"The One Left" by Hawon KooYou wear a cap. I wear a tie. We stare at each other. I’m looking down, you’re looking up. I’m standing, you’re sitting, and there’s a briefcase in my hand.
Can you truly see? I cannot tell. Your eyes are on mine, your hands are in mine, but are you looking? Are you there? The nurse is calling me, telling me things, things I only understand because it’s about you. She says you’re this, you know, and that, and that, and might become that. I understand, but it doesn’t make sense. It never makes sense. The nurse has left. You’re still looking at me, and you don’t move. I sit down. Your eyes follow. I put my briefcase on the ground. You don’t move at all. I hold your hand. You let me. We’re two. But we’re not. Do you see me? Can you see me? Do you know me? Can you know me? The doctor says maybe. My hope says yes. Your eyes say no. For now. For now.
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"The Peach" by Simon DarvellWhen her hand rubbed against the peach’s furry skin, fear dropped into her stomach as though a trapdoor had been sprung.
They were edging up the queue, Ruben in front of her, tapping their passports faster and harder against his thigh. He turned to her and tried to smile. “What’s wrong, Federica? You’re pale.” “Just nerves.” He kissed her clammy forehead. “No need to be. We tripled checked everything. We’re good.” As he turned back, she shoved her hand back into her handbag, rifling past tampons, her purse and pocket mirror and back to the interloping fruit. Twenty meters ahead, airport security officials were leading people away from the security zone. The unlucky few glanced back at the people in the queue, holiday makers and immigrants, monotone and anxious under the cameras and the barrels of semi-automatic weapons. They could hear the drawl of a seated official. “Almost there,” said Ruben. “Ruben.” “What?” “I have a peach.” “A peach!” “Don’t shout!” “Where?” “In my bag.” They stared at one another, Ruben stupefied, Federica fearful. “I asked you so many times.” “What do I do?” “You’re always so vacant.” “This is not the time for making a point. Should I tell someone?” “Do what you want, like always.” Ruben turned his back on her. “Really, Ruben?” “I’m sick of repeating myself.” The official sat up when she saw their expressions. “Oh, for god sake,” said Federica, pushing past her fiancée. “Sorry, but I have a peach!” She held it aloft. There was an audible intake of air. “Come with me, ma’am?” said an enormous man in black uniform and sunglasses. “Gladly.” “Is that man with you, ma’am?” he asked as he steered her away. With a face like she’d bitten into the peach and found it rotten, she said, “Yes.” "House Census" by Leah BaxterSprinkle salt on the threshold of each door and window. Or garlic powder. Or, hell, cilantro. It’s not an exact science. What would scare you off?
Having done that, wait. Wait awake three nights like the boy who didn’t know what fear was. If the temperature begins to flail and plummet then you, like the boy, may expect some company. It is crucial, however, that you, also like the boy, do not react to this. You may feel some stirring in the air around your home, despite no air actually stirring in your home. Accept this as normal, and go back to your newspaper or your television. (In most cases, this will not result in harm to either your newspaper or your television.) If you are patient, which you should be, because patience is virtuous and your soul must be pure, you will feel the stirring begin to localize around one part of your body. Most likely an orifice. Keep still. Perhaps, meditate. Dimming your individuality will make the process less painful. Wait. Wait. Wait. The waiting may seem interminable. This is because you have been partially separated from your physical body, and thus, being no longer spatiotemporally extended, you have a very limited sense of the passage of time. You may begin to acquaint yourself with your uninvited houseguest, or as you will perhaps soon prefer, “roommate.” It most likely means you no harm, which is good, because it will take over most of your duties as resident and housekeeper of the physical plane. If the temperature does not fall, the air does not stir, and a period of interminable waiting does not ensue, then congratulations! Your home is not presently occupied by inscrutable intelligent entities you will never see. Keep up the good work! "A Dysfunctional Dining Table" by Roshna RusiniyaThe dinner was set on the table exactly at 6.30 pm. Mom put the big bowl of salad in the center and the sixteen-year-old son contorted his face in frustration.
Daughter, on the other hand, smiled widely, leaned forward and proceeded to scoop a big heap of leafy mixture onto her plate. But Mom pulled her hand back forcing her to sit down. She glanced at the empty chair opposite hers and rolled her eyes at Mom. Mom moved to stand near the kitchen door, peeking at the oven every now and then. A cough drew her attention back to the table and she was relieved to see the only empty chair finally occupied. “From today onward, no one will behave belligerently in my house,” Dad declared while adjusting his big frame to fit into the small wooden chair. Son looked up from his phone, let out a loud yawn and went back to playing PUBG. “Oh! I have to finish this book by tomorrow,” Daughter said to no one. Mom wanted to ask what ‘ belligerence’ means, but got distracted by the oven timer. The dog came, knelt down near the table and waggled his tail. “At least you care!” Dad beamed with pride and went back to eating his dinner. ‘Until tomorrow’... everyone else whispered together. "Protocols" by Frank MellingPlanet Earth was not the best possible posting for a young diplomat but members of the Pan Galactic Grand Council Observer Corps had to start their careers somewhere. There were benefits too, and ones which weren’t mentioned during any of the pre-mission briefings. For example, although strictly speaking Arthrid 4 was asexual, in his human form he did enjoy holding the hand of Groted 15 whom, he thought, looked rather fetching in her figure flattering, floral dress.
They walked along the river bank enjoying the soft, warm scents carried by the merest hint of breeze on what was a truly idyllic, late English summer evening. They listened to the calls of children playing in the meadow to the soft murmurs of lovers in love and the barking of excited dogs chasing balls. Their pleasure was interrupted by raucous yells of what, in earth language, could only be described as yobs. There were five young men, recklessly charging paddle boards into each other and then running through the infants playing on the little sandy beach, causing the little ones - and their parents - much distress. Arthid 4 looked at Groted 15 who said: “Remember the protocols. No interventions for any reason.” They exchanged another excessively long, lingering gaze which anyone observing would have read as the clear precursor to a romantic evening ahead. “Well, just be careful. Otherwise we’ll both be back at base before we know it.” When the young men insisted that they had seen a three horned, red tongued, scaly headed monster shoot beams of purple light at them, the Custody Sergeant at Brinton Police Station added the charge of using some, as yet unidentified, illegal substance to that of endangering the public by setting their paddle boards on fire. "The Bonickhausen Tower" by Brendan ThomasGustave stood by his grandmother at the chaise lounge asking for a story. He lived with her when his mother traveled tending to her charcoal business. He didn’t mind. She was an excellent cook, the best in Paris, and she wove wonderful stories. She patted the seat beside her and said that stories were best served seated.
“This is the tale of Jean Rene Bonickhausen.” “Who is that?” Gustave quizzed. “If I told you immediately it would spoil the story.” “Jean Rene lived in an ancient town in Germany called Marmagen, close to the French border.” “Did he have a job?” Gustave interrupted. She looked at him slightly annoyed. “Yes, he was a tradesman. It was nearly a hundred years ago and times were tough. Often Jean Rene didn’t have money to buy food so he ate gruel.” “Yuck,” Gustave pronounced, scrunching his face, and rolling his tongue. “Gruel is better than nothing Gustave. I bake amazing gruel. I’ll serve it for dinner tomorrow.” Gustave looked into his grandmother’s twinkling eyes and laughed. “Jean Rene came to France where the food was plentiful, and the women were smarter and more beautiful.” Gustave nodded his agreement. “But he wasn’t accepted by the French and didn’t understand why. He was a skilled worker. Why couldn’t he find work?” “Your name is too German a friend said.” “There’s no such thing. But there was. He was a too German, German, living in Paris.” “He decided to change his name to something strong but he was blank. One day, while thinking of Mermagen and it’s beautiful mountains, he had an idea, and named himself after the mountains.” “What was his new name?” Gustave asked. “Eiffel.” “But that’s our name.” Gustave said in confusion. “Jean Rene is your great grandfather, Gustave Eiffel,” his grandmother replied. "Who Do You Think You Are?" by Jay AdamsI’m having an identity crisis but I don’t have time to think about it, I’ve been summoned.
She calls me her ‘pedigree prince’ and guides me around the ring. I trot obediently alongside, striding the way she taught me. It feels graceful. Her hair is neatly braided, make-up professionally applied, suit flawlessly pressed. My coat appears thicker than usual thanks to an extortionate shampoo and high- quality hairspray. My whiskers have been shaven, and the fur around my feet neatly trimmed of fraying hairs. The judge is looking for a perfect representation of my breed and these monstrosities cannot be tolerated. I stand for inspection, consciously remembering to keep my tail down and facial expression devoid of emotion. I win ‘Best in Group’; she collects a colorful rosette. Now she wants me to be crowned ‘Best in Show’; the rosette is bigger. Placing me back on the grooming table, she fusses over wisps of my fur that have started escaping their styled form. Whilst patiently tolerating the overwhelming stench of more hairspray, I catch sight of agility dogs zooming into tunnels and launching over jumps on the far side of the field. I whine. ‘Face this way,’ she forcefully turns my head. ‘That’s a pointless hobby for ugly mutts, you’re better than them’. I am a show dog, not a performance dog, I remind myself. I have a very important role in preserving the quintessential traits and appearance of border collies. I will myself to ignore my distant relatives running excitedly around the agility ring the same way I suppress a nagging desire to herd everything that moves. I briefly wonder how I came to be so different from my ancestors and working counterparts, but the subsequent confusion overwhelms me, and I instead focus on standing still. "Valentines Day on the Arabian Sea Coast" by Isaac AlexisIt was Valentines Day in 2001 and I was with My Fiancée on Cavelossim Beach on The imperturbable Coasts Of The Arabian Sea. We were in the City Of Mobor, India placidly sipping on some Mocktails comprised of Coconut, Organic Limes And Citrus with Crushed Ice. The Wind carefully caressing our faces ever so affably under the Moonlit evening. We sipped each otherʼs Mocktails taking in each otherʼs glances. There besides us on the Beige Sand were thousands of Goan Crabs that so nimbly ambulated on the Arabian Beach Coast.
These wondrous Decapods Decadently edged themselves downwards into their respective burrows - NEVER to be seen again. My fiancée and I laughed at the free entertainment as it didnʼt cost us a penny but was Natureʼs best showcase that weʼve seen in our entire lives and it was - PRICELESS! We wished every couple could experience this with the sapphire-magenta hued evening sky so delicately draped overhead. As My Fiancée and I walked hand in hand on the soft Beige Sands Of Cavelossim Beach there were 5 Musicians playing the Kalimba -17 Keyed Thumb Piano. The Synchronous Music was the perfect counterbalance to The Decapods That were feverishly ambulating into their burrows below. My fiancé and I sipped more Mocktails under A Boysenberry hued Cabana. As The Glowing Amber Hued Sun torpidly descended the evening firmament - it left Rose Gold Streaks that comingled with The Royal Blue Heavens. Then it suddenly disappeared beneath The Arabian Seaʼs Horizon emitting a Resplendent Green Flash, Just enough Light for me to Suck on my Fiancéeʼs Soft Wet Lower Lips that hung like and simultaneously reflected the full moon perched above. "Experiments" by Chloe CaseyPale moonlight cascades over the laboratory, reflecting off glassware in blue hues. Carefully closing the lab door behind me, I hold my breath until the soft click of the lock sounds. Paranoia makes me question if it was loud enough to alert the professors. I rush over to the window and force its rusted latch open. Cold winter wind bombards my face, a faint groan comes from the corner.
My heart aches when I see him. Locked behind a clear door, limbs covered in dark bruises. His breathing slow and shallow. A lone tear stains my cheek, knowing that I’m the one who caused it. Cast iron keys hang at my hip, my fingers interlocked between each one to prevent them from making a sound. He’s acknowledged my presence now, a pleading expression on his face. His eyes are soft, just like they always are when he sees me. I pause for a moment to catch his gaze and the keys fall in a clatter to the floor. Gasping, I frantically scoop them up off the floor, murmurs of professors coming from the hallway. My heart sits in my throat, the pounding echoing in my head. The door springs open as the key slides into the lock. His deep, dark eyes widen as I motion towards the open window. He nods in agreement before I help him to his feet, grimacing at my touch. As we make it to his escape the main door begins to rattle. Turning I face my professors, disappointment brandishing their faces as they stare at the empty cell. He’s already out of the room and making his way off the grounds. He’s free, but my soul is hurting. I broke the academy's number one rule: never fall in love with your experiments. "The Hermit" by Mark Anthony SmithThe waves crashed, drowning out the crunch of pebbles beneath my feet. It was bitterly cold and I was alone. I hadn't slept and my beard was a tangle like the stuff washed ashore. There were bits of discarded fishing tackle, broken shells and dried out seaweed along the shore. I straightened my woolen hat as my eyes narrowed.
The sun glinted off the smallest shell. It was a cream and bluish helix that had been smoothed by the waves. The horizon was vast but far off. I felt small. I pulled my collar up and walked over to the shell. Picking it up, it felt smooth and fragile. Yet it was a solid structure. I listened to the sea. "You are a broken man. A shell of a man. Your ancestors crawled from the sea. Yes! From the sea you came and to the sea you must return." It rushed with an age old wisdom. The knowledge of the moon and the tides. I thought about never feeling rooted. I have always drifted. I removed my hat and coat. I felt small and inconsequential in this big wide world. The shell beckoned me. I succumbed. I crawled inside and felt at home. I was at peace as I waited for the tide to turn. |
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