Tag: Creative Writing – Prose

Image: © Akshay Paatil | Unsplash

Author: Sibylle Duvernay

I chose my apartment for its location. Close to the city center, but far from the busiest streets. Several metro stops from the most festive district, but not too far from my workplace and the campus either. I had a 15-minute subway ride every day, or a 20-minute bike ride. Really, the location was ideal. My neighbors were all very discreet, which had something to do with the fact that I was the only one in my building under 65. 

In the last 6 months, everything has changed. Unbelievable madness. Aside from the Eiffel Tower, I think my street is now the most visited place in Paris. Even the Mona Lisa is bored, alone in her huge museum. Last November, the little photographer who ran the store in the building opposite plastered all his windows with signs reading “Liquidation totale avant fermeture définitive”. So far, so good, nothing unusual. I even stopped by to buy some film for my camera, and, like a good neighbor and customer, had him develop my last shots. In January, he closed up shop for good and went off to his native Côte d’Azur for a well-deserved retirement. The store then became a travel agency but had to close its doors a few months later when it all began. Next to the late photographic store was a photo booth, which opened directly onto the street. As I had already spoken to the owner of the store, I knew he didn’t own the photo booth, and no one had used it for years; out of solidarity, everyone on the street went straight to him to have their identity photos taken. After his departure, the photo booth was back in service. At first, I hadn’t heard anything about it, and it was only one evening when I bumped into one of my neighbors that he said to me:

– You should look at the news, it’s about our street. 

Surprised, I turned on my TV as soon as I got home. I then understood why so many people had been blocking my way home for the past few days.  

“The photo booth that replaced Cupid”. That was the evening’s headline. Intrigued, I turned up the sound. Dozens of people were claiming that when they took their photo in the famous photo booth on my street, it wasn’t their photo that was printed, but that of their soulmate. On the screen, we could see married couples proud of “not having made a mistake”, and young couples breaking up in tears. And so, the show went on. Day after day, thousands of people flocked to the streets for the chance to test their love. For months, I witnessed every possible scenario. Families were torn apart under my windows, marriage proposals were made on first dates, couples married for 30 years went their separate ways. Nothing could predict what the photo booth would print: a husband, a mistress, a lost love, a “friend”, a one-night stand, a lover, an ex. Anything worked. The authorities tried to regulate access to the photo booth, but it was too late; nothing could stop people from making the journey here for a simple photo. 

Even the media were going crazy; on TV shows, everyone had their own theory. But who was running this photo booth? How could it never be wrong? Should we leave it and exploit this new source of income? Should we move it and risk damaging it?

Personally, I didn’t believe it. Not that I was afraid of losing the love of my life – she hadn’t shown up yet. A confirmed bachelor since my last separation, I let life do its work. I would find love, without going through this scam. Nonetheless, I had a lot of admiration for the man who had launched this concept, as much for the simplicity and effectiveness of his idea as much as for the ingenuity he had to show to be able to access all those photos and never come up with the same one twice. It just went to show, you should never leave information lying around on the Internet. Really, how could anyone believe such nonsense? 

My birthday arrived, the 25^th , and I went out with some friends. We drank a beer, then another, and another, until nothing intelligible could come out of our mouths. How happy we were ! How drunk we were when they headed back to my flat with me for the after party – to be sure I find my way back home. Suddenly one of my friends came out with an amazing idea: 

– Come on mate ! There is no one, go try this magic photo booth ! 

– Twenty-five, you’ve gotta find your “wife” ! 

The old leather chair. The bright, violent flash in my eyes. A picture. For an instant, none of us were laughing anymore. We all looked at the picture, impatient, shaking. A face appeared. An angel, the most… my brain was not able to find the right word to describe her, not after all this beer. 

I did not remember the end of the night, but when I woke up in my bed, her picture was on the pillow next to me. I tried to figure out what had happened. The bar, the streets, the photo booth. Her face. Her dark eyes, her strawberry lips, her sun kissed skin. I had never seen this person before, I was sure of that. She was not from my class, not from my running club, nor was she part of my internship at the bank last year. A face like this one, I would have remembered it. I needed to find her, more than anything. 

For weeks, I looked for her. On the campus, at my job, while running through the Parisian streets. Nothing. Not even a slight resemblance. I searched on the internet, on social media. I asked my friends. She was nowhere to be found, but I couldn’t lose hope. Since her picture has been printed, she never left my mind. In my dreams, when I read, when I cooked, when I showered. A hole I never knew has grown in me, and she was the only one able to fix it. I felt incomplete, truncated, empty. The days had no flavor, the laughter sounded hollow. I needed her. 

Noticing the changes in my attitude, my friends decided to organize a dinner at my apartment. I didn’t enjoy it. I looked at them and imagined the same night with her, laughing with my friends. Them, impressed by her, almost jealous of our happiness. Her hands on my shoulders when she got up to go to the kitchen, a discreet kiss on her neck while preparing the dessert, my hands on her hips…

– Don’t you ? 

I stopped dreaming.

– You’re not listening, are you ? 

– He said you should try to look at the police register, Adrien could help you !

– That’s not permitted, argued Adrien, his nose was red from wine. 

Not enough to make him forget his duty as a policeman.

– Come on mate, help him or he’ll never have fun again ! 

I knew I shouldn’t ask for it. I knew I should have pulled myself together, but the hope of finally finding her was stronger. I insisted, I opened one more bottle. 

It was past 2 am when we entered the police station. Adrien took the picture, scanned and transferred it on his computer. We waited in the heavy silence. 

“One match found”

I realized I wasn’t breathing. He clicked on the folder. A child’s picture appeared, next to robot portraits of the child, always older. The last one, the most recent, looked horribly like the photo from the photo booth. 

– Gabrielle Blanche Virnot, disappeared on April 22, 2005. Blonde, brown eyes, aged 6. Father suspected; no body found. Note: portrait regularly updated according to procedure, read Adrien. 

Author: Gaia

[Content Warning: Strong language, Emotional distress, Abusive relationships, Implied death]

She sends me a text.
*i fucked up pls come over*
My neighbour.
I exit my apartment and knock on her door. She opens right away.
We look at each other. Tears start flooding her eyes. I enter and close the door behind me.
‘Bitch you better be joking.’
‘Can you help me?’
‘Can’t do miracles!’
She starts sobbing. She grabs her cigarettes.
‘Why would you do that?’ I point at her.
‘I don’t know!’
She puts a cigarette between her lips and lights it.
Her hands tremble in the smoke.
‘Sit down, get your shit together. I got you.’
She does as is told. 
‘It’s my fault.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
She hides her face in her hands. I hand her a glass of water so she stops tormenting her hair.
‘Look, I don’t give a fuck. Right? But there’s only one thing to do.’
‘No.’
She gets up and runs into the other room.
This is going to be hard.
I follow her.
She’s sitting on the couch, a cigarette in one hand, the glass in the other.
‘I can’t.’
‘You will.’
‘No.’
‘Well, then I will. For you.’
She doesn’t answer.

When I moved here, she left a note on my door.
*hi i’m your new neighbor, this is my number, call me whenever, can’t wait to get to know you! xoxo*.
We instantly became friends. She’s alright. She’s like me but younger. A bit taller. Different eye colors.
Once, we were lying on her couch, smoking cigarettes in the dark so that mosquitos couldn’t come inside. She told me a secret.
‘My ex-boyfriend once told me to shut the fuck up in the middle of a bad argument. Girl, they had to call the police. I broke every piece of motherfucking furniture in his house.’
‘Really?’
‘Hm-hm.’
‘You was that angry?’
‘Yes, but also, I think I wanted to tell him, like, it’s either talking or this. There is no way out, you know?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t know why I don’t like to talk about that.’
‘People wouldn’t understand.’
‘Yeah. But it’s pretty logic, right? I mean what should have I done? Shut the fuck up?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think you are amazing.’

And now, look at her. This bitch is not okay. 
‘Talk to me.’
She looks at me in despair. She looks helpless, small, fragile.
‘What are you thinking of?’
She puts the glass on the ground and lets the cigarette fall into the water.
She takes my hands.

‘I am afraid that I am not good enough. But, still, I don’t think I deserve this. I am afraid…’
She starts sobbing again. 
‘Look, I don’t know what to do, this is too much, I can’t… I can’t handle it anymore. I’m tired. You know what? I’m tired.’
Her face is wet, tears, mucus.
I grab the sleeve of my sweater and I gently clean it.
‘You know you can do anything, right?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘Remember who you are. Make a choice. Follow it.’
She stops sobbing.
‘You already made a choice. Right?’
She nods.
‘Good. Let’s go.’

I told her a secret, too.
It was outside, in the field, at night, under the Stars.
‘So, one night, just before the sunrise, I was walking home alone after a party, right? I was still a bit drunk and I was so tired, oh my god, so tired. So I stopped to catch my breath. I look at the sky in front of me. And guess what?’
‘What?’
‘You would never guess.’
‘What?!’
I turn towards her.
‘A meteor shower.’
‘No way!’
‘Girl.’
‘How was it?’
‘Beautiful, amazing.’
‘Yes, but like, how was it?’
I stopped to think about it a bit.
‘It was… It was shiny and broken, and all the pieces were drifting away but still, it was its own thing, going somewhere. And then it disappeared, like a caress.’
‘Wow.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why is this a secret?’
‘I don’t know. There was nobody there. I turned around to see if there was somebody. But I was alone. It was just me.’
‘Oh. I see.’

We have always understood each other, since the beginning, you know? And now too, I understand her. 
So I begin.
I start it for her. Just to help her a little. 
But then I let her finish. She has to do it anyway. There would be no point otherwise. 
So she does it, and then it’s over. 

And from now on,

nothing will ever be the same.

Author: Maxime Jaquet

I cannot believe it’s time already. It was so short. I mean, it felt briefer than usual. No… It hasn’t rung yet. The noise… probably the twins downstairs, playing. Leanne and Will sure play a lot. Often. Pounding their feet in a frenetic tempo, too chaotic to be conducted. Shouldn’t they be doing their homework? I suppose Maria lets them.
Something sharp in my back.
– What the?!
Fell asleep before I could put my book on my nightstand; now it has folded pages. I’m a mess. I guess Maria and the kids would have put it away for me, had they seen it. They surely would have… Right? I can’t think like that. They deserve better.
I guess I am lucky to have them, to have her. I shouldn’t complain.
What time is it? This late, huh?
They need me.
Like always I am the last one up. I hate it. What kind of a father wakes after everybody? A deadbeat one. If only my younger self saw me. He would knock me out. I think I deserve that at least. Meanwhile, the feet pounding vanishes.
It’s peculiar. I like this pseudo-quiet before the day starts, the moment of “silence” right as the concert is about to commence. The unison of the audience, disturbed by the inadvertent coughs and sit shifts. Life being lived! Life being lived downstairs, while it still hasn’t reached me in here.
My eyes itch.
The coldness of the ground hits my feet and moves through my body like a searing rod through flesh, while my mind desperately tries to pull me back under my blankets. It’s comfortable here, unlike out there.
But they need me.
I gather my courage. Great! My eyes hurt. I forgot to change the light bulb in the bathroom, again. Too much light. The lamp in the room should suffice if I open the door entirely. The kids start pounding their feet once more. Lucky for us, we don’t have any ranting neighbors. They all went away during the holidays! Oh…
That’s why the kids aren’t doing their homework. Can’t believe I forgot.
I pass my hand in my hair but touch only skin. I then open the second drawer with excess strength, it reaches the end of its rails in a ringing and deafening noise; a high pitch pipe and a timpani. Why do we have two drawers for one couple? Probably Maria’s suggestion. I seize my brush. Logged between its bristles are the vestiges of my hair. I massage my head with evenly spaced strokes, the same as always. I don’t know what hurts most: my scar on the back of my head or the fact that I can’t fathom this bald look. Well, at least Maria fell in love with me before I lost my hair. And I love my kids and my wife. Guess I am lucky that way. Could’ve been worse, you know?
… Yeah… I know.
I get out of the bathroom after having taken minimal care of my being. I reach for my clothes. Bang!
– JESUS CH****!!!! Fudge!!!!
I hate this stupid bench. Why would someone put a bench at the end of a bed? Damn my toe hurts. My cursing must have carried downstairs for I hear the kids’ pounding getting closer to my position. My quiet is gone, the concert begins.
They enter, they cheer, they run, they play around me while I try to dress. I used to have that energy once. They look happy. I release a subdued smile. Are they? Happy? Time to go play the dad.
– Rwaaaaaaaa! Who ventures into the lair of the mighty Drevorgh?! I hunger and I see two delicious kids! Rwaaaaaaa!
They shout and flee towards their mom.
Cowards!
It works too well. I am glad I can still put on a performance this convincing. Or they aren’t very bright.
Screw these thoughts! What has gotten into me lately? They looked happy at least! I make my way down the screeching stairs lit by this flickering light that does not know what it wants in life. Lit up or turned off. Just like this room. Either living room or kitchen. Just like a man who lives while others sleep.
– Makes no sense. I whisper.
My thoughts go away as I see her sitting on the couch. Maria. The dress, the jewelry, I know them, I gifted them to her. But her face, I can never seem to know it, as if it renews itself. Silly me. We’ve been together for what, twelve or fourteen years? She smiles at me while the kids tuck behind her in fear of the mighty Drevorgh.
I guess I am lucky.
– You look good! She intones with her voice, almost singing.
– Why do we have two drawers in the bathroom?
– You asked for them, honey. She answers, while slightly tilting her head.
– Weird…
– You got up early today. She says while playing with Will.
– What do you mean? It’s real late.
– Funny! I didn’t want to wake you so I left your book by your side, hope it’s okay. Food is on the counter. Would you like to sit with us for a bit?
– No, I think I’ll go early, so I can leave early as well.
– I didn’t know you could do that.
I think she wants me to respond.
– It’s okay… For the book.
The false note spoils the harmony.
She looks at me with loving eyes while I flee this minor tone towards the door, keys in hand. Coward!
– Bye! I say as I open the door.
I wait a second. No response. They are laughing. I shut it and head towards my scratched car. Maria shoveled the snow out of the driveway. Suddenly, I catch it. Coming from the window.
– I love you.
– Love you Daddy!
What a rush, what guilt I am feeling. They seem sincere. Their message: earnest. Like a musical note carried by the air, forever etched in the unattainable. I cling to it. The night is tightly set. I look up. The coldness reminds me of the one that hit my feet. And the emptiness that stares back at me attacks my soul, and my mind caves as the echo of their love wanes. My shift, my day really, is about to begin while theirs is ending. But I have to do it.
They need me.
Probably more than I need them.

Author: Ags

Bloodshot. He had read it on Health.com. Lack of sleep reduces oxygen to the eyes, making blood vessels dilate—something about red eyes.

For a second, he pictured himself with vampiric eyes, arriving at work and terrifying the world. Quickly enough, however, the realization that irises weren’t the ones that turned red hit him and he switched to noticing that he hadn’t blinked in far too long.

His eyes burned the way they did before falling sick, though by now, he associated it more with waking up than illness. He didn’t know if his eyes were bloodshot, but it certainly felt that way. Could eyes feel bloodshot?

The consistent sound of his clock disappeared under the morning ringing, and a sigh of relief mixed with the alarm—followed, almost immediately, by the daily groan of realization as whatever hopes he had fostered of dreaming evaporated with the morning dew. For the hundredth time since he had laid down last night, he switched positions. For the hundredth time, it did nothing but remind him of the tension in his back from the constant turning in the night.

Dorian sat up, only to slump forward like a ticking metronome.

Metronome. Music.

He turned to his phone, where the soft, regular melody was still playing, and his feet fell to the floor—cold.

On the screen: “Sleeping Playlist,” written in bold white letters. A compilation of every song he had downloaded off the internet to avoid paying for Spotify, mixed with whatever artists the app had randomly given him for free. What a joke. Still, somehow, the attempt at a solution had given him the illusion of control over his insomnia.

The sunlight peering through the shutters did nothing to alleviate the dreamless night’s apathy in his mind, and he dragged himself to the bathroom.

He looked like a child pouting. His cheeks angled down to the corners of his mouth, his asymmetrical nose almost pointing at it.

Smile, he thought, staring at the mirror with a jaded look.

His body obeyed—surprisingly enough. Smiling usually helped with the swelling in his cheeks. Today, it did nothing.

He shaved, he showered. Somehow, standing in the water was more restful than lying in bed.

His hand reached for the foundation his ex had left behind—practical, close enough to his skin color. It had proven a precious ally in the war against dark circles. 

Water—half of it on his face, the other half down his dry, dry throat. He winced. Water never tasted good in the morning. Something about the lack of taste.

Hair—automatically, his hand reached for the brush, raising it to his head. There was nothing to brush; he had buzzed off his curls a few weeks ago, hoping it would be one less thing to worry about in the morning. Still, he just liked the feeling of those plastic spikes against his scalp. And what was a morning without tradition?

Socks, pants. He buttoned up his shirt, eyes closed. 

Bread. Butter. No jam—no time. More water—to compensate for the staleness of the bread.

The usual morning voice in his head insisted on narrating every action he took, like some overzealous dictation mode for blind iPhone users. Blind… It was, in a way, how he felt after sleepless nights. One thing out of place, and it would be impossible to find.

He remembered a few weeks ago when his cousin had come squat at his place after her husband had quite literally kicked her out, calling her a… what was it? Drunken, cheating whore? She had smiled and insisted that this was just a “casual Tuesday” and that she’d “wait here for him to calm down.” The implied request to stay had worked, and soon, she had moved everything around and he had been late to work every morning, almost getting lost in his own house. 

He sighed again. This time, no relief—just the hope that the difficulty in breathing would lift. It didn’t. It was as though a smaller version of himself, still in denial of his constant insomnia, had decided to sleep on his chest, pressing down like a weight.

Keys. Coat. He hesitated to wear a scarf and told himself the cold would keep him awake.

The irony of it—after a struggle for sleep, he was about to start his marathon of staying awake.

It was like pressing download fifty times on a lagging computer and getting nothing—until suddenly, the sun came up, and every overdue hours of sleep file hit him at once.

But he’d manage. He always did.

It was all about the small moments of breaks—waiting at a red light or during his students’ rare moments of concentration.

An instant to close those burning eyes.

He walked out. 

Car. Glasses—Glasses!

Dorian leaned his forehead on the car roof. 

He’d do without glasses. Again.

He slid inside the vehicule, passing a hand through his absent curls and adjusted the rearview mirror before letting out a short, decisive breath.

“Come on.” He muttered, like a coach to his own life.

The engine started. He drove.

His class was circling in front of the door like a flock of chickens.

“Mr Dead eyes’s here.” Basil whispered, somehow mocking and alarmed at the same time, as Dorian cursed himself for forgetting his glasses.

Again.

What kind of name was Basil, anyway? Who named their kid after a cooking plant?

He opened the door, letting the flood of children pour inside.

They were all there.

Felici, whose parents’ divorce ensured they never showed up to a parent-teacher conference together. Milton, who never entered the classroom until everyone else was inside, too afraid to get trampled by the bigger kids. 

The voices swelled around him, chaotic but familiar.

Dorian rubbed his temples, exhaled, and lifted his head.

“Good morning, everyone.”

The chorus of greetings hit him like a wave—loud, mismatched, half-hearted, but real.

It would do.

He forced a smile.

Author: Leah Didisheim

So, I’m sitting at my desk, looking at the blank page, right. I’ve waited all week for this. The house is clean. I’ve finished my readings for next week. I’ve done all the chores I could possibly think of, just to have this additional hour to finally, finally write. It’s my passion. What I want to do with my life. I shouldn’t struggle so much to do it, right? And it’s not like I don’t have the ideas. I have them. I’ve been on the second draft of my novel for forever. And then. Then there’s this other novel I’ve put on the side for so many years. This one novel that makes me want to cry. Because I’d stopped doing it purposely. She could never leave me if I didn’t finish it right? Because she was eternal. That’s right. You heard it. And it’s not like I believe in this stuff you know. I’m quite realistic. But she was supposed to be eternal. So it didn’t matter if I didn’t finish interviewing her about her incredible, no, extraordinary life and did my other book in between. Because she’d still be here after. Except she’s not. She left me before I could finish it. I mean I have enough stuff to keep going, but can I? I haven’t even been able to talk at her funeral. For god’s sake she was supposed to have ten more years. Her mum died at 105 years old. And she was only 95. And still living alone in a house with stairs. Why did she want to go? Of course I understand, Grandma. Yes, I get it. Grandpa hasn’t been here for a while. Your siblings left before you. And you hate dependence. I get that there wasn’t really any other option but to leave those still here. But I guess I am mad. Because I wanted her to see more. I wanted her to be there at my wedding. And see my first child. She saw my cousins’ children. Why not mine? It’s unfair. But to be honest, that’s not even what I’m mad at. I guess I’m mad because she didn’t realise it was hurting us. I guess I’m mad because she didn’t realise we loved her. Maybe she couldn’t. She just expected we’d feel like she felt towards her parents and her grandparents. But it’s your fault if we didn’t, grandma. I guess you shouldn’t have created this family if you didn’t want us to care.

So, no. I can’t bring myself to write. Because there are always more important things to do. There are always things that need to be done. I’m sick of being an adult I guess. Everything else makes me put my one passion to the side. Maybe I do it on purpose you know. Self-sabotaging. It’s easier than to fail right? Bullshit I know. But if it’s not compulsory, I don’t know what to write. And I know I write well. Discipline sucks. My brain sucks. I can’t get to stop overthinking everything. Like I cannot take a break without thinking about everything else I have to do. And you know, it’s not like I don’t have other stuff. I have uni. Theatre. Associative work. Laundry. Feeding myself. Sleep. Giving classes. Sports. Where am I supposed to find the time to write 500 words a day?

Look at that. 569 words. I guess I just did.

Author: William Flores

The Luna Lux Base was the new crown jewel of the self-proclaimed Visionary Hundred, a group consisting of the twenty richest men in the world. Together, they funded this luxurious recreational settlement on the moon, which cost a whopping 2 trillion dollars to build. Devon Dusk, the mastermind behind this endeavor, convinced about half of his fellow Visionaries to follow him on a week-long trip to inaugurate the new base. The remaining half was skeptical because of Devon’s notorious failure to set up an inhabited Mars colony a few years prior, which caused the death of six astronauts. This time would be different, assured the maverick billionaire. After all, he had made structural adjustments to his space company, keeping only the most competent workers, and replacing the other ones with the company’s next-generation robots.

Delilah Grant, a veteran employee of Dusk’s space company, was to be the Mission Control Ground Commander during the upcoming flight to the moon. Although she profoundly disliked Devon Dusk, she was loyal to the company, or at least its long-term mission: to make humanity a multi-planetary species. Ever since she was little, Delilah dreamt of one day traveling into space. However, her heart condition, which she inherited from her father Jeffrey Grant, did not allow her to do so. Although the realization that she could never blast off in a rocket ship was crushing to 12-year-old Delilah, that didn’t dissuade her from contributing to humanity’s expansion in the cosmos. And so she studied rocket science, literally, and became the Chief engineer at Dusk’s space company. Behind every major innovation in rocketry was the hand of Delilah.

And so, on July 25, 2039, Devon Dusk and his opulent party ascended into the sky like the virile demigods that they were. They were now well on their way to reach Luna Lux within the next two days. As part of the company’s structural adjustment plan, Mission Control was almost entirely automated, except for Delilah who had to keep an eye on things, in case anything unexpected happened. This was not the case during the moon-bound trip of the Visionaries. They arrived safely at the new base, live-streaming the whole thing so that all of their followers could witness this most extraordinary moment in human history. Never have there been so many people on the moon at the same time! The number of viewers wasn’t what the Visionary Hundred were used to back in the good old days, but the success of their flight warranted popping a few bottles of Prosecco. The alcohol was perhaps necessary to make up for the relatively bland food coming out of the food synthesizer, which transformed the Visionaries’ organic waste into a nutritious paste. Even demigods had to make some concessions if they wanted to travel to space.

And so, as the richest men in the world were having a week-long booze fest on the moon, sharing all of it online, Earth and its inhabitants were struck by another heatwave. The southern United States was hit very badly. Delilah was worried. The news talked about many wet-bulb 35 incidents, where people dropped like flies and died because of the fatal mix of humidity and heat, which effectively impeded the body from cooling down. People like Delilah and her father, were particularly vulnerable to such incidents, which is why she always made sure to stay indoors in air-conditioned buildings. Not everyone could afford the energy bills resulting from air-conditioning, however. A little over a decade back, the administration of the now disgraced Ronald Chump forced the United States to adopt an expensive coal and gas energy mix, locking the country into fossil infrastructure, as the rest of the world moved on to cleaner and cheaper renewables. Even Delilah’s parents struggled with energy bills, despite their daughter being a Chief engineer. As part of Dusk’s structural adjustment plan, her salary was cut by a third. “Remember, we could easily automate even your job. So consider yourself lucky that I value you enough to keep you here,” the billionaire said in the e-mail announcing Delilah’s wage cut.

That was two years ago. Delilah stayed because of her passion for the job. But with the heatwave, and the Visionaries’ lavish lunar display, she felt sick to her stomach. A day before the scheduled return flight, a warning signal appeared on her display. Apparently, one of the company’s internet satellites was losing altitude and straying from its intended orbit. This happened every now and then, and the solution usually involved adjusting the orbit by remotely turning on the satellite thrusters for a minute or so. Delilah was just about to do that when she received a call from her mother, telling her that her father had collapsed because of the heat. He was going to be okay, but doctors said he could have died. For a while, Delilah couldn’t think straight. Her father could have died. He didn’t deserve this, nobody deserved this. Delilah was lost in her thoughts when the warning signals grew louder. Duty called. And so, she skillfully brought the satellite to a new orbit. She was done for the day.

The next day, she heard about internet outages hitting various parts of the world on the car radio, as she was headed for work. She didn’t think much of it. At Mission Control all systems were running perfectly for the return flight of Dusk and his billionaire friends. In the background, the automated systems were scrambling to course-correct the altitudes of hundreds of satellites. Word must have gotten to Dusk, as he directly contacted Delilah.

“What’s going on?”

“You mean the satellites?”

“Yes, the satellites, what else?!”

“Have you ever heard of Kessler syndrome?”

The other end of the line went silent. After a while, Delilah continued.

“Right now, dozens of satellites are crashing into each other, creating debris that will crash into more and more satellites, eventually enveloping the planet in so much satellite debris that any attempt to leave Earth’s orbit or re-entering the atmosphere would be a suicide mission, meaning that your return flight will have to be delayed.”

The silence on the other end gave way to a whimpering question:

“How much delay?”

Delilah kept a matter-of-factly tone.

“I’d say thirty, forty, maybe fifty years.”

Screams and cries on the other end. The demigods were now weeping.

Delilah kept her composure.

“I suggest you relax, and make good use of the food synthesizer and those rooms with a view on our beautiful Planet Earth. It’s gonna be a while. Oh, and don’t worry… from up there you can’t hurt her. Enjoy.”

Author: C. M.

Author: Lady Spraxic

I don’t like soups that are just perfumed water.
I like the dense and murky ones, for example, the spring pea soup – less renowned than the butternut one but just as glorious – which mysteriously tastes like rosemary. Dense soups contain not yet explored secrecies, not quite visible wonders. There is something majestic about them, a humility conscious of its greatness.
I like my soups how I like my friends: full of surprises. I have one who tasted goat cheese fondue before me although hating cheese – all kinds – is one of her life mottos. More than extreme jealousy, I felt complete astonishment. A hundred or two years ago – depending on if you think which one, from lived impressions and objective facts, is closer to Truth – one of them said that she preferred red wine because it was more contemplative. I object. Red wine is foul and prone to stains. I learned that it was not the color of the grapes that gave red wine its colour, but the maceration of their skins in the liquid. I am not entirely against maceration as a concept, just
not in my glass: I completely support the use of maceration in perfumery. Though that might be because I approve of the Odorous Science as a whole. In the perfume world, another
unsettling concept occurs: the fragrance pyramid. It is composed of three degrees: the top note, the heart note and the base note. I think it might be a little simplistic to reduce perfume,
the physical manifestation of invisible essence, to static notions such as maceration and pyramids, but the damage is done.

I want the top note of my perfume to smell like sparkling wine, the heart note like peas and zucchini soup, and the base note to taste like leaving my parents’ home for the first time.

“Exit but Make It at a Five-Star Hotel”

Author: Leah Didisheim

I sigh, pull my suitcase and open the door of the five-star hotel. I still don’t understand why we’re doing this. Does she even want to be here? Oh, but yes, I know about our dear traditions. More important than life, apparently. Every year we come here. It’s always the same. To use our heritage together. As a united big happy family. How true it is this year is unreal.

“Hi! So good to see you. How are you? Oh, you know…, fine…”, we basically all say at the same time after checking in at the reception desk. It all started with a phone call from my dad not even two weeks ago. I think in some ways, I knew it was going to happen eventually. Yes it was a shock. But I can’t say I was surprised to learn about it. What I was surprised at however, is that the plan to come here hadn’t been cancelled. That it was still an option – and a wished-for option at that – to come here. With her. For the last time.

My cousin is already in the room when I open the door. It is nice to be together in some ways. To share our sadness together. I can’t think of what the staff is going to think seeing us cry together every day in the lounge though. “I cried a lot when I learnt about it. Now I’m ok… it depends on the days I guess,” I answer my cousin. I didn’t know yet that I was going to cry every day. Seeing the others cry or hurt won’t help. Or you could say that in some ways it will. She hasn’t cried once. But she wants to. She feels her body wants to, she tells me while I unpack.

We talk a bit while we get ready for the evening. Am I happy with who I drew for our Secret Santa? Not really. She’s fine with hers. “Imagine the person who got her though? How horrible is that? I thought about it last week,” I tell her. We ponder on this while we finish getting ready. Our room is beautiful, as always. Outside, it had started to snow. And it won’t stop for the next two days.

I look at the mirror in the lift. My cousin went downstairs already. You know what, I’m sick of being sad. When someone dies, you’re sad because they’re dead, because you didn’t know it was going to happen. You couldn’t plan it and act accordingly. But when someone lives with an expiration date, you’re sad because they’re still alive. And everything they do. And everything you see them do. Well, you can’t shake the feeling that it’s the last time. Yes it’s great. We’re all here together. As this big family. But every picture taken isn’t taken because of that. It’s taken because, deep down, we know it’s the last one. I sigh, wipe the tear on my cheek, glue a smile on my face, and the elevator opens on to the first lively evening of our stay.

Author: Erika Castrillón Morales

[Content Warning: Drug abuse, Domestic violence, Mentions of sexual abuse.]

“Open the door, you whore!” He has been giving kicks from the other side of the door, trying to get into the house. May is sitting behind the door, covering her ears to ignore his shouts. She cannot take this anymore. He fled five days ago, and nobody heard from him until now. Every time he leaves, he always comes back home in a frenetic state. May can only imagine the worst. He has been wandering around trying to get his hands on anything strong enough to make him pass out. Being the big sister weighs heavily on her.

After half an hour, the screams stopped. May peeps through the window and sees John’s weak body lying unconscious on the floor. There is not a single noise at the deepest of nights. Her heart is divided between thinking her brother is nothing more than a piece of garbage and feeling a bit of pity towards him.

May remembers how John was always wicked. As a kid, he was restless and disruptive. In primary school, teachers never ceased to complain about his behavior. Once, during a break, some younger kids followed him into the bushes near the playground. When the teacher came looking for them, she found John showing pictures of naked women to the little kids.  On another occasion, he stole a neighbor’s cat and smashed it into a wall. He then burned the poor creature on the house’s terrace. By the time he was a teenager, it was clear that John was rotten and utterly mean.

His relationship with May was highly problematic as well. He never liked her. He used to bother his sister by physically harassing her. He started to pick on her and call her names when they were about seven years old. Luckily, May had long nails and would scratch him like a cat. John would end up crying and exaggerating his wounds. But their mom, Anna, a woman weak in character, took it against May and would beat her ass up. She could see the scratches on John, but there were no signs of the so-called violence in John would have inflicted on May.

May is the eldest of four siblings. She is followed by John, Edward, and Michael.  For some unknown reason, Anna spoiled John rotten. She let him do whatever he pleased. He was her golden boy, and John became a mommy’s boy. Anna hid all of John’s faults from her husband and the father of her children, Thomas. A rivalry grew between John and May. The latter was well-behaved and got along well in school: Always getting good grades and compliments from the teachers. But at home, things were cold with their mother, when Anna refused to see John’s faults. If May dared to cry, their mother would force her to stop.

The father was a cobbler who used to work offering his services on the corner of a main downtown street. They lived from day to day. Thomas gave Anna the money he earned the day before to prepare lunch. John, being the oldest of the brothers, was in charge of bringing lunch to their dad. He was a school drop-out and was always at home. Because May was a girl, it was considered too dangerous to have her walk long distances in the streets full of strangers. Also, she had school. But John was always reluctant to do it. Instead, he would walk to the kitchen to eat his father’s lunch and then would take a guiltless nap.

Seeing him through the window, May’s mind recalls the multiple times John returned home from one of his getaways. With time, May could distinguish what kind of substance he had taken that day.  His arrival was the announcement of a new cycle of confrontations with a hectic John, saying he was going to murder them all. Sometimes, neighbors had to call the police to break up the fights. Anna was unable to acknowledge her son’s troubles. John could not stand anyone looking at him. It used to freak out his demons. He wanted to fight and was a real danger to the family. He used to threaten his younger siblings if May didn’t leave him alone and stopped sticking her nose between him and their mother. If May ran into to him on the streets, he used to throw lustful looks at her and told her that if she kept bothering him, he was going to “screw her” with his buddies. 

May scratches her legs and forearms. Her accelerated heartbeats are mixed with an increasing headache when remembering the past. When Thomas died, things escalated for May. Rumors came to her saying that Anna was calling May’s friends asking for money, that she would later give to John.  He would demand too much from his mom, and she would do everything for him. The two remaining younger brothers had emotional and economic needs that May ended up filling. On many occasions, John would call from jail. He would be caught with drugs in his pockets or high in the streets. Anna would beg May to take her beloved son out of that place. Eventually, May was known in every police station in the city. May would bring him some food and would take him back home, sometimes even bribing the inspectors with money that was not much of a surplus.

John went through long years of drug abuse and, at some point, was able to complete rehab. He got a decent job for a few years and became a counselor for young boys flirting with substances.  A time of apparent peace and optimism ran in the family.  But John’s addiction was so overpowering that he went back to it, trying hard drugs this time. It’s been more than fifteen years since the first time John came, kicking the door and destroying everything. May decides to pray and searches in a secluded space in her interior for some faith. She begs her forgotten God to take him. She wants to be free from the burden he is. She wants him dead, for everyone’s sake.

May closes the windows and goes to her room to try to get some sleep. She discovers her mom, Edward, and Michael nervously peeping at her in the corridor. She can see in their looks of distress, she asks everyone to return to bed. “We’ll deal with this in the morning” she says to them as she has so many times before. Lying in bed, May bursts into tears.

Mr. Robert, the next-door neighbor comes first thing in the morning looking for May.

“Is John home?” He asks her with a concerned look.

“We really don’t know, we haven’t heard anything today.”, answers the young woman.

“I have something to show you, May.” He hands her today’s newspaper. The photo shows the body of a young man bleeding, lying on the floor. The headline reads “John Doe dies during police break-in in drug den.”

“I think it is him”, states Mr. Robert.

“It is him.” Confirms May with a calm voice, after having recognized John’s shirt.