Category: 2020 – Spring

Once upon a time, in a far-off country, lived a boy whom all called “Little Goose”. He went by no other name. What name his father might have given him was better forgotten. All the drunkard had left were a few dirty smokes and trails of boozy urine in a corner of the barn. What name his mother might have given him when tucking his blanket, none could say. Perhaps she had not even named the little form before leaving it wrapped up on the steps. What mother would want to name that which is to be abandoned? The villagers had opted for neither naming nor flouting. He was “little goose” and that was that.

The children would giggle and hoot as he passed by: “here comes Little Goose! What bird have you caught today? Oh, let’s chase the bird. Come on!” Down they would swoop, tearing at the ground with their claws, their bony limbs knocking the boy on the head, the shoulders, the knees. Sometimes they would thrust water on him, the dirty water from the barrel at back of their house. Once he had tried to fight back, but they were more numerous, taller and stronger. He ran and ran until he found Old Mam’s front door open. She had stood there, a large wooden spoon on the hip, her apron as imposing as armour. Oh, she was a woman all right, Old Mam! – White mane trailing down her back, bushy brows covering the storm beneath. Her glare fustigated the assailants: “well well, who comes here?” A scruffy-hefty-croaky voice she had Old Mam. It was unusually low and one had to strain to distinguish all words. But it was mighty. The children left Little Goose alone that day.

But Old Mam expired in the spring. Wildflowers have grown her a garden, an unkempt vivid thing blooming in a discarded patch of earth, forgotten. Her voice is reduced to a whisper, a variation of the breeze. The little boy does not run away from the children anymore; there is nowhere to go. He sleeps in Old Joe’s barn in summer, looking over the animals. In winter, his little head rests beside the tavern’s hearth while men laugh and cry their lives out, flushing its disagreements in strong-smelling ale.

There is no one to care for him. Some would have, of course, had Little Goose not been so strange. “Oh, I would have brought him up, as one of my children I would have, yes ma’am! But when I hear he spends his days out there, you know – there. I’m no superstitious one, but when a little boy prefers spending his days doing, well, doing you-know-what, then I better leave him alone. He can have a piece of bread but I don’t want to find him no more in my house. No ma’am.”

And so they talk, listing you-know-whats that will not be named. They seem to understand each other quite well as others nod and hum in pensive accord. The boy is strange. No one, of course, is superstitious in the village. But one cannot be too sure either…

So the boy is alone still.

Down to the river he goes. He does not stop beside the colourful sheets hanged out to dry waving like butterflies in the wind, will not listen to the chatter of women as they wash their troubles with sweet-smelling soap. He does not stop beside the rocky rings framing pools of turquoise in which children laugh and lovers lie beneath the sky. Neither does wish to see what men are up to at the mill, blades cutting the water’s course. No, he prefers to be alone. Little Goose takes the little path that winds through the woods, twisting, turning and forking until winding beside the bend. At the end of the path, two trees mark an entrance. These old, majestic beings extend their arms and cover the sky. They seem to have reigned over the forest since ages long gone and forgotten. At their feet is a slate of cracked stone … But the little boy cannot read.

The place is different, apart from all others. It is his own.

And what beauty lies in the forest hall! Birds swoop down, wide wings the shape of an angel’s. They soar in the air, rise and fall, swoop and turn, all in silent symphony. As they fly in the morning, water showers from their wings, feathers relinquishing delicate drops of dew. So the grass will sparkle in the rising dawn, the green shattering into a myriad of golden lights. Mists float about, catching the flames in their silken veils to form a canvas of the air. And through the brilliant tapestries, the birds will fly, black against the gold, blacker than ebony. Black as death they circle the hall, endlessly.

The boy would watch, open-eyed, golden specks swimming in the white and greens of his eyes. Every morning, he would go up to the forest and watch as the swans swooped beneath arched vaults, as ethereal light filtered through branched tracery. When the birds departed through endless corridors, Little Goose would not follow them. Arms extended, feet hovering for instants above the ground, he would saunter down the little path, across the wobbly wooden bridge and back to the village, crying the birds’ songs as he went.

“Here comes Little Goose. What an odd boy”, they would say. And an old man would mutter words in his beard. It was a strange sight indeed to see the black strands of hair bob up and down the path and to hear his cries. Children would run away. “Mommy, it sounds like geese dying! I’m scared, Mommy”. And indeed, the cries that he thought so wonderful scraped the surface of the air and shattered the order of things. Death seemed to enter the fragile mirror of life.

But Little Goose did not notice these things. He would cross the fields. He would not pick any flowers, as others did. He would not contemplate the doves either. He had no interest in such birds. Once, Lily had said they looked like petals of snow scattered about. Little Goose had never seen snow, but it seemed to him that snow came in flakes. He mentioned that. He also mentioned that the doves were ugly. That he knew a place where the birds were graceful and strong. A place where birds were black. Lily had left and cried. He had simply shrugged. The doves to him were not birds, not really.

Then, having crossed the fields, down to the river’s edge he would run again, to a little spot behind the lovers’ pools. There, the stones were wide and smooth, the water crystal-clear. Alone, beside the river, none could bother him. “I am on the surface of the moon”, he would whisper, “I am bringing the most beautiful birds to the surface of the moon”. And he would set to work.

The strongest and smoothest of discarded branches he would select, the softest of reeds too. And with the feathers he would make brushes. This took quite a time. The boys would have mocked the way his tongue stuck out. But they were not here. And in the smooth landscape he would shape a world. The brush would dip in the little pool, creating a myriad of rings. As he walked across the surface of the stones, trails of pearls would shimmer and life, beneath the discarded birds’ feathers, would emerge. Swooping forms, ephemeral strokes of water, would emerge on the smooth surfaces. To the boy, it did not seem that he was creating them, only that he called their presence to him. Then he would sit on the stones and talk to them, these birds of water. They would tell each other the most wonderful stories. Then, before the moon came out, Little Goose would make his way back to the tavern, always. Looming stacks of dirty dishes would await. But his dreams helped wash the grime away. He would eat the bread left out for him. Always stale. Then he would tuck himself beside the ashes of the chimney place, the jibes too far away to harm.

“Looks like he’ll turn into one of these birds”

“You think so?”

“Gosh, I know so. Look at him!

“All these feathers of ash”

“How he cries when he comes down”

“You think he has seen them?”

“Oh, well, perhaps from far –“

“No no, he definitely has”

“Oh, he will bring something dark to this village. Just you wait and see!”

And they would shudder. And they would cry out for more ale as one needed comfort in such company. All wondered why the boy was allowed to stay. Perhaps because the keeper’s wife did not have any children. Perhaps because the dishes needed washing. Anyway, nobody asked. He stayed.

And, suddenly, just as they had predicted, trouble came. It took the form of winter, a dark, shadowy winter where mist blurs the boundaries between nightmare and reality. It did not snow. But frost settled in. The grasses shivered and died in it, the waters froze. Doors shut one by one. Geese squawked and cried until all were slain for meat. A few dogs whimpered and howled but even they ceased after a while. All was quiet. All was dead.

Only Little Goose stepped past the door. He took a worn blanket that he tied all around, and sauntered out. Eyes watched the colourful shape bob down the hill to the river, cross its frozen surface and disappear into the woods.

“That boy! He’s up to no good.”

Into the woods he went, but his strides gradually became shorter, slower. It was not due to lack of food, although the latter had been increasingly scarce. It was to do with the stillness of the place, a stillness that did not bear peace but an ominous, dangerous secret that could not be uttered. There was no breeze. The trees loomed, stone pillars rather than wooden flesh. At last he arrived at the two ancient trees guarding the entry to his secret place.

A while later, the same peering eyes watched a lost little form tread back from the river, up the path, and open the door of the tavern. The eyes left their windows, and mouths opened. Noise broke out behind closed doors, their energy only feeding the frost. He was met by a slap on one cheek and slurs on the other. He simply blinked as anger toppled over his little form. He seemed to see them for the first time, these people, these neighbours he had never really met.

“Where have you been, you little prick?”

“Don’t you know there are evil spirits out there?”

“Don’t you open that door again until I say so!”

They took him up to the attic. They locked the trapdoor and took away the ladder.

Then they forgot about him.

Later, when the frost had left and flowers bloomed, they would remember that a little boy had been locked up there. They would take some food upstairs.

“He isn’t there!”

“My spirits! No, he isn’t”

“What do you mean he isn’t there?”

“Well, look for yourself! What do you see? Not a boy for what I know.”

“Oh gee, you are right. He isn’t there!”

They went on for a while in this manner until someone observed that a boy could not disappear. They searched every corner. They noticed that the window was tightly shut. They saw that he could not have escaped. They did not understand.

A young girl came up. Her name was Lily. She plucked a few feathers from the ground. They were long and white, graceful. She had never touched something so soft. They smelled of warm earth and cinnamon, of life. She closed her eyes and basked in the smell. As she opened them, they rested upon an image. It was a bird. The most beautiful of birds. As she bent closer, leaning towards the ground, her breath blew the ashes away. They scattered in the dawning light, shimmered for a brief instant, and were lost.

“Goodbye Little Goose”, she whispered.

She kept the feathers.

Years later, as she would tell the story, she would always end it this way: “We called him Little Goose. We were wrong, you see. It was not truly his name. He was a bird, a beautiful bird – Swan Boy. You might still see him up there, above the branches of a tree, soaring beneath the moon. He might listen if you call. He might even like to hear this story; if you tell it right.”

Images: © Lara Lambelet.

Author: Lara Lambelet

Twilight

I see a meadow full of light. We wander here and there, hand in hand, tracing the course of our lives. Your smile pierces me. This apparent joy, covering your face with two small dimples, inspires me deeply. The moment was long overdue, but you are here now. I won’t let you go. My fingers close even tighter against your palm. I feel your pulse racing as my lips draw closer to your mouth. Your breath caresses my face. Our eyes are one; immersed in each other, I lose myself in the infinity of your soul. My tongue runs greedily through your lower lip, then my teeth take over and bite it. You abandon yourself to me, in full confidence, with equal power and filled with love. Then we lie down among budding daisies. An aroma that is no stranger to me gets me drunk.  I let myself be rocked in your arms and close my eyes. Your skin is warm, as I remember. It emanates a familiar and reassuring smell. I huddle up against your chest. My hair tickles the tip of your nose. My head rises and falls as you breathe. It’s peaceful. Our hands haven’t separated. No one knows where the key is to the invisible handcuffs of desire, love and respect that unite us. I observe this complicity, this unique bond that, despite the pain, continues to grow between us. “I am here now. “, you whisper in my ear. I know that. I’ve always known it even though you didn’t believe in it anymore. My eyelids are opening to the light again. The return breaks my heart. But there’s a spark of hope in me. I know, this twilight reverie is only the beginning of our story.

Writing exercise with words

• love
• hope
• bitch
• water
• pneumothorax
• architecture

Even if you wished it, you can’t touch me. I am as subtle as the calm water of a river that pours into its vast ocean; trading, inconspicuously, tranquillity for power. Hope will blossom in you once you get to know me. My presence could take your breath away, like the terrible pain of a pneumothorax. Some of you may have the architecture to contain me so I’ll be able to flourish harmoniously. But one day, whatever your predisposition, you’ll come to the conclusion that I’m a real bitch. Who am I? My name is Love.

Paradigm shift

The frenetic rush, like a continuous wave ending its race against the rocks, which had formed in the local supermarket, reflected the magnitude of the situation.

The population threw themselves on the disinfectant gel

CHF 400 per liter: the story of the merchant who made his fortune on the back of the panic that ensued.

The “man-made virus” or how some people always find a way to build conspiracy upon conspiracy…

Huang Yang: the Chinese restaurant that forbids the entry to Chinese people

I was tired of those headlines. Grotesque. Gargantuan. Such euphoria projected onto a world, which, as we all remember, once knew pandemics of greater scope and severity. I fold up the newspaper, put it on the seat next to me. An old lady, wearing heavy make-up, looks at me intensely. “Do you want my picture?” I think, stunned by this rudeness. To my left, a handful of women and men of all ages had donned the newest fashion accessory. In bluish tones, sometimes white and even green, for the most highly rated people, the mask had its charm. I didn’t wear one. In this pre-apocalyptic atmosphere, I felt a sense of disobedience, a deliberate and assertive non-conformism. The face of the crowd, as usual, was pale. “Virus or not, it’s crazy how demoralizing people are,” I thought. Lausanne station. I gather my things and get tired of getting off the train, crowded with students, workers, and other passengers in a hurry for whatever destiny. Lost in my morning ruminations (to tell the truth, I am no better than these people whom I despise, as far as I can see), I finally arrive in front of my building. It is, more or less, deserted. I push the door of the sanitary facilities and begin my daily ritual: washing my hands with soap, after applying and soaping for thirty seconds, drying and using my personal gel. It’s a small thing, but I’m getting on with it. After all, I’ve always been a stickler for hygiene. Maniac. That’s when my phone rings to notify me of a new notification. I read: “Dear students, this week’s classes and seminars are cancelled. This cessation is of indefinite duration. In the meantime, we wish you a wonderful quarantine”.

Quarantine’s introspection

All by myself. Don’t wanna be. All by myself. Anymore…

The needle transmitting the vibrations of the 33 rpm emits a gentle humming sound. I had taken my father’s record player out, then dusted off the shiny surface with a cloth. With its aquamarine colour, I take pleasure in contemplating the beauty of this object from another time. Under a subdued light, I imagine the shy arms of lovers waddling on a slow dance. The trembling hand of the young man struggles to grasp the hip of his dance partner. “Ah… what a beautiful time. “, I meditate. The mere sight of two people, body against body, gives me goose bumps. Two metres apart. One of the recommendations that keeps running through my head.  By the way, this word “recommendation”, can we talk about it? A small disillusioned smile appears on my face. A grin maybe. I don’t know if I have the desire or even the strength to express myself on this confinement. The needle ends its course along the vinyl. Silence dominates my thoughts. It’s crazy how time seems to widen day by day. The minutes are hours and the hours are flowing drop by drop. There’s a knock on the door. “Yes, what do you want? “I ask my roommate as politely as I can. James, whose stubbornness seems to me to be accentuated by the confinement, interrupts my sudden contemplation with the intention of suggesting a game of chess. “A game of chess? No, but would he have taken a single second to get to know me? “. I answer no with my head and look away. The sound of footsteps leaving the room relieves me. I get up and walk towards the window. The sun is already hanging high in the sky. It must certainly be noon. But then, I have no idea. Since the first day, my watch has been resting in the drawer of my bedside table. In fact, since this new paradigm, I’m gradually listening to my body even more. My stomach is gurgling. Noon. Yes, it is. He’s right. “Oh, you can wait a little longer,” I ask him calmly. To paint. I hurry in giant steps towards the glass closet in the living room. Facing it, my reflection blinds me. My hair is a mess. I suddenly grab the handle, take the first tubes and brushes and close the door. A yo-yo, going up and down indefinitely. That’s how I would describe my moods. “What did I want to do again? “. I stare at the canvas. A memory crosses my mind and floods the thick paper with pigmentation. Pistachio, emerald and persimmon: the shades unite and oppose each other. With the tip of the brush, I trace a scarlet massif. Before my eyes, a bucolic landscape tells its story. As my painting is about to come to life, my sense of smell is seized by a delicate perfume. The perfect blend of ginger and lemongrass. The smoke from the cup of tea, sneakily deposited by my roommate, mists my glasses. I am as if magnetized by the enchanting scent. My lips test the temperature of the water. “I wonder what he’s doing. Certainly, paperwork or settling a thousand and one management problems with panache.” I smile and see his gaze plunged into mine. His lips touching mine. His last words resonate with me: don’t forget me.

Image: “Clown Portrait 1″ © Edgar Cook. Source – CC License.

Author: Leah Didisheim.

Where am I? It’s the same street. I used the same path. And here I am, walking along the trees of this street that I see every day. The street where I have all my memories. Where I learned how to walk. Where I had my first kiss. Along this street, where I live, where I’ve always lived and probably where I’ll finish my life. In this house, my home. Where I have learned what’s good and what’s bad. Where my family lived and where, one day, I’ll probably live with a family of my own.

And yet… And yet, I can’t recognise a single thing. I know it is this street. I am so sure that I would yell it to anybody who would not believe me, to anybody who would think I’m crazy. And yet… and yet I do not know which house is mine. Everything looks the same, but everything is so different. I stop where I always stop. I take my keys out of my pocket like I always do. I unlock the door. And I go home. In this house which I know is mine, and yet looks so not like me.

The painting I bought two years ago is still here, right in front of the door. I thought it was so welcoming for people who came to my place, to see a colourful portrait of a smiling fairy, which is supposed to say: “Please, make yourself at home”. My friends always complimented me on it. And yet, today I can barely look at it without being deeply afraid. Again, it’s the same painting, I know it. I bought it. And yet, it is so different. I take my shoes off. I put my black coat in my wardrobe. I do what I do every night when I get back from work. And yet, even what I do doesn’t seem right. There is a weird atmosphere, which seems to spread. I begin to feel sick.

That’s when I hear it. This laugh. This scary laugh that wakes you up sweaty in the middle of the night, after you’ve just had the type of nightmares where somebody kills you before you wake up. I feel dizzy. It feels like I just got inside the house of the devil. And then nothing. No more sound. I don’t move. I can’t move. Standing there like a stupid paranoiac woman, for what seems like hours, though it might have been a minute. Usually Time is a bad friend. You never know if he’s with or against you.

I decide to move. Gently. And I feel something moving behind me. Again, with this evil laugh. I turn quickly and I just get the time to see a shadow vanish. I don’t know why but it seems familiar. It reminds me of my 10^th birthday. My mum had asked a clown to come to make his show in front of me and my friends. It was great. I laughed so much that day. The clown laughed too. It was the kind of clown who has a big red nose and a big red mouth: his face makes you happy. Today the laugh was probably the opposite of “making me happy”. I would rather cry than laugh. The shadow I saw made me think of a clown, but the kind of clown you see in horror films, not at a ten-year-old girl’s birthday. That’s why I remembered my birthday so many years ago.

That’s exactly it. My painting, my house, even my street turned itself into a horror scene where I was the victim: the person who can’t control their faith and is just left screaming; the only thing they can still control… So, I quickly elaborate a plan: I will play the crazy lady. I might scare the clown away. I go to my bedroom. I take some make up out of the bathroom. I generously put some black mascara everywhere on my face. I change clothes: I want some holes on a T-Shirt: something not clean. I can’t find anything like that. So, I use the first T-Shirt which came in my hands. I remember this T-Shirt. I had got it at a concert three years ago. I had gone there with my best friend to see our favourite group, Imagine Dragons. And as usual I had bought a souvenir. A souvenir that I am ruining with a pair of scissors and some red and black painting that I have on my desk. I dress myself. I look more depressed than scary. But I guess that will do.

I go back downstairs. I hear a sound in my living room. With my scissors, I walk silently to the door. It is dark. So, I don’t pay attention. And I fall on my shoes that I hadn’t moved. Fortunately for me, I don’t hurt myself. But it was very loud; let’s forget the element of surprise. It was probably too late for that anyway. One more step. This scary laugh again. It seems to be behind me. So, I turn quickly. Nothing. Just the sound. I can hear it everywhere around me. It turns again and again. Now, I’m scared for real.

I breathe. Funny how we intend to forget to breathe sometimes. I remember what my grandfather told me once: “Take your time to intimidate them.” So, I breathe. Very slowly. I close my eyes and I feel ready. I begin to walk again. One step. Two. The living room has never seemed so far away before. It feels like I’m walking for hours. The Time again. Playing with us. I finally reach the door. I open it. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” And there they were. All my friends waiting for me:

“Are you alright? It seems like you’ve just seen a ghost. And how are you dressed up? Is that why you took so much time?”

But was the laugh really theirs? I do not know…

Image: © Noupload Source

Author: Jonathan Collé

Created Creator

And he cast away his great pen, sat back on his chair, cross-armed and cross-thoughted, the cascade of ideas still pouring about his head in a myriad of lights.

            And the creator saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was very good.

            “Hey! Who am I?”

            And the voice startled him. And he looked again at his work in shock.

            A little man, a picture, a mere representation of a shard in his mind was stretching, walking throughout the paper and the lines that were meant to be his world, contemplating, scrutinizing… He had no idea of the author’s presence, could feel only wind, not a breath, and the two great eyes that stared at him from beyond infinity meant nothing to him.

            The author’s first impulse was to touch this character that had suddenly come to life. He approached a huge, clumsy, trembling finger, and slowed as the distance between his reality and the impossible shortened, ever so slightly… a touch. Nothing. The paper did not rustle, and the lines did not stir. It was still this same frozen plane, this two-dimensional creation that meant nothing without his own consent. Yet there it was, this character who kept scrolling about, stumbling on a coma, falling face-first on a metaphor only to lash-out an angry fist at this unalive antagonist. But was this character not unalive? wondered the author, convincing himself that it was not. For when he caressed the paper and the letters, he could feel only this, paper and letters; not even. Bumpy paper. Is that enough to create existence?

            “What am I?”

The protagonist of the story – if it were ever a story – had screamed. Of that the author was sure. The protagonist had cried like a new-born, wailing at… him? It was a defining question that the stumbling, angry thing had asked, and the little being had poured it out, not caring to be alone, or unheard, not waiting for an answer. Or was it?

            The author trembled at the sudden thought, that his creation might see him. For the question was directed, if not to someone then to the world, and its creator. The protagonist had uttered its first sentences like a new-born answers his first welcome to life: anger, outrage and incomprehension.

            Overcoming his fears, the author leaned-in on his creation like a scientist looking to peer through a microscope. And the conclusions came quick. The “thing” -the author could not yet call it a man, nor was he sure he ever would- had asked not where he was, but what he was. “Who are you?”, asked the caterpillar to Alice. And the author felt himself tumbling down in a spiral- a rabid whole- for this unanswerable question opened only mysterious doors.

            “I don’t even know who you are”, wanted to answer the author, “leave me alone. Decide for yourself, see if I care.”

            But care he did. He wondered the very same thing now, as he peered at the moving impossibility which seemed to stand and look at him straight in the eye! Although of course it could not see; or rather, comprehend. “What did it see?”, wondered the author, not caring to poke his character anymore, content to watch it in a well-deserved awe.

            “I don’t know who or what you are”, whispered the author, still half afraid that his creation might hear him. But there was only fascination in his voice. The answer both entities sought was unreachable, it could only be chipped away – and then be frustratingly incomplete, wrong even. Who was it but a part of the author’s imagination?

            “But I definitely didn’t want you to do that”, thought the author as his protagonist kicked and raged at what had caused him to fall once more. “Nope, not at all”. The character was dancing, flashing middle-fingers all around, head up and a defiant scowl marked on its face.

            “Then, what was it? Was his imagination on rampage?” thought the author, concentrating, eyes-closed in an attempt to find out if the thing would simply disappear. He almost ripped the page, stopping himself just as soon as he had wished such folly. No, never. How could he kill what he had created? “Have I created it? Maybe then, I could kill it without a second thought, but this… situation…” The author kept staring at his creation, afraid even to blink now, that such magic may vanish as quickly as it had come. “But had it come quickly?”, the author wondered. He then went through his process of creation, only recognizing now the painstaking efforts that had wielded this result.

            “You are Jack”, warned the author, chipping away at this mountain of nonsense. “You are a killer. A cold-blooded killer. But you have a heart. Somewhat twisted, but sill a heart. You… have been created as the result of a problem.”

            Was that true? The words became lies as soon as they were uttered, for the thoughts they were meant to convey were too complex, too nuanced, they couldn’t just be flattened by arbitrary sounds. Utterances; utter nonsense. But the author focused once more: it was not non sense. It was simply different. New. Another kind of reality, unbeknownst to him until now, yet as real as his vision, as true and mind-bending as an optical illusion. And this reality was seriously undermining life’s illusion.

            The author saw Jack sit down. But was it still the character imagined, the friendly antagonist, soon-to-be-helper of the main character, possibly a secondary character with a high spin-off potential? It seemed stupid, vain to question such obvious knowledge, but what also stroke the author as unbreachable was the simple fact that Jack, if truth be told, had only been nothingness. A rhythm created by different readings of ink-traced tree parts. He was the wind, or rather the sound that wind and a poorly closed window could make. He was, indeed, the monster conjured in the mind of the child investigating said noise. Was the monster real? Where had reality stopped?

            Where does it begin?

Image: © Katharina Schwarck

Author: Katharina Schwarck

Trigger Warning: This text contains mentions of anxiety and stress

I had had a long day at work. My co-workers had made me stand at the self-check-out for six hours, which is not legal at all but I didn’t dare tell them. Therefore, as I took my hourly train back home, I could really feel the strain on my knees and feet. I was so tired. Trains stress me out. I am always worried about missing my stop or falling asleep or getting off at the wrong stop. Thinking about it, that would never actually happen to me because I am so careful about where I am. I always follow the stops on the screen and listen very attentively to the loud-speaker voice. I also look outside to make sure the computer isn’t making any mistakes. When it’s dark outside I follow myself on a GPS on my phone. So really, I couldn’t miss my stop. I still worry about it. But actually, the possibility of missing my stop isn’t even the worst part of taking the train; it’s the people. I am lucky, I usually go to work at times where the train is not too full. If it were, I don’t know what I’d do. I panic when there are too many people around me. I hate it. I cannot. I just feel so bad and I want to explode and leave and disappear. I also don’t like being in a place that so many people have touched? It’s like I can feel their germs and bacteria and spilled drinks and sticky candy and puke and urine. All these things lead me to taking the train at very non-busy times where I stand on the cleanest spot and don’t touch anything. Today, however, my feet were hurting so much that I really wanted to sit. I wish I was at home and could just sit down on something clean without anyone around. But I still had a 15-minute train ride to go. I was standing in front of four seats, one of which was taken by a sleeping, rather over-weight man and I was imagining being able to sit down on one of them. They repulsed me so much. I moved my weight from one foot to the other and felt a stinging pain in my right knee. I still could not bring myself to sit on those filthy seats. I cannot even think about what must have touched the floor before my shoes stepped on it. The train had left my train station and was slowly getting to the next stop. While driving up, I looked outside the dark window. Although it was late in the evening, the train station was packed. Tens and tens of people in hockey jerseys were waiting for the train that I was on. They were all going to get on my train and I knew that they were going to be loud. They were not only going to be loud, they were going to be standing around me and their bodies were going to touch mine. The train stopped and the doors opened and in a moment of panic I sped towards a free seat and sat down just before the crowd streamed into the train and filled every single bit with sweat, cries and laughter. I felt relieved. My jeans were touching the seat but the pressure on my knees was gone. I breathed in deeply. The sounds around me started to become just one mass of noise. I locked myself into my head. I reopened my eyes with panic as something touched my shoulder. The rather over-weight man I had sat next to had put his sleeping head on my shoulder??? Oh god. Oh god. I couldn’t move him. His head was so heavy and I couldn’t ask him to wake up and there were so many people around me who could watch me. Oh god. My heart was racing and I started to feel dizzy and my fingers were starting to tingle and oh my god. I had eight minutes to go. Eight minutes. Oh god he’d just started snoring. Seven minutes. Seven minutes until I could get up with a valid excuse of having to get off at my train station. Six minutes. Had it been two minutes already? I was impressed by myself for a split-second until the panic came back. Okay, focus, I told myself. Focus. So, I closed my eyes and focused on the warmth of his head. He didn’t even smell bad. Most people smell bad. I could even feel him breathe in deeply. There was a stranger’s head on my shoulder and I was starting to feel calmer. I focused even more. There was a blur of sound around me. There was just myself, in this situation. I opened my eyes again. The man had a big red suitcase in front of him. I looked more closely; the front bit of the suitcase had a pink unicorn sticker on it, which clashed horribly with the bright red of the suitcase. I also noticed that the handle of the suitcase was wrapped in numerous airline stickers from various places to various places. They all looked recent. Gazing more to the side, I saw that the man was holding a photograph between his hands. It was a picture of him with a smiling woman and two little girls. One of the girls was carrying a plush unicorn. All of them looked really happy. A wedding ring was shining from his hand. I noticed that the man was wearing a strange necklace. It seemed to be composed of different kinds of pasta, pulled on a string. There were a few poorly coloured paper flowers, too. I smiled. The man moved his head to the side. I didn’t move. All of a sudden I noticed the train stopping and rapidly turned my head outside to see what stop it was and sprinted out.

The Fair Lady of Ascalot

A Noble Death

“There is a great crying of the waves tonight.”

“Yes, the moon is red.”

“I hear the pounding of the sea afar.”

“I see that the snows are white.”

“Look, here come the flutes.”

“What’s that my dear? What do you say?” croaked the old woman.

The master looks pale tonight, like the foam of the sea or the tear of the moon. He looks out the window but does not see the two women. His eyes gaze in the distance, at a point they cannot see. A slight breeze curls strands of his hair. His sword rests on his side. Knighthood has its price.

The flutes are drawing nearer. One can hear their shrill scream, the pounding of the drums. The young maiden’s heart is still. Candles are lit and the procession moves forward. Not too quickly. Slow, slow and steady, now. One must have time to grieve.

The sky is dark. Not quite black, but dark. Red is the moon, loud is the sea and heavy is his heart. A knight’s heart…is it so still and cold that it may not be pierced? What of love?

The drums are drawing nearer, beating in the cold windy air.

The young woman gazes at Lancelot. She does not see nor hear the procession. What care has she of a funeral? It is not of one she knows or loves. She stares at Lancelot, his silver hair floating under the stars. He is high above, oblivious to her presence in the shadowed garden. But – ah, her mother will scold her again for leaving the milk to turn! Always the hurry. Always the scolding… life, what an unnecessary reality! She hurries back inside, not without picking a rose. Two drops of red drip into the pail.

“Where has he king gone? Oh, what is this horrible noise? Make it stop, make it stop!”

The queen turns and tosses in her bed. It will be a long night. The sheets are moist with sweat, the air too thick. She cannot breathe. Servants rush to and fro bringing water, fresh sheets and perfume. Blood is dripping on the white sheets. The ceiling is dark. A young boy comes in bringing a flower. It has not yet bloomed. It is not yet a bud. But it is green, full of life.

“My mother said this would help”. Slowly, delicately, he places it on the bed. His brow is fixed in concentration. The queen tosses again and the leaves fall on the ground. The bud is blue, dead.

“Where is Lancelot? Oh, what is this horrible smell?”

The young boy cries. Nobody pays attention.

The drums are beating louder. The smells of wine and incense waft closer. A strange scent of flowers comes through the window, aggressive. The boat is pulled by ropes tied to the horses’ saddles. They glitter beneath the moon.

Lancelot looks out and sighs.

“What have I done?”

The moon is red. The sea cries louder.

“I hear the pounding of the sea afar,” says a woman.

“Yes. She is quite dead, our young mistress.” The young men slap the horses, urging them to move faster, faster! The sea is calling the boat.

The queen opens her eyes. They rest upon the red cloths over the bed. Everything is so still, up there, in the meanders of crimson. She has stared at the embroidered petals countless times…yet, now, they do not remind her of flowers but of blood. Oh, there has been so much pain. Where is Lancelot?

Her husband the king is by her side. She can hear his voice murmuring pater nosters. She does not turn her head towards him. Suddenly, she mutters a moan. What is this weight upon her chest?

“Oh, Sir, the queen is awake.”

Oh, the curious creature that sits upon her chest. She stares at it, disconcerted. Is this the being she carried just a sunset ago? What a curious little thing, all curled up on itself and pink, so brightly pink, like a burgeon. Suddenly, it opens its eyes and reaches for the queen with its tight little fists. She smiles. She ignores the king, the attendants and servants. She smiles at this little being lying over her heart.

“My prince,” whispers she in his ear. Her child.

The sea is red, the sky is black, the moon silver. The waves moan, the skies cry but the moon is silent. Cold. It is a cold night. The man shivers, his sweat forming hard crystals on his back. His right arm moves forwards and back, forwards and back in repeating circles as the whip crashes against the horse. Faster, faster. They must hurry. The moon is mounting, the moon is ascending in the sky. Faster, faster. His lady is waiting.

His lady…white, a thin white face. White lips too. Her eyes are closed and one cannot tell they once were blue. A white dress she wears, and white roses in her hair. It too is white, dead as the moon above. The waves are calling.

“I hear the pounding of the sea.”

“It calls for her. She is pale.”

“Her heart is red. There is blood.”

“What folly was in her heart. To die for love

– Is it not strange?”

“Yes, it is strange. The sea is calling.”

Further away, beneath the horizon, figures are busy on the shore. Pinpricks of shadow on the distant sands, they are busy. Horses are being led away. A boat is in their midst, facing the sea, facing the moon. The flutes are getting louder. The men’s movements are precise, calculated. They beat to the rhythm of the sea. A wail is uttered, long, plaintive, doleful. A moan answers. It is the sorrow of the sea. The waves call.

Slowly, dolefully, they push the boat into the sea. A shaft of green, a flower of white – it is their lady they see floating in the sea. She is dead. The moon is coming down, down it slowly drifts, down it comes to meet its lady. The wind is picking up, upwards it moves. A dark cloud comes across the sky, slicing the waves, the silent sea. All is silent, all is dark.

A knight at his window stands still, his sword grasped tight, his eyes focused. Of his lady, the fair lady of Ascalot, he sees one last shining vision as moon and boat embrace. Theirs is the shape of a bud, silver and green. Swiftly, implacably, the clouds cover the sea. All is black and night has settled.

A sigh escapes Lancelot’s lips. What a pity he could not love her, the fair lady of Ascalot. What a pity. But the moon, silver; but the ship, green…they resembled, a bud, a flower – the promise of life. Perhaps, perhaps it was truly so. To lose one’s life out of love…Yes, he is sure of it. His lady lives, she is one with the moon and the stars, her song the eternal call of the waves, her hair the silken strands of the sea. She lives, the fair lady of Ascalot. She lives.

“It is cold tonight. The night is dark.”

“Yes. How is the queen?”

“Well, my lord, she is well. A prince was born tonight.”

“So it is. (a pause) Thank you. I will go see her in the morning.”

The servant retires. Lancelot stays a long while yet, staring at the sea. Finally he turns around and enters the tower. Dawn is already pulling apart the curtains of night. Soon, there will be light.

Image: © Katharina Schwarck

Author: Katharina Schwarck

Trigger Warning: This text contains mentions of alcoholism and addiction

I walked into that supermarket by chance. It wasn’t in my neighbourhood, and I rarely went there. Suddenly, I had remembered that I had an empty fridge and since the closing time of the shops was near, I decided to take advantage of it. So, I went in, and while I was looking for something quick to prepare for dinner, a man I’d never seen before approached me. Strangely enough he knew my name and even more strangely, he knew my job. In fact, he asked me: “Hi, Geraldine. They always let you go so late at the editorial office, eh?”. It had already happened that a stranger had said that I had the face of a journalist and it was also possible that he had seen my work badge that I was still wearing when I entered the shop. Therefore, I decided not to pay attention to this man and kept heading towards the checkout. “And you always eat these dumplings when you don’t feel like cooking,” he said, following me. That was true, but it had to be a coincidence. I was taking the money out of the bag to pay when the stranger threw a bottle of wine on the conveyor belt. He smiled at me. “But be careful, Mr Bacchus!” the cashier shouted, evidently knowing the man. He apologized. “I always come here, you know, humans’ wine is simply tastier than ours,” he said without ceasing to smile at me. Now he was plainly bothering me. “And maybe he’s had a little too much already?” I asked him, raising my voice aggressively. He giggled. “That wouldn’t happen to you, would it? Don’t worry, you’ll never drink again in your life.” A few years ago, I had a big drinking problem, I was a real addict. I kept it secret and not even my best friends know about it. I managed to get out of it and there hasn’t been a single drop of alcohol in my blood since. “Who are you?” I said out loud, now clearly scared. The man stopped smiling and, to my surprise, started crying. “No one ever recognizes a small god like me!” I paid as fast as I could and left. Outside, I turned around and saw the man right behind me, the bottle in his hand. The cashier had really sold it to him. I was too scared to move. Now he was smiling again. “Are you going back to Giorgio’s now?” he asked me. “Ah no, that’s next year. Sorry, I always mix up the past and the future. Anyway, don’t worry about a thing. I’m always here to take care of you,” he added proudly. He reached his hand out as if to touch me. I closed my eyes, terrified. I felt nothing. I opened them again. He was gone and I was holding an empty bottle in my hand.