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Book: The Crisis Inside | International Short Story Project www.visionbakery.com/issp

............................................................................................................. title: The Crisis Inside genre/tags: narrative, anthology, short story script: completed format: 11 x 18 visuals: This extract does not appear like the prospective publication

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Leila Al-Serori | Austria In the queue Tuesday. 10:44 a.m. “Ms. Andritz, you can come in now.” Ms. Andritz, that’s me. I clear my throat, stand up, gather my black jacket and wedge it under my arm. Straight posture, stomach tucked in. Then with a sturdy stride I walk toward his office. This is my third job interview within a month. People say I should be glad to be invited to an interview at all. Glad and thankful that someone’s read my cover letter. Glad that someone took the time.

I finished my education six months ago. Ever since then I’ve been looking for a job. There are thousands of jobless academicians in Austria. They’re usually humanities scholars. According to statistics there are too many of us.

“Have a seat!” I sit down in the red upholstered armchair, cross my legs and rest my hands in my lap. Like a courteous little girl. Shoulders back. A relaxed smile. “So, tell me a little bit about yourself.” I launch into all the highlights of my resume. Degrees, foreign languages, internships. Bored and uninterested, he looks down at his cellphone. “That all sounds pretty good. But you don’t have any extensive practical experience, do you?” He leans back in his office chair, interlaces his fingers behind his head and fixates on me with his narrow eyes. I shake my head. “But I’m a quick learner.” He’s wearing a white shirt that rests a little too snug around his belly. His hair is slightly gray with age. Small stains of sweat are outlined under his armpits. “Well, not really what we’re looking for. But thank you for your application.” My stomach implodes on itself, becoming tight. I stand up and reach out my hand. “Goodbye.” “Good luck,” he says without giving me the slightest glance.

Europe’s been living in a crisis ever since I’ve been an adult. It slowly crept up, was barely noticeable.

Then it struck. With a hard blow to the head. People had heard of the impact, but didn’t feel it. The crisis only became visible with time, with the rising unemployment rates and increases in taxes. It’s an uncomfortable climate to grow up in. Insecurities and doubts instead of the feeling of being able to achieve anything.

Book: The Crisis Inside | International Short Story Project www.visionbakery.com/issp

Wednesday. 6:20 p.m. “Finding a job is a cakewalk.” The person speaking is my brother. He streams his fingers through his blonde hair and shows his straight, slightly discolored teeth. I can feel that he’s looking at me with his blue eyes, so I try to be cheeky and nonchalant. “Maybe for you. It’s always a lot easier for industry workers,” I say. “Well, then you should

have studied something useful. What do you want to do with literary criticism anyways? Catalog tomes in a library?” I feel as though I’ve already had this conversation fifty times. Every time it becomes a little more redundant. But it seems to do him a lot of good. He really blossoms when he can demonstrate his superiority over me to our parents.

We’re sitting at a wooden table, eating knödel with scrambled eggs. Our mom cooked. In order to cheer me up, she says. Why did she invite him then, I ask her as we’re sitting alone. Her hands shoot up in the air, swatting away something imaginary. “Oh come on, he’s your brother.”

Mom’s hair is dyed a tangerine color and backcombed around her face. It makes her younger, she says.

She’s wearing a patterned dress that wraps tightly around her body and extends just below her knees.

Every time I see her she looks a little bit older. But when she smiles she looks just like she does in the black and white photos from her college days. She has a pleasant, mischievous smile.

Mom turns around to look at me. “Everything alright, Hannah?” I shake my head. “I’m trying really hard.

Why isn’t anything working?” “Oh Hannah, it’ll work out. It’s always tough in the beginning.” “I have another interview on Friday an I'm not sure if I want to go.” “Of course you’re going to go, as many times as it takes. You can’t just give up.” “Sure I can,” I say defiantly and whimper. She puts her arms around me, holds me tight and consoles me by petting my hair. I can feel her breasts, her soft skin. Mom’s hair still smells like it used to, back when we were kids – like hairspray, vanilla perfume and sebum. She pulls her head back a bit and looks at me. “Maybe your brother can help you?”

It’s already dark outside as I leave my parent’s house. I think back to the dinner, to my arrogant brother and my benevolent parents, who don’t understand me.

Muhammad Al-Bdewi | Syria My Story My story – and with it, my crisis and my country Syria’s, crisis – is born from an endless sea of contradictions and questions. A crisis that opened in front of me ever more unknown horizons which occasionally made me feel helpless and in pain, and at other times spread a faint hope in my lost soul. The first day of the Syrian revolution still grips my conscience and prevents me from sleeping, as if it happened yesterday.

How could I ever forget that day?

It was Friday March 18 2011. The day’s events made it necessary to take decisions that would change the course of my easy life forever.

Book: The Crisis Inside | International Short Story Project www.visionbakery.com/issp

I was present that day and saw the events unfold before my eyes. I noticed how civilians gathered after Friday prayer in front of the Omari-mosque, calling for the freedom of their children whom the criminal regime had arrested and tortured. Children in their budding years were arrested and brutally tortured. Their only crime was that they were playing.

These children were aroused by the events unfolding in the uprisings of the Arab Spring in Tunisia and Egypt. Their parents could not take their eyes off of the television screens which were broadcasting the news of the revolutions in Tunisia and Egypt, promptly followed by Yemen and Libya. In all innocence, these children started a protest, repeating the slogans they were hearing from the television, demanding freedom and the fall of the regime, unaware of the meaning of these words. Thus the Political Security Forces arrested them and tortured them, without heeding children and human rights, or the appeals of their families. And thus the families decided to organize a rally to demand the freedom of their loved ones.

I stood aside in the beginning, watching what was happening in front of me. Fear and bewilderment took hold of me. This was the first time in my 24-year-old life that I saw a protest with honest demands in my country, Syria. As the numbers of that small protest increased, fear started to recede from my heart. I decided to join the ranks of the protestors whose cries were growing louder by the minute. They started moving towards the city center. I walked alongside them and began shouting with them: Freedom... It was the first time for

me to shout out this word. Each time I shouted louder and louder, my confidence started to grow, as did my conviction that I was free, that nothing would stop this crowd from realizing their goals of obtaining freedom. Freedom. I have always wondered about this word which has caused me so much confusion and desperation. What is its meaning...? All my life I felt lonely, although my caring family and friends were there for me. But that didn’t stop loneliness from sneaking into my heart, as I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was different from the people around me. I was asking myself and these people the same questions over and over again, questions that never left my mind, its answers still unclear to me: Why do people make weapons? What did humanity gain from all these wars? Why are there borders? Why do we make our lives so unnecessarily difficult?

All those questions became so firmly rooted in my mind until desperation and solitude took hold of me.

The last sparkle of hope stayed well-hidden in my small heart until I finally participated in that protest march. Then I discovered I wasn’t alone, many have the same thoughts as I have! People who were calling for freedom awakened my hope from its long coma. Each step I took together with them made me more confident and adamant to walk on the road of change.

Lina Maria Parra Ochoa | Colombia Paper Tissues My grandfather died at 4 AM. I can't remember the date, but I do remember the time at which I was

Book: The Crisis Inside | International Short Story Project www.visionbakery.com/issp

woken up from a light slumber by the phone ringing. Because when one is waiting for the news of someone's looming death, the phone is the announcement before departure; it becomes the shrill tone of death letting itself be known, the tone of life breathing no more. It seems so easy to breathe that most of the time we forget about it; worried about so many other things. It's only when it ceases and is no longer there that we notice, once again, the subtle chest movements and soft whistling of the air going through our lungs. It all happens at once, the phone rings and death arrives. After the high pitched bell, there follow a couple of quiet words and a silence that spreads through the house, because death doesn't need explanations to get inside. We simply get up and dress in semi-darkness. For some reason we don't feel like turning the lights on and pretending it is just like any other day.

We exit into the cold early morning and the thick darkness that lingers heavily just before dawn embraces us, as we drive down the empty streets for the fifteen minutes that separate our house from my grandfather’s house. Nobody speaks, although we're a lot of people and sit tightly in two cars. We'd been waiting his death for a long time. For more than ten years we expected it but that old tree didn't die. And it's not as if he loved life, or that he clung on to hope, or that he wanted to keep on roaming this world; it is just simply that he did not die, as if he couldn't, as if he were not allowed to.

When my grandmother, his wife, passed away, a woman filled with life and flowers, universal mother of our family, maker of arepas in the early mornings, breeder of chickens, pigs and stories I think I remember, although I'm not sure whether my memory just made them up later on; when she passed away he became silent and his roots shriveled up. As if with her absence nothing was left for him in this world.

The chickens and dogs died off at home and the rooms became dark with disuse. Finally only he was left, with no reasons to keep on living, existing every morning only because he had no other option, breathing without realizing it, walking slowly because he didn't quite know where he was headed and didn't really want to get anywhere. Even so, each morning he opened his grey and lively eyes, each morning he still didn't die. It was as if he were the only one whom death had left stranded, despite him having been waiting for her for years.

In the last days, even though he couldn't talk much, the man had the decency to tell us he was finally going to die. For years his health had been decreasing slowly but constantly, always weakening his huge mountain like body. After the first stroke we had to buy him a cane to help him with his balance. After the second stroke he changed the cane for a metal stroller, those you see so much in old people's homes. In those days he still drank beer and lived alone. But after the third stroke he had to leave his town and his house with two terraces, leave the chickens that were still alive, the canteen and billiards and go to live in Medellín, under the care of one of his daughters. He couldn't walk anymore and found himself trapped in a grey wheelchair that would be his last throne, until the end of his days. With the years he found it harder to talk and his words became fewer. One day he asked me to call a taxi on the phone and when I asked where he was going he said that he wanted to go to hell. For more than ten years he'd been waiting for a death that wasn't coming, without being able to talk nor walk, without being able to swallow solids — without choking. Without being able to go to the toilet alone. For ten years he'd been sitting in a wheelchair listening to tangos, buying lottery tickets and playing with my aunt's little French poodle.

During those ten years several times it did seem like he was dying, but then in a few more days he always left the hospital a little weaker but just as alive, as if dying were impossible.

Book: The Crisis Inside | International Short Story Project www.visionbakery.com/issp

Kurt Hackbarth | Mexico Barren Isle “Land ho!” announced the lookout with delight from the crow’s nest of the ship. The message was transmitted via radio signal to the bridge, where the captain was chatting breezily with the first mate. “This little insignificant island,” he said, “has ended up solving quite a lot of problems on a global scale. No inhabitants, far away from everything, in international waters, not claimed by anyone, who’d even want it?”

“Especially after what they’ve done with it,” added the first mate. “That’s right,” said the captain, as he joined his hands behind his back. “But that was the point: to find a place so remote that it wouldn’t turn into some kind of penal colony once they started leaving the undesirables there.” “But was it necessary to go to such extremes?” asked the first mate. “Wiping out the vegetation...” “Slash and burn!” interposed the captain. “...salting the earth...” “Like the Romans at Carthage!” “...surrounding it with mines...” “Boom!” exclaimed the captain, throwing his hands in the air. “...and to crown it all, that idea of giving the island the look of a skull. Frankly, I find it rather macabre.” “Let’s be fair: there was already a natural resemblance; it was only a matter of accentuating it. The eye sockets were already there, see?” The captain handed the first mate a pair of binoculars, which he accepted reluctantly. “As for the nostrils, that cave on the right hand side was already there; they only had to hew out the other.” “And that row of rocks on the beach?” asked the first mate, playing with the adjustment ring. “You’re not going to tell me that’s natural as well.” “Ah, no, of course not. The previous prisoner took care of doing that himself. To hold back the high tide, I suppose.”“Or to have something to do while he was dying,” muttered the first mate, while he handed back the binoculars. The captain fixed him with a stern look. “Allow me to remind you, sir, that we are not talking about poor castaways here, but about terrorists.”

“Suspected terrorists.” “Suspected on good authority,” the captain shot back. “And after all the hullabaloo that was raised in the whole world about the illegal detentions and extraordinary renditions to third- party states and cruel interrogation methods and all that, they decided that it’d be a lot easier for everyone involved, a lot more compassionate even, to go back to the old way of doing things: abandon the deadbeats on an island and be done with it. But for today’s international community to agree to the proposal, they had to agree to two important clauses: number one, that only one person at a time would be left on the isle.” “Why?” asked the first mate. “Why?” repeated the captain with a hint of disbelief. “Look what happened when they left all those convicts in Australia!” “From what I know, Australia is a prosperous country, Captain.” “They’ve got their problems, eh? And number two,” the captain raised two affirmative fingers into the air, “that the individual, once abandoned, wouldn’t have the least chance of survival. None of that Crusoe business, mon cher!” “Crusoe was a fictional character,” said the first mate. “Well, there’ve been other cases.” A smile formed on the captain’s hardened face. “You know what, sir? Seeing as you’ve shown so much interest in this matter, I’m going to allow you to give the order to lower the dinghy with the prisoner, an honour that is usually reserved for yours truly. What do you say?”

The first mate made an effort to conceal his embarrassment. “No need to bother yourself about me, Captain.” “It’s no bother!” The captain put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve earned it.”

Book: The Crisis Inside | International Short Story Project www.visionbakery.com/issp

Jalida Scheuerman-Chianda | Kenya Slightly Burned Caramel As I take the escalator to the waiting room, I cannot help feeling giddy. I hurry along, worried people will realize I am the one who reeks of nervous sweat. Though I hesitate at the top looking for the departure lounge, I pretend that flying to Europe is a daily occurrence to me. I know I should not show them my fear or they will know. The ticket lady is asking me for my passport and I can feel the eyes in the queue watching me. They know. A cold sweat seeps from my pores and I stammer “Sosososorry”. They know. I fumble with the latch of my bag but my clammy hands keep slipping. I can hear the collective sigh behind me, and quickly turn to see the shared look between the sunburnt tourists. They know. I finally manage to dig out my passport, nearly throwing it at the ticket lady in my hurry to escape the silent whispers.

Suddenly a voice comes on the loudspeaker.

“Could the newbie, amateur, immigrant, outsider who should have known she had to show her passport here, please hurry along!” I freeze. Now everyone knows I am not one of them but just a euro-virgin. Oh god! I am sure they will not let me leave now.

“Thank you and have a pleasant flight...Miss? Miss? Miss De Wit? Johanna Gakuhĩ De Wit?” “What! Oh okay hmm thank you.” “...information desk. Could Nafisa Fatou and Bouba Daouda on the Kenya Airways flight 0527 to Yaounde please report at the information desk.”

I quickly walk along the bridge, afraid the police will appear at any moment and shout “hey euro-virgin, stop right there!” As I enter the doorway of the airplane, I am overcome with relief, quickly followed by trepidation. To think this massive bird in all its heaviness is capable of landing on a few rubbery tires under the guidance of a small wheel in the hands of a single person. Take a deep breath. I look around noticing all the buttons, wanting to press them and see what they do. At the last minute, I snatch my hand away when I see people approach. They are tourists or rather Christmas trees adorned with backpacks, cameras, binoculars, curio gifts and hats. They drop into the two seats next to me, and smile in that particular way that tells me they might be the kinds of tourists I have always dreaded. They would first flash me their pearly whites in order to lure me in. Then, they would ask me that most vital question which would tell them if they should bother or not.

“Soooooo where are you from?”

The situation would be precarious. If I answered “Me, I am Kenyan”, then it would be hours of photographs from their safari along with a running commentary of how each moment, including using pit latrines, had made them feel. This would be followed eventually by that sentence I had come to hate.

“We were so surprised that even though all the people here are extremely poor, they all seem to speak good English!”

If I answered, “Me, I am Dutch” there would be that initial look of surprise on their faces, quickly followed by questions as they grapple to understand how this had come to be. I would not mind the curiosity, except I know it always leads to that dreaded confrontation that would tell them I was a fraud.

Book: The Crisis Inside | International Short Story Project www.visionbakery.com/issp

“So you speak Dutch then?” “No, I don’t.” “Oh! And you are a Dutch citizen? That is strange.” Strange indeed. Then again, how to explain to them about mama and papa?

Crystal Lee | Hong Kong Happy Family ‘Will you come again?’ Mrs Lee asked me. There was a pleading sadness in her eyes.

‘Of course. I’ll be back next week,’ I answered as the carer handed me the jacket I’d left at reception.

‘OK. Have a great weekend.’ She smiled, turned around then sat herself in front of the shared TV, next to the other residents of the Happy Family Elderly Home. I put my jacket on and walked out.

Mrs Lee and I were not close friends, but we chatted a lot. After my retirement I had started volunteering at Happy Family, and I quickly became her only connection to the ‘outside world’. Her handful of family and friends hardly visited her, despite their promises. She had been there three years already.

Under Hong Kong’s beautiful, glamorous skyline, the city’s housing crisis had forced three generations into shoebox apartments. With 24-hour nurse service, hot meals and plenty of friends to be made, elderly homes eventually became the solution for young families wanting to ‘take care’ of their ageing parents.

HONK! A taxi came hurtling by, a middle finger thrust out of the front window. ‘You’re blocking the road, old lady!’ screamed the driver as the taxi passed. My heart skipped a beat. I shook my head in an effort to wake up, and looked at my watch.

4pm. My stomach had been growling for the last couple of hours and I felt dizzy. Cars and people filled the dusty, noisy streets of Wan Chai. The smell of boiling noodles mingled with that of hot sweat, and together they permeated the dynamic business district. Hordes of pedestrians brushed shoulders, poker facers firmly in place, but no one stopped. They each had their own business to mind.

I spotted my favorite fast food chain, Café de Coral, just a block away. Their cheap and cheerful tea set was the perfect afternoon activity for people like me – people who had time to relax rather than burying their heads in a mountain of work. I ordered myself a hot milk tea and some roasted chicken wings to give my deteriorating teeth something to gnaw on. There was a large group of people my age hanging out at the corner tables. They seemed to be having an animated discussion about current affairs and the stock market.

I took my tea set and sat down at a vacant table.

A chubby lady with grey hair and acrylic nails came over as I chewed on my chicken wing. ‘Never seen you before. I’m Ah Sim. What’s your name?’ Why is she talking to me? ‘My name is Lee Mei Fong,’ I replied reluctantly.

‘Hi, Ah Fong. Come join the gang. Do you live at Happy Family?’ ‘No, but I volunteer there a couple of

Book: The Crisis Inside | International Short Story Project www.visionbakery.com/issp

times a week.’ ‘Wa...are you a churchgoer? Come sit with us.’

I shook my head. These days if you did something humanitarian it was because you were religious, because pure kindness apparently couldn’t exist in this concrete jungle. I grabbed my milk tea and followed her.

I had a fun afternoon with Ah Sim’s gang, who turned out to be seasoned experts on current affairs in Hong Kong. They spent mornings at their banks, glued to the TV there, watching their stocks go up and down. It didn’t take much to make their day, or to ruin it. As soon as their stock went up slightly they’d sell it, and celebrated by treating everyone to tea. I decided I’d go to Café de Coral after my visits to Mrs Lee more often.