Him and Her by Diya Liyanwela

Inever broke my routine, even after it happened. I always woke up, brushed my teeth, put on my clothes, and headed off to work. A boring routine, some may say, but it has worked for me for the last 25 years.

Inching my way out of the laundry like a tortoise peeking from its shell, I gave the kitchen doorknob one more try and, with almost no effort, it opened. In pride of place on the breakfast table was a plate of macaroni and cheese, chicken nuggets and garlic bread. As I walked closer to the smell of food, a The highlight of every day was returning from note caught my attention. I did not write the work and sitting down to a warming, message. I know this as it was not in my black I Live Alone 0.5mm black gel pen ink or on my 50% recycled material paper. In fact, it was a note written by my beloved wife. home-cooked meal. Before it happened, I never cooked my food so I had to learn at first but soon grasped it. This Sunday, I returned from work and headed for a shower before I tucked into my evening meal. Strangely, after my shower, I could hear faint footsteps coming from downstairs. This was strange to me as I live alone. Nevertheless, I clenched my weapon of choice, a lamp, in my hand and fearlessly headed downstairs.

As I got closer and closer to the ground floor, the aromas that filled the air invited me to let my guard down. It smelt as if macaroni and cheese, garlic bread and chicken nuggets were being cooked. My wife used to cook my favourite food for me, but I never learned how to prepare that particular meal. I checked the living room; no one was there. I checked the study; no one was there. I checked the downstairs bathroom; no one was there.

The last place to check was the kitchen but the door was locked. The kitchen door could be locked only from the inside, and I am on the outside. I live alone. The smell intensified as I was desperately trying to budge the kitchen door open. I kept pushing and banging on it, hoping that it would open. Suddenly, darkness. Darkness swallowed the surrounding air, leaving me without sight. Panicked, I attempted to hide from any danger under a pile of clothes in the nearby laundry cupboard. The lights turned on at the exact moment that I heard a familiar voice say, ‘Luka! Dinner’s ready!’ No. My wife had passed, so it couldn’t be her who wrote this note. No one but me had access to my kitchen, so who could it possibly be?

Before I could piece together who was in my house, a knock sounded at the door. Before I could respond properly, a group of policemen in thick armoured uniforms burst through the door, handling me roughly against the wall and pulling out cuffs. I pleaded with the officer and weakly resisted, my confusion and panic growing; I could not think of anything I had done wrong.

‘In here!’ Screamed one officer. Curious, and filled with dread, I stumbled after the policeman dragging my elbow. To my horror, they were standing in the kitchen, having lifted the tiles and revealed the body of a woman. Someone had bashed her skull in with a shovel, but apart from that her body was shockingly pristine and, most importantly, she had the same pearl necklace I gave to Anne, my wife, on our 12th anniversary. She looked just like Anne. But that can’t be possible. I buried Anne in the cemetery last year.

And then I blinked and it all came rushing back. I killed my wife.

I never broke my routine, even after it happened. I always woke up. Brushed my teeth. Put on my clothes and headed off to work. A boring routine, some may say, but it has worked for me for the last 25 years. By Melania Chukwu 2

Between Narrative the

By Ryan Garston

I'm not saying this isn't real. What I am saying is that my thoughts always happen a second after I think them. There's a delay between my eyes tracking the wall and my body registering the colour of the paint. You get what I mean, right? I watch your face for a response. ...

Yeah, so I'm kinda foggy. I mean, I'm not all there. The clock by my bed invades the gaps in our conversation with a steady, knowing tick, droning on like a metronome. It's the type of thing that should fade into the background, that should become buzz, but I am ever-aware. Without it, I feel like the walls would flake away.

I keep watching you, your blank expression.

You know, I feel almost bad for inviting you here, all things considered. I haven't been keeping up with the upkeep, so to speak. The coffee I made is cold. It’s always been cold, I left it out too long. I can smell the syrup coagulating at the bottom.

You start talking to me. ...

No, I haven't been sleeping late. I haven't been sleeping. ...

Yes, I know that makes things worse, don't patronise me. I just don't like to do it. ...

I shake my head. No, it's not insomnia. I just don't like not being here, when it just stops. It does that when you go to sleep. My fingers curl. And I’ve been getting black-outs too so it just — it scares me. I need people around me, I need it. My fingers curl into my palms. ...

It's okay. ...

I know, thank you.

You stare at me with paper eyes. I feel a warm growth start to mutate in my chest and trail up my arm. I take your hand. Thank you for talking to me. Seriously, it means a lot. I don’t have anyone else recently.

You smile. My lips turn upwards. ...

As you stand, your rising fingers trail the creases of mine, then drop away naturally like detaching anchors. Splitting land. And as you leave, the clock's tick deccelerates into a constant buzz.

Wait, where are you going?