The prophetic dream
by Anette Luhtala
“In the distance, I can hear music. Violins and flutes.
Their clear voices travel through the air. It feels like the sound is coming from everywhere.
The melody is heartbreakingly beautiful.
One moment the music is filling me with euphoria, indescribable happiness.
Soon after begins the scorching pain, burning me within.
Their clear voices travel through the air. It feels like the sound is coming from everywhere.
The melody is heartbreakingly beautiful.
One moment the music is filling me with euphoria, indescribable happiness.
Soon after begins the scorching pain, burning me within.
I can make out two figures from the corner of my eye.
They are in between space and time, where the dusk and dawn collide.
Beneath them is a stardust sea, above, a sky aflame.
When I turn to look, I can see that they have started dancing gracefully in the ruins of mankind.
They are in between space and time, where the dusk and dawn collide.
Beneath them is a stardust sea, above, a sky aflame.
When I turn to look, I can see that they have started dancing gracefully in the ruins of mankind.
Their fingers are tangled together; his are pale and bony, hers are
bronze and chubby.
Eyes locked into each other’s; abysmal depths reflected in his met by the light of million stars sparkling in hers.
Moving as one, they are drawing circles in the ash.
Reign of terror, that once seemed eternal, has finally passed.
Eyes locked into each other’s; abysmal depths reflected in his met by the light of million stars sparkling in hers.
Moving as one, they are drawing circles in the ash.
Reign of terror, that once seemed eternal, has finally passed.
They come to an abrupt stop – have they been disturbed by my curious
gaze?
How I wish they would continue! But instead, they part ways giving each other a slight bow.
When she approaches me, my heart jumps into my throat. Oh, how gorgeous she is!
How I wish they would continue! But instead, they part ways giving each other a slight bow.
When she approaches me, my heart jumps into my throat. Oh, how gorgeous she is!
She places a hand on my cheek. It’s so warm and soft.
Her presence is soothing; she is radiating light and love. My heart feels at ease.
She presses her lips on my forehead. The touch is light as a stroke of butterflies’ wings.
When she leaves, I am left in the void of her absence.
Her presence is soothing; she is radiating light and love. My heart feels at ease.
She presses her lips on my forehead. The touch is light as a stroke of butterflies’ wings.
When she leaves, I am left in the void of her absence.
Now she is gone, his turn has come – he is
drawing closer still, with every fluttering beat of my heart. And yet, I am
not afraid.
He cups my face between his ice-cold hands, leaning in, kissing my lips.
My breath is cut short – it’s like someone had poured napalm on my face!
He cups my face between his ice-cold hands, leaning in, kissing my lips.
My breath is cut short – it’s like someone had poured napalm on my face!
The veil of darkness sets upon me.
Nothing is no more.“
Nothing is no more.“
•••••• † ••••••
Your eyelids are opening slowly. They are so heavy like they were made
of lead.
That fucking dream again.
These days, you don’t sleep so much – no, you cannot sleep –, because you keep seeing same dream every time you fall asleep.
Every night for past week you have been dreaming of the two dancing figures.
The dream has been haunting you ever since you learned about her tragic fate.
That fucking dream again.
These days, you don’t sleep so much – no, you cannot sleep –, because you keep seeing same dream every time you fall asleep.
Every night for past week you have been dreaming of the two dancing figures.
The dream has been haunting you ever since you learned about her tragic fate.
She had seen the dream, too. She told you that she did.
Maybe that is why you cannot stop seeing it?
You heard from her parents that her last hours were horrible, because she was suffering so much. She kept screaming the whole day and night – nothing could ease her pain!
When she finally grew quiet, it was too late to do anything. Her eyes had gone dim and lips turned a bruised purple shade.
Why were you not with her?
Maybe that is why you cannot stop seeing it?
You heard from her parents that her last hours were horrible, because she was suffering so much. She kept screaming the whole day and night – nothing could ease her pain!
When she finally grew quiet, it was too late to do anything. Her eyes had gone dim and lips turned a bruised purple shade.
Why were you not with her?
We are all going to share the same fate as her
– someday.
– someday.
Will you be reunited again?
One to go, one to keep
by Krista Yrjölä
The sun was bright. Its gleam and shine made the air still and hot. He moved slowly and sluggishly. He didn´t exactly think how the worm eats the flesh, nor the trees grow from the soil, nor the animals roam in the forests and in the meadows, eating plants, eating flesh, preying. To eat, to be eaten. He didn´t think much, he just strolled along an alley that ran through the yard. He didn´t think, but he saw and sensed the flowers that framed the graves and he sucked in all the beautiful colors of the roses, zantedeschias, hydrangeas, hyacinths, violets. Most flowers were purple in colour. But the sun gave the dark colour a joyful, or comforting tone. He took his shovel and walked along the pathways.
He saw the funeral crowd and stood still leaning on his shovel. The crowd stood on the brink of the hole staring into it, singing sadly and quietly. The priest swayed his hand in the air, took dirt onto his baby-sized shovel - ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The ceremony was over and slowly the crowd started to float towards the cemetery gates, wiping their noses and eyes, holding each others arms, leaning towards each other. Shivering, trying to find warmth and comfort under the burning sun. He straightened his back and took a slow step towards the hole; it was his time, an invisible participant, the last man casting a look onto the beloved and gone. As he calmly paced towards the grave, something caught his attention. From the corner of his eye he saw movement. He stopped and turned to look. It was a small, thin and rickety squirrel.
”Hello, it´s you again, is it? Come back for some more?”, he said smiling.
The tiny animal peeped and agilely bounded closer to him. He dug in his pocket, squatted and laid a small pile of peanuts at the side of the alley.
”There you go. Say hi to your babies and remember to eat some of those yourself too. You need to stay strong for the little ones.”
He straightened his back and continued his way towards the hole. The squirrel jumped eagerly next to the peanut pile and in the blink of an eye the pile had disappeared into the squirrels mouth. He reached the edge of the grave and looked into it.
The lid of the cherry tree coffin thumped when he cautiously dropped himself on it. He moved both his feet to the other side of the coffin. There wasn´t much space to stand and he had to keep his legs in an awkward position. ”Damn, I´m getting too old for this”, he sighed. He leaned towards the upperside of the coffin and pushed the lid aside. Inside the coffin he saw an old lady lying on her back, hands placed on her chest. She looked peaceful and underneath the fine lines that ran across her skin, she looked very young. He dug a pair of small scissors from his pocket. On the shiny metal blade, he saw his own eyes. He stopped and looked himself in the eyes, very closely. ”Old man, soon it´ll be you”, he said quietly. Then he carefully took a small lock of the woman´s silky hair in between his fingers. His hands trembled a little when he carefully cut a pearl white lock. He placed the lock in an empty candybox he kept in his pocket. Then he cut a small wound onto his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood. He pressed his thumb onto the woman´s closed eyelids leaving tiny red spots on them. ”You go in peace, lady. One to go, one to keep”, he said almost silently. He placed the lid back on the coffin and clumsily climbed up from the grave. After catching his breath for a while, he took his shovel and filled the hole. He set the garlands onto the soil and slowly started to make his way towards the chapel. He was done for today and it was time to go home. The mother squirrel followed him hopping lightly and playfully. Beside her, under the evening sun, hopped her three little ones.
Nameless man
by Lauri Korkeaniemi
”You’re
not eating. Why is that?”
Reed
swallowed, and his eyes drifted to the steaming plate in front of him. It was a
better meal than he could get this month, or any month for that matter. But
when he had walked into this restaurant, his appetite seemed to have turned
away right at the door.
”Are
you starting to regret our agreement?”
The
chair creaked as Reed shifted on it, almost like it was confirming his
hesitation, and he still kept his gaze downwards. Across the table a deep,
patient breath could be heard, followed by the sounds when knife and fork were
placed against the plate. From the following silence Reed knew that the man was
looking at him, waiting. And he would wait as long as he needed to.
”No.
No, no, It’s just…I was wondering if you went a bit too far…” Reed said, and
even he noticed how weak and wavering his own voice sounded.
”I
explained what would happen, in great detail, after you paid me. And you agreed
to everything,” the man replied, with a voice that hinted towards an impatient
tone but not quite reaching it. And yet it was enough to make Reed peel his
eyes away from his plate and finally face the person sitting across the table.
His
face was so…unnerving. Somehow the man reminded Reed of a statue, or perhaps a
mannequin. Like the light skin was only sculpted plastic, and the short brown
hair was only a wig. Like there was something essential missing, which was
needed to appear like a human.
And
the eyes. The sharp, clear eyes that seemed to gaze right through Reed. There
was something dangerous behind those eyes, and Reed couldn’t figure out what.
And
that is why he felt so uncomfortable.
”I
thought this was what you wanted. To see someone, who you feel has wronged you
for too long, have their life ruined. So go on, celebrate. Sing, dance, be
merry, for you have now achieved what you have always wanted.”
The
man’s voice was so flat, so utterly indifferent about the subject, that it felt
like a sharp smack across Reed’s face. He sank deeper into his chair, without
having the strength to reply.
”Maybe
it is because you never got this far in your mind? Because you always stopped
your daydreaming at the point where you got some vague feeling of petty
revenge, and that was enough? And you still came to me. The moment you hired me
to do your dirty work, your little
daydream became reality. Simple as that.”
Reed’s
throat felt dry, and he felt somewhat nauseous. Because the man was able to
phrase his current feelings with unnerving accuracy. Like he could see right
into Reed’s head.
”Do
you want to know why I am so good at what I do?”
The
man cleaned the last few crumbs from his table, and wiped his narrow lips with
the napkin. Since Reed couldn’t figure out how he should have answered, the man
decided to continue:
”The
reason why I can sell other people’s secrets is because I can understand them.
And the reason I can understand them is because I have spent my whole life
trying to understand myself.”
The
man had leaned closer, Reed wasn’t sure when. All he could focus on was the
cold voice and the intense gaze of those glassy eyes. And with every word, it
felt more and more like he could suffocate Reed with his words alone:
”Can
you understand, or rather can you imagine when you don’t know who you really are?
How it feels to look into a mirror, and realize you don’t know who is looking
back at you. After so many names, so many lives, understanding that there is
no-one behind them. That empty feeling could be enough to drive someone insane.
That
is why I do what I do. As I find out about people, dig up every little detail
when hired, I may find something about myself. What I like about these people,
what I dislike, and even some details that I want to take with me. And put them
together with great care. That way I can one day look at myself and know who
the person in front of me is. Oh, I’m waiting to see him.”
The
man turned to grab his coat, and Reed was left bathed in cold sweat. He felt
like he had heard something he wasn’t supposed to, something disgusting and
unnatural. And yet, the man seemed just as calm and calculating as ever. Before
he could walk away, Reed couldn’t stop himself from asking:
”Why?
Why did you tell me all this?”
The
man looked at him, and for the first time Reed saw him smiling. But the smile
was empty, without any hint of happiness or even spiteful amusement:
”Because
I know you won’t be able to do anything with this information. Because when I
walk out of that door you won’t see me ever again. And because I know you won’t
try to have me arrested. If you do, you only tie the noose for your own neck.
They wont’t find me, but I will make sure they find every last detail about
your part in all this.
And
I know you, Reed. You’re not the type to waste your own life for some misguided
attempt to make up for your crimes. Like I said, by my job I found out what I
like and dislike. And your petty little revenge, which you were too spineless
to even act yourself, is something that I loathe.”
Father’s Day
by Karoliina Vainio
Every year I felt it. It came anyway, although I didn’t want it. Father’s Day. Second Sunday of November. Everything was fine until I turned sixteen. Then everything changed. It took me a while to get used to this change. Why wasn’t I required to make a card anymore? What if I would absolutely want to bake a cake? These and many more questions rotated inside my head. My brothers had moved to their own apartments years ago and I had to share our home with Mom. It wasn’t so easy. Try to imagine one feisty teenager and a lonely, resentful over middle-aged woman – these two together. Not a good combination, uh?
I had to get used to my new life. It was entirely new. Luckily time passed – the clock hand moved on and one day changed to another. We – me and my mother, I mean – survived without any bigger conflicts. I had to admit that our most serious dissonances concerned food. I thought Mom wasn’t capable of making delicious food at all. Sometimes I might have even said she doesn’t cook anything, and I need to be starving. As you can imagine, she didn’t become delighted, when she heard about that from our neighbors.
Finally, it was my turn to sail from our home to my very own one-room flat. After my move, I had to face this day each year completely alone. There wasn’t a year, when it would have been easy to pass. I made it barely, but amazingly I managed. Mom remembered to carry candles to the graveyard at least twice a year. Second Sunday of November and his birthday. These days were rough for all of us. Mom was still lonely – and so was I. Could someone answer my call to find a companion? And please, send hope to Mom, too. In spite of the fact that I was a horrible kid before, I have always desired a wonderful future for my mom.
Ten years and almost one month after when I celebrated my sweet 16th, I met the most adorable gentleman ever. I had been so suspicious when people had talked about Tinder. Swipe right or left, it doesn’t matter. I was sure about my life. I had planned to spend it alone. Forever alone, as they said. But then he came into my life and it changed again. Totally.
After that date in February, I perked up and everyone could see me smiling. Sometimes it felt a bit weird to smile all the time, but then I understood what I had lost during all these years. November approached fast, but I didn’t care about it. It didn’t frighten me anymore, because I could stand with him. Mom carried candles to the grave elsewhere while he and I laughed and played guitar with his brother, sister and Dad.
Take care
by Maiju Hietala
About
three months ago, I promised to water my upstairs neighbor’s plants while he
was away visiting friends. We didn’t really know each other that well, but he
was evidently on better terms with me than most of his other neighbors, so I
volunteered to help him out. I was on sick leave back then, and I didn’t really
have anywhere to be most days, anyway, so getting some responsibility was even
a welcome distraction from what had become an isolated lifestyle for me as of
late. Of course, he never came back to his place, and all those plants are now
in my apartment. But I’ll get to that in a minute.
Before leaving,
he gave me extremely detailed instructions on how to take care of each
individual plant, and I could see why he was so particular. He had an insane
amount of plants strewn all over his apartment; cacti on the coffee table, pots
of flowers on every windowsill, tall houseplants I didn’t recognize in large
pots on the floor and baskets of different kinds of flowers hanging from the
ceiling. His whole place looked like a greenhouse, and I still clearly remember
how his laugh sounded when I told him that. We had a cup of coffee and
exchanged some small talk, during which he mostly talked about how excited he
was to see all his friends and family, telling me he hadn’t been home for a
long time. I wanted to press him on why that was, but it didn’t seem right
somehow. He walked me through his apartment, meticulously detailing how to take
care of all the flowers and plants. He
even had ready a written list of all of them, including the name of each one and
even a little drawing to further help me recognize which one he was talking
about, and he handed it to me as we exited the apartment together. I still
think about that sometimes, him fussing around his apartment, ranting on about
his precious plants, how he handed me the crumpled note in the dimly lit
hallway, the closing door echoing through the space. Walking down the stairs
together, I wished him a good time with his friends, and he smiled at me,
though I swear I could see a familiar fatigue in his eyes.
This
guy really cared about his plants, and for some reason, he trusted me enough to
keep them alive, God knows why. I even asked him, an excruciating amount of
times, as he was showing me around, if he had anyone else, anyone at
all, that he could get to do it instead, highlighting the fact that I was kind
of useless when it came to taking care of things. It seemed he didn’t really
have any family or friends in the city, and he assured me I would do a fine job.
I was also confused about why he chose me of all people, we barely knew each
other after all, but he only said he’d seen me around the building and it
“seemed like the right thing for me.” I started to say something, finding the
comment kind of amusing and more than a little puzzling, but he quickly brushed
it off with a wave of his hand and I left it alone. There was something about
him that didn’t warrant a need for explanation.
A
couple of days later, according to his instructions, I went up to his place and
made sure to take care to get everything exactly right. I looked at the list,
watered the plants, even double-checked the list to make sure I didn’t forget
anything. This routine went on for about a week. I would go up to his apartment
around 5 o’clock in the afternoon and do everything on his checklist, always in
the same order. I didn’t even realize it was the first time I had paid real
attention and care to anything in months. I also didn’t realize until later how
much I’d started to look forward to it. Sometimes, I would sit on his couch for
a while, thinking about what kind of life the man was living; what his friends and
family were like back home, how he spent his time all alone in that apartment,
what he did for a living. Curious, I would look through the bookshelves in his
living room, making a habit of seeing how many books I could recognize, and
reading the back covers of the ones I didn’t. I couldn’t help but notice there
weren’t many personal effects lying around. No photographs, no birthday cards,
not even ticket stubs or posters.
One day,
however, I noticed something. I had just carried his mail to the kitchen
counter and filled up the watering can as usual, when I noticed a small notebook
on the windowsill. It was open, and even from the sink I could see blocks of
text written in black ink, interspersed with splashes of color. It seemed odd
to me that I hadn’t noticed it before. I set the watering can down on the table
and picked up the book. Starting to leaf through it, I noticed that the
splashes of color I had seen from further away were illustrations of different
types of plants. They were beautiful, too, detailed and meticulous, drawn in a sort
of blocky, rounded art style that made the plants look sympathetic and adorable,
like they were little creatures. Some of them even had little googly eyes. The paragraphs
of text all over the notebook were intertwined with drawings of thick vines and
leaves, drawn in black and green ink. Each page was dated, and it quickly occurred
to me that it must have been his journal. Not wanting to read my neighbors
personal diary, I quickly closed it and set it down where I’d found it, but I
had become oddly interested in and infatuated with the man during the past
week, so the journal stayed in my mind for the rest of the day. I really didn’t
know much about him after all, save for his taste in music and literature, and
I think I genuinely craved to find out more.
The
next day, the book on the windowsill kept haunting me throughout my usual tour
of the apartment. I kept returning to the kitchen doorway and glancing at the
book, as if I were hiding from it, only to slap myself on the wrist and
convince myself it would be wrong to read it. Obviously, I ended up caving in,
not even half an hour later. Standing there in front of the window that looked
over to the small parking lot, in the light of the setting late afternoon sun,
I started to read. The journal didn’t appear to go terribly far back, only a
few months or so, but it was filled almost all the way to the last page. He
seemed to have a lot to write about. I stood there for about forty-five
minutes, all through the sunset, squinting at the pages. I finally set the book
back down, dragged a chair out from under the kitchen table and sat to face the
window. I wanted to stay for a while, didn’t want to go back home. It seemed
like the right thing to do.
The
journal was filled with intense feelings of loneliness and guilt. His pristine
handwriting started with detailing the quality of his life in the city, his
reason for moving in the first place (a new job), and how much he missed his
friends and family back home and hated being stuck here (his words). His
sister was ill, that was another major point in his writing. He didn’t write
any more details about her illness, but he regretted not being able to be there
to take care of her. His handwriting was messy when writing about her, as if he
had been desperate to get his thoughts out on the page, or even to make them
illegible on purpose. He wrote a lot about feeling like a bad person, about
occupying his mind with other things, to feel like he was at least trying to
take care of something other than himself. I guess that would explain the
jungle that had become his home, I thought. I sat there in his kitchen for a
long time, long enough for the sun to go down and the streetlights to shine in
through the open curtains. I thought about people who uproot their entire
lives, only to find themselves worse off than when they started. I thought about fate, or destiny, or whatever
people call it, that sometimes leads us to other people, how our paths become
intertwined and irreversibly connected.
Two
weeks passed, and my neighbor had not yet returned. I kept watering his plants
nonetheless, thinking he just had to spend some more time back home due to
unseen circumstances. Another week passed before I finally got a call from him.
He told me he was going to stay indefinitely, and that he was sorry he was
letting me know so late. He also said he was giving up the apartment, and that
some friends were coming to clean up sometime soon. I was glad to hear from him,
maybe overly, weirdly so. I hurried to tell him his plants were still doing great,
and jokingly asked whether he was planning on moving them all the way back
home. He took a short pause and then laughed, before telling me he wasn’t
planning on it. He didn’t have the room, he said. He thanked me for looking out
for them so carefully, we said our goodbyes and he hung up. It wasn’t long
after the phone call that I grabbed his key and made my way upstairs for the
very last time.
Hiding
by Topi Nieminen
Good morning, I’m sitting here in the dark. The last gunshots I
heard were approximately ten minutes ago. I suspect they have gotten through the barricade downstairs. Good thing I hid
here.
One of them bit
me in the leg. They sure bite hard. Nobody knows I got bit. That’s good. Better not tell them. Heh, all that fuss
would waste time from important stuff. Important stuff like brains. Wait, what?
No, what I meant was survival. Hm, my leg sure is itchy.
It sure is quiet… I wonder if everyone else went upstairs. I should
stay here. Thinking about it, I can’t really
move with my leg in this condition anyway. Ow! Yep, no moving around!
Hm, I think my
flashlight is broken. The color of the light is… weird. As if my skin is green. Hah! Well that’s not important. What’s important is brains.
That reminds me,
I’m kinda hungry. Right now, I think I could
really have… brains. I wonder if my
friends have any spare. I should ask them! Yeah, I think I’m gonna go and brains. Interesting, my leg doesn’t brains at all. Brainstairs it is! I can’t brains to brains some brains. Mmm, brains.
by Antti Kinnunen
At a high spot with sun all over its people, not one is where he is. The place has no name nor label, not one hint of a kiss. Missing a better pace. Aloneness, longing and pity on his tired face. The eyes can tell you the distance between him and the world. Soon the experience of now will be all adjourned.
The now has a dark colour. Hopelessness has taken power. Years counted with the petals of an aster have meaning no longer. Nothing is too good to someday be over. Before satisfied by the one, the now has turned on its son. The timeless is nigh, never having a decent why.
Peace is not settling with what one has but settling with what one cannot have. For having something is something to hold on to. Having nothing it’s much harder to do. The reason to not think any better is the same reason why they are no more together. Losing unconditional love is the greatest pain. Never daring to ask for it, a blessing like an arriving rain and the worst of betrayals when leaving him insane.
The now is truly new. Though someone made him so that moving on is not the way to go. When a repressed spirit is set free in all its gusto, the consequences are not imaginable. The envy of older towards the younger is highly questionable. No one can say it wasn’t worth it. Bitterness and frustration will come from the undone instead of what is done.
When sinking with pain, he didn’t regret a single better day. Now carrying only sadness, satisfaction can be found in madness. Settling for less, many a tear will be shed. In all the faint glory he becomes the embodiment of loss.
Missing still more.
But not here for long.
The Bogeyman
by Mira Karppelin
I am eagerly waiting for the lights to go
off. I want to play! And I am hungry. Wait! Now I can hear steps approaching!
She is coming. My beautiful toy. Oh, there are her feet right in front of me.
They look tasty. So bare and tasty. Little pink toes that are just the right
bite size. But there is a secret agreement that I can taste her only after it
is dark. Usually only when she is in the bed. Because that is when she starts
to be afraid. I can smell fear. Oh, such delicious fear that makes me
drool. Only then can I move and bite. Fear is my fuel. Without it I don’t
really exist. Without it I just am and am not. Only an invisible, intangible
being without any significance in the world.
But fear! The oh so lovely fear!
Now she is in the bed! She turns off the
light. But there is no fear yet. I am waiting. I am ever so patient. More
patient than God.
Now I smell the fear! Now is the moment when
she lies there all alone, in the dark, surrounded by it and all the mysteries
that are covered by darkness make her wonder… Darkness devours her security and
defecates it on me as fear.
I crawl out of the bed. I grab the edge of
the bed with my fingers and take a deep breath to enjoy the scent of the dread.
But what a disappointment! I should have been
expecting it but every time I feel equally disenchanted…
She is covered up with the blanket.
I can eat only the parts that are visible.
Bare.
Her head… I can see her head. It is not under
the cover. But I can’t touch it. There is secret agreement on that. Her head is
untouchable. I don’t know why but that is how it is. It is a secret agreement
made between the Universe and the Prey and myself. I hate that agreement.
Stupid agreement.
So I am waiting. Again. Beside the bed.
Sometimes I climb up on the bed and sit there. Next to my prey-not-to-be.
Sometimes she is not covered properly but if there is no fear I cannot move.
Then I can only sit and drool and curse my existence.
Then comes the morning. Lights come on. Sun
rises. Birds are chirping. And I crawl back under the bed. Back to darkness.
Back to nonexistence. To wait – again. More patient than God.
Flashing lights
by Anni Kiilavuori
You know, sometimes that moment
just flashes vividly in front of my eyes, as if I was suddenly back there in
that room, smelling the smoke of their cigarettes, feeling the beat of the bass
in my entire body.
There we are, the four of us, an
unlikely group of broken people. You, me, the man that I love and the man that
you love. He puts on a vinyl record and my favorite song fills the room with
sounds that I know by memory, I’ve heard them countless times on countless
different occasions. But this occasion, with the four of us being together,
must be my favorite. The men light up their cigarettes. The fire flashes in the
dark room and I can smell how the smoke starts filling up the room together
with the rasping sounds of the vinyl player. I take your hand and we start
dancing.
When you dance, your dark hair seems to be dancing, too, as it floats in the
air to its own beat. You like to move your skinny arms more than your feet and
spin around with arms wide open. And whenever you dance, you smile. That is why
I love to see you dancing. For the majority of people smiling is the most natural
expression, but not for you, not after life has broken you into pieces too many
times. But right now, in this room, you seem whole. You start jumping to the
beat of the song and start singing or screaming, it is hard to tell the
difference. I jump with you, to the same beat, and I feel whole as well. Because
your smile, your dancing, and your false singing voice have the ability to
collect all my broken pieces together and make them resemble the person that I
once was before life shattered me, too.
You squeeze my hand and we both spin around, faster and faster. I am sweating
like crazy because the summer in this city is not over yet. You are sweating,
too, your hair is starting to look like it was glued to your face. But you look
beautiful anyway, you always look beautiful to me, even when you cry or shout
or scream. Right now, with that smile, you look more beautiful than ever.
Then I look at the man that I love and he gets up and starts dancing, too. He
dances like a maniac and I start laughing, and he catches me and kisses me and
laughs, too. I love the sound of his laugh even more than I love the sound of
this song, because it has been a rare sound for a long time. Now he turns
around and around to the beat of the song and he looks more free than I have
ever seen him do before.
Your man leaves the room and comes back with two road bike lights. He sits down
because he cannot dance with his broken leg, but he smiles and waves his head
to the beat. Then he switches on the bike lights and they start flashing. A red
light, a yellow light and the darkness start taking turns. Suddenly it feels
like we are in an old disco where it was still allowed to smoke inside and they
only played vinyl records with rasping sounds. I see your smiling faces in
different parts of the room, and the flashing lights make you look like robots
when you move your bodies. My three favorite robots. So I laugh and jump more
and take more wine and feel alive.
The moment disappears from my mind as quickly as it comes. But whenever it
comes back again, it feels like a light is switched on. A light that brightens
up everything, my thoughts, my feelings, all the darkness that there is inside
me. I hope that the same light gets switched on in you, too, and collects all
your broken pieces together, at least for a while. Does it? Do you remember it
like I do?
Empty Buffet
Coming back for seconds
The grace that injects fluency in all your actions is gone. You remain
still, yet all of you wants to walk backwards to your table and eat backwards.
***
And you: why is this damned buffet empty? I gotta catch the 576 zooming
away in 'bout half an hour. Won’t none aid me in my pursuit of happiness of a
full stomach and void mind. Damn this godforsaken desert and its damned citizens
of gold and bones.
Your all-access pass shakes a bit and thought runs through all your past
closed doors breaking and entering researching every chamber of your mind
uselessly like a thief gone by accident to the wrong neighborhood of poverty
not riches. What were you doing? The line behind you extends & flattens
like a cat realizing its potential as a demigod, its shape a saber curving
slightly left from your standpoint. You want to shake about take names and
addresses, ask in riddles no in short verse no honestly, about your situation
or about the situation of anyone. The plate in your hands spins into a mandala,
utensils in your hands into scepters. Yet the hunger in your tummy laughs at
your half-assed zenish questioning moments under the sun.
All thinkers
Was
that what your
The Bogeyman
by Mira Karppelin
But fear! The oh so lovely fear!
Now she is in the bed! She turns off the light. But there is no fear yet. I am waiting. I am ever so patient. More patient than God.
Now I smell the fear! Now is the moment when she lies there all alone, in the dark, surrounded by it and all the mysteries that are covered by darkness make her wonder… Darkness devours her security and defecates it on me as fear.
I crawl out of the bed. I grab the edge of the bed with my fingers and take a deep breath to enjoy the scent of the dread.
But what a disappointment! I should have been expecting it but every time I feel equally disenchanted…
She is covered up with the blanket.
I can eat only the parts that are visible. Bare.
Her head… I can see her head. It is not under the cover. But I can’t touch it. There is secret agreement on that. Her head is untouchable. I don’t know why but that is how it is. It is a secret agreement made between the Universe and the Prey and myself. I hate that agreement. Stupid agreement.
So I am waiting. Again. Beside the bed. Sometimes I climb up on the bed and sit there. Next to my prey-not-to-be. Sometimes she is not covered properly but if there is no fear I cannot move. Then I can only sit and drool and curse my existence.
Then comes the morning. Lights come on. Sun rises. Birds are chirping. And I crawl back under the bed. Back to darkness. Back to nonexistence. To wait – again. More patient than God.
Flashing lights
by Anni Kiilavuori
You know, sometimes that moment just flashes vividly in front of my eyes, as if I was suddenly back there in that room, smelling the smoke of their cigarettes, feeling the beat of the bass in my entire body.
There we are, the four of us, an unlikely group of broken people. You, me, the man that I love and the man that you love. He puts on a vinyl record and my favorite song fills the room with sounds that I know by memory, I’ve heard them countless times on countless different occasions. But this occasion, with the four of us being together, must be my favorite. The men light up their cigarettes. The fire flashes in the dark room and I can smell how the smoke starts filling up the room together with the rasping sounds of the vinyl player. I take your hand and we start dancing.
When you dance, your dark hair seems to be dancing, too, as it floats in the air to its own beat. You like to move your skinny arms more than your feet and spin around with arms wide open. And whenever you dance, you smile. That is why I love to see you dancing. For the majority of people smiling is the most natural expression, but not for you, not after life has broken you into pieces too many times. But right now, in this room, you seem whole. You start jumping to the beat of the song and start singing or screaming, it is hard to tell the difference. I jump with you, to the same beat, and I feel whole as well. Because your smile, your dancing, and your false singing voice have the ability to collect all my broken pieces together and make them resemble the person that I once was before life shattered me, too.
You squeeze my hand and we both spin around, faster and faster. I am sweating like crazy because the summer in this city is not over yet. You are sweating, too, your hair is starting to look like it was glued to your face. But you look beautiful anyway, you always look beautiful to me, even when you cry or shout or scream. Right now, with that smile, you look more beautiful than ever.
Then I look at the man that I love and he gets up and starts dancing, too. He dances like a maniac and I start laughing, and he catches me and kisses me and laughs, too. I love the sound of his laugh even more than I love the sound of this song, because it has been a rare sound for a long time. Now he turns around and around to the beat of the song and he looks more free than I have ever seen him do before.
Your man leaves the room and comes back with two road bike lights. He sits down because he cannot dance with his broken leg, but he smiles and waves his head to the beat. Then he switches on the bike lights and they start flashing. A red light, a yellow light and the darkness start taking turns. Suddenly it feels like we are in an old disco where it was still allowed to smoke inside and they only played vinyl records with rasping sounds. I see your smiling faces in different parts of the room, and the flashing lights make you look like robots when you move your bodies. My three favorite robots. So I laugh and jump more and take more wine and feel alive.
The moment disappears from my mind as quickly as it comes. But whenever it comes back again, it feels like a light is switched on. A light that brightens up everything, my thoughts, my feelings, all the darkness that there is inside me. I hope that the same light gets switched on in you, too, and collects all your broken pieces together, at least for a while. Does it? Do you remember it like I do?
Empty Buffet
Strings
by Noora Raiskio
The first note is a low, growling one that demands attention. Everyone in the room turns towards the stage, and looks at me. I grin, and the second note is longer, more seductive, luring them in. Steps are being taken, glasses abandoned on the tables, and shoulders touching unknown shoulders, right there, in front of me.
Are you ready?
They cheer. We take one last breath, then let the song out into the air.
The blastwave of sound fills the space, shoots in unprotected ears, through the cochleae, all the wayin to the brains. There, deep inside, we make them forget themselves, and leave an absolute invitation which none can decline.
They have to join us.
I hold the strings, and abruptly stop the flow of notes.
Stop them.
They're mine to control, mine to play with. Sweet puppets of various ages, with different hairstyles, and band t-shirts carefully picked for the occasion. There's one guy wearing a Tool shirt, short brown hair. Another next to him, hair all over the place. Can't see the logo. Then, a couple of rows further back, a woman in black: eyes, shirt and hair. Lips something else, still dark. Brave. I wink at her, and she shouts something.
The beat is accelerating. I smell the sweat, mine and everyone's, spice the air. It's surprisingly pleasant. Proof that we're on fire. We. One entity.
The sound is creeping everywhere, and raising my body hair up. Hair is already out of control. The audience is singular: a wild sea of wooing, headbanging and singing along. Guards pick a couple of fainted people aside, and give them water. Someone starts a pit.
They flash a strobo. Flow turns into moments, pictures beaten on their retinas like tattoos on their skins. I add striking notes, break a pick, I want to burn the images eternally there.
I need them to burn with me.
When Suns Burn Out
She used to be a good person. Exceptional, even. Every
morning she'd wake up one and a half minutes before her alarm went off. She was
never late anywhere. She would be the one smiling at you in the middle of a
crowd full of frowns. She’d somehow
manage to give money to charity, though her salary wasn’t all that impressive,
and birthday presents from her were always the sweetest and most carefully thought
out ones you would ever receive.
Anyone would tell you she was an angel, and the same people
would say she fell from grace. But that's just a question of perspective, isn’t
it?
I think she was so focused on being the light of other
people's lives that she forgot that to get a good night's sleep, you need some
darkness. Like other good people, she was taught to despise darkness, so she
did. In the imagined battles between light and darkness you are always supposed
to root for the light. Everyone forgets what can happen in the light. Everyone
forgets that it's not only the night that can contain vicious predators, and
the most dangerous are the ones hiding in plain sight, aren’t they?
I think she just grew tired. She was always the shoulder
people would cry on, but one day she realized she wanted to be more than a
shoulder. She discovered she was more than that. There was much more of her
than that. But people don't want to give away something that brings them solace
and joy.
I'm not a lamp, she said one day. She's lost her mind, said
the people. And how nice she used to be, I've known her since she was a baby,
I'd never expected this from her, cried the neighbors. But she had decided her
life would be hers and hers only. She wasn't here to make the others happy, she
was a person too and had every right to a happiness of her own.
And she was tired. How could she sleep when she had turned
herself into a sun? Suns can't just switch themselves off whenever they want.
When suns burn out, whole solar systems die.
She was so, so tired. Her whole body had grown heavy with
the worries of the world, yet she still felt empty somehow. Hollow. Like the
wind could just pass through her, and maybe it did. She would've traded almost
anything if only some soothing darkness would come and take her. Almost
anything. Or maybe, just anything. That thought was new and at first it
frightened her. Eventually though, that very thought became her much-longed-for
darkness, a promise of rest. A reverse lighthouse, of sorts.
That's not right, said someone, how can you think that way?
You have everything anyone could hope for!
That's the point! she cried out. That's the whole point,
everything is much more than I can handle.
You're lazy.
She wasn't sure who said that. Maybe it was herself. It
could have been herself.
She was tired.
She used to be a good person.
The Stone Ship
by Tapani Iivanainen
I stood on a
platform and looked at the sea. It was grey, with white fog lingering just
above the murky surface. I held on to my binoculars so tightly my knuckles
started to turn pale. I shivered at the thought of stepping over the edge and
plunging into the cold depths.
”Makes you want to be home, doesn't it?” Albert said with a cough.
”Yeah,” I muttered. Albert coughed again and took a sip from his whiskey
bottle.
”How long now?” I asked.
”Not long”, Albert said, lighting his pipe. ”It should emerge in a
couple of minutes.” I nodded, feeling my heart beat faster every moment. We had
been there for so long and still I wasn't ready. Albert smiled and kept on
sucking his pipe.
”There!” he shouted, so suddenly I almost dropped the binoculars. I
looked at the direction Albert was pointing his pipe. Then I saw the ship.
He hadn't lied. It was made of stone and it was enormous. The sails were
made of substance which looked exactly like the fog that lingered on the
surface of the water. And on the deck there was the crew, not one of them
human. They just stood there, doing nothing.
”Skeletons,” I said, lowering my binoculars. ”They really are
skeletons.”
”Told you,” Albert said. He smiled, revealing his yellow teeth. ”Shall
we have a closer look?”
”I'm quite alright, thanks,” I said, but Albert had already started the
engines. Our small motorized platform approached the stone ship and I was more
scared than I had ever been in my life.
As we came
closer, the skeletons turned their empty gaze towards us. It was strange, to
say the least, to look into someone's eyes and seeing nothing.
”You sure this is safe?” I asked.
”Of course it's not,” he answered.
Soon we were floating directly above the ship, all of the crew looking
at us from below. Only then I saw something on the deck I hadn't noticed
before. It was a human child, chained to one of the masts. The child's hair was
bright red, and the face was turned downwards, so I couldn't see it. I turned
to Albert.
”Do you see that?”
”What?”
”There's a child down there. A human.”
”Oh,” Albert said, squinting his eyes and leaning forward. ”So it
seems.”
”Shouldn't we do something?”
”Now, kid,” Albert said. ”It's all fun floating over the ship and
looking at the weird things inhabiting it. It's a whole other story jumping
onto the deck yourself. That's the thing you should be scared of, not this
sightseeing stuff.”
”But…,”I said. ”We can't just leave that kid.”
”Why not? I've left others.”
”What if you had left me?”
Albert looked at me. He sucked on his pipe, sighed and muttered: ”What
do you propose?”
”I can go.”
”You sure as hell will go. I'm not putting my only working leg down
there. But how are you going to get the kid out?”
”You don't mean the skeletons are going to attack me?”
”I don't know what they'll do. I only know they've been there for ages
and I also know that there are people who have got on the ship and who've never
been seen again.
I shivered more than ever, but I just couldn't turn back. I realized it
was weird for me to act that way. I did not care.
”I guess,” Albert said. ”I could try to swoop as low as possible. But if
they start to approach, I'm out. No use in both of us and my platform to… well,
whatever happens to those who they capture.”
I couldn't blame Albert. Although he acted like a coward, he had good
reasons to do so. And I was in no position to call anyone a coward.
”Alright,” I said. ”Pull down.”
Albert sucked on his pipe one more time and then we descended in one
fast swoop.
I saw the child right in front of me. When the figure revealed its face
I realized it was a girl, and maybe not quite as young as I had imagined. Just
very small.
I jumped onto the deck and approached the chains. I looked around,
almost certain I’d see movement around me, but all of the skeletons stood
still. They looked at me and did nothing else.
As I stood there, my hands pressed against the chains, I started to
think about my travels with Albert and how well everything had gone. Always a
happy ending. The only thing that kept me focused was the thought that
everything would turn out alright again.
As I fumbled with the chains I felt the need to say something.
”It's alright. We're gonna rescue you.”
”I need no one to rescue me”, the girl said and looked at me. I
looked back and had to prevent myself from screaming.
The skeletons did not move.
I saw the girl's mouth open. It widened in a way I had never seen before
and before I knew how to react it had become bigger than her face. I backed
towards the flying platform but soon noticed it wasn't there. I was alone with
the skeletons, who were still standing, still staring with the empty holes in
their heads.
I looked around me in indescribable panic. The mouth grew even larger
and soon it seemed to cover half of the deck. I ran to the gunwale and looked
down, to the murky water with small fog clouds floating over it. I looked to
the sky, but did not see Albert's platform anywhere. And I looked back to the
ever-growing mouth of darkness and the few skeletons who stood on the remaining
parts of the stone deck.
I turned towards the edge, cringed and jumped.
As I touched the surface of the water and started to plunge into the
cold depths I opened my mouth and screamed.
Untitled story
by Lasse Tuominen
Each
morning we queue for hours while a voice, liquid and chilled, leaks
from the speakers high on the lampposts. This morning was no
different. I was queuing at
the woefully inadequate ration counter at the ministry before leaving
work. The omnipresent voice was flowing from the speakers. At last it
was my turn to order. I made my usual purchases and started packing
the items into the good old bag that had served me for several years.
Whilst
I was packing, the person at the counter slipped a small piece of
paper into my bag. At first I did not notice the paper as I must have
been checking the receipt, to make sure I had been given the proper
change. It was only when I arrived at my living quarters, that I
realised something out of the ordinary was in my faithful bag.
Hands
quivering, I emptied the wares from my bag, leaving the unimaginable
piece of paper lying at the bottom by itself. I checked my
surroundings, albeit I knew I was alone. I switched on the radio and
tuned it to the news frequency. Then with a clumsy-looking but
extremely premeditated movement I slung my bag off the table and onto
the floor. I kneeled slightly to pick up the bag and simultaneously
slipped the note into my pocket. "Oh my, oh my" I exclaimed
to make the operation seem more authentic and accidental.
Not
until late during that evening I dared to reach into the depths of my
pocket to feel out the piece of paper. After fiddling a moment with
the note, I finally ventured to dig it out into the open. I marvelled
at its neatly and exactly folded edges as well as the extremely fine
quality of paper it was written on. I decided it was time to unveil
the secrets of the mysterious note. I started unfolding the edges
nervously one by one. Finally, the only task left to do was to read
what was written onto the paper.
I
was dumbfounded. I had to read through the text several times until I
was able to comprehend everything. I had been contacted by the enemy.
First I felt disgusted, then I became angry. Angry because of the
condition of our state and the perpetual war. I had to respond
according to the instructions I received, even though I was afraid.
Afraid of being exposed, prosecuted and punished. It was time to act.
The butterfly
Dramatic monologue by Sofia Häärä
I like flying. Spreading my wings and catching the wind. But I can’t tell anyone. I’m not able to.
They look at me and feel happy. Me with my beautiful colors and fast fluttering, graceful wings. But how do they know when I’m happy, and when I’m just flying around?
Being beautiful is not the same thing as being happy, free. For them I represent freedom. But am I free? I’m not able to be.
They say I will die soon, but I’m not really aware of it. So they say. And that’s why, for them, I’m free.
I don’t know about that. But I like flying. Spreading my wings and catching the wind.
Remedy
by Petronella Patrikainen
“Viola Perdita. That’s what Mrs Hollingsworth decided to call the child
she adopted. The child, who was the only survivor of a shipwreck, was found on
the seaside, almost drowned, badly hurt, unable to speak, or to remember.”
“Viola
Perdita. Very Shakespearean.”
Viola gave
the ticket lady the tiniest smirk as she withdrew her student ID, finding
herself quite unable to vocalise her regular remark on her mother’s
Shakespeare-enthusiasm.
The train
was full from London to Cardiff. Viola wasn’t looking at any of the people. She
kept looking outside even though she wasn’t really looking at anything there
either. She kept constantly making sure her sleeves were drawn well over her
wrists.
She took
another train from Cardiff to reach her destination. She still found the name
of the village difficult to pronounce. Luckily she didn’t have to talk to
anyone, since this train was almost empty, and the chatty old ladies kept away from
her. Their accents were similar to Dylan’s. Viola smiled for the first time
that day when listening to them.
A great
humidity greeted Viola when she got off the train; it was surely going to rain.
She put up her hood and left the tiny train station. She had never been there,
but she had a map to guide her to the house where Dylan had grown up.
The house
was made of stone that had gone grey during the years. Tonight, soft light was leaking
out into the street from every window. Viola took a few cautious steps to the
front door, then a breath, and then rang the doorbell.
The heavy
wooden door was soon opened, all gently, by Dylan’s mother Sian.
“Viola!”
Sian exclaimed all excitedly at the sight of her. “What a surprise! Welcome!”
“I’m sorry
I’ve come here all unannounced like this, but…”
“Viola?” came Dylan’s voice from inside the
house. He appeared from behind his mother, and smiled the warmest smile at
Viola. “You’re here! Why didn’t you call me or anything?”
“Never mind
that,” Sian interrupted, taking Viola gently by the arm. “It’s all cold and
clammy out there, come in, darling!”
Viola gave
Sian and Dylan her second smile of the day when she stepped inside.
All of
Dylan’s family were as kind as he was, even if they were a bit over-talkative. Dylan’s
sister Kerry was there too, of course, but her Viola had met many times, and
they’d already come to like each other. They were very similar in many ways.
All of Dylan’s family were treating Viola as if she’d always been there, always
been part of the family. She didn’t mind. She felt comfortable with them.
After a few
hours of intensive conversation, Viola had escaped and was sitting by herself
in a big armchair by the fire, curled up, thoroughly exhausted. Then, when
everything had gone quiet for the first time in a couple of hours, she looked
up. Dylan had come to her, and sat next to her in the other armchair. His eyes
showed some confusion, but none of the judgement Viola kept expecting.
“I thought
you said you wanted to be with your parents for Christmas.”
“I did say
that, yeah, but I didn’t, not really. I mean, it’s okay with Mum but… I just
didn’t feel comfortable there. It was so quiet. And Stephen, he couldn’t… He
could barely look at me. He had nothing to say to me, which isn’t much less
than usual, but…”
“I see. But
I guess they just don’t know what to say. I…”
“I know,”
Viola interrupted. “I understand. You… We don’t have to talk about it. I’m okay
now.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah,” she
said, failing to sound convincing. She was tugging at her sleeves again.
“Fair
enough, then,” Dylan said, not even trying to sound convinced. “In any case, I’m
glad you came after all. Really,” he continued, smiling.
“I’m glad I
came too. I mean, your family… They’re so welcoming. Always so friendly.”
“You sound
almost surprised.”
“No, it’s
not that. It’s just… I’m surprised I should deserve to have people be so
friendly to me.”
“You’re not
a bad person, Viola. You made a mistake, but that’s in the past now. Right?”
“Right,” she
said weakly, after a heartbeat of hesitation. She felt like crying. And then she
did.
Viola slept
for more than twelve hours that night, but even then she felt exhausted in the
morning. It was Christmas Day, and the house was full of Dylan’s relatives.
Viola tried to keep smiling, and tried to hold a conversation whenever a new
relative came to present themselves to her. She at least managed to forget all
about herself like this, being with Dylan’s family, who were blissfully unaware
of most of what was going on in her life. Sian knew of course what had happened
a few weeks back; Dylan had had to call her because he’d been so upset. They’d
not told Kerry, though. She was so sensitive about these things.
A few days
later, Dylan’s parents left to visit some friends for a couple of days, leaving
Dylan, Kerry and Viola by themselves. They mostly stayed inside, eating and
watching TV, as the weather had turned into wind and rain, and it rained every
day.
The armchair
by the fire was a place of comfort to Viola. She sat there whenever they were
not in the living room. Dylan and Kerry would join her and they’d talk about
the movies they’d watched, or food, or the weather, or Dylan and Kerry’s
childhood. They didn’t talk about Viola. She didn’t say anything and Dylan
wouldn’t ask. Kerry did ask things about Viola, but Dylan managed to always
divert the conversation. He thought he was protecting them both.
The day
before New Year’s Eve they finally decided to go outside for a bit, since it
wasn’t raining anymore, it was only a bit misty. Dylan showed Viola a beautiful
dell near the house, overgrown with ivy, where he and Kerry had often played as
children. Beyond the dell was a big hill. Dylan asked Viola whether she was up
to climbing to the top of it. She was, and so, slowly but surely, they began
climbing up its steep side towards the top.
The view from
the top of the hill was very much worth all the effort. They could see far
beyond the valley opening before them, full of dark green forest, surrounded by
hills shrouded in mist. Viola was enjoying the view but she was also getting
cold because the wind was picking up.
Dylan was
standing a few feet away from her, arguing about the location of some landmark
with Kerry. They laughed and realised how long it was beginning to be since
they were children. Dylan then looked up at Viola and noticed that she was
staring at him.
“I think we
should start heading back. It’s going to rain again, I think.”
Shivering
from head to toe up there on the hill, the armchair was suddenly all Viola
could think about, and getting warm by the fire, talking with Dylan and Kerry,
and eating some more of Sian’s Welsh cakes.
“You
alright?” Dylan asked her, taking her cold hand as they began heading down the
hill.
“Yeah,”
Viola said peacefully, smiling. “I will be.”
The suit man
by Laura Aspelin
I was walking
through the endless crowd, under the colorful streamers and trying to find my
way out. Why did I choose to walk through Little Italy? I wasn’t sure, but it
was a bad choice. People were everywhere, taking pictures, buying oysters and
lobsters. I hate Mediterranean food, especially the smell, but I had to get
through, I had to.
“Excuse me,
excuse me” I said and tried to zigzag in the crowd, but people were only able
to concentrate on the streamers, colorful lights and Italian men yelling “Buy
my stuff, it’s the best!” I couldn’t help thinking that I might not make it in
time. He was so sick and he needed this food bag.
It wasn’t easy to
walk through the crowd with one hand holding the heavy food bag and the other
hand packed in an arm sling. Suddenly someone noticed me, someone who wasn’t
blinded by Little Italy’s attractions. “Hey! Hey you, make some room!” he
yelled to the crowd, using his authority and his loud, soft base voice. I
looked at him and he looked at me with caring, helpful eyes. The crowd started
moving and making a little passage just for me. I was so confused. This guy was
one of those rich people, who never cared about people like us. He was a suit
man.
I walked through
the passage and the suit man came after me saying: “Can I help you?” But I just
replied “Thank you!” and continued on my way as fast as I could. What I didn’t
know was that the suit man was following me.
“One more turning”,
I thought. I was afraid of what was coming behind the turning. The corner was
there. I stopped. I breathed deeply and tried to let go of the worst case
scenario in my head. Then I made the turn.
There he was, my
little brother lying on the ground. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at that
little, suffering creature on the cold ground, not moving anywhere. I
approached him step by step and I tried to say something. “Bro, I brought you
some food.” No reaction, just a still, small body. I approached a little closer.
Then I saw him clearly. His eyes were closed. His skin looked so pale, almost
like he was no longer alive, and eventually, I saw that he wasn’t moving at
all.
I knelt down on
the ground with desperate thoughts. The food bag dropped out of my hand and spread
around the street. The pain inside me was terrible. I felt anger towards the
whole world and especially towards the city we were living in. It was supposed
to be the city of dreams, but it wasn’t. It was a city of broken dreams,
unfairness and now dead little brothers.
“Wait!” a soft,
base voice said behind me, passed me and went straight to my brother’s body and
touched his throat. “What are you doing? Get off my brother!” I screamed, but
he just took his phone, and called someone. “I need an ambulance at 12th street 42. A little boy is struggling
for his life and he needs hospital care immediately.” Then the suit man started
bringing my brother back to life and I just looked at him astounded. I didn’t
know what was happening, but it looked like this man was about save my
brother’s life. Then I fainted.
I woke up in a
light, clean room. “Ah good you are awake! Would you like to go see your
brother?” a middle-aged woman said to me with a friendly voice. “My brother,
but he, what? He was dead. I saw it.” “Yes he was in a very critical condition,
but luckily the ambulance got there just in time. Your brother is recovering
now”, the woman said with a friendly voice, “Come now I show you where he is.”
We went to
another light, clean room where my little brother was lying on a bed, sleeping.
“You should let him sleep, he is still very weak”, the woman said and left me
alone in the room. I just looked at my brother and the tears came into my eyes
once again. Suddenly I remembered the suit man calling the ambulance, and I
realized that I had to thank him. I went to the hallway. “Excuse me ma’am, but
where is the man who helped my brother?” The woman just looked at me with a
strange look. “I’m sorry my dear, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But there was a suit man who called the ambulance, and helped us! You must at
least know his name” I insisted. “I don’t know anything about any man. I’m so
sorry. You have been in shock. I suggest you go back to your brother’s room and
try to take it easy.” The woman replied.
I went back to my
brother’s room with confused thoughts. Then I saw the flowers on the table and
a letter beside them. It said “ To Jimmy and Jerry.” I opened the letter. There
was a huge check made out to me and Jerry. The signature was written by hand
with somehow familiar handwriting. I looked at my brother Jerry. He had got
some color into his cheeks. The sun was shining outside and for the first time in
a long while, I felt hope.
A promise
by Elina Pikkarainen
I had bought an enormous bouquet of roses, as red as a cheap woman’s
lipstick. The flowers were lying on the passenger’s seat, on top of a huge box
of chocolates. Not a very expensive one, but what can you do, when it’s early
on Sunday morning and only the gas stations are open.
My head was still pounding with the worst headache I had had in ages, but
the guilt of the things I had done this morning – despite all the promises I
had made to myself not to do anything like that ever again – was even worse to
bear than the physical pain. I kept looking out of the car window, even when,
honestly speaking, I should have not been driving in my condition in the first
place. But I just couldn’t get any peace before we had made things clear
between us.
I drove through the big and pompous gates and parked my car on the
driveway. It had started to snow again; I could hardly see the footprints I had
left in the snow only a few hours earlier. It somehow boosted my
self-confidence – like all my doings could be wiped away just as easily, with
the newborn snow to conceal it all – so I did not bother to even knock on the
door, which would probably have been a more polite thing to do, considering the
stormy atmosphere that I had left there.
I opened the door with my own key. The hall was completely silent, but as
usual, I could hear her moving in the kitchen. Her dog was nowhere to be seen,
which was new; usually it was waiting for me in the hall, waving its tiny
little tail in excitement, then pushing its little head closer to get a proper
hug.
The muffed sounds in the kitchen stopped when I cleared my throat. Only a
second later the girl was there, leaning on the kitchen door, watching me with
a look that was impossible for me to decode. She said nothing; she just crossed
her arms, with her face still completely lacking any kind of emotion.
Before I could think of anything to say, I heard the tiny footsteps behind
her. The dog came from the kitchen, but when it saw me, it backed again behind
the girl. At first, I felt irritated – wasn’t that the reason why the argument
had started in the first place, when I had showed my disapproval of her
disgusting habit of letting the dirty and hairy creature into the room where
the food was being cooked! Before saying anything, I had to swallow the wave of
anger that had risen inside of me again.
But then again, why had I come in the first place if not to apologize for
my earlier doings? I cleared my throat again and this time – at least I think
so – the regret was there, not only visible on my expression but also in my
voice.
“Sorry.” That was all I could say. She did not change her position, but I
could sense that her face had softened its expression a bit.
“That will never happen again.” That was the only thing that could heal it
all. “I never meant to hurt,” I said, still looking at her deep brown eyes with
a gaze that I hoped was convincing enough. She just shrugged a bit, this time
seemingly less hesitant to forgive me than before.
That encouraged me to get closer to her. I tried to explain, with my
English tangling in my throat, how I had just gotten jealous out of nowhere,
when I had seen her and my cousin, a known lady's man, laughing at the
breakfast table, then getting completely silent when I came. Just an angry
burst of jealousy and a stupid act that I had committed, a silly thought that
sometimes happens to occur out of the anxiety of losing my loved one to someone
other. And the drinks, the first ones in years, had not helped with that. I
cursed Joel silently into the deepest pit of hell for offering me those – he
should have known better.
“That will never happen again,” I finished my explanation with repeating my
previous words, but even the dog still looked a bit mad at me. The girl had
washed it clean from blood and bandaged the wounds on its tiny paw.
I got down on my knees to pet the dog. “Sorry, pal,” I said to the puppy,
talking to it like it was a child. “Never meant to kick you like that in my
anger. Mommy and Daddy just had a little disagreement, and you happened to be
on the way. Friends again, huh?”
The dog licked my palm, accepting my offer of a white flag, but when I got
up, the girl still looked a bit hesitant.
“That was the first time something like that has ever happened. I have
never lost my temper violently like that before.” The lie suddenly slipped past
my lips. I felt guilty for saying something like that for only a second,
because this time she finally seemed to believe me. She nodded, looking somehow
relieved.
“Thank you,” she finally answered to my words after a long pause of silence.
“I was worrying…” she took a few seconds to find the right words to say. “I
feared for, well… You know, how they say things like ‘the men always get
violent when they are drunk’. I’ve been listening to too many of my mother’s
warnings about marriages gone wrong.” She laughed and a tiny smile appeared on
her face. She looked young and beautiful again; the worries had weighed down
her eyebrows in a way that made her look years and years older. She was so young,
I suddenly remembered again. My new and innocent little wife.
Only a tiny bit of the guilty feeling was left inside of me. What about my
past? Those times had passed, wasn’t it my duty as a husband to make her feel
safe all the time? Why should I worry her about something that happened so many
years ago, back then, when I was still a different man than I was right now?
After all, I was not going to touch any alcoholic beverage ever again, and this
time my decision would last. And anyway, it was not the right time nor the
place for that conversation, so it was easy for me to laugh with her.
“No, my sweet darling.” Now I dared to kiss her smooth cheek, and then I
laid my big palm on her tiny stomach. It was still flat; if I hadn’t known, I
would never have guessed that she was already expecting, after only a month of
marriage.
“I will never hurt any of you ever again. I promise.”
Intelligence, Kindness – All Bought or Sold
by Aija Niittymäki
She goes out to buy some Intelligence.
The fair is the same as always: salespeople in their stalls, howling out things such as “Kindness here! Need a little bit o’ Kindness, folks? Buy now for five shillings!” and the buyers flock to their respective qualities like ants around their prey.
It’s the busiest time for the fair: it’s almost the season of Departure for many young adventurers, and they often go for last-minute shopping for that extra bit of Intelligence and Wit, not to mention Survival and Strength.
She doesn’t have to glance at her Statistics to know she’s still far from being able to leave. Her Intelligence stats are alright; she actually needs just one more upgrade and she’ll be able to enter the Fourth Level in the city library. Her Intelligence is at 14.56, if only because she really wants to reach that 15 for the access to the books of real knowledge rather than the watered down propaganda the books at the Third Level consist of.
She finds the Intelligence stall quickly, smiles at the familiar salesperson while digging up the wallet from the pouch she has with her all the time. You never know when you’ll find something worth picking up, after all.
“You’re really going for it, huh,” Ardi hums as he measures enough Intelligence for her to make it to 15. He’s been doing this since spring five years ago, from the time she first sneaked out to buy Intelligence and Dexterity. “I’m still stuck at my 10.5, and you’re already way ahead.”
“It’s because you’ve got no ambition, R,” she jokes, winking at him as she slides bills onto the desk. He rolls his eyes as he measures the 5.46 of Intelligence that she needs.
“I guess I’m a homelier soul than you,” he says as he finishes pouring powder into a small box. The powder is dull gray in color, and tastes like shit, but beggars can’t be choosers. She has little hope the taste would have turned better along the way. So far, it hasn’t. “There you go, missy — a few grams of Intelligence just for you.”
“Thanks,” she grins as she puts the box into her pouch with the wallet. When Ardi’s starting to push some of the money back, she shakes her head. “Keep the change, okay? ”
“If your Stats had Kindness on it, you’d have maxed it out by now,” Ardi laughs shortly, looking sheepish as he puts the money into the metal case for profits. “Take care, Ri-Ri.”
She waves a hand before stepping out of the way of other customers, a victorious grin dancing in her eyes and on her lips. Her card feels warm inside the zipped pocket of her sweatpants. She can’t wait to reach the 15 point mark.
But first, she has to check out if there’s something else she can get with her limited allowance. There’s no Dexterity — of course not, it’s a rare resource — but there are several stalls for stats like Speed, Strength and even Kindness. It’s not one of the stats she can boost, but as Ardi said, it’s something she’s had within her for a long time.
Her stats include: Intelligence, soon to be at 15.00; Dexterity, at 7.65; Self-Management at 5.77; Accuracy at 4.53; Loyalty at 3.65; Passion at 2.56. Out of those, Passion and Loyalty are hardest to find — they have been at the fairs only once in her time and even then the amount had been ridiculously small.
She can’t find any Passion or Loyalty this time either, which is annoying because there are other rare resources, such as Creativity and Music. Tough luck this time too, she thinks as she fiddles with her pocketed card and starts to head off towards home.
At least she’ll be able to get to the Level Four with her Intelligence. That’s something she’s been craving to do for ages, ever since she started to fill up her stats with her mom’s gentle yet firm supervision. Don’t do it too fast, sweetheart, mother had said. People have lost their minds grinding up their stats. Their heads and hearts could not handle the changes.
As much as she appreciates her mother’s wisdom, she’s not patient enough to not feel like she’s been held back for too long.
Untitled story
by Inkeri Hyvönen
We are
gathered here today to lay to rest Mr. Peter Milligan, beloved husband and
father for all eternity…
The service
had been lovely. Very tasteful, none of that flailing and ugly weeping at the
coffin. Mrs. Milligan had taken the news exceedingly well, though there was an
element of practice to her grieving. Then again, Edith was herself already
twice emerged, the second time after a tragic incident involving a pickup truck
and slippery roads, so nobody could really blame her for being a bit used to it
all.
...earth to
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to steam.
The pastor
finished the sermon and fell into an expectant silence. The congregation
followed his lead and, when the moments ticked by and nothing happened, began
to fidget. Someone coughed. Mrs. Milligan surreptitiously checked her watch.
Finally a
distant whistle sounded from the other side of the valley and there were
relieved smiles all around. Obviously, they seemed to say. What were
we thinking? While the others began gathering their belongings and moving
towards the railway station, Edith pulled the pastor aside to thank him for the
beautiful service. Getting around wasn't easy for someone at his age but Peter
would, she knew, have appreciated the familiar face. Speaking of which, they
both looked up as the whistle approached, it was well past time for them to
join the others at the station.
Billows of
steam rolled over the tracks as a heavy steam train pulled up to the station.
The crowd milled about, trying to find their places on the small platform. A
few of the younger people fiddled with the funeral wreaths they'd forgotten to
leave behind, a tad embarrassed for their faux pas.
A plink of
metal as the engine began to cool down. The carriage door opened and they saw a
figure within conversing quietly with someone just off to the side. Thank
you. No, it's no trouble, these things happen. Then he turned and carefully
climbed down the steps. From between the clouds of steam emerged a young man, barely
past his twenties.
“Sorry, love,
traffic was hell,” Peter Milligan said and stepped down to embrace his wife.
“Well, you had
us all a bit worried,” she replied. They remained locked in an embrace for a
moment until Peter looked past her shoulder. A look of recognition slowly
spread over his face as he saw the pastor.
“Ah, Reverend!
Good to see you again.” He moved to take the pastor's hand in both of his with
an enthusiastic shake. “Hope everything went well with the, uh...”
“Oh, yes. I'd
say everything went as planned. You would've been pleased, I think.” He
motioned back towards the village church. “The gravesite is ready, if you want
to go and...”
“Yes! Edith,
should we...?”
“Yes, of
course.” She let a hand rest on Peter's arm while she turned to address the
onlookers. “And thank you all for your attendance, it was most thoughtful. We'd
be happy to see you at the house tomorrow for the wake.”
The train
sounded a parting whistle and began gearing up for departure. The crowd
dispersed one by one until the couple were the only ones left. Peter raised his
eyebrows at Edith. “Well?” He spread his hands. “How do I look?”
“Even better
than the last time.”
“Flatterer,”
he said. “Well, let's go.”
Arm in arm
they strolled down the path leading back to the graveyard. Peter's easygoing
look gained a bit of a frown when he caught sight of the twin arcs of black
stone.
“Huh. What
happened to the granite headstone?” he asked.
“We decided to
switch to a matching set in the end,” Edith said. “Has more of a... finished
air, I think.”
They stood in
silence for a moment. Peter knew he'd have to say something eventually, but
this bit never got much easier. So when Edith pulled away from him and handed
him a white lily, he took the flower and a deep breath and stepped up to the
grave.
“Well, old
man,” he began. He stopped and ran a finger over the engraved words, some cuts
fresher than the others.
Peter Sean
Milligan
1923 – 1944
1944 – 2008
2008 –
“Thanks. I
mean, really, thank you. Hope you had a good life.” He turned to look at Edith
over his shoulder. “Did I?”
She tilted her
head slightly, then smiled. “I'd say so.” She reached out a hand to him. “Come
on, let's go find out who you are this time.”
A portrait of insanity
They took away my pride, they took away my joy. They took my clothes, my
jewels and my curls. But they cannot take my words.
There is no such thing as justice in the world.
This I learned as soon as I arrived here. Your body is not yours, you’ll eat
and sleep and shit when they tell you. And you’ll lie down silent and obedient
if they want you to. But mine is a pointless point of view. A half-witted view.
Release
your wife to our care. Protect your family from her wickedness. Don’t taint
them with her sin.
In the gaslight I hear a carriage pass below my
window. I lie bleeding and beaten in my filthy bed. A soft yellow light
shimmers through the bars in the window, trailing the dirty wallpaper in my
cell.
Somewhere a woman is wailing as footsteps go
down the hall. God don’t let it be me tonight.
I bite my lip so hard it bleeds. The steps pause by my door and I shut
my eyes. Surely this is Hell for I am not alive. Or Hell has frozen over and
all the devils walk amongst us.
The steps continue past my door and I hear the
heavy cell door next to mine creak. The inmate screams and cries. I bury my
nails in the sheets. Tomorrow it could be me. Would it even matter?
The madness I have achieved wasn’t granted to
me at birth. They tell me it’s my feminine nature. They tell me it’s my small feeble
brain, unable to process the simplest idea. I am manic, demented.
I was once down in the cellar. Very few return.
The ones that don’t end up under the scalpel of our educated keepers. After,
the carriage comes and off to the pits you go.
Beware if they take you. The cellar reeks.
Horrible grinding of metal fills the halls. They’ll tie you to the table. The
Doctor must be obeyed. Oh yes, or else it is no anesthesia for you.
Pull
up your skirt. Best that you, in your unfortunate condition, do not procreate.
It hurts.
The gaslight flickers. Footsteps pass by my
door again. The whole ward is silent except for my neighbor’s quiet whimpering.
I am lying still.
God willing, maybe one day I’ll be the one
rotting in the dark.
The Message
by Nea Lehtinen
It’s an
umbrella. What am I going to do with an umbrella? I’m not going to Scotland,
for heaven’s sake. I’m going to Spain. I’ve heard it’s warm and dry this time
of the year. Shorts weather, not umbrella weather.
“Why is there an umbrella next to my suitcase?” I ask.
“Some guy came over and told me it was yours, and he thought you’d want it back in case of a rainy day. I thought I’d leave it somewhere you’d find it even if I forgot to tell you. Never took you for the kind to like leopard skin print, though.”
I hear the question in Stella’s voice, but she doesn’t ask outright. It means I don’t have to give her an answer, either. And now I know what the umbrella is. She doesn’t, and she definitely shouldn’t. If I was a bit confused with it, what would she think when I’m taking the unknown umbrella with me on my trip?
“Why is there an umbrella next to my suitcase?” I ask.
“Some guy came over and told me it was yours, and he thought you’d want it back in case of a rainy day. I thought I’d leave it somewhere you’d find it even if I forgot to tell you. Never took you for the kind to like leopard skin print, though.”
I hear the question in Stella’s voice, but she doesn’t ask outright. It means I don’t have to give her an answer, either. And now I know what the umbrella is. She doesn’t, and she definitely shouldn’t. If I was a bit confused with it, what would she think when I’m taking the unknown umbrella with me on my trip?
It’s
not just an umbrella. It’s an invitation and an order rolled into one. Come to
me, it whispers. It’s something for just me to understand, with the words
Stella delivered me. A guy told her it was mine. An umbrella with a hideous
leopard skin print. Oh James, I could kill you for this joke.
“Yeah, leopard skin print is not my thing, but there were no options.”
Stella looks at me from the bedroom doorway. She looks like she’s waiting for an explanation, but she is not getting one. I only answer questions she utters aloud. With silent questions I play dumb. Sometimes I wonder if she knows I’m evading her.
“Yeah, leopard skin print is not my thing, but there were no options.”
Stella looks at me from the bedroom doorway. She looks like she’s waiting for an explanation, but she is not getting one. I only answer questions she utters aloud. With silent questions I play dumb. Sometimes I wonder if she knows I’m evading her.
I can’t
put the umbrella in my suitcase while she stands there. She mustn’t find out
that my destination has changed. I’m not going to Spain, not anymore. Damn it,
James. Why would you do this to me, after all this time? I had found peace
here, with Stella, with my work.
“Love, why don’t you go make us some tea.” I smile and wonder if she sees right through it. If she sees how my nightmares just returned to me, if she sees that it might take me longer than four days to come back. I wonder if she realizes that I might not return at all. I can never tell how much she knows, how well she can read me. It unnerves me, but it also means that she does not ask questions. This is the easier way. She nods and leaves, and I can’t read her thoughts.
“Love, why don’t you go make us some tea.” I smile and wonder if she sees right through it. If she sees how my nightmares just returned to me, if she sees that it might take me longer than four days to come back. I wonder if she realizes that I might not return at all. I can never tell how much she knows, how well she can read me. It unnerves me, but it also means that she does not ask questions. This is the easier way. She nods and leaves, and I can’t read her thoughts.
James,
brother from another mother, how I hate to love you. After all these years you
send me one obscure message and I come to you, running like a dog to its
master.
Polar Opposites
by Markus Silvennoinen
For a brief moment the birds are singing and the
air is filled with hope and excitement. It is the time when
you have forgotten about the meaning of the word duty, and the only thing to worry
about is the weather forecast.
You thought you'd never see it again but there it is - the overwhelming beauty is all around. The glimmering waters are inviting you to their embracing blue arms. The rays of sun are turning your skin to a less whiter shade of pale and warmth is not only felt in the surface but it radiates through your whole existence. As you watch the joyful children playing in the sand you can feel like one yourself.
In such a beautiful world it is hard to believe that anything bad could ever happen. You know that this kind of bliss can't last forever but deep down you hope that this time it just might.
...
The sounds of laughter have quietened down long ago as the silence has taken over. If you listen carefully you can hear a faint sound of weeping in the north wind.
Now the only birds you can see are the ones who couldn't make it out. Lying forever still on the grey, cold asphalt they are the emblem of lost hope. No light, no warmth, no life.
Death reigns here. His subjects walk the streets all clothed in black and grey. The emotionless faces are held down as if the people wouldn't have the courage to look up and see the world in all its horror.
The billboards' neon lights are the only source of illumination. Maybe if you just try to pursue some more property you could be able to save yourself from the darkness that is eating you up from inside.
In dark corners, tales are told about a paradise lost but only the youngest of children are naive enough to believe they are true. Don't give up, one day we shall see the beauty once again. Oh, how I wish it wasn't just a story we keep on telling so that the youngsters wouldn't lose their hope all too early.
You thought you'd never see it again but there it is - the overwhelming beauty is all around. The glimmering waters are inviting you to their embracing blue arms. The rays of sun are turning your skin to a less whiter shade of pale and warmth is not only felt in the surface but it radiates through your whole existence. As you watch the joyful children playing in the sand you can feel like one yourself.
In such a beautiful world it is hard to believe that anything bad could ever happen. You know that this kind of bliss can't last forever but deep down you hope that this time it just might.
...
The sounds of laughter have quietened down long ago as the silence has taken over. If you listen carefully you can hear a faint sound of weeping in the north wind.
Now the only birds you can see are the ones who couldn't make it out. Lying forever still on the grey, cold asphalt they are the emblem of lost hope. No light, no warmth, no life.
Death reigns here. His subjects walk the streets all clothed in black and grey. The emotionless faces are held down as if the people wouldn't have the courage to look up and see the world in all its horror.
The billboards' neon lights are the only source of illumination. Maybe if you just try to pursue some more property you could be able to save yourself from the darkness that is eating you up from inside.
In dark corners, tales are told about a paradise lost but only the youngest of children are naive enough to believe they are true. Don't give up, one day we shall see the beauty once again. Oh, how I wish it wasn't just a story we keep on telling so that the youngsters wouldn't lose their hope all too early.
The Sin Inside Her
by Anneli Kuokkanen
Part 2, Beth
“Beth
Bodley?”
Beth felt her mouth run dry when she heard her name. She
raised her eyes from the magazine that she had been pretending to read – she
actually really had tried, the article of a program for abused women seemed
quite interesting, but her mind was wandering elsewhere, and it was impossible
to focus on anything other than what she was about to do.
“Yes.”She put a smile on her face, and got up while nervously
straightening her skirt. She forced herself to meet her psychologist's eyes.
Oh God, this was just perfect. Perfect. The psychologist
was this really cute, tall, skinny girl with big, chocolate
brown eyes and amazingly thick brown hair, which was now pulled up in a
ponytail. Beth knew she was cute herself: she had platinum blonde hair and
pretty blue eyes, long eyelashes and delicate body type. But she could also see
that, unlike her, this psychologist of
hers was a beauty. Grudgingly, Beth
noticed that she even had bigger boobs. Oh bloody hell, what did that
matter, seriously?
“Annabelle
Rajala,” the psychologist introduced herself
and shook her hand. Well, first of all, what was wrong with her name? It
sounded like gibberish. Maybe she had just made it up? Maybe it was some safety
thing so her crazy customers couldn't find her when she wasn't at work.
Actually, that sounded quite smart. Beth followed Annabelle back to her office,
which looked very pleasant, and sat down in a comfortable armchair when Annabelle offered her a seat.
Now Annabelle was sitting in front of her, with this
little notebook in her hand. She told Beth that their session would last 50
minutes, and after that they could see if Beth wanted to continue the meetings.
She asked if it was okay with Beth
if she wrote some things down – just to refresh her memory later on. Beth
nodded. Annabelle looked kind and
empathetic. Her smile was so
reassuring it felt like she knew how nervous Beth was. Beth felt a frog in her
throat. This had been a bad idea. She shouldn't have come. But now she was
already sitting here and she really didn't have a choice but to sit tight for
the next... Beth glanced at the clock on the wall: 49 minutes. She could do this.
“So,
would you tell me what made you come here?”
Annabelle looked
truly interested. It seemed as if her every movement announced: I'm listening. She smiled encouragingly
and leaned a bit forward, looking at Beth and waiting for her to gather her thoughts. And she was trying. What could she make up this quickly? Why hadn't she thought about
this a bit earlier?
“I had a
miscarriage.” She blurted out the truth
before she had a chance to think it through. Well, this was going great. Talking about
her real problems to Annabelle was pretty much the last thing she wanted to do.
But somehow saying that aloud still felt
good.
“That
must have been tough.”
“Yeah, it was. I really
wanted that baby. I had already been buying these cute little baby clothes. I
know it was stupid. I mean, I was just a bit over a month pregnant. Miscarriages at that stage happen all the time, you just take fright or
get upset and it might be all over. It was way too early to start preparing for the baby. But I was so excited, we would
have been such a cute little family. I mean, we hadn't exactly planned
it, and I know my parents hadn't been too thrilled 'cause I'm so young and yadda yadda, but I
was really happy. I loved the idea of becoming a mum.”
“It
sounds like you really did. What did your spouse think about becoming a
father?”
“Hmm,
I guess my boyfriend wasn't that happy about it... He was okay though, said
he'd support me if I wanted to keep it. But I think he was hoping I'd get rid
of it. I wasn't going to, but... ,”Beth made a little sad sneer.
“So
you two wanted a bit different things?”
“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I
know he wants a family at some point, just a lot later. Maybe I'm a little
impatient. But... Hmm. It really doesn't matter now.”
“Could
you tell me what makes you think that?”
“Well,
we broke up. After the baby thing. Or actually during it. But yeah, anyway.”
“So
you lost two important people at the same time? Your boyfriend and your baby?”
Beth nodded. She felt how the tears were pushing their way
to her eyes. She wasn't going to fucking cry. Annabelle was just looking at her with that empathetic look on her face. She pushed the tissues on the table closer to
Beth, like saying: crying is allowed.
“You
said earlier that a miscarriage only takes getting upset over something. Would
you like to tell me about that?”
Now Beth was shaking her head. She couldn't. She wouldn't.
Not here. Not to her.
“I can't.”She could
hardly whisper.
Annabelle nodded.
“That's
absolutely fine. We can come back to that some other time, if you're up for it.
So for know, I would like to learn a bit more about your life.”
Forty minutes later Beth heard the same BOOM she had heard an hour earlier. The
heavy clinic door had just closed behind her. For some unknown reason she had
agreed to meet Annabelle again. She had to admit, she felt kind of relieved
after she had finally been able to talk to someone. It was ridiculous and she
knew it. But Annabelle had felt so warm and caring, not at all like she had
imagined. Maybe this could be a good thing.
1011
by Sofia Tiira
by Sofia Tiira
Each morning
we queue for hours while a voice, liquid and chilled, leaks from the speakers
high on the lampposts. The cold air creeps to the very bones of each of us and
the hardness of the grey embraces us like iron. My legs, pillars of salt and
dust and ice, force me to move on in the rhythm of the endless silence.
Through the
doors and it hits us. The air, like mud, heavy and dirty to carry in our lungs.
It’s always dim here, like a morning in mid-December when the Sun hides its
face from the kiss of winter. On and on and on. To the very back, crawling deep
like vermin in their holes.
My body aches
out its resistance when I pick up my hard and heavy weapon to fight for another
day of survival in here. Arms crying out for mercy, back starving for rest, we get on and do what has been cast as our duty.
Every day
starts like this. Silent. Agonized.
But when the
speakers call the hounds home, it ends. First come the whispers, uncertain and
fumbling through the dirty darkness, clutching through the filth for response.
Then they grow, feeding on the hoarseness of voices and itching throats, they
are reborn into songs. And oh, how the echo embraces them, catching and releasing
every note, grasping them and setting them free.
Their songs
are not of this place. They are faint memories of the touch of wind on a damp
skin or the soft lullaby of the ocean. They are no more real than dreams and
even more frail and fading.
I don’t know
many songs and can only rarely find the tireless hope in me that it takes to
release the beauty of singing into a place like this. So I feed myself on the
voices of the others, keep alive the melody in my mind. There it grows like a
bird, a sign of life flapping its wings in the most absolute of darknesses. I
cherish it and nurture it with what little power my mind has left.
When they
wheel around nourishment, the usual kind that tastes like resentment and
cinder, and our bodies finally crash down leaving us to scatter in the dirt, I
see him looking at me. The scar that wraps itself around his neck is like a
fiery snake. He is ashes and dust and ruin but I know he still burns, and he
can see the toxin that pumps through my veins and makes me ache within.
I hold his
gaze for a blink of an eternity but then turn my eyes away from the blaze. It’s
dangerous to talk of venoms and infernos here, the way his glare does. So I
rest my tired weight against the muck of the ground and stare up into the nothingness
that imprisons us all here.
Quiet now little scorpion. We mustn’t stir up another storm.
The Rook and the Pawn
by Meri
Rajamäki
12 March
1998. New York City, USA.
Neon signs
and city lights ward away the night. Huge billboards stand like doomsday
messages, signifying the end of an era. The old man looks around and takes
another drag from his cigarette.
I wrap my
coat tighter around myself, shivering as we continue down the streets.
“Pretty cold
out here,” I offer.
“Mm-hmm.”
The
conversation dies there. I pull my gloves out of my pocket as we walk in utter
silence. After a while, the old man stops in his tracks and turns to look at me
as if he’s suddenly remembered something.
“Cold, you
say?” he utters. “Want to go to my place? We can have a little game there if
you like, for old time’s sake.”
I smile
wanly. The man in front of me is none other than Ryan M. Shirley, a four-time
world chess master, a genius, and someone I have the vanity to call a mentor of
sorts. There’s no way I could ever defeat him in a game of chess, not even when
he’s old and withered and when his words can’t always quite keep up with his
thoughts.
I nod, and
we continue a couple of blocks further to his downtown apartment.
The old man
fixes me a cup of coffee when we arrive. I protest that I could brew it myself,
but he insists. I smile as he hands me the cup. He knows I’m a night-owl, just
like he used to be.
The
chessboard sits on the living room table. A classic chess scenario is laid out
on the board. One glance at it tells me the required moves to achieve
checkmate, but that’s only because I’ve seen this particular scenario so many
times in textbooks and real life recreations alike.
The old man
gestures for me to choose my seat. I choose the couch, which means I get to
play the white pieces. He sits on the armchair nearest to where he was already
standing, opposite to me. It’s like he already knew I was going to choose
white.
It’s always
like this with the old man. His memory and his intuition are still sharper than
I could ever hope mine to be. Even as I move the pawn to E4, my hands slightly
tremble and I can feel that the match is over before it has even truly begun.
The old man
takes an increasingly long time to play his moves. I don’t know if it’s the age
playing tricks on him, or if it’s just another way for him to gain a
psychological edge. Either way, somehow it ends up putting even more pressure
on me.
The old man
doesn’t even glance at me. He keeps his eyes intently focused on the board the
whole time. When he plays chess, it’s like nothing else in the world even
exists for him. The way he plays is truly mesmerizing, and I feel humbled in
comparison.
After the
old man moves his rook, he finally lifts his eyes to me. “Checkmate.”
The rook and
the pawn. He’s trapped me with these same pieces countless times before. It’s a
finishing move that I can never seem to escape, and yet he tells me I show
great promise. For my part, I’m not sure I truly have any skill at all.
The old man
releases a deep sigh and retrieves a bottle from the fridge. He pours himself
one glass, then holds up the bottle at me, questioningly. I shake my head no.
He chugs his glass down in one go. He turns to me and gestures at the board.
“Don’t let
it get you down, boy. I’m nothing special.” He stares off into the distance for
a while, thinking. "You know, chess is nothing special. These days,
computers can play as well as anyone. There’s no longer anything to do for men
like me.”
Men like
him? Professional chess players? Or men who inspire other people? Men who
dedicate their whole lives to something they love? There is always, always a
need for men like that. I want to say all of this to him, but I don’t.
We sit in
silence for a while. I look at my wristwatch, noticing it’s getting pretty late
even by my standards. I get up from my seat, taking a look at the old man as he
stares at the paintings on the walls, twirling an empty glass in his hands,
looking even older than usual.
“Well, I’m
going,” I say. “It was good to see you again, Mister Shirley.”
He doesn’t
answer. I stand around for a while, my hat in my hand, waiting for him to say
something.
“I’m
thinking of flying off to Europe,” he finally says, as if talking to himself.
“That’s a
fine idea,” I reply. I don’t think for a second he’s actually going to leave
America.
I bid my
mentor farewell and step out the door. Chess is the furthest thing from my mind
as I walk back home along the restless streets.
…
Of course,
he didn’t have any obligations whatsoever towards me. He was never my old man.
Still, it hurt to read of his passing from a newspaper. Chess grandmaster Ryan
Shirley, passed away in London at the age of 84. Just a small column on the
inner pages of New York Post.
It’s funny.
The old man always told me to do something sensible with my life instead of
playing chess all the time. Even so, I always believed it was my calling to
become a pro chess player - follow in his footsteps or something like that. And
yet, here I am. I haven’t even touched a single chess piece since that last
game of ours.
I get up
from behind my desk and reach up ontothe top of my wardrobe to lift out the old
chessboard I have been storing there. I go to the stairs to call up my
stepsister Jacqueline, 11 years of age and with a sharp mind. I think she’ll be
up for an old-fashioned game of mental challenge.
“Come on up,
Jax!” I call out. “I have something interesting to show you.”
I decide to
tell her everything I know about chess, from start to finish, secure in the
knowledge that some day her talents will certainly surpass mine. And – if only
as a homage - I’ll be sure to teach her the old man’s finishing gambit with the
rook and the pawn.
Oida
by Iko Jurkka
Once there was Oida, a poet to his village.
Oida was young and handsome, greatly liked and loved among his friends. He
could always make them laugh and, in both happiness and accident, joy and
misery, move their souls. He had a wild and free nature, somewhat unorthodox
and tactless at times. He had a phenomenal memory and could recite famous
quotes quite liberally, to his friends' astonishment and irritation at times.
But he was loved nonetheless. However, Oida himself, though he appreciated his
friends greatly, was not in love. Although he had often caught the attention of
some beautiful woman, Oida had not tried to seduce them, even though he could
have done so. Oida was well liked and loved, but he was alone.
Then
Oida met Cassandra and fell in love with her. He loved Cassandra more than
anything else in the world and Cassandra loved him too. Cassandra was
beautiful, more beautiful than any other woman in Oida’s eyes. She was wise as
well, wise as Athena herself, and she pleased Oida greatly. But Cassandra was
also sad, so sad, that even with all his talent and craft Oida could not make
her happy when the mood overtook her, not even with his most beautiful poems.
Cassandra was thankful for the consolation and loved Oida. But she remained sad
nonetheless and when Cassandra was sad, Oida was sad as well.
Oida
could not bear to see his beloved in such sadness and felt dissatisfied with
himself. That night, he journeyed to Delphi to pray at the temple of Apollo,
for Apollo is the patron to the poets. And in his prayer, Oida spoke thus:
“Sacred Apollo, the patron of all poets. I am Oida, the poet. I know you and
thank you for all the gifts you have bestowed upon me. But I love, more than
anything else, my Cassandra, who is so sad, and ask of you the following. Give
me the most beautiful language, which a poet might possess, filled with words,
with which I can console her melancholic heart. Give me this and I will give
you anything you would desire of me. Give me this, so that I might see her
happy”.
And
upon reciting his prayer, Apollo appeared out of thin air, shining and
magnificent before him. Apollo, the son of Zeus and Leto, the brother of Artemis,
the virgin huntress; the god of civilization, law and teaching, as also of
music, poetry and prophecy; the mighty god, to whom the silver bow belongs; the
exemplary god, who sings his paean with innocent, terrible joy when mortals
wage war like insects; Apollo, the creator and the destroyer.
And as Oida beheld the god, he was stunned by
his excellence. Never before had he seen something so astounding and powerful.
Apollo stepped forward and Oida retreated slightly. But he allowed Apollo to approach
him and the god placed his hands around Oida’s head and gently rubbed his face
and hair with his fingers. Then the god smiled beautifully, as if moved by some
great affection, and spoke to Oida: “Oida, the poet. I have heard your prayer
and feel compassion toward your plight. And because I feel compassion, I shall
give you the most beautiful language and the most beautiful words, so that you
can console your beloved Cassandra. And so that I may give you a beautiful
language, I shall give you a beautiful soul.”
Having proclaimed thus, Apollo changed. His
smile evaporated, his expression grew severe in a manner unseen by any mortal
man and his eyes were filled with sacred rage. And Apollo lifted Oida by his
head high into the air. Apollo then begun to push his thumbs into Oida’s eyes,
slowly, but inevitably. And Apollo kept on pushing, slowly, but inevitably,
until Oida’s eyes burst and the god’s thumbs penetrated deep into his eye
sockets. And how Oida screamed with pain, his screams filling the empty temple
hall. He kicked and struggled, but the god was strong, as gods are. Blood
gushed from Oida’s eye sockets, running down his body to his legs, from where
it dripped down to the temple floor, forming a small puddle.
Then the god’s thumbs became like fire and
smoke begun to rise from Oida’s eyes, his screams of pain intensifying. The
flesh around his eyes was scorched and blood vessels were burned shut,
stanching the bleeding. The foul stench of burned flesh saturated the clean
temple air, as Apollo pulled his thumbs out of Oida’s eyes. Having released
him, with Oida still screaming and twitching on the temple floor like a mad
animal, Apollo declared thus:
“Yes, you are a poet. And now you have a beautiful
soul and the most beautiful language and the most beautiful words to
express that language. But all beauty is born from pain. This is the law of the
gods ever since the time immemorial, when Uranus sprouted from the loins of his
mother, Gaia the All-Mother, in that pain of birth from which all else has
since grown. Everything that lives and breathes and struggles and hopes is a
reflection of that first primeval pain and contradiction and everything that
wishes to live and must still live will have to do so through the crucible of
pain. Every moment is devoured by the one that follows it, every birth is made
possible by the destruction of countless other beings and will signal the
coming destruction of countless more. In this world creation and destruction,
living and killing, joy and pain are all one. And the world is beautiful. This
is what all gods know above all else. And for this reason, I have taken your eyes.”
Now
Oida had a beautiful language and beautiful words, which he sang to Cassandra
quietly. And how beautiful were those words. More beautiful than any painful
nostalgia; more beautiful than any comforting lover; more beautiful than any
finite life; more beautiful than the world itself. And Cassandra wept while
listening to those words, not out of sorrow, but joy. And her face, no matter
how sad she was, was always visited by a smile. And when Cassandra smiled, she
was beautiful; beautiful as the world; more beautiful than those words which
made her smile and thus made her beautiful. But Oida could not see her.
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