Catherine by Chantel Marshall 

Catherine was having a disastrous week; she was expected in London to do a promo on her book and the builder had just called to say his team was running late with the renovations on her London apartment.

“How did this happen, Jim?” She all but screamed down the phone, brushing her long chestnut hair back from her face.

“I’m truly sorry Cath, we had some delays with the materials you wanted. Look, I know you’re angry, but I am chasing the supplier every day.” Jim, her foreman explained.

“Yes, but in the real world delays effect my life.” Catherine answered closing her pale green eyes.

“Cath, I am trying my best, the marble you wanted isn't factory stock, it had to be specially ordered. I am pushing real hard here.”

Catherine knew it was pointless coming to blows over this, he had warned her that the marble was not readily available.

“Ok, how long?”

“The best I’ve got is two weeks.”

She wanted to scream all over again, no she wanted to break something, preferably parts of Jim’s body.

“You’re joking, two weeks!” She was going to have to come up with something.

“Jim, you and I have done this before. Please you have to help me.”

“I am moving as fast as I can. Listen give me a few days, let me check again and come back to you.”

“Fine and you had better call me tomorrow.” Hitting the kill button before he could reply.

Walking over to the window she looked out over Central Park, the view was breath taking, a sea of green, a living thing. It always relaxed her, but not today.

Best get this over with, she would call her publisher and postpone the book signing, or she could fly into London for the day and leave after, no use staying in London with nowhere to go.

It was a very strange habit of hers, she never stayed in hotels.

Her father had owned a chain of Hotels, nothing flash, comfortable family accommodation, the type your Aunt Suzy and the kids stayed in when they went to Disney.

Catharine, being the only child of Arthur and Edith Flemming, a quaint couple, spent her childhood being dragged from one hotel to the next, ad nauseam, until she was old enough to go her own way.

And she had promised herself she would never set foot in a hotel again.

Five years ago her parents had died in a car accident, an out of control driver, coming home from a stag party had slammed into their station wagon, killing them instantly, of course, the other driver had walked away with only a few scratches.

But Catherine had hired a good lawyer and “Mr. Scratches” was now doing 10 years for manslaughter.

It was a sad time for her, even to this day she missed her parents, they had always been there, just a phone call away.

She had lived in a daze for months after the accident, it was only by the grace of God and Maggie and Jen’s efforts that Catherine had finally started to live again.

One day her father’s lawyer, Mr. Chapman had come to see her and told her she was the sole owner of all the Hotels.

Strange, at the time she was shocked, they had always been her parents’ Hotels.

Mr. Chapman was a calm, gentle person. He held her hand through all her tears and explained all the different options to her, telling her to take her time in making a decision.

The next day she had called him with instructions to sell it all, it had been her parents dream and she could not live it without them.

She had made a substantial amount of money, who knew budget Hotels were in such high demand, but her father had been a shrewd businessman and all his hotels were in prime locations.

For the first two years, after their death, she only existed, life was streaming past her and she did not have the strength to hop on and tag along for the ride.

Then she started writing and all the loneliness and sorrow lifted, she lost herself in other people and slowly but surely crawled her way back to the light.

It had been Maggie and Jen who had sent her first book to the publisher.

When his office called for a meeting she had experienced so many different emotions at the same time; shock, happiness, elation, vindication and finally mind blowing joy.

Maggie and Jen were her best friends, they had met when they worked at Starbucks and were known as the “Three Miss-Tears”, being that Catherine was still raw over the loss of her parents and would cry most of the time and then Maggie would cry and Jen would not be far behind.

She had wondered if you could cry forever, surely the body had to run out of tears, why did they just keep falling?

As time went by and she could manage a day without crying she realized the body did stop crying; it was when the heart finally understood what the mind knew.

Walking back into the kitchen she picked up her cell, time to call Richard, her publisher.

“Hello” Came his baritone voice.

“Richard, its Catherine.”

“Cath, how are you darling?”

“I’m fine thanks. I am calling regarding the book signing next week.”

“Yes” his voice sounding a bit strained.

“I can’t make it, can you move it?”

Bolting out of his chair Richard was speechless. “Move the book signing?!” Was the woman completely crazy?

Finding his voice Richard stammered. “Why... what changed?”

Richard’s mind was going into overdrive. Did she want to pull out of the deal, could she pull out of the deal? His thoughts were racing.

“Well I don't have anywhere to stay.” Catherine was saying

“I thought the renovations on my place would be done, but there has been a delay...”

Richard cut her off. “No where to stay? But I can book you into a hotel.”

“Richard, you and I discussed this, remember? I told you I won’t stay in a Hotel.”

She didn't want to stay in Hotels. It’s were she’d spent her childhood and it made her unbearably sad.

Richard groaned, dragging his hand through his short brown hair, tugging at the ends.

He remembered now, she had said she would not be staying in any Hotels. At the time it had struck him as odd, but he was so excited about the deal he had not given it another thought. She had also said she had a place in London and it wouldn't be a problem.

“Let me get this straight. You can’t come because your place isn’t ready?” Richard said sitting down again.

“Yes. I had the apartment gutted and the work was coming along nicely. Most of it is done but the bathrooms are not installed.”

Richard released the breath he had been holding. Hearing the words ‘coming along nicely and mostly done.’

“So that’s ok, if the work is mostly done what is the problem?”

“Well maybe you can, but I can’t move into an apartment for five days without any bathrooms.” Catherine's voice blasted through his mobile.

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers he said.

“I can’t move the book signing now. Everything has been confirmed.”

Catherine was talking again. “Well then I am going to need a place to stay and not a Hotel.”

Richard tried one more time. “This is a huge deal, Cath. Surely you can meet me halfway on this?”

“No, Richard. I told you from the start, it’s not like I am dropping this on you at the last minute.”

This woman was joking right! Because that is exactly what she was doing.

Tugging at his hair again he sighed. He needed to end this conversation because she was doing his head in.

“Fine. Give me an hour.”

Not waiting for her response he ended the call.

What a mess. If this was any of his other authors he would have told them to get lost, but the sales on Catherine's book were so phenomenal that he couldn't just walk away. She had pumped much needed revenue back into his company and the hype had put him back on the map as one of the

leading publishers in the city. Taking deep calming breathes he thought, she was a bit strange, but when were authors not strange. It was half of their appeal.

Picking up his mobile again, he opened the contacts. There had to be somebody he knew who could put her up for five days.

Scrolling down the list he stopped on Daniel Stevens. Now there was a blast from the past. When was the last time he had spoken to Daniel? Maybe a year or two ago? They had been mates in Uni. Then the world had stepped in and they had drifted apart, still keeping in touch but less and less as time had gone by.

He knew Daniel was some hot shot dealing with Corporate Computer Security, jet setting all over the world. It was definitely worth a try and if luck was on his side Daniel might not be in Town next week and Miss “I don't stay in hotels” could crash at his place.

Pushing the call button Richard sat back, willing Daniel to pick up.

“Stevens.” The familiar voice spoke into Richards ear.

“Daniel! Mate, its Richard.”

“Rich, buddy? Long time.”

“Yes I know, sorry. Just been busy.”

“Tell me about it. I have work coming out of my ears at the moment.”

“I need a favour Daniel.”

“Ok shoot.”

“One of my authors must be in London next week for a book signing and she needs a place to stay. I know its short notice, but she is a big deal. Can she stay at your place? Are you town?”

There was silence on the line.

“Next week you say. No I’m not in London next week. Hold up Rich, you doing something naughty here?”

“No mate. She’s a client, with a strange rule about not staying in Hotels and I have a rule of never taking my work home.”

There was laughter at the other end.

“Yes, taking work home is always a nightmare. Ok lets meet up, I am here till Thursday. Should be gone most of next week.”

“Thanks Daniel, you are a life saver. I can swing past your place tomorrow night and sort out the details.”

“Cool, look forward to it. By the way Rich, you are going to owe me big time for this.”

Shaking his head Richard said. “I know, see you tomorrow.”

Richard ended the call and relaxed his whole body.

Alexandra Jones short story 

Angie found herself in the kitchen with absolutely no recollection as to why she was there. Faint lines formed on the brow of her pale forehead as she strained to remember. It was no good she shrugged whatever the reason had gone from mind, floated away into the ether. Can’t have been that important.

She was still recovering from a nasty cold that had seen her spend the last week in bed like some Victorian heroine stricken with consumption. She had made it out of bed today but still felt debilitated by a lingering lethargy that had stolen her essence and left only a muted version. Her frustration was inversely proportional to her physical weakness; Inertia was not a comfortable state of being for Angie who normally buzzed though her days filling her time with an array of tasks and ventures.

Absentmindedly she walked around the kitchen island, she was so petite that gravity had never had much hold on her and so she appeared to merely glide along on air. Her fingers delicately caressed the cold, dark marble and she gave a shiver; so cold she thought. Perhaps she had come in to make a hot drink, a small almost subconscious need would have been easy to forget. As she walked slowly over to the kettle though she realised that she had no thirst or hunger for that matter so that wasn’t it. why she was in here?

Shrugging she moved towards the large glass sliding doors that gave her an enviable view of the gardens. As she gazed out of the window the resounding first strike bought her attention round to the ornate grandfather clock in the corner by the door. The intricately decorated and time worn face told her it was 11am and the strikes continued to echo around her head as she counted them silently. The clock was not an heirloom as such having not been passed down through generations to them but it was the first thing her husband had bought after they had signed the papers for this house and it was their heirloom to pass on to Sam.

She smiled at the though of Simon, they had met at school and been together ever since. They had married young when they were both just twenty two with only a handful of GSCE’s, love and an exact plan of what they wanted to achieve in life to start them off. They were equally ambitious and determined to forge a better life for themselves and their children. Simon had a shrewd intelligence that the school system had failed to nurture and she a creative and artistic mind. It was a perfect union and they had soon started their own web design business and enjoyed rapid success. Ten years later they had been able to buy this house, their dream home, set in the beautiful remote countryside of Hampshire with a kitchen bigger that the council flats they had both grown up in.

Angie had spent the last two years renovating and redecorating their home until it was perfect. During those ten years they had welcomed their son Sam into their lives and the only mar on an otherwise heavenly existence had been their inability to grow their family.

Returning her gaze to the gardens she marveled at the beauty of the crisp white snow covering the landscape. It covered the garden creating like an optical illusion, making it difficult to picture the true geospatial presence beneath. Angie loved her garden, just the feeling of open space and peace. It was here more than inside the house that she truly felt how far she had come from her cramped childhood home where the relentless cacophony of her parents and siblings in a small three bedroom flat had overwhelmed her at times. There had been nowhere to escape to other than her own head but it was how she had first fallen in love with Art. She would become so consumed by her work that she could almost channel the energy of her surrounding kin into her artwork and find a release.

Now though she had so much space and tranquility in their rural idyll that she was occasionally gripped with a fear of the silence and loneliness so intense that she felt all the oxygen had been sucked out of the air and that she could no longer breathe.

Today was Saturday and Simon had taken Sam to the football. Ordinarily she would have been with them but now there would be an empty seat beside her son and husband. Simon held a debenture at the Chelsea ground ‘Stamford Bridge’ and they went to most of the home matches. Sam cherished these days when he had both his mum and dad to himself. They would watch the match and then have something to eat, which served as both a treat and a means to avoid the worst of the post match traffic. They would make it home for about 8pm to tuck an exhausted Sam into bed. Hours to kill yet before they’re home, may as well go back to bed decided Angie. She watched as a murder of crows flew over the garden, then turned and made her way upstairs to her bedroom.

Roused from her slumber by a noise downstairs, Angie rolled over to look at the clock on her bedside table. Have I slept that long that they are home already? The clock told her it was only 4.30pm though and she froze, heart fluttering like a hummingbird in her chest. Are they home early? Apprehensively she listened to the sounds trying to determine if they conjured the picture of Simon and Sam moving around or whether it was someone else.

Apprehension gave way to terror as the disturbing creak of the third stair up indicated the ascent of just one person. The hesitant steps told her frantic mind that this was not her family who would have charged up the stairs to her. Forcing herself to act she moved off the bed and into her dressing area. In her flight she caught a framed photograph with her hip. It slammed onto the polished oak floor; glass shattering, spraying the floor with tiny shards, announcing her. She held her breath as she tried to secrete herself amongst her dresses. The footsteps on the stairs stopped. Angie prayed that she would hear them turn and go back down; but the steps started up again at a running pace. She stifled a sob as she heard him, it sounded like a him, turn towards the master bedroom. She couldn’t stay here but how would she get past ?

Think Angie commanded herself. I’ll have to wait until he gets into the bedroom and wait for him to get close before I run. Through the en-suite into Simon’s dressing area and run for the landing. Having a plan calmed her marginally; enough for her to focus but not so much to quell the adrenaline coursing through her body that she would need. She wiped her palms down her legs, her primal brain operating sub-consciously, knowing that she would need to be able to grip the bannisters to avoid sprawling down the wide, oak stairs. A long forgotten debate about carpet

versus wood reeled through her head as she gingerly slipped off her socks; her brain processing the advantage of bare feet.

As she positioned herself for takeoff he reached the bedroom and pushed the door open. There was a moment of equilibrium as he paused in the doorway, performing a fast reconnaissance on the room, he took in the shattered photo and followed the trail from the crumpled side of the large bed past the console table the picture had fallen from and into the dressing area. It was dark, the mid-winter eve providing no source of light, but she sensed the moment his eyes found her.

He streaked forward like a tiger scenting his prey she propelled herself out of the hanging space towards the en-suite. She slammed the door behind her and with trembling fingers flipped the lock. Barely pausing she fled through the other door, out into Simon’s dressing area and saying a silent prayer for the decision to put the door from his area onto the landing, dashed out towards the stairs. She reached the top, looked up and saw him come back out the main door to the master bedroom. Gripping the bannisters she flew down the stairs two at a time and made for the kitchen where they kept the keys. How had he got in? Was the back door already open?

She made it to the kitchen, smacking into the Island as she made for the back door. It was closed but she could see the key in the lock and a shattered pane next to it where he had reached through and gained entrance. Pushing off the island, pain spreading though her hip she reached the door and grabbed the car keys from the bowl on the windowsill. As her trembling fingers touched the doorknob she was lifted off the ground and thrown away from the door onto the slate floor. She winced as her hip jarred and frantically scrabbled backwards eyes sweeping round for a weapon but the knives were on the other side of the kitchen by the range. Then she whipped her head back to her assailant as her brain caught up with the message her eyes had sent them. ‘Ant’ she spluttered, gulping in air to her recovering lungs. He shook his head –‘I’m sorry Angie, I didn’t know you would be here. He hesitated ‘….. I can’t go back inside though’. This last sentence he said quietly to himself, resignation in his voice as clear and the unspoken intent behind them.

‘Please’ Angie whispered, ‘If you just go I won’t say a word, I promise’.

‘I can’t take that chance – how would you explain the door? He’d get it out of you eventually…I’m sorry’.

He reached down a hand towards her, reflexively she held out her own and allowed him to pull her up off the floor. He gently released her hands from his and as she looked up pleadingly into his eyes he moved them to her neck. Her eyes closed as the cool leather of the gloves caressed her neck. The tears were cascading down her face as his grip tightened. She pushed against his chest and pleaded ‘please for Sam’ as she tumbled toward unconsciousness. All at once her body let go and slid towards the floor and her spirit left her body. It was over and he fled.

Sometime later Angie found herself in the kitchen with absolutely no recollection as to why she was there. Faint lines formed on the brow of her pale forehead as she strained to remember. It was no good she shrugged whatever the reason had gone from mind, floated away into the ether. Can’t have been that important.

The Conferral 

- by Devanjana Chatterji

I didn’t recall having seen her either young or smiling.

‘Mausi’ as she was known in the vicinity, was the stereotypical aged grumpy auntie of the neighborhood; the grumpiness arising from having led a solitary life for years with no immediate family to care for.

With husbands who were much older than them, these ladies often outlived the men and the one or two children that they bore, had either married and moved or their jobs overseas kept them away. Some did not have children, as was the case with our Mausi.

Every afternoon on my way back from school, I would find her seated on the creamy white plastic chair on her porch. She would be clad in one of the few cotton sarees that she owned; sarees which had that faded look clothes get from having been worn and washed over and over.

She usually had the day’s newspaper on her lap, a small radio on a stool by the chair playing old Hindi movie songs. However, I had not really seen her read the paper; nor did she appear to be listening to the radio. She had that doleful faraway look on her face, suggesting her presence was merely physical.

“Leave her alone Radha” ma would say. “And teach those friends of yours too, to respect their elders. It is not polite to have fun at the expense of old forlorn people.”

My mother would admonish me, each time I came back home giggling from my friends’ pranks on Mausi. They would dribble a ball close by or worse still fill an empty carton taut with air and burst it right behind her chair, jolting Mausi out of her trance. What then followed the team of tittering scooting pranksters was a barrage of vociferations.

“But Mausi is so weird, ma” I would say. “Nani is old too, but I can’t imagine her behaving like that.”

“Your nani is lucky to be living in a home complete with her own daughter and little granddaughter; both there to take care of her. Just because Mausi is not as lucky, doesn’t mean it gives us the right to make fun of her or to think of her as weird. Hers is not an easy life, Radha.”

Because of ma’s gentle and often concerned approach towards auntie, I, over the years grew up recognizing that people were different and that they had their own reasons to be a certain way. And although I didn’t really go around preaching to my friends or stop them from doing the mischief that they sometimes did, I kept myself away from it.

One afternoon as I returned from school, I saw the door to auntie’s house was closed. The morning paper which had been thrown on the porch by the newspaper delivery boy had also not been touched.

“I think Mausi overslept today.” I mentioned casually over lunch, through a mouthful of dal and rice.

“Overslept? Why would you say that?” ma asked, her face concerned.

“Well she was not on the porch as she usually is and the newspaper seemed untouched too.”

Quickly rising from her chair and reaching for her chappals, ma said to me “you finish off your food like a good girl and go off to sleep after that, ok? I’ll just go check on her.”

Mother found auntie on her bedroom floor, unconscious and frothing at the mouth. Unable to bear the agony that a disease like cancer can bring, coupled with the enduring loneliness, Mausi had swallowed a whole bottle of her prescribed sleeping pills. Had it not been for ma’s timely intervention, she would have succumbed to the overdose.

For the first time ever, as I looked through the hospital room glass door, I experienced an overwhelming feeling of compassion for the lady lying in front of me on the hospital bed; tubes running through her nose, mouth and hands. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be sleeping, albeit peacefully. In that stance she almost didn’t seem as old, her features soft and supple. There was just a hint of the beauty she might have radiated in her younger days.

As Ma and I stepped in, Mausi opened her eyes, she shifted slightly as if to try and get up. Ma quickly ran to her side and before the two women knew it, they were entwined in a tight embrace, Mausi’s face buried in Ma’s bosom and Ma’s hand gently stroking her head and back, assuring her, emboldening her. Each woman shedding her own silent tears, understanding perfectly well the whirl of emotions that the other was experiencing.

Somehow, that pivotal moment had stirred something inside of me. I could now perhaps sympathize better with auntie’s life and her hardships, which had until then evaded the empathy of my young adolescent mind.

After a week of being in the hospital, we got her back home. The sleeping pill episode and worsening stomach Cancer, had left her now mostly confined to the bed.

From then on much to Ma’s delight, every afternoon on my way back from school, I would step in to have a little chat with Auntie. Our conversations initially were brief and related mostly to the weather, her health, and things in and around the house which could do with a little help from me or Ma.

But it was a beginning nevertheless.

One evening I took Mausi, an ardent devotee of Lord Krishna, a small present from Ma. It was the Bhagwad Gita, in English. The moist eyes and trembling hands that accepted the gift and kept it near the small mandir by her bedside, after touching it slightly to her forehead and chest (as we Hindus do for anything that is auspicious and holy) only reasserted Ma’s thoughtful choice of gift.

I eventually also realized the reason behind Ma purchasing it in English; so that in view of Auntie’s deteriorating eyesight, I could read it out aloud to her. And that I gladly did.

I started visiting her in the evenings too for short periods of time. I would sit by her bedside and read out one or two shlokas from the Gita; first in Sanskrit, then the English translation (more for my understanding) and then I would further explain it to her in Hindi. The entire time, Mausi would lie on her bed, listening intently with closed eyes, nodding with understanding every now and then.

Our conversations gradually expanded to include tidbits of my typical day in school and the goings on at home and in and around the neighborhood. Mausi’s let her guard down a little and would share on and off with almost childlike enthusiasm, some of her fond and happy younger memories. In those moments I often got to meet the fun-loving endearing woman, who had somehow somewhere lost herself in the struggle called life.

Despite the Cancer slowly and painfully taking its toll on her, mentally and emotionally Auntie seemed much more at peace with herself and her life now. And that somehow gave me immense satisfaction. To be able to be a tiny luminance in Mausi’s otherwise lightless existence, gave my juvenile life a sense of purpose.

Physically though for her, it was only a downward spiral.

Then one day when I returned from school, I yet again found her door locked. A little chill ran down my spine. Running up the entire flight of stairs, I frantically knocked on our door, hoping, praying.

Nani opened the door. Taking one look at my anxious eyes, she pulled me in a tight embrace. “It was too late to save her this time Radha, even though Ma tried” she sobbed.

It was as if the words exploded in my ears. I suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous. It was claustrophobic in Nani’s embrace, but I could not find the strength or the will to try and break free. Nani’s ongoing words were now just a faint blur in the background.

How could Mausi do this to me? What could have caused her to take such an extreme step all over again? She was not alone this time; at least that is how I saw it.

Did Mausi not think of it that way? Did she still consider me an outsider, as just another girl in her neighborhood? Did my spending the little time that I did, talking to her, reading to her mean nothing to her? Was it after all something that I was doing only for my personal satisfaction without benefitting her in anyway? Was I being just plain selfish?

I felt an unbearable pang of emptiness; of worthlessness; stabbing at my heart, clawing at it, gnawing it.

..… “It was the Cancer. She couldn’t bear the pain anymore….” Nani was saying.

Ma came over to the study table where I was pretending to be absorbed in my books. She placed a large brown envelope in front of me. As I looked up at her, she smiled at me gently and placed a kiss on my forehead.

“Mausi left this by her bedside addressed to “little Radha” she said, urging me to open it.

My face flushed and hands trembling, I opened the envelope to find a big blank sheet of paper inside. When I drew it out and turned it, I could see it had a beautiful elaborate pencil sketch on it. “Oh how I loved to sketch when I was younger,” Mausi had once said.

The sketch depicted a lady lying on a bed of nails. Insects were crawling all over and eating into her intestines. There were tubes running through most of her body, connected to numerous medicine bottles suspended in the air – all of this indicating the immense trauma to the body, the physical being.

The face however did not exude any of the bodily throes. It was calm and peaceful, almost serene. The lips were curved in a slight smile and the eyes were looking lovingly at a little figure sitting by the bedside - a little fairy angel with a tiara on her head and wings on her sides. She held a fairy wand in one hand which she had placed on the lady’s head, as if blessing her. The other hand held a book and the little fairy’s eyes were focused on it, as if reading from it.

I stared at the sketch for a long long time taking in every little detail. Then I clutched it to my heart and for the first time since that afternoon, I cried.

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Glossary index

Mausi – Hindi for ‘Aunt’ Shloka – Sanskrit/Hindi for ‘Verse’

Ma – Hindi for ‘Mother’ Bhagwad Gita/ Gita – Sacred Hindu Scripture

Nani – Hindi for ‘Maternal Grandmother’ Mandir – Hindi for ‘Temple’

Chappals – Hindi for ‘Flipflops/ Footwear’

Saree – Women’s Indian Traditional attire

Dimitri Van den Reeck Short Story 

Averaging fifteen hour days and earning a reputation for my relentless pursuit of big accounts and bigger bonuses, I had been marked out as a rising prospect for partnership from my first days at the firm. My daily draconian regime started as first pale glimmers of light leaked out into the darkness. By the time I sat down at my desk at 06:00 when I would have already completed a chest bursting 10k run and shot out my first volley of emails. I was at the top of my game and knew it. I told myself that the next branch up the tree would free me from the underbrush. From above the jungle’s canopy, I would cut back my hours and take in the scenery.

I was faring less well at home. Personal attachments were fleeting and shallow, and on the rare occasions where I had established a relationship, these were soon suffocated in a vacuum of neglect. Most recently, I had been dating Sylvia, a whirling vortex of nervous energy I’d met at a rare social gathering with some college friends. Initially, I managed to placate her with extravagant gestures and spontaneous late night appearances, but soon, the familiar cycle of cancelled dates and missed social events reemerged.

Her text had been short and simple:

“Not seen you in weeks. Hope you find what you’re looking for. Your keys are on the kitchen counter. Goodbye. - S”

My bruised ego rationalised the decisions which had led to another fruitless harvest. The internal dialogue raged on until exhaustion eventually overcame me. I slept fitfully until my alarm announced the resumption of hostilities, but by the time I stepped off the treadmill at dawn, I had doused the last embers of self-doubt with the promise that this was only temporary. Just a few more branches.

Childhood friendships had been easier to maintain as the distance from Oxford meant they expected so much less of me. I usually rejected their demands to reunite the old gang, but this weekend I was more than happy to escape the dreary streets of London for the weekend and submerge myself in the rose-tinted fantasy of “reliving the glory days” which only a combination of inebriation and nostalgia could recreate.

I left the office unfashionably early, witnessed by the cocked eyebrows trailing me as I walked out the shimmering glass spire and made my way to Paddington Station to catch the 8pm home. A rare punctual departure meant I soon felt the oppressive gloom of the city release its grip on me as the distance from London grew, the silver-tinted countryside flying past my cabin window. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the rails, combined with the constant swaying of the carriage slowly lulled me into a hypnotic stupor and a sudden wave of fatigue engulfed me. I closed my eyes, teetering on the fine line between conscious repose and the seductive embrace of deep slumber.

I woke with a start. The night was silent and all the lights were switched off. I raised my hand up to my face. My cheek was wet and a pool of clear viscous liquid had settled on my shoulder. Squinting out the window in an effort to figure out exactly where I was and why the train had stopped, the carriage door groaned as I stepped down onto the small platform. A rusty sign declared my arrival at Moira’s Junction. I took out my phone. The battery was dead.

Raising the collar of my coat around my ears and digging my hands deep into my pockets, I made my way off the platform. I wandered aimlessly, until a hollow sensation began to spread inside my abdomen. The crunching rhythm of the gravel beneath my feet gathered pace and I was about to break out into a run when, to my relief, I saw a light ahead.

My legs unsteadily propelled me towards the light as the adrenaline slowly began to wear off. As I reached the entrance of a tavern, I looked at the sign above the door. On it, there was a woman dressed in a long dress with a cloak draped over her left arm and a pair of scales in the other. It reminded me of a statue of Themis, the mother of the Three Fates, who were once believed to control each mortal’s metaphorical thread of life from cradle to grave. I entered, eager to escape the forbidding conditions outside.

Inside, the tavern was a hive of activity and I took one of the free seats at the end of the bar, where I was promptly issued a drink to help thaw my frozen limbs. The surface of my skin tingled as I gathered myself, taking in my new surroundings. The decor was dated and through the thick swirls of smoke, I observed the carpeted floor, well worn stools surrounding the imposing bar and booths in the periphery. Sepia tinted photographs, with dour faced mustachioed men in dark suits filled the walls, (which) bore witness to the tavern’s early days, back when bowler hats and walking canes were ubiquitous.

An older man with chiseled features and a confident smirk swaggered toward me. He was casually dressed, but under closer inspection he revealed a man who paid attention to how he presented himself. Although wavy and seemingly cavalier, not one hair on his head was out of place. His white button down shirt and blue slacks were perfectly tailored to show off his impeccable physique.

He took the stool beside me, his cool blue eyes piercing mine.

“I haven’t seen you around these parts before, where are you from?”

“I live in London, but I was on my way to visit friends in Oxford, when I missed my stop.”

“It looks like you won’t be making it to your destination tonight.” He reached his hand out to me, his grip firm, confident. “Horatius. Horatius Reynold. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise. James Moore. Are there regular trains stopping in Oxford or London?”

“Oh yes, plenty. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow, mind. What’s your hurry anyway? Have you got an anxious missus waiting for you at home?”

“No, not really. Not so much as a cat to go home to these days.”

“Don’t you worry son. A wife and kids are a distraction you don’t need at your age. Look at me. I’m a 58 year old confirmed bachelor whose relationships have the staying power of a snowflake in summer.”

His voice was full of bravado and his smile unfaltering, but there was something his eyes failed to conceal. Was it doubt? I couldn’t be sure, but I felt a sadness simmering just under the surface.

“So, no regrets then?” I said.

For an almost imperceptible moment, his gaze lost focus, my directness seemingly taking him by surprise.

“What’s the point of regret? What’s done is done. Putting myself first was the best decision I ever made. You’ve got to be selfish to be happy.”

There was an uncomfortable silence as I realised that my tactlessness may have inadvertently struck a nerve, and I was eager to direct the conversation to safer waters, “So, what brings you to this quaint little place?”

I breathed an internal sigh of relief when I saw his face light up. His eyes recovered their earlier sparkle as he recounted a story he had clearly told many times before.

“This is where it all started for me. My parents passed this place on to me. They thought I would take over, settle down and carry on the family business. I sold the place the same day I got the title deed. I used the money to build up a little business empire. My mother was disappointed but supported my ambitions. My father never forgave me and we hardly spoke until the day he died. A few years ago, I bought it back.

As I quickly finished my drink, I digested his words. They had been assertively delivered, but something made me wonder whether he was trying to convince me, or himself. I thanked him for the company and he advised me on a place to stay the night. I left, drawing parallels between Horatius’ story and mine.

The next morning, a grisly sight met me as I passed the tavern on my way back to the platform. The building, (where I had sat with Horatius, just a few hours ago,) had been reduced to a burnt out shell, its roof caved in and the crumbled remains covered in grimy black soot. As I purchased my ticket home, I asked the ticket master if there was any news on the cause of the fire.

“What fire? The tavern? That old thing burned down years ago! The owner lost his shirt on a bad investment and his business tanked. Didn’t take it very well, it seems. The night before the tavern was supposed to go up for auction, he broke in and incinerated the place, and himself along with it.”

Stunned, I sat silently on the train back to London, trying to make sense of the events of the last twenty-four hours. My mind was racing now, piecing together fragments of a puzzle which refused

to fit. The questions whizzed past me at the rate of the scenery outside. How was this possible? How could the charred remains I had passed this morning have been morphed into the site I had sat in only hours before? What did this mean?

My self-doubt, reignited by Horatius’ story and untimely demise, now raged fiercer than ever. The tree I was so determinedly climbing all these years was an apparition. Deep down, I understood that each ascent to the next branch wasn’t leading me to freedom, instead, they were slowly coaxing me, leading me further into a carnivorous abyss.

Girls Who Fall written by Malda Smadi 

"My child, what in the world are you saying!" Jade's father asked in his hopelessness. "you must marry one day!" Jade puffed in annoyance. "My dear, you’re too young…..” her father continued but she stormed out of the house before he could finish, angered by the word “young” and insistent that marriage was the end of youth and the end of life itself. Jade was unwilling to settle for the easy path in life, which she thought marriage was, instead she often preferred exploring life with all its experiences no matter how harsh the consequences were.

As she stepped out onto the town, strengthened by the energy of its people and her fierce stance against her parents' ideals, she straightened her back and continued to walk on her usual route along the narrow stone roads lined by small wooden pretty houses that led through an endless path towards a green field where a small river cut through. Trees towered high above shading the town from the strong summer sun but its beauty came out now, during the fall, when the fallen leaves colored the ground in shades of red and orange and deep yellow reflections brought on by the sun highlighted the mood for autumn, the melancholic autumn.

There were far too many people crowding the streets of this small town yet everybody knew everybody and their stories. There were kids everywhere, for the breezy weather allowed for longer playtimes and adventures. Playtimes that began with crazy ideas like wandering off alone and following strangers. As Jade bent down to tie one of her undone, dirty shoe laces, she noticed a little girl standing right behind her, parading her crooked teeth and swaying from side to side. A quick smile invited the little girl closer who placed her weightless hand on Jade's legs, slowly circling around her and eventually holding her hand. They both looked at each other, the little girl's frizzy unkempt hair forming a golden crown around her face and her light eyes mesmerizing Jade.

"Hello" Jade greeted the girl studiously, but the girl did not answer. Instead she looked ahead pulling Jade’s arm eager to walk. The girl was a bolt of energy in a white dress; the way she skipped and giggled with every jump, she was fearless in discovering the beauty of the world around her. Jade's heart sank into the little girl's palm, overcome with a weakness when the child began to laugh.

The town was full and busy with hordes of people around and the sound of bicycle bells and scooter motors that sped between the crowd missing bodies by inches. The little girl clinched at Jade's leg, frightened, but mischievous as she pulled Jade’s arm harder and ran after the menaces in an attempt to scare them away. The girls joined the liveliness of their surroundings, running faster than their senses could watch for them until, as all happy moments come to an end, the little girl fell and scraped her knee on the rough cobblestone underneath her tiny feet. Panicked, Jade ran back

finding that the girl had barely shed a tear and instead had drawn a smile on her face as if the moments that passed were well worth the fall. As she pulled the little girl up and carried her, her small frame locked in a trusting embrace.

"Isabelle baby!" The sound of a woman emerged from a balcony ahead. The little girl came out of her hiding place, jumping out of Jade's arms and into her mother's.

By the afternoon, when the sun softened, Jade reached the river where she rested on a misplaced rock feeling a little overworked by the excitement of the past hour. She was finally alone with her thoughts going over the unfortunate but usual argument she had had with her father, the strange but beautiful encounter with that little girl, and pondered over the million other things that occupied her mind, like the boy she liked who had disappeared on her and the urge she felt to leave her dead end town and disappear herself. And then in the silence of her great surroundings she heard a movement. In the shadows from the trees nearby, a man stood fishing while he whistled a sad tune. Intrigued, Jade sat in her boredom and observed the man from afar who seemed to be catching fish and setting them free. Distracted, she unintentionally alerted the man of her presence who noticed she was throwing pebbles in the lake.

"Hey! You're scaring my fish!" his strong voice silencing the birds in the trees. Jade turned quickly in surprise, alarmed by his words, she froze in her place. Seeing that he’d startled her, he smiled and asked if she knew how to fish.

"No." she answered matter-of-factly.

"Come on over here, I'll teach ya.” Jade responded to his invitation and walked over keeping a safe distance between them both. She could see from his profile that he wasn't as old as she had guessed, although the gentle creases around his eyes and his ash coloured hair gave some years to his appearance. He held out his hand and introduced himself, "Daniel."

"Ja-"

"Woah! Here you want to hold on to this?" Excitement took over his demeanor as he felt a tug on the fishing rod. "Come closer, I want you to hold on to it." Jade moved in beside him and held on to the metal. "Careful now, don't put your finger on the reel."

The string pulled more heavily than she could manage, sending the man's arms around her to help control the rod. They lifted the string together and watched as the helpless fish seemed to bounce in agony.

"What do you want to name it?" he asked.

"What's the point?" she replied, disturbed at the sight and broke away from him.

"Nemo 1,032" he answered himself as he gently cut the string and freed the fish from the hook into the river.

"Why'd you do that?"

"I don't intend to fish for dinner. I actually don't even like fish." he packed away his equipment and pulled out a can of drink, inviting Jade to one.

"So why'd you call it Nemo one thousand?"

He chuckled and immediately his eyes lit up. "1,032" he corrected her and chuckled again. "My daughter called her first catch Nemo and I've been counting them ever since."

Jade smiled. "How old is she?"

"Eight." He gulped his drink and crushed the can, his face turning sour and the lines between his eyebrows indenting further.

The setting of the sun darkened his tan and the mood altogether but when the night settled in, the serenity of the darkness encouraged the conversation which spun around Jade’s dreams and fears and Daniel’s guilty secrets of marriage and youth. Jade was quickly enamored by the man who was well beyond her years, who listened to her, understood her, and flattered her. And although they covered years of their lives, Daniel only spoke briefly of his family life, leading Jade to believe that he too had felt a connection between them. Overwhelmed by her emotions and thoughts that played around in her head, she breathed in deeply, taking in all the excitement and beauty and smiled.

"Thank you for this" she said, as she turned to face him suddenly and felt the closeness of his body and his face. Her stomach churned in a way that it had never done before, the way it did when she read her romantic novels. They both drew quiet. She looked at him and waited, but Daniel placed his arm around her and stared back at the sky. As she sat there beside him analyzing his move, she began to feel the weight of his arm and grew impatient and upset. Jade carried herself heavily up and away from his embrace and looked back at him as he looked at her, let down and angered at her own expectations.

“Nice meeting you Jade” his eyes glowed and a beautiful smile appeared, but she said nothing and walked away feeling the anticipation of the moment’s prior tremble through her core.

The town was calm with only the sounds of laughter emerging from the taverns around. Jade knew better than to walk these streets this late and quickened her pace on the crooked pavements. Her sadness and confusion over Daniel blurred her surroundings as she dwelled on the feeling in her stomach. She obsessed about every word he had spoken insistent on her beliefs and blinded by his charm. Then, through the breezy air came an elderly, cracking voice.

"Hello" it said. Jade looked to her side and noticed an old woman sitting on the balcony as if she were waiting for someone to walk by.

"Hello" Jade smiled back politely and bowed her head avoiding a conversation.

"You look like you could use a cup of tea, care to join me?"

"Thank you but I must return home" The old lady paused and hesitated before she continued.

"Dear, may I ask what you were doing by the river at this hour of the night?" The woman's inquisitive question stopped Jade in her tracks. She seemed to be onto something as her gentle, forgiving face contrasted with her serious eyes that stared right through Jade's paranoia.

“Why?” she asked suspiciously.

“Did you happen to see a man by the lake, dear?” Jade’s heart pounded. ‘Was she talking about Daniel?’ She thought to herself.

“No.” Jade quickly answered and started to walk. Before she could take another step the voice of a little girl could be heard from the house.

“Isabelle dear, lower your voice, your mother’s asleep” the woman ordered the child. Jade looked back recalling Isabelle, the little girl she had met that morning.

“The poor thing. She wakes up every night asking about her father” the woman continued, reading the question in Jade’s mind.

“I think you know where he is though, don’t you?”

Jade felt her stomach tighten. The old lady’s directness shot through Jade’s innocent facade leaving her vulnerable to the woman’s accusation.

“Well, Daniel is out by the river sulking on his misery, that poor man.”

“Why, what happened?” Jade asked curiously.

“You’ve heard the story of Elizabeth, dear, haven’t you?” Jade rummaged through her thoughts of the countless stories the town had agonized over.

“The little girl who drowned?” She remembered. The old woman nodded.

“That was Daniel’s daughter?” The woman nodded again.

‘Nemo!’ Jade thought as her eyes watered and she felt a lump in her throat. She stood there frozen, her mouth open in shock and her hands trembling again. Her mind was full and heavy trying to decipher the appropriate feelings to feel and thoughts to recognize but she couldn’t seem to shake off her sadness from Daniel’s unrequited feelings. Beaten by the intensity of the news, she slowly turned and walked away without saying another word.

Soon her steady walk turned into a run, the deeper she went into the town the deeper she went into her mind. She ran and ran until her breath couldn’t keep up with her and her tears consumed her entirely, barring her feet from moving any faster until they gave in, sending her sliding on a sharp stone. She landed on all fours scraping her palms, knees and her chin. The world around her and in her became silent.

She was weakened by the emptiness of the town of identical houses with pointy windows that watched over her like owls in the night. The towering trees added to her gloom, the fallen leaves had lost their color, and the moon’s grey reflection highlighted the autumn mood, that melancholic autumn. She got up and examined her wounds, dusted off her clothes and wiped her eyes and as she began to walk, depressed by the thoughts of the young girl who had drowned years ago, chilled by the coincidence of meeting the girl’s father and yet embarrassed by her naivety, she decided to grow up.

How to cook pigeons by Laura Issa 

She watched them drive off into the dark morning. The smoke from the old dirty Volkswagen left a polluted trail as their car puttered off. The streets were empty. They were in a hurry to beat the burning sun. Sarah had given her father a warm hug before they left. She was almost his height now. Her father smiled at her, his silver hair brushed back and his light eyes shone. “I love you. Be good” he said in Arabic, and kissed the top of her head. She did not dare hug her step mother. They would be back in three days. She let out a sigh of relief and walked inside, slamming the heavy front door.

She would miss her father. Her father took her step mother to Tanta to see her family every Summer. She wished that he would leave her in Tanta. Why did her father choose that woman? She knew the answer. The fat lady, her father’s new wife, was his first cousin.

It was a Thursday, in July, in Alexandria. It had been five years, three months, and twenty days since her mother died. After her mother’s death in child birth, Sarah home was sometimes with her Tata, and sometimes at her father’s house. Father wanted to move closer to the ocean, so now she would not see Tata until next Friday. Tata always reminded her of her mom. The way she walked and her soft voice. And Tata was good to her.

She hurried into the backyard and checked the pigeon cage. It was time. It would be a good day for a feast, she thought.

“Mariam!” she called to her sister. Her sister had been washing the morning dishes after the usual mess from an Egyptian breakfast of fava beans, fried eggs, salted cucumbers and flat bread. The girls could only eat the leftovers after the adults were done eating. That was the rule. She was used to being hungry. Her stepmother stored most of the food in locked cupboards.

When Mariam heard her name, she wiped her soapy hands on her cotton pants and grabbed the kitchen knife. She knew why her sister was calling her. The night before, while her stepmother was packing, they whispered in their bedroom. Their stomachs were rumbling. They would cook the biggest meal possible when their stepmother left. And share with all of their friends. Their stomachs would not rumble tomorrow.

Mariam ran to meet her sister outside in the backyard. The girls followed each other into the open pigeon cage.

The pigeons hadn’t left yet. Mariam handed the knife to Sarah and slammed the door to the cage behind her. The cooing noise became louder. Mariam grabbed a squirming bird and held its body between her legs so its wings would not flap. Sarah nervously slashed the pigeon’s neck with the kitchen knife. Blood squirted out. “I wonder what she will say when all of the pigeons are gone?” Mariam asked. Sarah ignored her. It was gross, but she had killed animals before. Usually chickens, or rabbits - but never for such a purpose. Her friends would be so impressed.

The cooing noise had stopped. It was a bloody mess. Sixteen dead bloody pigeons lay in a heap on the side of the cage. The only pigeons that were left alive were the babies, the helpless ones who could not fly. She had explained earlier to her sister what the plan was, “we need to kill the big ones and then we can have a feast”.

The sun was rising. The two girls carried the pigeons into the kitchen, like they had watched their mother and now their step mother do. At the kitchen counter, Mariam, 16 and Sarah, 14, stood side by side, removing feathers until the birds were naked. Mariam turned on the radio, Umm Kulthoom was singing. The girls hummed while they worked. They washed the birds and one by one placed them into a big pot of hot water to boil. Mariam washed the sink. The girls looked at each other and Sarah held her nose. Both of them made a face. What was that stench? It wouldn’t go away. It smelled like the sewer. Like the bathroom. Maybe it would get better after the pigeons had finished boiling.

To get a breath of fresh ocean air, Sarah opened the kitchen windows. She could see the Coptic Church down the street from her house. It gave her a peaceful feeling. Her mother loved to dress up to go to church on Friday. She always looked so pretty. Her mother had been a head taller than her father. In their wedding photo, her father had had to stand on a stool for the photo. She had her father’s height and light French eyes like both of her parents. She’d already been proposed to once. She was pretty like her mother.

When she stuck her nose back inside she could still smell the pigeons. She tucked her black curls behind her ears, and brushed her thick mane off her shoulders. She tasted a salty tear on her lip and started to focus on rinsing the rice. Cooking always made her feel better.

An hour later the kitchen table was full. All of the neighborhoods’ children had been invited. Twenty five children sat, with fork in hand, waiting for Sarah and Mariam to bring out the plates of small boiled pigeons and bowls of white rice sprinkled with vermicelli. Friends started eating. It was a feast. She smiled and put her hands on her hips.

“Yeakhee!” an eight year old girl, Noura cried. Her face soured. Her brother Ahmed was about to bump her for being rude, but instead he tasted the pigeon and spat it at his neighbour Issa, across the table. Issa wiped his face and exclaimed in Arabic “this is terrible!” The children repeated a “Yeakhee” chant (with the guttural kh) and in five minutes the table was empty. Sarah sat at the table, almost in tears and tried a pigeon herself. It was BAD. Worse than anything she ever imagined. This was supposed to be a feast! A party! Anger filled her stomach and her head began to sweat. The pigeons tasted like “caca”, she thought. Mariam looked at her and laughed. She knew why she was laughing. Pigeon, in Arabic, was “hamam,” and the word for bathroom in Arabic was very similar. The neighbourhood kids would be rolling around with laughter by now. She was so mad. How dare her sister laugh at her after all that hard work! She went after her but her sister had locked herself in the bathroom.

It was Sunday when they heard the puttering engine die in front of their house. They were back. The air was tense. Everything looked clean. Her step mother walked through the rooms, pausing to inspect each one. She did not trust those girls. Those rotten girls.

The sounds of the pigeons singing on their arrival back to their home cage never came. Her father walked in from the backyard. He boomed into the kitchen. Sarah, who was sneaking a bite of powdered cookie called “kaak,” quickly hid the delicious treasure behind her back. “Where are the pigeons? “Her father asked, shaking with anger. “Maybe they flew away?” Sarah suggested, in Arabic. Her father flapped his arms sarcastically, “sure, they just flew away!”

That evening, first she was questioned, and then it was her sister’s turn. Twenty minutes later her father came in with a belt. Why did Mariam have such a big mouth!

He slashed her feet five times with his new leather belt. Sarah tried to hold back her tears.

It took a week to walk normally again. For dinner the next night, she refused to eat the baby pigeons that had been prepared. Her head felt sweaty again. She had been invited to sit at the table, but she refused. The pigeons had to be cooked because the sixteen pigeons that had brought food for their babies were gone. Sarah didn’t care. She just wished they had tasted better.

Her sore feet did not bother her as much as her cooking mistake. If only her friends had enjoyed the meal! “Always clean the pigeon’s stomachs,” she told her friends later. “Clean them good.”

That was the nasty smell. And don’t kill the big ones, she later learned from her Tata, when she told her about the ‘pigeon feast’. Her aunt had told her, “Kill the babies”. No one had told her that baby pigeons that cannot fly are tender. Tata had smiled, and in Arabic told her “the big pigeons that leave the nest do not taste good. Their skin is too tough”. She tried to tell her friends about the mistake she had made. Her friends didn’t care about cooking pigeons. They just laughed and laughed, for a long, long time, about the “Yeakhee” pigeons.

After the pigeon coop had sat empty for two months, her step mother decided it was also time for Sarah to go. Sarah packed her brown worn suitcase that she had packed a thousand times. She would start boarding school in the city to study nursing. Before she left, she took one last look at the empty pigeon coop and deeply filled her lungs with one more breath of ocean air. She held her head high and smiled. She hoped for good meals, friends with sweets and a sense of freedom at boarding school. She also hoped for boys who would bring her a rare piece of expensive chocolate as a token of their affection. And she couldn’t wait to cook for the new friends she would make at boarding school. But next time, she would not cook pigeon.

Bi Polar or Selfish 

A penetrating and all too well known noise hit my eardrum, it was like someone drilling into my brain through my ear. I awoke in a daze, even though I knew where this little black box of morning horror was I struggled to find it, it was avoiding me as usual, just blaring out that sound like a annoying fly that I couldn’t catch. “Ah there it was” I hit the snooze button, it would give me a fifteen minute rest bite that felt like only two and then the annoying fly would back again, why did I put myself through this ritual five times every morning?

I was unsure why I kept hitting that snooze button, I didn’t rest in those fifteen minutes, my mind was racing, thinking of spending another ten to twelve hours in a job I couldn’t stand and all the

repetitive, mundane tasks ahead of me. Every day was pretty much the same, I would lie there worrying, wondering about my life in general and getting stressed out and angry for not quitting, but today hopefully it would be different, maybe I could sum up the courage to do it, maybe I could have the fresh start I dreamed of.

I was forty-two in a job I couldn’t bear and a marriage that was like an extension to my job. Hard work, difficult, with an over whelming sense of pressure and entrapment. How did things get like this?

In school I was the class clown, a comedian with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. I used all the intellect I had in trying to make people laugh and attract girls. I now know that while they all laughed and got a little distracted they actually stayed focused with their work and got the exam grades they needed, I however carried on trying to be funny and popular and began the slippery slope of failure. Failure…..Failure…..I was rising in temperature as if five spotlights were pointing on me at once, that’s why I am here, that slope has taken me all the way to the bottom and it cannot change at forty two. My hands were clammy, they began to sweat, they slipped of the steering wheel and the car pulled violently to the right. Jesus I was in the car and already fifteen minutes into my hour-long journey! The last thing I remembered was my wife shouting something at me whilst I was in the shower.

As usual I had been on autopilot all morning, the same old dread of the day ahead, the same old routine and the same old arguments with my wife.

Rebecca was eight years my junior and far more attractive than I. I always laughed off the comments when we were out “How the hell did you get her, you must have money!” It made me feel more insecure but it should have made me feel better as that was far from the truth. I had met her when I had nothing, I was almost bankrupt, in a dead end job I also hated and not very happy, but I played a good game. The skills I had learned about pretending to be happy and making other people laugh at school had not deserted me. I had charmed and tricked my way into this beautiful young women’s life.

She was bursting with energy when I first met her and she glowed. Her positivity and energy were real, not false like mine. She was like the sun radiating down on me, feeding and nourishing me through to my bones.

I first noticed her standing at a table in the local nightclub near our hometown, she stood out from everyone, I had to find out more, she was facing away from me but I knew.

Her hair was like a blond waterfall cascading down her bare bronzed back. She wore a short dress that showed of her long suntanned legs, when she turned her smile hit me like a wall of warmth and happiness, it was meant to be, I thought.

When we finally spoke I felt lucky, I had met lots of beautiful women but non with a personality like this, she had quick comebacks for all my smart remarks and she had a few of her own, we bounced of each other, it felt good.

We spent the next few months in each other’s pockets, Rebecca gave up her horse riding so she could rush home from work to see me, we stayed up all night in bed sharing each other’s favorite music and stories. We called in sick from work just to spend more time with one another. Was this it, could I finally become truly happy?

Six months into our relationship Rebecca had to go away for the weekend to see her Father who lived abroad, I had not been out for a long time so I had decide to have a night out with some friends at a bar in the city. We were having a good time. It was just about time to leave but my friend wanted to speak to a beautiful young girl he had been intrigued by all evening. I watched as he approached her like a hunter stalking his prey. One minute later he was walking back, shoulders down with his tail between his legs, a spoilt teenager who could not get his own way. I laughed. “You’ve lost it,” I told him “You’d have no chance either” Robert replied. My ego and insecurities were taking control of me, was it a feeling of excitement or was it a self destructive time bomb that had been waiting to go off for the last few months?

Two months later things were still going relatively well between Rebecca and I until I received that phone call. I had been seeing the girl from the bar as well but it had now ended – just another way of dealing with my inner demons and feelings of self-worth. I answered the phone. “You idiot!” she shouted “Rebecca what’s wrong? “What’s the matter?” “I’ve found your phone John, I can’t believe it, I can’t stop shaking” Rebecca could barely speak. I felt like a huge stone had fallen into the pit of my stomach, I was shocked but I was trying to think, I had my phone with me, what could it be? I had always covered my tracks, I was used to it, I had been a liar and a cheat for way to long with so many other women to slip up. Rebecca had found an old phone of mine in the bottom drawer next to the bed, I had presumed it had not been working as the sim card was removed, but I was wrong. All the old information was in there, all the calls and the text messages. I had done it, I had self-destructed but worse than I thought, I had also pulled an innocent victim into the explosion.

The aftermath of that day was still continuing now, we had tried to work things out, our love was strong and we were still physically attracted to each other but there had now been years of fighting, distrust, mental torment and previous years of bad relationship- destroying habits that I could not change. The glow that Rebecca had when we first met had now disappeared, I had dragged her into my world of upset and unhappiness, she was now insecure and battling her own demons, I would now look at her across the room and see the dullness in her big blue eyes, she was wondering how to leave me, trying to gather the strength. She had stuck with me through all these years, it had been me who had cheated yet it was her who was always trying to hold us together, it was her who pushed us into getting married when I did not want to and it was now her that wanted children that I did not want to have. How could I have such a wonderful person who loved me so much and was prepared to put up with all my issues?

My friends that knew me would never believe hadsuch dark thoughts of misery, but it wasn’t all the time. One minute I was up and positive and the next on the floor scared, wondering about what it all meant. I had hated every job I had ever had and mistreated every women who had every loved me yet deep down I knew that some of the jobs and most of the women had been great. Nothing had satisfied me, it was just a roller coaster of bad thoughts and memories, what about the good thoughts, where were they hiding?

I traced my mind back to the shower this morning, Rebecca had been shouting, but not as I thought, she had only been raising her voice as she knew it was hard to hear through the shower door. She was telling me how much she loved me, not to worry and to have a good day.

I gripped the steering wheel as I stopped for a cleaner crossing the road with his small truck of cleaning products and brooms, he was off to work, off to work, cleaning other peoples rubbish to earn a tenth of what I did. I noticed a large key ring hanging from the side of his truck, there was a picture of two small children inside. He waved thanks towards me and smiled as he crossed the road.

I took a breath and pressed my foot down on the accelerator. I was lucky I thought, maybe I wouldn’t quit today, let’s just try and make it through a few more days.

Mita Chatterjee ‐ Short story 

"Checked in, flight's on time". There it was. The call she'd been waiting for, the same voice, the same words. Rosie smiled as she slid the cell phone back on the night stand. Dan would be home tomorrow.

This time he was coming from Nairobi. Wrinkling her nose, Rosie tried to remember where he had been the week before, or where Nairobi was for that matter, she couldn’t remember. Dan always threw his head back and snorted with laughter at her ability to confuse Nairobi with Nuremberg, San Paulo with Seoul. To her, they were all airports, out there, far away.

But ask Rosie about figures and their bank balance, the best plumber to use, dry cleaner, doctor dentist and the contact information could be accessed immediately in Rosie's mental phone book. Stocks and bonds, investments - Rosie was on the ball. She wrinkled her nose again as she made notes for tomorrow's dinner. Dan liked steak, maybe a good russet potato to go with it? Hmmm, onions, ketchup, ....grocery list? Picking up the pen, she stared down at her gnarled and twisted hand. It hurt to write, but she had to, she smiled. Her house would soon be full again.

Pen in hand, Rosie closed her eyes and let herself embrace the indulgent warmth of her down comforter. Her lips curled in a deep smile as she relaxed into its welcoming arms. Tired, always tired. First it had been just her mind, but her body soon followed. She tried to remember happier times. Younger days, bringing up children, flailing arms, stories, laughter. Josh and Jemma. Life, precious and delicate.

Her eyes brightened as she thought about Josh. Her first born, her beautiful son. His red prune like face as he entered the world - such a miracle. Did she really bring this divine being into the world? He would be knocking on the door soon. "Heya mom. How's it going today?" Big smile, his signature flowers and always that gentle matter-of-fact spirit. Wagging his finger, he'd say "Now, no more of that Debbie downer stuff mom". She would smile and wipe away her tears surreptitiously. Tears could wait. Time with Josh was here and now.

"So how was your day son?", Rosie asked. "Great, great," he said as his restless fingers banged out words on his cell phone. "Ronny is playing at Cafe Nero tonight, he just texted to see if I was coming." "Nice", Rosie responded, "that sounds like fun." "Yeah", Josh shrugged, "but I have a big presentation tomorrow - in front of the whole board - need to practice some, you know". Rosie blinked back another tear. Her baby, her son had board meetings in business suits. He was a man.

Where had the time gone? Just the other day, he was dragging his blanky and bottle to daycare. With nostalgic thoughts and fidgety fingers, Rosie pleated the bed sheet. As if, willing herself to move and co-ordinate briskly and smoothly. Just like she used to when Denny was a child.

"When does dad get home?" Josh asked as he arranged the dinner tray on her lap. Lean Cuisine's chicken enchilada tonight, complete with cold juicy peaches and hot tea. "Tomorrow, he just checked in," she replied. "And how long will he be home this time?" Rosie laughed and tapped his knuckles with her fork. "You know the answer to that million dollar question right?".

"So how's it going between you and Sandy" she asked between bites. "Good" he beamed, as he continued to tap frantically on his phone. "Are you going to marry her?" "Mom, chill out. It's all good," he smiled as he finished his message and placed the phone on the table with his finely chiselled fingers.

After a long stretch, he stood up and leaned over to gather her empty tray. "Got to go mom", he said as he loped off to the kitchen. He was so tall, so handsome. Just like his dad. Rosie brushed the crumbs off the sheets and sighed. Everyone had problems, but with serene calm, she smiled - hers would be over soon.

Turning to get comfortable, adjusting to the silence. The same nightly routine for the last thirty years. Long, cold and alone. Even when Dan was in town, he wasn't. But earlier there had been the children, the noises, the laughter. All that changed with Jemma's passing. She was an angel now. And Josh, wonderful as always, busy as always.

She sighed and closed her eyes. It would be all right she thought as she turned her stiff unrelenting frame into a comfortable position. Her toes curled over the deliciously warm hot pad Josh had tucked under the sheets. He was so thoughtful. Then she felt that warmth. That peace. And she texted Dan. Checked in, flight's on time. Going to see Jemma.

ROOM 10, WARD C 

My toes relax, kindled by the first rays of sun and within minutes, that warm blanket envelops my entire body. Is the resplendent sun going to stay with me today? Or will cumulonimbus clouds drift in, fooling everyone with their cumulus beginnings? I can feel the faint wisp of a breeze, teasing the grey thinning hair at the crown of my head. The distant forlorn murmur of a lonely pigeon resonates with the taut strings of my gut.

I am shaken out of my reverie by the deafening sound of silence. The discernable clamor of rubber on rubber of the ergonomic flooring against frenetic wheels, conspicuously absent. The usual disquiet beyond my door, now reduced to a soft monochromatic drone. Did they really think I did not know the significance of today, that I was not aware?

There was a time when everyone came to me, colleagues for business advice, my son for money, even my grand-daughter for praise and marshmallows. Oh the innocence of children, to be that age now. Do I have any regrets? I have many, but the hours to dwell on them are few.

The starched corner of my bed sheet flips over indignantly and the sudden gust of a Dettol infused breeze rudely interrupts my senses. An intruder, she goes about her duties with military precision.

One, two steps to the left, buttons are pressed, a 180 degree turn, six steps to the foot of my bed. The click click of a ballpoint pen, notes are scribbled. A 90 degree turn to the left and off she goes in search of the next faceless name on her list.

I wonder if she is happy? If she is fulfilled? Wandering through the corridors of purgatory day in and day out. Does she go home at night, kick off her shoes, tear off her uniform, sit down with her family to eat heartily, and laugh like there’s no tomorrow? Or does she sit with her TV dinner, watching some banal reality show, her sweat ingrained uniform morphing into her persona, with nothing but her vacuous thoughts as company?

‘Aloneness’; (meaning); ‘someone who chooses to be on their own for spiritual contemplation.

‘Alone’; (meaning); ‘isolated’ ‘to the exclusion of all others’

I would choose aloneness over alone any day, but today, as yesterday and the day before that, I am alone.

“Be positive, think positive”, that’s what my wife always used to say to me. Grace, oh Grace, where are you now? I miss you.

I remember the day I caught sight of you for the very first time. March 16th , 1943, Brighton Pier. We weren’t supposed to be there, no one was. The threat of a U-boat invasion was just too great. But it was perfect that day. No hint of foreboding clouds over the South Downs. Even the steely grey of the gargantuan cannons could not shadow the defiance of the sun.

Having lost a dare, I shimmied my way up the barnacle encrusted struts. My socks sodden with seawater, my heart pounding in my chest for fear of being caught by the military police, I hoisted myself up to the western side of the pier.

There you stood, leaning casually over the broken palisade, laughing with childlike abandon and the unusually balmy Channel air teasing your fringe. Against the backdrop of peeling paint, broken windowpanes and the protestations of the once flamboyant central pier, the vibrant floral yellow of your dress announced to the world that YES, spring had well and truly arrived. The reflection of the sea dancing off your luminescent skin, reminding me that there really was beauty within the depths of this godforsaken war.

My hand shakes………..a sudden onslaught of icy liquid greedily feeds through my veins. The little warmth that’s left in my body, waging a useless war against this mercurial imposter. I try to grasp onto the threads of my fading beloved memories, but they are gone. All I am left with is the stark reality that is the here and the now, today.

If I could look in a mirror, what would I see? The face of an old man, with a life fulfilled? Content with all he has done, all he has achieved, the love he has given? A man at peace with himself and God? Or a bitter sallow faced man, his eyes vacant, the Angel of Death coursing through his body, challenging life to betray him at one last turn?

A warm hand rests on my paper thin bony arms, a salty tear jolts my wrist like the first drop of rain on parched soil. A deep laboured sigh. It’s Toby, my Toby, with his chestnut hair and cowlick, that even after all these years, despite all his efforts, he still couldn’t tame.

“Dad, Dad, if you can hear me, please, please do something! Anything! Move a toe, move your eyelids, anything, then we can stop all of this, give me something to go on, some sign that you’re still here!”………..nothing……..a hand slams hard against the frame of my bed. “You always were a

stubborn old mule, but why now?!” “I do love you dad and I’m really sorry I didn’t visit more after mum died….I..I..I just didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know what to do, and you always said you were fine, you kept saying you were fine, but you weren’t were you! Why didn’t you just tell me, let me help you for God’s sake!” He collapses hard into a chair, his sweaty brow leaning heavily on my thigh. I feel his body shaking, silent tears dampen my bedding. I want to cry with him, but I cannot.

“Toby, damn it! I wish you could hear me! It’s not your fault. You had enough to deal with, what with having to retrench half your staff, and move offices. I didn’t want to be a burden, and I was fine, I was…….I was”. The melancholic air is broken by a flurry of noise bursting through my door. “Daisy! Daisy! Don’t run in there! Come back at once!” “Toby, Oh I’m so sorry, she…she just ran off……..Sarah’s just getting some tea, she’ll be here in a minute.” Her voice trails off, and then a deeper voice, “I’ve been trying to find a doctor for the last ten minutes. They’re never around when you need them, like buses really…….nothing at all and then 3 come at once. Oh god sorry, I didn’t mean to be so flippant, well I um, er, I’ll just go and see how Sarah’s getting on with that tea.”

Their conversations, fuelled by nervous anxiety, soon dissipate to embarrassed whispers as they come closer to my bed, over polite in their arranging of the sparse seating. An awkward gravid silence descends over everyone. The door opens and the ‘elusive’ doctor emerges. Everything he says is a blur. My head is spinning, it’s all happening too soon, I want it to stop! I hear the collective sharp intake of breath…….and then the unmistakable flick of a switch. “No wait!, wait!” I want to shout, “it’s me! It’s Grandpa, It’s papa. Sweat gravitates down the craggy folds of my skin, anger rises up my neck, burning every membrane as it surges. Rabid panic consumes me……….but I cannot move. A young man trapped inside a skeletal cage, decay and despair destroying every cell of my body.

They cannot hear me, they cannot see me, they cannot feel me. Lost in their grief, drifting through their own solicitous roller coaster of emotions……..And then nothing. I am sucked into a vortex of pure nothing. No pain, no suffering, no anger…………Goodbye my loves.

The Unfortunate Tome 

In 1851, philosopher Reverin Bule published a tome that was one of the finest he had ever written.

Unfortunately, it was read by no one.

Bound in gold and embedded with jewels and charms and other shimmery, pointless things, the tome did little for the minds of society but did wonders in decorating the libraries and parlours of their homes. Guests flocked and cooed over this beautiful object like doves to crumbs. Positioned just so, it caught the light coming in from their windows and showered the room in glorious bursts of colour. It soon became a staple in every home; and those who did not possess it were poorly considered (or simply, considered poor).

Though Bule’s pockets now jingled most agreeably with coin, he was nonetheless displeased that his work, which took him the better part of a decade to compose, was ill-valued for the contents within. His lifelong friend, Thaddeus Constable, suggested he re-publish the work, under a different cover, a different title and a different name, to earn him the readership he rightly deserved. However, Bule – an obstinate man – feigned deafness to this suggestion and took it upon himself to call on every purchaser of his tome, offering a reading at no cost.

Two moons came and went, and Bule had borrowed the ears of nearly all the prosperous folk of London. No doubt, out of respect, they listened with rapt attention. Nevertheless, when it came to turning the last leaf and looking up with a smile to signal the end of his work, the question, after a polite round of applause, unfailingly came: ‘Can we expect your next work to be as prettily bound, if not more so, than this?’

A gloom like no other took hold of Reverin Bule. Too proud to publish his work under a different name, he had lost hope. For days he locked himself in his chamber, refusing food and drink and Thaddeus Constable’s gentle consolations spoken through the keyhole of his door. He did not stir from his bed until his friend and his family had given up. Wobbling slightly from exhaustion, he shuffled towards the window in his room, unlatched the lock, and, looking around as though appreciating the weather, bent forwards and toppled over the ledge to his death.

***

Decades after Bule’s death, there had been a minor resurgence of the volume, when a wealthy thespian by the name of Mickey Fenum dug it up from his family’s library and publicly extolled its virtues and relevance to his craft.

‘Poetically written, full of insight, humour, and gentle frankness...I know no other work quite like it,’ were his words, and had the book been published today, this quote would certainly be affixed to its front, to goad the world into buying it.

And the work was never seen or thought of again until another decade had come to pass. Having lost her husband and a daughter to cholera, Adalin Gwain and her two sons, Grimal and Hansard, sold their home in Whitby and spent the former years of their adolescence preying upon their relatives' pity, living as long in each home as their relatives’ wages would allow. It was then, under the roof of their paternal aunt Hattie, that young Grimal Gwain laid hands on Bule’s tome.

Time wreaked havoc on its once-splendid bejewelled front; whole clusters were chipped or prised away and its charms – literal and otherwise – were long gone. It did have one improvement, however. Once known simply as The Gilded Tome (for the title was nowhere to be seen), the absence of the crowd of jewels had finally revealed its name, which was etched into the gold:

Slay the Dragon in You:

Seeing Life’s Obstacles as Mythological Barriers

Intrigued by the title and its tattered state, Grimal dropped onto the carpeted corner of his aunt’s library and read. Though it was a rather ponderous work, he finished reading before long. It is difficult to say what had passed through his mind; but for days after, Grimal carried it with him wherever he went, reading certain passages a hundred times over, sighing wistfully and nodding his head, and taking pains to polish the little jewels that remained on its front.

There was one passage that stood out to him above all, as it captured the essence of the work beautifully:

When faced with a difficult situation, often I do not flinch but face it head-on, because I indulge in an act of fantasy that, though untrue, allows me to embolden myself enough to face it. To call this damaging would be as absurd as telling someone in danger of being mauled by a bear not to pretend to be bigger and better than it is simply because they are not. By engaging consistently in these acts of bravery (or cleverness or confidence), soon you will find that it is no act at all; it is a part of you. The act was simply a means for allowing these traits to appear in you by being without self-doubt, self-consciousness, or fear. Under this guise you believed you could do anything, and you did.

To Grimal, this was a key to unlocking everything inside him he had hitherto been afraid to let out.

But more than this was a revelation for personal enrichment, it soon appeared to Grimal, after endless inquiries as to its history, that the book was utterly unknown; and the author himself appeared to have made not even the slightest ripple upon the world of philosophy. Assured of its transience through the passage of time, Grimal took every word for his own, painstakingly transcribed by hand, and sent it in to be published under his name.

Before he had succeeded in this, however, he had sought out the town’s famous gypsy fortune teller, Madam Annette. She looked like no ordinary fortune teller; that is, utterly normal, free of shawls and kohl and exotic, dangly things. When he had asked for a reading, she simply took his hand, stared into the distance, and said, ‘There will be no harm come in publishing this book – save one.’ She squinted slightly. ‘There is...a girl. Not yet born, but who will one day use this book to bring about your downfall. Or perhaps your freedom. It is too far to see, you see, and Old Chanti allows no further explanation. Ten shillings please.’

And just as Grimal was about to pay the woman, she seized his hand again. ‘Oh, but wait,’ she breathed, ‘there is one thing more. You will be haunted your whole life - by a man with an auburn beard.'

Grimal gaped at her, and gulped. 'This man,' he said, 'will he do me harm?'

Madam Annette shut her eyes. At length she said, 'No harm will come.' And seeing Grimal looking obviously relieved, she put up her left palm to show that this was not the end of it. 'But he will pester you,' she went on. 'Night and day, he will fling things across your room, tug at your bedcovers in your sleep, and slather your precious ointments over the walls. For ten shillings more, we may speak to him directly, and beseech him to step into the light. But this is a raging, stubborn man, I fear, my dear, and Madame Annette can make no guarantee.'

Grimal dug into his pockets, but found no more than he had brought. He sighed deeply. Was it worth risking a moment's fame for a lifetime's haunt? He cast his mind back to his favourite passage in the book and decided that, though his means for reaching fame was not totally honest, it would do wonders for instilling him with confidence in publishing future works he would pen on his own.

Wasn't a lie, after all, essential to establish what would soon become an unshakeable truth? If a ghost were to come at the cost of that, then so be it.

And this is how Grimal Gwain came to have the ghost of a long-dead philosopher hovering over him, and why he had two books with the same title but with different authors in his library, and how, years and years later, the not-yet-born girl, Evangeline Blackwood, came to use this book to bring about his downfall.

Or perhaps his freedom.