Short stories and mad rants

Death and dust

2012-01-25T15:02:00.000+01:00

In his bed, the old man lay dead. The successors stood around the bed, shuffling their feet, not looking each other in the eye. No one of them had known the old man very well, he had not been an amiable fellow. Stories of long-forgotten wars, abuse shouted at whoever happened to come through the door still wearing their shoes, annoying complaints. They had avoided him as much as possible. Now they stood for as long as they could bear, and then they left, making healf-hearted promises to call soon. No one wanted any of the old-fashioned, outworn stuff the old man might have possessed while he was still alive.

The old man had lived a long and lonely life, but it had been far from boring.Unfortunately, none of it ahd ever been told, and there were secrets that remained in the house when the reluctant visitors left.

In dark and dusty rooms strange objects sat and listened to the things humans could not hear. For some of them, the old man's death meant freedom. For others it meant they would have to find new masters. Still others had ceased to exist when the old man's heart had stopped beating and he had drowned in his own fluids. There was a whisper of excitement and fear, plans were being made.

No one would enter these rooms for a long time.

After-party thoughts

2012-01-01T19:48:00.002+01:00

Thank the gods, he muses, picking up the trash. That was one hell of a New Year's party. Beer bottles everywhere, chewed lemon wedges from the Tequila drinkers, dirty plastic bowls with leftover chili. Three hundred and sixty-four days till it all starts over again. Oh no, sixty-five - it's a leap year, after all. He remembers the stripper his friends had brought along, and the guests he does not remember inviting, but his memory must have become somewhat blurred later, because he cannot, for the love of whisky, remember why there is a severed head swimming in the toilet bowl.

[I hope you enjoyed my little Yule madness, which I did not announce anywhere. I wanted to proove to myself that I can still write something besides the novels and the usual madness, and I wanted to share some stories with you between the years. I wish you a lovely and story-filled new year!]

Happy New Year

2011-12-31T11:14:00.001+01:00

The old one is frail and thin and grey, worn out and tired. Hands tight on his back, bent in on himself. There are lines of laughter on his face and lines of sorrow, and it is hard to tell of which kind there are more.

The judge looks at him, sternly, "What have you done? What are your achievements?"

The prosecuter starts his litany: Starving children, dead innocents, injustice galore. Wars and accidents and man-made catastrophes. Radiation everywhere, disappearing animals.

The old one says nothing. All he wants is to be done, and to rest. He remembers the time when he was young and energetic, like a racing horse at the start, and everybody loved him - for he was about to change everything around by 180°, he was the one who would make everything allright. And then he came and started his designated course, and somehow he was forgotten, although he was there all the time. Only now, that he is about to lie down and be done do people remember him, and they look at him and mostly blame him for what they perceive to be his misdeeds.

The jury's decision comes quick. He is led to the block, lies down peacefully, eyes facing upward. At the sideline he sees his successor waiting for the signal, all buzzed up and excited. Little does he know, hewill end up just the same. The old one turns his eyes upward again, looking at the guillotine that will put him out of his misery.

Ten, nine, eight, ...

He exhales and smiles.

..., three-two-one - HAPPY NEW YEAR!

The blow is hard, and everything is over in an instance.

Colors and stars

2011-12-30T12:44:00.001+01:00

Standing in the field on the hill, he feels the cold biting his bare skin. The grass is wet and cold beneath his feet. Darkness hides him like a cloak, even more so with the lights the other people are watching. He throws his head back with delight as the first chemical stars fill the night sky above his head. Entering the new year with nothing on himself, he figures it can only get better.

Crystal bridges

2011-12-29T10:52:00.003+01:00

Winter is not the best time for travelling, but some places can only be reached via bridges formed from ice.

Fire bird

2011-12-28T07:48:00.003+01:00

Once upon a time, when the earth was young and lay in darkness, the firebirds roamed the universe, and the humans on earth would admire the shooting beams of light they saw up in the sky during their lives of eternal darkness.

One day, or one night, maybe, because it was hard to tell in the darkness, something fell from the sky. The humans hurried, and in the middle of a crater, still glowing and shot through with red, pulsing veins, there lay an egg, only as small as a human head. Quarrels ensued over what to do with this treasure, and finally the medicine men and women of the different tribes decided that it would be best to bury the egg, for there had been families destroyed and people killed over a thing as simple as this.

And so it was done. The braves warrior took the egg and crawled into the caves leading to the center of the earth, and there he deposited the egg. Upon his return, he would not speak of the miracles he had seen on his journey, but his hair had gone white and his left arm had withered away to leave nothing behind but dry leathery skin and fragile bones.

But there was a fire bird looking for her egg, and desperately doing so. She felt the pull towards this tiny and insignificant planet, but the egg was nowhere to be seen. So she started circling the planet, changing her path ever so slightly, looking for her unborn child. And thus the light of day was born.

Like an Egyptian

2011-12-27T13:43:00.004+01:00

Nature is confused, the weatherman says on TV. Blossoming trees in December, fresh leaves on the branches.

Nature has lost its nuts, the newspapers title. They are obviously proud of their witty remark.

I sit at the window, watching this unusual season. Without frost, the parasites won't die. There will be plagues. Crops will fail because we have not gotten used to the new crop cycles. We have poisoned the rivers, now the waters run red. We have changed the weather, we will harvest myriards of insects instead of food. A super-virus has escaped from the secret laboratories - they invented it so they could find out how to avoid pandemics. Sadly, no vaccination was found before the "accident".

The birds sitting on the branches have started nesting. They do not ask questions, they embrace what is and take their chances. We have abandoned the wheel of the year, and in response we are swallowed by mother nature.

I light my Yule candle and wait for change.

Yule magic

2011-12-26T11:24:00.002+01:00

As he stands and watches their house burn to the ground, he cannot help but wonder if that Light and Warmth Yule rite he performed may have been a bit too enthusiastic.

Something useful

2011-12-25T10:44:00.000+01:00

The hints had not worked. As usual. She had pointed at those cute pink earrings and giggled, "Look, aren't they gorgeous? They would match my new dress perfectly!"

And he had gotten her something for the kitchen. Again. Last year it had been a new pan, designed for low-fat cooking. The year before, he had gotten her an apron and matching oven mits. The year before that, a set of cookpots. Then there were the hand-held mixer, the meat thermometer and the "good plates" with the ivy design she hated so much. The list went on. Every year.

Well, at least this time he had gotten her something she could use. Tiptoing from the bedroom, she held the steak knife at her side, gingerly, trying not to get any blood on that ugly apron. It was too early to call the kids' families to wish them merry christmas. She would relax and have a hot chocolate first.

Bone tree

2011-12-24T10:20:00.000+01:00

In thebeginning, there were no trees.

There werehuge constructions made from the enemies' bones, piles growing towards the sky,and the enemies' jewelry hanging from the ghastly "branches". Dayswere spent compiling the sacrifice together, to show the gods what the year hadbrought, what had been achieved. Some bones were already dry and whitish,others still held strands of raw red meat and spread a unique smell through thehall.

Everybodywas merry. There was beer and mead and roast, songs and naked limbs. And overall, the bone tree presided, and the gods watched and laughed.

Realities

2011-12-23T12:30:00.002+01:00

One moment you are sitting in your room, single candle lit, staring out of the window at a night that should be magical, but only manages rainy and cold.

The next moment you are standing in the forest, wrapped in dark grey fur, preparing for the hunt.

Which one is you?

Christmas delivery service

2011-12-22T11:23:00.000+01:00

"There is no snow", Samantha said. "How is Santa going to get here without snow?"

It took me a moment to understand what this was about. I must have looked puzzled, because she gave her impatient sigh that indicated, 'I am only five and can understand this, so why can't you?'

"Mummy, the sleigh!"

Oh, that. "Well, uhm... maybe Santa can ride on one of his reindeer?"

"And what about the presents?"

"He could use a carriage."

Samantha was not convinced. I could tell, although she did not respond. Of course she was not convinced, after all there was not a single image to be found of Santa in a carriage. And the poor reindeer, I mused, who would have to carry that fat bloke. I turned to face the tree in an attempt to hide my thoughts from her.

We were late, only putting up the tree on the 24th. There almost would not have been a tree at all, but I would be damned if I let the situation ruin my kid's christmas. The year had been tough enough as it was, and this was the only bit of magic left for her. A year or two from now and she would not buy into this stuff anymore, either. I wondered how I was going to distract her then.

It was getting dark by the time we finished putting lights and glittery bits on the tree, and the smell of pizza coming from the oven made my stomach growl. Sam had requested a special treat, and this was her idea of proper holiday food. Her grandmothers most likely would not have approved, but I was not planning on seeing either of them any time soon. If my girl wanted pizza, then pizza it was. I switched on the christmas tree lights, and we stood in the dark and admired our tree.

There was a sharp knock at the door, and when I went to open it, my ex stood on the front porch. Sam's father. The guy who had run off because he "was not ready for this". The guy whose mother had taken it upon her to inform me, back in September, that his new girlfriend was "classy" - something I really did not qualify for.

"What are you doing here?" I glanced over my shoulder to see whether there was any chance of getting out of this unharmed, but that very moment Samantha returned from the kitchen, her tiny hands in oven mits way too large for her, and squealed. "Daddy!"

He switched on that big smile and scooped her up as if she weighed nothing at all. "Hi there. Santa got stuck in traffic and asked me to deliver a few presents to a special little girl."

"Really?"

He nodded. "Really."

I gave up. "Come inside. There's pizza."

"Pizza?" Raised eyebrow.

"Christmas pizza!" Sam exclaimed. "All red and green, and with white cheese and sour cream!" She had even gone to the trouble to cut the salami in tree-shapes. It was a festive pizza.

He put Sam down and followed me into the kitchen.

"Don't you have anything better to do tonight?" I asked and pulled the pizza from the oven.

"Nothing special." He shrugged.

"This does not change a damn thing between us", I insisted.

"I didn't think it would."

Okay, then... "Put your jacket away. You are going to melt. I wouldn't know how to explain that to Sam."

He obeyed with that slightly amused expression - the one I had always loved and hated at the same time. I couldn't help but watch his backside as he went back into the livingroom. Great. Some habits are hard to kill.

While they were busy putting stuff under the tree, I put two mugs of mulled wine in the microwave. God knew I could use a drink right now. I leaned against the counter and stared out of the window, trying to find out how I felt about all this. The sky was black, and against the lights coming from the neighbors' property I could see huge snowflakes gliding down towards the ground.

Fine. He could always sleep on the sofa.

A flash of red

2011-12-21T13:42:00.000+01:00

There is no snow, yet it is very cold. The grass wears millions of tiniest crystals. With the street behind you, you can hear the occasional whoooshhhhhh of a car going by, too early, too fast, who knows where.

The sky is colorless and dark. Hunched in upon yourself, you sit and wait, patiently, with the taste of sleep on the back of your throat because you were too tired to brush your teeth, too tired to brew some coffee "to go" to keep warm.

This year, you promised yourself, you would do this. Between the madness that is the holidays in your family and the stress and the drama, you made a vow to catch the first rays of winter sun. You kiond of regret this now. But so many people have let you down, and you will not be one of them.

A flash of red, inconspicuous enough to be missed if one had blinked. You are not even sure it was there, actually. Maybe this is all one giant self-delusion, the biggest waste of time. Like when you believed in Santa as a kid.

The sun comes up fast, caressing the mountaintops. It will only be a short visit to earth today, the shortest of the year, and darkness and cold will hold you in their grip for many more days to come.

Time to go home. Time for coffee and tea and hot porridge, and to embrace what is.

Underground

2011-11-25T15:19:00.001+01:00

The dragon sleeps. Deep beneath the trees, and the roots, and the stone that lies beneath the roots of the trees. The caves that led down to his chambers of treasures collapsed long ago.

Jewels glint under the glow of the dragon's breath. It is warm, and smells of sulphur. Sometimes the dragon opens one eye, slowly, and then drifts into dream land once more. It is not hungry, yet.

The dragon sleeps. How long?

Meat

2011-11-12T08:57:00.001+01:00

If he shouts at her one more time, she is going to explode. All day she has been at home, cleaning and scrubbing, to make him comfortable, while he is out in the world earning the money - and a reputation as tough car dealer. Her hands are red and raw from the hot water and strong detergents she uses, because he is afraid of germs. Every fragrant corner of the house sparkles - except for her room, which is really a kind-of built-in closet and filled with everything that does not have a place anywhere else. Her crafts stuff must be in there, she is almost sure, but she hasn't had time to use any of it in months. The church committee asked her to contribute to the annual basar, but she knows she won't have the time, and so she only smiled and vaguely offered, "I will check with my husband."
"I am home! Is dinner ready?" The front door slams shut, and she hurries from the kitchen to greet him with the traditional glass of bourbon to celebrate another day well spent. Outside the home. She smiles and leans in to give him a kiss on the cheek, but he shoves her away. "You smell like toilet cleaner." He tosses his jacket on the armchair, grabs the bourbon and empties the glass with one gulp. "Another one."
Quietly, she gathers up his things and puts them in the right places. Then she hurries to get the bottle.
He is watching her, sitting in his favorite spot by the window. "You have got such a great life, my love. I wish I could stay at home and enjoy myself all day, you know." Another sip of bourbon. "Alas, I have got to go out and earn the money to make my little wife comfortable, so she doesn't have to try and stand on her own feet. That's what I promised your Dad, remember?"
Breathe, she tells herself, and smiles again. The same story, over and over again. In hindsight, she can see all the paths she did not take, all the big red EMERGENCY signs she chose to ignore. She was in love, right? And he promised her he would take care of her, keep her safe. Someone should have whacked her over the head the day she decided not to go to college. Give her a good concussion, hope for amnesia and tell her she is a man-hating career woman. That would have been perfect.
What's that smell?
OH SHIT. She hurries into the kitchen and pulls the roast from the oven. Almost perfect. A little dark on top, but most of it should be perfectly edible.
"What the hell have you done?" Of course he has followed her into the kitchen. He has a sixth sense for everything that goes wrong. "Can't you even be trusted with a simple piece of meat? That's expensive food, you moron!"
She stands in the kitchen and breathes, the smell of burnt meat and spices in her nose, heavy casserole in her hands. And suddenly breathing isn't enough.

The basar is a lively place, coats and hats dancing everywhere, but no single person will leave the place tonight without praising her delicious meat pasties. They are brown and crisp and just about perfect. She feels the looks of the other women, whose foods remain neglected, and smiles.
The preacher grabs yet another pasty and digs right in. Juice runs down his chubby chin, and he smiles. "These are divine. You should have been a chef."
"Oh, I wouldn't know of that. Of course now that my husband has run off..."
His sympathetic eyes do not match the greedy expression of his face as he finishes the pasty and tries to decide whether he can still have another one. "You're a temptress, with those pasties. By the way, what kind of meat is in there? We've got some Muslim visitors, from the store down main street, and I was wondering..."
"No pig", she assures him. Well, not scientifically speaking, anyway.
Maybe she should become a professional cook indeed.

Not a story, still writing

2011-10-28T22:10:00.002+02:00

[I know, I missed several story-writing occasions I had intended to participate in. Strange thing, with me being on vacation. But, and that is the marvellous part, I am only two scenes away from finally(!!!) completing my novel manuscript - the story I have been in love with since I was a child, and which took me several years to write and which will end up with 90,000 words - I had aimed for 70K in a first draft, but obviously there was more to it. Tomorrow I will once more get up early and hopefully put everything where it belongs. Of course afterwards I will still have to go through the whole thing and polish it, smooth edges and overlaps and such, but right now I am tired in a happy way. Just thought I'd let you know, in case you were wondering what I was up to. In the meantime you can still admire our tomcat.]

People

2011-10-13T18:28:00.000+02:00

The people recovered quickly from the outspread of the zombie virus. It was really surprising. No panic, no riots, no mob destroying the cities. Maybe it helped that the epidemic spread slowly, and there were - no, not incubation periods, more like long periods of slow transition. The people would die, conscious all the time, except for the fact that they would not be dead by the end. Eventually, though, they would rot and disappear. Once the flesh was off their bones, they simply stopped.

Of course there were the usual ultra-right nationalist calls for extinction of "these monstrosities". But the churches jumped right at the chance. If cities sent out zombie exterminators now, what would be next? Killing Alzheimer patients? Now, as formerly healthy human beings zombies deserved the respect of the population. And so they gathered them in larger nurseries and offered prison inmates sentenced to life the opportunity to serve a certain number of years as nursery staff, and after that their crimes were forgotten and they were free to go. Unless they were bitten first, of course.

And this was the place where they had brought Aunt Hanna. My therapist had suggested confronting her about her strict rules and frequent physical punishment inflicted on me and my sisters when we were children. The fact that she was, as some philosophers argued, dead didn't change the value of such a confrontation. Or that was the idea. Personally, I did not feel too hot about going in there now. I couldn't even stand visiting my grandparents at their senior people's residence, and now this? Wow.

My therapist looked at me expectantly. Obviously she was very pleased with herself for coming up with this. I couldn't even begin to imagine how much work it must have cost her to find Aunt Hanna. After all, the personal information on the zombies - uhm, life-wise challenged was kept top secret, to avoid requests by life insurance companies or such. Fresh zombies were simply declared dead and brought here, if they could be caught.

The walls of the visitors' room were pale green - the kind of color you expect in hospitals. Dark smudges were spread evenly, as if someone had put their hands in molten chocolate (or something else) and then leaned against the wall. I sat down on an uncomfortable orange plastic chair, still wearing my trusted leather jacket, when they brought Aunt Hanna inside.

She was the model for any zombie horror movie I had ever seen. One of her eyes had shriveled and lay in its socket like a sad raisin. The other one wandered as if trying to take in her surroundings, but it was milky and just plain wrong. Her skin looked like pork left out of the fridge over the weekend, blueish gray and smeary. She had been dressed in simple pajamas, probably by the six-foot monstrosity of a nurse who accompanied her, tattoed arms crossed over his ginormous chest. His head was shaved, his stare deadly, and I watched with surprise just how tender and gentle he was with my aunt. Okay, maybe he was just trying not to rip the flesh off her arm while carefully lowering her into her chair. There was a wet sound as she relaxed and leaned back. The front of her shirt clung to what once probably had been breasts.

I shook my head. This was absurd. Memories danced through my head, of afternoons spent in the closet, of homework forgotten and of the wooden spoon she sometimes used for cooking. "I forgive you", I mumbled and jumped to my feet, and then I left the room quickly. To any spectator it might have looked as if I was running away. My therapist had a hard time catching up. She was quiet as we returned to my car. Someone had slapped a sticker on my bumper. It read, "Zombies are people, too."

Boys will be boys

2011-10-07T12:28:00.000+02:00

"Hey Teddy, are you home?"

Sarah slammed the front door shut and slung her purse across the hallway. With a soft THUD it landed on the pile of shoes and stuff which usually accumulated during the week. She'd clean it away tomorrow. Maybe. Having to choose between spending time with her precious little boy and a tidy home... well, if there was something like Judgement Day, God would probably frown more about a neglected child than about a messy kitchen. (And if he didn't, she didn't want to stay with him anyway.)

She hesitated, confused by the silence. Usually Teddy would fling himself down the stairs and right into her arms, never doubting for even an instant that Mommy would catch him. No matter how tired she was after a long work day or how extravagant the tune he decided to play on his mother's nerves, he knew she loved him and would never let him down. After all, he was the guy in her life, right?

With a sight, Sarah took off her high heels and padded upstairs to look for her boy. The door to his room was halfway open, light from the street lantern in front of the window tinting the carpet a sickly orange. A few toys lay scattered across the floor. What a relief to see a normal kid's room. In some ways, Teddy was just like all the big managers Sarah had to cope with all day long - selfish, childish, never bothering to pick up his stuff.

Teddy sat on his bed, looking at her with huge dark eyes. "Mommy, am I in trouble?"

She hugged him and smiled. "I don't know, what did you do?"

He did not hug her back. Instead, he handed her a crumpled piece of paper. "The teacher gave me a letter for you to sign. She said you need to talk."

Poor Teddy. He was used to being teased and being in trouble, and he constantly felt the need to prove himself in front of the other children. Sarah had never imagined it would be so tough for him to grow up without a father. Or at least not the usual kind of father. One could say that Teddy had been an accident - or maybe an unexpected gift. Sarah had been in college, a wild girl, and her experiments had included everything from beer to weird-looking plants her friends had bought in dark, shabby stores off main street. And her final, particularly wild trip, the one which caused her to vow never to take anything more sinister than Aspirin ever again, had somehow resulted in this cute little man, who was just like any other child, and yet so unique. Sarah remembered the look on her midwife's face when she had given her the tiny baby - surprise and awe and horror, all mixed into one.

She took her time to read the letter without switching on the overhead lamp. ... lack of discipline and modesty... got undressed inside the classroom... inappropriate use of Halloween equipment not approved by school rules... It took her a moment to understand what the teacher was talking about. Halloween equipment? No wonder that her little boy was upset!

Sarah turned around and hugged her son once more. She could feel the tiny bulges moving underneath his shirt. "Don't worry, honey. I'll talk to your teacher." She gave him an extra squeeze. "But how often have I told you? No tentacles at school!"

Fairies

2011-09-30T10:00:00.002+02:00

"So, how are we feeling today?"

She sighs. Always the same question to start the session. Always. And not a very good question, either. "I don't know how you are feeling, but I am fine. A little tired perhaps."

The professor smiles, but it is not honest. She knows how to read people. "The nurses report that you have made good progress. No more hallucinations? No more - visits from fairies?"

She shakes her head, then looks at her hands folded peacefully in her lap. The fabric of her skirt is worn, but she takes great pride in being neat and clean at all times. Even here. She smoothes a tiny crease in the brown cotton and raises her gaze to meet his once more. "Everything has been as ordinary as can be."

He writes something on his chart, asks a few more stupid questions. Then he stands up, signalling that their session is over. He shakes her hand. "In that case, I really do not see any reason why we should keep you here any longer."

She smiles, takes his hand, careful not to let anything show. The last rays of summer sunlight pass the trees outside the window, cross the room and paint dancing shadows on the wall. They stole a whole season from her, just because her son-in-law claimed she was crazy. Told everybody she was hallucinating and running through the wood at night, naked. She will have to have a word with her daughter. Can't let her grandchildren grow up around someone as narrow-minded as that.

The bat-like shape sitting on the branch closest to the window winks. She makes an effort not to look directly at it, so as not to let anyone see that she is SEEING. "Then, if it is okay with you, I will gather my things. When can I leave?"

"The nurses will call a cab for you, I'll hand them your discharge report. Do you want to call anyone? Family, friends?"

"No, it will be a nice surprise." Especially for that dork her daughter married. The next dark moon, he will be hers.

Best intentions

2011-09-27T11:47:00.000+02:00

The big dark desk sitting at the opposite wall of the large office is meant to be intimidating, and it works just fine. If it weren't for the coffee stains on the cream-colored carpet, I might be soiling my pants at what I am about to do.

"Sir, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but... you might want to reconsider your behavior towards your employees."

He smiles, a friendly smile that is known to breed terror in everyone who has to work with him. "Why, what is wrong with that?"

"Well, Sir... I have found that my colleagues are getting restless and anxious, and they are showing stress-related behavior. The contact with our clients and their... high demands is eating away at them." That is not exactly what I want to say, but I do not know how else to paraphrase it in a polite way.

"If they are not happy working here, they can go and find another job."

"Uhm... it is not that they are not happy, but they are... changing." No, that's not the real thing, either. But I realize that my good intentions were wasted.

"Anything else you would like to say?"

"No, I guess that's it." I smile and make my way back out of the room, always keeping an eye on doors and windows. This is the top floor, and it is still peaceful, and to keep it this way for a little longer I carefully close the frosted glass door.

The two-by-four I brought up with me is still leaning against the wall, looking inconspicuous except for the small dark stain at the top. My heart is racing. It is just three sets of stairs, I tell myself, and a few steps, then you're out the door. Let the others deal with this madness on their own, and in their own way. Most likely they are still trying to find their way around fax machines and printers and computers, all the while nibbling whatever they find that contains warm blood. If it weren't for the glaring sun outside, neither the squirrels nor the weird neighbors would be safe. I worry more about the squirrels, although there is still hope they will be too fast to be caught.

The IT guy comes shambling up the stairs. He is one of the first to have mastered the way up, despite not having been infected for several hours. His lower jaw is dislocated - no, not really dislocated, it's dangling from his face by a few strands of decaying tissue. Rot seems to spread fast among them, as if moving speeds up the process with dead meat. Or maybe it's just the dead-ness mixing with all the other germs our clients drag inside from their hospital stays.

The two-by-four connects with his skull and sends him flying down the stairs. I race past the scrambling body, down to ground level, press the button and squeeze myself through the gate as it is already starting to close again. The metal bars won't hold them in forever, but nothing wrong with getting a head start.

I always suspected this job would turn everybody into office zombies.

Beasts and shadows

2011-09-23T12:13:00.001+02:00

You cannot outrun your shadow. No matter what you do, he is always just one step behind you. And the moment you turn around, he wins.

He tried not to look back, but he suspected they were catching up. The rustling leaves indicated that there was someone - something - behind him, and he doubted that these woods held any kind of normal life... not after what he had seen. If only he hadn't decided to hike through these parts of the mountains. If only his uncle hadn't told all these stories about how exciting backpacking was! If only... - well, there were many 'if's, but nothing that would help him now. The only way out was finding a village, with normal people and heavily armed police. And for that, he had to be faster than the ones behind him. The only way out was up the mountain.

He forced himself to move, on all four if necessary, stumbling as stones shifted under his hands and rumbled down the mountain's flank. His fingers bled. He didn't care. Pain and exhaustion formed a constant rhythm to which he moved forward. The higher he got, the more the underbursh became thin and neglected, until there were just a few branches left sticking from the dirt, not enough to hide behind and not enough to keep his chasers back. If only he could make it over the ridge... the sun started to sink behind the rocks, and he inhaled, bracing himself for one final sprint. He would be an easy target until he made it across the open space, to disappear on the other side, and he hoped that there was vegetation waiting for him to hide between.

There was no vegetation. Instead, the ground disappeared. What he had considered to be the top of the mountain was, seen from the ground beneath, a hundred feet drop, a spectacular motif for pictures. The sunlight hit him as he fell and outlined his body twisting in panic.

The creatures stopped, perplexed. They looked at each other and shook their heads sadly. These strange humans... it was not the first time that this had happened. Why would they never stay for dinner? That guy had been just on time, they had just started to gut the deer they had caught for dinner. Not a pleasant sight, sure, but not really a reason to jump off the cliff. Slowly they made their way back to their prey, tentacles gliding over the rocks with ease, leaving glistening black trails that might be blood, or might be something else.

Sorry!!!

2011-09-10T10:37:00.002+02:00

He eyed the girl behind the counter. "Wow, you're a fat chick!"

She smiled sweetly. "And you're only five feet tall, so what?"

[Sorry, sorry, sorry, that popped up in my head when I went running yesterday and I did not want to lose it... it may be going into one of my stories, but it made me laugh, and I wanted to share right away. (^v^) ]

The mountains of life

2011-09-05T17:19:00.002+02:00

Only a word, and yet... it makes me feel tiny. Suddenly it is as if I could merely see the sunlight at mouth of the cave behind the teeth of which I am locked away. My self shrinks. I feel it pull at my outside, making me even smaller, trying to make me disappear. Part of me is hiding in the dark, out in plain sight. And now it dawns on me: I am making myself the victim. Breath by breath, I close the gaps between core and skin. The secret to life: Keep breathing, the pain will go away.

FridayFlash: Killer Weddings (Part II)

2011-08-26T08:27:00.002+02:00

[Sorry I left you waiting, life has been incredibly busy, work and germs had me totally knocked out! Now, let's see what is happening next...]

Part I

The first few weeks of the wedding went by without much adventure, much to the dismay of everybody who had money in this business. There was no honey moon vacation, and the Jaguar the bride had ordered as a surprise wedding gift for her husband stood in the garage, already being covered under a fine coat of yellow summer dust. It soon became clear that no one of them was taking any chances.

"Why doesn't he make a move?" Bill complained at the drug store.

The girl behind the counter put his vitamins in a tiny plastic bag and shook her head. "If anything, it will be the girl who comes out. We should be very, very nice to our new mistress."

No one out on the streets realized how much hard work went into surviving.

Sarah, the bride, had not only bought her husband Phil a Jaguar. She had also replaced the cook and stubbornly refused to go for a ride in the countryside, despite her love for horses and the beautiful weather. And Phil continued to use his trusted station wagon and never ate a thing before Sarah had put the first bite in her mouth. Some evenings the soup would grow cold between them, and they would both smile and go to bed hungry, pretending that everything was all right.

It was weird.

Phil found himself strangely attached to the future late Mrs. Van Hagen. She was clever, and funny, and a great lover. Thinking of her sunkissed body in the moonlight, a wordless invitation to join her on the white linnen sheets, could disrupt his actions any time of day. Soon there was not a single room they had not loved each other in, often with great haste to avoid being detected by the servants. And when Phil realized he would not tire of this any time soon, he knew what he had to do.

They divorced. A lawyer drew a contract stating that they would both be provided for, as would their unborn child - because at that time Sarah was pregnant and glowing with joy - and whoever outlived the other would inherit everything. Phil kept the house and the Jaguar (which Sarah advised him to have checked, thoroughly). Tight rules were laid down concerning their respective future marriages.

The townspeople were fairly disappointed. All the money they had bet sat there for months, before Ava came up with the idea to give it to the library, since no one had won and it did not seem right to just hand everything back. The library got a new roof and several shelves filled with new books, and soon everything was back to normal, and Phil Van Hagen was engaged again.

FridayFlash: Killer Weddings (Part I)

2011-08-12T06:49:00.001+02:00

[This was supposed to be the beginning of a longer story, which didn't work out as planned. In fact, the ending refuses to happen. I'll try to find out what happened by next Friday. ^^ ]

By the time bride and groom were ready to meet at the altar, the bets went through the roof. Everybody was on their feet, hoping to get a good look at the couple before one of them bit the dust. Which one – well, that was what the bets were all about.
Gold digging had always been a perfectly acceptable pass-time in these parts of the country. In fact, it was why the first settlers had come here, after all. But then, after a few decades of “yellow stone madness”, as the locals called it, there had been no more riches in the ground, and thus gold diggers had turned to other sources for wealth and adventures.
Some families were better at it than others, and the two that were about to join in temporary matrimonial bliss were said to be among the best. The groom was local, a well-liked fellow with good looks, whom the other men had great trouble keeping their sisters away from. He had that certain smile, the one that said, “This time it is all going to be different, because of you”. Of course that smile was a lie, as was evident from the graves in the family cemetery, showing of names and engraved pictures of his first three wives – “beloved and never to be forgotten”. He was preparing for his fourth marriage at the age of thirty-nine.
The bride, on the other hand, was a mystery. She was from a town not too far away, but no one had seen her. It had been determined she would arrive today, all set and ready, right before the ceremony. She obviously had a sense for drama, and from the fact that she, too, had already buried a couple of husbands, it seemed likely that this would not be the usual “kiss her, kill her” episode of everyday life in gold digger country. There had been rumors about her appearance, but not even the newspaper guys had gotten hold of a decent picture. The only thing in the newspaper, a few weeks back, when the preparations for the celebration had just begun, had been a clipping from her high school yearbook, in which she looked bewildered and fragile and very, very blond. She was thirty-two, wealthy and said to be a good golf player and hunter.
The streets had been sprinkled with water to keep away the clouds of dust, and volunteers had taken it upon themselves to water the plants along the main road every day for the last two weeks, so everything would look green and fresh. “We should welcome the new lady as best we can”, Bill Thrumps said. “Who knows, maybe she will inherit his share of the town.”
“No way”, Ava spat, “he’ll come out of this as handsome and relaxed as ever. We should start collecting money for her funeral flowers already.”
“Wanna bet?” Bill dug his wallet out of his pocket. “Thirty bucks says he’ll be a grieving widower in less than a month.”
They shook hands and smiled at each other with grim determination.

Silence

2011-07-14T21:41:00.000+02:00

[A few days ago I sat at my desk in the early morning and, instead of writing the story I was supposed to write, came up with this drabble. I thought some of you might appreciate it, and for the others... well, reading one hundred words doesn't take up much of your time. I hope you enjoy it!]

From up here, everything looks normal. There is no sign of existence or disappearance of our fellow humans. But communication has been dead for days. Maybe it is just a technical glitch. But the news, last bits we heard… unexplained deaths in Africa, Asia, then Europe. US government trying desperately to keep the threat on the other side of the ocean, without success. Maybe it arrived via Mexico, along with housekeepers and construction workers without papers. The disease spread. People died. From space, everything seems pretty normal. Except for the silence. I look at the stars, distant and indifferent. Beautiful.

A night out with Kevin

2011-07-08T06:21:00.002+02:00

"Wouldn't it be cool if there were aliens among us, watching, as in the movie?" Kevin is excited, as I knew he would be. He must have been the last person in the western hemisphere to not have seen "War of the worlds". Great movie, despite Tom Cruise. Can't stand that guy.

And now he is all over the place with ideas. Kevin, that is. Wouldn't know about Mr. Scientology.

You have to know, Kevin is a bit slow. With everything. His family lived across the street from my mother, and my mother made me befriend him. As a kid, I hated it. All the cool kids were making fun of Kevin when he sat in their garden, watching the world with a smile. And I was forced to go over, drag him out into the world and protect him there. Well, somehow he stuck with me, and although I am pretty busy these days, I think I would miss him. My suit is wrinkled after a long day at the office, my back feels as if someone bent me into a pretzel, the tiny cinema was loud and dirty and uncomfortable, but Kevin smiles, and that is about everything I care about right now. He's one of the good guys.

"Don't know about you, man, but I'd crap my pants." I point in the right direction. "The car's that way, I think."

We walk down the road, make it a game not to step onto the cracks in the pavement. Kevin likes this kind of stuff. He may look dangerous - he's as huge as a mountain! But deep inside, he is as soft as a new-born puppy. Sometimes he stops, head back, and watches the moths dancing through the cascades of yellow light washing over us. His eyes are almost black, and his crooked teeth look quite orange. He's always been fascinated with insects, and has got quite a collection at home. It used to creep me out, just as his collection of chicken bones which he kept in the desk drawer, but I am cool with it now. Way more interesting than collecting stamps, I'd say.

It's a short way home, and I let Kevin's happy ramblings wash over me without paying attention. The streets are deserted, so we pull up at his home after just a few minutes, and somehow I feel reluctant to let him go inside. A grown-up guy shouldn't live like this. I'm not sure what to do about it, though. "Say hi to your mother", I offer, weakly. Then I wait for him to reach his door, weave, and drive off.

My flat is waiting, all dark and chaotic, and as I drive through the familiar streets I think about Kevin's day-to-day life. Must be strange, in that quiet place, with the decaying mother in the rocking chair. He says he didn't harm her, and I kind of believe him.

Thunderbird Rock

2011-06-17T09:55:00.003+02:00

Steve clung to the rock. He had no memory of how he got there, or why. Something about thunderbirds... His fingers hurt, his legs cramped. Wind ripped his head back, using his hair as a handle.

A quick glance down revealed that, yes, this was pretty high up. And although he did not know what he was doing, he knew he was not yet on his way back to solid ground yet. Slowly his left feet abandoned the rock, searching for any kind of support to continue his journey.

Giant shadows circled above him, dancing with the lightning beneath the dark gray clouds. Their cries echoed through the canyon. All Steve could make out was their shape. Curved giant beaks tore at the sky when the birds shrieked, and each cry coaxed the darkness further into the day.

He advanced slowly, trying to remain invisible. Soon his bare chest was covered in tiny red rivulets from where the glinting rock hat slashed at his skin. It was almost as if the mountain did not want to be climbed. Steve's heart raced. He had never done anything like this before, but he knew he had to reach the top... and the nests that had to be waiting for him. Everything else was a blur in his mind, with his goal a burning focus in the center.

With a mighty swooosh one of the giant bird shapes fell from the sky and shrieked past him. Steve glanced over his shoulder and saw a shadow tumbling towards the ground, head first. What was happening? The birds above him weaved through light and darkness, ever faster and faster. As he advanced, he could make out the marks on their feathers and the glow in their eyes. The air was charged with electricity, and whenever lightning struck the mountaintop, Steve felt a tiny jolt running through his fingers and down his sweating and bleeding body. His breath quickened as he realized that not only was he gaining height, albeit step by painful step, but that at the same times the birds were losing altitude, and that they were destined to meet. A foul taste coated the back of his throat.

Finally, with a mighty struggle, he reached the top and clamped his fingers into the ledge. The thunderbirds’ stares burned his back. One of them swooped down and attacked him, leaving deep marks in his back. Steve yelled in pain. He clung to the rock, advanced. His muscled belly scraped over the edge and he lay on flat stone, panting. Every inch of him felt bruised – and he had to go all the way back down! But…

It had been worth the effort. Huge nests made from dark brown and black bushes covered almost every foot of the plateau. Stinking dead carcasses lay scattered between them in varying stages of decay. He saw what he thought were dead sheep and cows – and humans. Scared, he jumped to his feet and raced over to the closest nest, which was empty. But the next held what he realized he had come for. Glowing with a red pulse, there lay three eggs, not larger than his fist. They were pure magic. Steve grabbed one, turned around and ran.

The thunderbird was waiting for him. Sparks danced through its eyes and over its feathered body. It threw back its head and shrieked. Steve’s head threatened to explode with pain. He fell to his knees, and the bird’s talons knocked him over. He screamed and fell…

… and was greeted by the ticking alarm clock on his nightstand. His head hurt. He must have knocked it against the wooden headboard. What a weird dream! His body ached as if he had fought an army of birds. And what were thunderbirds, by all means?

His fingers fumbled for the light switch, and then he paused. He was sure to find out, eventually. Beside his bed, pulsating with a dull red, there lay something which might have been a stone, or might have been an egg. Steve looked at it and felt a strange excited fear in the pit of his stomach. He lifted his hand and reached for the egg. Tiny lightning danced through his vision. The egg was almost hot to the touch. Steve smiled. That was so cool!

He had no idea what he had done.

Porn

2011-06-09T13:54:00.002+02:00

[I thought I had put this here before, but it seems if I did I cannot find it. Either way, I'll be out of town for a few days and thought I'd leave you with a short #FridayFlash.]

The moaning from the next room sounds almost genuine. In here, it’s colder, and there is hardly any light. Martina can hear the camera guy shouting something – Jeff probably has lost his act again. It’s difficult for the man to do his part, she knows. And on a day like this… Maybe they should all take a break. She clasps her water bottle. There are water drops collecting on the smooth surface. It fits her hand perfectly. This is the main reason she buys this water brand.

The blanket does a poor job keeping the cold away from her nude body. She has been sweating in front of the cameras and all the big lights. Twenty minutes of filming sometimes feel more exhausting than a complete workout. At least she doesn’t feel as guilty if the whole crew goes to the fast food parlor afterwards. She loves socializing, and if it requires an unhealthy meal now and again… she can do this, as long as she pays attention to her overall balance. Mustn’t forget, her body is the main source of her income. Maybe she should take a shower before she has to be on scene again – she likes being fresh and clean for her partners, even if they have already had some together action on that day. The job is hard enough as it is already. She even takes the time to brush her teeth after every snack – or oral action.

Her mother must never find out about her job, and she knows it. Fortunately, this is not the kind of movie the old lady would be caught watching. It would interfere with her attempt to catapult her soul into heaven. Besides, she does not like all this “dirty, uncomfortable physical stuff”. And that’s fine, since somebody has to earn money to pay the rent, and university fees… Martina knows she is not bright enough to win a scholarship, but she wants to be a social worker, she wants to make a difference. Her family thinks she does some minor job for a professor, sorting magazines and stuff, typing letters. Martina does not think of it as a lie, it’s rather an act of mercy. After all, there surely are professors watching. She dreads the day when someone at university might recognize her.

With a buzz, the loudspeakers in the upper corners of every room come to life. “Everybody on the shooting range for the big final. I want no messy hair, no fluids. Clean up and get your asses over here!” The speakers die before the camera guy has stopped snickering. He likes ordering the others about. Martina runs both hands through her copper-colored locks, sheds the blanket and walks over into the next room. Nude, she looks more regal.

Gutter Santa

2011-06-04T07:42:00.000+02:00

The main streets had been busy, and it had frightened Sarah so much that she had forgotten not to lose her mother. And now here she was, in a back street, with the sky growing darker high up above the shabby buildings surrounding her.

They had been on a noble quest – exchanging Christmas gifts for things they really wanted. Sarah’s mother had insisted on taking her along since the babysitter was still visiting with her family. Sarah would have preferred to stay at home and play with her new doll, she was afraid of all these people in town. Mum had taken the doll from her, handed her the worn teddy bear and dragged her here. Why did grown-ups never listen?

However, she had to find her mother. There was a curtain lecture waiting for her… as if she had got lost on purpose! But, first – how could she find her way back? This street certainly wasn’t the right one, it was smelly and had tiny rivulets of water with oil rainbows crossing from one side to the other. Trash cans gathered in a corner, as if they were planning nasty things – like bullies at school. And wasn’t there something moving behind them? Sarah stood still, clutching her teddy bear. Yes, of course, there was somebody behind the trash cans! In the weak light it was difficult to see, but she thought she spotted something red. Then she heard a groan, and Santa Claus sat up in the street, yawning and rubbing a dark spot on his coat.

“Hi Santa”, Sarah said.

Santa’s head swiveled around unsteadily, and for a moment it looked as if he might fall back again. “Hi there, young lady,” he croaked.

“Are you drunk?”

Carefully, Santa put the bottle in his left hand down on the street. It was not completely empty. “Why, of course not. I was just… picking up some rubble, and then I got tired and fell asleep. And what about you, young lady?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Call you what?” Santa struggled to stand up.

“Young lady. I know you know my name. It was on all my presents. You write funny.”

“Well, uhm… I don’t have my glasses with me. I can’t see your face properly. Are you… Anne?” Santa leaned forward and squinted. “Mary? Susan?”

Sarah giggled. He looked too funny. “Not Susan, it’s Sarah!”

“Oh, yes, yes, of course… Sarah. You are a very good girl. I remember.”

Sarah tried not to blush. She was still afraid if he found out she had taken the chocolate cookies from grandma’s pantry, she might have to give her doll back.

“Now tell me, what are you doing here?”

“I – that is, we… my mother and I wanted to…” How did you tell Santa that the presents had not been good and that you were exchanging them for better ones?

Santa smiled. His teeth were yellow and slightly crooked. “Did my helpers mix up your orders?”

“Not mine, Mum’s. You know, it can be difficult to get the right present for her. It’s not bad if you got something wrong”, Sarah tried to comfort him, “at least she can still exchange them for what she really wants. Dad never is that smart. They always fight on birthday.”

“Your parents fight? I guess I’ll have to take a closer look at them. Seems they are not good parents.” Slowly, Santa came towards her, steadying himself with one hand on the dirty wall.

“Oh, they are okay.” Sarah thought about something nice to say about her parents. Then she took a closer look at his clothes. “Won’t Mrs. Santa get angry if you come home dirty like this?”

He looked down, puzzled, as if he had not realized the stains before. “Oh, you’re right. I’d better sneak home and put that in the laundry.”

“I have to go back and find my Mum”, Sarah said. She held her teddy close, taking a careful step backwards. Close up, Santa Claus smelled funny, like old fruit and older socks.

Santa tried another smile. “Come on, I’ll help you find your mother.” He squatted a few steps away from her, trying his best to look harmless. Somehow his beard was – lopsided. Boy, Sarah decided, he really had to practice shaving.

“See? Over there is the mall, and there are the other big shops. I am sure your mother is over there, and she is worried you ran away.”

“Over there?” Sarah looked doubtful. “But all those houses are empty, and there are rats in there!”

“Then I’ll come with you and take care so they don’t come too close.” Santa offered his hand. The sky had turned a dark blue, and Sarah got more and more afraid. Hesitant, she took his hand.

Santa had to make sure his steps weren’t too wide, his legs were much longer than Sarah’s. While she was looking around, he told her stories about the reindeer, who were on holiday. “Hawaii, that’s where they wanted to go.”

“Hawaii? What are reindeer doing on Hawaii?”

“I don’t know. Maybe taking surfing lessons.” Santa shrugged.

They had passed the dark houses with their empty doors and windows, and suddenly Sarah could see the lights of the mall again. And there – her mother was standing right at the end of the street! She started waving, “Mum! Mum! I’m here! And look who’s with me!”

A slender figure came running towards her. “Sarah! Here you are! Why didn’t you listen? I told you not to wander about! It’s dangerous all on your own!”

“I wasn’t on my own, Mummy”, Sarah insisted. “Look who was with – “ and she turned around to introduce her to Santa. But he had disappeared. “Where is Santa?”

“Santa?” Her mother smiled. “I am glad he took care of you. But now we’ll have some hot chocolate, and then we’ll go home. And next time you’ll stay right beside me, okay?”

She wondered where Sarah had got her vivid imagination.

Groceries

2011-05-26T14:59:00.004+02:00

The house is awfully quiet now that he's gone. She hasn't gotten used to all that space yet. The yellow light from the kitchen overhead light makes her sick.

2 1 bag of potatoes
1lb carrots
12 4 eggs

She doubts that he will come back, and without his need for boiled breakfast eggs she won't need as many eggs. Let that new floosie cook his eggs for him from now on! She hopes they'll die in an egg yolk explosion. Stranger things have happened.

The phone rings, "Hey darl- ... I mean, Stella."

"What do you want?" She pretends to be indifferent, adds more items to her grocery list.

2 1 bag of potatoes
1lb carrots
12 4 eggs
Chocolate bars
Ice cream
1 bag of apples (green!)

He hates green apples. Now she can have as many of them at home as she wants.

His voice at the other end of the line, an audibly strained smile. "I've still got to pick some stuff up. Think I'll drop by tomorrow after work. You okay with that?"

"Yeah, why not? See you then." And she hangs up on him without saying good-bye.

Some things are still missing from that list. She sits there, deep in thought, then continues to scribble. Her hand-writing is still that of a twelve-year-old girl. She always got gold stars for her writing.

2 1 bag of potatoes
1lb carrots
12 4 eggs
Chocolate bars
Ice cream
1 bag of apples (green!)
duct tape
axe

Cold heart

2011-05-17T11:00:00.002+02:00

You know, when I said 'forever', I actually meant it. Not like these celebrity-forever marriages, which last a month if they're lucky... or until they need some fresh publicity. Disgusting.

No, 'Till death do us part'. That kind of forever. With fidelity, love, the whole nine yards. I wasn't kidding, and it wasn't my fault you didn't get the hint.

Okay, so technically, one might say it's over. At least for one of us. But your heart doesn't look all that bad in my fridge, and I think I'll keep you around some more. Until you start smelling or something.

No way out

2011-05-08T18:19:00.002+02:00

That hadn't gone as planned. Bummer. You leave them alone for a few thousand years, only checking in occasionally, and that's what they do? Less than satisfactory.

The cosmic phone rings. Small talk ensues. And then, of course... "Have you seen what they did to earth?"

"Yeah..." The mind screams, TRY TO CHANGE THE TOPIC! But the moment it takes the mind to scream this is the moment that makes it too late.

"Do you remember I told you this would happen? You do remember, I know it. Putting free will in people, who would come up with such a stupid idea?"

"It was idealistic!"

"Stupid, idealistic, same to me! The point is, I told you it would happen. When will you ever learn to listen to me?"

Surrender is the only way out. "I am sorry, you were right. Oh, and - Happy Mother's Day!"

A smile at the other end of the line. "Thank you, Darling."

Some things, not even the Gods can escape.

The raven

2011-04-24T09:09:00.002+02:00

A black feather is all that's left. Even with good care, ravens hardly ever live more than twenty years. I guess that's not bad, considering the average shelf life of modern relationships is about three years. I remember his black feathers, wings stretched out in flight, and the surprising heaviness when he landed on my outstretched arm.

Then the sound of the change, and the visible pain he was in while transforming, and the gore and fluids and feathers everywhere. Sitting in a corner, I would wait patiently while he changed. In the very beginning, I had been less careful once and ended up with a broken arm from his flailing movement while growing into human shape.

Once the shape was complete, he would cower in his corner for a moment, gather himself and transition from raven-mind to man-mind. Through all these years, his body remained firm and muscular from all the time spent in flight. Whereas I aged, as do all women, and especially those who meddle with the dark powers. It takes a toll. All the years I remained beautiful, but my beauty was that of a crone when I was barely forty years of age.

I wonder why he returned to me over and over again, when all I had to offer was pain and passion and a few worms and grains, sometimes a dead mouse or a fresh egg before he left again. My power was never enough to keep him in one shape for a long time, and once he was gone I would clean everything away with great care, destroying the circle around my small hut which had done its duty in keeping us safe and undisturbed.

There have been rumors in the villages around the forest, of an evil sorceress turning people into animals out of cruelty. They continue coming to me if they need my help, but their minds have started making the connection, and I see the fear in their eyes. This is the price I have to pay for the love of a bird, and now he is gone.

Maybe I could resurrect him, there should be a little bit of him in the feather I kept after our last encounter... that time where all we did was enjoy the silence together, embracing each other peacefully on my narrow bed, since the flight had exhausted him and he had barely recovered when it was time to leave. I might bring him back, for a time, without true understanding... the same way he was when I first found him, a fledgling hopping around under a tree... my mind wanders... and then I put the feather back where it belongs, way in the back of the shelf, hidden behind the jars with honey and herbs. It's better not to think about it. I'm an old woman, after all.

Moebius

2011-04-21T14:30:00.004+02:00

I wish it was 'once upon a time'. But it's always, and never.

And now.

404

2011-03-25T15:00:00.005+01:00

Long after mankind has ceased to exist, the world will be left blinking and beeping and pinging.

Giant adds will scream their message at the night sky, where no trace of airplanes is to be seen.

Motel signs will remain on their watch posts, looking for prey to lure into cheap traps for the night.

The roads will be empty, no one to admire the larger-than-life screens.

In empty houses, screens will flicker and reveal the communications of spam bots, with programmed intelligence allowing them to pretend being 17-year-old horny chicks talking to well-endowed, muscular beach boys.

They will live forever.

Tell them how you feel

2011-03-18T07:02:00.003+01:00

The late afternoon spring sun drifted through the immaculate windows, adding the appropriate amount of grace to the family fathering. Claudia had to hand it to Aunt Tiffany, the old lady knew how to stage family gatherings. Everything looked so casual, in this no-one-really-lives-here way usually found in magazines. The throw pillows appeared to match everything, from the carpet to the cake plate. There were two kinds of coffee (yummy and decaf) and several brands of lose tea in lovely caddies surrounding three perfect-looking cakes.

Claudia wondered why exactly Aunt Tiffany went to so much effort for her siblings and their offspring. Surely not because she liked them, that much was sure. These gatherings were tedious and boring, and Claudia would rather have seen her dentist than her family.

In the meantime, Cousin Biddy had realized her victim wasn’t listening. “Claudia, you’re being impolite!” she exclaimed.

Claudia managed to show the appropriate amount of shame. “Sorry, Bridget, what did you say?” No one called that woman Biddy to her face – not unless they wanted a public scolding and the wrath of Cousin Biddy’s Lord.

“I’ve asked you if you have seen one of the TV services by Father Gregory. I think I shall go through my tapes and send you the one on respect for one’s elders.”

“Really, I am sorry. And yes, I did watch one of his services. Last Tuesday it was, I guess.” Claudia tried to shift her weight. Her injured knee was giving her hell these days.

“Oh, that was beautiful! Don’t you think…” And Cousin Biddy drifted off on a sermon of her own.

Claudia was not a religious person, but Cousin Biddy’s elation had fueled her curiosity enough to make her switch on the TV and listen to a black-wearing guy with overbite and the largest spectacles she had seen in a long time. The sermon had been really good, however, touching on the necessity of telling people what you really feel for them. She remembered his intense voice, “Do not assume your loved ones know what you feel for them. Tell them, before it is too late. You will feel a better person for doing so. The Lord reaps each and every one of us, and wouldn’t you like to know that you are appreciated?”

Her gaze drifted through the room, following the spring sunshine from one person to the next. There was Aunt Tiffany herself, mistress of this gathering, throning at the far end of the room. Still, Claudia could hear her complaining about all the hard work she had to do “to keep this place inhabitable”, even though everyone knew she had not only one, but three Mexican girls coming over for cleaning and shouting at several times a week. One of them, in addition, had the ungrateful task of renewing Aunt Tiffany’s “natural hair color – really, I don’t know why I am so lucky, but there’s not a single gray hair on my head, and praise the Lord for that!”
Next to her, on a significantly smaller wooden chair, sat Uncle Ted, with his usual expression of adoration. The couple liked to claim that they were still feeling like newly-weds on their honeymoon, although everybody knew that Uncle Ted was a regular over at the “Parlor of Sins” and usually slept on the couch anyway.

And this couple was a good example for the whole family. Claudia hadn’t given up hope that there had been a glitch at the hospital, and that she really belonged with a different family. Her parents were in the kitchen, she knew without looking – probably pilfering goodies from Aunt Tiffany’s fridge and helping themselves to some booze. This way, they saved enough money each year for their cruise around the Caribbean, usually coming back with unhealthy tans and complaining about the bad service and lazy maids.

Then there were cousins who stole, other cousins with disturbing religious views, uncles who drank and were out of jobs, aunts earning money in less-respectable professions, … The only family member Claudia really liked was Uncle George, and he claimed having discovered that the world was pear-shaped. Every first Sunday of the month, they gathered here – had done so since Claudia was a toddler – and flaunted their shortcomings with pride based on stupidity and inbreeding. Nevertheless, looking around the room, Claudia felt a strange warm sensation welling up through her torso. Maybe it was time that she made use of what she had learned from Father Gregory.

Slowly, she came to her feet, her painful movement interrupting Cousin Biddy’s explanation of the “light of the Saints”. She tapped her faux-silver spoon against her water glass. Silence settled over the crowded room.

She opened her mouth. “Dear family.” Now she really had everybody’s attention. Her father’s head appeared in the kitchen door. He was chewing something.

Claudia cleared her throat, made a second attempt. “Dear family. You all are a bunch of disgusting, self-important, stupid inbreds. If anyone would happen to ask me where I came from, I would claim having been adopted. You annoy the hell out of me, and I hate coming here to see you.” Then she limped out of the room, leaning heavily on her cane. Her car was the last in the driveway. Carefully, she draped herself on the driver’s seat. A quick glance to the front door – no one. Maybe Aunt Tiffany had had a stroke, and they were dividing her tchotchkes among them. Claudia didn’t care. She enjoyed the silence. A smile spread over her face. Father Gregory had been right, after all.

Run

2011-03-11T15:32:00.000+01:00

I'm almost done with lunch, and you look like dessert. You'd better run.

Hunting

2011-03-01T12:38:00.004+01:00

It is very likely that I was conceived in a back alley while my mother was stoned. Or that some guy mixed her a "special" drink and she was blitzed out of her mind in a dark corner of a club.

Her own version differs, of course. On every occasion, she declares that I was a "child of love", a "magical gift" and that my conception was "very special" - the last one not even a lie, according to my theory. And her "sisterhood of the moon" is all awed and filled with love when they hear it, ghosts of past Beltane celebrations floating through their minds. Let me tell you this, not all herbs are meant to be used as incense.

I lean at the bar, my back to the wall with its mirrors and bottles. Believe me, none of that exotic stuff has ever been consumed in here. Why bother, if all you need is some syrup, food colors and cheap vodka? I bet that's the ingredient list for all the fancy cocktails I can see standing on the tables, some radiating their own light - or so it seems - in dark corners. I wonder if these are "special" drinks as well.

The drink next to my elbow looks too sweet, with a pink umbrella and at least a dozen kinds of artificial-looking exotic fruit impaled on blue plastic. Not my choice, I'll stick with my beer, thank you very much. At least it comes unopened. Even today, some guys can't imagine buying a girl a drink will not lead her to jump his bones.

Stupids. Everyone knows a cocktail at this place costs only two bucks. It's way more expensive to get into my pants. Unless it comes for free.

When you spend enough time at a place like this, you learn to read the customers. The hipster, the shy guy, the stupid drunk. I am not interested. All I am looking for, on these nights, are the dangerous guys. The ones who are persuasive in their own, very special ways. They may think they are clever, but the little signs give them away. A quick movement when they slip her a gay pill, or the tiny brown glass bottle carefully concealed inside the arm of the jacket. The Jackson pentagram, disguised as jewelery or in the shape of a tattoo. Hardly visible, but I've got eyes like a cat.

There is one. His victim is cute, blond, petite. The kind of girl who always attracts the biggest jerks. she laughs at something he says, head thrown back, oblivious to the danger. Her eyes sparkle. He appears to be attentive, but already his eyes are scanning the room, looking for dessert. Our gazes lock. I know what I look like. Easy entertainment. No one would expect what's inside this tiny leather package. But there's ways to hide whatever needs to be kept invisible. My hand goes up to the necklace. No one will suspect anything.

(You wouldn't believe the stores I had to go to for this outfit.)

He excuses himself, comes over to the bar - to get them a new round of drinks. Or something more? I lean in to him, whisper something. The blond's eyes lose their spark, turn to something cold and shining.

Sometimes I am tempted to walk away. Let them make their own mistakes. I could curl up on the sofa, watch an old movie. Instead I lick the stranger's ears. We leave the bar.

Plants and insects

2011-02-25T06:38:00.002+01:00

"Wait, what?" Tom started to laugh at her, and she felt her face turn red. "How could you not know that? Of course all kinds of paprika come from the same plant! You are so cute sometimes!"

The other people in the restaurant were staring at their table. "Excuse me, Darling, I've got to freshen up a little."

He smiled at her, all sparkling eyes and shiny white teeth, and grabbed her hand. "Don't be mad at me, Saskia Honey. You know I love you! But that was too funny."

Without success, she tried to free her hand. "I am not mad at you. As I said, I need to freshen up. Please." Did he really have to do that? Right here, with everyone watching them? Why couldn't he help her make sure the evening went nice and smooth, a real, romantic date, without some kind of ruccus?

Reluctantly, he let go of her hand. "Okay, I'll be right here."

The light in the bathroom was harsh, the mirrors poorly polished and the faucets leaked. The rest of the restaurant was far nicer. But of course, she thought, you didn't see the bathrooms when booking a table. No need to keep them nice. Unless they wanted their guests to return.

Her face in the mirror stopped burning. A few more moments, and she would be back at her normal teint. Why did he do this? He humiliated her all the time. In public. Preferably when her friends and family were around. Some days she couldn't help it, she felt so stupid! Although she used to consider herself pretty smart, maybe even a bit above average. When confronted, he denied everything. No way would he want to hurt her! It was just... couldn't she see it was pretty funny? All her small town girl attire and naive ways of thinking... - well, no use thinking about it now. She pushed the anger back where it belonged, into the dark. Time for dessert. She forced a smile on her face, tried to open the bathroom door without touching any of it and returned to their table.

The next day was a Sunday, and they went hiking, like they did every Sunday. She would have preferred to go to church, but he mocked her for "believing in the immortal son of a carpenter who flew from his cross directly into the sky". Thus she had taken to praying at night, while he was watching TV or messing with his tools in the garage. Surely God would forgive her for making things work.

It was a new trail, somewhere they hadn't been before. The sun was shining, and the leaves on the bushes were sparkling with their dewdrop jewellery. They advanced steadily, enjoying the fresh air, huffing when climbing steeper slopes. She stayed a few steps behind him, following his guidance, and only stopped now and again for a good look of their surroundings. The view was terrific.

"What are you doing there? Don't be lazy, come on! Or is the trail too difficult for your short girl legs?"

"No, no, I'm fine. I was just..."

"We can make a break once we reach the lookout point. Now hurry, I want to be back in time to watch the soccer match!"

A few stepf further up the path, they met the beetle. It was rather large, at least for a beetle, and black with an oil-film shine to its back. Tom almost hadn't seen it, but she shouted, "Look out! Don't step on it!"

He stopped mid-motion, looked on the ground, and almost fell over with laughter. "You're such a cute little girl, you know that? You even care for these nasty little critters? I'll have to make sure we don't go to the zoo, you'll break down and cry when they feed the geckos with crickets!" He crouched down to get a better look at the beetle, who seemed unimpressed by its visitors, and grabbed it by its shell.

"Don't do that!" she pleaded.

"Why? It's not as if they feel anything, is it." He held the beetle closer to his face.

Saskia let out a sigh and took the backpack from her shoulders to have some water. She turned around to admire the view. They were pretty far up high already, and no one else was around. That was the advantage of going early on Sundays.

A breathless kind-of-shout, kind-of gargling behind her. She looked over her shoulder and saw Tom lying on the ground, obviously in a lot of pain. His face was growning redder by the second, and his eyes started to bulge. Had he said, "Help me?" No, surely not. Of course, she could have told him that this beetle was highly poisonous, and that it had strong mandibles that could bite through the skin between human fingers, and that it was very likely the poison would cause respiratory distress. She had learned all these things at college. But she had expected him to know this, as he always made clear he was so much more clever than she was.

She flopped down on the ground in a safe distance, her back on the shape on the ground. Time for a snack. The view was truly spectacular, and the annoying sound would stop in a few moments.

Fairy stuff

2011-02-20T13:12:00.002+01:00

Being a good fairy wasn't that easy after all. I looked at the mess I had made and sighed. Still lots of stuff to learn, hu? And this had been a classic, as far as fairy spells went.

What is inside you shall be visible on the outside!

Sounds easy, doesn't it? This week's assignment. Hadn't worked out as intended.

A knock at the door. "Hey, Cutie, you're ready?"

I nodded. "Let me go grab my stuff."

"Mind if I help myself?" He lifted the unlabeled bottle of beer to his lips and emptied it in a few gulps. His eyebrows rose when he saw my face. "Was that some love potion?"

"No, it's just..." I paused. It was too late anyway. "Nevermind, let's go!"

Sunny day

2011-02-14T06:40:00.000+01:00

One sunny day, she will arrive home early, unexpected. You will be in the kitchen, dancing and doing the dishes. The bottle brush will be your microphone, and Aretha will come blaring from the stereo. And there will be no explanation for your appearance. You will blush, mumble something about it being laundry day and that it is not what it looks like, but she will not believe you. And it will be made so much worse by the fact that you are wearing her old wedding dress, which fits you just as perfect as it fit her back then.

Official duties don't end like that

2011-02-09T06:37:00.002+01:00

I knew exactly that hiding under a mountain of blankets was not an option. At least not forever. It might do for a few hours, or even days, but after that...

"Okay, I give in. What do you want from me?"

The ungulate guy at the foot of the bed shrugged. "Why are you mad at me? I am only the messenger!"

I increased the power of my glare, from stern to superglare, but to no avail.

"Are you coming?" He was nervous. That was clearly visible. He was scratching the good wooden floor with his hoof.

"Stop that!" With a sigh, I threw the blankets off of me and grabbed my morning gown.

"Uhm... there is no need to dress. We can't take anything with us anyway."

"Wha-"

Bzzzzzeet.

"...t?"

This was definitely not my apartment. I looked around me. My brain was sliding around in my head, and not having fun. The moment Goat Boy over there had grabbed my hand, we had been... bzzzzeet... and been... Somewhere Else.

I didn't like being somewhere else.

"What is this? And where?"

"Hssht!" Goat Guy seemed to listen to something. He pointed down the narrow, uneven hallway. In the distance I could see light, flickering with irritation, like really impatient flames. My skin was covered in cappuccino-colored goosebumps. The color was natural. Freezing was rather rare for me.

"I am not going anywhere without clothes." I crossed my arms in front of my chest and couldn't help noticing just how cold it was.

Goat Boy sighed with impatience. "Look, I could just transport us over there, but that would be rather impolite. Don't make me do that."

"Can you scratch yourself behind the ear with these hooves?" I stared at him, feet hip-wide apart, trying to look tough. I was probably failing miserably. No surprise there, at my height it takes more than attitude to impress the others.

He didn't react.

Reluctantly, I gave up on being stubborn. For the moment.

The hallway was dark, with cave-like walls and a dark stone floor. The flickering light, I learned, came from small lamps every few meters, which were set to "fire imitation mode". Or whatever you wanted to call it. It really was more irritating than - I was not sure what they wanted to achieve by this - charming? Cozy?

As we went down the hallway, the sound of a merry gathering echoed towards us. Someone was having a good time. Not me, that much was sure. My feet hurt from touching the cold floor, and my goosebumps looked like medium-grit sandpaper.

Something started bugging me. I mean, apart from the fact that

Option A: I was going insane or

Option B: This was a really, REALLY weird dream or

Option C: ... Nah, forget option C. Too strange.

Be that as it may... wait, I knew that voice!

Harry Gumble.

My boss.

My DEAD boss, to be exact. The funeral had been last week. Okay, this was a dream. Had to be.

We arrived at a door to our right, behind which the party was taking up speed. Harry Gumble was sitting in what appeared to be a whirlpool, steam curling upwards from the surface of an opaque fluid with a metallic shine, and was just about to toast the rest of the party with a huge glass of - well, whatever. Surely high-proof, that's what had killed him, after all.

I tried to keep my gaze on my former boss and ignore the fact that he was naked. The alternative would be taking in the rest of this madness. As far as I had glanced, none of the - well, not exactly people - around here was human. Horns, more hooves, wings, scales... I preferred not to see any of it.

"Miss Skilling, how good of you to join us!"

"Mister Gumble! How good to see you!" My polite kicked in and saved me from stammering like a madwoman in need of a new jar of marbles.

"I am soo sorry I had to have Alredo there disturb you - but could you teach him how to make a proper cup of coffee? I don't know what this is, but apart from coffee I'm having the blast of my life."

He probably meant afterlife.

Jack

2011-02-03T11:46:00.004+01:00

The bones scare me.

(Which bones? Whose? And where?)

It's dark. I don't see anything but bones. Dreadful smell. Something's moving. Not enough light for details, still glinting off the bones.

Surely they aren't moving without help. Rats, maybe?

I don't know who I am or where I came from, but I know rats. Not in pictures or words, only fear pulsing through my brain.

The rats are an illusion, as are the bones. Whole worlds made up in this narrow space. Something pushes me, and I jump, followed by music and laughter.

"Oh, look! A Jack in the Box!"

Brief encounters

2011-01-27T06:52:00.006+01:00

Every Friday it was the same. George hated mopping. Yet, it was part of the contract for his shitty "one-room cave". Holes in the walls, screeching heaters, hot water only under lucky circumstances. And moppng the hallway every single damn Friday.

It was not the best neighborhood, but it was the best George could afford. Which, he decided while wiping the sweat from his forehead, showed how much he had accomplished in life. Or rather, how little. His scalp was itching, and he ran a hair through the short black bristles. This was the only way he could afford a hairdo - if he gave himself one. The same applied to handjobs and intelligent conversation. Years of education and job training, and now it wasn't even enough to keep it all together.

The old woman living down the hallway came up the stairs, heaving and puffing, carrying her weekly groceries. She never talked to anyone, no one on the complex knew her, and she never smiled. Her white hair tucked back in a tight bun, long black skirt and burgundy cardigan, she was the epitome of the grandmother George had always been glad he didn't have. That was the kind of old lady to make you sit still and sip tea with them. Well, if she should ever happen to notice, let alone speak to him.

A few months ago, in a drunk haze, George had crept down the hallway to find out the old woman's name. For some booze-induced reason it had appeared very important at that time, and he'd decided it was his mission for the night, before he could advance to that second bottle of cheap whiskey.

Cantellano. Mrs. Sofia Cantellano.

While downing the second bottle, George entertained himself wondering what had brought the old woman to New York, what she had been up to in her life. Maybe she had been a spy, or fallen in love with an American who had smuggled her over the border? Of course that must have taken place when she was young and beautiful, maybe in the 1920s.

Ever since, George had made a point of greeting the old woman when she came home while he was mopping the hallway. "Buenos dias", he would shout with exaggerated cheer, smiling his best to show off quite even white teeth. The only thing he had left from his childhood. Good dental care. And a few words left over from Spanish language, which he had never paid much attention to.

The woman kept ignoring him.

Then she stopped appearing on Fridays. Fall came and went, and George would mop his floor between jobs or before and after underpaid occupations in shabby etablissements where he posed as a bouncer, lifted heavy objects or played the "stupid muscle" part, never smiling to hide his teeth.

Finally, one day in the middle of December, Mrs. Cantellano made her reappearance. She looked pale, tinier even than she had looked before, and it took her forever to master the stairs. George, mopping, pretend not to notice her until she was on the final stairs. He felt relief. When he heard her pause to catch her breath, he turned around, smiled his most dazzling smile. "Buenos dias, Senora!"

The old woman smiled and replied something in Spanish.

George shrugged. He had never paid much attention during Spanish lessons. "Perdone, no hablo Espanol."

Mrs. Cantellano's smile widened. She picked up her groceries and passed him to get to the door of her flat. There she stopped, key in hand. "Goood after-noon, Senor." And went inside.

George wondered where she had been so long.

The ugly duckling

2011-01-25T09:15:00.002+01:00

Once upon a time there was a family of ducks, with half a dozen little ducklings. They were a happy bunch - except for the youngest one, who was mocked constantly because it looked nothing like the other ducklings. Father and Mother Duck made a point of saying and showing they loved all their kids just the same, but the ugly duckling's siblings never grew tired of mocking it, until one day it decided to run away.

The ugly duckling's parents looked for their youngest everywhere, but in the end they had to give up and decided to take better care of their remaining children to make up for losing one. The ducklings, on the other hand, talked among themselves and said, "We're so much better off without that strange bird!" And soon they had forgotten that there had even been a sixth duckling.

Seasons passed, and when spring came, the young ducks, who had finally grown into their feathers, went to the pond one lovely day to enjoy the fresh water and the weak rays of spring sunlight.

Suddenly a shadow passed over them. They heard a strange cry and felt a quickly growing urge to run for shelter. Alas, the oldest of them, who was the boss of the gang, did not escape in time, and died in the hawk's grip on that lovely spring day.

The hawk tore at the ducks liver, enjoying itself immensely. Who wanted to become a swan anyway?

[Not dead yet]

2011-01-14T13:03:00.002+01:00

I know, I say this again and again, but here, smell me - I am not dead yet! Right now, edits for my historical novel are eating my brain, and all writerly thoughts revolve around this... and unless they crash into a heap forming a whole new story, I am afraid not much will be happening here for the next few days... :-(

Beauty and the Beast

2011-01-05T11:14:00.003+01:00

The spell was broken, and they lived happily ever after.

That is the way it was supposed to be.

Alas, I was late. The castle is deteriorating, and the body of the beast has not moved from the marble floor, except for the bits the ants have started carrying away. No one has spoken a word, or moved. They have disappeared, together with their master. I will miss them.

This is not the place where we used to live. Elegant decorations, soft cushion, beautiful tapestry - all gone. Debris crunches under my steps, and the stairs have started to crumble. Slowly I travel from one room to the next, as if through universes, meeting myself in the mirror. The changes are visible. And yet it is the home I hold on to, as if the world wasn't real.

I will be taking his place soon.

The zombie apocalypse

2010-12-28T13:01:00.004+01:00

I guess it wasn't such a great idea after all. You know, we had this fan-tas-tic party going on, and Hugh was blitzed out of it. Like dead. Well, wasn't that bad. 'twas his house, after all. We partied on for a while - until the neighbors threatened to call the cops, that is - and then most of us went home. The rest decided to crash on the floor.

And then we had this idea with the ketchup bottle. Or the ketchup bottle fell and gave us that idea. Don't know which way. Suddenly everything was red and sticky. And all the people on the floor. And Marilyn laughed, "It looks like the zombie apocalypse!"

See? That's how it came about. We had fun, gooey stuff everywhere, it was a real mess. Looked really real, I can tell you. We had a blast. And a plan.

I shook Hugh to wake him up. "We got a problem, man! The zombies are here!"

He looked around wild-eyed, brain full of booze. Marilyn hid in the next room, peeping around the door frame, stifling her laughter with a fist in her mouth. I suppressed the urge to grin and said something about checking on the other rooms to make sure we were safe.

Best moment of my life.

Until Terry stirred and Hugh took the baseball bat to his skull. You gotta go for their brains. The zombies', I mean.

Jeanny

2010-12-17T12:47:00.002+01:00

Boy, it's boring in here. And all the fumes! How I hate raspberries. That's what you get for not paying attention to the hole you crawl into for a good day's sleep. Stuck and nauseous.

Well, at least it's better than sitting out in the cold. We never had that much snow where I come from. Not that I miss home... too hot, too dry, and most of all, too boring. Guess I emigrated just in time. Spent some time here, messed around there, visited someplace altogether different. Wasted my youth playing pranks on unsuspecting travelers.

You know what? I had a great time. Especially back in Afghanistan, when that stupid goat herder literally tripped over me. That face!!! Almost popped his eyes out! Only because I was enjoying myself - naked, of course. He recovered soon enough.

People were so easy to scare back then! Nowadays they have TV, internet, all that strange stuff. You have to pull all kinds of tricks to impress them.

I think I'm feeling dizzy. If that hobo doesn't unscrew the bottle soon, his first wish better be that I don't puke all over him. And hey, stop shaking me!

Dark

2010-12-10T10:17:00.005+01:00

Everything is dark around me, and although I know there should be light somewhere, I fail to see it. I feel my way using hands and feet, slowly, and I don't even know where I am going. Is this the path I set out to travel? Or have I gotten lost? Maybe I was abducted and left here, part of a strange hunt, mocking the struggle of life? The journey appeared to be easy, in the beginning, before the twists and turns and dead ends.

I imagine wild beasts lurking in the dark that is my everyday life, and try not to run. Running when you can't see where you are going is probably a bad idea. Still, there is no light.

If there were trees, they would be closing in on me now.

Tessa

2010-11-25T20:50:00.004+01:00

Tessa looks at me with her green eyes and waits for an answer. We have been best friends for as long as I can remember. Since my family moved from the country to the big city, where I knew no one and didn't have anyone to play.

I sigh. "Yes, I know. Happy?"

The doorbell saves her. Relieved, I answer the door. Peter is outside, with the guys and some chicks I don't know. They're carrying popcorn, pizza, beer and sodas. My part was renting the movies and making soup, and Tessa helped. She's a kitchen goddess.

This is what the Romans must have felt like when the barbarians were at their gates. My tiny, germ-free flat has never seen so many people at once. I usher them inside, feeling slightly embarassed at the lack of life. Peter gives me a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. He knows I'm not comfortable displaying affection in public. My knight in shining armor, respecting my every wish.

Standing close to him, I rather feel than see his gaze wander down the hallway, where he meets Tessa's shamrock stare. "Hello there, who are you?"

She won't talk to him. Of course not.

"That's Tessa", I explain, reluctantly. "She's a product of my imagination. Shall we get the movie started?"

Mirror Child

2010-11-19T09:35:00.002+01:00

She knows that she is damaged, after all they've done to her. Like the puppet with one arm at the flea market, which no one wanted.

"I told you", her mother had said, "who wants a damaged toy?"

And now it's her no one wants. When people look into her eyes, they do not see their own, clear reflection. She's like a broken mirror. Shards everywhere, used to protect herself, to hurt. Their images are twisted, more true than reality, closer to themselves than their reflections.

They leave her alone, and finally she is safe.

Broken mirrors can do magic.

Thief of hearts

2010-11-11T18:22:00.002+01:00

Living with a sprite wasn't easy. Especially on the days that Estrella came to visit.

Laurell shook her head. Estrella. No surprise her sister was so - special. She typed some more numbers into her worksheet, then closed her notebook. The desk was cluttered with all kinds of papers. Today, however, she couldn't blame it on Jack.

Jack was her sprite. And he was in love with Estrella. Only unfortunately Estrella couldn't (or maybe pretended not to) see him. Just as the fancy names went to the younger members of the family, the spooky gifts went to the oldest of each new branch. Laurel imagined herself as the defender of family traditions, but sometimes she thought she could do without.

She grabbed her half empty tea mug, carried it over to the dark kitchen and wondered where Jack was. Usually he stayed by her side pretty much all day, as long as she stayed inside. Laurell guessed he was somehow bound to the house she was born in, he had been her companion since childhood. His pointy ears and sharp white teeth made him a valuable friend - he'd willingly play all kinds of parts when enacting fairytales, and he never hesitated to defend Laurell. Against bullies, stray dogs, the mailman (on that one occasion where she had opened the door in her bathrobe and things had got a little bit out of hand). Sometimes he tried to help with the housework, too, but these efforts usually went wrong and left them with a bigger mess than before.

This morning, Jack had put on his best suit - his only suit, that is - and tried to comb the mess of greenish hair on his triangular skull. He had polished his nose to a shine and tried to be a good sprite. When Estrella walked down the garden path that led to the back door - she was superstitious and never entered through the front door - the most beautiful autumn roses were in full bloom, and Laurell wondered how he had done it. She was not sure what the full extent of Jack's powers was, and today it annoyed her. Everybody thought her younger sister was the family treasure. Even her old friend.

Estrella hadn't stayed long. She had finally gotten over her last desastrous affair with a married banker, gone to the hairdresser before coming to visit her sister and was on her way to a posh club somewhere a few miles down the road. "I only have to pick up my wallet on the way", she smiled as she sipped her tea, " and maybe catch some sleep. I've heard the guys at Ipanema Lounge are hot!" Her hair, once blond and now firy red, fell in gentle waves over her shoulder and had the audacity to glow in the afternoon sunlight.

The sisters wasted some time on smalltalk, and then Laurell went back into her office while Estrella went to kick-start her night life.

And that was the last time Laurell had seen Jack. Now that she thought about it, it worried her... but only for a moment, until she heard something rustling under the stairs. Jack had only taken a nap in his nest, after all.

Gently, she knocked on the wood, "Hey, old pal. You're up for some dinner?"

Something was odd. Jack didn't react. She could see him breathing, but he remained curled into a tight ball.

"You okay?"

Slowly, the sprite lifted his head and looked at her. His face was sprinkled with something dark, as was his shirt, and he smelled... metallic.

"It's your fault!" he sobbed. "You told me to do it! You said I could steal her heart!"

Inside Laurell's chest, something froze. Slowly she stepped back, her eyes fixed on the miserable figure sitting in the darkness. She couldn't make out any colors. Her breath seemed too loud - it hissed in her ears while she fumbled for her phone - an oldfashioned construction with a cord, so the receiver couldn't get lost - and dialed Estrella's phone number from memory.

Absent-minded, she wrapped the cord around her wrist as she waited. Somehow she knew that her sister wouldn't pick up the phone.

This is me

2010-11-04T22:15:00.003+01:00

There is nothing left to say, and so I keep quiet as I watch him leave. The flowers he sent me yesterday are lying on the floor, surrounded by puddles of water and white glass shards. My favorite vase. I will have to get a new one.

Of course he threw a fit. Hadn't he done enough for me? Didn't I love him anymore? Every guy acts like that. Heroes, broken and devastated. All of them. It's inevitable.

A smile hides just inside my ruby lips, barely waiting until the door closes.

It's part of the fun in my life.

The Story

2010-10-30T09:25:00.003+02:00

It was late already. Outside the sky was - no, not black. Dark purple stretched over the valley, with specks of clouds and a thin sliver of silver moon. Theresa knew the scenery by heart, and she hated it. She spent almost every night at the office, between stacks of paper, looking for THE STORY. Most things her reporters brought her, however, were rubbish.

Tonight was no different. The sad leftovers of a Subway sandwich lay on the desk, pushed aside so Theresa could go through the stories that had been handed in late. Her phone was right next to her, with the printers' phone on speed dial, just in case she actually founf THE STORY. But that was rather unlikely. They had the usual U.F.O. sightings, someone claiming to be a werehyena, a haunted house and a conspiracy involving tab water and alien microbes. This was pretty strange even by their standards.

Theresa believed that the truth was out there, somewhere, beneath that purple night sky, but so far she hadn't seen any of it. Since starting as a young and excited reporter here at "USA Truth", she had been looking for the real thing. And there had been good stories, but nothing that wouldn't make her former class mates laugh. Now she was closer to 40 than 30, and had nothing to show for her life. Over the last few months, she had felt herself become increasingly bitter and desperate, and this morning she had detected the first hint of gray hidden between her deer-colored ringlets.

A knock at the door, and only a moment later Peter pushed his head into his room.

"Yeah?"

"Hi Theresa." He coughed. "You know, I wanted to talk to you about that story I handed in last week..."

Theresa sighed. "We had that already. No. No way am I going to print this short before Halloween. We will be the laughing stock of the press."

Peter looked sad. In fact, he didn't look good at all. His skin had a yellowish wax appearance, and his eyes had sunken back into his skull so far they were hardly visible in the weak light of her desk lamp.

"You know what", she said and pushed her chair back, "we should both go home." She knew that she wouldn't head straight home, but do her routine at the gym first. All this fastfood was starting to take its toll. She wanted to look good and happy when the old gang reunited in December.

Peter shook his head. "No, Theresa, you gotta listen. I've done some more research over at the ruins. And my informant was right, there are dozens of oildrums with strange stuff in them!"

She stopped in her tracks, halfway bent down to pick up her purse. "Tell me you didn't open them." Stories about toxic waste always increased their circulation, but she rather liked Peter. Although he certainly was stupid enough to take a sip of any strange glowing liquid, just to know what it would do.

"No, I didn't... one of it was leaking, that's how my informant knew about it. I took samples and brought them to different labs to be tested."

Great. Just great. In her head a new headline appeared, "USA TRUTH REPORTER SPREADS DEATH THROUGH VALLEY!"

She looked at him, her stomach tight. Considering his looks, that stuff had not been orange juice. "Okay, and now what?"

"Well, the labs haven't answered my calls, and when I went there, no one answered the door." Peter moved in closer, his feeth eavy, gait tired. "My informant seems to have disappeared as well."

Maybe he was onto something after all. "Okay, I give in." Theresa pressed the speed dial button. "Your story will make front page tomorrow. I want it down at the press in ten minutes. But you have to make some changes. No way are we going to print anything containing the word 'zombie' in the headline."

Peter grinned. His teeth glistened, stained and crooked. As he came closer, his body odour crept through the room. Definitely unhealthy, she'd take him to the hospital herself right away.

"Now jump back to your office! They're waiting!" Theresa forced a smile on her face. She'd have herself tested as well, just to be sure. "Tell you what, after that we're grabbing a snack somewhere to celebrate, okay?"

"Sound great", Peter's grin widened, "can I have your liver?"

Sorry!!!

2010-10-24T13:36:00.002+02:00

Sorry I haven't been writing much these last few weeks... but I am not dead! And no one's after me, either (as far as I know). I promise proper writing will resume as soon as things are a little more relaxed around here!

Cold

2010-10-22T08:58:00.002+02:00

"No, Thaddius, get off that table. Now!"

Thaddius was not impressed. He sat on the breakfast table, lapping the remaining drops of milk from her cereal bowl. His orange tail curled around his legs like a content furry snake.

Sophia clapped, sharp - and the cat was gone. She smiled, despite her lack of sleep and the tedious tasks ahead of her. It worked every time. From the moment they had got him, Thaddius had been a scaredy cat. Every lout sound, every unexpected movement sent him under the sofa, fast like a lightning. He would sit there for hours, whiskers twitching, waiting until he was completely sure the area was safe once more. Sophia had never seen a cat that was this easily frightened. Hence the name Thaddius - she had thought it was hilarious.

There was barely enough time to put everything away, grab a yogurt and run for the subway. A quick glance outside - pale October sun, a few clouds, yellow and brown leaves everywhere. She had better take the long brown scarf today - the least thing she needed right now was yet another cold. Sophia grabbed the empty cereal bowl, put it in the sink and opened the fridge. She ignored the bread crumbs her father had left on the table. There'd be time for thorough cleaning when she returned home. Right now, all she had time for was grabbing some strawberry yogurt from the back of the fridge.

"Sophia, are you ready? You're running late!" her mother yelled from the bedroom.

"I know!" Sophia yelled back. she hit her head on the door frame of the fridge and cursed softly.

Thaddius, curious as any cat, approached the open fridge for new adventures. He looked inside, then suddenly hissed and dashed from the kitchen.

"Little coward!" Sophia called after him, then bent down once more for her yogurt. She'd never make it till lunch without a snack. That stupid cat, what dangers could there be in a fridge, for God's sake?

She froze with shock, and everything around her turned cold. It was looking at her, and not with friendly eyes.

Research

2010-10-08T11:04:00.002+02:00

As everybody knows, research for writers, for a huge part, consists of watching people. You can't make things up in your mind all the time. You have to have real people, to observe and steal their behavior.

Sometimes it's enough to sit in a café and relax, keep your eyes open. But other scenarios demand more effort on the writer's part.

And this is why I am sitting here, in my basement. The basement is cool and dark, and I like working here. There's no telling how much time has gone by, and the others know never to disturb me down here. In the early years my family used the basement to put their stuff here, but in the meantime everything has been moved to the garage, and I have plenty of room.

I watch, for a while, closely, and then I continue typing.

... The huge needles sticking out of his body glinted in the harsh neon light, and the blood pouring down his white body appeared chemical. The colors were too intense for words, and it was no longer necessary to talk. The pleas had ceased...

Niagara Falls

2010-10-01T09:46:00.002+02:00

The ticket to Canada had cost almost all his remaining money. After two nights at the hotel and riding the boat around the Falls he now was completely broke. But it didn't matter anymore.

When Laura had left him, she had taken everything with her. Clothes, furniture, pictures - even the baby's room, complete with carpet and fairy tale curtains. She had left nothing in return, especially no note saying, "I am sorry, I couldn't cope with the situation" or "I promise I'll be back".

He had spent the first three days in bed. The first day, he had called his boss and mumbled something about a bad cold. There had been some old cheese in the fridge for dinner.

The second day, he had finished off all his beer.

On the third day, when his boss had called him back, worried something might be seriously wrong, he had shouted at him and called him a stupid prick and had put down the receiver without waiting for the boss to fire him. Then he had gone to the bank, taken all his remaining money and boarded a plane to Canada.

He had always wanted to see Niagara Falls. Ever since he had first watched a documentary about it on TV. He thought it was only appropriate to at least fulfill this dream of his before it was over.

The experience had been disappointing. The weather had been bad, and in his imagination everything had been bigger. After the boat ride, he had returned to his room, wet as a surfing chipmunk, and had gone to bed in his dirty clothes. The shoes stood in the middle of the room, looking like sad baby seals.

Another morning came, and the rain was still there. Surely it had overstayed its welcome. But there was nothing to be done about it. This was the day. He sneaked out of the room, quietly, using the emergency exits, since he couldn't pay his full bill. It was early in the morning, the sky a dark gray, and there was hardly anybody about. He took the meandering path down to the Falls, where you were supposed to have the best view. Walking through the rain, he let all the "what ifs" pass through his memory once more.

What if they hadn't met.

What if the baby had been alive.

What if they had talked to each other.

Each of them ugly and demanding and pointing at him, shouting, "You failed! It's your fault!"

The water looked like a blanket cascading over the shoulder of the Falls. He imagined the Falls to be a fat, sleeping lady, slightly stirring in her sleep. It must be cold, sleeping here, out in the open. And with the dreadful weather!

The roaring of the water drowned out his thoughts, and he felt a strange peace settling inside him. Maybe this wasn't the day.

Maybe this was another day.

Dripping

2010-09-24T11:17:00.003+02:00

There is a cute but ordinary village somewhere between the fields. Happy families, sad families, singles. Children play in the backyards or meet at street corners for mor mischief. You see bicycles and roller skaters, and a few cars.

Over centuries, the area was considered to be a kind of treasure chest. Salt was wrestled from the ground, brought to the surface and cleaned, and sold on for high prices. It was dangerous work and an easy way to get rich. The ground is drilled full of holes, like Swiss cheese. But everything is stable, there's barely any geological movement. The people here are familiar with the history of the place. The houses have been built to withstand the changes. They have been assured it's harmless.

These are normal people with normal lives. They came here for everyday experiences. The shop in the center of the village has been here for many years, and although modern supermarkets offer their items at lower prices and have greater variety on the shelves, most people stay here for groceries. It's a friendly neighborhood, and people watch out for each other. The next bigger town is not too far away - with good schools, a cinema, shopping malls and a university clinic. This is good, the children in the village tend to be ill.

On most days, the sun is shining. There's a forest to the east, with trees older than the church around which the village was built. A river runs through it, circles the village and resumes its way to the sea.

It is the perfect place to be happy.

Yet, someone has put something in the ground. Not secretly - there have been announcements and discussions. The decisions had been subject to intense political debate. Experts have come and assured that the people in the village would be perfectly safe.

And they had no reason not to believe them.

Now water is eating its way through the layers of salt and stone, into the caves, and through the layers of metal containing what was put down here. Changes are coming.

They said it was safe.

Special Services

2010-09-17T10:55:00.002+02:00

Tanya sat at the hotel bar, eyeing her client. This was going to be a good job. She got to do what she could best, and payment was much better than what she had gotten while working for that special task force. Most of all, the people looked much more stylish. Uniforms only got you so far. Sometimes she wore a long evening dress which clung to her trained body like a snake's skin. Today, she had decided on plain dark blue jeans, combat boots and a golden top with a revealing neckline. She knew the colors complimented her tan and her hazel green eyes.

Now she sent her chestnut hair flying over her shoulder, where it came to lie brushing the black leather of her biker's jacket. She had removed everything from her clothes which might blink when catching stray rays of light, including the fancy buckles that came with the shoes, and the Honda CBR600RR waiting outside was a custom job, all matted black. Tanya liked to travel invisible. It made doing her job so much easier.

The client seemed nervous. They had exchanged fancy fantasy names, and now he adressed her, "Miss Delila, could you... uhm, I mean, could you tell me a bit more about your expertise?" His round face sweated and turned bright red, like a fire extinguisher. Tanya knew this kind of guy. Rich, well-educated, they made it a big secret when hiring her services, and felt guilty all the time. Well, if they preferred to do so... after all, it was a jungle out there, and if you wanted to survive, you had to eat whatever didn't eat you first.

"You will understand, Mr. Smith", how very imaginative, "that I can't go into great detail. But let me assure you, I was trained by the best. We operated in Iraq and Afghanistan, with a special unit aiming to bring in the most wanted officials, terrorists and taliban. My body count is almost 100%."

He raised an eyebrow. "Almost?"

Tanya continued, ignoring his objection, "Another of my fields of expertise is - getting answers. Do you expect me to give more detail or will you trust me and be satisfied with the results?"

"One more question, if I may."

"Go ahead."

"Why did you go freelance?"

"The money's better, and I only travel if I want to." She sipped her Golden Cadillac, her eyes never leaving his face. This was the moment where they made up your mind.

"Did you say, half now and half after the job is finished?"

"Exactly", she purred, "and feel free to add a bonus if you consider it deserved. Would you like to go upstairs to discuss the details?"

They rode the elevator in silence, up to the top floor. Tanya's eyes took in every detail. The expensive camel-colored carpets, which silenced their steps. Live plants, behind which it was easy to hide. Anonymous-looking doors, each leading to a suite the size of an upper-class downtown apartment. She followed her client to his door, always a step behind him. She knew this made him nervous, but she felt he deserved a tiny taste of what he had bought himself into.

The door opened, and she nodded her approval. The best taste money could buy. Much different from the holes in which she had done her job - electric shocks, threats, infamous waterboarding. She knew more than a dozen ways of killing a person with nothing but the harmless things in this room. Slowly, she took of her leather jacket.

"Now, would you like to start?" Her voice changed, from sweet and cultivated to quiet and threatening. "On your knees, now!"

Without further question, the guy dropped to his knees.

Tanya circled him, like a shark playing with its prey. "I know you have been a very bad boy."

"Yes." He licked his lips.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Mistress." His voice was but a whisper. This one was going to be fun.

Believes

2010-09-09T13:28:00.004+02:00

All the long years they had been married, and Walter's hypochondria had never been as bad as this.

He lay on his bed, pale and sweating, and the doctor had said it wouldn't take long now and there was nothing to be done. So Fran knelt next to his bed, holding his hand and looking at him, silent.

You know, Walter believed he had been cursed. By Miss Blythom, the old hag living next door. No one liked that woman. She had been enraged by Fran's cat Pirate doing his business in her garden, between rosemary and thyme. There had been several angry letters, some shouting and finally a dead cat, lying in front of their house one morning when Walter came out to pick up the newspaper.

Of course he had gone next door immediately. Fran had tried to stop him - maybe Pirate had been run over by a car, after all - but he had not been convinced. And when Mrs. Blythom opened the door, in her black morning gown neatly tied over her long white night gown, she had pointed two claw-like fingers at him, given him the "evil stare" and started laughing.

Walter had stopped dead in his tracks, the dead cat hanging from his limp arm like a forgotten purse he had tried to return to the wrong person, the blood draining from his face. He had turned around with strange staccato movements, gone home and straight to their marital bed.

That had been one week ago. He hadn't gotten up once, and the sheets were stained with sweat and urine. The doctor, of course, hadn't found anything. And now Fran watched, helplessly, as her husband died.

Fifty-three years of marriage, mostly happy, no children, all in all half a dozen cats. Of course she could have told him that magic didn't exist, and that he was imagining it all, like back when he had been convinced he suffered from tuberculosis and had prepared a room in the basement for his self-imposed quarantaine. But she knew it was useless.

She could as well have told him she knew the banning spell, from her grandmother, but she had had to promise him, when they married, that she would not dabble in these "irrational folk believes" anymore and that she would get rid of those strange symbols scattered about her room back at her mother's place. And Fran kept her promises.

Carefully, she got up and closed his eyes with trembling fingers. Then she went downstairs to prepare herself a nice cup of tea. After that, she would figure out how to pay that old hag back. No one killed her loved ones and got away.

Too bad Walter had never believed her.

Incantation

2010-09-02T22:30:00.002+02:00

They were far into their third bottle of Martini, when the idea materialized from Josephine's cigarette smoke. Later, none of them would be able to say where it came from, and without further arrangements they decided never to speak of it.

Josephine looked at her lap, where her delicate hands lay neatly folded, like sleeping butterflies. "I c-canot bellllllieve hediddis." Her language was maybe a tiny bit slurred around the edges. She was not drunk, that she knew. Only misbehaved women got drunk. They were socializing. Just good friends talking and letting off steam.

Sara lifted her tumbler in a salute to the absent adulterer. "May his... balls freeze to a lamppost!" She still spoke quite articulate, although her brain seemed a bit slow tonight when forming words and sentences. Her skirt had ridden up her long legs, leaving something resembling a wide black belt to cover her most delicious curves. The Lasagna stains were hardly visible on the burgundy red blouse, as was the red wine they had ordered with their dinner.

Carla took a swig straight from the bottle. They had no ice left anyway. "No, he des-deserves worse. Being knott'd to the lamppost with his man junk." The black dress hid most of the flesh she had acquired over the last decade, chasing Mister Perfect and eating in cheap restaurants.

"That would be a - a hell of a job, drawing out that t-tiny prick enough for a good knot." Josephine looked at her empty glass. She felt tipsy, she admitted. And sad. And angry. All at the same. Her head was like a caroussel.

Then the idea appeared.

Fifteen minutes later everything was set up in Carla's attick. The chalk circle, the candles, rain water and a bowl of sea salt. Carla had gotten several pentagram pendants and urged her friends to wear them. They laughed a lot, flipping through grimoires which had found strange ways into Carla's possession. "Here, thisssshould do nice." Sara pointed at a page with a pretzel stick.

"Let me see", Carla read the spell carefully. "A fire demon. Yeah, we can work with that." She took a piece of paper and took notes, and meanwhile the women emptied the fourth bottle of Martini and started a fifth. They had still some more in store. Preparation was crucial.

The incense stank. Together with the cigarette smoke and the alcohol it created a magical atmosphere, where nothing seemed quite real. With surprisingly sober voice, Carla took on the invocation. The smoke thickened, and Josephine imagined seeing a shape in the middle of the circle. She glanced at Sara, who had her eyes closed and was swaying gently.

They didn't believe in all this stuff. Hadn't even believed in it when they were teenagers. Carla kept collecting things and would sometimes invite them over for tarot readings or séances, but this was reality, after all. Well, at least it helped her let off some steam. Tomorrow, she would drive home, pack her stuff and move back in with her mother. As soon as she would be sober. She heard a laugh and decided it must be Carla's, although she couldn't remember her friend sounding so sexy. Or malicious.

The couch was uncomfortable, and after only four hours of sleep Josephine was not sure if she was sober and miserable or perhaps still drunk and, apart from that, perfectly fine. She had to hurry if she wanted to be at the office in time. Traffic behaving, she might even be able to take a quick shower. With all that smoke and stuff she probably smelled like a night club.

Sara and Carla were still asleep, but the timer of the coffee maker had been set, and the smell helped with the headache. Josephine got a refill, looked down at her wrinkled pantsuit and grabbed her car keys. She would return the cup the next time they met. They should do these women things more often anyway. Carefully, she slid into the driver's seat, turned the keys and backed out of the driveway. Her home was less than thirty minutes away.

Or would have been, had it still existed. The fire brigade was swarming all over the premises, and curious neighbours lined the streets. There were paramedics as well, but they were in no hurry. Either things had turned out better than expected, or worse.

An elderly woman came running towards her as soon as she noticed Josephine's car. "Thank God, there you are! I had feared you were inside!"

"What - what happened?" Josephine's brain refused to answer that question itself.

A policeman came over. "Please drive on, there's nothing going on here."

"But - but that's my house!"

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Ma'am." He looked at her. "You're lucky. The neighbours say they saw two people coming home last night, and they were almost certain the female was you. We're still looking for the second body." He was very young and obviously had never given the bad news to the bereaved. "I am sorry for your loss", he added, like an afterthought. Then he waved for the paramedics, made sure they came their way, and left her in her car.

Josephine looked at her house in horror. She should call Carla. This was reality, after all.

In the deep

2010-08-27T10:20:00.004+02:00

[Over at 52 Weeks of Wordage I found a nice exercise: Write the last paragraph to a short story where you only have the opening. I did, and then I started wondering what happened inbetween. We all know where this leads, don't we...]

"A short story begins with these two lines:
Sometimes, out on the boat, she wanted to tell Louise.
This was before Louise got the tattoo on her shoulder.
Write the last paragraph of the story."

The tattoo was beautiful, if you liked tattoos, simple and elegant and black. A few curves dancing around each other. Louise had gotten it for their first anniversary, and she had been so escited. "Mary, come with me, please! I am scared shitless! How am I supposed to let them finish the job?" Since Patrick had been away for a few weeks on a job, there had been plenty of time. By the time he returned, he was delighted, he lifted Louise up and kissed her in front of everybody and smiled. By that time, everything was healed.

Maybe not everything. Mary couldn't help looking at the lines when they were outside, when they went to the lake to swim or lie in the sun, or when they went shopping and Louise tried on dresses. Her skin was thoroughly tanned and smooth, like only girls' skin can be smooth, and the little scar on her right thigh rather added to her beauty instead of diminishing it.

Mary and Louise had been friends for as long as they could remember. Their families lived right next to each other, with a huge lawn separating the houses, and they had played together and explored the woods and the banks of the river, and as they had grown up, they had spent most of their summers at the lake.

Mary, who was tall and had blond ringlets and countless freckles, admired Louise for her fairy-like beauty. She had defended her against the boys at school, who considered Louise to be too girlish and quiet to be left alone, and repaired her old bike whenever it decided to break down on their excursions. She felt protective and sometimes jokingly referred to herself as "Louise's mother bear". Sometimes when they slept at one of their parents' places together, Mary would brush Louise's black hair until the smaller girl fell asleep, and then would sit for hours without moving, Louise's head in her lap, and think about nothing in particular.

They grew up together, and short time before her sixteenth birthday, Louise met Patrick. He was her first boyfriend, and Louise, most likely without intending to or even realizing it, started to neglect Mary. Or that was the way Mary saw it. Even when they met, Louise would talk about nothing else, and often she would cancel their excursions to the lake because Patrick had plans for the day. And now she had that tattoo.

One day, a few weeks after the anniversary, Mary invited Louise to the lake. She felt that, since Patrick was away to see his grand parents, they could share an afternoon, like they had done before. So they grabbed their bikes and set out for a day filled with adventures.

That afternoon, while they were lying in the sun, Mary raised her head and looked Louise straight in the eyes. This was going to be difficult. "There is something I have to tell you."

Louise yawned and turned around to face her friend. "Why so serious?" She looked up at the cerulean sky above them. "Isn't this a beautiful day? I feel as if it's the one day we'll remember when we look back on our youth. We'll be sitting on the sofa, two old and wrinkled grannies, and -"

"Louise." Mary hesitated. Then she changed her mind. "You know, the other night, when you went shopping in Smyteville with your mother..."

"Yeah?"

"I saw Patrick. In town. With another girl."

Louise's eyes widened. "You saw what?"

"They were laughing and holding hands."

"No, it's not what you think. Maybe... maybe she is his cousin?"

Mary sat up, leaned forward and touched her friend's shoulder. "Louise, they were kissing."

No reply.

Mary sighed. "I am so sorry."

Louise remained silent for a long time. Then she stood up, slowly, gathered her belongings and left. Mary followed her friend with her eyes for as long as possible, but she stayed behind, and her stomach felt as if it was filled with stones.

That was the end of Patrick and Louise. There was a huge fight and some gossiping around town, but they avoided each other, and after a few weeks, when summer prepared to leave, the unfortunate outturn of their love affair had been buried beneath piles of drinking women, cheating husbands and the discussion about who had stolen the money from the offertory box.

Louise went to see a specialist, and soon there was no visible memory of her first love left. The spot on her shoulder was soft and pink and raw, and she did not smile as much as she used to. But Mary was convinced that this, too would pass. She had read about teenage couples, and this kind of thing never seemed to last for long. Their friendship, on the other hand... yes, they'd still be together when they were old and ugly. She decided to take Louise on a boat trip on the lake, and after some convincing, her friend agreed. They packed a picknick basket and left very early, when the mist was still clinging to the long grass and the branches.

"The boat was softly rocking on the lake, and the dragonflies flitting over the surface looked like sparkling spirits. The raw patch of skin on Louise's skin had finally started to heal. Mary inhaled, tasted the last crumbs of summer, and felt sadness descend upon her shoulders."

Blown away

2010-08-20T09:58:00.003+02:00

Ye know, it's a bad thing, what happened to my brothers. But, ye know, I told them. "You have to have strong defenses. None of that hoola straw walls. Whatcha gonna do, dance with it?" They laughed at me, but I knew they were in for some trouble. Of course, they were ready for business much faster than I was, their places more exotic and outstanding, but then, what good did it do them?

Meanwhile I was busy minding my own business. Carrying bricks, finding the best roof tiles, mixing mortar. You have to do the things you have to do, right? The hoola hut was destroyed, the other one as well, and my brothers disappeared. I mourned, and I kept on working. There were many things to be done before Big Bad found me.

"Hey, Fatty, get out of there!"

"Get lost!" I shouted, safe behind my brick walls. My fingers kept fiddling with the wires.

"Save us the trouble, we know how it's gonna end!"

"Really?" If he thought I had learned nothing from my brothers' fate, he was in for a surprise. Quietly, I snuck out the back door. My heart was racing. What if he had someone waiting for me?

Ye know, only one way to find out.

... The back alley was empty. I left out a breath I hadn't known I was holding. It was a windy day, and the smells of building rode on the air. I had chosen this place carefully. Not too far away from the city, but not too close to my neighbors, either. Made the kind of business I was going for much easier to run. Ye know, I'm planning on meddling with meat. Girl meat. Eldest profession, never let a man down who was depending on it. But first I had to get rid of Big Bad. Nasty bully he was, always trying to press his share from other people's work.

"Whatcha trying to do, buddy, eh?" I shouted as loud as I could, trying to make him believe I was still inside. Then I ran, and as soon as I thought I was safe, I pressed the button.

The explosion happened as neat as a hollywood movie. A hairy paw was all that was left of Big Bad. The police never thought to check into the matter. Some folks are better left to themselves.

You didn't think I would let him blow away my hut?

Starved

2010-08-06T09:06:00.003+02:00

The shower is too hot, as always. Ancient plumbing, probably from the old Egypts. The bathroom is tiny. And there are huge mountains of dirty laundry. Where the heck do they come from? I think I may have a laundry infestation. Hopefully the bug busters have something for that.

I should take them all outside and burn them. There's lots of things I'd like to burn right now.

See? I am a good girl. I could protect the environment by not doing laundry, save energy by warming myself at the laundry campfire (and oh the fumes!) and support economy by buying new clothes every week.

Water still too hot. I play with the faucets and step into the now ice cold shower. Gasp. Not much of an improvement. My nipples jump to attention. I hope they are enjoying themselves. Either lobster or ice statue. Great. I hurry to get the dirt off of me. It was a crappy day. Problems at the office, and as usual it wasn't the clients' fault. It never is, did you know that? I had to cancel the doctor's appointment to still get everything ready in time. And it would be so good to get a definite answer. I need to plan ahead, either for me - or for us.

My eyes catch a spider in the upper corner of the bathroom, right over the sink. She is sitting in her net, really still, surrounded by tiny black dots. I wonder if its her offspring or food, stashed away for worse days. Well, in the end it's probably the same.

Dishes

2010-08-04T10:39:00.003+02:00

"Why didn't you make me do the dishes last night?"

- "Because you said you were tired."

- "Damn. I'm friggin' lazy sometimes. You must not listen to me when I say something that sounds tempting... Hmm. Can't we do the dishes tomorrow?"

- "That's what you said last night. And right now you told me to ignore your temptress ways."

- "And what if I tempt you in other ways?"

- "No chance. Come on, let's do it. It's only twenty minutes of work."

- "But I don't want to. How about burning down the flat?"

- "Honey, we *like* living here."

- "Drat. I knew there was something important..."

Around the world

2010-07-30T08:53:00.002+02:00

He is one of those people you could listen to for hours. Whatever place in the world you ask him about, he knows. Faraway islands, gigantic cities, mountains, oceans, caves. The world really is his shell. He knows what you can see there, talks about the sensations and experiences, has tiny anecdotes ready for your personal amusement. Is it history you are interested in? Geography? Economy? He knows it all.

A day at the café with him is like traveling around the world in one afternoon. He will talk about the white beaches of Thailand or the Aurora Borealis, as you may only see it in Greenland during the winter months. While enchanting you with his knowledge, he will drink cup after cup of Oriental coffee, with lots of sugar and a dollop of real cream. I have seen strangers stop and sit down at his table, buying him cup after cup of his favorite beverage, eagerly waiting for his next story.

He loves telling his stories. And when the skies turn dark, he will turn around his wheelchair and carefully navigate back home. This is all he has. He has been this way since birth. He has never left this part of town. Hard to believe he only ever leaves his flat for coffee.

Movie

2010-07-27T21:40:00.002+02:00

[I apologize in advance if the following story should offend someone. Originally, the title was a different one, but it would have given away too much. Enjoy.]

The moaning from the next room sounds almost genuine. In here, it’s colder, and there is hardly any light. Martina can hear the camera guy shouting something – Jeff probably has lost his act again. It’s difficult for the man to do his part, she knows. And on a day like this… Maybe they should all take a break. She clasps her water bottle. There are water drops collecting on the smooth surface. It fits her hand perfectly. This is the main reason she buys this water brand.

The blanket does a poor job keeping the cold away from her nude body. She has been sweating in front of the cameras and all the big lights. Twenty minutes of filming sometimes feel more exhausting than a complete workout. At least she doesn’t feel as guilty if the whole crew goes to the fast food parlor afterwards. She loves socializing, and if it requires an unhealthy meal now and again… she can do this, as long as she pays attention to her overall balance. Mustn’t forget, her body is the main source of her income. Maybe she should take a shower before she has to be on scene again – she likes being fresh and clean for her partners, even if they have already had some together action on that day. The job is hard enough as it is already. She even takes the time to brush her teeth after every snack – or oral action.

Her mother must never find out about her job, and she knows it. Fortunately, this is not the kind of movie the old lady would be caught watching. It would interfere with her attempt to catapult her soul into heaven. Besides, she does not like all this “dirty, uncomfortable physical stuff”. And that’s fine, since somebody has to earn money to pay the rent, and university fees… Martina knows she is not bright enough to win a scholarship, but she wants to be a social worker, she wants to make a difference. Her family thinks she does some minor job for a professor, sorting magazines and stuff, typing letters. Martina does not think of it as a lie, it’s rather an act of mercy. After all, there surely are professors watching. She dreads the day when someone at university might recognize her.

With a buzz, the loudspeakers in the upper corners of every room come to life. “Everybody on the shooting range for the big final. I want no messy hair, no fluids. Clean up and get your asses over here!” The speakers die before the camera guy has stopped snickering. He likes ordering the others about. Martina runs both hands through her copper-colored locks, sheds the blanket and walks over into the next room. Nude, she looks more regal.

[Fabulous Flash Award]

2010-07-24T17:50:00.003+02:00

Another nice award was bestowed on this blog - the Fabulous Flash Award. Thank you very much, pegjet! It was a pleasant surprise!

The rules connected with this award include passing it on to four other excellent flash fiction writers, and it took some thinking to decide... but finally, here we go.

1. At Coffeerings Everywhere you find not only flash fiction, but most often intelligent drabbles (stories written in exactly 100 words). It doesn't matter whether the stories are based upon reality or upon imagination, they are worth reading.

2. Another short story blogger I recently came to enjoy reading can be found over here - Superfluous. I especially enjoy the clever way in which the stories are written, and I am sure you will, too!

3. True Stories Honest Lies is the third blog I would like to pass this award on to. The stories are short, imaginative and fun to read, and they sound fresh.

4. Mindspeak, finally, is one source of #FridayFlash I always look forward to. Go there and take at look at the stories, and you may understand why. They are clever, dark and fast.

There are, of course, a lot more deserving writers out there. Honestly, each and everyone who takes up the challenge to write and put their stories out here where everyone can read and comment and, if they want to, tear them apart - it's brave, and it's generous.

Inside

2010-07-23T09:04:00.003+02:00

Remembering all my old cases, it should be hard to pick the strangest. But there was this woman, back in the early 1950s - it seems I can't get her out of my head. She had those huge pleading gray eyes... like lakes in early morning mist.

Her husband had made the appointment. I hardly knew anything about the case, he had only said that his wife was behaving "strange" and "talking nonsense" and that it was "nothing physical". Then she walked into my office. Tall, slender, shy. Her clothes were not the height of fashion, but she looked beautiful in them. You know, beautiful in this "I don't care" way. Her hair was this nondescript color, somewhere between dark blond and light brown, with the first gray strands already appearing at the temples, although she was hardly any older than thirty. I checked her file - thirty-two, to be exact. Her name, her age. That was all I had. I rose to greet her.

She sat down on the opposite side of my desk, tiny brown purse in her lap, smiling hesitantly. "I have to admit I am a little bit confused. When my husband said he had scheduled an appointment with a specialist, I had expected a specialist in internal medicine, or maybe a cancerologist."

"So, you have cancer?" I looked at her. She seemed normal enough. But you can never tell with this kind of patients.

"Probably not. But, you know... I have got this feeling as if something was eating me from the inside."

Our conversation took its course. I quickly ruled out several standard problems. Yes, she had seen several physicians. No, they had not found any explanation for her discomfort. She answered my questions willingly, as polite and thorough as possible. In her agenda, she had written down several appointments she had kept during the last few months, and she also produced some neatly folded letters she had obtained from these physicians. "You must know, I expected you to be an expert in the - more physical field of medicine. This is why I brought the documents. However, if you want to, please take a look at them."

My colleagues had actually ruled out about every source of physical discomfort known to man. Which were not as many as today, given the circumstances. Medicine has come a long way since then. I browsed the reports, which basically said that the discomfort was in the patient's head. Well, she was my kind of girl, then.

There was another possibility. "Do you have children?"

She looked down, her shoulders slumped slightly. "No, unfortunately we do not. We have been... trying to conceive for almost two years. My specialist says there are no organic causes for my infertility, he advises us to - well, keep on trying." At this, she actually blushed a little. What a wonderful girl, I thought, her guy must be lucky to have her.

At the end of our session, she rose and shook my hand. Looking closer at her, I detected the first signs of nervousness. There was this squint to her eyes, and her gaze flickered around the room.

We scheduled a series of appointments, and she arrived punctual as a clockwork every time. Her outer appearance did not change, but within a short time I came to understand the "behaving strange" part of her husband's instructions. I could watch it becoming worse every time we met.

In the end, I thought it best for her to retire to a special facility for a couple of weeks, or maybe months, until she had regained her balance.

"A mental institution?" She was outraged and rose abruptly from her seat, where she had placed herself less than five minutes before. "I will have nothing of this. I am leaving. Have a nice day."

I had expected this behavior. Her husband was informed. He was waiting outside, together with two strong guys I had ordered over with an ambulance, to give her a safe ride to her new destination. It was a sad moment, seeing her fall apart like this. But a quick injection, and we could carry her outside.

"Really, there is nothing wrong with your wife", I assured the husband. "All she needs is some rest. Believe me, in a few weeks you will have her back, all shiny and new."

Well, things never turn out as you expect them to.

The woman died.

I received the call a few days later, while her gray eyes still floated through my imagination. Of course there was an autopsy, and they found the most disturbing thing. My friend Harry, director of the institution, who had been there, told me.

"You know, physically, there seemed nothing wrong with her. No bruises, no cuts, no wounds or scars. And the medication had taken care of her nervous behavior. I thought we'd discharge her less than a month from now. And suddenly, she is lying in her bed, all bloated and dead. And when we opened her..."

A moment of silence.

"What was it?" I asked.

On the other end of the line, I could hear him swallow. "Her intestines were literally crawling with maggots. Don't ask me how they came to be there."

I hung up without another word, returned to my desk and retrieved the bottle of Scotch.

Seemed as if something had been eating her after all.

Sybil

2010-07-20T12:17:00.002+02:00

"Hi Mom... uh, yes, everything's going fine. How about you?... Yes, I know. I'll send him a card. Thanks for reminding me, though. ... Aha... aha... yes, I'll do it. Sure.

Now, the thing why I'm calling... no, I am not pregnant... What do you mean, 'that's a pity'?... Yes, I know I'm not getting any younger.

Now, why I was calling... the weirdest thing happened last week. Let me tell you. You know how I usually take a bottle of tap water to work with me? ... Yes, you've already told me these bottles are germ reactors... Thanks, I'll stick with it. However, imagine what came out of the faucet!... Water, why yes! Stop trying to be funny, I am trying to tell you something. Suddenly, there was this tiny thing in my bottle... like a tiny animal. Four legs, head, tail. Not larger than my thumb nail... Yes, I'm sure I looked stupid. You know my funny expressions... Mum, I KNOW the story about the frog in the lunch box. I was trying to tell you something! Would you stop interrupting me, please?... No, I am not being difficult. Are you going to listen now or what?...

Okay, I am sorry, too. Well, about this thing in the bottle - what was I supposed to do? I was in a hurry, so I just put the bottle on top of the counter and ran off to work. And suddenly I remembered that I had put the lid on the bottle! Now, I was half expecting to find that thingy suffocated by the time I'd come home. The other half of me was convinced I had been hallucinating... No, I am NOT doing drugs.

So, when I got home, that thing was swimming around in the water bottle and enjoying itself. I unscrewed the lid, put a sock over the opening and tight it in place with a rubber band... What it looked like? Kind of bronze-colored, I'd say, but SLIMY. No fur, I think it has scales. I haven't touched it... Yes, it's still here. I moved it to my old fish tank a few days ago. It's growing rather fast. I called it Sybil... How I know it's a girl? Mum, you're being silly. I just decided it. Anyway, Sybil is growing really fast. I called some guy over at the Veterinary Clinic and he promised they'd drop by tomorrow way early and get her. She's in the living room at the moment, but she hardly fits in the fish tank anymore... I'm feeding her chaps and sausages, she seems to like her proteins raw, haha... Well, I TRIED to feed her salad, but she wouldn't touch it. I guess if she likes it, it's good for her.

Now, I was wondering if you could give me a ride into town tomorrow? I'll never be on time if I have to take the subway... Thanks, that's great. Let's say, 8:30? - wait, I guess I heard something in the living room. Maybe the kids hauled their football through the window again. Those dirty bastards... Yes, I told the landlord about it. Just hang on a second, I'll go and check..."

Arcade

2010-07-16T08:48:00.004+02:00

When he woke up, he didn't know where he was. The floor was black, the walls were blue. His head hurt. The last thing he remembered was that chick at the bar, and the funny drink she had ordered for him. What a nice rack... had they hooked up? He hoped so. What a pity he didn't remember a thing about it.

Every surface was smooth, and the air smelled funny. Like being in one of those tiny, dusty electronics store on a hot summer day. Where the hell...? Carefully, he stumbled to his feet, turning to the wall for support. When his hand touched the surface, there was a sudden tingling, like the tiniest of electric shocks. Surprised, he drew his hand away - and almost fell to the ground again. There probably had been magic sauce in that drink.

In the distance there was a strange, howling noise, which drilled itself through his tortured brain. Damn, shut up, he thought. The sound reminded him of something... like sirens, but faster. In his memory, there were flashes and noises and tiny shapes moving around... - whatever. First, he had to get out of here.

Distances were greater than they seemed, and it took him quite a while to reach the next corner. The howling moved around, but it didn't come nearer, and he was grateful for this. But what was this?

In the next corridor, there were strange white dots on the ground. They grew brighter as he approached, and flared up when he stepped on them. All he wanted to do was get out of this strange fun house. Was this some kind of prank somebody was playing on him? He'd teach them a lesson, as soon as he was home. And had gotten some sleep.

The corridor seemed endless. Slowly his mind warmed up to operating temperature, and now he remembered where he had heard this sound before. Not this loud, of course, and with a more artificial ring to it. The arcade, where he had spent so many exciting afternoons when he was a teenager. What was that game again?

A soft vibrating sensation made the hair on the back of his neck jump to attention. The howling was closer now, and the colors gained intensity. He had almost reached the next corner. Surely the exit was here somewhere, and the noise was just to scare him off. He reached the corner, turned round - and froze. A glistening yellow sphere raced down the hallway, and wherever it passed, the glowing white spots disappeared from the ground. An obscure mint-colored shape was right behind it.

He prepared to run, but in that instance, another ghost appeared. The red one. They were closing in on him rapidly. And now he remembered what that game with this sound had been. Pacman.

Everything turned dark. Game over.

Frozen

2010-07-09T08:49:00.002+02:00

Sometimes I dream that I am awake.

I am lying in my bed, unable to move, with my eyes staring at the ceiling. The smell of burning olibanum fills my lungs. It is difficult to breathe.

All I can see from the corners of my eyes are the small dresser next to the door and the window, with its drapes closed. Everything looks just as usual. The bottles, the stuffed toys, the dying plants. I have never had a green thumb.

My body feels as if it is made of lead. In my dream, I don't even try moving my limbs because I know I will fail. All I do is breathe and wait.

For what?

The afternoon sun caresses the drapes, and some rays wiggle their way past the cream-colored cloth. Dust particles bathe in the yellow light.

I would like to have some fresh air, and come to think of it, the smell is strange. Why would someone burn incense in my apartment? There is no sound, although I really strain to listen.

It feels as if I was the last person on earth - unable to move, trapped in my own body, with only dust and sunlight as company.

The smell makes me want to puke.

Rain

2010-07-01T21:35:00.003+02:00

Hell, and I thought rain would make everything better.

't was a long summer, as hot and as dry as your grandmother's - excuse me. I forgot there are ladies present. Let's say it was really hot and really dry. The gras kept dying in every garden, no matter how much water the people poured over it. The town counsil prohibited watering gardens as the resources shrank. Some old sharts wouldn't listen, of course. You know, they are as stupid as dusty boots. We even had the police come out and tell them off.

Speaking of which - the dust was everywhere. While the plants kept dying, the ground dried out and was ripped apart. Nothing like the forces of nature to show you where the hammer hangs. Going to the store for some fresh fruit, all you found was shriveled up and looked rather sorry than tasty. And it was covered in dust. My sister, who has always been obsessed with everything home-made and as fresh as possible (her husband used to joke, "If we have left-over horsemeat, I'll ride it to work tomorrow." - well, he used to when he still was her husband; the last things they said about each other were less than nice) - where was I? Ah yes... my crazy, vitamin-obsessed sister started buying canned goods. You had to take the cans home and clean them off, otherwise all the dust ended up in your dinner nevertheless.

And the sun kept shining.

Soon everything was brown and gray, and the people became increasingly aggressive. Next was a ban on fire weapons. If the mayor hadn't been clever that once, we'd probably all be dead by now.

I wonder if it would have made a difference.

The strangest thing was that, one by one, the bigger radio stations and TV programs started dying. The shows became sporadic, and then they stopped. We started playing cards again, like in the old times. A few old folks even had ancient grammophones - you needed to crank them up, literally, for some music, and the records they had were not old-fashioned, but rather dead-fashioned. But as Pa used to say, you got what you got.

And when nobody expected it, the rain came. At noon the clouds began to gather, as if they had rehearsed it again and again. The light show was great, but the thunder drove the cattle mad. I hear Johnson had to shoot all his young bulls. Stupid animals. We were mesmerized. Whoever had the opportunity to abandone his work did so and went in search of a safe place to watch.

That was six days ago. The rain hasn't stopped since. The ground was much too dry to take it up, so our streets became rivers. A few people drowned. I haven't seen an animal in days. Still no sign of life by TV or radio. The people I have met the last few days went about like zombies. We don't know what to do, and we are afraid.

The one that got away

2010-06-30T22:08:00.004+02:00

Man, that girl got me. I'd never have thought it would end like this. We were like, you know, one of these disgusting couples. Holding hands, kissing in public, smiling at each other. A lot. Our friends used to joke about us all the time. We loved it. You know, that's exactly the behavior that makes every sane person want to puke. I wonder why we did it in the first place. I mean, we knew each other, what, six months?

Back then, we were convinced this was forever. Nothing could come between us. Lydia used to say we were like Bonnie and Clyde, or sun and moon; no one could imagine one without the other.

It was a beautiful night when she said this. We had been celebrating my new job. Superstitious Lydia had completely ignored the fact that I had finally landed on my feet until I came back from my first big business trip. That special night, she had fixed dinner just the way I love it, with spicey chicken and ice-cold beer. She had dressed up, looking lovelier than ever, and boy did she make sure it was a night to remember.

A few weeks later, Lydia told me she was pregnant. You mus know, I had been there before. Once, a tramp almost tricked me into playing father to the changeling she wound up with. As soon as I heard the rumors, I ran. Faster than you can say "action for support", I was gone. Don't know what happened to her.

See, I was nervous. And I tried hard, and without much success, not to show it on the outside. My reply to Lydia's good news was as lame as you can imagine, "You're sure?"

"No, but that little strip is." She smiled, but when she saw my expression, the smile went away.

We never talked much about it. I tried to be happy, looking forward to it. We bought all the stuff a kid needs. Lydia insisted on paying. Her paintings, although she was far from famous, somehow produced enough money for her to get by. "You know, I don't want anybody thinking I tricked you into this." Stupid that I am, I was relieved and appreciated her concern.

It took some convincing, however, to get her to agree to a paternity test. Laureena was so tiny, and as beautiful as her mother. I wanted her to be mine, but I had to be sure. Lydia looked at me with her huge black eyes. "You really want this test?"

Although I lost the staring competition, I refused to back down. "It's just to make it official. You know, we get to sign all these papers, and..."

"It's okay", she interrupted me, "if it's this important to you."

I knew the result. The envelope remained unopened. And Lydia walked out of the doctor's office, out of the building, and I never saw her again. Sometimes I wonder what she tells Laureena about her father.

Balance

2010-06-24T21:15:00.003+02:00

"Jonessss, you - you have to tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"Howd - howd - how do you do it?" My speech is slurred around the edges, and I can't seem to help it. And - are the chairs moving? I know what the people think, but I am NOT drunk. Nor am I a loser. Out of luck, maybe, but that will surely change soon enough.

Jones - good old Jones. He has the sweetest wife in the world. We used to work together, and lived in houses less than a spit apart from each other. I must have known him all my life. We met in the street while I was on my way back to the place where I am staying - it's only temporary - and he was heading home. And he invited me. "Come on, just a drink or two. For the good times."

And we drank. And we talked. And we drank some more.

Strange, isn't it; two guys, two lives, and how everything can turn out so different. I'll admit - these thoughts stagger through my head while I am drinking my beer - I'll admit I was a bit jealous. He always seemed to have everything. Married his highschool sweatheart. Drove a new car. I married Sarah when she got pregnant, and the kids drained all our money away. We both went to work - we thought we were happy at the time - and got by not too bad.

When you have so much in common, you can't help but becoming friends. Sometimes it was awkward (especially when we were doing things together as couples), but I didn't mind too much. I had Sarah, he had Jessica - well... I never told him. No good might come from it anyway.

Anyway, one day all our money was gone. Sarah must have stashed it away. We fought, we got a divorce. These days, the kid crosses the street to avoid me when she sees me coming. I bet she told her friends that her Dad is... well, dead. Never mind. It's all just temporary. I'll get back on my feet, pay our debts, everything will be alright. Maybe we'll move to another town, start over again.

Jones looks as me as if he expects something more. He has this soft smile on his face that women can't get enough of. It looks a little bit sad.

"You really do want to know." It's not a question, it's a statement.

I nod.

"Easy enough. I copied your credit cards. Changed your adress. Spent all your money. Did you never wonder why you wouldn't get the bills?" He takes the time to empty his glas. The words take some time to settle in my brain in a way that makes sense.

I turn around and stare at him.

"What??" Jones puts his glas down on the counter. "It was too easy. With all the things you were buying, you never kew how much you were actually spending anyway. And I had much better use for it. Consider it a kind of...", and he stresses the word that follows,"REIMBURSEMENT."

"Rembussment?" My tongue is much slower than my brain.

"For your sleeping with Jessica. Or did you think I didn't know?" He puts some money on the table and turns to leave the bar. "I think we're even."

White

2010-06-22T11:41:00.004+02:00

[A drabble is a story told in exactly 100 words. Including the title, this one is 101. Sorry for that.]

I am wearing white because I am a doctor. Maybe a nurse.
I am wearing white because my religion demands it to show my purity of soul.
I am wearing white to stand out.
I am wearing white because I am a bride, and I have no explanation for the fact that there are neither family nor groom present.
I am wearing white because all angels do.
I am wearing white to reflect sunlight to prevent global warming.
I am wearing white because it suits my purpose.
I don't remember why I am wearing white, and I don't really care.

Officer Twearp's Logbook

2010-06-18T09:05:00.000+02:00

Not too long ago, the "Astrocia", under the command of the highly decorated Officer Twearp, was sent on a mission to discover and study alien beings on far away planets. This is an excerpt from its logbook - 18/7/234/6 sidereal time - transmitted to the main base.

"... strange planet close to a dying source of light and heat, covered with liquid to a large extent, inhabited. Huge diversity in species, mostly limited to only a few continents. The only species so far found on all continents are small, six-legged bugs obviously called cockroaches and two-legged so-called humans who walk upright. We have not yet figured out which of them is the dominant species. Initially, we will concentrate on humans, since they have more technology. (Although it has to be mentioned in favor of the cockroaches that they are the only ones actually inhabiting ALL continents - the humans visit the coldest one only sporadically. Both have been on the planet's satellite, which they refer to as moon, several times.)
There seem to be different kinds of humans, mainly varying in color and living conditions. They are a highly spiritual life-form. Their main source of communication is a religious device called Teevee. They receive religious instructions around the clock, ranging from food processing to visions to insights into the lives of their priests and priestesses. Different kinds of humans seem devoted to different kinds of information coming from this Teevee - I assume they are divided and assigned by their leaders according to their special powers. Some watch elaborate discussions, in which they seem to take part by means of telepathic communication, since they do not interact with Teevee using their vocal cords.
Others spend all their time observing musical rituals with priestesses dancing in ecstasy or performing sacred mating rituals - sometimes with several partners at the same time. It seems that humans have achieved a way of life without shame or false morals. They perform all activities of their everyday lives like sacred rituals without hiding, in plain sight. They must be very noble individuals.
There are humans, whom we consider to be lesser individuals, who spend hardly any time in the aforementioned religious activities, and a few have no access to Teevee at all. They are designated to lesser works, providing clothes, preparing food or observing the outdoors perimeters.
As far as I understand, the less time humans have to spend outside, the more important they are. They are provided with processed food according to high technical standards by their Ministry of Nutrition, which runs by the name of Supermarket. This Supermarket, as the name already indicates, is superior to a normal market, where food is given out in its raw variation, with leaves and appendages of various kinds, and still has to be processed by the consumers themselves. It seems that Supermarket is not open to all, since some humans exclusively receive their food from normal markets and sometimes have to travel large distances to do so.
Early in the day, large groups of individuals leave their homes and travel to other locations, often in communities using means of transportation together, spend a certain amount of time in this other location and then return home. This is likely to be another spiritual experience, and not all humans are entitled to take part in this.
There are only very little priests and priestesses of super-regional importance. Everything they do seems to be of highest values, and some trusted humans are devoted to reporting on these spiritual leaders around the clock, following wherever they go. Their reports are either broadcasted on Teevee or printed in magazines, with immobile pictures. Those with the most urgent information go by the name of “yellow press” - yellow being the light of their main extraterrestrial energy source, the name emphasizes their importance. Especially younger humans, who still need spiritual guidance, worship these idols, they devote themselves to one or more of them and collect everything there is to know about these humans. The two most important spiritual leaders, according to our investigations, are a female called Britney Spears and a male by the name of Johnny Depp.
As for the cockroaches...”

[Transmission interrupted]

Into the woods

2010-06-16T10:08:00.001+02:00

Footsteps coming closer. The ground is soft and moist, but I can hear them – sense them. Soft vibrations dancing through the moist soil. I am startled. The sky is still dark blue, last stars sparkling, the slightest tinge of purple over the houses in the east. It is very early in the day, but my hunting time is almost over. I am a creature of the dark. And this is my hunting area. Over the years, their habitations have crept closer to the woods. There are more of them today, and they take up ever so much more space. In return, the woods have become tamer. Neater, more composed. I don’t like it, in general, I prefer my privacy – my solitude. Food, however, is obtained much more easily these days. Carefully, I creep closer to the path.

There it is, the source of the disturbance - a young woman, jogging. Blond hair, not too tall. She is not very fast, with an expression of concentration on her round face. Humans are funny beings. They have spent so much time inventing means to get from one place to the next faster, easier, with more noise, they even have huge metal birds that fly across the waters... and now they get up earlier than they need to, simply to run around the forest. Alone, sometimes in pairs, seldom more than three at once. They probably think they’re safe.

Coming closer, I realize that she is kind of chubby, in a tasty way. Her legs are enclosed in light blue sweat pants, the T-shirt is purple and green, with little black designs on it. She is very visible against the dark tree trunks. With some humans, you get the idea they are trying to hide. She is clearly not one of them. Her shoes are reflecting what little light finds its way down to the damp ground. How very careless of her, as if she had no natural enemies. They are not prepared to die, nor do they expect their lives to end suddenly. Even their warriors fight without fear because they know they will never have to face death - it will grab them by surprise, and everyathing will be over in seconds. Thinking of torture, the idea of some noble ceremony to make them pass from one shore to the next as true fighters fills them with terror.

It would be so easy to tackle her, take her to the ground, end it. Take her essence – to be honest, I am not a great meat eater. Her lifeless body might be found only a few hours later if left on the path, but it might be easily possible to drag her into the dark – just a few steps away from the path, and she will be invisible to her fellow humans, out of reach. How very odd. They won’t find her until her body is smelly and ripe in the hot summer air. Months will go by in which she will have disappeared as if by magic. They have so very, very limited perception.

The woman passes only a claw’s width from me. Her face is red, she is breathing heavily. No need to run for your life these days, I suppose. At least she is making an effort. Her breath ruffles the black fur on my shoulders as she passes the very tree I am hiding behind, and the urge grows. It would be so easy, and she is so – juicy. I can almost taste her, and she doesn’t have a clue. In the early morning forest, dark and cold and silent, she is like a blaze.

In her ears, there are these tiny plugs so many humans are fond of wearing. Music blasts from them directly into their brains, messing with their senses. This may be why she doesn’t realize the odd silence. Usually, there should be birds singing, doesn’t she know? The birds are gone. All animals have fled, they recognize me, they know how to stay alive. Humans don’t, they’re blind to the things that really matter.
The heat coming from her body remains a moment after she has passed, and I feel her steps vibrating up my spine as her legs carry her away from me. This short distance has already exhausted her, it seems. If anything, anyone came up to her, she would be too pumped to defend herself. I know that it’s not only us hunting them out here – strange enough, some of them are hunting as well. The things they do to each other are worse than everything I might come up with for her. After all, to me she would only be food. A nice bite, but food nevertheless. To them she would be… I am not quite sure.

Is she done already? At the next bend, she turns around, slower now, and jogs into my direction again. Her bouncy ponytail has become untangled, small strands interfering with her vision. She tries to blow them out of her face, unsuccessfully. Her hand comes up – it looks as if she chews her fingernails regularly – and wipes them away. She misses a step, stumbles and catches herself. Once more, I feel her warmth sweeping over my body. The soil’s vibrating becomes weaker as she runs away from me, towards the houses. The sun is barely visible over the roofs. The stars have disappeared. I sigh and retreat into the woods.

I spare her. This time.

Virus

2010-06-12T13:34:00.002+02:00

I am typing this just in case.

You know, it all began harmless enough. Now famous George Spinfas, father of modern security systems, had surgeons implant a microchip into his left palm, using which he was able to enter his high-security laboratories at any time without keys, ID cards or all that stuff. It worked like a charm. Soon everyone of his co-workers had his or her own chip - in the left hand for right-handers et vice versa. This means "the other way round". You get the picture. Those were trusted people.

They began experimenting with their new security system. Testing its limitations. One point they were concerned about - viruses. These nasty little buggers. They must have killed my hard disk at least a dozen times. And there is no antivirus software in the whole worrld to take care of all of them. One always escapes.

Yes, it happened. One of the chips got infected. But it was done on purpose, so they could see in which ways the virus would spread through the system. And they invented new security measures that prevented active programs from entering the actual laboratory system. They thought they had achieved something great, and sold the system to a huge international corporation.

Idiots.

My hand is itching, and I don't know how much longer I can take it. I'll try to keep it short. As you read this, please make sure to not touch the computer. It's for your own safety.

Soon, almost everybody in the world had their own microchips. Regular scans and check-ups were invented to prevent abuse. Of course, there were the usual scams and thefts - people would wake up in the alley with one hand less than they thought they should have, and in rare cases both hands were missing, if the thieves had been wrong the first time, but the governments agreed on high international standards for punishment. Identity theft by either copying or relocating personalized microchips was punished by immediate death. Special circuits were invented for this. You got caught with the wrong chip, you were fried. On the spot. Chip theft stopped shortly after the laws had been invented.

Check-up records from these years show that soon everyone carrying a chip was infected with one or another computer virus. Which was no problem. We had these special controls, you remember? The viruses were prevented from spreading to other electronic systems.

They spread inside the bodies instead. Mysterios deaths occurred. It took us long to realize what was going on. We searched for biological viruses, funghi, bacteria - nothing. Only by chance, when searching for a genetic disorder, did we stumble upon it. Yes, the genes had been changed. They had been - well, let's say "infected" with parts of computer codes. That's how they spread through bodies, sending out strange signals the biologic host did not understand. Major failures were the result. People died.

The first technologically induced STD. It was one giant joke. And we were the butt of it. The symptoms varied in the beginning, but soon there were only a few viruses left against which biology proved to be powerless. If you see someone with read eyes and a swollen face, run. If people start behaving strangely, avoid them. They may be infected. When the itching starts, they are close to their end. The new orders, with which their brains have been infected, force them to hide somewhere in the open, where their bodies will have served as food to various scavengers bvy the time they are found.

Special protected patrols have killed almost all the birds and most of the rats. We're trying to famish the virus, keep it from jumping from one host to the next. No unprotected - uhm, procreational activities. No kissing. No shaking hands. No pets. Chances are it's already too late, but we can't give up. Infected people are brought to special facilities, where they aid in searching medication to either cure or relieve.

They are trying to find new means of identification right this minute. I should be back at the laboratory, but I am not sure I will be of much help. And I don't want to be transferred to the facilities.

The itching is driving me mad...

Uninspiration

2010-06-10T19:36:00.004+02:00

Don't look at me like that. Your puppy eyes don't impress me. You're no inspiration today, for sure. I wonder why I ever thought you might help me become famous. I must have been mad to believe what they said about you folks!

Nothing happened. No streak of genius. My words are flat, uninspired. Dead. What kind of a writer *am* I? Staring at the screen for hours. I tried pen and paper, as you suggested, but - nada. Niente. Do I have to spell it out for you? Useless piece of flesh that you are. I wonder if I could trade you in for a parrot.

Repeat, please? Yes, yes, I know - you *tried*. Let me tell you something, you didn't try hard enough! You're such a lazy ass! Stop whining and come up with something! That's the only thing you know, hu? Please this, please that, I want... - you don't want anything, unless I permit it. And right now, all I want to hear from you is brilliance. You have five minutes to come up with something. I'll go make some coffee. Thank God I don't need you for that. Maybe I should put you in the machine, see if some hot caffeine does you any good.

What did you say? Unchain you? Stupid, I'll never let you go. If nothing else, at least you make for a nice decoration when I have friends over. And don't forget to sparkle. Or have you forgotten how to do that as well?

Pah. Muses are overrated.

Dietary supplements

2010-06-03T15:30:00.003+02:00

Jacky stood in the drugstore, indecisive. She had heard all kinds of things about dietary supplements, and most of them had not been good at all. Silicon dioxide was said to cause kidney stones, too much vitamin C could cause severe diarrhea, and some people had even died from vitamin poisoning! Until now, she had been convinced that balanced nutrition would supply her body with everything she needed.

Then her knees started to hurt. The doctors couldn't find anything, and the pain didn't get worse. But it was there, and it was getting on her nerves. Then Pam had proposed she should try special dietary supplements for joints. "Sportsmen take that stuff all the time!"

"You sure?"

"Of course, I've seen it in a documentary!"

They had talked a while, and although Jacky hadn't agreed to trying it out, she had thought about it for a night, and now here she was. But there were so many choices, and she was feeling dizzy already. The chemical smell and the pale light didn't help. Finally, she grabbed a box of pills from an established dietary supplement manufacturer and headed for the exit.

"A very good choice, if I may say so", commented the elderly woman sitting behind the cash register.

Jacky smiled. She didn't want to discuss her nutritional decisions with a stranger.

The woman carried on, "I take them myself, and my hip joints are back in their twenties, if you know what I mean!" She winked, bagged the pills for Jacky and sent her on her way with a cheery "Have a nice day!"

Oh boy, Jacky thought, I hope verbal diarrhea is no regular adverse reaction. She went straight home, where the dishes were waiting for her, and dropped herself on the couch to read the intructions that came with the pills.

Take one per day, with a glass of water, after a meal.

Didn't sound too difficult. She read on - wait, were they kidding? That stuff was made from sharks! Jacky shuddered. Disgusting. Did they think she was crazy? She'd throw them away immediately and stick with her health food. The pain would probably go away all on its -

Ouch.

Getting up from the couch proved to be rather difficult. Jacky clenched her teeth. Maybe she should give those pills a try. And when the box was empty, she'd try another sort. One without endangered species. She had bought these anyway, what good would it do if she threw them away now?

She decided it hadn't been too long since breakfast and swallowed one of the pills. Then she went to get some water. And maybe she should take two pills per day, just to be sure?

The results were fantastic. Within only a few days, the pain was gone. Jacky was surprised. She hadn't expected fast results. She took up her jogging routine again, half expecting the pain to return, but - nada. Her knees were like back in college. Not the slightest hint of discomfort.

Trevor, whom she'd been seeing for a few months by now, commentet on her change in mood and energy. He complimented her on her thighs, which were getting back in shape way faster than she had expected. They had a great time.

However, Jacky made a habit out of smiling with closed lips. It was strange getting used to it, but she had discovered adverse effects that had not been listed. Her teeth were... changing. It was almost as if they had increased in numbers. Yes, that sounded foolish, hence Jacky never talked about it to anyone. Not Pam, not the doctors. They'd probably sent her to an... institution. She hardly ever thought about the strange changes. Only when she smiled - with her lips closed.

And the special night finally came. She decided to invite Trevor over for dinner *and more*. They had chicken with rosemary potatoes and young peas, and homemade tiramisu for dessert. While Trevor was opening the second bottle of wine, Jacky went into the kitchen to take her dietary supplement pill. She was a bit nervous. But things went smooth. They listened to some music, talked, started kissing, and before she knew it they were up in her bedroom. Anticipating this, she had put clean white sheets on her bed this morning. Sleeping wrapped in white linnen made her feel... innocent.

She ended up sitting on top of him, wearing nothing but her unmentionables, and stared down at his chest. He looked up at her with a knowing smile. There was no going back.

Jacky smiled, showing her two perfect rows of teeth. He looked... delicious.

At least the cake is good

2010-05-27T11:48:00.004+02:00

They could have avoided it all. They chose to end their lives like this.

Calm settles over me as I look around the tiny chapel. The walls are mostly clean. A few splatters of blood and some blobs of brain near the altar, but apart from that - cleaning shouldn't take too long. If they discover it soon, that is. As far as I know, hardly anyone ever comes here. It's the reason why they chose this place, after all. They would have been gone by the time somebody noticed, god knows where.

Sandra knew exactly how I felt about her relationship with Brian. She shouldn't have told me. Her happiness made me sick. She had to know I was in love with him myself.

"It's a secret, but we need your help!"

I said yes and did everything they asked. And on that special day, I showed up and caved in their stupid, love-filled balloon heads. You could say, I burst the bubbles. Two hearty swings with the axe, that's everything it took. I am a farm girl, after all. I know how to work.

Sandra's dress doesn't look too good with all the blood. I know, it's a tradition, but white simply isn't the right color for every woman. It has made her look pale, and her hair is a mess. His head has dissolved, he's responsible, you could say, for getting brain all over the church. Maybe I overreacted a little?

I turn around, I don't want to look at them anymore. I guess I will have to leave. Too bad I haven't prepared anything. I will have to take their car and hope that Sandra's clothes fit me. And I should eat something before I leave, it's going to be a long night.

Something catches my eye. The wedding cake. Not too big, it was meant for only two people - or three, if they intended to share with the late preacher. Strawberry rum chocolate, my favorite.

Brilliant thieves

2010-05-20T19:16:00.003+02:00

"So, you're saying you're a thief?" The guy empties his glass. "I think you're a liar."

They've been sitting at the counter for more than an hour, and k´no one knows who started talking. Their lives are of no importance, neither are their plans for tomorrow. The air is heavy with smoke and the smell of spilled glasses. It will take a lot of hot water to get that stench off their hair and skin.

She smiles. "If you think so. I'm leaving now." She shrugs, grabs her purse and prepares to leave. "Of course, you could come along and see for yourself." He's really hot, and about the only thing she still needs tonight. Everything else - splendid. That's the word for it.

And he follows her. A few steps behind, as if they don't know each other. She makes her way towards the market place, with all its bars and cafés and restaurants, the place that never rests. Bustling with life. His eyes are on her back, she feels the gaze like a line of wet heat up and down her spine. She knows this might be the beginning of something marvellous.

A guy bumps into her. He's, like, fifty-ish, losing his hair faster than it can turn gray, trying to comb it over the bald spot in this ridiculous post-war fashion. The woman next to him is tiny and fragile, She may be younger than him or twenty years older. Hard to tell. She clings to his arm as he mutters excuses.

"Don't worry", she smiles reassuringly and puts on her calming, innocent face. What do they think she's going to do, beat them to pulp? My, she's just a little girl! She has to force back a giggle.

After the couple has resumed their way - back to their hotel, possibly - the guy catches up with her. "Let me see what you got. His wallet?" He seems excited. She knew he would go for this sort of thing, with his expensive, ragged jeans that he bought looking exactly like this and the worn leather jacket that may have belonged to an uncle or elder brother, and the hunger in his eyes for something - more...

"What would I do with his wallet? I've got something even better."

"A watch? Car keys?"

"Nope." Instead of telling, she opens her left hand just a little bit, and he can see something sparkling. No jewel has ever had that shine.

"What is that?"

"The old man's essence. Energy. His life, if you want. And I know just what to do with it. Want a bit?" She touches him gently with her right hand, fingers trailing from chest over stomach, down... he swallows, and the hunger she can see in his eyes has to hurt... and she knows she has been successful tonight. A life and a soul, and maybe a heart as well.

This is not a story...

2010-05-16T20:09:00.001+02:00

... but since I am so very happy with the dress I ordered a few weeks back, I thought I'd give you the oportunity to head over to my every-day-life German blog, where chances are you won't understand a thing I say, but can still admire the beautiful cherry dress that not even my presence can dishonor. (The first picture is of me on a usual Sunday morning before I've had my coffee. And yes, the BF loves me nevertheless. (^v^) )

LINK

Special magic

2010-05-13T12:30:00.001+02:00

Everything has been prepared for a peaceful Friday night at home when the doorbell rings. A look in the mirror - everything okay? Yes, perfect - and I open the door. I half know what to expect.

Andrew. Obviously in despair, and possibly drunk. My best friend since kindergarten. He looks at me with puffy eyes and says, "Nataly left me."

"What??!" I am surprised. I didn't think it would come this fast. His highschool sweetheart, beautiful Nataly. It always seemed they were meant to be together. But we all know that destiny can be a mean bitch, sometimes. I gather my thoughts, "Come inside, tell me what happened."

In the cupboard there are several bottles of wine, and I grab two glasses. "Sit down, have some of this. And now tell me."

Andrew, it seems, isn't listening. He has taken his wallet out of his jacket and looks at an old picture. The woman is beautiful, curly blond hair, radiant smile, violet-coloured eyes. I've only met Nataly a few weeks ago, and she is still as gorgeous. No surprise Andrew fell for her. It hurts me to see him in this stage.

At first I don't understand what he says.

"Repeat please?"

"She has been sleeping with the guy who sold our old house."

"I am so sorry to hear it! What are you going to do now?"

"Don't know. I was hoping I could crush on your sofa."

"You get the bed. And tomorrow we'll figure everything out. Come here", and I lean in to embrace him, but my elbow connects with the wine glass in his hand, and a gush of the good red one spills down his white shirt.

He puts the glass down and grabs for some napkins, "Shit, that's my best shirt!"

"Don't worry, I'll get a towel and some salt", I assure him and hurry out of the living room. "Get off that shirt, we'll get the stain out in no time."

I grab a clean towel from the kitchen and go into my reading room. That's the last place where I used salt. It's a tiny room, more a closet with a window, and the walls can't be seen because of the book shelves. I had them made especially for this room, and they touch the ceiling. In the middle of the room, there is a small coffee table, covered with a piece of vibrant red cloth. Two red candles are sitting in the middle, on the left and right side of a heart-shaped piece of glass. The table is covered in fresh rose leaves, which perfume the air with a sweet scent.

There's the salt, as I remembered. I used it to draw a circle on the ground. It's surprisingly easy to clean salt out of a carpet, easier than sand, and I like the idea of a purifying circle for my rituals.

Standing in the door frame, salt in hand, I look at the table once more. In front of the candles, there are two pictures lying on the cloth. One is of Nataly, the same Andrew has in his wallet, the other one is ripped out of a newspaper. The headline said, "Real Estate Manager Wins Hay Lottery".

I put the salt down and light some more incense. Would be a shame to let everything go to waste now. Then I return to help the now shirtless Andrew with the wine stain.

He is thoroughly shaken. "I always thought, the... the only thing that could come between Nataly and... me would be an evil spell or sssomething." His words are becoming slurry.

I put my arm around him and snuggle closer. Just good friends comforting each other on a Friday night, with two bottles of wine. It's completely innocent. After all, everybody knows that witches don't exist, right?

Books on Camel Backs

2010-05-07T11:20:00.003+02:00

The buzzing of the flies was the only sound heard in the small hut. It was hot, and a dusty breeze brought the smell of goat dung and someone cooking rice and spicy roots.

Nafasi looked down at Kanzi's weak frame. Her baby girl. She remembered exactly what it had been like - her first child after years of marriage, and when she held the tiny bundle in her arms, she had already suspected it would be her only child. She had loved her nevertheless. Rajabu had been angry with her for not giving him an heir, but their life had been peaceful. She had watched Kanzi grow up, play, learn, work, go away and marry. Then the great famine had come, and Kanzi was pregnant. The outcome had been inevitable.

Nafasi tried to remember only the good times. Her dark skin stretched tight across her bones. She had always been a strong woman, and the years had imprinted the stories of her working years on her frame. Their life had been hard, filled with need rather than gratitude, and between hard work and the short hours of sleep there had been little else.

One day kept floating to the surface of Nafasi's memory. The library camels had come to the tiny local school, and Kanzi had sneaked away from their goats. She had always been a curious little girl. A stranger read stories to the children, and two goats had run away in the mean time. At night, after Rajabu's anger had receded, Kanzi declared, "I want to go to school."

Nafasi had been busy preparing dinner. "You can't go to school. I need your help."

"But I want to read?"

"What good is reading, anyway? You would only get distracted, forget your work."

"You know I wouldn't. I would learn and become rich."

"Women don't become rich. And men don't like smart women. It's better if you stay at home." Nafasi looked over her shoulder to make sure Rajabu hadn't heard a word of their conversation. He would only get more upset.

Kanzi was stubborn. Nafasi tried to reason with her, but the girl would not let go of her dream. "I want to read. I want to learn" was all she would say.

"Wouldn't you rather want a new dress? I could get cloth and make you one."

"I want to read."

"Come on. Wouldn't you want to go to the cinema when we come to the next big town?"

"No, I want to read." Kanzi stomped her little feet on the ground. Red dust covered her thin legs.

Nafasi hesitated. "Well..." She had saved money for a long time to be able to buy this. Rajabu loved sweets, and she had hoped to surprise him one day, when his mood was especially dark. Now she had to change her plans. "What do you want more - books or chocolate?"

Kanzi's eyes grew huge. "You don't have chocolate."

"I do, and it's yours. If you promise to stop with these stupid ideas."

Later that night, Kanzi sat in a corner of their hut, licking the last bits of chocolate from cheap tin-foil. Of course the chocolate had molten several times since Nafasi had bought it, and dust had crept into the foil. Nevertheless it was a rare treat. And Kanzi was a girl of honor, she never mentioned her desire to read again.

A tear slid down Nafasi's wrinkled cheek. She remembered her little girl, and how proud she had been that day that her daughter would take her responsibilities and forgo her own foolish dreams. She couldn't help but wonder whether things might have been different.

Chances

2010-05-05T10:57:00.005+02:00

When I returned to my locker after swimming my 60 lengths, my stuff was gone. Imagine my surprise - I fumbled to get the yellow plastic bracelet with the key off my arm, put the key in the lock, unlocked... and none of my stuff was there.

This doesn't mean that the locker was empty. The stuff inside simply didn't belong to me. I checked the numbers on bracelet and locker. You never know, sometimes a key fits several locks at a place. I mean, the number of key variations is limited, no? They matched. And now that I thought of it, I remembered that I had put my clothes here. There were the letters someone had scratched into the cheap plastic surface of the door. A.M. - I wondered what that was supposed to mean?

I started freezing. No surprise there, I was dripping wet and wrapped only in a damp towel, with my hair clinging to my back like black water snakes.

Tentatively, I took the clothes out of the locker. They were my size. Didn't even look too bad. What could I do? I took them to a changing cubicle and started to dress. After all, I couldn't run around in my bikini all the time. Outside, it was cold, and it was a long way to my hotel. Maybe I could talk to somebody on my way out, leave my phone number, and wait till they sorted everything out. All I wanted to do was fall into my bed. Oh wait, my phone was in my purse. Which had disappeared.

Which brought me to the next problem - no hotel keys. The closes fit a little loosely over my boobs, but I didn't look exactly like a scarecrow. I even found a tiny hairbrush in the purse. My lucky day, obviously, at least I got to borrow woman's clothes. Rummaging through a foreigner's stuff also left me with a wallet, complete with ID and a set of keys with an address tag.

The pool attendant didn't understand a word I was saying. No surprise there, since I don't speak Japanese. And he pretended not to know any English. He only looked at me, smiled and raised his hands in this "I'm innocent" way. What could I do? I left.

Outside, I grabbed a cab, conveniently parked right outside the building, and stopped. Where would I go? To my hotel, trying to explain the whole weird situation to someone who didn't speak my language? A coffee shop?

The driver looked at me expectantly. I told him to drive me to my hotel. As soon as I had everything sorted out, I would return the money to the person's wallet. My thoughts raced ahead. What to do next? Call my bank, cancel my cards. Fill out loads of paperwork for new ID, passport and everything. Maybe my mobile company could trace my phone? Naw, they'd probably decline and tell me it was impossible.

To distract myself from all the problems awaiting me, I took a closer look at the ID card I had found in the purse. The stranger looked slightly like me - or I like her - only with shorter hair and glasses. Okay, her jawline was a little bit more delicate than mine, but - no one would notice. A strange thought crossed my mind. I shook my head, but it wouldn't disappear. And - why not?

"I changed my mind", I told the taxi driver and showed him the address tag. "Take me there, please." Then I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

From that moment, things only got worse.

A slice of life

2010-04-30T08:53:00.000+02:00

This is the cycle of life, he thinks as he watches the ocean. Beer bottles returning to shore, no matter how far you throw them. They always come back. At first it seems as if they are heading right for the firmament, then they reconsider and fall back into the water, the splashing hardly audible over the murmur of the waves.

He has spent all day at the beach, drinking and thinking and drinking some more. Went here straight from the airport. Didn’t even take the time to find a hotel. He was confused. Overwhelmed. People don’t come here to die, he thinks, they come here to live. Or at least that’s what they tell you in the adds. No sick or old or fading people, only happiness and sunshine. Tanned, muscular bodies, giggles, curves – the whole nine yards.

His father came here to die. The last place on earth they would have searched for him. The postcard was in the mail just a few days back , with a picture of the most beautiful sunset cliché – “I decided to try something new, since the doctors said they wanted no piece of my skinny ass… please don’t tell your mom, it will be too late anyway. Come and pick me up when I'm done.” – the original words. His father had always been very straightforward, up to the point of being rude. Once at a family reunion he had made Aunt Margie cry. It had been a memorable occasion for the rest of the family, who had always been afraid of this impressing woman. And now he had simply left the hospital, with his tiny emergency suitcase, and headed straight for the airport. Crazy old guy. Spent about two weeks here, it seems, exploring the island.

There are no bills to pay, no loose ends to tie up. His father was very thorough. Paid everything in cash. Several people will probably remember the old man, fondly, his generosity and the bright smile, as if he had all the time to see the rest of the world as well. No one would expect that this was the first time he ever left his home country – the only time. He came here to watch the incredibly blue sea, rivaled only by the sky stretching above it, which now is a tent sprinkled with myriads of sparkling stars, fresh and lovely against a sky that could never be described as black.

He smiles as he thinks about it. There are worse places in the world to die, really. Tomorrow there will be lots of paperwork waiting for him, but this is it, tonight, here, just like this. No family, no responsibilities. His mother will probably be at home right now, rummaging through the drawers, searching for a testament – hoping for a fortune to miraculously turn up somewhere. She is a very practical woman. Maybe she did not love her husband after forty-three years of marriage. Maybe she got used to the thought of him dying, of being alone, while her husband was slowly eaten up from the inside. Pancreatic cancer. Now that it’s over, everything will be easier. More peaceful. Kind of.

As he wanders along the beach, he imagines his father on his last day on earth, taking in the smells of this exotic place, luxuriating in the sunshine, tasting strange fruit. Flirting with the women – not only the beautiful. He used to like women, simply because they were women. And he used to laugh a lot.

He knows his father was not alone when he died. Someone placed a call to the hospital. Someone helped him during these last few hours, administered the painkillers. Held him, hopefully. Showed him the ocean – far from home. Home, with its dry lands and greenish-brown patches of grass. The place where their house was, where no one ever really lived.

His father must have loved it here. He made a choice and stuck to it. Sent him the postcard. Gave his second son the chance to see something new, between working at the garage and fighting in court over the right to see his own kids. “There must be more to life than this.” Sounds like a cliché, hu? But the old man was so right.

The young man buries his toes in the sand. Thinks of fresh exotic fruit, sliced and ready to be savored. Thinks of chocolate-colored women. Smiles. The sand tickles under his feet, then is washed away by the warm ocean waves.

Snapshot

2010-04-22T22:53:00.005+02:00

It's inside me, gnawing and growling if I pay too much attention.

I try to ignore it as good as I can. It's dangerous. Isntead, I concentrate on my job. I am a photographer.

Everything started pretty harmless. My parents always said I had a vivid imagination. And not too many friends. But it was okay, I played with imaginary people. That's probably still one of their favorite tales to tell, I guess. I haven't seen them in a while.

They tried to make up for it, by buying a hamster. The hamster died shortly after.

They didn't give me another pet. But that was okay, I had taken pictures of it. You know, I had this tiny camera. Nothing fancy, not like those you can buy today, with this digital stuff and all. It was a birthday present.

I guess I did quite well in school, but still I had no friends. And slowly I came to realize what my imaginary friends were. IT. I heard it at night, just out of reach.

Sometimes I thought my parents were scared of me, when I brought along homeless pets. You might say I collected them. Parts of them, that is.

These days, I have a fancy digital camera, of course. However, I also still have this collection. Pictures of my hamster, hanging dead from the ceiling fan. Last pictures of my parents, terror in their eyes. Together with several boxes filled with furry ears and tails.

No big deal

2010-04-16T08:50:00.003+02:00

You told me to get over it.

It's a peaceful place, with plenty of flowers, vibrant green. At this time of the year, it seems as if life could go on forever. The river fills the air with soft murmur and the smell of sweet flowing water. The river bank is made of tiny, light gray pebbles, worn smooth. This spot is hidden from the world, I can't even see the ships going by, on their way to the ocean. Sometimes the cry of a bird tells me that I am not the only person in the world. The sun is shining, and there is no reason to ever go back.

I put my belongings on a flat stone. It looks like a fairy table, completely flat and perfectly oval-shaped. My phone has been switched off for days. The wallet is almost empty, except for an old poem I once found in a newspaper and a picture of my brother. A ring, a barrette and my glasses. A whole life, in such a tiny space.

The river is singing to me. Rays of sunlight are dancing over its surface. It's a peaceful place.

I will be over it soon.

[Announcement]

2010-04-14T11:00:00.001+02:00

I know there has not much been going on around here lately, and the bad news is - it will probably become even less during the next few weeks. I have important exams ahead of me, due in about 4 weeks, and I will need all my free time for my studies. This means, unless I can steal some office time for writing, the dust will settle in this blog. Sorry!

(But: I'll be back.)

Late night train

2010-04-13T09:00:00.002+02:00

It is late when Peter finally leaves the office. The streets are empty, pools of yellowish light under the few street lanterns that still work, waves of darkness in-between. It is still warm outside, after a day of sunshine and happiness for those who could afford to stay at home, go to the beach or meet friends in the park. For those who have to work in an office without air-conditioning… well, Peter's mood could not be much worse. He isn't even sure he'll still find a train to catch, for in these parts of town public life still usually ends at eight in the evening, at the latest.

His briefcase is heavy, the project has to be ready and presentable by Monday. One more weekend spent at the desk, in front of his out-dated computer with the flickering screen. Maybe after this he'll finally get a raise and be able to afford a new PC, maybe one of those MacBooks he has heard so much about. He could really need a change right now.

The station is empty, except for gangs of trash surrounding and probably threatening the helpless trash can. Peter smiles. His mother always said his imagination was overactive. However, you have to find something to cheer you up when everything else goes down the drain. He'd never tell a soul, but he keeps making up little stories about the people he meets. The best are about his boss finally getting what he deserves, by karma or in hell or whichever possible way.

Humming in the distance. They're probably cleaning the streets with one of those fancy brush-cars. Or no, wait, isn't it coming closer! This may be his lucky day, after all! And there, as if by magic, are the lights, coming closer, slowing down, and the train stops at the platform, one door right in front of him, and Peter gets on the train immediately.

It's refreshingly cool inside. At this time of the day, the rail car is almost empty, and the few people sitting as far away from each other as possible look as if they could really need a change in life. They look numb, white skin, hollow eyes, no one's moving. Peter holds his briefcase closer to himself, almost hugging it. That guy with the baseball cap over at the other end of the compartment might be trouble. Fortunately, it will be only about thirty minutes before Peter will reach his destination. He sits down as far away from the rest of the people as possible, leans back and closes his eyes.

An old woman enters through the back door of the compartment and approaches each of the passengers with pleading eyes and a plate with a few coins on it. An overweight woman fumbles for money in her purse, embarrassed by the presence of the beggar. “Thank you”, the old woman says and limps on. Her voice sounds as if a file were dragged across rusty metal. She comes to Peter, charm bracelets tinkling as she shakes her arm in front of him. Peter pretends being asleep and tries to ignore her as she snorts and limps on. Long dirty skirts sweep the floor. Her gait is strange, something must be terribly wrong with her legs. Peter feels a pang of guilt, but can't muster the strength to get up and follow the woman. Well, she's probably only acting her part to get more pity - and money - out of unsuspicious, hard-working people. His guilt is quickly transformed into anger, and he turns towards the window again.

He must have fallen asleep, then, because he couldn't remember the train having stopped, and looking through the grimy window next to him, he wasn't sure he recognized the surroundings. Had he missed his station? Surely not, he couldn't have slept more than a few minutes, he was sure of this, although one or two of the people seemed to have gotten off somewhere.

Right this moment, the train enters a tunnel, and the lights turn off. Peter is startled. A tunnel? There is no tunnel on his way to work, and surely none on his way back home. Shit, he must have slept through his station. And why are those friggin' lights off?

He's shivering. That's definitely overdoing air conditioning. And the train speeds on, leaves the tunnel, lights come to life again, and when Peter looks around in an attempt to clear his head, the guy with the baseball cap is gone as well. What the hell?! He's sure he saw him just a moment ago. Maybe the creep is hiding somewhere, attempting to mug Peter, now that they're both alone. No matter what happens, the next station he'll get off. Take a cab, get home in safety, not think about the extra money he will have spent.

Peter gets up off his seat, keeping an eye on his surroundings, and approaches the door closest to him. They have to stop any minute now. His knees are weak, and he feels as if he is coming up with a cold or something. Great, the last thing on this damn planet that he needs right now. He can already see it, working through his days and nights, no break, all the while sipping hot peppermint tea. He hates peppermint tea.

The loudspeakers come to life with a nasty cough and hiss, “Dear customers, we are about to reach our final destination. We thank you for trusting in this marvel of modern public transportation. Please be prepared to leave your lives behind.” The voice sounds roughly familiar, metallic and screeching. Where has he heard this voice before?

Peter stops in his tracks. The old woman! But, that's impossible, isn't it.

The train slows down, comes to a halt, too, and the doors open. Outside, there is nothing but darkness.

Late night snack

2010-04-09T09:04:00.005+02:00

The green numbers on the alarm clock told her it was 01:37. At night. In the early morning. Whatever. The thing was, she couldn't sleep. He was making strange noises again. Smacking - as if he was eating something

She was so very tired. Since they had moved in together, he had kept her awake every night by making various sounds. Right now, he probably dreamed of pizza or something. She stared out the open window. His warm breath caressed her bare back. The smacking continued.

Outside, the trees were moving gently. It looked like a beautiful summer night, full moon high in the sky, but it was only March, and bitter cold. She never slept with the window closed. Sometimes, they would wake up and find a squirrel in their bedroom, ranting.

What a strange smell...

She grabbed her blanket to cover more of her shoulders and stopped mid-motion. Something growled at her. What the hell?? She turned around, a gush of cold air slapping her back.

A small, misshapen shape was sitting on him. The stain on his T-shirt looked black in the moonlight. His chest looked wrong... caved in. The smell grew worse.

The thing looked at her with huge yellow eyes and bared sharp, tiny teeth. It looked almost like one of the gargoyles they had admired in Paris last fall, on their honeymoon trip. It's skin was covered with dark lumps, like a toad's.

Tentatively, she moved her arm. The thing jerked away from her. It seemed afraid.

"Tshk!" she hissed. The thing jumped off the bed and hurried out the bedroom door. The room was silent once more. He didn't move.

She turned around and snuggled under her blanket. Finally, she would be able to sleep.

[Announcement]

2010-04-08T11:07:00.005+02:00

On Saturday, April 10th, 2010, 12.45p.m. EST (which would be 6.45p.m. CEST - you'll have to figure out all the rest for yourself, sorry, I'm lazy today :-) ) you may possibly - if all the technical stuff works and I don't get nervous or blow up the notebook by chance - witness me being interviewed online over there

The complete event will start about 45min earlier, if you want to learn more about the other, possibly far more brilliant authors who were also included in the anthology.

And if you want to help me to become famous *exaggerating*, make sure we're at the top of the amazon.com list (I was told there is a list and it is supposed to be important), head over to amazon on Saturday and look at the book or add it to your wish list (or maybe even buy it).

PS: I am absolutely thrilled that there is a picture at the top of this post! (^v^)

Worlds on paper

2010-04-02T15:42:00.003+02:00

"... and since it is a very dangerous place, I am not certain how much longer I will be able to stay at my hacienda and take care of my precious cocoa plants. Last week, the military showed up and announced, in no uncertain terms, that they were going to nationalize all my plantations and send me to jail. They think that I may be a British spy and a traitor. I have sent my wife to her family, together with the kids. They should be safe there. However, I need to stop now, and hope this letter will find you in good health and safety. Best wishes - Timothy"
He paused, pen in hand, and thought for a moment. The traffic outside his tiny apartment was noisy, the air too hot and filled with many different fragrants and smells.
Then he added, "PS: If you do not hear from me again, don't fear. Most likely everything is going to be fine."
There it was. A complete life on paper. On some days, his penpals were the only thing that kept him from ending it all.
He looked at the other letters awaiting reply, stacked on the edge of his worn desk. From the hallway, he could smell the fish stew his landlady was cooking. Fish, every Friday. He hated fish.
He sighed, took the next letter and spent a few moments rereading it carefully. Then he took out a white sheet of paper and started writing.
"Dear Lydia,
How are you doing? Thank you very much for your letter. Since you ask, my husband has recovered well from his injury, and things are going splendid in my little flower shop..."

Human

2010-03-30T10:22:00.005+02:00

On the day that I turned eight, my father took me aside and said, "You have to understand, you can't be human."

"But I want to!"

"Sorry, hon."

I clutched my teddy bear and decided father was wrong I would be human. All I had to do was try harder.

It was the perfect birthday for a little girl. I got the teddy bear - looked just like new, except for the missing eye - and a big maggot cake. I loved the wriggling and the squishiness, and they glistened beautifully with all the candles lit. My grandmother had prepared a little scene for the whole family, showing off her abilities in scaring the intestines out of all living beings. I enjoyed every moment of it. But in the back of my head, my father's voice kept saying, "You can't be human."

I went to bed happy that day, kissed and hugged by my whole family. In the living-room, I could hear them talking quietly, and I couldn't understand what they were saying, but it was a soothing background to my dreams.

I dreamed of being human.

Happily ever after

2010-03-29T15:30:00.003+02:00

... and lived happily ever after.

Two weeks after the wedding, one beautiful Saturday morning, the princess fumed. It was early, the sun was only just coming up, and the guy whom she was married to - the prince formerly known as frog - had been out for a night with the guys. He had come home and seized all the blankets. She had woken up because she was shivering so violently her teeth were shattering, and the sound invaded her own dreams.

She tripped over a pile of cloth and almost fell. Her morning gown got trapped on the corner of the bed and ripped with the dry sound of exquisite rose-colored silk. She cursed under her breath, then began cleaning a safe path from the bed to the door. His clothes were spread all over the castle. Oh my goodness, how long had he been wearing these socks? They stank like dead fish! That's what you get for marrying a frog!

Yawning, she stumbled into the kitchen. Today, the pink pots and pans couldn't cheer her up, and the milk had gone sour. No cornflakes today. For a moment, she considered making pancakes - only for herself, of course - but she was hungry, and cooking simply took too long. Grumpy, she took a low-fat yogurt out of the fridge - pink, of course - and moved on to the living-room.

More clothes. Dirty guy clothes. And who had puked on the carpet? Certainly Frog-Face had fed her chihuahua with bananas again. Spike loved bananas, but they made him sick every time. And Mister Long Tongue thought this was soooo funny!

The princess grabbed a towel and began to clean the mess away. She wondered how long "ever after" was supposed to be.