Minor Musings: Academic Year 2021-2022

A Long Road BY MEGHAN POS

“You’re late.” Lou says, without looking up from behind the counter. Rob shuts the glass door of the record store, turns the sign from ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’ and says, “Girl, I’ve got news!”

“Let me guess, you bought a watch?” She says. He smiles at her. “Yes, a big and shiny 18 carat Rolex. No, I heard that the Andersons are splitting.”

“Really? Well, call the papers.”

“Lou, don’t be sour. I’ve got to give you the scoops. I love the scoops.” He walks over to the ‘New Releases’ section and starts browsing through the record covers. “And I love Tuesdays. New music, baby. Gimme your favorite in 3, 2, 1 ” “Dookie by Green Day.”

“Ugh, no! What happened to your taste?”

“My taste is broad. You know the rules.” Lou says and she points to the record player. “Fine.” Rob says and walks over to it. He lifts the tone arm and puts the Green Day record on the turntable with the B side up. When the first song starts playing, the right corner of Lou’s mouth curls up a little before she says, “Come on, you know it’s more respectful to start with the A side.” “Yeah, yeah. Are you coming for a cig?”

“Only if you brought your own pack.” Rob sighs and says, “I didn’t, but I’ll run to the corner store after this one. Pinky promise!” Lou chuckles. She grabs her navy denim jacket, hands him a cigarette and walks out the glass door.

As they stand with their backs against the wall of the record store, Vinyl Groove, their neighbor Anna walks up. She opened a tattoo parlor down the street a month ago.

“What’s up, guys?” She says with a wide smile. “Do you have a light?” Lou fumbles in her pocket for her Zippo. “Sure.” She says as she lights it. Anna holds her hands around the flame to guard it from the wind. Lou studies the tattoos on her golden brown fingers: a string of dots, a few arrows on both hands and a branch of leaves around her index finger. When Anna catches Lou looking, she winks. “How’s business?” Rob asks.

“Pretty good. You know I’d love to chat, but I’ve actually got an appointment in a sec.” “Oh, we don’t want to hold you up. You go, baby.”

“Yeah, sorry. I’ll come by later this week.”

“No worries, Anna.” Lou says.

“Thanks, Lou. See you around, yeah?”

“See you.”

They watch her cross the street as her black and blonde braids wave above her black leather trench coat. When she almost bumps into an elderly couple, she tips her flat cap.

Lou lights a second cigarette. She takes a long drag and blows tiny clouds into the fresh air. “So, it’s February 1st.” Rob says.

“Yeah. Will you close up for me later today?”

“Of course, but I just wanted to check if you’re doing okay.”

“I am.”

“I’m here if you want to talk, baby. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“Because it’s the second year and I’m worried you ”

“I’m fine, Rob.” Lou says with a cracked voice. Two teenage boys step inside the shop.

“Since when do we have customers five minutes after opening?” She mumbles as she flicks the cigarette away and follows them in.

Setting a bouquet of white lilies in front of the gray headstone, Lou keeps reading the text over and over:

In Loving Memory of Jacqueline Agathe Moreau 28 06 1964 || 01 02 1992

“Hey Jacks.” She whispers, as the tears start rolling down her cheeks. She bites her lip and sits down in the grass cross legged. “I brought you the new Green Day album. You wouldn’t really like it, though. It’s a bit rough for you.” She chuckles and thinks of the time she brought home a record by The Offspring. Jackie and Lou had been dating for six months. They used to listen to the newest releases on Tuesday evening together, when Lou had taken them home from the shop.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you think you will like this one?” She had asked, holding the album behind her back, and Jackie had said, “Ten. Sans doute!” No doubt. Then the loud guitars sounded and Jackie had begged for her to turn it off. Jackie adored music, but she wanted music to move her. Touch her heart. Punk rock definitely didn’t do that.

“Will you play me something that makes me feel happily melancholic?” She had asked and Lou had walked over to the wall with oak shelves on which over a thousand records were placed. She flipped through them; David Bowie, Elton John, Nina Simone, Fleetwood Mac, Queen. “Got it!” She said, put on side A of The Smiths’ self titled debut album and walked over to Jackie. “What do you think?”

Jackie closed her eyes and started swinging from left to right. After a few seconds, she smiled brightly. Then she opened her eyes, kissed Lou softly and said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I think I’m falling in love with you. The words echo through Lou her mind as she is still staring at the headstone. She cups her face in her hands and starts sobbing. Sharp stings around her heart make her gasp for air.

“I miss you so much, Jacks.” She says. “Life is not the same without you.”

After sitting in silence for a few minutes, Lou stands up and walks home. She looks at the people passing her. Not one of them would be able to understand what she’s going through. They wouldn’t understand the torture of losing someone who was as full of joy as Jackie was. She stops at the liquor store next door and buys a bottle of Johnnie Walker whiskey.

When she goes into her apartment, she throws her keys on the coffee table and looks into the gold framed mirror that hangs above it. She notices how puffy and red her eyes are in contrast to the blue of her irises.

Well, I’ve looked better, she thinks as she grabs a glass from the shelf and fills it to the brim. She takes two large gulps and looks through her records, trying to find one that fits the mood.

“We’ve got a winner.” She mumbles when she picks ‘For Sentimental Reasons’ by Ella Fitzgerald. Jackie was one of her biggest fans. Up until today, Lou could never get herself to listen it, but she is willing to try.

The first song starts playing and Lou immediately clenches her jaw. After a few seconds, her hand starts to tighten around the whiskey glass. She tries to keep it together, but when the bridge starts, Jackie’s favorite part, she throws the glass against the wall. She balls her fists against her forehead and screams, “Fuck!”

With teary eyes, Lou looks over her shoulder to the picture of Jackie on the hearth. She shakes her head and says, “Why didn’t I pay attention?” before heading to the bedroom.

The week after, while Lou is walking to the spot where she always gets a morning coffee, she runs into Anna.

“Fancy seein’ you here! How you doin’, Lou?” She asks, good humored as usual.

“Pretty okay, thanks. How about you?”

“I’m great! The weather is amazing today. I’m tryin’ to soak in as much sun as I can before work.”

Lou looks up at the radiant sky and closes her eyes to let the sunny rays touch her skin.

Why didn’t I realize it’s such a nice day?

“Anyway, what’re you up to?”

“I was about to get coffee. Would you…” Lou says and pauses for a second, “would you like some, too?”

Anna’s face lights up and she gives Lou a warm smile. “I’d love some.”

“Cool. I’m getting a black. What can I get you?”

“Oh, no! No, I can pay for my own.”

“It’s okay. My treat.” Lou says, as she takes a step inside the coffee house. “What will it be?”

“Damn, I surrender. Black would be great.”

Five minutes later, Lou comes back and hands Anna her cup. “Never trust someone who drinks coffee with milk.” She says jokingly. Lou laughs and says, “Absolutely. I’ve been teasing Rob with his lattes for years.”

“Serves him right.” Anna says as they walk on. “What’s your latte? Like, something that’s great, but then you add somethin’ to it you shouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I deny that that’s my latte?”

“I mean… you gotta know deep down that you’re sinnin’.” “Right.” Lou says and thinks for a few seconds. “I put ketchup on pizza.”

Anna looks disgusted. “That’s plain evil.”

When they look at each other, they start laughing and Lou gets a warm feeling in her stomach. After turning the corner into their street, they see Rob smoking a cigarette in front of Vinyl Groove. The moment his eyes meet theirs, he frowns and says, “Now look who’s late.”

“Well, for the 22 times you’ve been late this year...” Lou says. Rob rolls his eyes at her.

“What’s up, Rob?” Anna says.

“Girl, you promised you was gonna come by the store last week!” He says. “Yeah, sorry. Lemme make it up to you! Why don’t the three of us go to the pub tonight?”

“I’m in, but that ain’t Lou’s cup of tea.”

Anna turns to Lou. “What? Just come. It’ll be fun!”

“Rob is right. I don’t go out.”

“One beer! I’ll bring my nicest smile. We’re destined to have a great time then.”

Lou blushes. She’s confused by how much she wants Anna to keep begging her to come.

“So, coffee for a beer?” Anna doesn’t take her gaze off of Lou.

Finally, Lou smiles and says, “Alright. One beer.”

Rob narrows his eyes at them and starts to smirk slightly.

“Great! I’ll see y’all at Casey’s Pub around seven then?” “Sure. Good luck today.” Lou says. “Thanks! You too.”

As soon as Anna is out of hearing distance, Rob puts a hand on Lou’s shoulder and states, “You’re gonna make one hell of a couple.”

“What?”

“My prayers have been answered! I’ve had my suspicions since day one. You’re into Anna.”

“It is not like that, Rob.”

“Okay, honey. You keep telling yourself that and then I’ll tell you this: your ass is going on a date tonight.”

Lou shakes her head. “Let’s just open up the store.”

When Lou and Rob enter Casey’s Pub that evening, Anna is seated in one of the leather covered booths. She waves at them. As they walk over, Lou looks at the familiar paintings on the mahogany wooden wall.

“Hey guys, I already ordered for us.” Anna says, while Lou sits down next to her and Rob across. He has his eyes fixated on the barkeeper, who brings them three beers and says, “Enjoy.”

When Anna reaches over Lou to grab one, she catches a whiff of her floral perfume. Lou inhales it a little, but immediately feels embarrassed. She tries to move past it, tells herself it is not like that and grabs a glass. “Coffee for a beer. Cheers.” She says.

They clink glasses and take a sip. Rob is still looking at the barkeeper and says, “Babies, I need to flirt with that hot barkeeper. Raincheck?”

He gets out of the booth and winks at Anna when Lou isn’t looking. He takes place at the bar, but keeps them in sight.

“Such an asshole. He does this every time.” Lou says and chuckles.

“Unbelievable.” Anna says. “Is this why you don’t go out with him?”

“Absolutely.”

Lou watches Anna grin from ear to ear while she moves her shoulders to Queen’s ‘Cool Cat’.

“Oh, snap! They’re playin’ my favorite song.” Anna says and sings along, “Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah…”

“Good taste.” Lou says and sings the next line softly, “You’re taking all the sunshiiine…”

“See? You’re havin’ a blast already!”

“More than expected. I haven’t been here for months.” Lou says. She has to admit that this is quite nice. Being here with Anna makes it easier.

“So, what made you decide to come tonight?”

“You’re very convincing.”

Anna puts her arm over the top of the booth and rests her temple against her hand. She stares directly into Lou’s eyes and takes another sip of her beer. Something about her earthy brown eyes makes Lou want to drown in them.

“Is that so?” Anna asks and licks her lips. Lou feels goosebumps in her neck while watching her and starts to realize Rob is right. She has been attracted to Anna for weeks. It was easy to deny before, but now that they’re sitting so close to each other, Lou feels more drawn to Anna than ever.

Just as she gets the feeling she may have been staring for too long, Anna leans forward. Her soft lips find Lou’s, sending an electric wave from her head to her toes and back again. Jackie.

Lou’s heart skips a beat and she pulls away rapidly.

“I, uh ” She starts. Her head begins to spin. Where it skipped a beat a second ago, her heart is now racing like it wants to sprint out of her chest.

“I need to go.” She says as she slowly stands up.

“Lou, I didn’t ” Anna starts, but Lou turns around and rushes towards the entrance. She faintly hears Rob calling her name before she slams the door behind her and runs down to the nearest alley where she slides her back against the wall. Tears stream down her face. What the fuck am I doing?, she thinks.

Footsteps close in on her and she sees Rob turning the corner into the alley.

“Baby, what are you storming out for?” He asks as he puts his hands on her arms to comfort her.

“I’m fine, Rob. I’m just going to go home.”

“No, we’re talking about this. Did Anna do something?” Lou shakes her head and her lips begin to tremble. “She kissed me.”

“That’s a good thing! Right?”

“No, it’s not.”

“You’re allowed to like someone else after two years. It’s okay.” Rob says. “It is not fucking okay!” Lou raises her voice and pulls away from him. “I can’t like Anna. My heart belongs to Jackie.”

“Hey ”

“No, I’m not going to betray her like that! She is the love of my life. She is still my fiancée.”

“She’s dead, Lou! Will you stop? She’s dead!”

Lou opens her mouth, but he interrupts her, “You’re betraying yourself, not her. I understand that you’re grieving still and it’s fine that you never want to talk about it, but I’m not gonna let you throw away a chance at something new. Stop the guilt parade. You deserve to be happy, for fuck’s sake.”

Lou looks at the ground and starts biting her lip. After a minute of silence, Rob says, “I’m sorry ”, but stops when Lou hugs him tightly. He wraps his arms around her and kisses the top of her head.

“Cool speech.” She mumbles. “I know my strengths.”

“Will you walk me home?”

“Yeah. Let’s get you home, baby.”

Lou is standing in front of the tattoo parlor. She is still a bit embarrassed about bolting the night before. Anna must have been so confused. Maybe even hurt.

When she enters the tattoo parlor, Anna is packing up her tattooing supplies and looks up at Lou. Her face softens.

“Hey.” She says.

“Hey. I uhm I came to apologize for last night.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I shouldn’t have ran out.” Lou says and sits down in front of Anna. “But I want to explain why I did.”

Anna nods, turns her body towards Lou and leans forward with her hands locked. Lou takes a deep breath and says, “I really like you, Anna. More than I’ve been willing to admit. It’s just a lot to process, because I lost my fiancée two years ago.”

“Oh god. I’m so sorry.” Anna says with widespread eyes. “May I ask what happened?”

“A car accident.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah. I was driving and she was in the passenger seat. I wasn’t paying attention and her side was hit out of nowhere. I was injured, but she was unconscious. I couldn’t feel her pulse.” Lou pauses and gasps for air. When a tear streams down her cheek, Anna cups Lou’s hands into her own and gently strokes them with her thumb.

“I dragged her out and started performing CPR. I don’t even remember how long I went on, but it was useless. She was already dead.”

“That must have been extremely traumatic.”

“Yeah, it has been hard to give it a place, because I can’t help but blame myself. I haven’t really talked about this with anyone.”

“Not even Rob?”

“No, he gets overprotective. He desperately wanted to solve it, saying it wasn’t my fault.”

“Well, I think that’s what friends do.”

“Yeah.” Lou says as she wipes her tears away. “So, that’s my story.”

“Thanks for trusting me with it. I can’t even imagine what that feels like.” Anna says. “Shit, I’m sorry for kissing you so suddenly. I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything.”

“It’s alright. I’m just not fully certain that I’m ready to date yet. All I can give you right now is snail speed.”

Anna laughs. “That’s fine, Lou. I can do snail speed.”

“Thank you.” Lou says. “I’m going to head home now, if that’s okay.”

“Of course.”

Lou looks down at her hands, which are still cupped in Anna’s. She brings them up and gives a kiss on Anna’s knuckles.

“That’s?”

“Snail speed, yeah.” She says. They laugh and stand up to walk to the door. Anna holds it open for her and “See you around?”

“Maybe a little more than usual.”

When Lou steps outside, she looks up at the white clouds surrounding the sun and decides today’s weather isn’t that bad either.

It’s a start of something new. Whatever that may be.

Dishonour BY TIM VAN AERDE

From being a highly regarded samurai to an outcast in just a few days, Saigō sighed. He looked out over the water seeing the capital of Sri Lanka, Kotte, closing in.

“The only way you can redeem yourself is go to the kingdom of Sri Lanka and redeem yourself in the eyes of Buddha,” his father had told him. Having no choice but to follow his father’s command to regain his honour, he had set out on his journey to Sigiriya fortress, a holy place for Buddhist monks.

The harbour of Kotte was as busy as any other harbour all over the world, the wharf swarmed with people as ships arrived and left. The merchants yelling trying to sell their goods to people walking by. Saigō pushed himself through the crowd trying to leave the busy harbour. After lots of pushing and here and there a kick he managed to leave the area. He walked the quiet streets trying to find a way to get outside the city walls. After finding a local who spoke the common tongue, he was told the directions to the city gate. Soon with the directions of the local he found the city gate and set foot outside the walls, the path leading him deeper inland.

The bottom of his hakama1 had been stained with mud after walking through the forest. He had encountered a relay post where they had horses, but they had denied him access. Grumbling through the forest he continued his journey, Sigiriya fortress was a three day walk so had to find shelter during the nights. His goal for tonight was a small village about a one day walk from Kotte. The journey was slowed by the vegetation that was sprawling all over the path, using his sword he cut through vines and branches to clear a path ahead of him. Being confident in his abilities with his blade he did not pay attention to what he was doing, his mind focusing on the sounds of the forest, the chirping of the birds and the calls of wild animals. His focus was suddenly interrupted by a scream, he looked to his side and saw a young boy clutching his arm, blood seeping between his fingers. The boy looked beggingly at Saigō to help him, but Saigō ignored him and used his feet to push him aside so he could continue, leaving the boy behind.

As the sun started to disappear behind the horizon, the village started to appear in the valley below. Smoke coming from the chimneys, the smell of food being cooked hit him in the face and he quickened his pace down the mountain. When he entered the village, he was greeted by the village elder. “Paiḷaigaænaīmae2 sir, are you looking for a place to stay?”

“Yes, I was told you would have a place for me to rest tonight.”

“Then you have been informed correctly sir,” The village elder smiled, “We have lodging for you in the village barn.”

Saigō raised his eyebrow “A barn?”

“Yes sir, is there a problem with that?” the village elder frowned, seeing the foreigner becoming agitated.

“Well, I expected better treatment,” Saigō began to raise his voice, “I assumed you people would treat warriors with more respect.”

The village elder’s eyes widened “You are a warrior you say, excellent. We have use of your skill.”

“And why would I help you?”

“If you help us, we help you.” The village elder smiled. Thinking for a moment how to proceed Saigō nodded, “If I help you, I will get a better place to sleep?”

“Yes sir”

“Well, what do I need to do?”

The village elder pointed towards a hut in the Northern part of the village, “Our Swami3 will tell you the details, go eat something first. Then come me at the hut.” The elder quickly walked away leaving Saigō alone again.

After some struggles Saigō managed to get some food, it seemed few of these locals spoke the common language. Once he managed to get some food, he sat down only to be disturbed by an old woman hitting him with a stick.

“Hey, quit that,” Saigō yelled at her, “I am trying to eat here.”

The woman ignored his words and kept hitting him with her stick. “Pitarat yanna4” she yelled at him, hitting him on the shins.

Before things could escalate the village elder appeared again behind the old woman, he talked to her in their own language and the old woman walked away, angrily swinging her stick left and right hitting some unsuspecting children in her path.

“Why did she do that?!”

“Well, sir warrior you are sitting on not just a rock” the village elder grabbed him by the arm trying to drag him away. “I suggest you move before you get in more trouble.”

Saigō laughed “What trouble, it is just a stupid rock.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that sir warrior.”

“Why not? It’s just a rock.”

“Sir warrior, I kindly suggest you move before we have to take rash action!”

Saigō sighed “Because you asked so nicely, now let me finish my food.”

The elder nodded at him, “Good, now it is time you meet our Swami.”

“I haven’t been able to eat my dinner!”

The elder smiled “See it as penance for sitting on the Lingam5, now come.” Saigō grumbled and followed the elder leaving his dinner behind.

They knocked on the door and entered the house of the Swami. As the village elder entered, he put his hands together and bowed to the statue of Brahma and nudged Saigō to do the same. With some hesitation Saigō did the same as the elder. The house was small and cramped, a strong smell filled the room and on the far side of the room sat an old looking man.

“That is our Swami” the elder whispered to Saigō.

leader in

away in Sinhala

Hindu religion

The Swami was only wearing pants, his legs crossed, and he seemed in meditation. Saigō scanned the Swami and noticed three white horizontal stripes, those being crossed by a vertical red stripe. After a while the silence was finally broken by the Swami.

“So, you are the warrior that will help us?”

“Yes, I am. What is it that you need me to do?”

To Saigō’s surprise the Swami started to laugh, “Hahaha, so anxious to start. Yet he does not know what he agrees too.”

Saigō looked at the village elder to see how he reacted, but no reaction was visible on the man’s face. “Well, if you would tell me what needs to be done that would be helpful.”

“So eager for death are you boy?”

Focussing on his breath Saigō tried to calm himself “Eager? No. Ready? Yes.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you are ready.” The Swami joked. Saigō started to lose his patience, his face turning red. “Stop speaking in riddles old man and tell me what needs to be done!”

The Swami raised his hands and pointed at the statue of Brahma, “his sons are the problem.”

“His sons?” Saigō looked confused, “I didn’t know Brahma had sons.”

“Few outside our religion do, for they are Rakshasa. Man eating demons. There is not known much of the Rakshasa, but one thing is certain. The Rakshasa will feed.”

“What do you mean feed?” Saigō frowned wondering what the Swami meant.

“They feed on power or on human flesh, in our case it is the latter.” The mood changed in the room, there was no more smile on the Swami’s face.

A chill went over Saigō’s spine, “It feeds on human flesh?”

“Yes”

“And how do you suppose I will stop this, Rakshasa?”

“You are a warrior are you not?” The Swami pointed at the blade of Saigō. “I have heard the stories about your warriors.”

Feeling like he was now trapped Saigō only nodded, he could no longer decline the request, or he would admit he was not a great warrior and suffer the shame.

“Good, but don’t you worry. We will not let you go alone,” The Swami turned around and grabbed an object covered in silk cloth. “We will give you a weapon that will be able to kill the Rakshasa.” He handed the object to Saigō Saigō accepted the object and removed the silk cloth from the object, revealing a dagger. A heavy steel dagger, decorated with silver and brass. Holding it up to the light the dagger sparkled in the light. Without saying a word Saigō wrapped it up again and returned it to the Swami, “I do not need such a weapon, my own sword will be enough.”

“If you say so,” The Swami returned the dagger to its place, “before you go there are two things you need to know. One, the Rakshasa can only be killed by severing head from body. Two, its name is Kirmira.” The Swami shuddered as he spoke out the name, “Using the name of a Rakshasa is dangerous, do not say it unless absolutely necessary.”

“I understand”

“Tomorrow Nuwan will lead you to the Rakshasa, for now rest.” He gestured with his hand that they were dismissed. The village elder bowed and left the room, Saigō following.

“You seem certain of your skills sir warrior.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I have been trained since I was 5 years old.”

Just A Tome

A New Job

Knock, knock.

“Come in.”

Looking up, I noticed a well dressed man in his forties had entered my office and sat down on one of the two chairs in front of my desk.

He must be loaded since he’s wearing one of those expensive grotesque looking brooches on his coat. I can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be.

Great.

I hope this isn’t another rich guy trying to find out whether his spoiled wife is cheating on him like last time.

Shoving the stacks of paper aside, I light a cigar and prop my chin up with my hand. Let the party begin.

“Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Daniel Moida?”

I curtly nodded in his direction, “The one and only. So, what can I do for you, sir?”

He was sweating profusely.

“I’m Raymond Brooks, a private book collector. I need you to investigate a theft,” he began. Who hires a private investigator for a theft when the police exist?

“Why wouldn’t you go to the police with this matter right away?”

I take a puff of my cigar.

This ought to be a good story.

“You see, the police refuse to investigate the matter… no matter how much I try to sway them into doing so.”

Ah, that’s why he’s here. They won’t help him.

“Let’s hear it. Tell me what happened.”

“A few weeks ago, I ordered a few books exceedingly invaluable tomes, if you will, from another private book collector in New England,” he fidgeted with his fingers as he continued his tale, “I contacted the company that usually oversees my shipments. There were two employees who were incredibly eager to take on the job when they heard it was for me, but last night, they were in an accident. The thing is, one of the tomes is gone, but other items I ordered were retrieved from the truck.”

“I see. So, you’d like me to locate the missing cargo then, I presume?”

“Correct, sir,” he responded eagerly, “I’ll pay you handsomely for your time, I promise.”

I run a hand over my brown beard.

Not a bad deal, considering all I have to do is find a book.

After all, I haven’t been able to afford to fix up Betsy’s engine since the Great Depression started a few years ago.

“Alright, tell me more about this lost tome.”

“Well, it’s just a green tome on theology and occultism…” he trailed off, “it’s an interest of mine.”

The rich and their questionable hobbies.

“Mhm, what about the accident?”

“The delivery truck crashed into a tree on Grove Road. Other than the fact that the tome was missing by the time it was discovered, there was nothing peculiar about the scene. It’s still there if you want to see it, sir.”

“Very well, and these two men you mentioned just now, who are they and what did they have to say about the incident?”

“George Castus was hired to pick up the shipment and bring it to my home here in Portcroft. It was a short trip, since Innsmouth isn’t that far from here, you see. For that very reason, I only hired one guard, Barnabas Marsh, to help secure the goods.”

I scratched my head and took another puff of my cigar.

Isn’t Innsmouth that bizarre backwater town that was raided years ago?

“As of what became of them, well,” Brooks hesitated, his brow furrowed and sweaty, “George Castus is at Creedmoor State Hospital for treatment. Barnabus Marsh’s injuries were minor, so he was discharged earlier, but he resigned shortly after. He wasn’t the same after the injury, you see. He’s changed since. Something serious must’ve transpired during the trip and while I do hope they recover; I must insist that the missing tome is far more important than their current predicaments.” Wow, what a selfish ingrate. “Right,” I say slowly.

“If you’d like to speak to them,” Brooks added, “I could share their addresses with you.”

“That’d helpful, but let’s talk about payment first.”

Waterlogged mystery

Thanks to the Autumn weather, Grove Road was a solemn road leading through a seemingly gray and dead forest.

If I had any car trouble here, I’d be screwed, without fail.

Thankfully, it wasn’t difficult to find the delivery truck; it was still there, crashed into a large tree with its doors open.

I parked Betsy nearby and made my way to the truck. Upon closer inspection, I noticed two things.

Firstly, the truck was a wreck.

It looked like shit, and secondly, it also smelled like shit. Christ, what the hell is that odor?

Covering my nose with my coat, I continued my investigation. It’s only been a few hours since the accident, a day or so at best, but it smells as putrid as a decomposing whale.

Surprisingly, the truck was wet on the inside. I craned my neck to look at the soil around the truck. Huh, the soil was arid. So it hadn’t rained here recently, but then looking back at the moist trucks interior… Something isn’t making sense.

Scrutinizing further, I spotted small bits of slimy moss in the corners of the truck. Uncovering my nose for a moment, I quickly learned that this disgusting moss was the source of the foul odor.

What the hell?

I memorized a map of the area before leaving my office, so I know for a fact that the nearest connection to water is miles away.

How is it possible for the truck to be sopping wet and covered in sea moss when it’s miles away from sea?

What in God’s name happened here?

Creedmoor State Hospital

Creedmoor was quite a rundown place for a hospital.

I guess that’s what you get for being a charitable hospital instead of a private one.

Luckily it was within walking distance from the office, so I could let Betsy rest after her journey to Grove Road yesterday.

The hospital’s interior was bleak and simple.

At the reception desk, a young woman with catlike glasses was filing her nails.

“Hello, madam,” I began, “I’d like to know which room George Castus is recovering in.”

With a defensive hand placed on the ledger, she pouted.

“And who might you be to that person?”

“I’m a private investigator,” I fetched my investigator’s license from the inside of my coat pocket, “See?”

She raised her eyebrows upon seeing my license, nodded, and began searching through the ledger in front of her.

“He’s in B0085. If you take these stairs down, you’ll find the wing he’s in,” she explained, using her hands to illustrate the route to me, “Just keep walking until you find the right bed.”

He’s in the basement?

“Is that a new wing here in the hospital?” I asked, perplexed.

“Yes,” she answered carefully, “it’s where the mentally ill reside.”

Mentally ill? Did she just say mentally ill?

“I I see,” I stammered, surprised, “Has anyone come to see him since his admittance?”

She shook her head, “Not a soul.”

Giving her a curt nod, I bid the young woman farewell, and made my way down to the basement in search of George Castus.

Even to a grown man such as myself, the basement was frightening.

I want to leave, immediately.

The hairs on my neck stood up as I walked.

The atmosphere down here was different, cold and sterile.

There were rosaries and crosses on either side of the walls in the halls, which were poorly lit by porcelain lights.

I heard patients’ cries, wails, and screams as I walked towards bed eighty five. Castus was quite a young man, tall, with blonde hair.

He looked pale, he sat upright in a strait jacket in the center of his bed, unmoving, his face downcast.

His patient information board stated he was admitted due to severe trauma shortly after the accident.

Despite standing right in front of him, he wasn’t acknowledging my presence at all.

What the hell happened to him?

“Hello, George,” I spoke carefully, to avoid startling him.

No response.

Great.

Another useless suspect.

He continuously muttered quietly under his breath. Can this cretin even hear me?

I inched closer to him so I could hear what he was saying, but it seemed to be a different language. What the Devil is he saying?

“Cthulhu fhtagn,” Castus murmured repeatedly.

“George, can you explain what that means?” I probed carefully. Once again, I received no response and Castus continued his mindless babble. For God’s sake, get it together, George.

Letting out a deep sigh and feeling my agitation build up inside me, I waved my hand in front of him.

He craned his neck to face me, which caused me to step back.

His eyes were vacant and clouded.

“C C C Cthulhu fhtagn,” his chapped bottom lip quivered as he spoke, sending a new wave of chills throughout my body.

I’m leaving.

Right now.

“Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!” Castus screamed with his dead eyes locked on me.

I fled the room as the nurses poured into the room to attend him.

Barnabus Marsh

God, I was barely able to get any sleep last night. I keep hearing Castus’ screaming in my head.

If this keeps up, soon enough I’m going to be admitted to a mental hospital too. Obed Street was a long winding road and there weren’t any houses on either side of the street. I’ve been driving for ages, and I still haven’t found Marsh’s house.

If Marsh really lived here, where the hell is his house and why in God’s name would he live in an abandoned place like this?

Betsy struggled heavily when we entered the area.

I don’t think she’ll be able to go uphill from this point on.

Fantastic, time for me to walk the rest of the way in this eerie forest.

Putting on my hat and grabbing suitcase, I left Betsy behind.

As I reached the top of the hill, profusely sweating, I spotted an old villa on the horizon. It was such a bleak and somber sight compared to the orange skies above.

Please let this be the right place.

Arriving at the house, I noticed that it was in quite a decrepit state, seeing as the stairs creaked as I ascended them.

I rapped on the door using the doorknocker, which was in the shape of a curled tentacle.

I felt a cold breeze against my back as the door unlatched, and a disheveled man appeared behind it.

Thank God.

I was really starting to get cold.

From what I could see, the man had disheveled black hair and dark brown eyes. He eyed me suspiciously, “Who are you?”

“Good evening, sir, are you Barnabus Marsh?” I inquired. He nodded in response.

“Could I speak to you about the accident you were in while working for Mr. Brooks?”

He looked back before looking at me again.

“I I don’t want to talk about it,” he stammered.

Before he closed the door, I shoved my foot in the opening, “Sir, I’m a private investigator looking into the matter. I’d like to speak about the case with you. I won’t be long.”

Flashing him my investigator’s license, Marsh sighed, “Very well, come in.”

He opened the door fully to allow me to enter.

Marsh was wearing a black cloak and muddy boots, as if he was about to go out. “Oh, were you on your way out?”

“No,” he shrugged, “just doing some work in the yard. It’s cold out.”

Looking around the house, I thought it looked perfectly normal, at first.

As we walked through the hall and entered the living room, I noticed that the house was decorated with strange ominous paintings of dark oceans and strange beings with many tendrils towering over cities.

Marsh must really like tiny jade statuettes to have three of them lined up on a side table like this. He’s as nutty as a fruitcake.

It was strange seeing oil lamps in his home since people stopped using them ages ago. Wow, he even owns a cuckoo clock.

This place is practically a museum.

Seeing a few paintings of people, comforted me at first, but then I began feeling like I was being watched, which sent shivers up and down my spine again. Sitting down, I fetched my notebook and pen from my coat pocket.

“Mr. Marsh, can you tell me anything about the accident that took place during a job for Mr. Brooks approximately two days ago?”

Marsh eyed me suspiciously as he fiddled with a jade ring on his ring finger.

“George Castus and I were hired to deliver some cargo from Innsmouth to Mr. Brooks’ home in Portcroft,” he explained, “While we were driving on Grove Road, George lost control of the truck and we crashed into a tree. The next thing I knew, I was in the hospital.”

“Did you see anything strange that day?”

“Strange? No, I don’t think so.”

“What about the sea?” I probed, “Did you two stop at the seaside?”

I could see beads of sweat rolling down his temple as he shifted his gaze from the clock to his ring. “No, we were instructed to drive from Innsmouth to Portcroft without any stops. The truck also had enough gasoline to last the entire trip.”

Then where the hell did that moss come from?

“Was the cargo wet when you picked it up, perchance?”

Paralyzed, I stood there, watching them come towards me and dragging me towards the altar.

Marsh seemed different when our eyes met again.

Just like Castus, Marsh’s eyes lacked life and emotion. He held onto a green tome as he looked down at me. Please don’t tell me that’s Brooks’ tome…

Shifting my gaze to the others, I noticed they looked strangely absent as well. Holy shit.

They all look possessed. What have I gotten myself into?

The worshipper who held me in a kneeling position in front of the altar spoke in that foreign tongue again. Marsh nodded, and then opened the tome. The cultists began chanting again.

I could only recognize Castus’ haunting words as the cultists repeated their chant in the disturbing glottal tongue.

“Cthulhu fhtagn!”

As they chanted, Marsh held up the tome as green flames began to escape from it. Seemingly shocked, he dropped it, but it was engulfed by green flames upon reaching the ground.

Cthulhu fhtagn

Suddenly, there was only silence. A deafening silence, and a sense of impending doom. Did time stop?

I can’t even see the wind’s ripples in the patches of grass. My hands were moist.

The yard was covered in green disgusting moss and it was wet. It wasn’t just moss. There was blood, too.

The cultists were dead.

The man who was holding me down isn’t there anymore, but why can’t I move?

Looking up, I was met with an unfathomable sight. Marsh’s body was gone, splattered over the altar.

Looking past the altar, over the cliff, I could see a portal of some sort. It’s ginormous.

My hands trembled uncontrollably.

Its rims are green, like the cultists’ flames. It smells salty.

Putrid.

An overwhelming sense of infinity within the vast nothingness of an abyss…

I could hear that strange chanting again, coming from within the portal. Make it stop.

I was being shown something.

I don’t want to look.

Stop it.

With eyes wide open, I peered into the vast darkness.

An ocean floor?

No, an underwater civilization.

What the hell is that?

Monstrous creatures with tendrils chanted those accursed words again. Stop!

As if heeding my wishes, the crowd’s chanting turned into a faraway hum as the portal nestled above a dark void.

True darkness…

I stared into the abyss, and in that moment, the Abyss stared back.

I heard It beckon me in ancient tongues until I knew nothing more.

Cthulhu fhtagn.

Cthulhu fhtagn.

Cthulhu fhtagn.

Tales From Hell BY JELLE HEIJ

A faint knock on the door made Lucifer snap out of his concentration. “company, at this hour?” he thought while looking at the big wooden clock beside him. “come on in, I’m just finishing up here” he said while straightening a pile of paper on the side of his desk. The door opened and a small, hunched over kobold in a worn down tuxedo entered Lucifers office. “ah yes Gerald, working overtime again I see, it’s getting late my good sir, how may I help you?”

“Yes Mr. Satan, sorry to bother you at this time. I was just finishing up the bookkeeping for today and it seems like there has been a slight miscalculation regarding this morning’s soul harvest.”

“A miscalculation? That’s seems impossible, our soul tracking systems is the most advanced in al the realms. And besides, the imps make sure the numbers are verified, they know what happens when they don’t add up” Lucifer chuckled. It had been a few eons since he had imp steak but this might be the perfect opportunity to enjoy one of Hell’s finest delicacies once again.

“Sir I double checked the systems, it seems like a mistake from higher up.” Gerald nervously stated while shifting his weight from one foot to the other trying to avoid eye contact.

“Higher up? You mean Simeon and Reaper are responsible for this, are you sure Gerald, I’m not in the mood for games.” Lucifer stood up from his chair, swung back his cape and reached out his hand towards the side of the room, summoning his staff which swiftly floated towards him.

“Yes sir, I apologise. It is the only possible explanation.” Gerald glanced at the door behind him and calculated if he could make a run for it before he got burned to a crisp. “I’m sorry Sir, protocol states that when a soul gets astray, it needs to be retrieved to their rightful realm. I’ve had contact with the bureau of heavenly affairs and it turns out their soul count is off as well. It’s almost like a soul meant for down here accidentally got sent… up there”

“Does this mean what I think it means Gerald?”

“Yes sir, I think we have to take a short trip to heaven.” Heaven, saying the word out loud always left Lucifer with a sour taste of honey and love. Disgusting. Realising the consequences if he didn’t follow protocol he quickly got to the conclusion that there was no way of avoiding his predicament. “very well then” Lucifer sighed, making a mental note on actually reading protocols the next time he applied for an executive position. “I guess we’re off, let’s get it over with quickly” he reluctantly said while secretly hoping to be back before midnight. Season 3 of ‘Tusk Love’ was airing tonight and he couldn’t wait to find out if against all odds Gragzog and Vaal did actually get engaged. Oh well, he would skewer anyone who attempted to spoil the episode anyways.

It was quiet on the streets of Acheron. Besides a group of bloodhounds searching for a meal and three gargoyles playing cards in an alley the streets were somewhat peaceful, which troubled Lucifer. The sounds of limbs getting torn of and souls getting squashed always soothed him, especially right before bed.

“Sir, we can use this to get across the crimson wastelands in no time.” Gerald smiled and pointed at a brand new panther print covered Vespa. “A gift from my wife, isn’t she beautiful.”

“Uhm, yes right. I assume this is the fastest mode of travel at our disposal, thank you Gerald.” Lucifer looked at the monstrosity that stood in front of him and threw up in his mouth a little while placing his rear end on the back seat of the scooter.

“Off we go sir, wheeee.”

“Shut up Gerald.”

“Sorry Sir.”

They took off with a loud ‘wrooom’ leaving behind a big cloud of dust.

It had been a while since Lucifer left the office and went out on the streets of Hell. He remembered the crimson wastelands as a vague fever dream. Now that he was driving through them again a lot of fond memories came back. “Remember when we would play ‘throw the unsuspecting human into the fire tornado until nothing but a pile of ash remained’ Gerald?” Lucifer never was very good at coming up with concise names.

“yes Mr. Satan, the good old days. I remember when I poked out my first eyeball, when there was nothing but torture and friends.”

It took about 30 minutes to cross the crimson wastelands. A desolate red desert filled with torn down sheds, rotting bodies, fire tornados and spinning sawblades. Lucifer had lived in the upper echelons of Hell for centuries now. Back in his day the wastelands would be occupied with hard working souls, blue collar Imps and kobolds who spent their days doing honest labour. Looking around he was surprised to find the wastelands contained Nutella Ice cream stores and dumb expensive souvenir shops. “30$ for a t shirt saying ‘wanderlust’. Are you responsible for this Gerald?”

“Yes sir, It was meant to be a surprise.”

“Good job Gerald” Lucifer laughed, happy that they finally managed to eternalise the concept of gentrification.

“We’re almost there sir” Gerald said while pointing up to a big white hole in the otherwise blood red sky. “The eternal pit, it has been ages since I’ve last seen it with my own eyes.”

The eternal pit. The place all doomed souls fall through when they enter their everlasting torture. If you listen closely, you can hear the screams and pleas of the souls who are destined for this place, slowly coming to the realisation that there was only one option: jump.

The Vespa came to a screeching halt next to a small pink shed. Gerald got off and knocked on the front door.

“We’re closed” A squeaky voice said from the other side.

“It’s an emergency” Gerald said in a professional tone. “We need to see Simeon and Reaper”

“Who is we?” A small hatch in the door opened and three blue eyes stared at Lucifer and Gerald. Realising who she had in front of them the door quickly opened. “My apologies Mr. Satan” I will get the carriage ready at once” A round creature with three eyes and three legs came out the door and crawled towards what looked like a small hot air balloon. “There she is. off you go then.” Lucifer and Gerald got in the cramped balloon and slowly started to float towards the big white hole in the sky.

The balloon ride up was rather uneventful. There were a few cursed souls who tried to cling on to the side of the balloon as a last attempt to avoid damnation. “Please Mr. Satan, one last chance” They cried and cried. Lucifer and Gerald took this time to practice their fireball casting skills. Sniping unsuspecting souls that fell down the pit and slashing the ones that tried to latch on to the balloon.

“It’s good to be back out here isn’t it Gerald, a fine moment to get our hands dirty.”

“We still got it Mr. Satan” Gerald laughed while crushing 2 souls between his skinny fingers. The balloon reached the top of the pit without much trouble and when they crossed the border to the other side, they were blinded by a bright white light shining down on them. When their eyes adjusted, they saw that they entered the Last Crossroad. A bright white area. On the left they saw the road to purgatory. On the other side of the room were the gold gates of heaven. Lucifer noticed the long line of souls waiting to be assigned their final journey. Hoping they would be allowed to enter the gates.

“Likewise, Gerald, have a great evening” Margit snapped her fingers and the golden cage started floating and latched itself onto the roof of the Cadillac. Gerald slowly made his way back to the eternal pit, nodding at Simeon and getting the balloon ready for the descent. He looked around one last time to sneak a glimpse of a defeated Lucifer stuck in a golden cage ready to enter the gates of heaven, his eternal damnation. That evening Gerald entered the door to Lucifers office and looked at the big wooden clock “Just in time for ‘Tusk Love’. He said down in the armchair behind the desk and straightened a pile of paper. Tomorrow would be a new beginning. A new life, a new name: Satan.

Soulmates

I’ve learned there’s two types of silence.

BY MIMMI RIIKONEN

One is comforting: it’s best friends laying on a bed, browsing phones without talking for hours. It’s feeling secure, knowing you don’t have to pretend with this person. It’s feeling like you’re home. One, on the other hand, is cold and distressing. It’s the first dates with a person you want to impress, it’s the acquaintances from work you meet somewhere and have to think about something to say. It’s painful and awkward and definitely not natural. And when we sat there with Mandy on what was supposed to be a very normal Monday afternoon, barely saying a word, I couldn’t help but think: why does the silence feel so strange?

Mind you, I had tried to start a conversation many times. I had hugged her in front of the café, I had complimented her shirt and she replied with a simple thank you instead of gushing about the store she bought the clothing from. I thought she must be a bit tired, but nothing more. Then, at the coffee table, I started to tell about how the customer who once tried to spit on me visited our store again this morning and tried to steal our newspapers. Mandy’s reaction was as shocked as I’d just told I drank water this morning. Okay, an unusually disinterested answer, but again, she must be tired so then I told about the fight me and Ben had yesterday. Mandy is usually an admirably calm person, but anytime I tell about my relationship problems she starts raging and defending me to no end.

“Ben said I cry too much,” I said and prepared for Mandy to get so angry at him that she’d throw her coffee mug to a nearby wall. Instead, she gave an absent, small frown and said: “Oh. That’s harsh.”

“Very harsh,” I stressed. I yearned for approval from my best friend! I yearned for her to confirm that I’m not crazy and that I have every right to be angry about that comment, and I yearned for her to say that if he ever dares to say something like that again she will be very quickly at his house with a baseball bat to see if he’ll be the one who’s crying too much then. I didn’t get any of that. I got an “oh”. And that’s when I knew something was up.

That’s when the silence started to crawl in. I didn’t talk, and she didn’t say anything if I didn’t. Countless times we had sat in silence at that exact same coffee table, but right now the silence felt pressuring, like a dark cloud brewing above us. I felt my hands sweat, my shirt feeling uncomfortable on me.

“Um, okay, so,” Mandy finally said, after what had felt like forever, “I’ve been thinking. I have something to tell to talk about.”

At that point, I felt incredibly happy. Of course, she has been quiet, I thought, she has something on her mind! Something is wrong and she wants my counseling! We can create a therapy session that lasts for hours, during which we go grab some wine and then when we’re tipsy Mandy can cry it all out and I’ll buy a Dominos pepperoni pizza to cheer her up because that’s her favorite. “Do tell!” I let out.

“I don’t know how to say this, but, uh, I think we should break up.”

For a second everything froze. But Mandy’s not in a relationship.

“Do you mean… from your work?” I asked. “No.” Mandy let out a deep, unhappy sigh. “I mean us.” “Us?”

“Yeah.”

“As in you and me?” “Yeah.”

“What do you mean?” I asked with a tense chuckle. “How could we break up?” “I guess breaking up is a weird word,” Mandy said. “But, you know. Not being friends anymore. Departing. Going separate ways, et cetera.”

The room had started to spin around me and my brain couldn’t produce any thoughts apart from all the times me and Mandy had had during the last fifteen years. I think I only started nodding while Mandy started to tell about how she had been thinking about this for a while now, and how she still wishes that we’d stay in touch. In the back of my mind I was sure this was some kind of joke. Best friends don’t break up? They just don’t!

But five minutes later we stood in front of the café and Mandy gave me a cautious hug, saying: “I wish nothing but good to you” and looking at me in the eyes for the very last time. Then my bestest of friends turned around, started walking without looking back, and all I could think was: I can’t even hope we stay friends after the break up in this situation.

Ben is tired of my shit. A week ago, when I came home with a running nose and puffy eyes, he made sure to hold me in his arms until not a single tear would fall on my cheek anymore. Now he comes to our bedroom to bring tissues, but instead of coming to comfort me he sits on the corner of the bed and gently, awkwardly, pets my back. I love him with all my heart but can’t help but think that if me and Ben would’ve broken up, Mandy would’ve known exactly what to do: we’d go get wasted, she’d arrange the world’s hottest dudes to go on a blind date with me and I wouldn’t remember Ben’s face after a week. But now that Mandy is the one to break up with me I’m still buried in my bed after a week, crying my eyes out with no comfort but chocolate and Ben’s lukewarm patting. “There, there,” says Ben, his eyes locked on his phone. “Any new matches?” “No,” I mutter. Right after the breakup I wanted something else to think about, so I had asked Ben if it’d be okay for me to download Tinder to search some platonic plasters. Ben had been a bit weirded out, but probably had no heart to say no when I was barely able to speak between my sobbing. “It’s been a week and I still have none.” “I did warn that people aren’t on Tinder to find friends,” Ben says. He’s annoying. So annoying that I have to open my Tinder once again and start swiping ferociously to prove him wrong. Although my bio says: “not looking for love or a fwb or anything, just here to get a platonic one night stand to forget my best friend of 15 years just ditched me lol”, I still would’ve thought there would be even a singular person who would be ready to it’s a match!

My eyes widen. It’s time to meet my New Best Friend.

“So, what exactly is a ‘platonic one night stand’?”

Her name is Pamela and she went straight to business.

“Like, you know,” I try to speak while munching on sushi, “we’ll only be friends for this one day. Then we’ll never meet again. Simple.”

“What’s the point of that?”

“What’s the point of a normal one night stand?” “Sex,” says Pamela, in a tone that suggests I’m an idiot.

“Yes. But that’s not, like, all you need in life,” I say. Pamela scoffs and takes a sip of her drink. The conversation ends there, and for a moment I wonder why she even agreed to see me, but then I remember I promised to pay for the sushi. Pamela seems my age, and her freckles remind me of Mandy’s but whereas Mandy is larger than life, with her presence lighting up every room she walks in and her jokes curing all of the worst days I’ve had, Pamela reminds me of a lemon. However: the sushi’s good, Pamela distracts my thoughts so I’ve spent a full day without crying and the weather’s nice. There’s nothing to lose, and so after I pay for our meal (she had taken the most expensive selection, of course) I ask Pamela to walk with me. She agrees, but not with glee.

“So, do you study something?” I ask as we start our walk towards the nearby café. I always need an iced latte with caramel syrup after eating sushi, and my heart twitched with pain when I told this to Pamela and, as she answered with a confused look, I remembered Mandy and how she was the one I started this tradition with.

“I’m on my third gap year,” Pamela says. “Nothing really interests me at the moment.” “Really?” I might’ve sounded a bit too excited, but this was the first thing me and Pamela had something in common. “I feel the same way! Do you feel lost too?”

“Not really,” Pamela answers. “But it can be a bit overwhelming.”

“Yeah, for me too! It’s so shitty,” I say eagerly. Our first deep conversation! We can discuss things like am I forever going to be a retail worker with a shitty salary and no real sense of who I am or what I want to do in life, or the feeling of being stuck in this town while everyone else moves away to study, or the fear of me and Ben breaking up because I don’t have the money to pay a rent alone “Right?!” Pamela says, and for the first time there’s excitement in her voice as well. “Like, mom is pressuring me so much to decide if I want a penthouse or a garden apartment but how the fuck would I know yet? Why can’t she just buy both?”

Oh. “Yeahh,” I say slowly, “that is…rough.”

There might not be hope for me and Pamela to connect.

The last five minutes we walk in silence, but then we arrive to my second favorite café (the most favorite one was ruined by a certain break up) and my mood lightens up the second I sense the smell of fresh coffee beans. We walk to the line, Pamela starts to order a latte with soy milk and then I see her.

She looks great. Glowing, even. She has darkened her curls a bit and she wears the earrings I gave to her as a housewarming gift a couple of years back. She is laughing with someone someone I don’t know and holds an iced latte in her hand, which I know is filled with caramel syrup. I want to throw up.

“I need to go,” I say weakly to Pamela, who’s impatiently clicking her nails on the cashier desk. She scrunches her eyebrows at me.

“Where?”

“Uh, just, gotta leave,” I say, looking for the exit. “I feel sick.”

“Ew, are you going to throw up?”

“No, I just let’s meet outside, yeah?”

And before Pamela gets to answer, I rush out of the line. She is almost next to me but doesn’t notice me, that’s good, that means she’s too busy having so much fun with this new friend, that’s whatever, that’s fine, I just have to get out and then our eyes meet.

My entire body is flooded with ice. I start to tremble the second our eyes meet, and I completely freeze to that spot. The smile she had when talking to her friend still lingers on her face, and I absolutely hate the fact that she’s not going to smile at my stories ever again.

“Hi,” she says. Her friend stares at me.

“Hi,” I say.

“What are you doing here?”

“Buying coffee.”

“Oh, yeah, same.”

“Nice,” I say and give a quick glance at her friend, who’s still staring at me. I hate her. Then I look at Mandy, the person who knows everything about me, the person who just last month deeply analyzed the unusual color of my period blood with me, and I feel like looking at a stranger. Before I get the chance to do anything cringeworthy (like fall on my knees and beg her to come back to my life while my tears flood the floor), Pamela arrivers next to us, looking worried. “You good?” she asks. “Did you throw up already?”

“No, I I didn’t throw up,” I say, glancing more at Mandy than at Pamela. “All good.”

“Are you sure? You do look really sick...”

“No, I’m fine,” I say, stressing every word a bit too harshly. “Uh, yeah, so… we should, um, we should get going. Have fun,” I add, looking at Mandy. I tried to pull off a cool, careless look, but my trembling voice betrayed me.

“You too,” says she, and I might be imagining this, but I think I heard a slight tint of sadness in her voice.

We step out to sunlight and I can feel Pamela’s eyes boring holes into me.

“So what was all of that?” she snaps without a drop of empathy. “You’re acting so weird.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” I say sharply. “I just… that was the person I told you about. The friend who broke up with me.”

“Girl, I say this with all my heart,” Pamela says, “but get a grip. You’ll get new friends.” “She was my best friend though.”

“So? I’ve had like thousands of best friends, it’s not that deep.”

I’m a peace loving person, okay? I think I’ve never even felt actual anger, and I would never, ever want to hurt somebody. But when Pamela says those words to me, looking at me with a dismissive smile and even dares to giggle after that, for a second I want nothing more than to slap some sense into her.

“Not that deep?” I say instead, but I feel the fury bubbling inside of me. “Why is it not that deep?” “It’s not like you’ve actually broken up,” Pamela says. “Like, friends come and go. That’s life.”

“But I did actually break up though?”

“Yeah, but like, not with a boyfriend.” I can see Pamela getting real sick of me. “It’s different.”

“It is different,” I say. “This hurts so much more.”

“Look, I don’t understand,” Pamela whines. “I get it if you two like had a fling or something, you know, but I feel like you’re being dramatic ”

“We did not have ‘a fling!” It’s the first time I’m starting to raise my voice. “But what can’t you understand? Mandy’s my soulmate, she’s the most important person to me, okay? I can very fucking easily live without a boyfriend but I don’t want to live without my best friend, what can’t you understand? How am I being fucking dramatic here??”

I noticed too late that Pamela didn’t really look me anymore and instead stared at behind me. I noticed too late that it was because Mandy and her friend were standing there. So after I stop my yelling and the only answer I get is deep silence, I slowly turn around, I see her, and I can feel my face getting instantly red.

“Okay, I’m out of here,” Pamela breaks the silence. “I can’t stand being yelled at. PayPal me the money from the latte before midnight.”

I forget to answer to her as she flees. My eyes are locked at Mandy’s, and I’m trying to figure her facial expression out.

“You’re my soulmate too,” Mandy says quietly.

I can feel my eyes get wet again. “So why did you break up with me?”

Mandy lets out a sad sigh. “I didn’t feel important to you anymore.”

“Huh?”

“Like, ever since you got with Ben, you’ve changed. First it was that we couldn’t have sleepovers anymore because you wanted to spend the nights with him, and that’s totally valid and all. But, you know, slowly you started to ditch our meetings for him, and then you stopped the facetime sessions with me, and then you stopped listening to anything I had to say so you could talk about him.”

I feel a lump in my throat. It’s hard to think straight.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because that’s the way it is, you know?” Mandy says. “That’s so typical. So many forget their friends when they fall in love. I thought it wouldn’t happen to you, but it did, and I felt bad but I couldn’t just ask you to leave him or anything, so.”

“I could never forget you,” I whimper, tears falling on my cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been blind.” Mandy’s eyes are getting wet too. “You really think I’m your soulmate?”

“No one else but you,” I say, and then I rush to hug her. “I’m so so so sorry. Can we fix this?”

“We sure can. If you buy me an iced latte for forgetting me.” “Oh bitch, you need to buy me free iced lattes for the rest of my life for breaking up with me!” Mandy giggles, which makes me remember how much I’ve missed her laughter.

After that Mandy goes to buy me an iced latte with double caramel syrup, and we start to walk back home together while planning a sleepover for the next weekend. “Wait, did we ditch your friend?” I notice after fifteen minutes of walking. “Oh, you’ll laugh at this,” Mandy says, “but she wasn’t my friend. She was a Tinder match when I was searching for, uh, a platonic one night stand. I think she hated me.”

“Oh. You’re not going to believe what I’m about to tell you,” I say. And then, after the longest week I’ve had, I burst into laughter for the first time.

I do hate the collar, but the question remains, am I going to stay here? I never fancied myself a house cat.

How comfortable is too comfortable?

I was getting used to the consistent supply of warm food and water, that’s true. I had also discovered that, when Nyla or Mina rubbed behind my ears, a low rumble would sound from my belly and, If I’m honest, it was pleasant. If I’m completely honest, it felt as delightful as a full belly if not more. I might as well admit it, I was becoming a purring house cat.

The first time that Nyla brought me downstairs to the garden, I feared she was going to leave me there for good she didn’t of course.

At first, she held on to the leash she had attached to my collar. She first let me sniff around and then, she knelt down beside me and unhooked the tether at my neck. She watched me while I nibbled on some leaves and jumped around trying to catch butterflies. After some time, she told me we should go back upstairs for dinner, and she scooped me up and brought me back to the apartment. I hated being carried like a baby there is nothing more degrading for a cat than being carried like a baby but Nyla gently pressed my tummy against her chest, supported my back legs with one arm, and I perched my front legs on her shoulder. It wasn’t my favourite way to travel but I trusted her at this point; it had been a long time since the infamous bath incident.

After that first outing, we went down to the garden frequently. Eventually, Nyla would drop me off in the garden when she left for school, and she would pick me up when she came home never on rainy days though, she was always great that way.

Nyla was always great.

I am amazing.

Spending more and more time outside made me realize how much I liked running. It was nice not to feel like a prey anymore, as I felt myself getting more agile and stronger. The combination of daily rest inside the apartment, and my afternoons outdoors, was turning me into an avid hunter. I had a feeling that the birds recognized me from my sunbathing mornings on the balcony, and that they thought I was just another fat and lazy house cat. Joke’s on them. I could run faster each day, and they never saw me coming.

The first time I caught a bird was thrilling. I padded slowly towards a pack of them and when they finally realized what I was up to, it was too late. They took off but I sprinted towards one my fastest strides yet and jumped to seize it mid flight. I was so proud. I couldn’t wait to show Nyla; I thought she would be proud too. Her reaction, when she arrived at the garden to pick me up, was very confusing for me.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no! Toby, what have you done?” She was on her knees, gingerly cradling my offering in her hands, “is it dead?”

What? Of course, it’s dead! That’s the whole point!

Nyla asked Stef to take the bird, which he did reluctantly and she scooped me up and rushed us inside. She called Mina on the phone and asked her to hurry home. I didn’t understand what was happening, I didn’t get why she was so upset. She took the bird into the bathroom, naturally I did not follow in there. Eventually, Mina got home and went into the bathroom as well. Sometime later, they both emerged, and they came to find me in the living room. Nyla was carrying the bird in her hands, and she knelt on the floor, set the bird down, and asked me to go to her. Finally, a “thank you”. Better late than never.

“Toby,” She said slowly while pointing at her gift, “please don’t do this again, okay?” What? If you had seen how great a catch it was, you would not be saying this! I was amazing! “Do you understand, Toby?” She repeated as she looked at me wide eyes shining while shaking her head, “please don’t do this again.”

I learned that day that none of the humans liked tokens of appreciation in the form of birds, especially not Nyla.

Well, that’s a bummer. I was trying to do something nice, but fine, no more dead birds for Nyla.

I don’t know when she wore me down exactly.

It took us a couple of days to get over the dead bird present debacle but, eventually, we got back to normal. After that, there was a period of time during which surprisingly I found myself thinking that my life was actually pretty great.

Being allowed outside on a regular basis was a game changer. It meant having the best of both worlds; I could stretch my legs and wear them out chasing after birds and squirrels without trying to kill them now and I could also rely on the consistent supply of delicious food back at the apartment.

Running around outside during the day, meant sleeping more at night. I used to sleep on one of the chairs in the living room; Mina must have noticed because one night I saw her put down a blanket over it. I’m not going to lie, it made things pretty cozy. I kneaded the blanket until the folds were just right and then I curled up to have a great, undisturbed sleep. That was definitively a plus to sleeping when my family was sleeping: nobody would wake me up.

One night, Nyla came looking for me and asked me to follow her. She went in her room and sat on the bed, then patted the space next to her she would do this sort of thing when she wanted me

Are You Satisfied?

BY JOY BORST

Expectations. What is expected of me? To be successful. To be worthy. To be the best. What do I expect of me? Does it match? What do I want? Does it even matter? What is my purpose? What am I supposed to be? Who am I supposed to be? A doctor. A lawyer. A success. A success. A good, little boy. A well behaved, good, little boy. Make them all proud. Make them all love you.

Make them.

Make them adore you.

Make them know.

I am perfection.

I am worthy

I am brilliant

I am the best

I am god

I am

I am

I am

A fucking mess.

I wonder why people should not know about that. What is so wrong with being a mess? I didn’t sign up to be born in this world, in this family with these expectations, to be born the way I was born. I never asked for it, so who are they to demand certain results from me?

Aren’t they just fucking delusional?

Mommy, daddy, do I deserve the name Atteberry? Are you proud to have me as your son? Mommy, daddy, look at my position. I did destroy people on the way, but it is the end result that matters, right? Look at my grades, aren’t they perfect? I want to destroy myself, but at least I’m achieving something, right?

It is all one fucking joke.

0

“Who decides when something is perfect anyways, right?”

“Don’t we decide for ourselves, doctor Atteberry?”

“So you’re saying that we raise the bar in the fucking sky ourselves? Why did we start doing that? When did we start doing that? Say, Heather, is this a human flaw or a flaw created by society?”

“I don’t know, doctor.”

“Fine. Let me ask you something else, Heather… When would you call something perfect?” Silence. A moment of hesitation. An answer.

She has no answer to that, besides, she has no right to judge me at all. She has no friends either.

“Would giving it a try hurt, doctor? Who knows… Perhaps it could be fun.”

I wonder if we have a different definition of fun. Making new friends doesn’t sound very fun to me.

I sigh as I take her lighter. The lighter that actually belongs to me in the first place.

“Fine. Just to prove you wrong though.”

0

What makes a relation so important? Why put so much value in someone else and their opinions? Why are we social creatures that can’t live without the presence of other people? What is the point? Would I be happier when I am surrounded by someone else? What are my expectations of the other person then? Expectations. Here we go again. For if I expect something from someone, someone would expect something from me as well, correct?

Wrong.

They should be fucking grateful to be graced with my presence. They won’t meet someone who is more perfect than I am.

I am perfection.

Does that mean I am satisfied after all?

Or am I lying to myself?

“How does one make friends, Heather?”

“It comes natural, doctor.”

“Are you stupid?”

“No, doctor. There is a connection or not. You can’t make friends with someone when there is no connection.”

“That sounds stupid.”

A laugh. Honestly Heather, this was no laughing matter!

“When do you know there is a connection then, Heather?”

“I suppose you just do.”

“What do I do when there is no connection?”

“You thank them for the evening and you move on.”

That isn’t so hard. I can say thank you and go on with my life. Therefore, it is important that I meet someone who I genuinely need in life. Someone I could use.

“What are you good at?”

“How useful are you?”

“How can you be of use to me?”

“Why should I choose you as my friend?”

They didn’t seem to like those questions. I discovered that people didn’t want to be friends with someone who only wants to use them for something. Then how am I supposed to make friends if this isn’t the correct way?

“What are you laughing at, Heather?”

“That isn’t how you make friends, doctor!”

“I realised that!”

“You made it sound as if they were applying for a job! That is hilarious!”

“Shut up, Heather!”

Another problem was judgement. I can see it whenever they looked at me. I am too short. They don’t like the way I dress. I have a babyface. Who even cut their hair like that still? Am I playing dress up?

Why are you wearing a lab coat? Are you old enough to be here? Where are your parents?

“I am twenty seven years old though.” Silence.

“I have my own hospital.”

Awkward. They made it awkward. It isn’t my fault. I’m just putting them back in their place. How dare they mock me.

“What have you achieved?!”

“You should be nicer, doctor…”

I glare up at her from my paperwork. I should be nicer? I did nothing wrong! How dare she blame me for it!

“They started, I simply finished it,” I reply with a sneer. Trying to make friends left me in a sour mood. “In no way am I in the wrong!”

“I disagree, doctor. Why don’t you give it another go and treat them like you would treat a patient. With kindness and patience, you can do that.”

I look back at my work and muse her advice over. I know how to treat patients, after years of experience I have mastered the arts of a proper psychiatrist. Could making friends be as easy?

“Nice to meet you, my name is Daniel Atteberry. Doctor Daniel Atteberry” “Adelina, the pleasure is all mine.”

I am waiting for a comment. I am expecting a comment. It somewhat surprises me when there comes none.

Our conversation starts the same way as every other. It was idle chitchat. I am not interested in pleasantries or information about her. I won’t remember it or try to remember it. Perhaps she noticed my growing boredom or perhaps this is something she always shares when meeting someone new.

“So, like, I am a perfectionist, right? Everything needs to be perfect like all the time.”

“Who decides when something is perfect?”

A look of confusion, a snort. I don’t think my question was stupid. “Obviously, I do.”

“But what if your perfection doesn’t equal my perfection? Who is right? Who gets to decide when something is truly perfect? When is something truly perfect anyways? I’m all ears, Abbigail.” “Adelina.”

Whatever.

“So, something is truly perfect when something is flawless, like “ “Are you flawless, Ad… Ab.. Ade..” “Adelina.”

Whatever. I shrug.

She looked at me as if I had grown a second head. A soft scoff. A fond smile. She soon takes the cigarette back that I stole from her earlier. Not once does she look away for this was a game that could go on for forever if we allowed it.

“That is disgusting, doctor. I didn’t see you for a sap. I don’t expect you to go all soft on me now.” And I laugh.

The New Death Row At Stillwater Penitentiary

Warning: Contains slight allusions to violence

BY DIEGO VALERO

“Patience is a virtue.” Father Hill always said during catechesis. He spoke the words in a way only a fervent believer can, but he never seemed too preoccupied with teaching the practical side of exerting patience. I don’t know if he expected me to learn via osmosis from parables, or if simply drilling that hackneyed maxim into my head was supposed to somehow reprogram my behaviour.

Suffice to say, I never managed to attain the ever elusive key to patience; not many virtuous men end up in here, although those who do would swear their perceived rectitude on their mothers’ graves. Liars, the lot of them, if not poor fools in denial. If you’re wondering how does one come to find themselves amongst such illustrious company, I’m sorry to disappoint with a story devoid of thrills and spills.

About a half a year ago, my cousin approached me with a proposition. I was to drive him and his friend over to the bank, they would take care of the rest. “You’ll make more than what you take home in a year.” he said, and I, lacking the patience of a better man, accepted. I was ultimately unsuccessful in my quest for quick riches, but I did earn a one way ticket to Stillwater penitentiary. Though I never got the chance to settle in with my fellow dregs of society, for I was once again forced to relocate after only a month. My shortness of temper and sight got the best of me for a second time, when a difference of opinions with my cellmate escalated into a physical altercation. We both found new accommodations afterwards; him, the infirmary, and me, the solitary confinement cell where I currently reside. A fortress of solitude inhabited only by a rickety foam mattress, a small latrine with running water, and yours truly, all delicately arranged within the confines of three and half cubic meters, all to myself. I did not mind the limited space at all, but managing the copious surplus of time that suddenly fell into my hands proved more torturous than I could have anticipated.

It is quite curious how, despite the capacity of higher forms of reason, the human mind is particularly inept at as trivial a task as time keeping, as attested by all the amateurish musicians who can’t hold a beat to save their lives. When deprived of natural light for extended periods, the body’s circadian rhythm decalibrates, and its biological clock is plunged into disarray. Seconds dissolve into minutes which dissolve into hours, past and future converge into an infinite, inescapable present. However, one may still catch a glimpse of a guiding beacon when navigating the turbid tides of time. That lighthouse appeared to me as a series of recurring patterns, in which I found an oddly comforting monotony that kept my fleeting wits tethered to reality. Three meals a day, every day brought to my own door by my own personal concierge, as they do at the Ritz itself. At noon, the guests in General Population fill the courtyard for the allocated recreation time. The hustle and bustle runs through the corridors outside my cell, carrying whispers of gossip and sordid dealings, and painting mental pictures of a crowded market square. Finally, just before supper, a faint static intrudes through the poorly insulated vents, beckoning like a siren, and I project myself onto the warden’s lounge, where I tune in to listen along to the MLB broadcast on the radio. With time I got lost in the soothing rocking of my little routine, counting down the days, envisioning the moment when I’d get to see the blue sky and taste the fresh air again. But I suppose

my peaceful way of life had been tempting fate for too long, tantalising misfortune to come and wreak havoc.

It occurred in the middle of the night. An incipient tumult awoke me, and then a strepitous thunder shocked me to full lucidity. Hasting footsteps moved further, immediately followed by nearing, anguished yells. Then came a sound I’ve been lucky to hear only once or twice, yet is its profile so unmistakable, so violently vivid, I’d be able to identify it anywhere the roars of gunfire.

Such escalation of force was reserved for the unlikely event of a riot. I found myself disbelieving. Had the prisoners been driven mad to the point of revolution? I could only count on sound to keep me informed on how the situation developed, yet I needed not to bear eye witness to know a massacre was taking place. The instant in between each fired round was filled with telling clues. A Bang, a scream of pain. Another Bang, a desperate plea to stand back. Another bang, a body hitting the floor. And then… silence.

The commotion ceased at once, and my racing heart alone disturbed the dead quiet of night. The agitators had been subdued as quickly as they rose up, and in a strange way, I pitied them. Any plan of insurrection hatched within these walls was doomed to fail since its ill conception; believing otherwise was a severe misconstruction of the penal food chain. Once you enter the gates of this correctional facility you are stripped of your agency chained, declawed, and tamed to join the ranks of the sheep, and regardless of an overwhelming numbers advantage, quelling a rebellion of sheep is a trivial task for single wolf.

I tried to fall back asleep, but I spent the rest of the night in a semi conscious state. Recalling the fallibility of the psyche, I was prepared to deem the entire ordeal a fabrication of my most wicked dreams, had it not been for what followed.

The first sign of something amiss was breakfast, or more accurately, the absence of it. I had never known hunger during my stay at Stillwater, so when my gut began baying for food, I attributed it to a natural increase in the body’s fuel consumption in order to better regulate its temperature in the burgeoning winter. I could not tell how much time had passed, but with my stomach growing progressively restless, I was certain that, for the first time, my room service was late. My neighbours in their cells took to their doors to voice complaints from similarly empty stomachs, still, no food arrived. The unrest spread further amongst the populace when no one came to unlock the cell doors for the day’s activities. I joined their chorus of bemoaning wails in the hope of eliciting the faintest acknowledgment of our presence by our keepers. When the only response was the reflected echoes of my own voice, I knew that the clamour fell on deaf ears, if any at all. One by one we lost the will to protest as they succumbed to hopelessness. With my energy depleted, I started to feel the pull of gravity on my eyelids, and as an onset state of hibernation took hold of my conscious sense, my unconscious hearing could distinguish an ominous portent hidden in the static white noise of the vents.

The rattle of dragging chains, its friction with the ground resonating in a horrid metallic whirr that rang painful in my teeth, trailing behind footfalls that channelled the impetus of marching legions in each step. One two, one two; like drums of war heralding the advent of death. The procession paused for a beat, then I heard it again the same blood curdling screams from the night of the

By the time I was twelve, I hadn’t been living with my mother for six years. Child services had taken me away and I was placed in and out of group homes and placed within a foster family. Later, after a huge lawsuit against child services, I could live with my father. Don’t cheer too early, he is not much of a peach either.

I still had weekly visits with my mother, which were sometimes under supervision. This was extended every year by a judge, but this year was different. Because I was twelve years old, the judge was obligated to listen to my opinion as well.

I had always known my mother was sick, but the months prior to the court hearing I started to understand how negatively it had impacted me. I detested her behaviour. I hated how she asked me for money to buy cheap wine. I hated how there were always men coming over, who weren’t allowed there by child services. I hated how she said that that was our secret and I shouldn’t tell my father and my grandma. Although I never did tell them.

So, on the day of the court hearing, I told the judge that I never wanted to see my mother again, because I finally saw her for who she was: a dangerous monster. He told me he understood and I could leave the court room. My heart sunk to my feet; I knew my mother was next to come in.

I took a deep breath and swung the door open. She was about four metres away from me. She walked towards me, big smile, and asked, “How did it go, sweetie?”

Her hand reached out, but I took a step back. I was so afraid to look her in the eye. Afraid that the fire was burning again. I wanted to yell at her, because I felt that she deserved that.

“What? Am I not allowed to touch you anymore?” she asked. I glanced up, ready to yell. Ready to tell her that she and her filthy hands could go to hell. But I could only bring out, “No. I’m sorry.”

Emptiness. A big fog rose over her eyes. I had never seen her like that before, but she was frozen so I took my chance. I ran past her, almost unable to see where I was going because of the ocean that filled my sight.

Seven years. That is how long I hadn’t seen or heard anything from my mother.

I was living with four other girls in a shabby, but homely student house in Utrecht. Sitting in my sixteen square meter room, I got a call from my aunt Dilly. She is my mother’s sister, who has lived in Spain almost her whole life.

“Hi Meghan, am I not disturbing you?”

“No, no. What is going on?”

“I don’t want to scare you. It’s your mother. She was admitted into the hospital last night and is in intensive care right now. The doctors say she is in critical condition.”

I didn’t know what to feel, honestly. I didn’t know how to react either, so I kept it practical and asked, “Is she conscious?”

“Yes, but asleep. They are operating on her liver this afternoon.”

“Are visitations possible?”

“Not yet. It is too risky with COVID. Once she is moved to the regular hospital ward, one person a day is allowed. Your aunt Adrie is waiting for that to happen. You don’t mean to say you want to go?”

“I think I do, actually.”

“Megh, you don’t have to. You owe her nothing. I want you to keep that in mind. Your well being is much more important. I mean, I’m not going to stop you, of course, but don’t feel like you’re obligated.”

“I don’t. I just feel like there are a couple of things I want to say to her before she dies. Whether that is now or in ten years.”

Final Hours BY SAVANNAH STAKENBURG

(1793)

My prison cell is in the basement of the La Conciergerie. I am no longer “Marie Antoinette, the Queen of France,” rather, I am now “Prisonnière 280.” Despite all the civil unrest outside, within these walls, I no longer hear the commotion. I no longer feel anything. This cell is dimly lit by a barred window which is placed several meters above the ground. When the sun shines at its brightest, I can see that the walls are covered with shreds of an old blueish wallpaper with a fleur de lis pattern. In my room, a screen divides the room in two. I can hear the guards drinking and playing cards or smoking throughout the day on their side. With only a bed, a small table, and a few wooden and straw chairs, my side of the room was fully decorated. For ten long weeks, I have been imprisoned here, in this bleak, dreary, damp hell.

There were two prison wardens who were tasked with overseeing me at first. Madame Richard and Monsieur Toussaint were kind to me and were able to provide me with a pillow. A small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless. I pray they did not suffer for their kind actions towards me, for I was assigned a new warden, named Madame Bault, a few weeks ago. She has been far more cautious than the others, but she, too, has been caring towards me and worries for my comfort in this barren cell. Their kindness means a great deal to me. Fortunately, I will not trouble Madame Bault very long, seeing as the Tribunal has found me guilty of treason and sexually abusing my own children. When the verdict was announced, I was stunned, yet I had anticipated as much. The people of France may have hated the king, but they especially despise me, their supposed queen, for living luxuriously as they suffered in poverty. After the execution of my beloved Louis, I realized that the people would soon demand my head next. My ten weeks of imprisonment end today as I will be executed before the sun sets. This long nightmare will finally end, as I will be sentenced to death by guillotine, just as my husband was, ten months before me.

Time moves so slowly in this cell. I have little to do but stare at the walls, sleep, pray, mourn those dear to me, and reflect on my actions. These ten weeks have been agonizing, but I have had time to ponder over the last few years of my life. Non, I now realize that I have been living the last two decades incorrectly. Perhaps, I was doomed from the very beginning when I first stepped foot on French soil as a young Austrian girl. I should have been more educated, and I should have shown more interest in France’s political climate as well as her economy in order to bring an age of prosperity. Perhaps then, the people would not have directed their hatred towards me and started such vile rumors. Instead, I was infatuated with the luxuries of this lavish lifestyle, and I never bothered to learn how to manage it. I see now how I was foolish and fled from my duties as queen to live a life filled with pleasure and delusion at Le Petit Trianon. I realize now that I was given the title of Queen, which was one that I did not deserve, nor was I qualified enough to receive it. If I could go back in time, I would, and I would prove to the people of France that I am a woman of honor, one who has France’s best interests at heart.

For ten long weeks, I have been unable to hold my sweet children in my arms. I think about them every single day and night. Every day, I sit in front of the cross on the small table and pray that Marie Thérèse and Louis Charles are well and taken care of, especially after I am gone. The thought of them being treated poorly as innocent children breaks my heart. But I am no fool and I see the world

for what it is now. We are detested by the people. Being descendants of the royal family will surely place a target on their backs. To bring upon the end of a monarchy means that my guiltless children will also meet their untimely demise in due time. I can only pray that the revolutionaries will show them some mercy.

They have manipulated my impressionably young son into making false immoral accusations against me. Why they have done so, I will never know, nor will I understand. During the trial, I could see that my son had been mistreated by his jailers. His brown hair was disheveled, and he looked malnourished. Seeing him so sickly and pale continues to bring tears to my eyes. Perhaps, they did so simply to make me suffer. If so, then they have succeeded. I felt powerless to change his circumstances. All the rumors about my alleged infidelity did not bother me nearly as much as this one did. Being accused of performing sexual acts with one’s own child is not only disturbing and immoral, but also a mother’s worst nightmare! Oh, how I long to hold my children in my arms one more time and tell them how much I love and adore them. I want to tell them not to weep for me, as I will be going to join their father in Heaven. Will their jailers even tell them what has become of their parents? Children should not have to witness the execution of their own mother. Will they be forced to watch my head as it rolls down the guillotine at the Place de la Révolution? These thoughts plague me more and more as my execution draws near.

With a knock, Madame Bault tells me that it is time for me to prepare for my imminent death. I requested to wear a black dress, for I am still in mourning, but my request was denied. I am forced to change in front of the guards. It has been decided that I will leave this earth in white. Sanson, the man who executed my husband, is here to make further preparations. Sitting on the uncomfortable wooden chair one last time, I watch white locks of my hair lightly fall to the ground as my hair is crudely cut with scissors to fit in a white bonnet. Ah, there was once a time when I took so much pride in my hair and appearance, but now, it resembles nothing more to me than an added expense. Accompanied by several guards, I am escorted onto an open cart to make way for the Place de la Révolution.

The streets are filled with people who glare at me with disdain as the cart makes its way to the guillotine. They belittle me, spit on me, demand my head, and curse my name as we pass by. These things no longer bother me, for it will be over soon enough. The ropes they have used to bound me are unnecessary, as I will not try to escape. I have accepted my fate. They have assigned a priest to me so I may make a final confession, but it is pointless to me. This man has pledged his allegiance to the Républic. He has no interest in hearing my confession. I have already confessed my sins and begged for forgiveness from God directly through my prayers.

As I made the way up the wooden stairs of the guillotine, I accidentally stepped on Sanson’s shoe. “Pardon me, sir. I did not do it on purpose,” I quietly apologize. I am truly sorry. Even when I am about to be executed, I continue to make errors. Looking at the animated crowds, I am grateful to see that my children are not among them. Surrounded by jeering crowds who are demanding my head, I will no longer deprive the people of France of what they want. Retaining as much of my dignity as I can, I bend forward, lay on the bascule, and place my head in the lower part of the lunette. The executioners fastened the top part of the lunette, which caused the crowds to roar even louder. “Vive la République!” the people of France boomed.

Afraid Of Mirrors

BY ANONYMOUS

While I have gotten over many of my insecurities, most often, I am not happy with what I see when I look at myself in the mirror.

It weighs heavy on my mind, constantly. It makes me angry, continuously. I have accepted the person I am, and I have even learned to love myself in most ways apart from this way. I have learned that there is no such thing as perfection; frankly, I do not like to use that word anymore. I accept that I am flawed, and I find inner peace in working every day towards being a better person. Despite all that, I still have not learned to be kinder to myself when it comes to the way my body looks. Most of the time, I only notice the flaws, the things I wish looked different, and better.

During my early formative years, my worth as a daughter, a sister, and a person, had nothing to do with the way I looked. My parents had me when I was nineteen and family time was spent doing youthful and energetic activities. Our weekends were filled with a myriad of things that were active and fun. My body was an instrument for adventure and for success; it allowed me to play, to learn, and to create. In addition to being young parents, mom and dad are both academics, doctors to be precise. They never placed much value in beauty. In my house, what mattered most was the amount of effort that was put towards accomplishing things. Hard work and discipline were highly regarded and demanded. Any praise that I received had to do with academic achievements, or with accomplishments in extra curricular activities such as sports and singing. The phrase “I cannot do this” was verboten in my house, having that kind of mentality was simply not allowed. The one or two times I said something like this to my father, he had such a strong reaction to it that I never dared saying it out loud a third time. Over time, I would not even think it to myself. Raised in this way, with these values, I wonder why I have obsessed over the way my body looks all these years.

When I was a young girl, my parents told me that I was talented and hard working, but I do not remember them telling me that I was nice to look at. For a long time, I thought that I was ugly. I simply assumed that, were it not the case, my parents would have told me that I was good looking. When I was about eight years old, I was playing during recess at school, when a boy told me that I was pretty. I cannot recall his exact words; what I do remember perfectly is the confusion caused by hearing them. I thought about it for the rest of the day, and it was the first thing I said to my mother when I got home. I began my story by saying “Mom, something very strange happened at school today…” When I told her what the boy had said to me, she asked why I talked about it as though it was a weird thing. I answered that it was strange to be told I was pretty because I was not. I can remember the look in her eyes at hearing this, she was shocked. She asked me why I thought I was not pretty, my answer was short and earnest, “Because neither you nor dad have ever told me that I am pretty.” She put a hand to her chest and took my hand with the other. She told me that I was beautiful, and she tried to make sure that I believed it. I wish I could have.

I have a younger brother; we are one year and eleven days apart in age. Except for a few years of chaotic teenage discord, during the years that we lived under the same roof, we got along very well. In the ways in which I was too much of a girl for our interests to align, and vice versa, I had my first cousin Dianita to fulfill my unmet needs in companionship and play. Dianita and I were born

three months apart, and our childhood homes were about four blocks away from each other. Growing up, we spent a lot of time together and, for many years now, we call each other sister. Whereas my mother was a hippie academic, the jeans t shirt and converse wearing type, my aunt Dianita’s mother looked like she was heading to a formal function whenever she left the house. My mother has never worn make up and hardly ever jewelry; my aunt still fixes herself everyday as if to model for a fashion photoshoot. Not too surprisingly, while I attended singing, piano, and karate lessons after school and on the weekends, Dianita was busy with beauty pageants which she sometimes won. Naturally, my aunt constantly talked about how pretty Dianita was. Over time, without even realizing it, I had categorized us both as Dianita The Pretty Cousin and me, The Artistic Cousin. I felt okay about it, it was simply the way things were.

My body took some time to develop into womanhood; conversely, Dianita stopped looking like a girl earlier than I did. She got her period at least one year before I did, and her breasts grew well before mine. She looked like a teenager while I still looked like a girl. I was never jealous of her, but I did want to look more like her as soon as possible. It was not just her appearance I aspired to; it was also my mother’s. At the time, at around thirty three, mom was strikingly beautiful: with lovely hair and skin, and the kind of athletic body that no one could call unattractive. She had a stunning hourglass figure with gorgeous, toned legs. I was flat chested and had skinny legs that people made fun of.

By the time I was fourteen, I was already dieting. In Colombian culture, a girl turning fifteen is a big deal. Traditionally, the parents of the girl throw a big party for her, to celebrate her entering womanhood. For my party which had a Caribbean theme I planned to wear a dress that exposed my belly. I got it into my head that I needed to have a defined abdomen to wear it. This decision led me to cut out carbohydrates from my diet and to exercise at the gym seven days per week. Fifteen years of dieting later, when I was twenty nine, I noticed a dramatic change in my metabolism. I was exercising and eating just as always, but I was putting on weight. This was salt on an old, but still open wound. How could it be that I was denying myself the pleasure of eating, and still I could not be the kind of thin I wanted to be? I briefly contemplated restricting my diet even more, but the simple thought of living this way immediately exhausted me.

Considering that I liked enough things about myself, things that had nothing to do with my appearance, I realized I did not want to starve myself any longer. Easier said than done, for eating more would undeniably mean going up a couple of dress sizes. I struggled with indecision for two years. Then, one day, I had had enough. For too long I had deprived myself of eating what I wanted, for too long I would not even allow myself to eat until I was full. After living in this constant state of hunger, I snapped and said to myself: Fuck it, enough is enough.

What has happened in the last two years, since I gave myself permission to eat more and more of the things that I like is that I still struggle with this decision. There is the occasional day of respite from the mental and emotional negotiation but, overall, this topic occupies my mind continually. This is exacerbated by the fact that as a professional dancer full time from years eighteen to thirty and now part time I constantly stand in front of mirrors, and wrestle with the weight of it all.

In theory, I understand that I do not need to be lean or beautiful the way I wished I was to do my craft well, or to achieve the other things I want in life. Still, seeing my reflection is something I need to prepare myself for. I must first breathe deeply and brace myself for what I will be confronted with.

How I Met My Husband

BY CHRISTINA SWIFT

At 29 years old I was leading a full and extremely enjoyable life, managing social hospitality opportunities for a major financial institution and regularly attending high profile events in England’s vibrant capital city. Despite this, I decided that my time working in the financial throng of the City of London had run its course, and I resolved to realise my childhood dream of travelling and working abroad. So, I rented out my house, found the best cat sitter available, packed my bags and bought a ticket permitting me to circumnavigate the globe. This rash decision was to influence my future in more ways than I could have dreamed possible, and had I been aware that I would never return to my life in London, I wonder whether I would have had the courage to embark on this adventure. However, in my naivety and blissful ignorance, I boarded a plane at Heathrow airport and arrived 17 hours later in Kathmandu, armed with a rucksack, water bottle, penknife, an open mind and without a friend within 8,000 km.

After 6 months of enjoying the never ending hospitality of the Asian people, and pushing myself to my physical limits in the unforgiving but stunningly beautiful natural environment of the mystical east, I felt far from ready to leave Asia. However, my schedule had been set in stone upon the purchase of my airline ticket, so I reluctantly boarded a plane for Perth, Australia, and several hours later landed there with a bump. I felt an unsolicited agitation at being propelled back into ‘Western’ society, and far from providing the predictable blanket of comfort and safety, the advantage of easily understanding the meaningless chatter of strangers simply added to my sense of frustration and loneliness. Perhaps these unfamiliar feelings contributed to my willingness to converse with characters with whom I would not usually have socialised; perhaps this was ultimately necessary in order for me to meet my future husband. Several hours after landing, consumed by the trance like exhaustion induced by extensive travel and lack of sleep, I found myself in the back yard of a hostel in Northbridge, Perth, participating in friendly banter with other travellers whilst absentmindedly sipping cheap wine from a plastic beaker.

Meanwhile, nearly 4,000 km away in Sydney, a young Dutch man, with very little money, was considering his rather limited options, having just learnt that the company for whom he had been working had a less than legal approach to dealing with customer complaints, and that his ‘bosses’ had suddenly found it necessary to leave the country without providing him with severance pay or a forwarding address! Feeling rather alone and vulnerable, he was pondering the wisdom of his snap decision to accept the offer of sharing a five day car trip across the Nullarbor Plain, the great expanse of sand which separates Sydney and Perth, with an unknown, but friendly couple. The entire story of their journey was related to me the following evening, whilst sitting in the yard of that same hostel, drinking yet another plastic beaker of cheap wine.

Dagan, the young Dutch man, explained that he had embarked on the journey with his new friends with excitement and trepidation. During the initial two days of the trip, Dagan, Jane and Dave had had fun together, exchanging travel stories whilst drifting across the desert, passing through the occasional town. Dave did most of the driving and when the towns transformed into the expanse of the desert, they pulled the car over and slept for the evening; Dagan in his tent, whilst the couple slept in the car. The next morning the fun vibes experienced during the previous

evening had dissolved in the night air, making way for an altogether different, tense atmosphere. Dagan convinced himself that he had imagined the change in mood when, after Jane and Dave had taken a walk together, the light hearted ambience returned. The journey of the third day began with the usual banter between the three travellers, but after a few hours, Dagan sensed an uneasy atmosphere once again. The couple insisted on stopping at a local chemist and after much secretive shuffling of papers and whispering, Jane entered the pharmacy and reappeared with a small white bag. The mood in the car lightened after Jane and Dave had taken another walk together; and Dagan made a mental note to keep his money and passport about his person at all times! This pattern repeated itself several times over the next few days; however, having very little money and not wanting to be stranded in the desert, Dagan decided to remain detached, but friendly towards his travelling companions, believing that whilst they clearly had their own problems, they would not project them onto him.

Five days after leaving Perth, the trio, two of whom decided to immediately go for a short walk, arrived at the hostel in Northbridge, Perth. The third member of the trio, Dagan joined a group of young travellers in the yard who were chatting, laughing and sipping cheap wine, whilst sitting at a long table! It could have been his friendly disposition, or possibly the unfamiliar mix of a slightly rebellious appearance and gentle nature which encouraged me to snap out of my sombre, self pitying state and I spent the rest of the evening exchanging small talk with Dagan, and ultimately excitedly agreed to join the company on a trip to the beach the next morning.

The next day, we wound our way through the deserted early morning streets of Western Australia’s capital city, from where we boarded the metro to Cottesloe Beach. I spent the journey chatting to Jane, and trying to justify my instinctive apprehensiveness towards her and Dave to myself. Although she was nothing but friendly towards me, I could not suppress my instinct to mistrust, even pity, but not dislike her; feelings which contradicted the, as yet unjustified, overwhelming animosity which I felt towards Dave. Dave scared me, and I tactfully managed to completely avoid any form of contact with him during the journey. We spent a balmy afternoon lazing on the beach, eating chips and swimming in the crystal waters. I was attracted towards the strangely quiet, but friendly Dutch man, whilst becoming increasingly suspicious of the company he kept. Until this point in my travels I had avoided people who evoked such negative feelings in me, and rather confusingly I was now consciously spending time with them. The irony of the situation was not lost on me.

That evening at the hostel Dagan cooked me a romantic dinner of vegetable soup and we were consuming it from plastic beakers, in our now regular spot on the elongated table in the hostel yard with the other travellers, when people began commenting on the sound of police sirens and shouts which had begun to echo through the otherwise silent neighbourhood. The sounds reached a violent crescendo before everything suddenly fell completely silent. The table’s occupants looked from one to the other for a few seconds before beginning to fire questions at a shell shocked Dagan as to the possible cause of the disturbance. No explanation was forthcoming, and after a relatively short time, we all assumed that the pair would creep back to their beds in the early hours of the morning, and surmised that the disturbance had undoubtably been caused, or at least fuelled, by the extreme amounts of alcohol consumed by Dave and Jane, over the course of the afternoon. We did not let it disrupt our enjoyment any longer, and the subtle party atmosphere crept back into the yard.

7

Dyslexia Does Not Define Me

BY SALOMÉ KANDRÁČOVÁ

I was a very happy child, or so my mother tells me. She has photos to prove it too. Mini me loved to smile and laugh, to play and draw. And I do have happy memories from my childhood. However, I am one of those people who does not look back on their childhood with feelings of nostalgia and wishing for ‘the good old days.’

My happy nature changed once I had to go to school. From then on there was a lot of frustration in me. I didn’t understand what others around me obviously did. One day in Kindergarten I remember very clearly how I was personally taught by the teacher what 1+1 equals and how I to my shame and embarrassment I had forgotten it again the next day. Feeling stupid and dumb was already starting to settle in my system. I must have been 4 or 5 at the time.

It was that same teacher who went to my mother and told her that she suspected I have dyslexia. The funny thing is, when I was a child, I didn’t like my teacher at all. I remember her as a cold and strict person, though I do not know if this is true, I only have vague memories of that time. Now however, I am grateful to her because it’s thanks to her that I was I was diagnosed with dyslexia7 relatively early in life.

My parents took me to an institute that specialised in diagnosing children with learning problems. I had to come back several times in order to ensure that they had covered everything. They tried giving me Ritalin, which only made me an unruly and hyperactive child, so that was quickly scraped off of the list of possibilities.

I really didn’t like going there because I started to realize that it wasn’t normal for children to be brought here. All the other children in my class didn’t have to go here. That was yet another indication that I really was very stupid and worthless, or so I thought. My parents always gave me a treat, like a croissant, to make the visits more bearable for me.

After this, I was sent to an institute that specialised in diagnosing and helping children with dyslexia. Here I would go every week till I had reached the highest reading level in Dutch education, which I got when I was 12 years old.

Meanwhile at school, I was taken separately during classes to be tested and examined by one of the remedial teachers at school. She would do all kinds of exercises with me relating to reading, writing and spelling. Once I impressed her by telling her in detail about the story she just read out to me. What I didn’t understand back then but know now, is that I showed her that there was nothing wrong with my reading comprehension. Despite this, the school concluded that they couldn’t give me the kind of extra help that I needed in order to get through school.

I was transferred to a special school where they teach children with learning and behaviour difficulties. By now I was approximately 7 years old. And the transfer was for me a real blow; by now I was convinced of my own stupidity. All the extra help and special tests had made that very clear to

Dyslexia is a learning difficulty that mainly causes problems with reading, writing and spelling.

me, no matter how much my parents denied it when I said to them that I was stupid, I wouldn’t believe them. I would stay in this school till my 11th birthday, they taught me more than only the usual curriculum.

They also gave me lessons on how to handle one's anger. Because by now I was an extremely frustrated child; tired of going to school where I was only confronted with my stupidity. And my ways of dealing with this frustration were of no good to anyone. But thanks to the behaviour lessons, where they used a playful way of explaining things, I was soon able to deal with that frustration in a better way. The frustration was still there, but now I was able to talk about it with my parents.

So as I mentioned above, when I turned 11 I had to go to another school for children with special learning needs. My first year there was to finish all the last things to round off Elementary school. And the second year they prepared me for the CITO examinations8. I had all kinds of extra’s during those examinations to help me through them: I had extra time, a recorded voice reading out the questions to me and I had extra big letters on the sheets. And though there were more children this time that had the same extra help, I still felt damned stupid. Instead of seeing it in a positive light that I am not the only one who needs these kinds of things, I saw us as a group of the dumbest people.

Once in Highschool not much changed, especially with the usual teenage hormones the belief that I was stupid didn’t lift. Here too I always needed extra help and extra time for my examinations. I was never the best in something, always hanging somewhere in the middle or at the bottom of the class. Despite this and all my struggles through my Kindergarten, Elementary and Highschool years I managed to graduate with a HAVO diploma.

I am not stupid.

I am smart. I am smart. I am smart! Though it would take me at least five more years and a lot of therapy to realize this to be the truth.

To this day I still have this lingering insecurity in me that gets easily triggered when someone uses a tone of voice that indicates I asked a stupid question. And when confronted with my dyslexia especially when learning a new language I feel that familiar frustration building up inside me. I don’t know if I will ever be able to truly accept this part of me. How I have wished to be able to open a book, read something once and know it for the rest of my life. How I continue to wish that learning a new language is something that comes naturally to me.

People tend to say and/or believe that a learning difficulty shouldn’t or doesn’t define a person. I disagree. It has everything to do with that person and shapes them the way they are. It brings them struggles and frustrations and makes them different from the masses. It’s the person’s responsibility to try and find ways to live with these parts of them, to find ways to work around or with these learning difficulties. That influences not only the way they learn but also the way they handle (difficult) situations. It has everything to do with that person’s character.

8 Exams that give an indication on how high the student’s intelligence is and which Highschool programme best fits that.

Gunfire BY NATASHA THEOPHILOU

Conflict, war, as we’ve learned lately in the Ukraine, can take many forms, and happen for many reasons. The borders of cultures are a mine field of it.

“Ven you go to a country, you must learn de language,” my diminutive Dutch mother in law told me, her earnest round ‘70s glasses looking straight at me. “I am not good at language, but still I learn it, because you live in de country.” There is no hint of entitlement here.

I took her words to heart, and applied myself to my faded blue hardcover “Teach Yourself Dutch”. I have persevered at speaking it in the face of all odds the odds being the Dutch switching into English the instant they hear your accent.

English I speak at home, privately, Dutch in public. When talking Dutch, I’ve learned to talk about the weather and what I’m doing to my house. I talk about money. I am direct to the point of rudeness. And I wear shoes. A divided emotional geography, an indecisively split identity.

Even more than English, the Dutch love Afrikaans. Time and time again I get ambushed when they hear I’m from South Africa, their forthright features melting, a far away look in their eyes, a little smile softening their firm lips, “Het is zo’n leuk taaltje.” “It is such a nice little language.” There was a time when I tried to combat this with logic Afrikaans, I pointed out, has far fewer diminutives than Dutch: where Russian books echo the vastness of their country, trying to prop all of its corners between two thick covers, one in St Peterburg and the other in Siberia, Dutch seems to mirror its smallness, tucking in its toes in words, and as full of acronyms as a government department.

It used to annoy me, still does. Except now I’ve lived here longer, and Dutch is second nature, I find myself conflicted, melting when I hear Belgians saying “gij” and using quaint words like “bediende” (“servant”) for an employee. When I hear Afrikaans now, put down the twitching of my lips into a little smile like a bad dog. Kid talking. It’s difficult to take a kid language seriously. I know an Afrikaans woman who was in agony in childbirth it went wrong, the child was ok, but she wasn’t. An Iranian father who died after hours in agony on the floor, his daughter phoning and phoning to try to get help, but not being taken seriously, and it makes my blood boil.

As usual, I’m a uncertain, shifting, balancing, Colossus of Rhodes9, one foot on each shore, seeing both points of view.

To make it worse, my natural contrariness impels me to single handed defend the other side against all odds.

It’s 2010, at Eleftherios Venizelos Airport in Athens, the Greek credit crisis is in full swing, the North Europeans bailing out in buckets, and the Greeks screaming “Troika!” In the Netherlands,

9

The Colossus of Rhodes was a statue of the Greek sun god Helios, which was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It was in the habour of Rhodes and at 33 metres high about the same size as the Statue of Liberty.

my Greek hackles rise at the condescending tone used when talking about this Southern European country that hasn’t got it’s “zaakjes in orde” “business in order.” I explain it is a poor country, bankrupt seven times since WW2, can’t devalue now because of the euro, etc, etc. At Eleftherios Venizelos airport, I’m instantly at home: Greek letters, white buildings fresh in the morning sunshine, strong shadows, rubbery sharp leaved oleanders in shouting pink. My father manhandles my luggage, he’s convinced he does everything better than anyone else, so it’s always easier all round just to do it himself. Before we are at the car he tells me, every syllable bursting with indignation, “I have already received so many cancellations for the conference I’m organizing because of the LIES they are telling in Europe about Greece.” By the time he is giving me a little homily on how to pack a car boot the right way, the sun warmed smell of new car and oil mixing with his advice of “Large and heavy baggage at the bottom, smaller on top and in between,” my Dutch hackles are scraping the clear, Greek blue sky.

Being on a border has gunfire coming from both sides, you’re caught in the middle of a Wild West of non comprehension, misunderstanding, a transitional zone where the laws of both communities are often in abeyance, everyday certainties float about like objects in the non gravitation of a spaceship, you try to grasp them, but they are somehow not where they have always been, you float. There are those who are purveyors of dreams, telling you anything is possible, they should be lined up and shot at dawn. We cannot change in the twinkling of an eye.

“It takes three generations to adapt to a new culture,” a cultural psychologist told me at a staff outing of Vluchtelingenwerk Nederland 10 . I wonder with differences of religion and, unfortunately, outward characteristics such as colour, the “natives” can resist the new inhabitants trying to get a slice of their land, the newbies hold onto their Mother Country, far longer. A friend in South Africa, there since she immigrated at eight: “I’m English and proud of it I’ll never be anything other than English!” The English still seeking, and finding, a Holy Grail11 of superiority.

After over thirty years in The Netherlands, I am still a struggler and a straddler: an observer, always more or less on the outside, looking in. I’m over familiar with the greener grass of the neighbour, prone to dissatisfaction, but with cultural Realpolitiek12, I don’t expect haves to give up what they have to the have nots.

The interior emotional geography, the one influenced by books and films and our extra digital globe, internet, can be even more complex. My bookish and painfully shy mother named me after Natasha in War and Peace13, a light hearted extrovert who had a hobby of making men fall in

10 Dutch Organization for help to Refugees.

11 The Holy Grail was a cup, dish, or stone with miraculous powers in legends of King Arthur: providing eternal youth, or sustenance in infinite abundance; by analogy, any elusive object or goal of great significance may be perceived as a holy grail by those seeking it.

12 Realpolitik are diplomatic or political policies based primarily on considerations of given circumstances and factors, rather than moral and ethical premises. Also used pejoratively to imply political policies that are perceived as being coercive or amoral

13 War and Peace (1869) is a literary work on history and philosophy by the Russian author Leo Tolstoy which remains an internationally praised classic of world literature. It is about the French invasion of Russia and the impact of the Napoleonic era on Tsarist society.

used to go on the weekend to cook for her and sit down together. Not forgetting the guys who did the grocery for her and visited her on a daily basis. People had to book an appointment to visit her because her small room did not fit everyone from the camp. The walls in her room were full of the children's drawings which they sent with their mothers to her.

She finally had to go back to her parents' house in Groningen where she spent her last days of life. The doctors told her that the only organs she might be able to move in the future are her eyes and tongue. The disease took over her whole body and let her live and sleep in pain with lots of medicine. It was at this moment that Vera decided to put an end to her life by euthanasia. I could not believe my ears and I got very depressed. This was the most shocking news everyone close to her had ever heard. She decided to receive as many visitors as she could and bid farewell to them. They imagined seeing a defeated and depressed young lady who was counting her last days, instead, they met an optimistic, full of life lady who kept asking them to keep doing a good job in their lives and never give up. She was the one who was consoling them. She even made group calls with many new neighbours who wanted to see her for the last time and thank her for everything she did for them. On the 21st of February 2022, Vera passed away leaving behind the broken hearts of all the new neighbours she knew and helped since they met her. Although she is gone, her legacy is still present, especially during the new wave of Ukrainian refugees who joined her online platforms and activities to integrate into a new society and ask for help.

You Don’t Look Right

BY SAVANNAH STAKENBURG

People often say that I don’t look right.

To me, they exclaim

“Your skin is too light, in the sun, your hair is too bright, and your voice sounds too white.”

I believed much too easily, that if I moved away, I would rest easy.

It never occurred to me, just how lonely I would be.

I went to that place,

Where their skin was “lighter,”

In the sun, their hair was “brighter,” And all their voices sounded “whiter.”

Here I was tossed aside. Now, my skin is “too dark,”

My curls are “too unruly,”

And my tongue is “too heavy.”

I guess I just don’t look right.

Taste Of Temptation

BY CIARA BUTLER

The Garden of Eden, what a place to be Until Adam decided to betray his Eve. A forbidden fruit, plucked from a tree

Who took the first bite? Well, you see, The story blames Eve, for leading Adam astray They say it was her who first ate the apple that day.

Made just for Adam, Eve was God’s gift to him,

A man so favoured wasn’t expected to sin.

Is it so shocking that a man’s temptation won?

Common sense blurred until the deed was done. Maybe Eve was guilty, I don’t mean to sugar coat, But they don’t call it Eve’s apple in every man’s throat

My Stargazer

BY SALOMÉ KANDRÁČOVÁ

Her eyes, looking up and beyond

See what many tend to forget

Stars that align and form a bond

Have another story to tell yet

Her lips that move and enchant

Speak in a language of old

An experience simple yet grand

Is what has been foretold

Our desires, not always the same

Yet we find a middle path to dance

She, in all her ways, sets me aflame

With sparkles of mischief in a glance

With a soul’s kiss and lover’s bite

Our connection is undeniably found

Underneath a full moon's night

To her, I want to be bound

Mother’s Fate BY JELLE HEIJ

Men whose hearts corrupted keep their eyes on what is man made

Fixated on machine creation keeps their thinking rigid, stale

Is this Mother nature’s faith, destroyed by that which she’d create

In Man made mansions, we’re mentioning nature from inside of our safety gates

If Men would burn themselves by fire through which life takes shape

If Men would rest their legs on earth, foundation trough many change

If Men would drink from water, nourishment trough many age

If Men would breathe fresh air, grasping that which can’t be tamed

Men would stray away from man made malpractice

And see nature in its beautiful rich state

Then Men would realise, that instead of progress their dealing plenty damage

And perhaps then, have the strength to alter their dreadful fate.

21 Sikh At Saragarhi

BY TIM VAN AERDE

My brothers, here I stand with you high.

At Saragarhi we are, 21 Sikhs strong. Army at the gates, on reinforcements we cannot rely.

The Galant 21

Havildar Ishar Singh

Naik Lal Singh

Lance Naik Chanda Singh

Sepoy Sundar Singh

Sepoy Ramm Singh Sepoy Uttar Singh Sepoy Sahib Singh Sepoy Hira Singh Sepoy Daya Singh Sepoy Jivan Singh Sepoy Bhola Singh Sepoy Narayan Singh Sepoy Gurmukh Singh

Sepoy Jivan Singh Sepoy Gurmukh Singh

Sepoy Ram Singh Sepoy Bhagwan Singh Sepoy Bhagwan Singh

Sepoy Buta Singh Sepoy Jivan Singh Sepoy Nand Singh

Only one task we have and that’s to prolong. 14.000 at our door, the charge at us in a cry. The reason for this fight, here we do not belong.

“Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal1” we yell in reply.

They think we will surrender but they are wrong.

The bullets zooming in the sky. Their attacks by our furiosity soon withdrawn. 11 of us have said their last goodbye.

Our western wall blown to the beyond. The enemy in the fort we all prepare to die. We lie down our lives with no disregard.

One Sikh remains in a tower high; they want him to fry. Guarding the tower, he sells his live hard.

“Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal” his last cry. His body now in the tower charred.

The Sikh battle cry our last goodbye

For 7 hours we had our enemy barred. Now we 21 lie rest, our empty eyes watching the sky

One Minute To Midnight

Darling assignment, this one sounds fun, Write yourselves a poem? Consider it done, I carry a page, it's snow white, All day… All night…

Let's at least insert this pun.

Onto the next part I haven't done, Chose a few lines with which I could run, The deadline's far away, I can do this another day, In a few days, let's get back to this one.

But then the clock strikes due date, And the inner workings open their gate, Brain's topped up a few percent dismissing the heart's consent it will be quick work at this rate!

There she is! Pounding away past midnight, And she puts up a good fight, No drugs involved she's neither resolved, but Tomorrow, it's credits to her smarts, right?

BY SEPIDEH MIR SHAHI

Innocence

BY XANTHIAS DE HOON

Of puritan innocence we don't speak Your lifestyle receives copious critique You seek champions, though and hard Not the weak, soft or ill starred

Countless the knights who flock to your abode

When they hear the tales that are told An Amazon, charming, tall, fun and easy Certainly not a bore, lame, timid or sleazy

A scattered trail of clothes touches ground You throw them on your bed and mount

With every knight a different rhythm, kink and pose Absence of pillow talk or lovebird prose

It may seem that I would have you indicted Yet I'm on my knees, ready to be knighted

Obsession

MEGHAN

you constantly remind me of the sun as your presence is wonderful and warm a globe of brightness, unmatchable how could luminescence ever mean harm?

I consider myself a sunflower my petals can’t help but follow you the heavenly rays, irresistible there is nothing else I belong to my devotion is truly unequalled why else would my name be partly yours? say you’d decide to leave for good I would rather wither, of course I am absolutely meaningless until you rise East and illume had I known you’d gain such power I would have never come to bloom

Never Mind The Bollocks... Here’s Tony

Do they rock the guitar up in heaven?

Do they rock the guitar up in heaven?

Do angels play in their teenage wasteland with the amp turned right up to eleven?

Your boat to Cairo sailed into the night And I was left uncomfortably numb, Our goodbyes, mem'ries brought once more to light. Your infectious laugh lifted any room, Your bad jokes and warmth radiated smiles The fun’s now over; beers finished too soon.

Better friends than lovers; the cats were mine! Too young, too much love, you left, and I cried Yet a true friendship stands the test of time. Smashing it up; always seeing the sun. You fought your fight as a tin soldier might; This was one battle which couldn’t be won.

Your pain is receding, sweet voice now gloved, Two beautiful treasures make you so proud.

The music plays softer, heart strings are tugged Rest softly, or party; know you’re loved.

BY CHRISTINA SWIFT

You were small

The youngest of four boys All older, the eldest in particular you talked of often:

“His reports were phenomenal, his essays read in all the classes” “He was an extrovert and good at everything except sport” impishly Proud still after 60, 70 years, four tropical boys in shorts standing tall, and it was from you we heard for the first time what happened to him, your oldest brother, the flower, the saint (in the rest of the family it was silent, vague)

The Burma Line

And after the war, the family in photos, Three brothers only, now all small With grief, and with what they learned under the Japanese to keep your head down

Oom Jos remained small, and not particularly successful He saved up and bought a flat, cash down, He was all we had in family on that side in the land And we were fond of him, loved him in little ways His presents were impeccably wrapped, generousity itself, pedantically precise in knowing what we wanted, we bellowed wish lists down the phone

And each time you came we discussed afterwards what to do Because you refused an old age home Refused help, independent and cross grained You boasted that you’d only once asked for assistance From one of your neighbours the flat was full of ingenious Devices for putting on your stockings and going out of bath (We afterwards pulled the handles stuck with kit and plasters from the wall, the tiles under came off, we all….laughed)

The egg timers which regulated how long Peas, meat, instant potatoes were on, a box constructed of cardboard containers with drawers for different sorts, sizes of plasters, stiff Sad biscuits

standing tall in cut off plastic containers so they didn’t fall.

Sanity lay in small things, small places Until, in your teacup kingdom of old age, It sometimes slipped and spilled

And envelopes labelled “plaster covers”

Turned out to be the tiny transparent rectangles and squares you remove when you put a plaster on, preserved carefully.

The funeral also was tiny our family and one other, his neighbours, Who had been away the last two weeks, You lay there

we saw

A kind note offering help from her and he had bought the deep freeze vegetables Oom Jos accepted at the door, Before they left, we know he must have known then That he could not go on, the end was coming

But he said nothing

It was easy for you to give up, stop doing things because of old age, Something you were an expert on We found 15, 30 books on health, and getting old, and the doorstop Family Guide to Health all read, pertinent places marked Seeking out and buying the best, your Bible the Consumer Guide, If you couldn’t get exactly what you needed You adapted, made it, gleaned information, sewed it on your sewing machine

Copious reserves, carefully preserved Cardboard boxes flattened, hanging down on clipped coathangers in a cupboard, Little bits of string and old shoelaces Copious reserves, carefully preserved serving a second life holding Folders and tickets of the Efteling

Where you went for your birthday at 85….and every other holidays before, Mounted up and mounted up, it filled and overflowed so in the end the carnage remained Around where you sat and lay

And did not phone

But perhaps, we said, trying to trace and make sense, You wanted to go that way

Alone in death as you were in life, Part of a family, but distantly

We cleared and cleared and with it built you again, The man you were, knife edge trouseredly precise And clean

We built you up again at your funeral Words and music and a photo show, flowers and a small oak coffin And four back pall bearers with top hats, a poem by the undertaker Another one than Vince as a funeral was running late

And yet what you did to me Is shake my confidence in life, No certainty anymore, it’s cupped and carried by death a transitory ripple held in the palm of hand of earth beneath us, building, water, sky, And all that does not live

And while I loved you, and am sad in my own way, Ambushed by tears at odd moments of the day, There’s resentment at what you left, The tabula rasa that dumped us in a mess.

Love You BY JUSTIN VAN DER MEEREN

See me

Hear me

Gain me Use me Need me Throw me

Caress me Abuse me Read me Shape me

Want me

Excuse me

Bleed me

Cry me

Tell me Seduce me

Recede me Hit me

Hit me! Induce me Free me Smile me

Say you Love me

Special Thanks

A huge “Thank You” to…

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Tomas Pollard

Freek Metsch