandwich. Or why not just stay in the canteen and get another steak with mashed potatoes? Much in the same way, I feel that my hunger for company and communication has not been completely satisfied. But it would be stupid to run after the young lady and beg her to spend five more minutes with me—that would show her that I am weak, that I am not enough for myself and, thus, how can I be enough for her? So I position myself at a vantage point from which I visually cover as many of the possible exits that might be used when she eventually decides to leave her immediate location and I wait, hours may pass by. The feeling that what I am doing is ridiculous and that I have other matters to attend to becomes more and more acute. But what if she passes through that hallway exactly one minute after I have left my position? And how can I just go and read that 20-page text for my whatever class, knowing that I might have missed an opportunity to communicate with her simply because of my impatience. So I wait…

This exemplifies only a single type of situation. Here’s another one: you might have a meeting arranged with your object of interest, but you are thinking, perhaps we can do something else together before our pre-ar60

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ranged meeting, and you go stalk her. Or you have no arrangements at all and are clueless as to when you will see her again (though, you know that in this small campus it will probably be tomorrow the latest) and so, with your knowledge of her preferences, habits and routines, you occupy a vantage point from which you optimally observe, say, all the entrances which she might pass through on the way to her room. Sooner or later, she has to go to her room. The point is, you earnestly hope that she will pass by your position and you will be presented with a valuable opportunity to communicate with her. Whether you will have the courage to use this opportunity is another question.

Stalking indicates a fundamental distrust in humanity. Although, the stalker may have completely convinced himself that his relationship with the object of interest is based on mutual care, empathy and trust, beneath the conscious layers of his mind he does not believe that the person will start communicating with him without any pragmatic reason. It is as if he cannot fully accept the idea that the girl might actually consider him important enough to, perhaps, pay him a visit or text him. This is why the stalker is always the first one to send a text message, except when he has already filled up her mailbox with too many messages (the stalker counts them). Deep down, he does not trust her to come to him first and, therefore, he takes matters into his own hands. Which leads to my next point: the stalker stalks out of necessity. His extreme interest in the particular person and his desire for a genuine relationship (I’m not talking just about romantic relationships) drive him to seek communication. However, the stalker has a severe complex regarding his ability to communicate on a deeper, non-mundane, level.

He just doesn’t know how to do it—and so he resorts to stalking. This decision, as well as pretty much everything I have described above, is not taken rationally but rather takes place in the submerged part of the iceberg that is our mind.

The act of stalking betrays another important trait: a lack of respect for and understanding of personal freedom. When he stalks, the stalker does not reflect on the object of interest’s right to autonomy, the observation that she is entitled to stay in her room for as long as she wants to, or to have lunch alone, or to respond to a text message when she feels like it, escapes the mind of the stalker. He does not take much cognizance of her needs and desires, except when they are felt too acutely or when they present him with an opportunity to fulfill them in order to show her that he is “a nice guy,” with whom she can, no, she should, spend more time. Again, most of this 61

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takes place in the realm of the subconscious. It follows that the stalker is a deprived person in a fundamental way. But then again, after you have read the first couple of paragraphs, you probably already know that I am a pretty deprived person.

Nevertheless, the stalker is a committed lover of beauty. Emotionally aware of his inner emptiness, he desires to experience the beautiful, the wonderful, and enjoy it for a little while, allowing it to shed some light in the dark abyss of his soul and soothe the anguish over his unfulfilled desires.

The stalker intuitively looks for this beauty everywhere, especially spiritual beauty. However, he also highly appreciates physical beauty. Thus, the stalker rarely hangs out with (or stalks) ugly people. You will say that “pretty” and “ugly” are relative to personal taste. But let’s face it: though we may not admit it, we all consider some people pretty and others ugly (I made you think about which category you belong to, didn’t I? And those of you who didn’t think about that, confess it out loud and see how many people will believe you).

The stalker longs for one thing even more than he longs for communication and the ideal of beauty, and that is closeness. His heart aches for closeness. He often finds his mind in a firestorm of whirling dreams of physical and spiritual interaction with a girl. And, by God, I don’t mean sex! (Is that all you can think about?). He earnestly and sincerely desires to find someone who cares about him. He is driven to finally make himself understood but does not know how to. And, then again, who will care about what he has to say? This realization crushes him under its weight. He cannot bear the idea that perhaps he will never get out of his dark cave due to there being no one to show him the way out. But he does not abandon hope, he cannot abandon hope. He continues to look for a person who will care. He is looking for a savior. And, in his mind, the stalker is ready to give everything for this savior. He is ready to leave his life behind and follow his liberator to the end of the Earth.

This exposes an innermost desire in the stalker’s soul to somehow, finally, be unselfish for someone. So he tests the ground, he turns rocks, he inspects holes, desperately trying to find a human being that cares. Usually, he hits a dead end but that does not discourage him as he is looking for just one person and there are seven billion on the face of the Earth.

As soon as he finds a prospective savior, however, his inability to communicate expresses itself sharply and the poor guy plunges into stalking.

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specialty! He will spend the longest minutes of his life at his vantage point, checking his cell phone for nonexistent text messages, so that he would appear to be busy with something. It will often happen that he will even pretend to have a conversation over the phone to avoid suspicion. He would even have to walk around the hallways in a circle, sweating from anxiety that someone will catch him twice at the same spot and, of course, since that person will not immediately realize that he is a stalker, it will be assumed that he is awkward or crazy, or worse—that he has nothing better to do. At times, he will consider it better to be on stalking duty while in the company of other students. But they will only distract him and if he concentrates on his mission, they might as well notice that, while if he concentrates on them, he might well miss his target. Twice or thrice, he will even have to knock on her door—a moment of complete vulnerability as the stalker is, by definition, always in the shadows, always camouflaged with pretended business. Seeing him on the spot, she will realize that he cares about her in some way, and, as I have already mentioned, nowadays it is not fashionable to care about anyone else but yourself (By the way, what is this based on? Perhaps a primal fear of being exposed and possibly hurt by the person you care about?) He might spend thirty nerve-wrecking minutes in the floor lobby before he gathers enough courage to bash his knuckle against the wooden door. She will open the door and then he will have to overcome the propensity of his creative mind to suddenly freeze at the sight of her, while his mouth blabs something, the awkwardness of which will make him feel embarrassed the next time he meets her. But worst of all, the endless hours he will spend sitting on the couch in the main lobby, waiting vigilantly, left to his own mind which will soon begin to mock him for his absurdity. Stalkers often mock themselves in their thoughts—it helps to alleviate the anxiety. “Look at you.

You make me sick. You pathetic little worm. Get a life, huh! You came to university to have your butt on a couch 24/7?” None of this should be taken completely seriously, of course—the stalker is able to laugh at himself only as long as he is the one who does the laughing. But the inner, subconscious drive that pushes him to do the things that he’s making fun of himself for is still within him, as strong as ever, and so he continues stalking even while he mocks himself.

Anyway, I’m not sure if all of these characteristics of a stalker can be applied to every single specimen. After all, how can I know—there is no Stalkers Club at my university; stalkers don’t communicate with each other, they don’t reveal themselves to anyone. Thus, I can’t really know if I am a 63

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good stalker since I cannot compare myself with a peer of the same vocation. I can’t really know if I am the only stalker on campus either. My point is that reality is too diverse to be contained in such a handful of characteristics and cases. And what do I know about psychology anyway? Do you think I analyze stalking all day long? Maybe all of these aforementioned descriptions apply to me and me alone.

Do you think I am pathetic? Of course you do. But think about this: you don’t consider a lion pathetic, do you? Or a leopard? Or a mighty eagle?

I think we can all agree that what I do bears only a faint resemblance to what those beasts specialize in. Yet, you do not consider them pathetic. “Yes, but they are animals and you are human. Stalking is appropriate for them but not for you.” Well, having promiscuous sex is appropriate for animals but in the dormitory where I live, it seems to be a praised quality of the male representatives of our pride, as well!

Are you tired of me talking about myself? I am. I’m going to bed. I will continue tomorrow. It gets deeper. *

As I expected, I feel embarrassed for yesterday’s exposé. I guess it is because I have slept over it. You always feel differently in the morning about the things you have done yesterday. It is a strange feeling akin to the pragmatically rational mental disposition you suddenly acquire after on orgasm, when you abruptly realize that your life did not depend on getting to the release. All the same, I will not delete my confessions.

So I met this girl. Alright, I will not downplay it to preserve my coolness—I didn’t meet just a girl. To be honest, I have never met anyone remotely similar to her.

She came to my university on exchange for two semesters from the pearl of the Danube, misty Budapest. Having already studied Philosophy for two years at the Eötvös Loránd University, a much grander and more prestigious institution than my own little cramped up college, she had decided to try something different, something smaller, more personal and with more English. Travelling was in her blood, interaction with different cultures was an indispensable part of her nature. Her English was superb—almost as good as mine. During the first two weeks of the semester she was mostly hanging out with the rest of the Erasmus crowd—a colorful bunch from all over Europe that was, in a way, antithetical to what the exchange program is all about: learning. The Erasmus crowd includes some of the most intelligent 64

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and original people you will meet on campus but the fact is that most of them have come just to party.

This girl was the most cheerful person, albeit in her own way—her face was often dead serious but suddenly it would switch to total, sincere, heart-warming exuberance. Her smile was the sun, her eyes—the windows through which the sunlight illuminates whatever room she is in. She was often the center of attention when the exchange students would hang out in the main lobby and you could hardly have found a better dancer than her in the nightclubs, yet she was somehow different, somehow independent from all of that. This was especially visible when she would walk to her classes: she’d walk with someone but rarely with the same person twice and, more often than not, she would walk alone. And when she walked alone, listening to music on her iPod, striding with a fast sharp pace resembling that of a model, her independence was indisputable. She would completely sink in her thoughts and may not even notice an acquaintance, if that acquaintance passes by two feet away from her on the street. She was a self-sufficient, autonomous individual, fully aware of her rights and abilities. She immediately grabbed my attention.

At first, I thought she was even a bit arrogant. But that only served to further excite my interest: stalkers are, on average, more interested in persons who exhibit indifference and even hostility, than in those who are humbly welcoming. Our first meeting, however, completely dispelled this preliminary impression.

“Wow, wow, wow—hold your horses! We’ve been sifting through your abstract raving and now that you finally get to your story, you expect us to follow you without even giving us a decent description of the appearance of your object of interest, your setting and all the rest?” With a suppressed desire to tell you to go to hell with your format requirements, I humbly bend to your request. 5’9’’, black hair, blue eyes, Caucasian. Satisfied?

Actually, I just realized that I myself want to describe more of her appearance. Her long straight hair, pitch black and softer than late summer grass (she allowed me to touch her hair once; I will never forget that) freely flowed down her shoulders. Her tall, slim, almost skinny figure reminded that of a supermodel but there was something healthy about it—it lacked the tortured artificial perfection of models. Her skin was smooth and, for some reason, the word “cold” comes to my mind—she emitted some sort of fresh and clean coolness, a sunny arctic day. Her sculpted snow-white face contrasted with her black hair in a mesmerizing way. Her light-pink, slight65

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ly pale lips were the only thing that remotely approaches the category of “imperfections,” though that classification, of course, can only take place in chronically socially conditioned minds—in my opinion, the color of her lips made her face unique. She had a tiny silver nose-stud on the right side of her nose, which contrasted, together with her sunglasses, with the, usually dark, somewhat classy clothes that she wore. But her eyes, her eyes! I left the best part for the end. The lightest-blue you have seen, almost white-blue, skyblue, but the highest sky, where heaven ends and the depths of the universe open up. It was hard to look into her eyes but it was even harder to not look into them. By the way, her name was Aliz.

“What about your environment?” Well, a brown-grey, almost Soviet-looking mid-rise dormitory building, surrounded and intentionally separated from the rest of the city by a small park and endless homework; inside, sterile hallways, noisy lobbies, always occupied study lounges, a synthetic community, creeping with gossip, intrigues, one-night stands and shortlived relationships; a tight, extremely non-conducive to creativity, claustrophobic and artificial shithole. Yes, I am exaggerating.

It just hit me that I haven’t described my own looks at all. Am I tall or short? Am I handsome? I wonder if I would have even had enough motivation to write all of this, had I been ugly. But here, regardless of your outcries, I will leave my appearance to your imagination. As for my name, you can call me X. I could be Xander, Xavier, Xhaiden, Xenophon, Xenomorph, DMX or an East European Христо. Whatever suits you.

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On the Rails Yoana Savova

Marcus was used to travelling alone. It used to take him four hours 38 minutes and 35 to 50 seconds to get from Malmö to Stockholm. The SJ 2000 was never late.

However, this train trip would take him an incalculable amount of time, a fact that added to his unease. He had left Paris two midnights ago but the flowing scenery around still reminded him of France. Not that he was allowed much time to appreciate it. The human noises inside the train annoyed his Swedish ears.

Marcus shuffled inside his diplomatic briefcase while his eyes secretly darted around the passenger car. There was the noisy Zimbabwean woman at the back breast-feeding her screeching baby boy; the old couple cleaning their teeth with their tongues; the recent pensioner full of inexhaustible energy and funny-only-to-himself jokes. There was also a gypsy boy dressed in small war veteran clothes and holding a flower base that jingled with coins.

Marcus stared at the dirty mirror. He saw himself fading prematurely, his raven hair had lost its shine and his smiles bore the scars of wrinkles.

His teeth had regained their snow-whiteness ever since he had quit smoking and his 43-year-old skin was smooth to the touch—kudos to the Pinot Franc Noir varieties he sipped every evening—but time was overtaking him. His 67

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lively blue eyes had once earned him a brief stay at a SAVAMA detention center in Iran during the Cold War when they had mistaken him for an American spy.

Now his blue eyes coldly followed the Italian crossing his legs and casually swinging his arms opposite him. Potito, he was called, Marcus gathered from a phone trialogue between Potito’s mother, gay boyfriend and of course, Potito himself (Tito for short, like the Yugoslav leader). Tito was apparently narrating the cash flow statements of the pastry company he was working for with the same juicy details that he used to describe the pinkish underwear he was planning to buy in Sofia. Marcus regretted ever learning Italian.

The Swedish man leaned back, put his hands in his lap and stared at his maintained nails. He evaded eye contact and drawing unwanted attention to his person. In truth, he was curious about striking up a conversation with the pensioner who seemed to be knowledgeable about everything from soft drinks through solvency insurance ratios to Sofia cafés. Yet Marcus had never mastered the craft of simple chit-chat and every time he tried to chat up a perfect stranger his lips curled around an unborn sound and refused to re-open. Unlike the Italian across the table.

Tito was smiling and blinking, his eyes wandering from face to face.

He winked at the breast-feeder, who modestly folded her collar; waved at the old couple who could not focus their myopic eyes on him in order to return the greeting; he almost picked up a fight with the recent pensioner over the last bar of a Lindt chocolate; and he gestured to the gypsy boy to sit—all the while blabbering away on his mobile.

Marcus averted his gaze to the passing scenery. He could not blot out the human noises but he could skip looking at their distorted expressive faces. His ears pricked up at the sound of every disturbance and his fingers fiddled with the lecturer’s guide to the conference. He had tried to read the short booklet but had let it hang between his fingers.

As a child, he used to enjoy long train rides. Trains, especially the type of Bulgarian communist train he was currently riding on, provided a sort of communal intimacy that planes and buses sliced into the individual intimacy of single seatmates, cell phones or sleep. Cell phones were hushed and sleep was chased away by the noisiness. One could overhear everything from conflicts through cooking tips to caresses on these trains.

Now, however, his own silence oppressed him. His reading was interrupted numerous times. He could not find a long-enough occupation for his 68

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hands and, worse still, his feet joined in the nervous swinging of his body.

The image of the conference made him switch his seat a few times but the thought itself did not go away. He wanted to re-open the booklet but every time he did so, he was reminded of the impending unknown. He wanted to tell someone how scared he was—not of his fellow Slavic philologists but of Sofia. He was the best—as far as his knowledge and sources extended—Ph.D. of Slavic Studies across Europe but the worst adapter to foreign capitals, these crowded foreign cities without a single acquaintance to talk to.

The Zimbabwean woman had stopped feeding her baby and now the little rascal voiced his hungry disagreement across the passenger car. His screeching little throat woke up the dozing elderlies; the granddad decided it’s time to smack his wet lips as loud as possible. The pensioner shouted something French-ly patriotic at the gypsy boy with the flower vase. Worst of all, Potito punched the end-call button on his phone and dived into the frantic sound fray. The Italian stood up and ran on all fours (Marcus had the urge to fish out his camera then) to the inexhaustible baby. Potito stopped, cocked his head like a moronic puppy, and jabbered some children’s lullaby in Italian although Marcus could have sworn that the “lullaby” contained dirty gondolier undertones among the heroic prince, “sleep baby so you grow up strong” and happy endings. The Italian stretched out his hands in the middle of his passionate culmination and beat his heart with his right hand several times to reinforce his feelings. In return, the baby presented its gums in a grotesque laugh-smile.

Marcus gazed in horror. Notions of knives and Italian heads stampeded through his brain. He was of a mind to go up to the kneeling Potito and give him a piece of his mind on how middle-aged gentlemen (even Italian ones) ought to behave on a train ride when dusk is falling and dinner is to be announced. Instead he mentally scolded himself for his timidity and indecisiveness. He could not open his mouth as if a physical sickness held his tongue in check. Only there was nothing physical about the sickness.

He could not talk to a stranger without prior introduction. Hell, he did not even have the guts to ask his high-school sweetheart to marry him in front of her family. But that was normal in Sweden, in Sweden silence was a sign of superiority. In Bulgaria he would be deemed an idiot, a good-fornothing if he was not vocal enough. Bulgarians, like this Italian Tito, were boisterous, noisy, tactless creatures who were sullen and vexed one half of the week and drunk on rakia the other half.

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His silence only made him angrier. Marcus was not ready for Sofia. He started scratching his D&G grey pants until small lines started appearing; his toes moved uncontrollably and invisibly in the black shoes and small beads of sweat wet his neck and armpits. He saw Potito standing up and turning back to walk to his seat, legs marching in humorous soldier-like fashion.

Marcus immediately straightened his gaze and posture and slicked back his hair. He could not afford to have strangers see him ruffled by trivialities.

The Italian sunk back in his seat with an idiotic and pleased expression directed at Marcus, expecting the Swedish professor to return it. Marcus hid his hands in his pockets to avoid their twitching and stared back in a mute frown. He was willing to let go of his lesson on gentlemanly behavior when Potito reproached him:

“E-e, mister, why you no help poor baby? Poor baby was crying and you no do a-h nothin’.”

Marcus let the sentence hang in mid-air, did an almost-invisible shrug and feigned deep immersion into page 4 out of 50 in his booklet.

Potito did not seem as willing to let it drop. He waved a hairy palm in front of the professor:

“Zeriously, it is eh—how to say—impolite to do that. Lidl children need you to talk with them, you think they no understand but they understand. They understand more than a-h you and me.”

Marcus let out a sigh that he hoped was illustrative enough of his emotions and thoughts on the subject of juvenile understanding and no-understanding.

Potito was relentless: “Zee now, mister, I am an accountant. I wear glasses, I have big nose, I like ‘istory and I do not know how to joke. But zee, I try to talk to little kid and little kid talks to me.”

Marcus turned a thoughtful page.

“And you should talk too, mister. Talking iz a-good.” A God-granted pause. “We hav’ a long way to Zofia, right?”

“Yes.” Marcus said, ashamed of the coarseness of his voice. It betrayed his long self-imposed silence. Ever since he had hopped onto the plane from Heathrow and said a curt “bye” to his mother on the phone, he had not uttered a single sound.

“Yes, ov course yes. Are you fine?”

Marcus stifled a gasp at the insolent question. What business of his was it?

“Maybe I am. I have to read this booklet before we arrive. So if you 70

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don’t mind…”

“But I do, I do mind!” The Italian shouted excitedly at finally getting a longish answer from his reticent companion. He leaned forward and stuck his admittedly large nose over the booklet. “I no understand but thize ‘ere book is zmall. You can-a read it tomorrow. Why don’t you zay a ztory to lidl child?”

“Why should I?” Marcus snapped more abruptly than he had wished to. That shut the Italian up for good. His eyes grew pensive in an attempt to muster his impoverished English vocabulary.

Marcus looked away to the train interior. The mud-brown seats, the dirty-white tables, the garbage cans empty from the lack of passengers; all neat and tidy but dead and silent. There were no curtains swinging with the wind, no cigarette smoke forming ringlets around human faces. That was how he pictured Sofia as well—a communism-haunted city inhabited by shadows and shades, sulking people and silent streets. A place reeking of history and decay, of camp commandants who had chased his grandfather away to Sweden and had cheered with piggish laughter while shooting at his running back. Marcus could almost visualize it when Potito interrupted his reverie:

“Ei, mister, you got some holes in-a your clothes.” The Italian pointed a finger at the little holes on Marcus’ D&G pants. The Swedish professor turned a bright red and put his hands over his thighs. To his surprise, Potito laughed a good-humored laugh and, leaning forward to his ear, said conspiratorially, “I tell you now what I did. I am an accountant, zee, and one day I go to a conferenza in Milano—I am from Sicilia you know—and I go.

I ‘ave just-a come back from Harvard—I studied two months in Harvard, you know, but that not important—and I walk to conferenza room with my pants not like this but like this (Potito turned his coat inside out) and a guard, Americano, ask me where I going. I say him I go to conferenza but he no believe me. I say with ma best English: “I am going to the conferenza.

Pleaze, where is the room at?” And I zee he wanna make problem but there is no problem with my English. Zo he, stupido, says: “In English, we never end sentences with prepositions.” And I zay: “OK, where is the room at, idiot?” Haha, I laugh so hard but he hit me so hard too!”

Marcus smiled, almost laughed at the joke. He was getting used to the Italian’s weird accent and found himself hoping that his companion would go on talking. He kept nodding and looking in the other man’s eyes, encouraging him to continue. Everybody else in the train-car seemed to 71

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have stopped breathing and started listening to the Italian’s prattle. The Zimbabwean woman and her baby were straining their ears and eyebrows to understand the accent; the old couple was dozing peacefully; the gypsy boy could not grasp a single word but followed the wild gestures of the Italian with sparkling eyes; even the garrulous pensioner had put his mouth to rest.

Potito suddenly un-grabbed his stomach, stopped laughing and said through heavy gasps, “Your turn, mister.”

Marcus was caught off guard, “My turn for what?”

“To tell a ztory.”

“A story? I have no stories.” He knit his brows together. “I am a professor of Slavic Studies. I speak all Slavic languages. I am going to a conference in Sofia. I am Swedish, one quarter Bulgarian. That’s about all there is to tell.”

“You zpeak good English,” Potito prompted. “And you zpeak zo many linguas but you no zpeak to any people.”

“But I do, I do,” Marcus said. “I will call my wife once I arrive safely in Sofia. And I will call my brothers on the way back. They live in Germany.”

“How many people do you zpeak to?”

“What kind of question is that? I speak with my parents, my family, my friends. Colleagues, acquaintances.”

“A-ha!” Potito wagged a finger in front of his face. “But you no zpeak to people you don’t know. And you should. People you don’t know—best people you meet in your life.”

“Well, I am zpeaking to you, am I not,” Marcus attempted humor.

“How can I zpeak to ztrangers?”

“Just like that,” Potito said.

“Just like that?”

“Sì.”

“Sì.” Marcus murmured. He looked outside at the falling dusk and gathering clouds. The night would be warm and long. The train-wheels beat their rhythmic melody into the fog. Click-clack. Click-clack.

Night greeted them once more in Sofia, at Tsentralna Gara. They stretched their limbs, straightened their backs and filled their lungs with the fresh fatigue of arrival. Potito hopped down on the platform beside him and beat his palm against his breast like a soldier hearing the desperate horncries of his generalissimo.

“Spreadsheets, beware! I come!” The chill pierced his lungs and 72

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choked him in mid-laughter. “Ai, Dio mio, ‘ere iz cold.”

“Go and vanquish bureaucracy,” Marcus patted him on the back although he doubted that the Italian man understood his words. Potito smiled a simple smile and, assuming the pat to be a natural lead-in to a hug, embraced the taller Swedish man with all his might.

“Addio, amico!” Marcus said after the embrace and basked in the Italian man’s widened pupils. He had spoken with the gypsy boy in Bulgarian and exchanged some French banalities with the recent pensioner but he had not revealed his proficient command of Italian to Potito.

He trudged along the lanes, past the benches with kissing couples, and tried to embed into his mind his brief conversation with the Italian. He kept going back to that one strangely idiotic and strangely provoking question, “Are you fine?”

Are you fine? Why yes, he might as well have said that he was. Just like that.

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You

Kalina Simeonova

You wake up. You feel the edges of the bench pressing against your ribs and wonder how you’re still breathing. The sweat embraces you under the unforgiving sun. The air is thick with the smell of cigarettes mixed with the reeking contents of the garbage can right next to your head. Heavy steps walk around to the background of the constant rattling of luggage wheels and you’re surprised at how much it bothers you. A deep voice announces that the train will arrive at the 1st track. A piercing pain in your forehead still doesn’t let you open your eyes and embrace the station’s dynamics showered by the morning sun. You relax your muscles. No, that does not feel quite right… You don’t feel any muscles. You just lie there and hope that you’ll be able to get up before the sun fries you like an egg. A whistle. The train is leaving for Blackadder town. *

You graduated from college a year ago. Your parents barely lived through the four years you wasted going to parties, missing deadlines and occasionally learning something. Now you spend most of your time at a desk covered with sheets of paper and an old computer on top. No, it’s not in your office. You don’t even have a job. You live with your parents, because it’s cheaper. You wake up every morning and “morning” is rather relative. You push the on-button and sit in front of the computer. Your parents are off to 74

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work. The dog whines in the living room because outside the sun is shining and it hasn’t been out in weeks.

You eat the sandwich your mother left you for breakfast on the only empty edge of the desk. Meanwhile, you check Facebook a million times. A lot of posts during those eight hours of sleep. And yes, they’re that interesting, even when you don’t have a midterm tomorrow. You download six seasons of an amazing new series; you plan to go through them all within a day or two. Very fulfilling. The characters are so successful and perfect. You feel like you’re living their life. You want to live their life. You live their life every day for 12 hours and then you go to sleep. *

Finally you open your eyes. Seeing the world upside-down and spinning makes you feel something unpleasant rising up inside your chest so you push yourself up and sit on the bench. For a moment the world becomes dark and there’s a broken-radio-like noise in your ears. Water. Now. That’s your first thought as the platform gains back its colors and shapes. Instead, though, your first choice is to take out the pack of cigarettes you remember buying yesterday. Its weight is disappointing. You open it and with a jump of your heart for a fraction of a second, followed by a sigh of relief, you take out the last one left and light it. The scent of low-quality tobacco, usually so unobtrusive, now embraces you with a whole new sensation—disgust.

The familiar feeling relaxes you for a few seconds, but as you go on smoking, you start wondering what time it is. The sun definitely does not feel like 8 o’clock. You reach for the phone in your pocket. No, that’s not the phone. That’s the empty pack of cigarettes. Your hand jolts. Panicking you tap-check all pockets to locate your phone. At that point you start rewinding the vague memories in your head just to find out that your phone was not even in your pocket in the first place. You left home without it.

You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, and see a grey pigeon walking towards you with determination. Its head moves energetically back and forth, as if the bird’s going to spit on you any time now. And maybe it is. It doesn’t seem to be afraid of people at all and with not a second of hesitation it comes closer and closer, heading for some sunflower seeds spilled next to your foot. Your back already hurts so you stretch up with your head slowly making a semi-circle to let you grasp all details of your surrounding—from the sleeping hobo on the neighboring bench to the fat businessman rushing towards the coffee machine with heavy steps.

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You put out the cigarette and turn around to face the station building. Through the open doors you see a cab at the other side. You check your pockets again. This time you find what you’re looking for. The crumpled note in your pocket gives you a sense of relief—at least you don’t have to walk home. You slowly stand up. Everything is still a little blurry but you know what direction you need. The first step is followed by a sharp pain in your knee. You make your way towards the cab with careful steps, struggling not to fall. *

The door of the apartment closes with a distant thud. Your face, illuminated by the only light in the room, stares expressionless at the beautiful faces on the screen. It must be around 8 pm. The growling of your stomach confirms that impression. With the push of a button the familiar pretty faces freeze into a rather grotesque capture of the moment. That always makes you laugh, but at the same time you relate to them more - they, too, are real people and not just perfect dolls. You slowly get up and make it to the kitchen.

‘Mom, what’s for dinner?’

‘Whatever you cooked today, dear’, she says as she leaves the room to hang her work clothes in the wardrobe. ‘And hello to you, too’ she shouts from the hall. You fling yourself on the leather couch as if you’ve been carrying sacks of sand all day.

You just hate being reminded that you still live with them. Food and money. These are the only things that still bind you to those people. For years you’ve preferred to think of them as just “charitable landlords” who take care of you, but forbid you to do things on their property. And that actually fits them quite well. Especially since their favorite son Tony graduated from Harvard and married somewhere in the States. From that point on you became just “the other”—the black sheep of the family. The one that did not graduate from a highly respected university. The one that was never supported in his pursuits, because they involved art. “Music cannot feed you or your family. Remember that, son,” your father’s words still resound in your head. Not that you ever studied music as a major, no. Nobody would pay for that “shit.” But that’s what got you through university – the energy and support it provided for your studies, the stress relief. It was like a good luck charm that helped you be successful and be yourself. That’s what you thought, at least and that’s what you still think. But everything changed after you came back here. Now they don’t let you open your mouth, they don’t let you strum a single string. It’s as if they put 76

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you on mute. That’s what holds you back. They even took the guitar so you can “focus on finding a job.” And that’s how you got here. Sitting at home all day – hopeless, in denial…

‘So, what’s for dinner?’ she sits next to you.

‘Nothing,’ you say as you push the on button of the remote and stare into the monitor. You feel a pair of eyes on your left and start changing channels rapidly just to seem busy.

‘I hear your friend Amy got a job at Google and is moving to Denmark next month.’

‘Mmmyeaah, nice’ – you continue changing channels, thinking of ways to change the subject before the discussion takes a wrong turn. ‘Nothing good on TV these days,’ you say, leaving the remote on the table. ‘I’m gonna be in my room.’

Just as you’re about to stand up your mom continues with a mild, but inquisitive voice.

‘Listen, have you got any replies to your applications yet?’

‘Nope,’ her eyes are fixated on you, making you claustrophobic. Your stomach now feels contracted, sucking your breath in, and it’s not just out of hunger.

‘How about any new opportunities?’

Silence. A lump settles in your throat and you try to swallow but it seems to feel comfortable there.

‘Have you even looked for a job in the past 4 months?’ her voice quickly spirals up to hit higher tones and they carry that particular sharpness that shows up every time you have done something wrong.

‘That is my personal business,‘ your voice starts shaking. ‘Have I asked you for advice or anything? Do you think I don’t know how to deal with this?’

You find it hard to catch your breath. You pull your hand out and stand up.

‘Look, honey, it’s been almost a year since…’ she starts.

‘I know what I am doing, got it?’ you interrupt her, shouting, ‘Just stop trying to control me! If you want to do something useful, make dinner,’ you knock over the red vase next to the couch as you take heavy steps towards the door.

* ‘Where to?’ ’30 Dogfield street, please.’

‘Got it,’ the taxi driver pushes the start button on the meter and joins 77

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the traffic. He lights up a cigarette and measures you in a glance. ‘Had a rough night?’

‘You could say that, yes,’ you turn your head towards the window and pretend the view outside is the most interesting you’ve ever seen. *

It’s Friday. Your cellphone rings and you rush to the socket next to your bed to plug it in because the battery is almost dead. You manage to pick up in the last second.

‘Duuude! How are you? Haven’t seen you in months!’ Steven’s voice sounds so distant and unfamiliar. You haven’t heard from him since graduation. You’ve heard from nobody since then.

‘I’m fine. Very busy… how’s life?’

‘Good, good… Listen, we’re meeting today with the old gang. Robbie and Peter arrive in Blackadder at 5. What time do you finish work?’

‘I… err… 6pm. I finish at 6.’

‘Awesome! Let’s meet at 6.30 at Bar Karaoke for a beer or two. How’s that?’

‘Sounds great, man! See you there.’

You look at the watch on your wrist, but then remember it broke down a month ago. The computer states that it’s around 3 pm. You calculate that you need 5 minutes to get dressed and go out. You relax on your chair and start downloading the next extremely interesting three-hour movie on your list. Of course, a few hours later, you’re already late and in the hurry you forget your cellphone is still charging and leave, your pockets lighter than usual. *

You know that from the train station it’s at least a 10 minute drive so you stop thinking about how much money to prepare and, looking through the window, you let your mind drift away. It’s actually curious how exactly you ended up at the train station. You go through the last things you remember from the previous night. Nope. No train. Maybe it was Steven and Robbie. They used to pull that crap on you in college. Whenever one got piss drunk, they’d do something strange as board him on a bus to somewhere near or leave him in the children’s swing at the park. Maybe they left you there and were so drunk they couldn’t even buy a ticket. Assholes. Last night, you didn’t find them any more grown up than in college, though the age of 26 is supposed to make one quite mature, or is it? Anyhow, they are 78

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still the same. Except, they have jobs. Even Robbie, even him. He used to cheat on all of his exams and wear baggy clothes even in formal situations.

Now even he has a job. You don’t. You have to lie that you do, because nobody believes that you, the serious one, did not manage to pull a job interview.

But you went on two interviews, right? The first employer rejected you because your ex was a better candidate. Painful. The second didn’t even explain why. No other replies to applications. And then you quit. No more sending out applications. Who would hire you anyway? You have no confidence that you can do what you apply for. On the other hand, as Robbie told you last night, he went to 20 interviews and told each of them different lies about what he can do so skillfully, that they did not seem as lies. He got five job offers. He is useless and he got five. You can do stuff and you got none.

You know you can do better, but you haven’t let yourself think about it for months. You just keep mourning your lost hobby that used to make you feel alive. But it is becoming pitiful. You suck. Your mind starts racing to escape those contemplations and replace them with the thought of change, making its clumsy first steps in your head, like a toddler learning how to walk. You remember that you were actually good at other things in university, too, not just your obsession.

As you look through the window and see your reflection, you become more and more determined to fix your life. You start imagining how you go home and push all the doodles and scribbled sheets of paper off your desk and onto the ground. You sit at the computer and get to work. You see yourself sending out applications, contacting friends, taking everything in your own hands. The expression on the face of this person you see in the reflection is different now. His eyes too, have a different glow. You now see you can become this person. This person could be you. This person is you.

‘You can leave me here at the corner. I live nearby.’ *

You already see the world a bit blurry and everything you want to say goes out of your mouth in a slightly different form than what you intended. It doesn’t matter anymore, you keep drinking. You’ve gone from beer to whiskey.

It helps you digest all the blabber about jobs more easily. Peter keeps jabbering incoherently “interesting” stories about Board-game Friday with his new colleagues. You keep drinking and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Robbie goes on about the new project he’s working on, or rather not yet working on.

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You go on chain-smoking and drinking, barely even pretending to pay attention to their agenda. They don’t even seem to notice, talking one over the other, sometimes all of them at the same time. Your head as heavy as an anchor, struggles to stay straight so you can seem awake. You blink way too often. Ten minutes later, while you’re “enjoying” Steve and Peter’s completely out-of-tune performance of Wind of Change at the karaoke, you cannot hold on anymore and you just pass out.

Finally around 4 o’clock your friends decide it’s time to go home. Struggling to walk in a straight line themselves, they drag you from one sidewalk to the other. Luckily, there is no traffic. When they have almost reached the taxi stand, they realize they don’t know your address and have no way to ask you.

Of course, the most logical thing according to a bunch of drunken idiots is to take you to the nearby train station and board you on the first possible train travelling to a small town nearby they haven’t even heard of and find hard to pronounce. They text you the details so you know where you’d wake up. Brilliant.

In short, you get lucky. In your train compartment there are two brothers, nice enough to decide to check your ticket and make sure you don’t go back to where you departed from. They leave you on a bench on the terminal in Auchenshuggle and get back on the train only to find that they forgot to give you back your ticket. *

You leave the cab driver the generous tip of 10 pence and get off the car. Overwhelmed with thoughts, you don’t even realize how you got in front of your house. You enter the main lobby and greet the doorman. He looks at you as if you’ve just eaten a live frog in front of him and greets you back.

You take the stairs. Though you live on the third floor, for months it’s been customary for you to take the elevator in the rare cases when you actually left the building. That’s all going to change. Your leg still hurts from last night’s adventures. The cigarettes have been catching up with you and you know it. All of this doesn’t bother you now. Not anymore. You’ll soon be yourself.

You rush to the front door, forgetting it’s locked and bump into it.

Without paying attention you start looking for keys with trembling hands.

You finally find them in the right pocket of your jeans and with a shaking hand unlock the door and step in. You don’t even take your shoes off. You 80

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rush into your bedroom and stop startled at the door.

There’s a young man in front of the computer. He is eating a sandwich and checking his Facebook, staring in the monitor in a trance-like state. In the meantime, the six seasons of a new series is downloading in his uTorrent. He plans to watch the whole thing within just one or two days and then move on to the next show. He’s been doing that for a year now, since he graduated from college. He does that every morning, whenever morning happens to be for him.

He’s lost his favorite hobby and himself, and now his life is full of movies. He wants to live in these movies. He lives in them for 12 hours a day and then goes to sleep.

You stare as if you’ve never seen a man waste his life before. He stares as if he’s never seen himself in a mirror. *

The train rarely travels between Blackadder and Auchenshuggle. It does so only when it is necessary. When it’s not, the two mirror images exist unable to connect. You are the necessity this time. And you want to be there when it happens. You want to board that train. Whenever Blackadder and Auchenshuggle collide, you wish it happens to you. Whenever the two images of one and the same meet you want to be a part of it.

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Untitled

Lejla Dizdarević

You are really asking me why I am like this today? How many times will you repeat this question? Do you really want to know what is “wrong” with me? Are you that sure that you really want to find out? Because when you do, some things may change drastically. By pushing this question, you are only ruining the moment I have been trying to enjoy, and I genuinely do.

We will not sit here anymore, enjoying the Bistrica view and winter breeze on our skin. But here we are, trying to examine what is happening with me.

You see, I have to tell you that you are an amazing person, certainly one of the few worth my attention lately. I strongly believe you are one of the most valuable examples of masculinity one can encounter in Skaptopara, my dear. Your appearance always leaves me speechless and your smile unarmed. Did I tell you how I find it amazing that you are smiling all the time? Or tell me, is it just when I am around? I will not flatter myself now.

Quite positive, you have made my day here, every day recently. You are like a strong force that pushes me forward and makes me warmer, safer and happier. It will be very difficult for me to explain to you that I, however, am not happy at all. I cannot be happy. I do not expect you to understand therefore I did not want to evoke this conversation since I find it pointless. Can you simply accept the fact that I cannot smile all the time?

Surely, you would say I have many things to be happy and grateful 83

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about which is absolutely true. Giving yourself that right, you would say life has been treating me nicely. I would agree. You would be right by saying that you make me smile. But you see, I feel so damned in this place. I feel as if I cannot run from it, so claustrophobic and trapped. We are all falling into some trivial routine, and it is killing me. You know how small things can give me joy, although only temporarily. Inside I feel so empty, as if there is a hole that cannot be filled in any way. The feeling of constant dissatisfaction and emptiness almost never leaves my body. I regularly ask myself so many questions to which I cannot provide the answer, which is fine, I guess, because who am I to solve all those mysteries? Again, my dear, who I am and what am I doing here? What is the point of all this?

The thing is, I do not feel that I belong here, on this campus. Even worse, I do not belong in Belgrade, my hometown, either. You would wonder why that is since “White Town” is definitely one of the greatest places you have ever been to, with warm-hearted people, great cuisine and even better alcohol. Remember when you were joking about my “cold heart”?

Well, it is true, do not look at me like that and please, do not smile. I am serious; I do not belong there anymore and not even here. Skaptopara rooms seem so cold, empty, filthy and sterile at the same time. Should I mention people who are either seemingly nice to you and need you just for the single piece of information or the others who do not even want to give you the courtesy and pleasure of their precious greeting? I always try to avoid talking to too many people. For me it is a great loss of precious time and very tiring, while you love being greeted by everyone. We have spent so much time on wrong people, wrong things here. Tell me, do you honestly like that or are you just very polite? However, people do not bother me; I choose who will be around me. Yes, and I chose you.

One of the differences between you and me is, I do not know what to do with my life. No matter how much I spat on this place, it was a nice “bubble,” perfect vacuum and isolation from the real world. Thoughts on what would happen after this bubble exploded are incessant. I do not expect you to understand this since you, in a Spartan way, have planned every single detail of your future. I admire you for that, but I feel completely lost. Do you remember the other night, when we were having some white wine at our favorite place, right next to the river? We were looking at the waiter who was running around all the time, trying to serve and please everybody, holding drinks, cleaning stuff, completely exhausted. You said how you would never be able to do this, not because of the job, per se, but because of the people 84

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who are so disgusting. You made a very clear emphasis on how humiliated you would feel. While looking at the waiter, however, I recalled myself doing the exact same thing. All of a sudden, a relentless urge to run away this second somewhere and be a waitress in a distant place hit me. I want to see, explore and try to take off this mold that all of us have been put in. I feel like a doll in the worst possible manner.

“But no, you cannot do that for life, what would your parents say about that? My parents would probably kill me. How would people react if they saw a beautiful young girl who quit college to serve drinks in a slum?

Ah, you are crazy!” you said with the brightest smile. Even if you do not take me seriously, that is exactly what I am craving to do, without giving a damn what people would think. Do you realize my dear that you are actually the one who is serving here, satisfying everybody but yourself?

I warned you this conversation might change many things. It is difficult to understand each other. It is even more difficult for me to understand myself. Was this a sufficient answer to the question, “What is wrong?” So, please, do not ask me that anymore since there is no point in all this. And if you do, I would just reply, “Everything is fine.” Can we now continue from where we stopped, enjoy in this moment, kiss and smile at each other? Why are you not smiling anymore?

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Between Two Destinations Mariela Hristova

I never could see the fairness in my world being blacker than theirs.

For I saw the smiling, laughing, slipping jokes with their morning coffee and short doses of cancer. They would pass each other by, "How are you?"-s on their lips and in their eyes for the brief moment of recognition between two destinations.

They were always happy, always joyous as if the world was at their feet and they were kings in the eyes of others. And not once were the "How are you?"-s answered with "Well, fuck you, too."

Smile after smile they lost their faces, pearly white smile, moustache-y smile, lopsided smile, red-lipped smile, chapped smile. Artificial smiles meant to conform, to subdue, to pretend, to become. Yet never to be.

They would laugh day in and day out in their rooms, in the yard, in Balkanski, in Main, in Prego, in Skappy's, in the gym, in the elevator.

Through sunshine or rain giggles, snickers, chuckles, titters clatter all around.

They would club and dance and drink as if there was no tomorrow.

They would then prove how much fun they had, and how much fun everyone had as if "pics or it didn't happen" was the first commandment of their golden idols—succubi and incubi in their fake smiles and painted faces, sex on their lips, a promise of love between two destinations. Idols laughing, a 86

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pitch too high, not with, rather at them from the billboards in the streets.

How could they not see the crookedness of these smiles; not hear the sarcasm in that laughter; not smell the rot of their own decomposing, swarming with maggot shells?

Or did they know? The thought of them knowing yet continuing their worship, their ritual sacrifices to their parasite gods disgusts me. Sheep bleating after worm shepherds.

In my blacker world I sit, the darkness my sole guide, and laugh at them, ha-ha, a tone too high, ha-ha, and I look at them and smile, ha-ha, my eyes mirroring their play-pretend, ha-ha, my lips repeating "Good, you?" day in and day out. And the darkness, blacker still, incubates the corroded golden cow, my soul guide.

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The Ugly Stars Ermir Suldashi

I was overjoyed one day as a blackout fell upon my city. Finally, I thought, I would have never turned off Facebook otherwise. For a few hours at least, I would have a respite from making fun of my friends list . I would have to go outside; luckily the Night would shield my pale skin from the burning rays of the Sun.

I was not the only one who thought of going outside. The whole student body, it seemed, had gathered, not knowing what to do. I had never seen so many people deprived of Facebook at the same time.

The lack of city lights had brought forth the stars and galaxies in the sky. All around me people would admire their beauty, as if it was the first time they had seen them, and for many of them, who had been raised in the choking neon of the city, it was. To me, the stars were banal; just some dots in the sky.

As hours passed, a few particularly ugly stars came to my attention, which were apparently fixed to the sky, and not turning in unison with their brethren. “They are TV satellites, dude”, said the brute sitting next to me. I considered throwing a rock at them, but they were too high up, out of reach of us, mere mortals. Why can’t I escape these fucking televangelists, who have placed their infernal eye in the sky to gaze and judge us all?

Then the power was restored. Time to go back to the lights of the computer.

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In 2012 two of the most prestigious English language high schools in Bulgaria, The Anglo-American School of Sofia and The American College of Sofia, organized a short story contest for their students. All grades 9 through 12 were eligible. The only conditions were that the stories must be 1300-1500 words in length and written in English.

American University Professors Michael Cohen, Sean Homer and Filitsa Mullen acted as judges and selected three winners from an impressive shortlist of ten stories.

Fly in the Head is proud to print the winning stories here.

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Red Planet Blues Stanyo Zhelev

I woke up on Mars, which was odd. Odd because I didn’t go to sleep on Mars and odd because it was another planet. Both oddities could easily be explained with the consumption of copious amounts of alcohol, but I didn’t feel drunk. No hangover, either. I felt fine. How was I fine? I shouldn’t be fine. One look down confirmed the lack of astronaut gear that one would need to be on Mars, meaning that I should be dead. I should be very dead.

Dead long before I had the chance to think about it . Yet here I am, thinking, standing and breathing on Mars. Huh. Was I dreaming? Didn’t feel like a dream. Not to mention I had just woken up from a pretty vivid dream, so unless watching Inception had given me not just a headache, but also the ability to dream inside my dreams, this most certainly was not a dream. I guess I really was on Mars.

I picked a random direction and started walking. I walked for what seemed like hours, maybe even days. It could have just been a couple of minutes for all I knew. There was no time on Mars. Only lots and lots of red.

Not a single living soul in sight. Nobody to talk to and nobody that talked to you. The silence was deafening. The more I walked, the more my feet hurt.

My mouth went dry. Mars had suddenly become very, very real. Too real.

The type of real that isn’t fun at all and hurts all over. I was starting to wish I had died right away. Like I was supposed to in the first place. My stomach 91

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rumbled and I rummaged through my pockets for food. I found a candy bar, deformed beyond recognition by heat and time, all sticky and gooey. I knew I was probably going to regret eating it, but I did anyway. There was no trash can around, so I just threw the wrapper on the ground. I had another candy bar in my pockets. I always bought two. One for me and one for...

Wait. Did I just throw that wrapper on the ground? The first human being on Mars and what’s the first thing I do? Litter. Wow. Nice one. Way to represent humanity. Riddled with guilt, I retraced my footsteps, looking for the damn thing. Naturally, the wrapper was just as red as the landscape. I went down on all fours and started crawling, squinting and swearing. I had to find it. It had to be around here, somewhere. Everything would be okay if I found it. I promised to myself and to every deity I can think of that I would never litter again. That I would outgreen Al Gore in my campaign to keep Earth and Mars litter free. I kept going, the guilt and dread building up as I realized I wasn’t going to find it. It was lost. I lost it. I have to find it. I have to fix my mista... THUD!

Ouch. That hurt. Was it a rock? No. Telephone box. Telephone. Box. On Mars. Okay. I stood up, my head still throbbing with pain. It was one of those retro public call booths, just as red as everything else around here, which I guess would explain how I crashed into it. I half expected to see Clark Kent changing in there or something. I opened the door and struggled to get in. It was smaller than it looked on the outside . Also, pretty beat up and rusty, even by old phone booth standards. The payphone started to ring.

Convenient, seeing as how I didn’t have any coins on me. I picked it up.

“Hello?” I asked, just now realizing what a mistake the candy bar was. It was like I had eaten glue or something.

“Hi there!” A forcefully cheery voice answered. “How’s it going?”

“Um... fine. I guess. Who is this? What do you want?”

The other person said something, but the connection was pretty bad.

I barely heard a word.

“What? What did you say? You’re breaking up!”

“I said,” the other yelled. “I just want to help!”

“Look, Adam Levine, this isn’t gonna work out. Do you have a cellphone or something?”

“I tried your phone. I didn’t get an answer.”

“Oh. I guess there isn’t a signal out here.”

The other person was silent for a few moments, letting the stupidity of what I just said sink in.

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“So... you said you wanted to help?”

“Yes.”

“How?” I didn’t even try to hold back my sarcasm. Sure, this guy could make payphones work on Mars, but I didn’t see how he was going to help me. He was silent for a while longer.

“Talk to me. What’s going on? How are you?” He said at last.

“I lost something. I need to find it”

He was silent again. Maybe it took a while for what I was saying to get to him. He could be calling from Venus or something.

“You can’t.”

“What?”

“There are some things... that are just lost... forever. Nothing you can do about it, you know?”

“What do you know?” He was starting to irritate me. “You don’t know. You aren’t here.”

I put the phone down. Not a minute had passed before it started ringing again. I picked it up again.

“Yeah?”

“Let it go, man.” It was a different voice this time.

“The hell I will!” I yelled. “Stop telling me what to do!” I ended the call again, this time by slamming the phone as hard as I could.

It immediately rang again. I picked up, my other hand clenched into a fist.

“Stop calling me!”

“We’re just trying to help!” Another voice. Female this time.

“Well, stop it! Because you’re not helping! You’re not! You’re just making everything worse and me angrier!”

The phone started ringing in my hand before I even had the chance to slam it again.

“LEAVE ME ALONE!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

“What’s the matter?” half-jokingly, half-worriedly said a fourth voice. “Seeing red?”

I was speechless. That joke was so awful, so disastrously lame and inappropriate that it was actually a little funny. I started laughing and I could hear the other person laughing as well. I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. I could feel tears rolling down my cheeks as I banged my fist again the booth, still laughing. Then the laughter died out, just as suddenly as it had started. The tears stayed. I was crying. I couldn’t stop. I dropped down to the ground like a sack of potatoes, curling up into a ball and sobbing as 93

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hard as I could and then some more. The phone rang again, but I ignored it.

I don’ know how I long I was down there, crying my heart out. Could have been days. Could have been years. It certainly wasn’t just a couple of minutes. There was no time on Mars. Only tears.

The phone rang again. No, wait. Different ring. Different phone. My cellphone. I answered, but didn’t say anything at first.

“It wasn’t your fault,” the female voice from before said.

“I know.”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“I know.”

“The truck driver was drunk...”

“I know.”

Silence.

“Will you come back?”

“Yeah, just... just give me a minute, okay?”

“Okay.”

I got up and picked up the payphone. I dialed the number and I waited. I remembered all the times I had seen people doing this on TV or in the movies and rolling my eyes. It felt different this time.

“Hi, this is Julie, I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message after the beep, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!” Another very familiar voice cut in. “Or she’ll forget to and pretend you never called!”

“Mark!” Muffled sounds of fighting and laughter and then a beep.

That was it.

I put the phone down and watched it dissolve into rusty bits and pieces of metal. It was time to go. *

I woke up on Earth.

I shaved. I showered. I ate pancakes, my mom smiling at me and me smiling back, for the first time in a long time. I went out and walked to the store, seeing as how my car still wasn’t fixed yet. I picked up a candy bar.

“Just one?” The clerk asked, knowing my routine all so well.

“Just one,” I said, with just the tiniest hint of sadness.

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Live and Let Live Antonia Georgieva

Aaron Bard stormed out of the cafĂŠ La Palette with his cane in one hand and his hat in the other. Limping through the Paris streets in the late summer afternoon, he headed towards the Tuileries Garden, where he hoped to find some peace, inspiration, and fresh air, which his ailing lungs would happily welcome.

Aaron was in his late forties, although he had the appearance of a much older man. To his misfortune, as he used to say, he had survived the Great War, lost everything, and found shelter in the city of wanderers—Paris. It was a real shame that he had deserted an almost certain death on the battlefield only to find himself chained into such a miserable existence. The first peaceful years had been full of victorious intoxication, but now a decade later there were no more reasons to celebrate. To him people all around seemed as devastated as the cities they inhabited.

He was not missed by the glorious British Empire, and his previous life was lost to the past. His wife had died in a work-related accident, and for all he knew, his little daughter, the light of his life, couldn’t have survived on her own either. The war had taken everything from him but his gift for writing, even though lately it seemed that this one consolation was gone as well.

By the time Aaron Bard entered the park it was almost sundown. He strolled for a little while and then sat on a bench to rest. At the other end sat

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a lovely young girl barely in her twenties, feeding the birds. She wore a kneehigh dress that some might have deemed too revealing, and her short hair was shaped in the popular “Marcel Wave” style.

She must be one of those progressive thinkers, Aaron thought sarcastically. He paid no more attention to her than what was needed to form this first impression. He could not deny, though, that the lady was exceptionally beautiful in the casual manner in which she scattered the seeds with her skinny hand and her green eyes gleamed in the sun.

Some fleeting recollection or a feeling troubled his mind for a moment, but it was lost when the girl addressed him in almost flawless French, “You’re not from here, are you?”

“Non,” Aaron replied laconically, and when she kept looking at him expectantly, he clarified, “British.”

An almost unnoticeable shadow ran on her face. Then the faint smile returned, and laughing slightly she replied this time with an unmistakable English accent, “What is the purpose of your stay? You know, that is what they ask a foreigner entering France these days.”

Aaron Bard looked back at the girl focusing on her pale face and clear eyes.

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve been here for many years now,” he answered.

“Came during the war.”

“You never went back?” the girl asked surprised. “Don’t you have a family back home?”

The old man turned away with his eyes closed and sighed.

“I didn’t have a reason to go back.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…” She realized her mistake.

The girl shook her head and stared away into the setting sun once again.

“What do you do for living anyway?” she asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

“I am a writer,” he answered indifferently.

“Anything I might have read?”

He shook his head.

“I haven’t written anything worthy ever since…” his voice trailed off.

“The war,” she finished his thought.

He nodded.

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recalled the cold, moist earth in the trenches. She remembered the sporadic gunshots in the streets that echoed like a thunderstorm and her mother trembling sleepless as she held her in the middle of the night.

She thought of the last time she had seen her mother on the train platform, her green eyes overflowing with tears, her stoic face all the more beautiful. The little girl had stretched her tiny arms out of the window, desperately trying to hold on to the wind. The train had departed from the station in a dark cloud of fumes, leaving behind the single mother whose only hope was that her child would find a better future than what she could have given her.

And so the nine-year-old girl had arrived in Paris, carrying an envelope with her family’s last savings and a letter explaining her circumstances. She had carried out her mother’s instructions precisely and gone to the house of a distinguished elderly professor at the Sorbonne, a former teacher of her mother, as the girl had later come to understand. Mr. Monroe had provided her with care and education for as long as his health allowed him to.

“You are awfully quiet,” Aaron Bard said. “What are you thinking about?”

The girl faced the writer and looked at him with a certain kindness as if their individual experiences, albeit distinct, were basis for a profound connection.

“You know, war is not as scary as they make it out in the history books. It is even worse. War is a contrivance of Death, and so is the fear it inspires. The living should glorify life instead of spend their time in remorse and bitterness,” she responded.

She got up as she dispersed the last of the birdseeds she carried and said, “Maybe you should write about that. Life.”

Aaron also stood up, as custom dictated.

Just before leaving, the young woman turned to him again, “I know we just met, but would you like to come to my wedding this weekend? My fiancé might be able to put you in touch with some editors; he works at the newspaper, you see.”

“I’d be honored,” the writer replied. He took out a leather-bound pocketbook and a pen, scribbled his address, and signed it “A.B.”

“You may send me the details here,” he said and passed the note. “I look forward to seeing you again, mademoiselle.”

With livened spirits, each walked in a different direction. Later Aaron Bard pondered the girl’s suggestion about his writing. He had been 97

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so preoccupied with the losses and grievances of war and death that he had forgotten what living felt like. His ability to write had shriveled along with his will for living.

When Aaron finally arrived at his small apartment, it was already dusk outside. He closed the curtains, lit a candle, and placed it on his cluttered desk next to the typewriter. Without much delay, he blew the dust off the keyboard, fed paper into the old machine and sat down to write with new fervor that conquered his whole being.

It all worked out so well this time not only because the young woman shook his stagnant worldview to the core but also because he found something indispensable after this encounter. Hope, muse, truth, delusion—whatever that abstraction was, he couldn’t quite grasp its nature in his current feeble, yet animated state of mind, but it did give him the resolve to leave a notable legacy behind, a commitment that brought about feelings of trepidation and imminence.

And so Aaron Bard wrote about the life he knew and about the life he most earnestly wanted. It wasn’t a glorified war story or a pitiful whine about hardship. It was a story as truthful and elaborate as it was fictional, for only in the realm of his imagination could he have a different ending.

The war was never fought. Families were never broken. The world as he envisioned it was the epitome of an almost idyllic coexistence. The naiveté and utopianism behind such a thought made Aaron’s cynical side grimace in contempt, yet the idea of reuniting with his family had its undeniable fantastic appeal even to such a pessimist.

Such writing was as overwhelming as physical toil. Aaron’s eyes began to hurt as they readjusted to the growing darkness, but he worked on zealously. The night gave little respite from the oppressive summer heat, too. Weary from the efforts of the day, his weak lungs occasionally ushered a fit of coughing, which left him breathless and gave him no rest through the night. Only the sweet warmth of some warm whiskey, which Aaron gulped down from an old flask, occasionally soothed these outbursts.

Barely having finished the last page of his manuscript, the writer fell asleep at his desk.

In a few more hours the morning mail would arrive at Aaron Bard’s door, and there would be an invitation to the Montagne family wedding and a brief note, signed by the bride-to-be—Clair Bard.

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Dream Society Hannah Berg

Liza woke up, the blurring image of her dream slipping from her mind. This was unfortunate, as forgetting your dreams in the New World was a sign of madness, and the older you got without forgetting a dream, the more esteemed you became in the New World society. And Liza could tell that this was an important dream. She woke up with goose bumps on her neck and a foul taste in her mouth. Something bad was going to happen. She searched her mind, feeling out for the dream. Could thinking of something random bring it back?

Liza thought about how to tell her family as she trudged down to the kitchen. She was only 16, far too young to be forgetting her dreams. What would her parents say? She could picture the two small creases between her mother’s eyebrows, her father’s wrinkled nose. Old age wasn’t obvious in the New World, in fact most citizens went out of their way to get rid of agesigns, but worry wasn’t age, and these lines of concern were how Liza could read her parents.

By the time she got her daily breakfast of banana oatmeal, Liza had decided not to tell her parents that she had forgotten her dream. After all, there would be no worries on their part if she told them she simply hadn’t dreamt. No small tensions to break the peace that ruled over their house. It would continue to be just like any other on their street in the New World; a cookie cutout of the ideal family baked to perfection. One of the New 99

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World’s goals was to eliminate differences, and while they didn’t exactly take physical appearances into account, behaving differently was definitely discouraged.

Liza’s younger brother walked into the kitchen already chattering about the exciting dream he’d had about their family getting a puppy. This just meant that he was happy. Liza’s father had had a dream as well, but his was much more serious than her brother’s. It represented his worries about work; he had a new boss to adjust to.

Liza had read about her father’s boss in yesterday’s newspaper, in her proud role as editor-in-chief of the e-blog at school she was always on the lookout for ideas. The article stated that her father’s ex-boss told his wife a dream in which he stabbed the New World leader. His wife supposedly ended up reporting him to authorities. Liza found this to be very pro-society not to mention violent, so neglected to include it in the e-blog. There was a rumor around school (at least if you knew who to ask and as one of the top reporters, Liza did) that the society killed those who dreamed badly about it.

At school, Liza ran over to her friend Reuben; the only person who was always able to make her look on the bright side. Reuben and Liza had been inseparable since they both joined the e-blog. The only thing that Liza didn’t like about her recent promotion was that it provoked their first argument, Reuben had wanted the position just as much; he had even dreamed about it. Luckily they hadn’t let it get between them for long, and were now as close as ever.

“I forgot my dream this morning,” she whispered to him, checking that no one was close enough to hear them.

Reuben’s shocked face expressed his thoughts, “Did you tell your family?”

“No, I knew they would worry. But, Reuben, you can’t tell!” Liza pleaded. “And I woke up knowing it was important.”

Liza looked around again, suddenly noticing the dark figure hunched over nearby. He wasn’t there before. It didn’t seem as though he was listening, but you could never be sure.

“Hey, do you know that kid?” She muttered to Reuben. He nodded, but then tilted his head. Before he had time to explain, Mr. Pine sent them off to their separate classes.

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*

By the time Liza caught up to Reuben, she’d noticed the kid twice, each time in the periphery of her vision. Her reporter instincts begged to know what his deal was. Who was he? Why did something about him seem so eerily familiar? She just couldn’t put her finger on it.

“So who is that kid?” She asked Reuben as they hunched over their lunch. Liza checked, and sure enough he was leaning against the wall at the back of the cafeteria.

“He’s new. He’s in my AP history class and knows a lot about the Old World. Rumor has it that he just came in on the Old World shuttle.”

Liza didn’t think that the New World still accepted settlers. Besides, everyone who was stuck on the Old World had a criminal history, or was against the New Generation leader. The only reason the shuttle still ran was to import resources and keep an absent eye on the Old World, or so Liza thought. Another of the many rumors about the New World opined that government opponents were being sent back. Could this have happened to her father’s boss?

“So how did he get here?” She asked.

Reuben shrugged. This all felt like something she had heard before.

Liza probed her mind for anything that felt familiar. She turned to see where the kid was again, but he had disappeared.

Liza walked down the hall, but was lost in questions. It couldn’t all be coincidental, could it? The kid turning up on the same day as her dream?

She began putting in her locker combination and was shocked find that it was already unlocked. Liza checked the hallway, and spotted a familiar figure hurrying into a classroom. With a puzzled expression, she pulled her locker open to find an envelope on the inside of the door. There were two words written on the outside of the envelope, Your Dream. *

Liza knew she needed to talk to the kid. She also needed to figure out what was going on. Now she knew that it wasn’t all coincidental, and that she might not be crazy! After school was let out, Liza stood outside watching as each student got on their busses to go home. The letter had told her to wait right in that spot, below the last window on the school building. Liza absently looked at the ground and noticed a paper wedged in a crack in the cement.

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Meet me tonight. Outside the community center. We need to talk.

-James.

The only information that Liza gathered from the new note was a familiar sounding name, the only thing she knew for sure about the mystery kid. It had to be him, he was the only one near when Liza got the first note, and he had been following her today, Liza could feel it. The handwriting on this new note was also the same as that of the first one. Liza reluctantly climbed into her bus, tucking both notes in her pocket.

The whole way home, her mind ran over what this James character could want with her. He knew about her dream, but how? Even if he’d overheard her brief conversation with Reuben, how could he know her forgotten dream? All Liza wanted was to get this whole day over with, or go back to this morning and never have forgotten her dream. Maybe that was the key, to remember the dream. As Liza got off at her stop she got an odd feeling of nostalgia. What was going to happen tonight? She wondered if she would ever see her family again. *

Before Liza knew it the sun was on the horizon. She walked the short distance to the community center, looking furtively around the whole way. It felt as though someone was following her, as though a cold breeze ran down her arms each time she turned her head forward.

Liza spotted James sitting on a bench, the sun setting behind him.

He had changed out of his school clothes and he looked less menacing. In fact, he was handsome. His black hair fell to just above his eyes, and though he sat hunched over, it wasn’t because of bad posture but because a gust of cold wind had just caused him to shiver. The fact that he’d lost the hoodie which had been hiding his face helped make him less frightening.

Liza strode up confidently to him, questions on the surface of her mind. She wondered who really cared about dreams? Why did the government track their thoughts through them? She wasn’t crazy, and this boy, this James would tell her that she wasn’t.

When she reached him she stood above him. She studied his fingers, which were gripped tightly together. At first she was nervous about what he might say but then his blue eyes met hers, and she felt all her questions drift away. What was she worried about again?

“Hi.” Liza felt like an idiot. A second ago she had been ready to punch this boy in the face and all she could come up with was hi?

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James grinned. He quickly grabbed her hand, and Liza knew that there was something weird about that. His touch was too familiar, though they had just met. Suddenly he glanced over her shoulder looking horrified.

Liza spun and saw three men wearing the New World insignias around their upper arm. They nodded at James, and then one stuck a black cloth over Liza’s mouth before she could scream. Liza’s vision began to blur.

The last thing she saw before she passed out was James’ eyes. Was that a tear running down his cheek? His lips were moving. He mouthed, I’m sorry. *

Liza woke up, the blurring image of her dream slipping from her mind. This was unfortunate, as forgetting your dreams in the New World was a sign of madness, and the older you got without forgetting a dream, the more esteemed you became in the New World society. And Liza could tell that this was an important dream. She woke up with goose bumps on her neck and a foul taste in her mouth. Something bad was going to happen.

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Faculty Advisor: Michael Harris Cohen Editor-In-Chief: Mariela Hristova Editor: Anna-Mariya Ivanova Cover Design and Illustrations: Yulia Chernavskaya Layout: Ana Devdariani

American University in Bulgaria 2014