Category Archives: Creative Writing – Prose

All pieces of creative work in prose published in MUSE Magazine.

The Cat of Lausanne

Image: Lac Léman (Philip d’Arenberg, 2014). SourceCC License

The following creative piece was written in the context of the seminar Two-Lakes Romanticism given in the spring semester 2017 at both UNIL and at the University of Lancaster. The author, Céline Stadler, wrote a small commentary about the piece (at the bottom of the page), including details about the writing process and intertextual references you might miss!

Author: Céline Stadler


So here I sit, on my bed of wind and poetry. Could that really be the same scene, the same lake as before? It is hard to believe. I have been musing on that rock for centuries it seems, and I saw nothing else but the island of freedom right next to the domestic duties that threaten to crush me down. Nonetheless, I know that the lake can be rough. I know that his lips so soft can spit water more fiercely than any cloud. I know that any spill could kill, if only you find the flame about to yield. So I know the lake, but I still can’t believe the story that the old man told me.
He had told it again and again to any living soul he could meet. At first I thought he was just raving, but then something struck me. When you actually listened, the narrative appeared eternal, unchangeable. From one time to another, the old guy would never change a word. He was not like the other drunkards that we could encounter – the fact that he always stuck to the lake should have been a first clue. His story was not an uncontrolled outburst; on the contrary, he looked like a well-oiled automat whose jaws worked rhythmically. Even if the teeth were rotten, the machine behind was infallible.
I would love to be able to tell stories and therefore, I must admit, I envied him. He looked as if he didn’t remember anything from his previous performance, as if he didn’t learn all those sentences by heart. Just like casual conversation. Even when I talk naturally, I can’t sound as natural as he does. Well, he might use odd old words sometimes, but they come swiftly and nobody cares. I hope you will get what I mean in the end, even if a written tale is never the same kind of drowning as a spoken one. If a curse ever existed for me, spoken eloquence is my bottomless pit.
Thus, of course, when I try to relate the old guy’s tale, it won’t be as smooth, spontaneous, and powerful as his own recital. His voice could make you overflow with colours that you can breathe over and over as if your lips were meant for rumination. Maybe this is what he is doing, perpetually feeling his memories on his tongue, like saliva, until his imagination provides a new flavour. For I am sure that he imagined some things. But you know, even if the tale is fake, it speaks about what is. In the most extraordinary facts, we can discover a truth about our own dust. We have so many stories about things like death, fear or love, but they are not mere tragic themes meant for excessive pathos only: they are part of ordinary lives (the ones with toothpaste, dirty pans, worn pants and late assignments; lives that are actually lived). Maybe supernatural elements put a more direct light on our human concerns, but we should never forget how ordinary lives matter. In a sense, the old guy’s story is very ordinary. I may not believe that the events he related actually took place, but I believe that he portrayed his true feelings and thoughts. I believe in a man’s love for his children, his fears, his rage, and his immense sense of guilt. Is that not what matters, the feeling? Whenever I come back to the lake, this is what the mirroring lights tell me.

The Cat of Lausanne

He had come without asking, as they always do. Did he want to ransom a cigarette or a few bottles? No, he just wanted to sit on the beach with a group of students. We looked at each other, not knowing whether to be nervous or afraid. Then he began to speak.
‘Memory is like the tide, you know. You can try and step behind; you can bring your foot to drier sands, but the flow remains. When the moon approaches and pushes the water towards the shore, you will search in vain for an earth to receive your footprints. Even if you sleep, in the morning you will feel the salt on your skin’.
‘Mate, you need more beer. There’s no salt in the lake’.
‘There is salt in my memories’.
‘Listen mate, you sure have very interesting memories, but we are having a nice and quiet picnic with friends and –’
‘Yeah, you’re having a birthday party I heard. Well, you know what? I have an event to commemorate too. Do you want to hear my story?’
‘Well, I’d rather not’.
The man raised his head with a handful of scars and eyes so drunk that it seemed impossible to see anything with them.
‘This is the story of my downfall, but don’t pity me. I don’t deserve any kindness, even though my misery exceeds everything you’ve ever known. The curse has been forgotten. We have been forgotten, but the tide keeps coming back. Every night I breathe again and I live the whole tale once more. I see you won’t care. Still you have to listen. I will shake off my stained voice and hope that the past can merge with calmer waters.
It all began one morning. I woke up at dawn. I walked to the lake with my hooks, my baits, and my fishing rod. I could not stay too long, could not just throw my nets into the greenish darkness as I usually did. I had to catch a big, sumptuous fish – and quickly. One fish that could make guests dribble and have everybody enquire: “Who caught it? Who is the blessed soul that could provide such a feast?” It was my duty as a father and as a man to be the one who would answer “Me”. Therefore, I had to quickly catch a profusion of healthy, shining fish.
As the shy rays of dawn slowly ambitioned to become sunlight, I knelt down in front of the virgin waves. A playful breeze was floating above the water, carrying a whole world peopled with bugs, twigs, and leaves. Spring mornings were always so sweet! It felt right to just bow down and pray. I thanked God for my beautiful children, prayed for poor Isabelle’s soul and asked for fish. If you could grant me a great fishing, I swear that I will offer you my first catch!
That being said, I threw my line into the lake. By the time I stuck my rod between rocks and sat, something splashed and smashed the still glass of the lake. I jumped on my feet and rushed towards the rod, spitting with exclamations of joy. It was huge. So huge I knew it could not pull on the line any longer without breaking it. So I jumped once again but I went down, down into the water. Using the knife which I always carried against my chest, I slayed my prey. It was a tremendous carp, really, you cannot imagine how big it was. My hands were shaking with enthusiasm: what a fish for Jo’s wedding! What a perfect gift for my beloved daughter! I could not believe my chance.
As blood spread over my hands, I paused to think.
Indeed, I had promised God He would have my first catch. But what a fish! Why would He have allowed me to have it, were it not meant for my daughter’s wedding feast? On the other hand, I had made a promise and I should keep it. Yes, but what a gift! Anyway, what difference would it make for Him who doesn’t need it, if He gets a smaller one or if he gets one later? God is merciful, I thought. He will forgive me if I keep this carp and offer the next one. He won’t starve because of me. He knows everything better and won’t be offended. And why should God pay me any attention, to begin with? I am just an old man who loves his daughter. I need that fish more that God does.
It took me great pains to bring my first catch to the shore and hoist it on the earth. I knew it would take even greater pains to empty it and clean it, but I postponed the matter. I’d rather throw my line once again while the lights were still fresh. So I did and, behold! I could not believe what I saw! Once again, there were a splash, strong swirls and rushing water. My heart was beating loudly, tolling like a bell. God was with me! Once again, I jumped into the lake and killed the fish. Once again, I marvelled that such a huge carp could be found in Lake Leman. What was happening with those carps anyway? Were pikes all dead or lost in the deep waters that host them during the winter? I challenge you, with all your boats and technology, to ever catch a fish like those two!
As I prepared to pull my second catch toward the shore, I thought that this one fish belonged to God. I had enough for the feast. Or maybe I could give Him the first carp, when you think about it… But I struggled so hard to bring it on the earth, it would be a shame to throw it again into the lake… On the other hand, it would also be a shame to let the second one here. I could salt it and keep it for my six other kids. I imagined, how I would use the fish in a way that God never would. How my children would bless me as their benefactor! How my neighbours would marvel at my luck and ask me for fishing advice! In addition, I am not even sure that God would care for the promise of an old fisherman! But for sure, people would care very much!
I shuddered and pulled the second carp on the shore. With my knife, I endeavoured to empty and clean my two prodigies. It took quite a while but the sun still did not rise. Clouds had gathered above me, concealing the sky and covering the mountains’ ears. The lake, their faithful mirror, turned white like a blind eye. It seems right that our beloved mounts would not behold the sin that had been committed. It’s right that their reflection did not merge with the blood of the fish on the waves’ heavy breathing.
I was heading towards home when I heard a weak and flickering sound. I paused, having recognized the wailing voice of a kitten. It must have been attracted by the smell of the fish. Cats are good beasts for chasing the mice out of the neighbourhood. A lot had died during the winter and would not be replaced until June. I have always had a tender heart. Pity filled me and when I actually saw the starving kitten, it was already too late to step back. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I took the little ball of grey fur and carried it in the warmth of my pocket.
Everyone was delighted to see the good fish that I had brought back. We were able to salt the first carp before lunch. Maybe the girls were a little envious because they doubted that I should manage to have such good catches for their wedding. Anyway they would eat it as well, not matter if it was for Jo’s marriage or not. As for the bride, I decided not to show her the fish and surprise her at her wedding feast. I climbed the stairs to see the preparations of the girls. Friends and cousins chased me out of the rooms with pins and needles. The house was so busy that I could hardly recognize it. How I longed for the silence of the morning lake!
Jo, or Josepha, was my eldest child and the treasure of my life. Isabelle had given birth to five other girls before our son saw the light of day. Alas! The poor woman didn’t live to see her only son grow up.
How those years look distant now! They were soon borne away and lost in darkness and distance. As if the horizon could be swallowed by the sea! Even more distant are the blessed times at which my dear Isabelle still smiled to me while nursing our daughters. And I, like a fool, could not figure that those times were soon coming to an end, and that the woman I loved most was to die drowning in her own screams… But she left me with a boy as sweet as she had been good.
My son, Henri, quickly became fond of the new cat and called it Chapalu. When his sisters told him that it was a female, it was already too late; Henri would stick to calling it Chapalu. We gave it some milk and little pieces of fish. It didn’t look much reassured, for people endlessly ran about in the house. Poor Chapalu, being allowed here at a time like that!
We left the house and walked towards the church in the beginning of the afternoon. Baptisms, communions, weddings, funerals… whatever the events, I always tended to react with the same amount of boredom. Even Jo’s wedding didn’t look as exciting as a nice day of hiking around the Alps. However, the fish changed everything.
This day should have been a night. The clouds were so dark that everyone in the neighbourhood had secured their home in case of a flood. Jo’s veil kept on fleeing her face and her hair threatened to escape her bun. Something was wrong. I felt something like a nausea growing in my mind. The clouds were wrong. It was a bad weather for a wedding. It was a bad day for breaking a promise.
The general admiration and the ecstatic comments that ought to have filled my ears with pride fell heavily on my heart. The more they said, the more I was reminded about how I had failed God. The uneasiness remained stuck in me like reluctant wallpaper. What I had done was a sin. People get punished for their sins. Instead of rejoicing at my apparent success and at Jo’s dazzling smile, I was franticly searching for bad omens. If God had been a human being in the neighbourhood, I would never have acted the way I did. Just because He knows better and remains out of physical reach, does that mean that He deserves less respect than a man?
The ghosts of my selfishness haunted me until bedtime. I watched the newlyweds withdraw from the crowd with a sigh of relief. I know not why, but I had imagined that if the punishment did not strike that very day, it would not come later. As if the passage to the next day introduced a rupture, as if we were definitely safe. With an extraordinary naivety, I convinced myself that after the wedding, my broken promise would turn into ancient history.
What a shame, what a shame to have behaved like that! What a shame, being forced to expose my faults to you guys! I know that I did every single possible mistake, but please have mercy on me! I was just a tired father, too proud and too frightened at the same time. Do you hear how I am speaking? Even now I am such a coward that I won’t fully face the truth! My pride turned me into a craven who thought that ignoring the stain in his soul would conceal it forever.
I fled, as I always do. I went back home with my five remaining daughters. I didn’t pray for forgiveness and for poor Isabelle’s soul as I usually did. I just wanted to erase all sorts of reminders from my head. I will forget, I told myself. I will make the world forget and I will make God forget. Just don’t draw His attention to your insignificant existence.
I was awoken in the morning without knowing why. Usually, Jo was the one to wake me up, but she was gone, I remembered. So what had caused this disturbance in my sleep? I could not guess, until the scream ringed again, boiling with terror and despair. I jumped. My ears knew who it was but my brain refused to name her. That could not be. Her husband will not let that be, he had to protect her. I should have protected her, I am her father, she cannot die, not her, not my daughter, not so young, not like that! Not like what?
We found the bodies lying on the bed. She was there, lifeless and inanimate.
First I suspected God himself. He could have come down on earth with an array of clouds to shield Him from the view of men. Instead of repenting, I felt an immense, monstrous, and devouring rage. I tore off the cross that hung at my neck and threw it at a wall. For every breath that my daughter would not draw, I spat hundreds of curses.
The step-family was there too. The groom’s mother noticed the marks on their necks. It wasn’t God’s doing. God would not have claws, she said. He would do things properly. Attack the heart rather than the throat. People began to step back: demons. The house was haunted, the union was cursed, someone had sinned, and we need a priest. I, alone, remained in the darkness. I realized I had no candle to light me, but I didn’t need any. I just wanted to sit down and hold my daughter’s hand. She was not cold yet. Why would she, among all creatures, be the one who should pay for my mistakes? I covered her hand with kisses, cradled her soft skin, her curled hair, her skull, and her mischievous chin. Could I behold this, and live? I could have risked it all for her, my intention had never been to kill! I stopped weeping and looked at the nicks on her neck. Someone – or something – had done that. I had to find out who. I stood up. Drops of blood were dipping on the floor.
Then – I am not sure – I heard something like a little “Meow”.
And suddenly, everything made perfect sense. The kitten. The kitten was my punisher. It had come along with the fish. All day it had been keeping watch. What was its name already? Chapalu! Now I knew the name of the murderer!
While I was staring at the grey spot, relatives entered the room and brought in a priest. I tried to tell them. I explained how I broke a promise, but no one seemed to care. One of my daughters took away the monster and I yelled at her: “Kill it! Kill it!” – Later events proved that she didn’t listen. Worse, people forced me out of the room, far from my beloved Jo.
The following days unfolded like in a deep mist. People and landscapes passed like an obscure veil with nothing to say. In addition to my loss, the sweet lake and the majestic Alps themselves seemed to reject me. I could not even love the breeze anymore. My memories got entangled with nightmares and fantasies. Did Chapalu really kill my six daughters, one after another, each night thrusting his claws in a fresher jaw? Shrill and dreadful screams were repeated over and over. The corpses seem so real that they must be dreams. I believe that I remember how all the cats in town behaved strangely. Some voices in my head insist that they gathered and determined to kill only birds. As a consequence, the number of mice and rats increased. Less and less birds sang every morning. Bugs began to proliferate. I remember eating flies in my evening soup. People began to panic. More mice and rats meant more diseases. This is how you welcome the Black Death at your doorstep. Even now I would still wake up, screaming: “Kill them all! Kill the mice! Kill the rats! Kill the CAT!”
God, I pray you, may all those memories be only bad dreams. And please, do not make me tell the end of the story. Don’t make me say what happened that last, fateful night. Please, not this time! I know better now – can I please stop my confession? Please, I don’t want to say it, please don’t make me speak…
I had managed to protect Henri, my only son, for weeks. I would sleep with him and teach him how to defend himself. For a while, I thought it would work. He was my only son and my last hope, the final spark before darkness covers our tracks. Still, somewhere deep inside me, I knew it would not last. Jo had gone. All my daughters and most of our neighbours had followed her into the grave. Everybody would end dead because of me, I knew.
Henri was silently sleeping that night. He didn’t interrupt the night with screams the way I did. He looked so peaceful that his innocence seemed to shelter him from the surrounding madness. I had tried to explain him that his Chapalu had become a bad cat, but a glitter of protest had flooded his eyes. He really liked the beast. My only hope was that the beast liked him in return and would spare him in the name of their aborted friendship.
I was turning around again and again in my bed. My imagination made me hear muffled steps and tinkling claws on the wooden floor. My fear constantly spilled meows and hisses in my house. But when that night came, I didn’t hear a thing. I lit a candle because I had resolved to read. So I didn’t hear: I saw.
The monster had grown until it reached the size of a shepherd dog. Its enormous face had become the most hideous of any living creature. Its hair had darkened, not only because the paws and the mouth were smeared with blood; its whole outline had turned ink-black. The beast would just look at me, its eyes blazing with a slow violence. I had locked the monster up within the room!
I trembled with rage and horror. Henri’s hand was warm and confident in mine. Nicks on his neck. Blood on his chest. Never again. No, you won’t have my son. You won’t tear down his flesh nor rip off his fate. The knife was warm and sharp in my hand. No, you won’t have my son.
I’d rather do it myself’.


So here I am again, attempting to write something like a commentary. It has been six months since I wrote “The Cat of Lausanne” and it imposes something like a retrospective. I remember hard times when I tried to force books which would have deserved a diet to cohabit on my desk and finally putting some on the floor or on my bed. Indeed, my few pages had required monsters such as Frankenstein, Wordsworth’s Poetry and Prose, The Norton Anthology of English Literature (you all know about this one, yes, the one with “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”). I had read Poe’s “Black Cat” at least four times at school, in three different languages, but I was ashamed to find out that I didn’t own a paper version of it anymore… So big books, longs poems and short stories on the internet, that’s how it was.
The thematic references would take ages to compile. However, if you look closely, you may find words and whole sentences directly extracted from the sources. Usually they’re from the end, because the end is what we remember best, like Frankenstein’s creature disappearing in the dark, or a black cat walled in a woman’s grave. Writing like that was a very unusual process, as if I were using someone else’s ink, or floating on an ageless river instead of just entering my bathtub. This is still water, but you have to go with the tide if you don’t want to drown like a footless shoe. I tried to follow the flow. You can come with me and search, dive when I fall, and tell my if you find the stolen fabric – how many references will you see? Can you spot the paragraph born from Worsworth’s preface to Lyrical Ballads, his sister’s island or the water images of a metal band?

Wasted Words…

Image: © Blanche Darbord

Author: Blanche Darbord

Forty stories. Only forty stories are below him. Really? From here, height falls down into a deep grey pit of concrete. Pedestrians walk below: a sea of people chattering by, waves streaming the sidewalks, indifferent. A little jump would be all it would take to join their carefree lives, albeit from the other side, the blissful side.

It should be so easy. It should be so simple. Just a little jump. A little is all it takes. And then, then his problems will no longer be.

Matthew Grant, old before his age, stares down at the sunlit street. How drastically a life can change with only one small jump, only one step and then the capitulation to gravity, a force no one can escape. How drastically life can end.

His sunken eyes – surrounded by cracked mines, caves of wrinkled worry – stare at the escape route. The escape route from shame, from the agony of a wasted life. Yes, the waste of it is what strikes him the most, choking his savor for life. How could he have been so foolish?

His frame swims in his suit; his white hair shivers in the breeze. Long fingers pry the window open. The air enters, carrying the cars’ tepid smoke. The sunshine hits his face then, his pale, yellow face behind which destiny is being played. Yet, the pieces have been set long ago. It is just a matter of time.


In fact, the first piece was put in place decades ago. It has been a long time. Too long perhaps, or too short. Always too short. Time’s mighty pendulum can strike with its robotic, unvarying beat; Mathew Grant knows that each passing second is never the same, each one of a varying length from the next and all ensuing dongs. How absurd humans are, wanting to measure the immeasurable, control the uncontrollable.

Time can decide to stand still, yet in our happiness it seldom lingers to offer more than a flash, a glimpse. And then, all is gone. All one has aspired to is gone. Gone… How ephemeral is success; how inane is hope.


No, really, jumping is the only option. If only he had had more time… But the books are closed now. Closed on a life’s work whose only recompense is to be dust and oblivion.

A lifetime ago, a young boy had stood at that window, looking up at the sky, contemplating its immensity and wishing to explain the world. Now, the round cheeks of bubbling dreams have been carved away by failures, by callous critics. As vultures, their talons have grasped his flesh, devoured the thick, round letters on manuscripts’ pages.

Over the years, Mathew Grant’s letters have become elongated, sharp on the ends as if to strike the prying eyes that would tear his writing apart; tear it as if it were impersonal, devoid of an author’s sentiments. The ink has run down the pages, the words have become acrimonious, tainted by the sourness of the author’s calligraphy.

And the hungry critics carried on, devouring his works, reducing them to the carcasses of what they were in his mind. The noble stories slouched in shameful defeat, their characters snuffed as their world dissolved into dust.

There is nothing left. Only various, nonsensical words deemed unworthy of honor; only towers of forgotten pages, the leaves shivering from an external breeze.


Strangers have ripped apart the author’s defenses, pecking away at his weary heart. His life was composed of dreams, which he had so laboriously put into words. Nothing remains besides the debris of delusions. Yet, even these are fading away. Inexorably.

His last manuscript has not even been deemed worthy of a reply. Of course, why waste the time to write out another negative response? Why waste the time on a pathetic author whose name will never be remembered? Life is too short for wasted words.

Mathew Grant shivers. His work is neglected, his words wasted. He looks down once more at the ground below. Only forty stories. Simple.

It is cold outside, cold like the presence of old stones.

A scream echoes on the street; a last word is pronounced and smashed on the stained pavement, shattering into wasted shards.

A phone rings within an abandoned apartment.


Dring! Dring! … …

Nobody picks up. The voicemail reverberates on empty walls.

“Good morning Mr. Grant. How are you doing? I have read your manuscript. It has taken me a long time, the writing being so rich. (A pause) Sir, you are a talented writer whose words will prevail long after your death. Let me assure you that it shall be published in no time. Wasn’t I right to tell you to keep writing? I’ve had every faith in you…”

Dong! The message is interrupted by the imposing sound of the clock tower striking the inevitable, passing hours. Twelve strikes. Midday.

A man lies on the sidewalk, forever ignorant that his death is a waste of wondrous words.

The Paper Bird

Image: by Ulrike Mai. SourceCC License

Author: Sandrine Spycher

A cage is such a sinister home. Gray, cold, impersonal. All geometrical with its straight vertical bars. A cage is not a home. It is only a cage. A dead home, like your dead writing. Like those lifeless words thrown on paper in an attempt to reach some other world. Another world which can only be dark. Dark, like the pages covered with words. Dark, like life inside that cage. A life which really isn’t one.

A life which brings death. Like it brought death to the poor bird, killed during the best season. A bird which, locked in the cage, spent a life striving to live a life. A bird which, always condemned to look at nothing else than bars shrinking space into geometrical monotony, suffered a last breath to come out of the cage to make a paper fly. A paper, where dark lines of lifeless marks made up a story. A heartbreaking story relating death. Not the bird’s death, not yet. But your death.

Your death told with her words, her pen, her ink, her soul. Your death leaving her alone. Turning her beautiful into a cage, her fruitful garden into a rage. Her joyful smile sank to sorrow. Her sorrow submerged a heart, which was to be eternally yours, forever and anywhere. Even in death. As she could not live, she turned to paper, to dead paper and dead words. Dead because you could not read them. Dead because you could not love her. Her soul turned to paper. The bird turned to paper.

Corny the Barbaric

Image: Gallows, blue sky by Servicelinket. SourceCC License

Author: Nicolas Cattaneo

Our hero was contemplating the defaced cobble wall of his prison cell. He was no stranger to adversity, but Halas! His situation seemed hopeless. But he would not go gently into the night! He refused to let uncouth boors decide his fate. From the depths of his cell, he would rise again like a phoenix born out of the embers of desperation and-

“Oy, get up!” the door of our hero’s cell was suddenly opened, revealing the burly face of his jailor.

“I demand you release me from this unlawful bondage forthwith!” our valiant hero’s demands were not heeded as the cruel jailor buried his repulsive mug in his massive hands.

“Just… keep quiet, would you?” he said, before muttering under his foul breath, “Jesus all mighty…”

The boor’s lack of refinement was palpable¸ but our hero complied, biding his time for when he would spring out of his cage, his just fury equalling the wrath of a thousand suns.

“Stop droning back there! Told you to keep quiet!” the savage barked.

Dragged against his will outside the building, our fearless hero was faced with the terrible sight of a crowd riled against him. He raised his chin, looking down on the mob. They were obviously ready to tear him asunder, but as he walked through them, he feared no evil, for righteousness was his shield. A shield that had been battered by countless blows from all the foes he felled during his storied career. He knew he would triumph over this unwitting evil, for he was-

“Now then, perhaps you’d like to explain all this.”

Rudely interrupted in his thoughts by the leader of the rabble, our valiant protagonist, vanquisher of the evil of a hundred dark lords, pondered his next move. He knew his intellect to be far superior to that of this churl, but he was keenly aware he was in numerical inferiority. He knew he could overcome the populace, but he had made a vow not to harm the innocent, no matter how misguided.

“Hey, I’m speaking to you! Stop staring at the ground and answer me!”

“I shall forgive this obvious mistake if you release me at once! I understand lowly creatures such as yourselves cannot comprehend the importance of my work.”

“What kind of sick freak are you? You call beating a school teacher to death in front of her pupils work?”

“That witch was keeping the tots enslaved with her foul magic! I put an end to her misdeeds.”
“What about Estella? What did that poor cow ever do to you?”

“The high prophetess, thrice sanctified be her name, warned of a time of blood and despair. A time when neighbours will devour each other, when the Great Darkness will have spread so far and wide that it will have engulfed this world. I aim to fight until my last remaining breath to stop it.”

“What’s that pish got to do with the cow, you nitwit?” the peasant growled, ever bestial in his ways. It would not have surprised our hero to find out the man was in league with the terrible barbarians of the frozen North.

“That filthy horned beast carried the mark of the worshippers of the Darkness. It would have brought doom upon you all.”

“It was a bloody cow,” one of the peasants dared reply.

“Didn’t do squat ‘cept mooing,” another said.

“Mooing was a tad loud, though, wasn’t it?” a third added.

“You don’t skewer a cow cause it’s mooing.”

“What about the preacher? He’s still hanging from the oak tree…”

“The cow wasn’t mooing that we’s nothing but… err… what was it again?”

“Heather. Preacher said we was Heather. Remember cause I told meself it was funny. No one by that name here.”

“Right, so cow wasn’t pissy about us being Heather.”

“Well, cow wasn’t diddlin’ them-“

“Lads! I think we get the point here,” the leader of the crowd dutifully reminded them. Nothing as tiresome as peasant babble. But as our hero was about to take advantage of the situation to abscond, the rabble turned their attention back to him.

“And if all this weren’t enough,” the leader continued, “you tried to have your way with the cobbler’s daughter.”

It was simply natural that our hero would need rewarding after having faced such gruelling evils. To this end, he turned his ever-loving gaze to the town’s fairest maiden, who would only be too happy to reward him properly. He felt it was, after all, his right. Besides, who would refuse a gallant, handsome hero such as he? And yet, the boorish herd somehow took offence at our hero indulging himself.

“Where is that wench? I would speak to her myself,” our hero rightfully demanded.

“Not here, you sack of manure. Now, do you have anything to say in your defence?”

“I answer to a higher calling. I shan’t excuse myself for a wrong I haven’t committed.”

“Right. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s fetch the rope. The preacher’s yearning for company.”

Hangman’s ledger, entry forty-two:

Inventory of the possessions of a “Ser Corny”, real name unknown.
– One sword with some fancy scribbling on it. Smith stepped on it and broke it. Dismissed it as “some brittle piece of shit”.
– A picture of a man in black armour with “daddy” written on it. I shouldn’t judge kinks.
– A short wooden stick. Disturbing conclusions.
– A golden ring. Tied around the neck. What’s wrong with using your finger?
– A vial of some substance. Village idiot drank it and is now surprisingly sane.
– A sack of golden apples. Who goes about carrying something like that?

Spontaneous Prose & Free Verse

Image: © R.B.H.

Author: R.B.H.

April 6th 2016: “And so they danced under the dying light”

And so they danced under the dying light. They knew they did not and would not possess time. With the wind their love flew up high, blowing in the great white snows, melting away as the sun rose and set. Everything was going to disappear as the red lights were slowly fading to warm the hearts of others. They wanted to hold on. Hold on to time, hold on to love and these cherished moments… but they were condemned. Condemned to walk alone, banned from this place some like to call forever. And they knew it, they felt it. It was all already slipping through their fingers and they could see themselves a couple of years from now looking back at these two lovers that used to be, that used to shine and that used to dance under the dying light of a purple sky.

April 18th 2016: “What would come my way?”

So I stared into the distance. The horizon was dark with sparks of lightning here and there. The sky was calm, yet exploding stairways to heaven. What would come my way? I thought while gazing in awe at the infinite horizon. I was not afraid, I felt safe and calm within. The electric sky was just a reflection of this energy I had been feeling within me all my life. As the sky tore itself to pieces, I thought of life. So many things had happened to me in the past years, but now, at this very moment, what was coming my way? I tasted the present moment to remember it better a few years from now when I would have an answer to my question. I observed the magnolia tree in front of me. “You are beautiful”, I thought, “just like the life that grows within you, within me and everybody else that is sitting around this table talking their hearts out while nature is giving them a show”. I had stopped talking and was now just smoking my cigars watching darkness wrap her arms around this land I called home. What would come my way? I wanted to go for a walk, run, dance with the wind under the trees – it was all I could think about. I turned to my friends who had now also stopped talking and just like me, were wondering as the sky was being lit up by the fire of life, what would come their way?

June 19th 2016: “Perhaps my gypsy soul was to blame”

I guess I needed some time off and away.
Perhaps my gypsy soul was to blame,
Perhaps I had to escape a world that seemed to have gone insane,
Perhaps I just needed to be myself once again.

So I listened to the beat and let my feet lead the way,
To this unknown place that has become my harbour.
So many horizons, so many joyful faces, that my eyes have seen and have yet to see
This world is a beauty, a pearl of life, a spark of freedom.
My fiery eyes are hungry for this Earth that has become my fascination.

Sitting here watching this bright ball of fire set west,
I realize that there is no place I would rather be,
Because with every sunset comes a sunrise
And I will be here to gaze at this brand new day.


September 17th 2016: Drunk

Have you heard of the lonesome soul,
That calls the great unknown his home,
That walks through fire and battles scars
To know who and what for sure he shall be.
As the flame reaches higher to his soul,
He dances on burning stones,
Ashes from a forever past
That will beat his time as it will come,
Until he learns to break free from its unwanted sorrows
And reach out to the dying lights
Of eternity.


September 27th 2016: They said she was a “long time gone”

They said she was a “long time gone”
It was late when they last saw her dancing in her lover’s arms
Both nowhere to be found by the break of dawn.
Must’ve got lost while following a back road into the unknown
Run away together perhaps, they thought but did not know.
Where she has been and what she has seen can only be answered by suspicion
Some say they still hear the sound of her footsteps when Night approaches,
While some swear her silhouette still dances like a joyful ghost in the dusky horizon
Enveloped in her lover’s arms, the Darkness.


September 2016: The Quest

We are all looking for something
Something so strong, so rare
A pearl in an infinite ocean
And so sometimes we forget
That what we are actually seeking,
We already have it within.
And so we keep on searching,
Looking for the colours of our soul,
In somebody else’s eyes
Only to drown in them
And forget
Who and what we really are
To become
Somebody else’s soul
Somebody else’s freedom
Somebody else’s dream.

Occasionally we gather
And fly together
Side by side
Never knowing
Whether we are actually flying or falling.


November 14th 2016: You surround yourself with darkness

You shined dark in my heart like a moonless mid July evening sky. What was it about your obscurity that made me see the light that shone and burned within you like a fire of passion?

You surround yourself with darkness; such a friend you think can hide your sorrows away. But they say some eyes are of a different kind and can see right through the shadows of a stranger’s soul. Tell me, my dear unknown fellow, what is that burning light I seem to feel raging within your heart? Why silence your cries for life, for love, when they are the reason why you are the unique person that you are? Hush, my friend. Take my hand, for you can now trust, and let us give in together to the fire of passion.

December 5th 2016: Before I die longing for you

Just like the morning sunbeams embrace and golden the snowy mountaintops, spread your warmth on my cold cold skin and let me feel the love again. Let me taste your crimson lips and savour this flavour long forgotten while feeling love under your fingertips. Dance with me, even though they stare. Hold me tight, even tighter if you dare, so that they know we don’t belong to them any more. Kiss me now and send me high.

As your eyes glow staring into mine, fire rages in our untamed hearts – we’re about to break the walls – break them all. I guess the forbidden fruit must have been tasty and left our sister wanting more, ‘cause it’s now in our blood – we were meant to be naughty.
So come on now, come away with me and become my journey. For a night, let me travel within your infinity. Darkness wrapped her arms around my conscience but I now see stars, so many stars in those burning eyes that stare right into mine – do you see them too? I feel like the universe is listening – how can it not be? Yes, the universe is here with us tonight as we stand under the firmament of eternity – this was meant to be – can you feel it too?

Hush. Shut up. Kiss me. Kiss me again and again ‘till the world that lies at our feet crumbles to dust and disappears, ‘til there’s nothing left but you and me.

I want to make love to you, so kiss me now before I die longing for you.

June 22nd 2013: A Midnight Call from Madness

How long will this last? How long will this big blue ball keep on turning and spinning?

Until the light at the end of the tunnel bursts into flames and a magnificent purple dragon comes rushing by with a song in his head and the people finally stop, and stare, and listen.

They listen to the beat, the heart and the soul within the beast. They see themselves standing in the lines and waiting while life just passes them by. They recognize the tears on the child’s red and blue cheeks and they wonder… what if?

The cars that surround them suddenly take on frightening appearances and they wonder… what if?

They smell the smoke ghosting out of the chimney tops and they look up to the sky where a plane passes by and they wonder… what if?

They feel the ground trembling, suffering, begging for this machinery to end and they wonder… what if?

They retire back to their childhood where life seemed green, blue and yellow like a Crayola drawing and they wonder… what if?

Where has the sun’s smile fled to? Why does this earth feel flat and square? Why has the sky turned grey and where is the snow disappearing to? Why are the poles cracking into deep blue and dark grey oceans and why are we letting Noah’s boat sink? How come we’re the only ones with life jackets on while our brothers and sisters swim to a shore where we wait for them with silver guns and red, white and blue petals?

Please, please, please. Somebody, anybody – you, me, them, us – together! What if we all gave a hand? What if we thought twice before buying what we eat and drink and think we need? What if we started walking and talking and dancing like crazy people who have nowhere to go? What if we started being true to ourselves and the people who surround us? What if we woke up from this insanity – this dreadful illusion that we are too blinded to see?

What if…

Silently, the piano shuts and the people of the world, in the tick of a clock, rush through the streets, back to their offices – mountains of unnecessary piles – back to their business and to forgetfulness.

International Question Federation, An Apology

Image: Questions © public domain image, link here

Author: Sandrine Spycher

International Question Federation

An Apology

My name is—oh forget it, that’s not important. What is important is that I work at the International Question Federation. What is that? you ask. Ah… well, that’s the whole point, the core of the Federation: the interrogation mark. I’ve always been amazed by human punctuation signs, especially that one. A big half circle, a little straight coda, and a final dot. “?” Several shapes in one, as disorganized as you could possibly make it; the perfect symbol of the interrogation I guess.

But I’m getting carried away in digressions here. So, what kind of work would I be doing at the IQF? Well, my job is in fact very simple. I just have to answer the phone. After that, everything depends on the question. My job, you see, is to bring answers to people’s questions. Some of them are of the weirdest sort, but the interrogators never expect me to fail to respond. No matter what the response is, there has to be one. I said my job was simple, not easy.

Sometimes I regret that time when the IQF hotline didn’t exist and they just threw their questions into thin air with no real expectation of being answered. Ah, I’m feeling nostalgic now. That time seems so long ago. At that time, I could just overlook the most difficult questions like “Why are there so many wars?” or “Why are some people victims of hunger?” How could I possibly know? No, I mean, seriously, how could I guess? I gave you my best world and you just keep fucking it up, so now deal with it!

Very sorry, I’m getting carried away again. Of course I never actually answered that to anyone. And so came the thirty-first century bringing new technology along, and all of a sudden my mysterious ways were not so mysterious anymore.

Anyway, the IQF hotline is how I work nowadays. What do I get in return? you ask. I get an incredible reward in exchange for my answers, the best that could be: I get to exist. You see, if I didn’t work my ass off to respond to all those questions, people would eventually stop asking them. They would just acknowledge that they cannot know everything and they would live with it. They would stop wondering, and they would stop believing.

And what am I if they don’t believe? I’d lose everything. From the home in the sky some of them built for me to the various names they like to call me. I’d lose my only link to this world I imagined and gave life to. I’d have no purpose and would slowly vanish, carried away by my own wind.

So that’s why I keep picking up this shitty human instrument known as a phone. And I keep inventing, imagining, creating answers. Answers that mostly come from them really. They amaze me with their continuous wars and battles and struggles and misunderstandings and rebellions and ridiculous fears. They entertain me with their questions and I give it back to them in their own words. I guess in the end you could say that they made me as much as I made them.

Hylobittacus Apicalis

Image: ‘An Irish Girl at the Christmas Market’ © Mike Kniec. SourceCC License

Author: Andrea Grütter

It was that time of year, the time of gift-giving and the spreading of love and joy. Manny had been preparing for a while. He had finally found the perfect recipe he would present to his chosen one, knowing it would impress her. He had never spoken to her, but had kept his eye on her. Younger and more naive, he had often been rejected by women for trying to sleep with them without taking them out for dinner first. He would then carelessly switch from one to another.

But with her, it was different.

The first time he had seen her, he was in awe. They were so different, not only physically, but her behavior and daily rituals were so foreign. He had an intuitive feeling that she would be a wonderful mother and that the two of them would make great children. It made him want to succeed at seducing her and be the best man he could be. It inspired him.

Last time, he had made sure that everything would be perfect. He had known the exact time she would walk through the snowy park. The atmosphere he had set was delightful: from the charming wooden bench to the carefully chosen wine and the white candles, all set under the glimmering stars. But, just minutes before she had arrived, a man had appeared from nowhere and taken over.

Manny had been weaker back then and had been easily ripped away from his hard work. Bloodied up, he had lain just meters away behind bushes as he watched her approach him. He had felt his heart ripping as she had laughed at his jokes, held his hand, and sat down with him. Fury had filled him as they started eating, and jealousy had spread through him with every heartbeat as they started making love there, on the pillows he had thoughtfully laid out. Defeat had taken over him after they had finished and only long after that had he been able to pull himself off the ground.

Things were different now. He had taken a two year break to plan everything exceptionally better than last time. He also trained himself in self-defense, should last time’s occurrence want to repeat itself. Seeing the children that were conceived by the other man and her did not anger him further: instead they were a source of motivation for him to do better. He knew that his children with her would be better than any others.

He took a deep breath, stepping away from the meal he had set up. He evaluated the quality of it, reassuring himself as he couldn’t find anything out of place. He straightened up and readjusted his tie, before checking his watch: she should arrive momentarily.

“Wow, this is beautiful.”

He turned around to look at her beaming face, cheeks rosy from the cold. After staring at the cup of tea hesitantly, she accepted it, allowing him to then guide her to the table. He laid a warm blanket over her shoulders as she sat on the couch he had brought. He sat down in front of her as they smiled at each other shyly from across the table.

Manny had to calm himself down as she evaluated the meal he had laid out in front of her. He was so close to reaching his goal, yet still so far away. The next few seconds were crucial. A feeling of reassurance rushed over him as she began to eat. But he knew he needed to be quick. He slipped under the table and crawled over to her, running his hands over her legs and pushing her skirt up. This was it. Her ovum would take in one of his spermatozoa and he would finally have the perfect descendants.

The Job Interview (An Anecdote)

Image: © Miljan Mickakovic

Author: Miljan Micakovic


The other day, I went to a job interview. The lady greeted me kindly, and the usual tell-me-what-you-can-do/why-do-want-to-work-with-us dancing happened, and I was glad to be on the dance floor. My answers were more than satisfying. I thought I would leave the place light-hearted and confident. And then she remarked that I haven’t worked for a long time (which means I have no work experience). And the judgement fell: Thou shall not work, for thou art unqualified. I smiled and left.

What is all of this? What is it about? The word I am looking for is competence: and not only competence, but also the verb to compete. What the fine lady suggested is that I am not able to compete with the other candidates. This is where we’re going now.

I was schooled at a simple school, nothing fancy. I had more than average grades. At high school everything went more than fine. University was a joke too. Yet, I realize now that competence never was the purpose of my journey at all. (The lady was right), but who is, then, competent?

Each step in education proves that no one is master of a single subject. You want to study arts? Fine, don’t forget your Latin and Greek grammar. You want to study Latin or Greek? Fine, don’t forget to bring your History books, and so forth. As long as one wants to master a subject, a job, a particular skill, he has to exploit other capacities that build his ideal mastery. The path to competence is nothing but a path of revealing one’s incompetence. As much as you want to master art, science, etc., you see that you no longer can master one, and only one, subject.

Brace yourselves, the race of knowledge begins. The kid’s vanity of I-know-more-than-you never vanishes. But, what it builds is only the image of oneself as incompetent, as never achieving one’s desire of mastery. As much as you fragment your ideal mastery, you create an infinite horde of fields of incompetence. How is one to compete with others, where none share a common package of subjects? Or, how can I prove that I am less incompetent in what I do than what the other does within what he does? Let me rephrase it: brace yourselves, incompetence is coming.

You can only know how incompetent you are; always calculating, conceiving what your knowledge lacks, without really knowing what it is, this knowledge you think you possess. However, the dance continues and grades are playing the music while you try to move your feet on the dance floor. I left the interview still dancing! Discovering (and thus knowing at least) that I did not have a passing grade – fine.

Incompetence is not the inability to compete but the opposite: it is the source of competition; ever-lasting competition between incompetences, etc., etc.

That day, I went back home with the pleasure of feeling my incompetence. I sat at the table, opened a book by Readrid Quajes, and closed it right after, knowing I wouldn’t find any answers.

Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein After Story or the Legend of Inurlangut

Image: © Bastien Numakura

Author: Ann Dorothy Firmann


To Mrs. Saville, England

19th May 1845

Dear Grandmamma,

You will no doubt disapprove of this announcement but I hope you of all people will understand my reasons for such a decision. I have this day departed Greenhithe harbor with the HMS Terror under the command of Captain Franklin, and though I can’t wait for my grand adventure to take place, I leave with a heavy heart, knowing how you all dreaded my pursuit of what you consider to be a fool’s dream. It pains me to leave you all troubled but I hope that your anguished hearts might find peace in the perspective of my return.

I did try to tally with the family’s expectations regarding my future still I couldn’t stay watching my life pass before me, when there is so much to discover, so many new tribes to encounter, so many languages and cultures to study. Even though father had shown me great understanding when he let me continue my studies in this new field I enjoy so much, while working at his law firm, I strongly felt that this was not my rightful place, and that my life was destined for greater a purpose. I realised that had I renounced, all new discoveries in my field would have been painful wounds that with time would have no doubt turned me into a bitter man, jealous to see in others the courage he himself lacked. After all it was you who taught me that nothing was worse than living in regrets.

I have henceforth made my decision as any free man should. I was commissioned on this expedition based on my language skills, being at the same time clearly warned not to bother any crew member with my interests in indigenous people. As the Captain hinted the chances of a direct encounter are very small.

However, encounter of any sort might be of tremendous interest for me, as it might result in an opportunity to convince the board to finance my own scientific expedition. In any case, I will have plenty to observe and will acquire a better understanding of the climate the Arctic tribes endure. Of course there is always a risk of failure, however, something good always comes of such a voyage. After all, your brother wrote a book on his expedition that I dare say made him quite rich after his return. The perspective of following in his steps and being part of the expedition that will traverse the last not yet navigated section of the Northwest Passage is in itself a great achievement for me.

Both ships are sturdily built and were equipped with the latest inventions to tell you the truth I can hardly imagine how anything could happened to us on such solid and reliable vessels. The crew of the Terror is made of 128 of the best and most courageous men I ever met, and though I am to sleep in a common room with four crewmembers, which reduces the perspective of comfort, the company is nice and my essential needs are covered. My companions are lively men, and though they do not understand the use of a scholar like me on such a dangerous expedition we still enjoy trivial yet nice conversations.

Fear not for me, I will return safe and sound as Robert, your dear brother, did forty-five years ago. Such a great and important expedition is bound to succeed especially when I’m under the order of such an experienced and competent explorer as Captain Franklin.
I can’t end this letter without urging you to reassure mother and dear little Anna about my wellbeing. Please tell father how sad I am to have caused him such great disappointment, I hope you and mother might make him understand how vital this choice was for me, and that with time he will come to forgive such a stubborn son, as my three brothers are resolute to make him a proud father and, hopefully, a grandfather soon.

Sincerely, your Robert.


January 1847

My Dear Grandmother,

I write to you knowing that you might probably never set eyes on this letter. In the depths of my despair I am reminded of you all, and of my own foolishness in ignoring your predictive warnings. Both our vessels are trapped by a sea of ice as far as human eyes can see. On sunny days we have been hearing rumbles and roars surrounding us as if the earth was cracking its knuckles endlessly. At first the crew was relieved to hear such sounds thinking the ice was finally setting us free but we have now been stuck for almost a year, and except those bloodcurdling sounds there is no reason to hope for a change in the immediate future. The food is rationed and groups are daily designated to hunt around, with not much success. Rapidly several brawls took place between crewmembers and some of the troublemakers had to be shut away in the bilge. Strong men started to get sick and some died in an instant like infants plagued by scarlet fever. After almost a year of cold, desolation, hunger and death, resignation marked faces as surely as death, and the crew started wandering around like cursed souls on a ghost ship.

What a fool have I been to ignore those rightful warnings delivered with such loving concern! I weep at the cruelty of fate, I who dreamed for so long to walk alongside my great uncle in a North Pole expedition, am now trapped in the same manner as he once was, without much hope of surviving. You showed me your correspondence during his journey as a warning but blind to my own faults I only saw in it a frightening ghost story, ignoring the fundamental warning it hold about self-contempt and pride. I, as Victor Frankenstein, took my dreams for reality and rushed in this adventure without further thoughts. But whatever pain and shame I hold, I am but responsible for my own fate, and am grateful not to have more responsibilities in this exploration.

Sorrow and concern weigh on Captain Franklin as the earth on Atlas’s shoulders. Even though we all chose to participate to this expedition, our Captain is responsible for his fellow companions’ lives. I therefore spend a great deal of time with him, as I consider it my duty to be useful in some way. I often suggested that I shall explore the area in search of a native tribe that might supply us with food and intelligence on how to inform the world of our dreadful situation. My proposition was politely turned down by the Captain at first till he clearly stated to me that: “As long as he lived no man under his command shall mingle with such savages”. You might imagine how disappointed I was to realise how much prejudice is held against these natives even in the eyes of one of the best educated and cultivated men in England.


February 1847

Death seems to have cast its black veil on our expedition; men die weakly of sickness, despair, or exhaustion, and lately the reinforced hull of the Terror shows signs of weakness, it won’t take long for the ice to split our vessels open like hazelnuts. Yet it seems that I who was prone to illnesses as a child, am the only one death seems to willingly ignore. As I am quite useless in any manual task I was appointed to second the physicians in taking care of the sick and suffering, but however wretched the state of the patient I never got sick unlike my luckless companion Md. Haworth who died two months after I was appointed to him. I believe death takes even the best of us. This morning Captain Franklin’s second called on the remaining physician and we were appointed to the Captain’s cabin, as our dear protector and chief is lying in bed with a Typhoid fever. All water supplies have been replaced but it seems the constriction of the space added to the number of people on the ships have rendered the air rotten and poisonous. I have to resume my task, and attend on those who need comfort. It may well be my last task so see to the peaceful death of all the crew before my own.


6th March 1847

Captain Franklin is dead. After a long and painful fight against his condition he finally surrendered during the night. We were all devastated by the news. Today we will hold a ceremony in his honour, though we can’t bury him, we will do the same as for all the others, conserving him in an iced part of the ship, letting his body be mummified by the freezing temperature. It is strange how their bodies shrink like dried apricots. Some of the crew are now looking at every new death with hungry eyes, daily rations no longer fill the gap in our stomach, we are not far from starving, and we could use some fresh meat. The option was considered, our physician pointed out the risks of disease, but the matter was still put to a vote that was thankfully refused. Just the thought makes me stagger, I would rather die than stoop to so wretched an act as cannibalism. I won’t be able to bear it for much longer, hope of rescue has completely vanished by now, and living on this ship is more and more like waiting for my turn in a gigantic grave of ice. I now spend most of my time on deck, preferring the beauty of this desolated desert of ice under this deep blue sky to the fetid air and the ships of death that our vessels have become. I am resolute, my death is certain, the last sparks of hope died in me months ago. But the idea of dying on this ship, surrounded by living dead, corpses, cries, and death wheezes is unbearable. I would rather die outside; my body eaten by wild beasts, at least my last breath might be made of cold, pure, fresh air.


26th March 1847

I’m leaving! This morning I gathered my few belongings, and sat at a table to write these few lines. When I’m done, I will bid my adieu to my companions of misery and take my chances in the wild. Nothing keeps me here, our Captain is dead, and soon there will be more dead bodies than men on these vessels. I don’t have much hope for myself; I know I will die on this land. But I hope those men will be rescued, though we all stopped believing in this possibility a long time ago. If these are my last lines, I have but one regret that my death will be a source of misery for my loved one.

Robert A. Saville.


September 1849

Today while I went through my belongings I found this diary, and thought of relating the main events of the last two years. A few hours after I had left the vessels of death, the bright and burning sun gave way to a snow storm that hit me out of nowhere. Instantly, the cold, peaceful, immaculate land that surrounded me turned into a dark, freezing hell. The snow was so thick that I couldn’t see my hands in front of my eyes. Slowly I sat on the snow waiting for death to take me.

I woke up in the most puzzling décor, my body firmly packed in a warm fur. It seemed that all my surroundings were bathed in a strange bluish light. After a while I realised I was actually staring at the ceiling of some sort of building, the material used was white and almost shiny, like made of peculiar opaque, white, glass. I was stretched out on a firm yet soft floor, and I could smell the characteristic odour of wood fire. I was still blurred by delirium when a nice cold hand was placed on my front head. That was when I realised that hunger no longer contracted my stomach, and cold no longer burned. I felt weak yet the doom that had followed me for I don’t know how long had vanished. I tried to sit up when a firm hand restrained me, followed by a flow of strange guttural sounds. An old woman appeared above me, her face was wrinkled and tanned like a piece of vellum, round and smiling, which wrinkled the corner of her eyes even more. Her long pepper and salt hair were tied in a long braid she wore on the side. She looked me straight in the eyes for quite some time before renewing the guttural sounds she previously made. She then pointed her finger at me, put one hand over the other before her separating them horizontally. My brain was not more efficient than a bowl of pudding at that time but I still understood she expected me to stay where I was, and lie down. I nodded stupidly and she took off whistling a particularly melancholic tune. This was my first encounter with my saviour.

It took me six months to recover, in what I guessed to be an Eskimo camp. The old lady cared for me all that time, I could often hear other voices muttering but she was the only one I saw till I was finally well enough to take a breath of fresh air. I realised then that the shelter in which I had spent my convalescence was actually an Igloo, one of several built in circle. My nurse was the only member of the community to approach me even after I had fully recovered. The women ignored me, the men showed curiosity while children looked at me suspiciously. But what terrified me the most at the time were the “wolves” who seemed to wander freely around the camp. I later learned they were in fact Arctic dogs.

It took me three more months to learn the basics of their language. I had always believed Inuit languages to be somewhat similar to one of the many languages I mastered but I discovered a specific language of incredible richness. The old woman was a patient yet strict instructor, teaching me to speak as if I was a particularly slow type of student. One night she sat in front of the fire intimating me to tell her my story. She then told me that she had found me alone in the snow on the verge of hypothermia. She brought me to her village and cared for me.

When she found me I was in quite an awful shape, my body was exhausted and my recovery longer than expected. I then told her about my companions and the vessels trapped in snow, on hearing it she went out and came back with five tiny yet strongly built men. They listened carefully and took off for the night, the following day at dawn an entire rescue team had formed. I sat on one of their sledges and we took off. After several days of search we finally located Victoria Strait and the two vessels. At the sight of them I immediately understood we were too late, the ships had been abandoned for at least two weeks. The Eskimos told me that another tribe had reported finding a cave with several bodies of strange men; I was now undoubtedly the last survivor of the Franklin expedition.


December 1849

Today I was offered a woman, Chena. It is a tradition for my hosts to supply any foreigner with a woman, though this might be considered a barbarous act in England, this tradition is actually based on scientific grounds. As I found out the village that took me in is actually composed only by members of a single family. Therefore giving a girl to foreigners is a way for the village to renew blood and insure the best offspring possible. For that purpose men when in age go visit other tribes in search for a bride that they will bring back with them.

The chief of this family is my saviour; here everybody calls her Aanak, which means grandmother. She was the one who chose Chena for me. I must admit I was a bit intimidated at first but Chena is a lively girl with a heavenly laugh, her hair is pitch black and her skin quite fair. Chena’s father helped me to build an igloo for us. It is strange how these people who know nothing of me accepted me like one of them. They are all very patient with me, and though I am quite convinced I will never be more than an awful hunter, my fishing skills improve daily.


February 1851

It is strange, now that I am surrounded by the subjects of my studies in ethnology, writing has become a burden. I would rather experience this life, immerge myself in it rather than look at it from a scientific viewpoint. I fancy this life more and more. In England I was unable to fix myself on one occupation, my mind always attracted by something else, I had no idea life could be so soothing. The strong wind has become a lullaby to my ears. My daily occupations are simple; the physical work I dreaded so much before has turned out to provide me new strength and sharpened my mind. The cold atmosphere is like a continuous source of stamina and the desert of ice I could see from the boats, turned out to be a source of unexpected livelihood. Chena is pregnant with our second child and we are going to get married, it will take place during the next gathering.

Every year tribes assemble to hunt the big and mighty whales. On this occasion they celebrate unions, tell stories, and exchange knowledge, techniques and so on. Last year Aanak asked me to stay with her and help her watch over the camp while the others were away. She convoked me this morning and announced that as I am now considered as part of the family I was henceforth allowed to not only witness but take part in it. The openness of this culture always amazes me, I now feel as Inuit as I could be and have no desire to go back to my previous life. The other tribes will start arriving in a few weeks and our village is now agitated by the preparations. Children can’t wait to meet with friends they haven’t seen for a long time and Chena won’t stop talking about how her friends will envy her new happiness. I must admit being the source of his wife’s pride is a wonderful sensation for a man.


April 1851

The tribes arrived over a month ago. The hunts were more than fruitful, and they will soon part from us and return to their camp. I am actually in a state of unprecedented confusion, last night I was told the story of Inurlangut, or the legendary giant man. During the night the strangest dream captured me and I realise I was told the story of a well-known wretch my grandmother told me about before I departed for Artic. I will convey to you this story as it was told to me.

Long ago a Angakkuq (1) of outstanding power was born among the Inuit. He spoke to animal and spirit and was respected and feared. After choosing a wife he decided to set his igloo outside of her village. On the night of his first son’s birth Igaluk (2) appeared to him: “Nanook (3) wanders the land, your Igloo is his prey. Search for Inurlangut, he is the child of Akna (4) that was torn from her womb. Angakkup lineage depends on him”.

Wise and devoted Angakkuq got out of his igloo, all was silent, Igaluk’s round and pallid face illuminating the earth. Amarok5 cried in the night and Angakkuq followed his grieving.After several hours he found a gigantic dark form lying on the snow. Coming closer he noticed the strange and repulsive appearance of the giant, withstanding his looks was hard in itself but Angakkuq knew better than to judge on appearances. He tied the colossal being to his back and pulled him to his Igloo, the prodigious being was heavy and dawn was already breaking when they arrived. Inurlangut’s body was as cold as ice but Angakkuq knew life hadn’t entirely left him. He set a heating fire inside and wrapped the stranger into the biggest fur he could find.

Angakkuq’s wife was scared but knew her husband to be a wise and intelligent man, she however forbade young Adlartok, their five year old daughter to approach Inurlangut.

After two days the body of the giant had regained vitality and on the third day his eyes opened. The giant seemed lost at first but soon his face showed the most pitiful, sorrowful expression, Angakkuq had seen this look on men before, it was the expression of those who had lost everything, even humanity.

Suddenly the giant jumped on his feet and ran off outside. Angakkuq’s wife who was outside screamed as if she had seen death itself, Angakkuq ran after the stranger and saw the most insufferable scene: Adlartok was playing on the shore and not ten feet from her an enormous polar bear raised himself up ready to charge. Angakkuq was powerless and as his daughter looked at him the polar bear attacked. In an instant he was on her, about to tear her head off with one strike, when the giant appeared behind him, gripped the beast and with a movement of the hips threw it in the water.

Inurlangut was about to run away again when Adlartok grabbed his hand, her face taking refuge in his rags. Angakkuq couldn’t let him go anymore for he understood the God’s words; Inurlangut was to be his daughter’s protector, in her lay the destiny of his lineage. Inurlangut stayed with Angakkuq’s family and became the little girl’s best friend, she taught him Inuit, the language of spirit and how things are more than what they appear to be. Inurlangut on the other hand did his best to help them and the entire village soon discovered how useful such a strong and resistant fellow could be. Of course his face did not inspire sympathy at first glance but Inurlangut turned out to be as kind and attentive on the inside as he was monstrous on the outside.

One day he confided to Angakkuq his wretched past, considering himself unworthy of the attention and love he received but Angakkuq explained to him that a man can only give what he himself received. As Inurlangut received nothing but fear and hatred he could not give anything else. Frankenstein’s demon had died following his master.

Inurlangut was then able to be reborn, a man gave him life but it was Akna who guided him here to this place where he could be revived as a creature of Mother Nature.

Adlartok became the greatest Angakkuq ever known, she never chose a husband and lived all her life with Inurlangut, when she had spent all the years her life contained, she died followed by her dear giant. It is said they still watch over the Inuit tribes and will till the end of time.

Here ends the tale of Victor Frankenstein’s creature.


July 1851

Dear Grandmamma,

I am now writing the last line of my adventure; once I’m finished I will travel to the nearest fur-trading post and send this diary. You shall never see me again, to be honest I don’t even know if you are still alive, but writing to you kept me from insanity and I owe the family into which I was born the truth. As Inurlangut did, I found the place where I belong. I am conscious this letter will only revive the pain of my disappearance but at least you will all know I am alive and happy. Please share the tale of our unfortunate mission with the world so that my companion’s family might find closure. The ships are still in the Victoria Strait containing bodies that deserve graves.

I now know it was faith that made me board the HMS Terror, I had to witness the useless purposes of our society to be able to understand the true beauty of Inuit’s lives. Humans are made to live as men not as Gods, I wish one day western society will understand that earth does not belongs to us, we belong to earth.

Forever with you in heart, yours sincerely.

Robert A. Saville

(1) Shaman
(2) The moon god
(3) Master of polar bears
(4) Goddess of fertility
(5) The Wolf spirit

Short Stories To Shklovsky

Image: © John Schultz,

Author: Sandrine Spycher


You know that feeling when your heart starts beating faster, when your sight almost fails you, and you can’t speak properly anymore. And then you start smiling stupidly at whatever people tell you. And you’re feeling good, although slightly dizzy. Your world is balancing back and forth, as if you were on a boat swinging to the rhythm of an Ed Sheeran tune. Perhaps you’ll even start dancing soon. There’s something like a sweet vibe going through your body, from head to toe. And it’s a delight to let it move you. Let it take control of you, just as if nothing else mattered in the world. Then perhaps you’ll close your eyes for a minute and slowly breathe in.

Breathe in to regain control of yourself. And when you open your eyes, you’ll see them laughing at you because you can’t stand straight anymore. That’s when you know that last glass was just the one too many. So stop drinking. And try not to aim for anyone’s shoes when you have to throw up.

So did you think I was describing love?

Well perhaps there’s a link between drinking and love. Perhaps it’s not impossible to find your soul-mate at the English Christmas Party. And perhaps you’ll feel the fast heartbeats and the dizziness when you wake up “on the right side of the wrong bed” on the next morning.


I saw them come, with their dreadful roars and menacing moves. They advanced, weapons in hand, their eyes concealed behind their huge limbs which kept moving forward in big threatening gestures. I could already feel the heat of their horrible hearts approaching.

I called to the wind to help me raise my voice. And I cried for help but no one heard. I saw my brethren fall before me as I stood, a powerless witness to this mass murder. I heard the scratching and crackling of torn skin. I saw feathers fly away and wished I could move. But my symbiosis with the land—that which I thought would protect me against wind, rain, and storms—seemed to be the ally of my enemy, conspiring for my fall.

When they were finally on me, the saw cut through my skin and my body. I fell heavily to the once cherished earth. I was cut in two pieces, my heart still beating where my roots clung to the ground. And that’s when I noticed my little friend, that innocent baby Jaguar fighting his way away from the war engines.

He ran as fast as he could. He climbed on my sisters to hide in between their leaves. He trembled with fear as he saw his mother slain at my foot. He cried his little heart out. A heart broken by the mechanical hands of the bipeds.


The trees are huge. Although naked, they cast a large shadow on the ground. It looks dark and feels cold because of those big black shapes. Sunlight can hardly break through the canopy, even though the leaves are not on the boughs but rather making a slippery carpet on the ground.

The air is wet and heavy. Animals are sleeping or dead. Silence reigns on this dreadful kingdom of creaking wood. The lost wanderer hears nothing but his fast heartbeats and his quick irregular breathing. Shivers run down his back. He feels like a thousand eyes are spying on him. The eyes of the forest. Silent, omnipresent, oppressing ghosts.

Broken boughs crack under his footsteps, otherwise silenced by the soft carpet of snow. White snow, here and there, fallen from the naked branches, contrasting with the black shadows. White, but not luminous. Cold snow. Cold as the lost wanderer’s cold heart. He walks emotionless through the trees, barely even feeling the fear which run up and down his body in dreadful wet shivers.

Suddenly, a movement. The lost wanderer stops. His eyes go from left to right and right to left. What was it? Where was it? Nothing moves anymore. It was just an instant, a flash, like blinding lightning in the darkness of the night. It’s gone.

The lost wanderer feels the fear creep into his flesh now. He shivers. His hands tremble. His pace grows unsteady. Where does that fear come from? Who dwells in the dark corners of the forest? That beast, that unknown monster which makes its poisonous venom run through the earth.

But the wanderer knows it. He knows the face of the monster. It is the pain of a broken heart, the weight of solitude, the threat of loneliness. Behind closed eyes, the forest disappears. The dark, the silence, the dreadful feeling of being lost. But as soon as he opens his eyes, the calm dream vanishes and the solitude of the dark path comes back. Sometimes, a slight movement, her eyes, her hand. A mere memory. And then it’s over. And then she’s gone. And then the monster creeps in once more.


Have you ever heard of the Swiss sea? Have you ever seen those white waves flood the mountain sides?

It is a sea more beautiful than the Mediterranean, they say. It comes and goes along with the weather, and is more likely to be seen in winter. It invades the plains, drowns them in its thick whiteness, leaving them flooded and hoping for redemption.

But when you see it from the mountain tops, it is absolutely breath-taking, they say. The little curly waves hardly move at all, even if the wind blows on their white wings. It expands, still and silent, at your feet. It makes you feel like you are on top of the world with nothing under you but that beautiful white sea.

It is light and mild, just like the thought of a loved one, they say. It makes you dream, giving you visions of a lost otherworld. It looks magical, as if created by the hand of mighty Tolkien. It adds a dreamy touch to the green pastures of the Swiss Alps.

If you travel above the white sea, you won’t even get wet, they say. You don’t need to worry about being overtaken by the waves, for they won’t soak your socks. No need to take off your shoes to run along the beach, which is as long as the mountain side.

And do you know what makes that sea so beautiful? Well, it’s made of fog.



Image: Christmas tree. Source

Author: Marina Karpova


I love winter.

In winter our garden becomes so clean that it sparkles in sunlight. I adore these little white flies that fall from the sky to make the air fresh. Yet I feel very angry with them every time they bite the hands of our kids. These two little fellows work hard all day to crunch out intricate patterns with their steps on the ground. However, unfortunately, every night those patterns disappear under the brand new carpet.

In winter I have my Birthday. When this day comes our garden loses its usual tranquility and becomes a luminous place with uncountable flashings. Each and every single light mirrors in my golden necklaces making them like fire. Poor white flies, they cannot bear all this brightness, so I see them vanishing when they approach the lights. My red festive outfit contrasts with the whiteness of the garden to celebrate the singularity of this day.

The world overloads with various sounds and seems to be constantly in movement. Even the glossy paper my presents are wrapped in cannot stay silent: it rustles, attracting the white flies’ attention. They fall on the colorful boxes of different shapes and sizes in hope to figure out what’s inside. It’s pointless to hide that I am also deeply curious, yet I always wait until next morning so the kids could open boxes with me. In the morning the air is saturated with their shouts of joy and happiness. All the family comes together to sing a Happy Birthday Carol for me which echoes with warmth in my heart…

Learning A New Language

Image: Photo © Lila Mabiala

Author: Lila Mabiala

Learning a New Language

I’m currently trying to learn Flemish. This time it’s out of love. I say this time because I’ve had my fair share of learning languages. French and English are respectively my mother- and father-tongues. People are often confused by this; French seems natural as my mother is Swiss, but my Congolese father seemingly didn’t have any reason to speak English with his children. Explaining this would take a whole different article but let’s say that I probably got my language genes (if there are such things) from him. Long story short, he’s an English teacher and chose this language to communicate with us. So French and English were the first in my collection.

Next came Swahili, during a year-long stay in Tanzania. I was then just about to turn 10 and had no prior notions of this Bantu language. In order to help us to adapt and integrate, our parents opted for sending us to a local school. The trick was in putting us in a standard (year) 1 class with children much younger than us, but with whom we would learn the basics: the alphabet, spelling, numbers, etc. This, added to playtime conversations and neighbourhood games meant we were soon able to understand and be understood. It was also during this stay outside of a conventional school setting for us that we started to learn German. This was done with the perspective of later being able to re-join the Swiss system with the same language level as our peers. We did this in such a playful and almost detached manner that I never really had the feeling I was actively learning. I still remember the songs my sister and I made up to remember the genders of all the animals, so that was obviously an effective technique. More than 10 years later (and having had a refresher course of 6 months half-way through this time), I have realised that my Swahili, while completely operational at an everyday level never really went beyond that. In fact, I might struggle to have any specialised conversations involving specific vocabulary. Interestingly though, when we travelled to the eastern, Swahili-speaking region of DRC, our childish brand of Swahili was considered over-structured and almost pompous in comparison with the local dialect.

My learning of German resumed 2 years later. I was then back in Switzerland, in year 7. I was allowed to have private tuition hours with my teacher considering I had missed out on such a long period of time. I didn’t have these for very long and again I don’t have a clear feeling of having had to work hard to catch up. Instead it meant that I felt comfortable and enjoyed these three years of learning. I went on to get my “certificat” and even got the class prize for German, which I’m still proud of today. This tendancy continued and after my “maturité” I went on to briefly take university classes in German literature and obtained my level B2 Goethe certificate.

Back in year 7 I had two other language learning experiences. First, having to study English with my classmates. Though annoying and mainly boring, I’m sure this gave me a deeper understanding of the language as a foreign one which I hadn’t got while at primary school in England. Then came Latin. Now as opposed to my breezy navigation of German, Latin did not come naturally, and I had the catastrophic marks to prove this. I really struggled with learning vocabulary, and translations were a troublesome, but at least funny affair. What do you mean in French? I cannot understand what you mean in English. I applied what my teacher called the “hat” method where I would disregard the cases of words and translate their meanings into a sentence in random order. This was the first time I struggled with a new language but I put it down to it being dead and therefore literally impracticable. At least I gained an insight into the DNA of French, and I guess I can have fun trying to make up some Italian when I’m abroad.

Then, ladies and gentlemen, I attempted to learn Japanese. This was some six years after last beginning a new language from scratch. I decided to take it up as my second subject at university. I took it as a challenge, to compensate for taking English Literature, which I felt very at home with (and considering English is still taught as a foreign language for the first few semesters, I feared the boredom would return). Looking back, I can’t really tell what exactly went wrong with that plan. But something did go wrong and I experienced true failure for the first time in my career as a student. I enjoyed learning to write kanas and basic kanjis, I understood the grammar, and could do exercises. But it’s as if I grew out of breath and soon couldn’t keep up with tests and eventually failed the first year exam. Twice. And when I repeated the first year and passed, I gave up half way through the second year. So now I had to work on a theory to explain this failure. If I failed at Latin because it is a dead language, why couldn’t I learn Japanese, a language which I could hear being spoken around me (I was tutoring 5 different Japanese students at the time, helping them learn English, French and German according to their school settings)? How come I didn’t find the motivation to outdo myself and enjoy communicating with people I was close to? I have a tendency to think that university isn’t the place to learn a language. Dusty old rooms aren’t made for learning a vibrant, living language (it’s a cliché but I can tell you we were stuck into the oldest, dustiest corners of the University of Geneva). Other times I think that the others in my classes were so enthusiastic, so into Japanese as a culture, a frame of reference and a way of life, that I couldn’t keep up. Having neither ever read a manga or watched an anime in my life, I didn’t connect with my classmates. Maybe this stopped me from being motivated enough to invest myself 100%. Or was it the teachers? Rather strict, with a grammarian approach to the language, taking things out of books? Either way, it just didn’t work out. I do hope that I’ll be able to use my basic skills to build up my Japanese somewhere further down my path, in a better setting. Though I started out just wanting to learn something new for the fun of communicating in a different way, obviously I lacked the motivation to take it seriously.

So now I’m learning Flemish. In fact I’m learning Dutch, and will count on my boyfriend to break down the aspects which don’t correspond to the Belgian way of things. So far it’s going rather well. I’m using a website/app which I can access whenever I have time. It practices the speaking, listening, writing and reading aspects of the language. Lessons are organised by subject, which at first I found rather frustrating (why learn about to say “turtle” and “rhino” before I can even count…??). But soon I found it drives me to learn faster in order to get to the vital bits. 2 years ago I had no notions of Dutch at all. After meeting my boyfriend and spending time with his family, I gradually developed an ear and can now understand most of what is going on during conversations. But I realised understanding was nowhere near enough to allow me to express myself. I was hesitant, shy, and relied too heavily on “frenemy” language German to say the most basic things.

So here I am, trying once more to fold my mind into the right configurations, using memorisation, intuition, and all those long forgotten techniques. Funnily enough, it also comes at a time when I’m studying education sciences and the best strategies for learning, and cognitive psychology of language. It makes me feel more aware of the processes I use and will hopefully help me to correct the elements that went wrong before. I think my experience proves that the setting in which we learn a language, rather than a specific age window, affect our motivation and success rates. Not only is it important to understand this when learning a new language, but for the teaching-inclined, these are vital things to keep in mind. So here’s to hoping I make a good impression at the Christmas dinner in my Belgian family! Oh and then what, you ask? Well, maybe Spanish. That’ll help with the next destinations on my travel wish list. Claro que si!

P.s: If anyone has the required skills to understand the riddle in the picture (seen in Venice, summer 2014), please come forward. Some kind of mystical language is involved I suspect.

That’s Christmas To Me

Image: Photo © Robin Emery

Author: Robin Emery

That’s Christmas To Me

One evening in early December, I was there on a pile of red dirt appreciating the last rays of orange sunlight bouncing off the still water. As I sat by the lake I threw a small pebble into it, there was just enough light to see ripples spreading rapidly on its surface. And then all went black because night comes fast on the equator. I was left in the darkness of a December night in Kenya. I was wearing a tank top and no shoes. Days are becoming hotter and hotter here. And it is now early December, which means it is soon 2015, and even sooner it will be Christmas. That is when I realized that I had not yet thought about Christmas.

Almost four months ago, I started performing (yep, that word) my Swiss “Service Civil” in an orphanage in western-Kenya and I will spend Christmas here. There are two seasons in Kenya: winter and summer. December is the beginning of summer so it does not snow here on Christmas Eve. Actually, it never snows here. Instead, Christmas takes place halfway through the biggest yearly drought and its oppressive temperatures.

When I first read the e-mail inviting English students to write a text for the “muse” magazine, I was thrilled. I wanted to write about my time in Kenya. However, partly through the message I read “we do encourage you to relate your texts to Christmas or winter season” and I felt sad because where I am, I will live through no ordinary winter and my Christmas will certainly be very different from what I always knew. Well, exactly! I will neither have an ordinary winter nor an ordinary Christmas.

Having that in mind, I began thinking of Christmas and ideas related to it. Whoever is reading this would have the concept of Christmas match others such as “family”, “friends”, “presents”, “generosity”, “songs”, “the cold”, “snow”, “a big fat dinner”, “short days”, “long nights”, “coziness in a chalet”, “the warmth of a wood fire”, “skiing”, “what comes just after essay deadlines”, “what comes just before new year’s eve”, and this could go on for a ridiculously long time. In any case: not drought, sunburns and flip-flops.

So I started wondering whether all collocates for the word “Christmas” in Kenya are really diametrically opposed to ours. But nobody wants to read about a corpus-based search here, hunh. Instead, let’s browse through various thoughts and events that came about in my life here concerning Christmas-related topics.

Snow. “You know, in my country in December sometimes I look out of my window in the morning and where normally there are colors there are none. All is white because it snowed during the night and I cannot use my car anymore until a powerful machine comes and pushes snow away and then there are walls of snow on both sides of the road and the road is slippery. Everything is ice-cold”. When I said those words the kids were staring at me with that concentrated mouth-half-open gaze they have when a magic trick is being executed in front of them. Most of them only saw snow once on a postcard of Mount Kenya.

“But” one of them asks, “can you even walk around outside when it is so cold?” – “Not really, we try staying inside most of the time” – “So… why do you live there in the first place?” Good question. – “Well, when there is snow I go up one of the many mountains not far from home and I go skiing!” – “Go what?” That was the beginning of a loooong talk.

Short days & long nights. I spent every single one of my twenty-two winters in Switzerland. Every time Christmas was approaching it was the same story. Days grew shorter and shorter while the atmosphere and the people became increasingly cold. Depression due to lack of light, the endless waiting for the 24th to open presents and the famous sentence voiced by skiers “at least some snow could fall and make the cold worth bearing!” were all part of the picture. Every year. Not this year.

The orphanage is smack on the equator and on the equator the sun unvaryingly rises between 6:30 and 7AM and sets between 6:30 and 7PM. It is so consistent that there is no need for the hour change we have in Europe, and time is counted differently: hour zero of a day for people here is our 6AM; hence our 9AM is their 3AM. “It’s logical! You wake up at dawn, and when you were up for three hours, you are three hours into the morning: it’s 3AM”!

The days are never longer or shorter, the curfew for children never changes. Days pass by so swiftly that to keep up with a countdown until the 24th would be absurd. I live amidst many smiles and there is no objective reason to be depressed. The only genuine parameter to consider while organizing my days here is whether there is rain or not. And in December there is no rain, in December there is only sun.

The warmth of a wood fire. In Switzerland, I make a wood fire when my chalet’s heating system is out, which seldom happens. In other cases, a wood fire merely intensifies the cozy atmosphere in a room when you have family or friends over or when you are alone with The New Yorker or Paradise Lost in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other, right? Just writing this overwhelms me with this romantic feeling.

A wood fire has a different effect on me now because in the orphanage one makes wood fire every day. Why? To cook. So, “go fetch firewood or else you’ll not eat” says the cook. That’s maybe as close to “pragmatic” and as far from “romantic” as one can get.

Generosity. “When I set the table, I always keep two spare plates in a corner of the table in case someone walks in while we are eating. We never count how much food we make, since we do not know how many people will eat at our table. It is in our culture,” says Lilian, a friend of mine who teaches French in a neighboring village. – “So, do people often walk in and eat with you?” – “Almost never, she answers, but when it happens we have enough food for them”. That is what I call widespread generosity. Just imagine! It is a cultural trend to expect unexpected guests! In contrast, I suppose in Switzerland we are bad at expecting the unexpected…

Generosity is supposed to be a primitive human drive (debate: open) and constitutes a fundamental pillar to a healthy society. Cynically, one could argue that in common Western customs Christmas is the time of the year to be generous and to offer presents. In our collective unconsciousness, the social representation of “generosity” was taken hostage by Christmas! But it’s practical: there is that small time of the year where one is prompted to burst into flamboyant and ostentatious acts of generosity, and then it’s done. The rest of the year, just go back to work or whatever you do for your living.

I am very crude because I consider generosity to be as diffuse as foucaldian power, underlying every word uttered and gesture enacted and to be as quintessential to human understanding as language itself. I see generosity as the tangible part of love, as the emergence through which love arises in humanly perceptible stimuli, and because love is everywhere, generosity is everywhere. Somehow, it is. Generosity is everywhere, always, not only on Christmas Eve. That is why I like the yearlong extra-plate policy here.

Music. In the orphanage the music I hear is nearly always terrible wannabe-American noise from the Kenyan radio. Sometimes children sing, and other times I hear sophisticated phones ringing: Lil Wayne, Sean Paul or Akon. But yesterday everything changed when I heard the polyphonic ringtone of our cook Maureen’s Sony Ericson playing “I Wish You A Merry Christmas”! And I thought of Christmas once more and I laughed and I sang along and Maureen answered the phone and the ringtone stopped so I was singing alone and I stopped singing. She looked at me astonished and after she hung up she asked me how I knew the lyrics to her ringtone. I answered that we have the same Christmas songs at home. Se was puzzled, but I finally found out how I will connect with my habitual Christmases: through music!

Apart from singing, there will be a big party and a big fat dinner and love and new friends and presents and a Christmas tree. But so far from home it will still be very different. You know, neither better nor worse, just different. It will come fast enough, because time flies here. So many teeming thoughts this evening may have kept me away from producing a straightforward account of anything. However, there is a baseline to it, and it addresses all readers: Merry Christmas!

And a happy new year

With love,

Sent from Kenya

Speaking With Birds

Image: ©

Author: Elizabeth Leeman

Speaking With Birds



The small metal gate creaked open as I pushed it inward and walked onto the Dickinson propriety for the first time. I took a step on the small stone pathway that led up to the Homestead house. The garden surrounding it was plush green, filled with small stout bushes and tall thin trees. There was a rose bed to one side with yellow and red roses in bloom. I looked up at the house, it seemed rather grand to me. The pale yellow façade and dark green shutters stared down at me. I could see white curtains behind each windowpane. I saw one of the curtains move suddenly and I realized it was not a curtain at all. A women dressed in white had been standing behind the glass watching me.

I was still looking up at the first story window from where she had disappeared from when a Nightingale began to sing. I turned to look for the source of the melody. I followed the sound of his song with my eyes trying to find him. I saw him perched in a large lilac tree by the main entrance. I walked up to it. The smell of the tree’s flowers was overwhelming. I stroked the strap of the bag I was carrying. I could feel it getting wet from my moist hands. I walked up the steps to the main entrance; my bag felt heavy all of a sudden. I swallowed hard as I looked at the white door in front of me.

‘It’s only temporary,’ I said to the Nightingale who chirped at me in response.

‘Oh, shut up.’

He flew away singing louder than before.

‘You’re probably right,’ I said and knocked on the large white door.

I heard small quick footsteps approaching behind the wall. I imagined it must be the woman in the white dress. I caught my reflection in the window next to the door. My frizzy black hair was pulled tight in a bun but a wild strand had gotten loose. I tried to tuck it back but it refused. My freckles and big blue eyes stared back at me, mocking my attempts to look presentable. The door swung open, making me jump. A short woman who was out of breath and wearing a dark blue dress looked up at me. She had round blotchy red cheeks and big brown eyes with long lashes. Her eyes seemed to sparkle as if she had just plays some mischievous prank on someone and was waiting for them to find out about it. I thought she was quite pretty.

‘Hello, my name is Margaret, I’m your new-‘

‘Ah you’re here, good, good,’ she said cutting me off and still gasping for breath ‘well, come in, come in.’

She ushered me into a narrow hallway. The wallpaper was a silver white color with a fancy design on it. It looked so rich I felt my hand twitch. I wanted to reach out and touch it but the woman was walking away quickly, her small heels tapping against the wooden floorboards as she went. We turned right in front of a staircase going to an upper level. There was a dark carpet on the stairs and a white bannister to its side. We turned again, went through a kitchen and into a washroom. She led me up some stairs into a dark hallway. As we walked she explained what my main chores would be:

‘As you can see the house is big and requires a lot of work. You are our only maid. You will be required to clean the house of course, do the laundry, the ironing, make soap, do the dying, press the laundry, hang it, do the dishes, the dusting, the mending and the cooking. But not the bread mind you. Emily bakes the bread. Make sure you stay out of her way when she does. Oh and you’re also responsible for feeding the cats and chickens.’

We continued up the stairs and I saw three doors lined against the wall.

‘The one at the back is yours. Here are your keys. This is the one for your room.’ She said, pointing at a large key with a small pink ribbon attached to it.

‘The others are for the rest of the house. This one is to the main entrance.’ She finished pointing at a key with a blue ribbon on it. ‘Leave your things in your room and follow me.

I did as I was told. I did not even think to look at my new room. My mind already thinking about the amount of work this house would generate. I followed the mistress to the front of the first floor.

‘I’m Miss Lavinia Dickinson. You can ask me any questions you might have. You will also be working for my sister Miss Dickinson as well as my parents Mr and Mrs Dickinson. You won’t see much of Mr Dickinson, because he travels a lot.’

We passed through a small passage and were back in their part of the house. The white wallpaper called out to me again. Miss Lavinia turned to me and brought one finger to her mouth showing me to be silent. We walked passed a door that she pointed at without saying anything. I looked at the door. There was nothing special about it. It was just a white door with a white doorknob. My new employer did not stop in front of it but continued down a flight of stairs.

Once we had made our way back into the kitchen, she turned to face me.

‘The door, you saw it?’

I nodded, my eyes widening.

‘That’s Miss Dickinson’s room. You are not to disturb her when she is in her room. When she comes down to bake bread, you will have time to clean her space. Be careful you leave everything as you find it. If you pick up a pen to clean under it, then you must put it back exactly where you found it. Do you understand?’

I nodded again.

‘Good. Emily – Miss Dickinson to you, I mean, is very particular but that’s none of your concern. You may not ask questions about that. And under no circumstances must you perpetuate the ridiculous rumors that circulate about her in the town. Do I make myself clear?’

I nodded again.

I heard footsteps coming towards the kitchen and turned to look at its owner.

‘Lavinia I’m going to the market. Would you like to join me?’

A tall woman with strict features was in the doorway. Miss Lavinia introduced her as Mrs Dickinson. I was afraid of the old woman then and there. She seemed stern and cold. I did not know it yet, but my path would hardly cross hers during the time I would work at the Homestead house. When it did, she usual ignored me, as I was the help.

When Miss Lavinia had left I began preparing the evening dinner, my mind full of questions about Miss Dickinson I knew I could not ask or have answers to.

The next day I was preparing lunch when she walked into the kitchen. I had not seen or heard her walk in and when I turned around from the stove I shrieked with surprise at the sight of her. The butter I was holding flew out of my hands and splattered on the floor at Miss Dickinson’s feet. Startled, she flattened herself against the kitchen door. There was a long silence in which we both caught our breath.

Then, we looked up at each other. I could not control myself. I was submerged by a fit of giggles. I slumped down onto the cold dark red tiles of the kitchen floor and felt tears run down my cheeks. On the other side of the room, I saw her clutch her stomach and kneel down trying to control herself.

I noticed her white dress and dark brown hair pulled into a tight bun not dissimilar from mine. She had the same brown eyes her sister had, but hers seemed more alert, more awake. She didn’t have plump rosy cheeks though; hers were flatter with higher cheekbones. It was a very pretty face.

‘What’s going on?’ Miss Lavinia said, coming into the room. ‘Miss Maher! Do your chores, now! Emily are you alright?’

I hurried back into the washroom still laughing. I grabbed the cleaning kit and went up to Miss Dickinson’s room to clean it still trying to control my laughter.

I placed my hand on the white doorknob but did not open it straight away. I felt as if I was trespassing or stealing something that did not belong to me. I heard Miss Lavinia’s tapping footstep’s on the ground floor and shook my head. I turned the handle and stepped in.

It was as remarkable as the white door that led into it: unremarkable. There was a bed, a nightstand, a washbasin, a hearth, a commode, a table and chair. I kept looking around the small space expecting some strange object to catch my eye, but there was nothing. I walked to the window and looked out. The front garden was just as green as ever and stretched out from the house to the main street in front. I turned around back to the room and hit my thigh on a small writing table. I swore under my breath and tried to rub the pain away.

I began cleaning the small table. I moved the gas lamp and pen that were beside it. It was a very nice table. The wood was smooth and I guessed it was probably cherry. It had a small drawer with a little round golden ring handle. I dusted and polished it before carefully placing the two objects that were on it back to where they had been. I remembered the lamp had been right at the edge of the table, the pen had laid diagonally to it, the pen’s point angled towards the right of the lamp.

After that I carefully dusted every other item of the room, but there wasn’t much in the room. A small basket on the window sill caught my eye. I looked inside hoping to resolve some of the mystery surrounding the room’s owner. I found only needlepoint in it. I shut the weaker basket with a bang and continued dusting.

Then I began scrubbing the floor carefully. When I moved one piece of furniture I used my foot as a marker so I could set it back exactly where it had been when I had finished.

Finally, I finished cleaning and dusting the room. I noticed Miss Dickinson had left a small tray with a teacup and saucer on the commode top in front of some pictures. The porcelain cup had a gold rim running along its edge but the rim was slightly chipped near the handle. I picked it up and noticed the word “Sèvres” engraved on its bottom. I left with the tray, closing the door behind me.

The smell of bread filled the house by the time I left her room. When I reached the kitchen, I was surprised to see that she was not there anymore. The door to the back garden was open and I went to shut it when I saw Miss Dickinson outside. I stepped out, curious to see what she was doing. She was standing very still looking up at a tree. A Robin was singing.

Miss Dickinson closed her eyes and I saw her sway slightly form one foot to the other. Fearing she would fall I took a few steps toward her but a hand came out of nowhere and grabbed me. I turned to see who was holding me back and saw a gardener.

‘She’s fine. Leave it,’ he said in a thick Irish accent that reminded me of home. He did not look at me while saying this but kept his eyes on Miss Dickinson.

I looked back at her and saw she was reaching one hand out towards the bird who was still singing. The bird flew out of his nest down onto the walk in front of her. I realized she was offering him a crumb but he did not seem interested. He was eating something else but I could not see what.

‘Probably a worm,’ the gardener said, answering my unasked question.

The bird ruffled its feathers and flew away. Miss Dickinson got up and walked off towards the back of the garden near the apple orchard.

‘Ah good, she wasn’t too long today, bless her,’ the gardener said and picking up his tools started walking away.

I ran after him and asked him about Miss Dickinson’s strange behavior.

‘If you thought that was strange, you probably won’t last long in this house. She was just playing with the bird, that’s all. I don’t see why some folk find fault with that. I always give her room when she walks through the garden. She doesn’t need me clipping around her when she is speaking with the birds.’

‘She speaks to the birds?’

‘Not to them, with them.’

He told me she talked with everything, the birds, trees and anything or anyone else that would listen. She just didn’t use words to speak.

‘How can you speak without words?’ I asked him.

‘Did you not just see her?’

I felt more confused and decided to stop asking the gardener questions. I was not aware of it yet but his name was Dennis Scannell and I would come to know him well in years to come.

I returned to the safety of the kitchen. I looked around at the bright yellow casements and the pale green walls. I definitely felt like this was the best room in the house. I started cooking and sang an old tune from home to keep me company as I worked.

As evening approached I began preparing dinner. I was singing an old tune again while Miss Lavinia’s cats Gaspar and Pumpkin watched me cook. I heard a noise from the main part of the house but didn’t stop to worry about it. Perhaps I should have because I jumped with surprise when Miss Lavinia and Miss Dickinson both came rushing into the kitchen. Miss Dickinson banged the cupboards open one after the other.

‘Emily, tell me what you’re looking for, please.’

I froze and watched as Miss Dickinson pawed through the washed dishes. I saw her remove the chipped cup from the lot. She showed her sister the dish and without a word exited the room.

Miss Lavinia was holding on to the counter and breathing hard. She picked up Gaspar and stroked him from the top of his head to the tip of his tail.

‘Did you remove the cup from her room?’ she said to me but kept looking at her cat.

‘I’m sorry. I thought it was to be washed. I-‘

‘Next time, leave it exactly as you found it.’

‘Yes M’am.’

She left with her cat. I sat by the fire for a moment, not sure how to understand either of the sisters’ attitudes.

The next day while I was dusting in the library, I heard someone at the door. When I went to open it, a Mrs Jameson asked to see Miss Dickinson. I tried to hold back a grin, unsuccessfully.

‘Just tell her I’m here, will you?’

I ran away feeling her stare bore into my back.

When I was in front of Miss Dickinson’s door, I hardly knew what to do. I wanted to knock but was afraid too. I was just about to when I heard her voice:

‘I’m coming.’

I was surprised to hear her say she would. I left without a word to fetch Mrs Jameson tea. I then headed back towards the library to finish my dusting but I saw Miss Dickinson come down and head for the North Parlor.

‘Ma’am she’s waiting for you in the South Parlor.’

She nodded in response but went into the North Parlor all the same. Perplexed, I stood still a moment. I heard the sound of her voice greet her friend. I was sure I’d left Mrs Jameson in the South Parlor and poked my head through its doorway again to be sure.

Mrs Jameson was seated on a small chair next to the large red curtain separating the two parlors. The curtain was closed and I could hear Miss Dickinson speaking to her friend from behind the curtain. I was still watching the guest speak to a closed curtain when Miss Lavinia came into the hall and shut the door to the parlor in front of me.

‘It isn’t polite to listen to other people’s conversations.’

‘I wasn’t, I just, I mean- the curtain’

Miss Lavinia told me to return to my work but she did so with a smile. I think she saw the confusion on my face and understood my perplexity. I returned to my dusting, wondering about Miss Dickinson’s strange habits.

The days passed and I saw little of my employer. I did the laundry, fed the cats and chickens. One day, after spending the morning figuring out a particularly complicated recipe for cookies, I went to the market to buy meat for supper. When I returned, I saw the cookies where gone. I looked around the kitchen, scanning each countertop looking for the culprit. My eyes landed on Peppercorn, Miss Lavinia’s fattest cat.

‘Hello Maggie,’ I heard someone say behind me as I lunged for the cat.

I turned around and found my two young nephews, William and James each holding one of my cookies.

‘Where did you get those?’ I asked, my eyes popping out.

They told me a woman had lowered them down from her first floor window in a basket.

‘She was really nice. She said we could have as many as we wanted,’ Will said, smiling.

I looked at him, surprised. Even though she would not come out of her room, she still found ways to please those around her. Although the cookies were difficult to make and I had planned on serving them that day at tea, looking at my nephews chocolate stained faces, I felt they now had served a better purpose.

I continued cleaning the house and saw the seasons slowly change from the bright sunny mornings to the cold and wet afternoons. The leaves in the apple orchard turned gold and red. Puddles started to form around the kitchen door, making it impossible to get through to the vegetable garden and chicken coop. Slowly though the wet turned into cold, the leaves blew away leaving the trees naked and snow started to fall. Miss Dickinson didn’t go outside anymore, preferring the warmth of her room or of the kitchen when she baked.

Still, I wondered what she did when she was locked in her room. Wasn’t she bored? I did not feel bothered by her habits or that it was necessarily strange. I was just curious to know what she did with herself.

One day, Lavinia and her mother had both gone out to call on some friends. It was just Miss Dickinson and I in the house, and curiosity got the better of me. I had been sweeping the landing of the first floor when I stopped in front of her door. I looked at it up and down and up again.

Then, I thought ‘no’ and walked away and headed down the stairs to the entrance hall. I had made it as far as the second step when I turned back and went to the door once more. I stared at it for a full minute and walked away again. I made it to the third step this time before turning back. I gazed at the door longer this time, unsure what to do. I laid down on my stomach trying to see through the crack of the door. All of a sudden, the door creaked open. I looked up hoping that the grin on my face would suffice as an excuse for my behavior.

‘Would you like to come in?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Uh’ was all I could answer.

I got up and fixed my gaze on the hem of her white dress. She ushered me into her room. I noticed, for the first time, the intricately made the floorboards.

As she shut the door, her movement caught my eye and I looked up. She had bent down over the keyhole and made a gesture as if to lock the door. But she held no key. I looked at her, my brows furrowed so far together that when she looked at me she laughed.

‘Welcome to my Prison.’

‘Prison?’ I asked and was sorry she felt this way.

‘No, no it’s a good prison. It helps me understand what’s out there better,’ she said, looking out the window.

I went and stood next to her but did not understand what she meant. How could being in a prison, as she called it, help her out there? I did not understand and she must have seen my confusion.

‘Do you miss the birds?’ she asked me, still smiling.

The birds had migrated south for the winter. I missed hearing them sing when I went into the garden. I liked hearing them when I picked apples in the orchard or pulled vegetables in the garden for the daily meals.

I nodded.

‘When the war was on, did you miss peace?’

I nodded again.

‘But did you miss it before the war?’ her eyes pierced mine when she asked me this.

I fell silent. I had not thought of peace before the war. I hadn’t really appreciated it before the war because I had not known how terrible the war would be. How many men would never return home and how many more should not have returned in the state they did.

I shook my head.

‘When I’m in I can remember everything out there more clearly. I can see them better from here. I appreciate what’s out there more, from in here.’

I nodded again.

‘Its as if the more you go out there the more difficult it is to see it. The more you have to look at it through a filter or a lens. From in here I have perfect eyesight. Its magic,’ she said and laughed.

I laughed with her although I wasn’t sure why we were laughing.

I turned around and saw her small cherry writing desk was covered with papers. My gaze wandered further to her commode. A drawer was open and overflowing with papers.

‘I have a trunk in my room. It’s empty if you would like to use it?’

She looked at me in silence for a while.

‘That would be nice,’ she said and then asked me to leave.

When I was back out in the safety of the hallway, I felt air fill my lungs again. I had not spoken to her in the five months I’d been working in the Homestead House. Apart from saying ‘hello’ or ‘excuse me’. For a first real meeting it seemed a little too intense for my liking. But in the next few days I kept thinking about what she told me and especially about what she had taught me.



I was preparing lunch one morning in April when Miss Dickinson came in. I excused myself and made my way to exit the kitchen.


I turned around and saw she was handing me something.

‘You said you had an empty trunk?’

I nodded and took the papers she was giving me. I left quickly through the back of the kitchen. Once I was in my room I looked through her notes. They were, as I expected, poems. I was happy she had decided to trust me with her work. Each packet she had given me was composed of about twenty poems hand-sewn together with some string. I wanted to read them but I didn’t dare. She had trusted me with them and I did not want to break that trust. I put them safely in my trunk and went to clean her room.

I deliberately took too long cleaning her room in the hopes that she would return and we could talk more. She did not come however. I eventually made my way back to the kitchen, dragging my feet. She was not there but I noticed she had left some notes lying on the counter. I grouped them together and set them under a jam jar so they would not fly away if someone opened the door to the garden. I went out to pick Thyme that I needed for the evening meal when I saw her kneeling by the rose beds. I was happy to see her going outside again.

As I was watching her I saw a carriage come by. Miss Dickinson straightened as it neared the house. The driver was an old man hunched over. He was bald and had a pointy nose. He was well dressed but wore all black, which I thought made him look sad. His horse seemed as old as his master, if not older. He dragged his legs and the rhythm of his clip-clopping hooves seemed out of tune.

The carriage driver held a long whip at his side that he looked more likely to drop than to use on his horse. When he saw Miss Dickinson, he tipped his black hat to her smiling and drove slowly onward. His smile seemed more like a grimace to me and I was glad he had not greeted me in this similar, disturbing manner. After the carriage was out of sight, I watched my mistress shiver and return inside. When I went back into the kitchen she had removed her notes from under the jar and was writing fast on one of them.

A little later in the day, a Mr Dwight Hills came to visit the family. I let him into the Parlor where Miss Lavinia and Mrs Dickinson welcomed him. When I’d returned to the kitchen I heard Miss Dickinson’s bell ring. I went up to her room curious to see what she needed since she never rang her bell.

When I arrived on the landing, I saw a small note in front of her door addressed to Mr Hills. I took it down the stairs to the guest who read it directly.

‘She isn’t coming down I assume?’ he asked me with a wink.

‘I’m sorry sir. I-’

‘You must be a strange bird yourself if she trusts you so much. How did you get in her good graces?’

‘You may go, Maggie,’ Mrs Dickinson ordered me.

I tried to relax my shoulders and exited the Parlor as fast as my feet would carry me. When I was back in the safety of the kitchen I realized Mr Hills had a point. Why did she like me or trust me? She didn’t know me and I was only a maid in her house. I smiled

‘She trusts me.’

A few days later another man came to visit. He was tall and had a little moustache I quite liked. When I let him into the Parlor I did not bother to return to the kitchen but went straight up to Miss Dickinson’s room to see if she had left a note for the visitor. As I reached the first floor landing I saw her exit her room. I asked her if she needed anything but she said she did not. She was wearing her usual white dress but had also put on a pretty blue shawl. I wondered why she felt the need to wear an extra accessory for this visitor. She went past me down to the first floor. I expected her to go into the North Parlor but when she headed to the South Parlor my mouth opened in surprise.

Lavinia walked into the hallway holding Tangerine.

‘Come on, Maggie,’ she said stroking the orange cat’s long hairs.

We waited in the kitchen as the two conversed in the Parlor. Seeing my anxiety for my mistress, Miss Lavinia explained that the guest was Mr Higginson, a publisher from the Atlantic Monthly. Miss Dickinson had written him several letters and he had been eager to meet her to discuss her writing.

When we heard their voices more clearly, we knew their meeting was over. I followed Miss Lavinia who went to see the gentlemen out, hoping to glimpse him better myself. Miss Dickinson had already returned to her room when we arrived in the hall. Mr Higginson thanked Miss Lavinia for her kindness but said he had to leave right away.

‘I have no energy left after this meeting.’

I stood behind Miss Lavinia nodding. I remembered the first time I had spoken to her and how confused and more curious about the world I’d felt all at the same time after our first discussion.

The next day I monotonously went about my chores, dusting, sweeping, ironing. I sang songs from Ireland to keep me company while doing so. It made the time go by faster. I was cleaning the kitchen and singing ‘The Rising of the Moon’. I began to dance with my broom pirouetting around it. I picked it up and played it like a banjo for the benefit of Fig, Miss Lavinia’s black cat. I twirled a few more times laughing and singing when I heard someone else laugh as well. I turned around and saw Miss Dickinson in the doorway waiting to come in to do her daily baking. She clapped and congratulated me on my singing.

‘Thank you,’ I said taking a bow and was about to add that she should join me but all of a sudden she froze. Her smile left her face and she started looking around the kitchen for something. I asked her what she needed but she did not answer. Finally she found a pen and an old bill paid off months ago. She started writing on the paper fast and sloppy. I was not sure even she would be able to reread what she had written. I understood what she was doing and left the kitchen quietly.

As I cleaned her room that morning, I was sure we could become good friends even if her poems overtook her sometimes. The thought of her friendship made me smile.



Mr Edward Dickinson was back. He travelled often for work and was only seldom at the house. He had returned two nights ago but already had to leave the next morning. I was in the washroom when I saw him and Miss Dickinson walking in the garden. They were talking and looked quite content. They spent the entire day together walking, in the garden or sitting talking in the Parlor. I must admit I was a little jealous of Mr Dickinson. I had only had a few conversations with his daughter but would have loved to have a few more.

That evening while I was cleaning the South Parlor I heard him and Miss Lavinia speaking in the North Parlor. Mr Dickinson said to his daughter how pleased he had been to spend this time with Emily and did not want the afternoon to end.

The next day however, he got on a train to Boston. Miss Dickinson seemed sad to see him go. When she went to bake the bread, she asked me to cook and sing at the same time to keep her distracted.

When, a few days later, a telegraph came in it was as if she already knew what had happened. I took it up to her but she did not open it directly. She asked me to fetch Miss Lavinia and they opened the note together.

Mr Edward Dickinson had died. He had been ill and the doctor had given him the wrong dose of medicine.

I wanted to hold them both close to me, but they told me to prepare for the funeral. I left without needing more instructions. I left determined to get everything ready so that Miss Lavinia would not have to do it herself. She seemed too sad.

When the funeral finally took place. I watched Miss Lavinia leave from the front of the house with Mrs Dickinson, her brother, Austin and his wife Sue, to go to the funeral.

‘She isn’t going,’ I said to Dennis.

‘Not surprising,’ he answered, leaning on his rake.

I was not worried or ashamed that she wasn’t going to the funeral but felt mostly worried about her. She would have to stay alone in the house while everyone else convened together in church. Dennis and I made our way to the church through the backyard and down a few side alleys.

That evening I was sitting by the kitchen hearth writing a short letter to my sister, Mary when Miss Lavinia came in. I stood to greet her and ask what she needed but she told me to sit down.

‘I came for the company and the warmth,’ she said smiling and I wasn’t entirely sure she meant the warmth of the fire.

‘How are things?’ I hesitated to ask but did anyway feeling that silence would have been more awkward.

‘She’s all right. She processes things differently than most people. That’s the problem. I always feel responsible for her because she’s my sister. I don’t want her to be in so much pain, but I guess that comes with being a poet.’

‘I didn’t mean her.’

‘I sometimes forget about myself,’ Miss Lavinia laughed. ‘I worry so much for Emily, I sometimes forget it might be worth worrying about myself.’

Parsley rubbed her long tail against the leg of Miss Lavinia, who picked her up. While stroking the grey cat’s short fur she turned to look into the fire. The light from the flames reflected on her round rosy cheeks. We heard a noise at the kitchen door; it was Miss Dickinson. She came and sat with us by the fire.

I looked at the two sisters who were physically similar but had very different minds. Miss Dickinson didn’t have Miss Lavinia’s round cheeks or the softness in her eyes. Her eyes were awake and sharp.

I realized how sad they both looked though. This would not do. I got up in one swift movement that made them both jump.

‘We’re baking a cake.’

‘What?’ Miss Lavinia said.

‘No what! We’re baking a cake.’

The two got up but did not seem enthused. I decided I would make them want this cake. I would make them both smile and laugh, at least for the next few hours.

I began singing O’Donnell Abu and taught them a few words so they could join in and sing with me. By the time the cake was in the oven they had learned the entire song and we were singing it to each other from different corners of the kitchen as loud as we could.

We collapsed with laughter by the hearth and I noticed Miss Dickinson had some flour on her sleeve. I handed her a cloth to wipe it.

‘Miss Dickinson,’ I said when she failed to see me holding the cloth out to her.

‘I think you can call me Emily, Maggie,’ she said wiping the flour off.



The doorbell rang and when I opened it I saw Mrs Todd. I felt my face clench unwillingly. I admitted her into the house without a word. She was an unhappy women whose interest in the family, at least in my opinion, was only to further her own social advancement.

She came regularly, to play the piano for Emily. I knew Emily liked to hear the instrument being played, although she never came down to watch. She would open her door ever so slightly to hear the notes better.

Mrs Todd used Emily partly as an excuse. Her main interest in coming to Homestead was to see the young Mr Dickinson. It seemed quite clear that they were lovers, although Emily never noticed, staying in her room the whole time, she did not doubt what the woman’s real motives were.

When the young woman sat herself at the piano and began to play, I went up to the first floor landing to see if Emily had left her anything. There was a rose in front of her door with a note ‘for Mabel’. I took it down to Mrs Todd but when I entered the Parlor, I froze. Mr Dickinson was at her side. I had not even heard him come back from his office that morning. He was holding her by the waist and kissing her neck while she played. I left the rose on a small worktable next to the door and left.

I found Lavinia in the kitchen by the fire. I walked in and leaned against the counter without saying anything.

‘He owns the house,’ Lavinia said, staring into the fire.

‘I know. You don’t need to apologize.’

‘Yes, but I can tell it bothers you.’

‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ I said a little more forcefully than I’d intended.

‘Yes, but what can I do? The music makes Emily happy and Austin pays for everything. Without him we’d all be out on the streets.’

She got up and went out through the back door to the garden. I shook my head, unhappy with the situation. I felt that Lavinia had lost hope since her father died. She had doubled her attention towards Emily. She hoped that her constant presence would keep her sister from becoming too fragile. Perhaps it did help a little until the moment when Mrs Dickinson had fallen ill.

In my mind, her illness was brought on by the loss of her husband. The first time she felt unwell was on the anniversary of his death and since that time she had always been sick. She spent most of her time in bed unable to get up anymore. Lavinia tried so hard to take care of her but the pressure from taking care of Emily in addition to taking care of her mother had killed something inside her. I could see it. Her eyes didn’t sparkle like they used to.

When her mother had passed a few years ago, I had felt a little relieved for Lavinia. But her brother’s affair was weighing her down now and dragging me with her. I was worried about what the outcome would be, not only for Austin and his sisters but also for the entire house. Had I known what was to come I might not have worried so much about his affair. Emily’s was far more worrying.

The first time Judge Lord came to visit Emily a few years ago, I hardly knew what to think. He was much older than her and I therefore did not understand the nature of their relationship until Lavinia pointed it out to me.

It is true that when he came to the house she seemed lighter. But she seemed almost too light, I thought. It worried me. What would happen if he went away one day?

He rang the doorbell on a Tuesday and I let him into the South Parlor as I usually did. When I went to fetch Emily, she was already coming out of her room. She went straight down to meet him without a word to me in passing. They stayed in the Parlor for hours, talking.

I went out into the garden for fresh air. I was also hoping to run into Dennis again. He always made things seem less serious than I thought they were. I could not find him but tried to rationalize the relationship myself. Maybe she wasn’t too sensitive. Maybe they would get married and she would always be as happy as he was making her now. I walked around the apple trees trying to convince myself of this but in my heart I didn’t feel any of this would actually happen.

A few months later he died.

Lavinia and I took turns watching Emily. We made sure there was always someone with her when she wasn’t in her room. When she baked, I found an excuse to stay in the kitchen. When she went into the garden, Lavinia found a reason to go with her and talk about something.

What worried me most was how unemotional she seemed about his death. I was afraid she had reached some state beyond sadness. I went to see her in her room using a tray of tea and biscuits as an excuse to come in.

She was sitting at her small writing table looking out the window. I placed the tray next to the paper she had been writing on. She did not look at me. I looked out the window myself and saw a Nightingale on the windowsill. I wondered if it was the same one I had seen on my first day in Homestead. I stayed for a minute watching the bird, but when he flew away I gave up. She would not speak to me. I was almost at the door when she changed her mind.

‘What do you think hope is?’

I stopped. I did not know what to say to this.


‘I think it’s like a bird,’ she smiled, but the expression on her face worried me. It was not a smile that translated happiness. ‘A bird that’s inside you.’

I did not really understand what she meant and she must have noticed because she continued.

‘Imagine that hope is like a loaf of bread and all your soul bird needs to survive is one small crumb. You don’t need the entire loaf. Just a crumb is enough to keep hope alive. And your hope, your bird, never tells you to give it bread. You need to give it freely to keep the bird alive. To keep hope alive.’

I asked her if she wanted to come down to bake a cake with me.

‘In a little while,’ she answered and I left her.

I returned to the kitchen and found Lavinia. She looked at me. Her eyebrows arched so high she didn’t have to say anything else.

‘She said something about a bird being hope and crumb you have to offer it to keep it alive or the bird and the crumb both die. No wait it was the other way around, the crumb was hope and the bird was the soul, I think.’

I looked at Lavinia for help. She shrugged.

‘It made sense when she said it!’

I was now unable to explain her words myself but I still felt I understood, even if on paper it did look like I hadn’t understood anything about her.

When Emily came down we started baking and I tried to get her to sing with me but she would not. This was going to be a silent session. I was fine with it. The repetitive motion of stirring or rolling the pin back and forth over dough was sometimes soothing. I thought she might be feeling a bit better and I was about to suggest we bake cookies next when she collapsed on the floor.


Emily was lying on the ground unconscious. Lavinia who had been sitting by the fire hurried over. I ran out to find help, leaving Lavinia with her sister.



I dried two gold-rimmed porcelain cups. I turned the chipped one, the one Emily liked, over to dry its base and saw the now almost completely faded mark of “Sèvres”. Only part of the word was still visible. I placed both cups on their small individual saucers and these on a bigger silver tray.

When I reached Emily’s room, Lavinia opened the door to let me inside. Emily was unconscious again. This was the third time this month she had passed out. Lavinia would hardly leave her bedside anymore for fear. However, she now asked me to stay while she went out. I took her chair and sat in silence until Emily woke up. She asked me about the trunk where I kept her writings.

‘I still have it. It’s almost full.’

‘Will you burn what’s in it when I die?’


‘Promise you will.’

‘I-I promise.’

I swallowed hard. I felt tears come into my eyes. I was about to tell her I could not do it, that I could not burn something that was such a big part of who she was. But she spoke again and I was unable to say what I wanted.

‘Where’s the fly?’ she asked looking at me straight on, her eyes wide open with worry. ‘The one that was buzzing.’

There was no fly or at least I could see no fly and I told her so.

‘But it’s time.’

She looked at me, her eyes filled with sadness. I did not know what to say. She seemed to implore me to find this fly but I was sure there was none. She began to cry. I held her but I could not erase her pain. I could not even really understand it. So, instead, I held her and sang ‘The Wind That Shakes The Barley’. The words seemed difficult to sing now:

‘Twas sad I kissed away her tears, Her arms around me clinging. When to my ears that fateful shot, Came out the wildwood ringing…’

She had fallen asleep but I kept singing until I reached the end of the song.

‘I wept and kissed her clay-cold corpse, Then rushed o’er vale and valley. My vengeance on the foe to wreak, While soft wind shook the barley.’

She died that day.

I never had a chance to tell her I would not be able to burn her poems. I went to see her brother Austin and asked him to not make me keep the promise I’d unwillingly made to his sister. He took the poems from me.

‘It’s all right, I won’t burn them.’

I knew he wouldn’t, but it was difficult to part with them all the same. It was the last piece of her I had. I prayed I was doing the right thing. I felt I was, because, although I had never read her poems myself, I knew their author well. If her poems were half as special as she was then they were worth saving even if she did not want them to be saved herself.


The Train

Image: Metropolitan Transportation Authority © Patrick Cashin. SourceCC License

Author: Sandrine Spycher

I’d been waiting for my train for ten minutes. Josh was walking up and down the platform. I was cold as well, but too tired to move so I just sat on the metal bench. Finally the train arrived and we climbed on. Although it was crowded like mad, we managed to find a seat near the window. I squeezed my overfilled bag under the seat and leaned against the cold window. A fat man sat next to me; I could hardly move without hitting him with my elbow. Noisy kids were chattering a few seats away, and an incredibly skinny person—so skinny I could hardly tell if it was a man or woman—was listening to loud punk music in front of me. Josh looked annoyed. I think he mumbled to him/her to turn the volume down, but wasn’t understood. It was in that uncomfortable environment that I finally fell asleep—I guess I was so tired I could have slept anywhere.

I was suddenly awaken by a loud noise and the train coming to an emergency stop. Everyone looked astonished. Almost every passenger moved toward the windows to try and see what was happening. As we were peering outside, the door crashed open.

“Nobody move!” a male voice shouted.

I was now fully awake. Three figures were standing in between the seats. They were holding huge guns in their hands, threatening the passengers with them. One of the kids started weeping. The one who seemed to be the leader of the gangsters yelled at the poor child, with the only effect of increasing his crying. The gangster then turned to the skinny punk listener and violently pulled the earphones away from him/her. That’s when I made my move. I jumped from my seat, clung to the gangster’s back and hit him on the head. He was so surprised that it was easy for skinny-one to snatch the gun from him. The other two gangsters were quickly overtaken by Josh and the fat man, while the kids’ mother phoned the police. A few minutes later, the gangsters were cuffed and taken away in flashy cars with loud sirens.

I had dozed off again, but at the next stop was woken up by a movement from the fat man. He got up heavily and made a clumsy way toward the door. The seat he’d just left was almost instantly occupied by someone else. He was even stranger than skinny-one. He was very tall, and the only way he could sit without disturbing anyone was by folding his legs under the seat. At that moment I noticed that his legs, just like the rest of his body, looked like rubber. The man was so flexible, it looked as though he didn’t have bones at all. When he saw I was observing him, he turned his round boneless head toward me. I couldn’t help but start up. His face was concealed under a hood, but I could see two blood red piercing eyes, which seemed to be flashing lights.

“I’m not from this world,” he said. “Don’t tell.” His voice was a somewhat strange mixture of hoarse and childish tones. It gave me the shivers and made the hairs stand on my nape. As I looked around, I saw Josh was sleeping, skinny-one was lost in the music, and the mother was telling one of the kids to stop shouting. It seemed I was the only one to notice how weird that man—or alien?—was.

Another sudden stop made me look outside. When I turned back, the alien was gone. I stood up, but didn’t see him. I started walking between the seats.

“Hey Sam, where are you going?” Josh asked in a sleepy voice.

“To see if… erm… if I can find out what’s going on.”

Yet, I didn’t go far. A ticket inspector told me to go back to my seat and wait. Wait for what, I wondered. So I sat down again in front of Josh.

“Look,” he said, “the railway tracks are completely flooded.”

I looked outside to discover he was right. But how could it be? The sun had been shining for a while, and it was way too cold for rain. I was really starting to think there was something uncanny going on with this train. First the gangsters appearing out of nowhere, then a boneless alien with red eyes, and now a flood. Perhaps the three events were linked. They had to be. I was so caught up in my thinking about conspiracy that I didn’t even notice the water level was going up. Passengers were hitting the windows and begging to be let out. It wasn’t long before I started panicking too. The water was freezing, and although I tried to keep my chin above the surface, I felt like drowning. I fought for a few more minutes before fainting.

“Sam? Sam, wake up, we’re here,” Josh said.

I opened my eyes and looked around. The passengers were getting up and gathering their things. A tall man wearing a hoodie handed me my bag. Skinny-one looked at me in a disgusted way. My shoes were soaked.

“What happened?” I asked Josh.

“Oh, that. I’m sorry. There was a sudden move and tipped off my water bottle.”

When I got up, I noted that hoodie-man was wearing strange glasses which were flashing red lights. I was trying to make sense of what didn’t make sense when Josh pulled on my sleeve.

“Come on! What are you waiting for?”

“What happened?” I repeated. “How did we get out of the water?”


“The water. It was flooding the train,” I tried to explain.

“There was no flood, or anything,” Josh said, surprised.

“How about the gangsters?”

“Which gangsters? Oh you mean the teens with their rap music? They got off a while ago. I didn’t think you’d noticed. You slept through the whole trip.”