Tag: Creative Writing – Prose

Image: “Nenana Ice Classic Tripod” © jkbrooks85. Licensed under CC BY 2.0

Author: Linda Zagorskaya

– “You know this place is haunted, don’t you?” – she said in such a trivial way, stating the most undeniable fact ever – “What’s with this bewildered look on your face? You have internet on this telephone of yours and we have the best signal in town, go on, check it, I’m not making things up! Or just hang around and see for yourself, you have been warned! They are not mean though and love young boys like yourself!”

She uttered her monologue loudly, stretching each word, as if to make sure I understood the meaning of it, and went back to serving other customers. Their numbers were quite scarce, but they seemed to be regulars. An elderly couple was sitting at the bar and chatting with the hostess. They looked like old buddies finding each other after twenty years or perhaps just after a day, it was impossible to tell. 

– “What’s in that big green bottle, honey?  Let me have a try.” – The lady took a sip from the glass, lifted it up to the light and made a disgusted grimace – “This bottle must have been opened since the last flood! There, you have a sealed one just behind, let me have some of that!” – The hostess did not protest; the number of opened bottles did not seem to matter. The customer drank on happily, reminiscing on some crazy parties that used to have in the bar.  

 An old man was sitting on a bar stool, his back crooked, he was almost lying on the bar. He seemed to have grown into the furniture and taken its sinuous forms. In fact, there was not a single straight line in the whole establishment. The back of the bar, full of thick dust-covered bottles had a frontward tilt, threatening to fall to the feet on the barmaid. The main bar was once covered with leather-like material, the shreds of which now provided support for the glasses, avoiding embarrassing accidents on customer’s lap. Across the room there were small tables for two persons each along the wall, defying all laws of gravity, threatening to tilt over to the center of the room. A pool table, once standing in the middle, was pushed to the back, where the floor seemed a bit straighter. The winner of the game was determined by the force that pushed the balls only in one sure direction and not by the player’s skill. It was impossible to stand straight in the middle of the room without the feeling that the walls may close in onto the poor customer, burying him or her alive under the twisted rubble. 

The lady behind the bar did not mind the strange setting and worked the beer taps and the shifting bottles with ease. She was as old as the establishment itself, and just like that of the establishment, it was impossible to determine her age. She wore a oversized sac for a dress that could as well serve as a night gown. Her hair suffered years of peroxide and permanent curling, it had no shape or color. 

– “Ma name’s Connie….” – She said stretching the vowels in a “good ol rural Ameeerican way” . 

I would expect her name to be Barbara or Sheryl or Rosemary, but when she said it was Connie, it became obvious – it could not be anything else. 

– “I am so glad to meet you, Connie.“

She disappeared, ignoring what I said, but materialized few minutes later with a couple of colorful pens and post-it pads all bearing an image of a drunken-looking deer, an American flag, and the name – The Moocher’s. 

– “I wouldn’t use the bathroom if I were you, young man.” – an old man woke up from his lethargic state after seeing me get up from the stool. – “And whatever you do, don’t change the music!“

– “Oh, you stupid old Mac ! You will scare all my customers away! A young man like you is not afraid of ghosts, are you?” – Connie looked straight into my eyes with a crooked smile on her face. I felt that she was the main ghost herself and it was up to her if the the walls kept the whole structure in place or not. 

A bright jukebox proudly stood in the back of the room, a testimony to the good old days when dancing and partying was the daily routine at the Moocher’s. With every step towards the shiny machine I felt an acute risk of the ceiling plunging onto my head, but I could not resist the luring of a splendid instrument. Despite the years of use it was in perfect shape, a time machine waiting to transport an naive user into the days of the Alaskan gold rush. 

– “Choose your tune, young man! And come back for another drink. I have something to show you.” – said Connie and put a huge book on the bar – “And you must buy a ticket!“

***

The town resembled a huge market square, despite the bitter cold, the wind and the remaining snow from the harsh northern winter. Several dozen people, mostly in groups, occupied all the streets of this 200-soul-strong town. The gold rush days of Alaska were long gone, but the spirit of booty hunters and crazy adventurers is very much alive to this day. 

Huge pickup trucks lined the streets, the engine roar echoed for miles down the Tenana river, startling the virgin silence of the area. There were Alaskan natives who came from the nearby settlements to this tiny connection to the modern world. Rednecks from all over the state came to enjoy their pints and show off their trucks. Few lost tourists were present to witness the history in the making.  

They were all waiting for The Event. Who will win the jackpot? 300’000 US dollars will not make anyone a millionaire, but every year it gives the  bidders hope for a new life or a least an easy retirement. 

The visitors attack The Moocher’s in an adrenaline rush. There is enough booze for everyone. No-one is afraid that the crooked walls may not withstand such flooding of people. These walls have seen all kinds of floods! Everyone will be served, and nobody will be left indifferent by the magic of this haunted place. At the end, it’s in the ghosts’ interest to keep to walls up!

A heavy book is lying on the bar, carrying the weight of a hundred-year long statistics, giving hope to a lucky guesser to get The Date right. More than a date, the hour and even the minute are of utmost importance – the precision will decide if the bounty will be shared among several winners or if one fortunate chap will strike the « gold ». 

The black-and-white tripod is firmly set on the snow-covered river, trapped in the ice from the beginning of winter. The cable is connected to the tower that houses the clock. Few more hours or perhaps days, the mystery will be soon revealed. Meanwhile the guests are entertained by old Connie and perhaps are met by the ghosts that live in the decrepit bar. The phantoms will slam doors and change the music in the jukebox if the tune chosen by a clueless guest was not to their liking. 

***

Every year around mid-April, although some years they had to wait until May, people gather in Nenana to witness a natural wonder – breaking of the ice on the Tanana river. 

The tradition to put bets on the breaking of the ice dates back to 1917 and ever since all the bidders and the winners are immortalized in The Book. 

If you ever pass by Nenana, stop and take a break at the Moocher’s. Don’t worry about the walls or the ceiling, the ghosts will make sure nothing falls on your head. Get a drink from Connie and buy that ticket.  You never know where your luck will strike …

Image: “Frozen Pond” © nighttree. Source – CC Licence.

Author: Katharina Schwarck

“Are you sure you want to go further?”, I ask my best friend Daphne as she, not carefully enough, walks over the frozen pond in the forest behind my house where we are playing. It smells of cold. “Of course. This is solid.” It’s getting dark soon and we have to be home at six. It’s December and like every year I get a new Christmas hat from my grandma. My mum keeps telling me that one day I will stop liking them but I still like them and I cannot imagine ever not liking them. Actually, I’m wearing it right now. This year, it’s green with red seams and a little elf with a red hat who waves at people when I look at them. I’ve named him Bobo. I look down to my feet. With one leg, I am still standing on steady soil and with the other I’m standing on the frozen pond. In summer, I make friends with the little frogs who live here. I’m a bit scared of breaking through but Daphne can’t know that I’m scared. “Are you reaaally sure?”, I insist. Maybe she knows I’m a little scared now. She takes another step and starts poking around in the ice with a stick.
SPLASH.
The ice breaks and we’re both drenched in muddy and very cold water. I scream a little. “It’s so cold!”, I say, trying not to let my voice get too high-pitched. I move my hands around. Everything is so cold and sticky. I am trembling. “Oh, come on”, Daphne says, gets a grip of her stick and pulls me up. I’m almost crying. We get to solid grass. My gloves are floating in the half-broken ice. Bobo is on the ground, covered in muddy snow. I hide my face so Daphne cannot see how worried I am for Bobo. This is such a bad day. We pick up our stuff. “We should probably go home?”, I ask. Daphne nods. We start running towards my house. “Do you think they will be mad?”, we wonder.
The way isn’t far but it has never seemed further. I have never been this cold in my whole entire life, and I’m the third-oldest in my class. When we get to the door, I am so scared to ring the doorbell. I can barely move my hands. Daphne looks at the doorbell expectantly, so I ring it. My grandma opens. “Oh my god, girls! What happened to you?” I start crying. “Oh, but it’s okay.” She starts laughing. “Everything is okay.” She brings us upstairs, takes all of our clothes off. I show her Bobo while rubbing my eye. “Don’t worry my love”, she says, “I’ll make him beautiful and healthy again”. She kneels down to hug me. Grandma smells of home, and warmth, and Christmas. She’s wearing a pink cashmere pullover that soothes into my skin. She gets up again, winks and leaves Daphne and me to take a bath. First everything is a bit awkward but then we can feel our hands again and we play with bubbles and the shampoo that stings in our noses and eyes when it gets too close. “There was a monster in the pond and it came out like this!” Daphne gesticulates while holding a bubble dragon between her hands. “Whooosh, whoosh”, she moves it up and down. “And you beat it like this”, I say, “pfouuuuh”. “And then we helped each other out like heroes!”. She sprays some bubbles on my head and I smell pink and fruity. I grin. We come downstairs in freshly washed bathrobes that smell of white and clean and cosy. When I enter the living room, I am hit by a wave of home and feel good and family. I can hear the oven buzzing, I see some dough rests in the kitchen. My grandma brings us tea. “How are my two princesses? You were proper mud queens!”, so we tell her about the pond monster and about how we helped each other like mud heroes. “Now that’s just wonderful”. She smiles. We take our cups of tea and start staring into the fire that is burning in the chimney. It is properly dark now. My hands are getting just hot enough on my bunny cup. I put my face right above it so the tea heats it too. I recognise the tea. It’s called “evening sweetness” and it’s my favourite. It is round and sweet and yet spicy. But not too much. It is just right. Not many people like it. There is too much going on they say. But I love it. Daphne feeds me a warm cookie. It melts in my mouth as the chocolate chips reach my taste buds. I close my eyes while listening to the crackling sound of the wood. There’s a little fir spiciness in there as well. Maybe grandma is burning a branch of a pine tree or something. Daphne puts her head on my shoulder. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad day after all…

Image: ©️ Julie Dey

Author: Julie Dey

It may sometimes be a question of viewpoint. That is why the reader should pay more attention to the surface of things. Read story A and story B and then adjust your lens.

A
My name is The Staircase, I live in an old building which is four storeys high and of which I know all the occupants. For example, on the ground floor, there is the guardian who has the good grace to make me as clean as a whistle. I like the way she cleans my steps which are damaged by the wear and tear of time. She flutters around me, passes from one floor to another and leaves behind a subtle smell of cleanliness.

Oh! Here comes the young lady living on the first floor. A handsome woman, always on high stilettos. With her self-confident gait, she climbs up the stairs and caresses my railing with her perfectly manicured hand. She wears a sumptuous dress, which, every step, lets me glimpse at her lace underwear. She pulls her keys out of her coat, opens the door and double locks it.
A few minutes later, I hear the musical notes of her piano getting lost in the stairwell. It is the end of the day. Through the window of the floor, I observe the setting sun which disappears slowly behind the hills.
Someone just walked into the building, a draught pushes the dead leaves into the lobby.
A man with polished shoes climbs upstairs with the quietest footsteps. He holds in his hand a splendid bouquet of carmine red roses. His other hand is tense and sweaty. He stops in front of the young woman’s door, hesitates and then rasps shy knocks. The door opens, a kiss, a few words exchanged, the door closes. He goes down again, his legs wobbly, feeling giddy.
It is night. Loud voices come from the second floor. They are Mister and Mrs who argue again. One hears glasses and plates breaking on the floor. A door opens violently and then closes in a crash. A big man takes a heavy step down my steps, opens the door to the building and then sinks into the darkness.
In the attic, I hear high pitched squeaks, hustle and bustle, probably some mice.
The bell tower of the Grande Place rings two times, the door opens. It is Mister who comes back from the Café next door. With an unsteady gait, he climbs up my stairs clutching the handrail. His clothes smell of alcohol and tobacco.
Winter is here again. It snowed a lot last night. I see through the window the hills covered with their white coat. Early this morning the guardian was clearing snow. The two kids from the second floor are excited, their cries resonate in the stairwell, they run me down and rush to the playground. When they go back home, my stone steps are wet and cold because of their snow-covered boots.
Two turns inside the lock. It is the young lady from the first floor. She wears her fur coat which brushes against my steps. Probably going to work. She comes across a blonde-haired woman and smiles at her. The blonde woman enters the old lady’s flat on the third floor, presumably the housekeeper.

It smells of gingerbread. It’s from the third floor. From this apartment comes a delicious smell of cooking, sometimes a roasted chicken, sometimes an apple pie, what an olfactory delight! She’s the old lady from the third floor. A nice lady who has always lived alone.
Today as every other day, she goes for her usual walk. I hear her door creaking. She grabs the handrail with her frail wrinkled hand and slowly and carefully gets down with a trembling step. She leaves in the air a subtle smell of powder and soap. After her walk, she usually sits down on the bench near the entrance and looks thoughtfully at the children playing. A few minutes later, the blonde woman gets out of the building.

On Sunday, when most people get together with family, the old lady goes to church, wrapped up warmly in her heavy coat with her rosary clanking in her hand.
Winter is already gone. After all this white comes green. Nature awakes, I hear birds chirping by the window. The sun shines and warms my steps. What a delight. Nonetheless, something spoils this fresh atmosphere. A putrid smell comes out of the door of the old lady, therefore I imagine the worst.
It has been two days since and the smell only gets worse. The guardian knocked at the door of the old woman but this latter does not answer. Owning the duplicate key of her flat, she unlocks it and screams.
The residents of the other floors rush one after another. The young lady is shocked, she then sits down on my steps nearly fainting. Mister and Mrs come next and Mister calls the police.
The kids from the second floor are curious and want to see the dead body but their parents prevent them from seeing the horrific scene. The ambulance and the policemen arrive. They carry the old lady, whose body is covered with a pure white sheet, on a stretcher and carefully gets down to the ambulance. “Heart attack” the ambulance man declares.

It has been over a month since the sad event. On the third floor, it smells of fresh paint because the flat is being renovated. Every morning, I hear the workmen coming to work whistling. Right after begins the concert of electric drills and hammers. At the end of the day, the workmen go home with a tired heavy gait.
The renovations in the flat are now over. A young couple moved in. Something saddens me. The door has been replaced, there is no more creaking… and I will never hear it again.

It is summer. The air is heavy, even at night. A burst of fresh air comes in when the man of the third floor enters the building. He climbs up the stairs, one sweaty hand on the handrail, the other typing on his phone, as usual. The cries of Mr and Mrs resonate again, suddenly cut by the melody of the young lady’s piano.
On Sunday morning, like every Sunday, the woman of the third floor gets out for a walk. As usual, she stops by the window and looks outside with her blank gaze. She then goes out and comes back with some warm bread from the bakery.
The ritual of life goes on and time goes by.

Many years went by. I am now very old. My steps are worn out and cracked on all sides. I fall apart. The walls are damp and musty. The building has been emptied of its occupants. Some workers have come to discuss a demolition project. They plan to construct an old folk’s home.
The building will be gone tomorrow morning.

Time has come. I am not afraid. I am blessed to have lived such a long life and to have seen many people from different backgrounds. I am happily going to remember forever the old lady of the third floor.

An excavator crashes on the roof, breaking down walls and ceilings. Some bystanders gather around the demolition site.
A little boy exclaims:
– Dad, look! They break it all down except the staircase!
-Yes, but they’re gonna demolish it now, look, the excavator rises and BOUM on the staircase! Come on, it’s over, time to go home now.
– Hey dad?
– Yes, buddy?
– Do you think the staircase is dead?
– Ah yes of course he is. Definitely dead!

B
Olga is a beautiful woman. She does not know it. Maybe she pretends not to know. She thinks it is simplistic to show your awareness about your own beauty. Pretending is better because it leaves room for mystery, room for possibility. Olga likes this word. It is the name of her favourite lipstick. The red velvet one she wears every day. She likes to think she lives a life of endless possibilities or rather possibilities of impossibilities. “Create yourself new possibilities” claimed an article she read in a magazine (the ones she found in the next-door tobacco shop, in the section titled “feminine readings”, to avoid any misunderstanding.) Olga had already read the ones titled “How to please your man?” and the other May issue “Get the Bikini body in 10 days”. “Too easy” she used to think. Her husband was deadly in love with her and her body was envied by all her girlfriends who fought with the numerals on their scales.
Olga lives in a 5-storey building. She just moved in with her husband Dave. Dave wanted a high ceiling flat and a room for his desk and computer, namely a room as the extension of his office in which he spent an awful amount of time. Olga thinks that Dave’s life is controlled by extensions. The one defining him as “male” and the cell phone stuck with fast glue to his hand.
Olga wanted a flat with a lake view. When she was younger, she would have killed for such a view. Now she had one. The lake view was the kind of things she could mention during one of these dull parties she had to accompany Dave to. People were more friendly if you had a lake view. The power of two words. It was Olga’s way to reassure them she fitted their parties and that her invitation was not the postman’s mistake.
Olga worked as a secretary in a consulting firm. When anyone would ask her about her job, she would unintentionally omit the word secretary. “I work in a consulting firm” was evasive enough to avoid any further questions about it thus, allowing Olga to shift attention away from her and redirect it to the addresser. That was an easy task, people love to talk about themselves. In fact, she did not want to speak too much because words had a bad tendency to betray her sometimes. Words are so loaded and heavy they may drag her down, she may drown.
Olga prefers listening and observing people. While listening to them, she dissects them inch to inch and absorbs every component of their being to fill herself, but it remains insufficient, she is still hungry, still so empty.

Olga likes her flat, but she does not like the occupants of the building. She hates hearing the couple argue. Why do they always choose to argue when she is watching her favourite soap. She cannot hear if Brad cheated on Jessica or if Jessica’s step sister had had an affair with Brad’s twin brother. Olga needed silence to concentrate, it was important for her to understand the events. (What would her friends think at her Pilates class when they’d find out she did not understand the story. For sure, they would reject her. They only accepted the ones who followed.)
She also hates coming across the woman after the argument. When Olga meets the woman in the stairwell, she notices the blackeye on her sad face, the same boxers have when they get punched in the face. She knows she must feel sorry, but she does not want to be forced to. She is the one who decides what to feel or not. Olga wonders why it seems so hard for people to put on a happy face. When she wakes up in the morning, she washes her face and puts it on. It is not itchy; it is a second skin. It is soft and practical.
Dave says she is so beautiful when she smiles. She loves Dave and Dave loves her. She knows he loves her because she sees it in his big brown eyes and by his soft touch on her skin, almost unnoticeable. He loves her because why wouldn’t he? It is not questionable nor explicable, it is definite. Maybe it suits Olga to think that way because again, it is easier.

When Olga meets the beautiful woman of the first floor, she feels her mouth tense, she quickly glances at her and politely greets her. She sees her pearl white skin, smells her perfume, feels the brushing of her fur coat. The woman smiles at her. Not a smile because there is a need to but a warm and kind smile. A warning sign. No evaluation, no looking up and down, just a smile. Olga is confused.
The bell tower of the Grande Place rings two times, Olga takes a sip of her glass of wine, she hears the door open. Dave comes back from work. She hears the same ritual. He throws the keys on the shelf, pours himself a glass of water, sits on the sofa, watching his phone. Olga gets up and hugs him. “You should be sleeping by now. I’m exhausted, let’s sleep now” he says. Olga returns to her bed, switches the light off. She cannot sleep. She imagines the scene. He comes back, throws the keys on the shelf, pours himself a glass of water. She hugs him, he hugs her too, he then asks her how her day was, tells her he loves her. The remake of the scene lasts the whole night. She wakes up, puts on her mask. “Good to go” she thinks.
Winter is here again. It snowed a lot last night. Olga sees through the window the hills covered with their white coat. Early this morning the guardian was clearing snow. The two kids from the second floor are excited, their cries resonate in the stairwell. Olga smiles at them. She wonders if someday she’ll have a baby. A baby to herself, the flesh of her flesh. A baby that she would love and that would love her endlessly. She looks at the snow. Her mom never loved her because she cared too much about the snow. This icing sugar that would make her wicked. Olga was sent to a foster family home; she never saw the snowwoman again.
Olga decides to make some lemon cake. She’ll make a layer of frosting because Dave likes it that way. She starts musing. It always smelled of cooking in this flat before she moved in. The old woman apparently loved baking too. A common tie binding them. Olga always made sure to lift the door a little bit when she entered her house, so that it would not creak. Then, she would wander in the apartment without making any noise. She observed her for hours behind the dining room wall, gazing out the window: the lake. Wide body of water.
One day when the old woman turned her back, she poured some white powder in the cake mixture. She was her mother’s daughter, she thought. Wicked.
A week after, she and Dave moved into the flat. While decorating the cake, she looks out the window. What an amazing lake view, she thinks.

Note
This short story was inspired by the short stories “Sunrise”, “Bluebeard’s egg” and “Happy Endings” by Margaret Atwood.

Image:  “Light Curtains” © Andrew Mason. Source – CC Licence.

Author: Sorcha Walsh

Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person. Alanna woke up in a bed that was decidedly not her own. This did not, at first, produce any sort of unusual reaction within her. This was not, after all, the first time she had woken up in a bed she didn’t recognise. She turned over, expecting to see a strange man who was probably less attractive in the daylight, and mentally prepared herself to stealthily sneak out of the door. However, she was instead met with the sight of a woman, long brown hair mussed from a rough nights’ sleep, and her face half-buried in the pillow. Now this was new, even for her. Usually if she woke up in bed with a woman, there was a man between them. Far more disturbed now by this realisation, she decided it was time to leave, before the sleeping beauty arose. She sat up and swung her legs out of bed, and found that they landed squarely in a pair of slippers. Men’s slippers. She rolled her eyes. She’d promised herself she would stop homewrecking, weeks prior, and had mostly managed to keep that promise. They were pretty small men’s slippers, all things considered, her feet fit quite snugly inside of them.

She was suddenly struck with a sense of deep malaise. Her legs, surely, hadn’t always looked like that? And her head felt much lighter somehow, and, oh god, her hands, why were they suddenly so… hairy?

She stood up abruptly and ran out of the door, tripping as she went, coming to a hallway. Blindly, she stumbled her way to the first door she came to, which by some stroke of luck was a bathroom. She stared deeply into the mirror, aghast at the face that stared back. A strong brow covered deep-set eyes, crowned by a head of floppy hair. Below, an aquiline nose, below that a straight mouth and, between them, a well-groomed, full, silky moustache, accompanied by an immaculate goatee. Instinctively, she retched into the sink, and made her second unpleasant discovery of the day: she had been drinking Bloody Marys the previous night. When she stood back up, a third surprise awaited her: the brunette woman who had been sleeping was standing behind her in the doorway.

“Is everything ok love?” enquired the smooth voice. Oh God. Alanna thought. A Brit. I’m in a poxy man’s poxy body and I’m living with a poxy poxy Brit. Just my luck. 

Out loud, she replied with an affirmative grunt, surprised by the resonance of which her voice was now capable. 

“I’m making toast, d’you want any?” said the oblivious woman.

“M-mh” said Alanna, suddenly grateful for the cover her bout of nausea had provided her. She needed to think, fast. Her first instinct was to attempt to avoid suspicion and adopt the persona of this… man. But really, she hadn’t done anything wrong. Her only crime, as far as she could see, was waking up. Really, it would be bad (not to mention inconvenient!) to keep it a secret. So she gathered all the nerves she could muster, stood up straight, and made her way downstairs, only to be met by yet another unpleasant surprise: a side-tackle from a ball of kinetic energy that she quickly deduced was a child. She stumbled slightly but picked the kid up and carried them downstairs, somewhat awkwardly, gripping them around the waist and holding their body out horizontally. Luckily, the child seemed to think of it as a game, laughing and crying out “Wheeeee” as they went down the stairs. At the bottom, Alanna put the child back down on their feet (more or less) and tried to find what she could only imagine was her partner. She looked down at her left hand. No. Her wife. Steeling herself once again, she made her way into the kitchen.

“Can I talk to you?” she said in her natural accent, cursing the awkward formulation. Her wife (?) didn’t seem to notice the awkwardness and continued buttering bread while nodding.

“Listen, there’s a problem. Or something. I’m… I’m not… I’m not this.” Alanna said, gesturing vaguely to her entire self.

“Okay?”

“As in, I’m… I’m a woman named Alanna.”

“Oh.”

There was a beat.

“So do you want to do, like, hormones and that?”

“No, you don’t understand. I am a woman and my name is Alanna.”

“Yeah, you’re a woman. Of course I support you.”

Alanna wanted to tear her hair out. This support, under any other circumstance, would have been charming, and for someone in the situation the woman imagined her to be in, extremely validating and reassuring, but she didn’t want hormone therapy so much as her body back.

“I woke up in this body today, but this isn’t the one I fell asleep in last night. I have no idea who you are. My name is Alanna Quinn, I live in Dublin. I’m twenty three tomorrow, I’m like five foot nothing, I definitely don’t have children and a wife. And I don’t know how this happened.”

Unexpectedly, the brunette woman burst out in near-hysterical laughter.

“Oh, that’s funny! You’re such a joker, Liam. Now get Posey ready for school.”

And just like that, her wife, whose name Alanna did not know, pecked her on the lips and flounced upstairs. She reeled back, stunned for an instant, and gave a deep sigh. This was going to be, somehow, even more difficult than anticipated.

Image: © Lara Lambelet

Author: Lara Lambelet

Soul Letter

Dear Mary,

I received your letter and your delicious biscuits which made me very happy. And yes, I won’t forget to put the cat’s collar back on. What a scoundrel that one is! In your letter, you asked me how to live a joyful and serene relationship. Here is what I can answer you.

I remember one day, during the summer of 1950, when my dear and sweet James and I were walking along the bank of the Seine. I was so grateful to have him by my side. Our rocky beginnings were far from predicting the success of our union and yet we had now been married for three years. I remember the question he asked me that night: “What have you learned about love?”. I replied that the most important thing I had understood over time was that it is not possible to make the other person happy. When you try, you fool yourself and you are going in the wrong direction.

You know sweetie, I found myself in the same situations as you. In insecurity, expecting too much from the other person and being afraid of losing them. But it was when I understood that nothing can hold the other person back that I felt real freedom. Be yourself, radiate and don’t be afraid to displease.

I thought I was going to lose your grandfather. He was a player who was scared to love. But don’t make the same mistake as I did, my little one, don’t give him everything. It won’t work. Learn to love yourself and to prioritise yourself. If this man you’re talking about really loves you, he’ll come back. Love is scary when it is not lived. Love makes you stronger when it is welcomed and nourished with the right seeds, with a lot of patience and understanding.

There, little one, I hope my words will be of comfort to you. Don’t lose hope. Love will come, be it with this man or another.

Your grandmother

Plum

I observed her auburn hair, the lower part of her bare back and the arch of her hips, half hidden by the ivy surrounding the garden gate. It was quarter to six o’clock. A beautiful opening of a summer evening. She was gorgeous, seated and focused on her reading. Then my gaze was drawn to the gradation of reds and greens that adorned the gate next door. I approached and grabbed a burgundy leaf. “How can Mother Nature create such things? “I thought to myself. A ray of sunshine dazzled me, and my thought was lost. I wandered here and there, letting my senses guide me. A little further away from the house overlooking the lake, I leaned against a pillar of the canopy dominated by brown tones.

– Would you offer me a dance?

– Here, now?

– Yes

– But to what music?

– That of Nature. Can’t you hear it?

– No, I can’t hear it.

– Close your eyes.

Then she took me by the waist, slipped her hand into mine and swung us slowly from left to right. One step back, then one forward. The singing of the birds came to mingle with the stirring of the fine breeze. With my eyes still closed, I savoured the moment. The scent of the lily bed at the bottom of the garden reached my nostrils. We continued our slow waltz under the fragmented marquee. We must certainly have looked silly, but surprisingly, I felt good.

– Can you hear it now?

– Yes, it’s wonderful.

We were now at the bottom of the garden. The view of the lake was breath-taking. You could even see the reflection of the sun on the surface of the water. At the bottom of the garden was a huge fruit tree.

– Plums? prunes? I asked.

– I’m not sure. Hold on a moment.

On tiptoe, she picked the offspring of the age-old tree.

– I’ve always dreamed of having my own garden in which I could escape,” she continued.

My eyes lingered on the drop of juice from the fruit, which her teeth had just bitten into, running down her lip.

– A plum. Here, taste it.

Sweetened

*content warning: injury and death

Tetanized, he observed the blood effusion on the right leg, lacerated all along, of the dying fox. The restraint of his spirit on the scarlet river made him dizzy. His hands grabbed the leather steering wheel. The hammering of his heart in his rib cage contrasted with the increasingly muffled groans of the red-haired creature. As he approached the clearing, the sinuous road and the thick October fog had played a nasty trick on him. The cracked windshield and the blood that gushed from it were witnesses to this.

Every Thursday night, after a hard day at the office, Charles would meet up with friends for a drink at Please Don’t Tell, a trendy New York bar with an evocative name and vintage atmosphere. One beer had turned into two, then into four. One propensity hiding another: the visceral need to please others. Under the pompous influence of Tom, an old friend from his university years who was now his brother-in-law, Charles rarely managed to impose his true desires on others as well as on himself. His feet were numb, and he had stumbled to the vehicle. His eyes were blinded by the city’s lights, and he had fallen over a manhole. “Damn it,” he mumbled. The torn trousers were perfectly suited to his putrid breath. The key inserted, the engine humming and the smell of dried tobacco.

A crowd had gathered around the drained remains. “Somebody, call an ambulance! “pressed a young woman dressed in a yellow raincoat. He hadn’t moved; his body was stuck in the car seat. He embodied both a feeling of fear and euphoria. A nightmare? Dream? The sweetened reality emanated from a filter that presumably did not match that of the people present at the accident scene. Suddenly, someone knocked against the window. “Sir, are you alright? You need to get out of the vehicle. The police are on their way” said a nerd in his fifties. Charles was livid. No reaction. It’s a fox. It’s a fox. Words were jostling in his head. His hand trembling, he turned up the volume of the radio in the hope of silencing the hubbub of his mind. He hesitantly pressed the gas pedal. The red bush was lit by the headlights. He closed his eyes. When they opened, the illusion disappeared. He accelerated and fled pusillanimously under the screams of the sirens. Help had just arrived and was working on the inert body of a young man with red hair. Matt was twenty-two years old. Charles, haunted by the vision of his actions, lost control. His feet were saddled with the pedal. 100km/h. The speedometer went crazy. 120km/h. 150km/h and the car rushed at high speed against the front of a shop. Charles was forty-five years old.

Mosaic

– Chemin de Verdonnet number…, I start to answer.

The memory fades away. Unattainable. It floats in an ocean of tentacular thoughts. We all have had addresses. A farandole of places imbued with happiness, moments of complicity, melancholy, the screams of kids or even authoritarian “dinner is ready” echoing in the four corners of the house. Isolated in a remote part of my memory, this element, which I am struggling to extract from my past, rushes exponentially towards the void. Yet it seems easy for me to depict the environment in which the six-year-old me was parading on an imaginary red carpet in flashy outfits. Disparate. Coming from idolized characters, my looks transported me to the depths of my childhood dreams. When I closed my eyes, the light shades tending to creamy white on the walls of the living room appeared to me like a flash. I feel the softness of my mother’s smile and the reassuring warmth of the blanket resting on my shoulder on rainy evenings. With concentration, the vermilion couch, combined with a few cushions Native American patterns, takes shape like an unfinished sketch. Although this flat was the cradle of my early youth, its rooms alienated me. Expelled. Or was it the decision of my progenitors to expatriate me from my world? I no longer know who is at fault.

– You know, on second thought, this is not where I really felt at home,” I continue.

– It makes sense to me. The walls only knew you as a child. On the other hand, the house before you left is certainly connected to some deep anecdotes, isn’t it? Come on, I’m sure you’ve got some gossip to tell me,” James enthuses.

A home away from the crowds where silence prevails. When you open the front door, the vastness of the room is disturbing. My eyes wander along the imposing mahogany table and stop at the pile of neglected administrative files. A thin layer of dust covers it. The dust is nesting. It penetrates. It disturbs. It upsets. It irritates. Nevertheless, I observe it and cherish its presence. The area is surrounded by lush vegetation. My mother has always been fond of decoration, although it was always too cluttered for my taste. Cat figurines, paintings, candleholders and junk. Suddenly, a spicy smell, certainly that of my brother’s curry chicken simmering, takes me out of my daydream and I find myself in the centre of the kitchen. Its furniture and instruments are worn out by time and by its careless users. I can still see my father with a large butcher’s knife in his hand, my maternal grandfather’s knife, cutting a piece of meat on the marbled worktop. This culinary cocoon has stories to tell. Monotonous and solitary meals. A table filled with tightly arranged cutlery for frenetic celebrations.

The hustle and bustle pushes me upstairs and to its bevy of rooms. I choose to stop on the landing of my room. The scaly white door has been covered with photographs, remnants of my adolescence and its anamnesis, which disorderly surround the four calligraphic letters of my first name. Made from a jet-black felted cloth, my baptismal name is like an introduction to the treasures inside.

– Shall we go inside?

– OK, but I have to warn you. My parents haven’t been there since I left. So, expect a museum of Lara, including cobwebs and dust.

When you open the door, it squeaks as usual. When I first step on the floor, I remember that the parquet floor also has an annoying tendency to creak. I explore the space. Not the slightest change. Although I’ve been living in Edinburgh for some time now, the period I’ve been living at the address, Route de Salles 20 in Berlens, is pretty much my entire life. Coming back to this timeless and so familiar bubble gives me goosebumps. The pleasant atmosphere in the bedroom pretends to be a somewhat distinguished mix of genres. Against one of the walls, an orange-coloured wood panelling, in front of which the bed is placed, enhances the tone and gives the room its singular spirit. When André Prévot evoked the bed, he referred to it as a piece of furniture where one rests when alone but tires when in pair. My bed, measuring about one metre forty and especially cluttered with stuffed animals, acts like a sponge. It absorbs and stores. It is the graveyard of my emotions, dreams, one-night stands and everlasting passions. In a niche of the bedroom, the music scores and colourful vinyl still brighten up the old electric piano. A key, that of a D, no longer sounds. A tear runs down my cheek. I had missed this place. This cruise into my past is only imaginary, yet the sensations are so stirring that I have to sit down.

One morning, my father proudly bought me a garland of LEDs that he had installed vertically against the edge of the wall. I will always remember my enthusiasm and the famous photoshoot for which the red shades were a great inspiration. Then comes the centrepiece. The crucial piece of furniture in this intimate space: my desk. It was a gift from my best friend. Orderly and methodical at all times, it is the pillar of my determination, the symbol of my success. With my elbows resting on the varnished wood, there I wrote, for many hours, poems, novels, essays, lists, wishes and often love letters. I cried and laughed. I also remember leaving there the wooden dice he gave me. A symbol of a bygone love. A shattered love. It is disturbing how a simple object can have enormous power over us. It is stored in a box now; the kryptonite is under control. Among the objects that were dear to me, a large flowered cup, where various teas used to brew, also rests there. But this is all part of a past era. The memory evaporates. I open my eyes. Basically, an address is just an address; what fascinates is the vivid and chipped mosaic of stories that emerges from it.

Image ‘009’© muleleredux. Source: CC License

Authors: Ricardo Paterek Ferreira & Loïc von Wartburg

Prologue

Jonathan

I held on to the railing of the balcony. Watching the sunrise. Fear and anger’s hot and cold hands were gripping at my heart. As the sun slowly climbed up the mountains, letting its rays flood through the gaps, the forest around me started to burn in a blaze of light. I looked down from the balcony. There was a five-meter drop. I could end this all so quickly, just drop headfirst. I grabbed the holster underneath my jacket. Or I could just take the quickest way out. It wouldn’t be so hard, would it? All those movies and video games showed that it’s just a pull of a trigger away, but what would it be like in reality? To throw away all you had left. To give up and accept defeat. I pulled out my gun, clutching it as my hands shook from the adrenaline. Click, the safety was turned off. I just needed to arm it and shoot. That’s all. But it felt so much harder than it looked. It wasn’t just a pull of a trigger! There was a safety to turn off, a barrel to load. You also had to aim at the right place! I felt convulsions ripple through my whole being like a troubled body of water. I raised the gun to my head hesitantly. Will I really be able to erase myself from this world? Like you would delete a corrupt program from a computer? I’m just a zero among the millions upon billions of ones in this universe.

I’m not quite sure how everything got so messed up. How everything I knew and loved just disappeared in a blink of an eye.  I never thought I’d be able to survive what I have been through. The blood in my temples drummed in my head in perfect rhythm with my heart. It ached. It burned. I was alive. I’m not sure why I put the gun down at that very moment nor why I decided that today wasn’t the day I wanted to die, but I did all of those things. A familiar voice resonated behind me.

“Jon. I know what you were thinking of doing, but trust me, it’s not worth it.” I instantly froze, my back straightened like a soldier about to salute his leader. This voice was full of authority and strength. His voice was grave and wise, nobody could go against that voice – after all, he was the one that saved my friends and I. “I understand what you’ve been through Jonathan, and I know about Samantha.” My throat trapped my breath as I tried to breathe. How could he know?

“She’s probably… dead, Lawrence,” I said with pain. “I can’t know anymore. Ever since the bloody network went out, I can’t contact her anymore. Before we had to end our last call, she told me that They were coming and that They’d get to her one way or another.”

“I heard. You know what else she said?” I shook my head slowly, my mind was too clouded by grief and despair. “She said that she’d fight them off, that she’ll make it, one way or another. She said that –”

“That she’ll wait for me, I know!” I almost shouted, the pain of the memory was too vivid, so much so that the spasms were getting worse. I gripped the railing with all my strength. “And I promised her. Promised her! That I’d go look for her. I’m so scared. I’ve tried so many times to leave you guys, as quietly as possible. But every time I look at the road ahead. I just won’t move. I can’t. Because my instincts are telling me I won’t make it, no matter what I do or how far I get. And that Sam is already dead and that I’ve already failed her…”

His hand gently patted my shoulder. “And that’s why I’m going to make you an offer,” he said gently. I turned, looking into his brown eyes. “We will let you go, we’ll give you all that you need to get there and we’ll help you take the first steps.”

“Really?” I asked like a child that was offered to sleep with his parents after waking up from a nightmare. Lawrence nodded.

“But on one condition.” His expression suddenly shifted into a stern and paternal face.

“What is it?” I asked, slightly anxious.

“The journey in front of you is dangerous as hell. I know it’ll be hard all on your own, and you’ll have less chances of staying alive if you’re alone in the wild. So, we’re coming with you.”

Lawrence

I tried my best to help and reassure him. Of course, I was thinking about what I was saying, the promise I was making. I was ready to lead my friends over to Canada, but I wasn’t sure if Samantha would survive until we arrived… Jon was at the edge of a dangerous abyss. I understood the pain he was going through, who wouldn’t? The world was spiralling into madness and death, and the only person left that he loved was thousands of kilometres away from him, and what’s more, he had recently received a message that seemed like the last that he would get from her. Poor kid.

How would I act if I was in his shoes?

With the world in a crisis, my friends counted on me to help them and lead them through these uncertain times. I was probably taking this role as leader a little too seriously but I didn’t think anyone else was fit for this job. Through all the stress of keeping this group alive, I didn’t think I would have been able to stay strong if anything had happened to Nao…

Maybe if I was in Jon’s place, I would have made the same decisions?

I forced my mind back to the present.

After having made sure Jonathan wouldn’t follow through with his dark intentions, not today at least, I slowly went back to my room.

I walked down the corridor of this empty hotel, deserted during the crisis. But was now our safe haven. Isolated and well hidden, those were the things we needed to keep the Ragers at bay. The red, dusty carpet led me on. Though abandoned, this entire building was well maintained before the Fall and thankfully had not been raided, yet. Just staying here, looking at the beige wallpaper and the glossy doors, nobody would’ve realized the state of our society outside, or the very lack of it. Comfort was another advantage we had in this fortress, one advantage we could not deny. What better way to forget the present than by living like a hermit in a pseudo-paradise?

I believed that if I asked Jon, the only thing that would really reassure him, would be to have Samantha safe between his arms.

I took a quick glance at the staircase leading downstairs, to see our makeshift barricade; we set it up between the ground floor and the first floor to block any intruders trying to come in at night to slit our throats; nothing to report.

I climbed up four steps at a time on the staircase, time wasn’t a luxury I could afford. However, I made an exception to watch my sweetheart sleep as I entered the room.

It was still quite early. Of course she would be sleeping.

I prepared my equipment and clothes and planted a soft kiss on her forehead before leaving the room.

I went up the steps, four by four, time wasn’t a luxury I could afford.

I opened the metallic door leading to the roof.

The wind blew on my face, then the cold started settling into my skin, leading to goose bumps taking over my body.

But I had to stay strong, both mentally and physically. Missing a single day of training was out of the question.

I perched myself just next to the edge before beginning. The view was as beautiful as ever, with a clear sky, the vast forest below like a sea, washing up against the islands that were the mountains of the Alps. From my observation point nothing could escape my gaze. I turned back to start my training.

I hit the punching bag with full force. Right. Left. Right hook. Left uppercut. Dodge. Kick. My legs were pumping, and my arms locked up against my face in the correct defensive posture. Pivoting my body with every punch, giving it my all. Before long the skin on my hands cracked and bled as my fingerless leather gloves stretched and tightened around my knuckles.

Twenty minutes later, the metal door scraped against the roof. It was Nao.

“You woke me up, I couldn’t go back to sleep after,” she said between yawns.

The wind blew her jet-black hair from her adorable visage, still softened by sleep. Her shirt (mine more like, seeing how much it outsized her) flew in the bursts of air, clinging on to her body.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to, you know I couldn’t resist the temptation.” I paused to smile at her.

“It’s alright,” she mumbled. “Why do you keep training like this? You should take better care of yourself, stop taking this ‘role’ so seriously, it’ll only hurt you, don’t you think?”

“I talked to Jonathan this morning,” I said between punches.

“You’re not answering my question.” She crossed her arms, I stopped to look at her.

“He was…planning to kill himself. I put myself in his shoes and realized I wouldn’t be able to live on without you. So, no, I may not take care of myself right now, I’m doing this for a better future.” I heaved for air, anger and adrenaline coursing in my blood. She was surprised at the news but quickly regained her serious composure.

“Just say what’s on your mind, we both know you’re under too much pressure.”

I knew she was right, my sanity was taking a beating. Nobody could ever really stay indifferent to what was happening, and those who tried would end up paying a heavier price, just like Jon.

But how could a shattered mind like mine break even more, I asked myself naively.

We spoke as the sun rose, from the most important things down to the smallest anecdotes. We talked about Jonathan and me, about us.

Nao

I kissed him, leaving him to his exercises.

We had talked about our past lives. It was amusing to look back at our banal lives. Not too long ago our routines and projects were slowly separating us, but thanks to the Fall we finally got to spend all the time we wanted together, though not as we first imagined back at New Year’s.

Before the world went mad, we had both studied in different universities. Lawrence was in Switzerland and I in South Korea. We would only see each other during the holidays, only twice a year. It was frustrating and even unbearable, but we never stopped loving each other from the first time we met. Not one day passed without us sending each other a text or making a call despite the distance and all the disadvantages it brought along.

I left my home to study art, I had to leave and make my dreams come true no matter what. Of course, it hurt Law so badly that he even planned to come with me. I forbade him to do so, he needed to finish his studies just as I needed to begin mine.

Despite all that, only one thing had changed, a promise he had made.

I looked back at him as he kicked the punching bag.

Or maybe, two things had changed, the way he looked at me… He was self-assured and almost casual.

I went downstairs to rinse my face in the sink.

I didn’t have any daily task today, there wasn’t much you could do anyway, most of the other guys were probably up already working.

I took my shower.

It was amazing. Even with our collapsed society, production of electricity at an end and the loss of so many luxurious commodities we once had, I could still take a shower. This hotel was probably one of the only locations in the world that was truly secure. Matthew and Lawrence had explained it all to me in detail, the hows and the whys of the infrastructure of this building, but I had never really paid attention.

As I thought of all those things, an obvious question suddenly sprouted in my mind: how have I changed since the Fall? Law had physically and mentally hardened; Jonathan had closed in on himself more than ever and the imminent danger of Samantha’s life had put him in a deep and profound torment; and Kenny? He hadn’t changed one bit. Maybe it was normal not to change?

The water became cold, pulling me away from my pensive state.

Breakfast would soon be served and I wasn’t even close to being ready. I would have to dry my hair another moment, it wasn’t a big deal, not as big as surviving. I threw on some clothes lying around in our messy room and headed towards the dining room.

The dining room was spacious, able to hold at least fifty people before the Fall, and dwarfed our group of fourteen. The round table that we used in the middle of the hall wasn’t fully occupied, only a handful had come for breakfast, Law and Jon were often the first to be there, but not today it seemed. Kenny, who had been named head chef by a majority in our group, pushed a long service trolley full of bread. Fruit, jam and butter in small plastic containers and other small treats were also placed on the table to spice up the otherwise, stale bread. I sat down between two empty seats. Kenny took his place to my left.

“Guys, we won’t have enough food to sustain ourselves soon, we’re going to have to find a way to restock, by either hunting or fishing. Something along those lines.” Kenny always had a way of announcing these kinds of things casually, but it didn’t help with the rising panic.

“What do you mean we won’t have enough food soon?” Hugo asked dumbly.

“Not enough to fill up your fat ass.” Kenny also had a way of being blunt and honest. If it hurt others, he didn’t care.

Hugo was about to retort when Law arrived and interrupted them. “Alright Kenny, cool it. How much do we have left?”

“I’m not quite sure, but if we keep eating the way we do, at this rate, we’ll only have enough for around a week, maybe ten days if we ration it strictly.”

“Add hunting and fishing to our daily tasks,” commanded Lawrence coolly.

“Why don’t we just go to town? Raid?” Nicolas’ high-pitched voice cut in. The idea of going out to hunt for animals didn’t please me, I was against animal cruelty. However, Nicolas’ idea, though extremely dangerous, caught on with the rest of the group.

Lawrence sat down, his eyes stared at something in the distance that no one else could see but him, he stroked his stubbled chin, thinking. “I don’t see anything that could be more dangerous than going back to society.”

Kenny, who seemed entirely prepared to put himself in danger, got up and called for a vote. At first, everybody froze into place, until Nicolas joined him and soon enough the majority of the group raised their hands. Even if Jon and some other members had been here, it wouldn’t have changed the result. We were going back Outside.

Law stood up to give orders. “Fine… Fine… You are all absolutely crazy, but it’s your choice and our responsibility, so I’m leading this expedition. I need a volunteer to replace me for the management of our electricity. Matthew, for example.”

Law always preferred to do everything himself.

“You can’t leave the hotel, Lawrence, without mentioning the maintenance you do every day. Who is going to plan and research our next move? We’re not going to be able to stay here the rest of our lives… And don’t forget, you and Alex were planning to set up and test the solar panels on the roof,” I said matter-of-factly. Whether he was a mortal man or a god in his own world, I would always have the last word. So I volunteered to lead the raid while he would stay at home. He tried to dissuade me but the only thing he could order me to do was to have Matthew come along.

Nicolas

The clock showed 9 AM. It was time to go out. Me and my friends against the world, what a great life, I thought. This apocalypse (whatever kind of apocalypse this was) was a miracle, a kid’s dream. That’s what this all was, right? A dream. None of us, not even Alex, could’ve imagined that our reality could be changed so rapidly. With shitty family responsibilities and life-threateningly boring schoolwork out of the way, I could focus on the most important thing about this life: fun. Fun with friends. Fun with the world. Fun with Life, with a big capital ‘L’. With electricity now a rare and even precious commodity, video games were out of the picture. Forever? A squeaky and panicky voice cut into my train of thoughts. But that didn’t matter, my friends and I still played board games – when we weren’t planning for our survival that is.

However, the moment Kenny mentioned the imminent danger of running out of supplies, a hurtling sense of urgency and reality smacked me right in the face like a TGV heading straight for Paris. We’re running out of food. What could be any worse than that, other than dying? I mean, we still had around a week’s supply of food and another three weeks (theoretically) of surviving on nothing but our own fat. So why worry? A sly but very persuasive voice said. We can still have fun while we survive…

I shook my head in frustration. Too much noise. Charles and Daniel were carrying on a debate that had comically started before society collapsed. They were arguing over whether Charles would be able to shoot a fat duck with a precision rifle better than Daniel shooting a small duck with a shotgun. This was of course only one of the many subjects they usually fought about, but they still stuck together. This love-hate friendship had lasted since the beginnings of this group and, for me, it would last all the way until death separated them.

Lawrence sat at the northern end, with Nao at his right. The left seat was empty. Where’s Jon? It was especially strange of him not to be there. Though he had often been silent these past days, he would always be here to eat. Something was not right. I looked closely at Law’s face. It was drawn in a contemplative stare, like a father watching his children. This was a very natural thing coming from him, but something hid beneath the surface. My inexperience in terms of reading facial expressions cut me short in my observations but I knew – felt would be a better way of putting it – that he looked graver. More animal-like. As if he was a wolf prepared to protect his cubs no matter the cost. He glanced at his watch and got up.

Silence. Everyone looked at him. Watching. Waiting. I felt my heart being crushed between my lungs and my ribs, but there was also a sense of security. The word for this feeling was at the tip of my tongue, dancing as I reached for it. Power. This is what power is, fear, obedience, strength, my thoughts said. Just say the word and the world will bend to your will. Law’s voice crushed the stillness of the room.

“All right. Guys, it’s four past nine, we’re running a little late on schedule. Tidy up the table. Get your gear and be ready in fifteen minutes. I want to see the scavenging team ready at nine twenty, no later,” he said. His voice had been an octave lower than how he usually talked. If this was meant to take on an authoritative tone, it worked only partially. Some took it seriously like Nao, Liam, Thomas, Hugo, and Jon had he been here. The others smiled, trying to stifle a laugh or a giggle, but Law’s eyes burned with a reproaching fury which immediately ended the childish reactions. Everyone got up. Fun’s over, time for work.

We finished our breakfast quickly and tidied up the table.

I headed upstairs to the second floor and turned left. Room 318. I had to inform Jonathan of our plan for today. But, before I opened the door, I heard a strange metallic slide and clicking, it sounded like a printer. Sssk-sssk-sssk…

I pushed forward against the door slowly, my attempt at being discreet failing quickly as the door creaked. A dark, almost monotone voice growled from beyond.

“Ever heard of knocking?” Jonathan said. He was sitting cross-legged at the end of the short suite’s hallway, his back towards me and a gun pointed from above his shoulder to the door. I laughed nervously.

“Careful where you point that thing, Jon…” I said uneasily. “We’re going out today, we need you.” A sort of grumpy sigh escaped him, it seemed like his strange way of laughing these days. He’s probably the weakest member in this group, mentally, I thought. He’s deteriorated so drastically, I wonder what got him into this state…

This hollow shell who used to be one of my good friends took a deep breath. “Outside, huh? Scavenge? Food supply low, right? We have only a week left if I’m not mistaken…” He got up, grabbed a backpack just around the corner of the room, and took out a trench coat from the closet. I looked at him wide-eyed. He stared at me curiously, and in that moment I knew I wasn’t looking at Jonathan anymore. I was looking at the Terminator… or an Assassin from my video games… or one of those crazy killers from the movies. Something cold and calculating. Empty of feeling. That illusion was gone as soon as he smiled. “I watched you guys talk.” All I could do was nod and reply with a quiet ‘oh’. He turned me around like you would with a lost child. “Time to go bud, we’re burning daylight here.” He laughed at that last comment and I just laughed along, trying to decipher this strange comedy that only Jon could understand.

I headed to my room to pack up my gear.

9:30AM. Our scavenging team was locked and loaded. We said goodbye to Lawrence, Alex and the other brains that were working on keeping our temporary home ship-shape. We climbed up the barricade of scrap metal that we built on the day following our arrival. It had been almost a month since we had arrived here. I was accustomed to the protective woods that concealed us from the Ragers. Now we were heading Outside. Sure, it was dangerous, but it was fun, right?

Nao was leading us today. I liked her better than Law as a leader. He looked each day more and more like Jon, whereas Nao was like a mother to us all.

Our scavenging team was composed of nine people. We were spread out in a hexagon, with three people (me included) set up in a triangle within that hexagon. Apparently, Thomas had learnt this formation when he was in the army for three months. He implemented it as a way to keep all eyes and ears ready for an ambush or event coming from any side and to keep any important teammates protected.

Nao was in front of me on my right, she was part of the inner triangle. “Alright guys. We have around an hour’s walk to the nearest town. We won’t be taking any cars, it would attract far too much attention. Keep your eyes open, don’t hesitate to say anything that you think may be strange or suspicious.” She looked at everyone, Jon especially, to make sure everyone was listening. “Don’t split up in a group with less than four people. I think that’s all for now…” Everyone nodded and mumbled in agreement.

Steve (as always) made a quirky remark. “Well men, you heard the lady. If you see a Playboy magazine give it to Nao for inspection. She’ll make sure it’s worthwhile to fap to.” This was (as always) accompanied by sniggers.

“Isn’t Playboy one of those old rabbit magazines our grandpas used to get off to?” asked Thomas.

“Wow! Glad you know at least the logo of that damned thing. Keep it in mind, that commodity is as precious as food, if not, more! As I say, real boobs are temporary, pictures of them are timeless,” Dimitry said. Everyone cracked up once more, except for Nao.

“Great quote. You want that written on your tombstone?” Steve parried, and even Nao laughed this time.

We were approaching the intersection with another road, we headed south-east, down the winding road to civilization.

We walked in silence for the next hour, an unsettling anxiety slowly clouding our group. Outside, I thought. Such a mysterious and beautiful word. A poisoned gift. We passed a few more intersections, the forest was slowly receding behind us, telling us that there was no turning back now. You’re on your own now, it said, come back if you can… I shuddered at the thought.

Nao held up a clenched fist in the air. “Stop. We’re almost there.” Not everyone stopped at first, especially the guys in front of Nao. I laughed a little, thinking how disorganized we were. Jonathan, who was next to me, gave that reproachful look that felt exactly like Law’s from earlier on. “Okay. Before we go in, I want you all to be careful.” Again she looked especially at Jonathan. “Stay discreet, don’t take any risks, I want to come back with all of you alive.” Something was obviously wrong with Jon. But what? I didn’t know.

We followed the road, passing the first few chalets. Most of them were abandoned, windows were broken, doors were unhinged. However, some had their curtains pulled over, or eyes were peeping out but not daring to step out. These were the Fearful. They had known something was wrong, they had made preparations, and when the world came to a tumbling halt, they stayed inside, living off what they had left in their storage rooms. Of course, most of them had already killed themselves, or had been killed.

They were no danger to us. We entered some of the chalets, checking only the kitchens at the beginning. In here, fear reigned, it fed on us, it knew our weaknesses. Its odourless smell overflowing from every crack and corner in each house. We first stuck together, getting used again to the constant anxiety. After passing a few intersections and getting close to the first town’s centre, we decided to split up. One group heading west and the other (my group) heading east. Before we split up, we said our goodbyes. It felt almost final. Like we would never see each other again. I shivered, trying to push the thought away.

The Eastern group was composed of Steve, Thomas, Hugo and Dimitry. I felt safe with them, since they were the first guys I had got to know when I joined this group. They were hardened (like me) by this new atmosphere, this isolation, survival, a gruff voice echoed in my mind.

We spent the rest of the morning searching the buildings. From time to time we ran into a scuffle with another survivor. The loners usually ran as soon as they saw that they were outnumbered. I felt empowered during those moments. Free. I owned the world with my friends. We were able to get some canned food. They all varied in shapes, sizes and dates of consumption. Dimitry told us to take it all even if it was past it’s eat by date. As long as the can was intact and still sealed, it would be good to eat no matter what. Just looking at them put me off. Dimitry was a genius, literally. He had once gone to take an IQ test and came back saying that he was apparently a high potential. That didn’t really surprise anyone in the group. We were geeks, nerds, whatever the others called us. We were an intellectual group. Sure we were “irresponsible” teens, we had our binge-drinking parties, we messed around from time to time, but we were smart enough to survive whatever the hell we were living through at the moment.

At around 1PM we met with the other group again, in front of a fountain that served as a village centre. We took refuge from spying eyes and paranoid trigger fingers, in an abandoned chalet.

We went up to the first floor where there was a small dining room. There a heavy and old oak table stood in the middle, unharmed by the events from outside. Small chairs (six in total) surrounded the circular table. The walls were either hidden by a bookshelf or paintings. A grandfather clock stood tall and strong in one corner, its pendulum ticking away. It was a room that retained its calm and tradition of the past. Heavy nostalgia suddenly struck my heart, as if my past actually had weight to it, and it felt like the world hung on a single string attached to my heart. I was afraid it would snap. Thomas and Hugo broke that illusion and went to the basement to grab wooden planks to board up the dining room. We took all the necessary precautions to avoid getting attacked. Five people were put on guard duty. One made sure nobody came up the stairs, and the four others were spread out throughout the rest of the house to clear the rooms (in case there were any Fearful, which wasn’t the case) and to keep a watch outside. The rest of us ate our meagre lunch.

We laid all the supplies that we had found that morning on the dining room table. The Western group had found a pharmacy that still had some supplies. They took vitamins, cough syrups, bandages and a whole range of pharmaceutical goods.

“This is good, very good. Well done everyone,” commented Nao as she furrowed her brows and looked intently at the table, figuring out the next steps we had to take. “We’ll leave at two. Mix up our teams for the afternoon. We’ll meet up at First Village before sundown.” She paused and checked her watch before continuing. “That should be at around six, so everyone be there at the latest at five thirty. Other than that, congratulations again for finding this much stuff, we’re getting good at this,” she ended, smiling as she sat down on the nearest chair. First Village was the (very original) name we gave to the village that we first pass when we leave the hotel, it was a sort of reassuring name, one that held a promise or a curse. You’re leaving, you might die, it said in the morning. You have survived another day, welcome back, it said when you came back in the evening, just like the forests surrounding our base.

I sat down next to her. I checked my watch. It was 1:38PM. This calm atmosphere helped me relax as everyone drifted off to talk about everything and anything (as they always did). I suddenly noticed that Jon was standing all alone (as he usually was) in the corner opposite the grandfather clock. He leaned against the wall, staring, almost hypnotized at the old antiquity as it ticked on. I looked at Nao and realized that she was looking at him too.

Before I could stop myself I blurted out the question that had been eating me up since we had left the hotel that morning, “What’s wrong with Jon?” Nao looked at me sadly and sighed.

“Not now…,” she whispered. I looked at Jon, concerned. I looked back towards Nao. “Don’t worry, we have him under control,” she reassured me calmly. I nodded slowly. But that comment gave me all the info I needed on Jon’s intentions. Everything was so clear at that very moment. Jon cleaning his gun that morning. His frequent absence of feeling or emotion. He was broken. Depressed. My eyes widened in horror as I realized what he could do to himself.

“Hey guys,” I called out weakly at first to the group, only Jon took notice and watched me now, with that hard, focused look that bore into me like a drill.

“Everyone. Nicolas has something to say,” Jonathan said in an empty voice that was loud enough to get everyone’s attention. I nodded at him in thanks.

“I’m not sure everyone saw it this morning, but there was a sort of mini-mall down the mountain. It’s probably half a day’s walk from the hotel but it must be stuffed with supplies. Everybody’s too busy freaking out at the moment to think about raiding the stores. They’re still waiting on the ‘authorities’ that will come back.” I scoff at that, “Yeah right. But we know they aren’t coming any time soon, we could –”

“Suicide, Nicolas. That’s what you’re talking about bro,” says Hugo. “You seriously don’t think we’re gonna walk all the way down there just to raid that place? It’s far too costly. We’re already taking a lot of risks making our search round here. Plus, we don’t even know if that place is empty. We’re supposed to survive, man. We already went through this. We’re not going there, okay?” Everyone agreed, even Nao, saying that she didn’t want to lose me. I nodded obediently, but my mind was now in overdrive. I’m gonna show them, I thought. I’ll go there, no matter what, and I’ll bring back mountains of supplies. Everyone will praise me, I’ll be a hero among them. A Hero. I might even become a leader. I let my imagination run free, wondering about what I’d do with such power.

We set off, this time in different groups and different directions. Nao and Jonathan were in the group alongside Dimitry and Hugo. With my newfound knowledge about Jon, I feared him so much more than I ever did in the past. For someone who was internally broken, he seemed at the top of his game, physically speaking. He was the perfect model of a survivor. Strong. Aware, stable (at least, that’s what it looked like if you didn’t know him).

I sometimes envied the others. Seeing as I was the youngest one in the group, I was considered the ‘fragile’ and the most ‘vulnerable’ out of all of us. But other times I was happy I wasn’t as broken as some people were.

As we walked down an old country road, we heard leaves rustle in the harsh north wind. Jonathan suddenly stopped and held his hand up in a fist. Everyone stopped, even Nao, who was about to object when he hushed her.

“No talk,” he whispered. “We’re not alone, get into a defensive circle.”

Nao had a conflicted expression at first, but quickly gave up the argument and ordered everyone into place. We crouched into a circle, facing outwards. Jon pulled out his pistol and loosened the strap that held his titanium baseball bat. I pulled out two long kitchen knives. Everyone else had their bat or knife ready, except Hugo who had brass knuckles. He was a novice boxer, but he already had the technique and everything to get a knock-out on the first punch (if he was lucky enough to land a punch that was).

Suddenly a tall figure in a trench coat dropped from a tree on to the road. He was all clad in black. A low hat and a bandana covered his face. He stared at us before speaking.

“You have entered our territory. You have no business here. Leave, or die.” Four other figures in trench coats dropped from trees, surrounding us.

“Leave, or die,” they chanted, closing the distance, making the circle tighter. “Leave, or die.” Those three words rang in my head, I was shuddering in horror. I held on to the knives tighter.

Suddenly, Jon leaped on the leader once he was close enough, and all hell broke loose.

I could only remember snatches of the fight. Sometimes it felt like it lasted hours, when in reality it must have lasted two minutes maximum.

I charged at one of the trench coats, pointing my two knives in front of me, as my friends threw punches and swatted the intruders with their bats. The trench coat I was running towards pulled out something from under his coat. By the black metallic gleam I realized what it was. I almost stopped, primal paralysis almost stopping me to offer my body to death. I quickly rolled to the side and jumped at the man in black. A soft schlick followed as I planted one knife where his neck was, while the other scraped against his gun. The hooded trench coat froze, and a gurgling sound accompanied him as he fell down dead. A rush of adrenaline filled me as I turned around to see my friends fighting.

Two men were down on the ground, still. Another was being taken down by Hugo who was helping Nao with her opponent. As for the last trench coat, I looked around and saw him running away. That’s when I saw Jon’s violent side. He took a few paces in the direction the deserter was running, his gun cradled in both hands professionally. He stopped, aimed the gun and squeezed the trigger. An explosion rang and the trench coat was down, but Jon didn’t stop at that. He walked furiously towards the man draped in black. I realized that my group was following him. The whole team was whooping and encouraging Jon. I followed suit, not saying anything.

Once Jon was next to the trench coat, he pushed the body aside so he could see their head. And that’s when he froze in place. His gun was pointed straight at her head. He was looking right at a blonde girl. She must have been no older than Nao. Her crisp blue eyes contrasted with her pink lips. I looked at Jon’s hand, waiting for the tell-tale sign that he was going to shoot, but nothing happened. He was shaking uncontrollably.

“Please,” the girl managed to wheeze, “I don’t want to die…” She was slowly slipping away, her hand placed on her upper thigh where Jon had shot her.

Jon aimed the gun at the sky and pulled two shots off with a cry of pain. He dropped the gun and collapsed on the floor, curling up into a ball, crying. The blonde looked at us in fear, then stared at Jon as he sobbed and seemed to choke on one word repeatedly.

“Sorry… sorry… s-s-sorry…” he whispered. I looked at him, horrified. A sense of wanting to comfort him surged within me. But my thoughts were interrupted by Nao who swiftly picked up Jon’s gun and pointed it at the girl, who let out a blood-cuddling scream before she was interrupted by two more gunshots.

Jon got to his knees, holding the corpse’s hand tightly. His single word repetition developed into one simple phrase that he repeated: “I’m sorry Samantha… I’m sorry…”

Nao pulled him up and slapped away the madness from him. “That bitch wasn’t Samantha! She was trying to kill you for fuck’s sake! Get your shit together…,” she yelled at Jonathan brutally.

“Nao, we have to go. Those shots could be heard in a radius of around ten kilometres. I wouldn’t be surprised if these guys had a base nearby,” interrupted Dimitry, aiming a submachine gun towards the empty fields. I realized it was the gun the Trench Coat tried to pull out when I stabbed him.

Everyone came to their senses. We had managed to survive this scuffle, but a full fight… we were too small a group. So we ran. We ran for so long. It was made even harder by the fact that I was carrying a backpack full of cans. I coughed, spit out phlegm every so often, and heaved under the weight of death hanging above us.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in a chalet in First Village, waiting for sundown to come. Jon was lying down on a bed, curled up into a ball, sobbing, while Nao sat down next to him. I helped Dimitry and Hugo keep watch. It was tedious, but I was glad we had made it back to First Village.

Once it was 5:30 PM, we left the house and made our way to the centre of town where the Eastern group was waiting for us. Nao mentioned the ambush only briefly. She didn’t give any details about the girl or Jon’s crisis.

We walked the next hour in relative peace and calm.

When we arrived back to Home Base, we left our supplies to Kenny and took some downtime to forget (temporarily) the events of that day.

While the others vacated to boardgames and chit-chat, I secretly prepared my backpack. I had kept some cans of food hidden in my knapsack, in preparation for my little expedition. I then put my pack in the closet (just in case).

That evening, we ate in a relatively quiet atmosphere. Hugo and Dimitry went on about their heroics of the day while the others listened and made snarky remarks. Jon was at the table, but he felt so distant, eating away at the pea soup that Kenny had prepared. Law was just glad that he had Nao in his arms again, but sooner or later his role as a leader would come back to him  and he would be shouting orders at us before we knew it.

Suddenly, a fact ran through my mind that hadn’t seemed important to me until now. I had killed someone. I had killed one of the trench coats by stabbing him in the neck. Did that make me worse than Jon? He ended up not shooting her, while I didn’t hesitate… Monster, a voice called out in my head. I closed my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. I’m not a monster. I got up, heading upstairs when Lawrence stopped me.

“Where are you heading Nicolas?” He asked in his usual stern tone.

“My room. I’m not feeling well.” I laughed nervously, trying to hide the secret mission I had assigned myself. “I’m gonna sleep now. Need some energy for tomorrow.” I laughed again as he nodded and said goodnight, everyone else mumbled a goodnight.

I went upstairs. Grabbed my backpack and left it in front of the door, I was about to put on my coat when I heard a knock on the door. My heart thumped deep inside me like a drum. I walked slowly to the door. I called out, “Who’s there?”

“It’s Law, just want a word with you.”

I opened the door. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Nao told me that you wanted us to consider going to search the mall.” I was about to agree when he stopped me, “It’s not happening. We’ve told you enough times, so drop it, okay? Don’t take any stupid risks. That’s all.” He ruffled my hair a little and smiled. “Good night buddy.”

I sighed as I closed the door. Safe. I was safe. I looked at the bag to my right. Doubt crept in my mind for a second before my determination stopped me. You’re doing this for your friends, you’re helping them, a voice reassured me.

I grabbed my coat and pack, sneaking out to the wild night where the woods would protect me.

As I reached the edge of the forest, I looked behind me as the woods faded. Goodbye, they said. Goodbye for now, goodbye forever maybe, come back if you can. Come back when you have survived the Outside…

Kenny

I sat down with my bowl of soup at the table as the others were already in the middle of their poker match. Everyone looked up at me with a smile and a thank you.

It felt good to cook for these guys. Even if they didn’t often show it, just their smiles and the fact they had warm food and a bed to sleep in showed that they appreciated my efforts. I teased the guys as they played. Law sat next to me with Nao by his side. Watching. I think everyone knew by now that something was on his mind, and that he wouldn’t hesitate to tell us at the opportune moment.

As soon as I was finished, I walked downstairs to the kitchen to drop off my bowl near the sink. I turned around to find Law waiting at the entrance of the kitchen.

“Hey Law. Still hungry?” I asked with a laugh, he shook his head with a sad smile.

“I need to ask you a favour.” He sighed and looked down.

“Uh… sure. Everything okay man?” I walked towards him with my arms crossed. He scoffed at my question.

“Okay? Nothing’s okay anymore…”

“Mhm…”

“I need you to watch over Nicolas,” said Lawrence. It sounded more like a desperate plea than an order.

“You afraid he’s going to do something stupid?” I laughed again, but I stopped myself when I realized he was being serious.

“I think he’s planning to go to that bloody mall by himself.” I nodded slowly listening to his explanations. I patted his back and we walked back to the dining room.

“No problem Law. I’ll watch his room, make sure he doesn’t leave. Don’t worry. Everything’s gonna turn out okay. This is just a little setback in life.” My good friend and leader of this group smiled. I left him to rest at the lobby while I went upstairs to guard Nicolas’ door.

I grabbed a chair and sat in front. I felt like one of those lazy guards in the movies or video games. The one that always got easily fooled. I laughed quietly to myself. I’ve got this in the bag. My boredom was quickly reaching its limits, I had never been assigned a job as tedious as this. Before leaving my post, I propped the chair against Nicolas’ door handle, just in case.

I quickly ran up to my room in the corner of the 4th floor, grabbed a book and sprinted back down towards my temporary post. The chair was still where I placed it. I sighed in relief, grabbed the chair and set it next to the wall.

I opened the book, unfolding the corner of the page that I had marked. It was a hefty book that I had borrowed from Jon. He had acted really strangely when we had had to leave our hometown to come here. He had spent almost a day picking books that he wanted to take with him. His personal “library” was very impressive, full of pop culture references and classics. New and old books. Some were very adult for a kid his age, but apparently he understood those books well and had done some thorough research on them. This one was a real account of a white journalist in the 50’s who decided to do a social experiment by artificially darkening his skin and living life as an ordinary black man in the Deep South of the States, the way society was described back then for such a ‘civilized’ country was disgusting. The Fall had erased the hypocritical side of society seeing as ethics were nearly non-existent now. I plunged once again into this dysfunctional society and account of a bitter-sweet era.

I don’t know when the uproar from downstairs began but it must have been at least two hours after I took up my post in front of Nicolas’ room. From a period of silence began a sort of rumbling of voices from downstairs. I got up, surprised, listening out for gunshots or tell-tale sounds of melee combat. Nothing. Just shouts. I was two floors up from the dining room so I couldn’t make out what was being said, but I understood that our group was angry. About what, I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to know. Why was I the one that always missed out?

I had to force myself to stay put, otherwise I would have run down to see what all the commotion was about. I tried to carry on reading my book but the words on the pages just started to lose all sense as isolated shouts and cries of anger rose from below. I couldn’t leave my post. I had given my word to Lawrence. And I would stick to it. No matter what.

Seconds passed, minutes passed. They seemed to stretch and bend. Slowing down or speeding up this unmoving corridor. The shouting had stopped. Only the static whisper of my mind remained. I shivered. Even the heating seemed to have stopped as time froze. Nothing could break this still picture.

That’s when the memories started flooding in.

Ana, the Fall, the Ragers. Everything was getting clearer and clearer as my past broke through this sick reality. I dropped the book, my hands trembling as my vision went blurry. Tears blinded me. The gunshots. Our self-imposed exile. This is what a traumatized person must feel like…  I got up and punched the wall behind me.

“I’ll always be with you. No matter what…” Her voice echoed in my head. Her screams. Her despair. Why did she have to die? Why did they kill her and not me!?

I picked up Jon’s book to try and clear my mind. Adrenaline still ran through my veins as my body shook in sad anger. The descriptions of the night sky in this memoir depressed me or filled me with hope for this confused man, wondering how on earth we came to be such awful creatures, but it was better than thinking of my past.

This isolating nightmare soon ended when Law came looking for me.

“Everything okay here? He didn’t try anything?” He asked a little distantly. He had obviously got into a heavy discussion with the others. Something important. Very important…

“Nope. He’s been as quiet as a hibernating bear… Or whatever else is quiet during sleep.” I laughed a little, but humour at that moment didn’t seem like the best option. “What was all that shouting downstairs?” At that question, Lawrence looked down as if embarrassed.

“Kenny… Come down, get Nicolas too. We have a serious decision to make.” My eyes widen. Sure, we made serious decisions every day, but there was something in Law’s eyes that said that this new decision was probably the biggest one we’d ever had to take. Life or death…

I got up from my chair and knocked on Nicolas’ door. I waited a few seconds. Nothing. I gave a quick glance at Law. He seemed even tenser now. I knocked again. Harder and louder. He was surely deep in sleep now. I waited for a full minute this time. Nothing.

“Move aside,” ordered Lawrence. I did as he said. “Nicolas! Open the door now or I’m kicking it down. I’m not kidding!” he yelled, banging on the door desperately. He waited a couple minutes more, knocking from time to time, his fist banging louder and louder against the thin wood. I think it was at that moment that I saw tears well up in his eyes. He growled in anger and started kicking at the door. I joined in. Oh shit, I’ve fucked up, I’ve fucked up bad. my head was echoing with self-reproach. I pulled off the Lazy Guard…

After a few minutes of kicking, we managed to make a hole in the door, Law crawled in and I followed suit.

The next words he said woke us to the terrible reality we were precipitated into. “He’s gone. Nicolas is gone…” The only clue as to where Nicolas had gone was the open window at the end of the room, curtains swaying. Waving like an accomplice to Nicolas’ mistake. You’re too late…

Chapter one

Charles

The children laughed, chasing after each other, as the sun beat down on all of us. They all held souvenirs of their school year, all excited, all happy. Some cried at the departure of friends, some shouted with words of hope.

“We’ll see each other soon!” they would say. I leaned against one of the buildings, shaded against the burning eyes of the Sun. I sighed tiredly. Another sleepless night… I either can’t stay up because I’ve worked too much or I can’t get enough sleep because I need to work…

I pulled out my phone to check the time. 15:12. What was she doing? She should be coming here by now, like we’ve always told her to. I grunted in frustration. As I was about to put away my phone, it vibrated. A text. From Jenny.

Hey babe, mind if I stop by your place? Need some advice with a drawing. And I’m kind of lonely… I’ve missed you!

I smiled, sent a quick text back and before I knew it, my little sister finally left her friends for the summer holidays and came straight to me like a docile dog. I gave her a quick hug and started on my way back home She followed suit. Even if our home was a two-minute walk from school, it felt so much longer because of my sister’s monologue. I nodded at the right moments, half-listening to her. The heat piled atop my tiredness, my satchel feeling heavier every minute. Kids ran past us as my sister followed me, still going on about what her teacher talked about (something about aquatic animals or the like, I couldn’t care less).

We arrived in front of the building and I unlocked the door, letting her pass through. I waited a few seconds, looking out towards the road.

A few moments later, Jenny came around the corner. She was wearing her casual jeans and a burgundy top, her hair cascading over her shoulder, in that way I had always loved. I greeted her with a smile, and a sweet calm fell between us. She hugged me tight as I did the same.

“It’s so good to see you…” she whispered.

“Likewise, baby… Likewise…” With that, we went up to my family’s apartment with my impatient sister waiting at the door. As soon as she saw Jenny, she became shy and mumbled a hello.

We all went in, my sister unpacking her bag and grabbing her snack; Jenny and I went to my room and we kissed each other longingly.

Moments later, our passion slowly dissipating, we cuddled, our bodies entwined as one. It felt like it was just her and I left in this mad world, and I wanted it to stay like that. Her hand slowly reached for mine, and I wrapped my fingers between hers softly.

“I love you,” she sighed. I felt her slowly falling asleep. I got up quietly.

“You said you needed some help with a drawing,” I said, until I realized she hadn’t come with any of her things, and then I saw that look in her eyes. Those sultry amber eyes. I grinned, shy at first, until our primal needs got the better of us…

The faint clicking of the locks signalled the arrival of my mother. Jenny and I were under the covers, she was snoozing, clutching at my side. I slowly pulled away, put on my shirt, my torn jeans and left my room, closing the door behind.

“Hola mi pequeño!” My mother looked up and greeted me in Spanish. I kissed her cheek. She was a lively and plump woman, always in a good mood, well, most of the time. She was a nurse over in the hospital at Nyon, a slightly bigger town next to the one we lived in. She was a Colombian who had been in medical school before meeting my Swiss father. My dad would have left his office by now, he was coming back from Lausanne, around forty-five minutes from here by train.

He worked as a manager of a call centre. He had originally wanted to become an engineer and had entered the EPFL, but he ended up giving up on his dreams for actual money and independence. He never openly displayed regret for his choice, but it seemed as if there was a tone of self-loathing every time he spoke, which, to put it simply, was a rare occasion. With his long hours and reserved personality, he spoke only when it mattered, my mother filling in the occasional awkward silence with small talk.

When it came to my future, my parents had very high expectations. And so the day I gave up looking for an apprenticeship and explained to them my dream of becoming an artist or a mangaka, they weren’t quite happy with my choice, to say the least.

As my mother droned on about her day and her banalities, Jenny came around the corner, saw my mother and said a polite hello.

And then it happened.

That split-second of silence.

The glint of disgust in my mother’s eyes. Then, she put on a jovial and warm face, but it was all wrong. Nothing real was behind that grotesque mask.

“Jenny! How kind of you to pop by! How is your family?” mum asked. I noticed Jenny looking at me, searching for support, looking for reassurance. We had both known for a while that my parents didn’t approve of her. Their boxed-in thinking was destructive not only to themselves but to everyone else in the family.

The next thirty minutes were plagued by dark clouds in the summer heat, preparing to unleash a blitzkrieg on me and Jenny. My mother and I made small talk for the first ten minutes until everyone sank into a suffocating silence. She took refuge in the kitchen while Jenny and I retreated in my bedroom.

“Your mum is fucking crazy. I don’t understand why she hates me this much…” Jenny was close to tears; my heart was breaking with hers.

It hardened my resolve into making a decision I had been considering since I turned eighteen, a little over a year ago.

I pulled my sweetheart close to me, embracing her in my arms as she broke down into tears of confusion and sadness. This has to end…

The deep whistling of my father only served to increase the dread within me and my girlfriend. I just wanted to get away from all this.

I went over to greet my father with as much nonchalance as I could muster, but it all broke away when my father stared at me with tired, angry eyes. I was about to play the innocent and ask what was wrong when he coldly told me to bring out that whore I called my girlfriend.

My hands clenched into fists and my teeth started grinding instinctively. This is the last straw. “Don’t you dare call her- “

“Just bring her here,” my mother cut in. “We want a chat with you two.”

My heart started racing with anxiety and rage as I went to my bedroom and quickly whispered to Jenny that we’d fallen into some shit with my parents. I offered her my hand as she shakily got up and grasped it.

We entered the kitchen where my parents were sitting around the table, facing us and studying us with looks of disgust and sourness. My father silently offered us to take a seat. For a full minute we sat there speechless as my parents eyed me and Jenny.

“Charles, would you mind telling us how old you are?” my father asked, breaking the silence in a way that hurt my ears and made my soul tremble.

“Nineteen.”

“And what are you doing with your life? Do you have a job? Are you studying?” Of course, I had seen this question coming…

“I’m an artist.” I knew he had asked a trick question but I had no other choice but to play along for now.

He nodded slowly, a spark of amusement glittered in his eyes. “An artist, huh?” he scoffed. “I meant a real job.”

“It is a job, Dad, people get paid to draw comics.”

“Oh, so you’re getting paid.” My mother feigned surprise. I felt hot blood rushing to my head. I needed to stay cool, do my best to protect and reassure Jenny.

“Not exactly, but –”

“That’s exactly the problem we have with you Charles, you aren’t doing anything with your life, and we’ve had enough.”

“Furthermore,” my father joined in, “your mother and I have been concerned about your relationship with your… friend…” He gave a hardened glance at Jenny. I felt her hand desperately hold tighter onto mine, her knuckles must have turned white by then with all the strength she was using just to find an alternative to crying.

“What is your problem with her?” I snapped, my teeth grinding. “She never did you any wrong! You’re treating us like shit, what kind of parents –”

My dad slammed both palms on the table and rose to tower over everyone. “I am the man of this house! I won’t tolerate your insolence and laziness! Get a job, get this bitch out of our family –” Jenny was sobbing at this point “– or get the fuck out!” I realized that his veins in his neck were popping out and that he was clutching the edge of the dining table but most importantly: his breathing was close to wheezes as he scratched his chest with his free hand. Perfect…

I silently stood up and lead Jenny to my room where she helped me pack my things. I came back to the kitchen.

“This is what you want, you brought this on yourselves. Go to hell the both of you,” I declared with all the dignity I could muster.

“You ungrateful bastard!” my father barked. Suddenly, my dad’s eyes seemed to bulge out and he stopped breathing altogether. The hand that had been desperately scratching his chest as if he was trying to claw his heart out stopped and almost looked like he had found what he was looking for in his sternum. The other hand, clenched in a fist, began to slam against the table in anger and anxiety. He collapsed on the floor while my mum screamed at me, stuck between the two men she loved.

“Look what you did to him! Help him at least…” she cried. No, this had gone on for too long, they didn’t need me, I didn’t need them.

I ran out of the apartment without a word, took Jenny’s hand and left the building with my love as my father died of a heart attack.

Thomas

I yelped in pain after the brief but intense shock that I received from the faulty cable, almost tilting over and falling from my ladder.

“You alright Tom?” asked one of my colleagues who was busy setting up the switch for the circuit I was also working on.

“Could you at least tell me when you turn the damned switch on?” I growled at Jacques. “You know I’m working on the same circuit as you!”

Jacques sighed and shook his head with a tired chuckle. He was my supervisor for my apprenticeship. Even if he was only three years older than me, he was more experienced than me. But with moments like these, I didn’t doubt he must have used his easy upbringing to get a job with the help of some bribes. Or he was simply a sadistic dickhead who enjoyed torturing the newbies like me.

He rubbed his stubble that invaded his cheeks and chin. “You need mama to kiss your little fingers?”

“Shut up.” I threw one of my screwdrivers at him, he burst out in laughter. I focused once more on sorting out the cables and patching up the gaping holes in the plastic of the cables.

I screamed once again in pain as the cables let out some sparks. The ladder tipped and I fell two meters down from the top and landed on my back.

My memories of the next instants are fuzzy. I remember hearing Jacques’ laughter and his comments on “work safety”. I also vaguely remember my calm demeanour snapping. Even through the pain and confusion I managed to overpower him and beat him up in rage. The next thing I knew I was pulled away by other colleagues who had heard the commotion. I was taken outside by one of the senior managers and he gave me the regular “What’s gotten into you?”. For some reason, the rage wouldn’t die down  and I insulted my boss, quit, and went home.

I took a swig from the bottle of beer I ordered at the Qwerty, a bar for “geeks” my friends and I frequented. They all looked at me with pity and understanding.

“Hey man, don’t worry. At least he didn’t say that he was gonna press any charges against you. We’ve got your back though, just like we’ve helped out with Charles,” said Lawrence. Charles wasn’t here though he had taken some time to get his life straightened out and had found a temporary job at a pet store.

I gave an appreciative nod to Law. “Thanks, but I’ll find a job soon, my CFC is in the bag anyway, school’s almost over.” I raise my hands and hailed, “Hallelujah!” Everybody chuckled.

As the laughter died down, Alex came towards our seats, raising a newspaper above his head as he drew near and slammed it down in the middle of our table, almost spilling our beers. We yelled at his clumsiness but quickly calmed down as he spoke up. “Speaking of things going wrong, have you guys read all the news about the rise in road rage?” He laughed a little nervously. “People are going batshit crazy around the world…” Jonathan giggled. He was a heavy drinker when he wanted to be, he had already downed some seven bottles, and although he laughed and talked a little more than usual, he was just as lucid.

“Haven’t people been batshit crazy since the beginning?” I asked.

“Oh come on guys, you don’t think the governments are preparing some crazy coup against us?” Alex was leaning over, his eyes ablaze with curiosity, as if he was about to reveal to us the Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. Some in the group let out a sigh of pity for Alex while most just chuckled in unison.

“What? You think Big Brother’s using chem trails?” Lawrence asked after wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

Alex smiled smugly, “Pfff, ‘chem trails’… Everybody knows that’s just a stupid myth from all those conspiracy nuts.”

Everyone around the table paused to look at him, amused by his answer.

“So… What are you then?” I asked.

“I am a realistic conspiracy researcher…”

But as regular teens we laughed it off and moved on with one of our shared hobbies, “Who’s up for some gaming downstairs?” I asked.

Steve

1, 2, 3, 4! My fingers started to fly across the fret board by their own volition. The vibrations were infectious the bass and beat thrumming in my heart as I rocked out on my Ash Diamond, the custom guitar I had received after passing my last year of college. It came right on time for our very first local tour. Our group, Dinner at Five with the Devil, was a heavy metal band. Our ambition was to bring rock back to its former glory. We blended some popular sounds from the 90’s and early 2000’s and added our modern twists.

Almost every weekend the band and I got together to work our asses off, sharing discoveries and ideas. I was the youngest one in the band, at eighteen years old, the oldest being twenty-six, but age was only a number to us and music was an eternal passion.

Contrary to what people think about guitar strings, the easiest ones to fret aren’t always the easiest to master, especially on an electric guitar that captures literally every string you touch, even the softest caress if you tweak with the sound settings enough.

As we smashed the scene in front of our concertgoers, the crowd pogoing as our lead singer, Chad, encouraged them with his metal screeches, his voice borrowing the same styles as Mudvayne and Dagoba.

The night was pumped full of adrenaline, powerful vibrations and a bunch of energy drinks. It was a blast.

My grey guitar, glittering with direct light on it, rested on my display case in my bedroom.

I went over to the kitchen. In the corner was a special area that was closed off from the rest of my mother’s flat. This was the dwelling of the great furry demon that had inhabited this corner for months! Gab the Rabbit. I petted him and filled up his water bottle and his bowl of food as quietly as possible. My mother was asleep but my sister was at my father’s.

I sighed, got up and collapsed on my bed. The adrenaline dissipating, leaving place to euphoria and exhaustion.

Jonathan 

“Doggo! Stop running away from me like that!” said Samantha over the phone. I laughed along at the comical scene.

“Always the adventurous one, isn’t he?”

“Tell me about it… Always chasing birds off in the distance. Even if he knows they’ll get away from him before he arrives,” she giggled. Her voice was pure honey to my ears, her small accent was adorable. I loved everything about her, because that’s what that was, it had always been that between the two of us. Love, love, love…

God only knew how much I wanted to take her into my arms, cuddle her, nuzzle my face against her neck because that’s where she was the most vulnerable to tickles and then playfully wrestle to the ground as her German shepherd, Rogue, would join in. I let my mind roam as images of our future life floated around my head. I sighed, sitting on a bench.

“I wish I was there babe.” One of us had to say it, and it seemed it was my turn.

There was a pause from her, a sigh. “Me too hon. But hey, just a year and we’ll be together!” I could just picture that beautiful smile behind that sentence. I was just as excited as her for that destined day. Ever since the beginning of my second year at college, I had been saving up money to go see Samantha over in Canada. I tutored high schoolers, found some boring office jobs that paid well during the summer holidays, and now with the successful end of my second year and the summer holidays, that left me two months of sweet paradise with the girl of my dreams.

I was happy, and for me, that was no small thing. With my depression, anxiety and social awkwardness weighing on me and my family at a loss with my “abnormal behaviour”; Samantha, my friends, hobbies and infrequent meetings with my therapist were my only escapes from my internal pain.

I pulled out my acoustic guitar.

“Oh… I hear a zipper opening… is it the guitar, or your pants?” She loved teasing me, because she knew I was relatively shy about the subject, but as I got more intimate with her during the months we had talked, I played along and teased her back, realizing that she never expected me to retaliate.

“Take a guess. Wanna make a video call to find out?” I knew she was traumatized by face-to-face calls. It wasn’t because she was hiding anything, she was just as socially awkward (or maybe even more so) as I.

“I don’t have any make up on, you’ll be –”

“– traumatized, I know, I’ll add that to the tally for the same excuse you’ve been using since we’ve met,” I chuckled. “But Sam, you’ve got to admit it, I’m lucky to have met the sexiest girl in the world.”

“Oh, I bet she hasn’t noticed you though.” She cracked up in laughter, and so did I. “I’m sorry, I had to do it. No, but, seriously, you think I’m sexy…?”

“Of course, love… You drive me nuts with everything about you,” I replied dreamily.

“Awww…” She sighed sadly. Oh no… I thought, here it comes… “I have to go baby,” she finally whispered. I nodded, my shoulders slumped.

“Okay. You know I love you? And Rogue too,” I laughed gently.

“Yeah, you better, otherwise Rogue will hunt you down,” she giggled. We said our goodbyes, I played her a song on my guitar as she walked back home and we ended our call.

I packed up my guitar and started heading home. My anxiety was already picking up, my heartbeat and breathing going up a few gears, picking up speed as I approached my house. Having a panic attack in front of my family wouldn’t be a very good idea…

I pulled out my “emergency” anti-depressant. It was supposed to be taken in case I felt like I was about to have a crisis, which honestly, happened every time I came home.

The worst was yet to come though.

As I compulsively checked the letter box, knowing I had already opened it in the beginning of the afternoon, I stopped in front of the main entrance to the apartment building. I took in a deep breath, sighed and imagined Samantha next to me for support.

Everything I do, I do it for you…

I entered the building and climbed up to the apartment. But as soon as I stepped inside, my lungs seemed to tighten in a vice.

Once inside the apartment, I greeted my parents and my younger sister, Alison. It was nearly dinner time. I cleaned my hands, out of habit, and helped prepare the table with plates, glasses and cutlery.

“You haven’t prepared the table yet?” my father exclaimed incredulously. Technically, he was my stepfather, but I considered him as my dad.

I froze in place, my hand holding a plate in mid-air. Fuck.

“How many times have we already told you to prepare the table for dinner before we arrive?” I felt my muscles contract. I became a prisoner of my body, trapped by my unhealthy reactions to stress.

I struggled to answer. If I don’t answer, I’m fucked, I thought. If I answer wrong, I’m in for a long night. Basically, I’m totally fucked.

“Well? Answer me!” His voice was rising with irritation, his short temperament and his authoritarian rule on this family made it practically impossible for me to live mentally healthy.

“I, uh… A-a few t-t-times,” I managed to stutter out. I started to feel my right hand strain against the weight of something. I saw the plate in my hand and realized I hadn’t set it on the table yet. I put the plate down.

“–and you’re not even listening to me!” His shouting pulled me out of my tunnelled thoughts. I felt as if my mind was drowning and that the only thing pulling me out and pushing me back down were my parents.

Give me some space to breathe! I want to listen but I can’t! was what I wanted to say, but it just came out as heavy breathing and quiet grunts.

“Yeah, we get it, stay silent because you don’t give two shits about the efforts we do for you,” said my dad. I looked to my mother for support but she stared at me indifferently from behind the kitchen counter. “You know what?” my father added, looking at my mother, “this is all because we let him stay in contact with that ‘girl’–,” he said, making air quotes with his hands, “–he met over the internet.” My mother nodded in agreement. I stood frozen in place. I had never known how to handle these kinds of situations. I kept my head down.

To my relief, my mother called my sister to come to the table. It was dinner time. I could eat some of my stress away. We mostly ate in silence; my sister made a few attempts to talk and start a conversation, but my parents were too busy figuring out what to say to me next. I ate my stew slowly at first, but my mum’s cooking was too good to resist and I finished it first.

I stood up to clear my plate and cutlery.

“Sit down Jonathan.” My heart stopped at my mother’s voice. I sat back down obediently. I had no other choice.

“You’re grounded,” she declared.

I didn’t know what to say, but apparently my surprise showed.

“Don’t give me that stupid look, you’ve brought this on yourself, now man up and take responsibility for it,” my mother said coldly.

“We’ll also block contact between you and Samuel,” my father added. He always called my girlfriend “Samuel” simply because he thought she was a catfish. To add to the madness that inhabited my parents, I had done a video call with Samantha with my parents present to prove to them she was real. They had reluctantly let me stay in contact with her at first. At that moment, sitting around the table, sweating from fear, it seemed that they wanted to get back at me for my cleverness in the past.

I felt my eyes widen in dread. I swallowed my anger. Remember your promise, I thought to myself.

They started rambling on about my faults, my short-term memory lapses, my clumsiness, my personality as a whole. Me, basically. They hated me for who I was. I took it all. Let it wash over me. The promise was losing its value as my true internal feelings were taking over. Dark fantasise of death and sin started flooding my mind. My vision was blurring. All the blood was rushing to the centre of my being. Effects of adrenaline. I tried blinking my way through my internal fog. Nothing. Nothing changed.

This isn’t real, I tried reassuring myself. I am nothing, I will wake up, just a nightmare, but the dizziness and nausea was still hitting hard, my parents were continuing the onslaught on the fragile fortress that were my heart and mind.

“You’re destroying our family!”

“Throwing away your life for stupid dreams!”

“Fallen in love with a forty-year-old man passing as a girl!”

I snapped in rage.

At first, it was just a slight trembling. In that moment, I thought I could control myself. I was on the verge of fainting. I let the anger take over.

No. You’re not a slave, not a prisoner. Fight for freedom.

I stood up suddenly and silently.

My dad stood up to force me back down.

“You want this war, you’ll get it,” I whispered to myself clearly and without a single tremor of weakness in my voice. My father heard it, his anger changed to surprise.

“What did you–”

I lashed out.

I grabbed my plate on the table and smashed it on my father. Pieces flew in the air. I then grabbed him by the shoulders and kneed him in the crotch furiously.

Guttural roars filled my throat, most of it didn’t make sense at the beginning but just before my father began to choke me to unconsciousness, one phrase had raced in my mind and mouth: “You have no right.”

I woke up on a hospital bed, my mother crying behind the door, my right arm strapped and covered in bandages. Only one thought crossed in my head, promise broken.

My promise, made as a concerned and precocious child, was to never raise a hand against my parents and to never say I hate them.

I had never hated them so much as then…

Nicolas

“A huge congratulations to everyone here. All of you passed, in a brilliant or mediocre way, nobody cares! We’re all one step closer to adulthood and the freedoms and obligations that the government will be willing to give us.” Lawrence raised his bottle of beer and looked towards me. “As for you Nic, well, you’ll just have to wait a little longer than us.” Law gave me a cheeky wink and gave a “cheers!” before downing his beer. Everyone did the same.

I drank my beer, the bubbly fire warming me in this cool summer evening next to Lake Geneva.

The sky above us was a beautiful gradient ranging from a dark purple over to the south among the Alps over to a mature sunflower yellow to the North behind us where the sun was setting under the Jura mountain range. We were at the bottom of the steep hill that was commonly known by the inhabitants of Gland as “The Beach”. Three weeping willows hung over the lake. We all sat on benches that were placed on the sand only seven metres from the warm water that caressed the beach.

I closed my eyes for a moment, the heat from earlier this day had drained most of my energy. A soft melody of plucked strings floated to my ears; that was Jonathan. Sounds of moist lips parting followed; that was either Law with Naomi, Kenny and his girl or Charles and Jenny.

I opened my eyes, took a deep breath and walked towards the lake, grabbing a flat, round pebble. I skimmed some stones to pass the time, otherwise I would’ve fallen asleep. That would instantly become a highlight of the night and a “Proof I’m a lightweight.”

As I prepared to skim another stone, a rock flew across the water at least thirty metres away, before disappearing under. Behind me was Hugo. He had a stupid grin on his face, “Gotcha bitch!” He laughed, so did I.

“You fucking try-hard…” I sighed. He gave a soft jab at my arm, still chuckling. “If you’re gonna punch me, do it properly, you bloody pussy.” I collapsed in laughter as he started wrestling me to the ground.

“Ha! Gaaaaay!” cried out Matthew playfully, referencing the Community scene. It took Hugo and I aback, and the rest of the group cracked up from the stupidity of that movie scene and maybe even the absurdity of life. We, as a community of “shit-posters”, were well known for our cynicism. So, another moment of fun wouldn’t have changed our view on life.

We spent our evening like we always did, beer, jokes and fun.

On our way back home, Dimitry, Steve, Hugo, Daniel and I took one of the three main streets that linked the south of Gland to the north. The town was cut down the middle by the train tracks linking Geneva to Lausanne.

A heavy atmosphere weighed on us, meaning a thunderstorm was just around the corner. Our slightly drunken group made its way through the streets, joking around and making a little noise. I tripped over a little, catching myself on a streetlamp, followed by laughter from the others. I took the time to straighten myself up. In the distance I could see Jon rushing back home, he had to be home before midnight apparently. Coming in his opposite direction was a small group of dickheads that lived in Gland. They were the Swiss equivalent to chavs. Jon was obviously not paying enough attention to them as he walked on the bridge passing over the train tracks.

He bumped into one of them by accident.

They instantly started to shove him around.

I looked to the others who were already rushing to the beginning of this unfortunate brawl.

Thankfully, Jon was lucid enough to remember we were on the same street and he retreated, dodging the adversaries’ attacks. They were too many though and it seemed that Jon’s attempt for diplomacy fell on intentionally deaf ears.

We arrived in time just as Jonathan threw a devastating right hook to a chubby guy. It was such a hard blow that we all heard some bones crunch. The chubby dude in his tracksuit was on the ground, nose bleeding. The chav’s friends stopped for a moment and seemed to re-evaluate their situation. Jonathan growled in pain as he threw himself against the others and our slightly drunken group turned into a rage-filled riot.

Heads were slammed against steel barriers, crotches were caved in by explosive knees and blood and bones were put to the test.

We were lucky to be a slightly bigger group, and given the advantage of three extra pairs of hands.

But the damage taken was substantial enough to have us really concerned about the human condition.

This was truly getting out of hand.

Was it just me or did we all think that the world was slowly going crazy? As if a switch had gone off in most people’s minds and that our inhibitions were non-existent, as though we had the right to throw a punch when someone ticked us off.

What were we becoming?

Leaving the group after our debacle and heading home, I had figured out the answer.