A table adorned with pastel rainbow cakes for two and warm french fries accompanied by fingers that tapped rhythmically with the bell that rung each time the door swayed, voices and laughter filling the cafe as well as leaving it. The end of the week celebration for two friends as well as colleagues of contrasting ages for simply making it through their working week. “You’re watching a movie tomorrow.” Marnie peered from her glasses while she devoured a handful of fries in one go. Christine’s mouth hung low as she folded her arms, “How did you-“ she paused and saw her movie ticket sticking out of her wallet. “Nice catch.” She nodded. “I didn’t even see that ticket, I just know.” Marnie paused, “Yes, I did see it. But I know this, you’re watching it alone.” “Oh Marnie, there is nothing wrong with watching a movie alone. You don’t need a date or a friend to always keep you company for a movie.” Her smile spread across her face knowing Marnie would detest what she would say next, “ You just need the company of a platter of cheesy nachos and a large drink of soda." As she guessed, Marnie rolled her eyes as she twirled her cake, collecting a rainbow on her spoon. “Back in my day, you mostly went to the movies, if a tall, lanky, peppermint-gelled boy would buy you a ticket, popcorn, one tub of soda, and two straws.” Christine smiled as she picked out only the pink and blue portion of her cake.” That sounds romantic. Reminded me of a movie. ” Marnie poured the tea onto their cups, “What is it with you and movies?” She knew the answer each time. “It’s just something out of the ordinary, you know. Every scene is a sign, a foreshadow as to what’s next.” Marnie sighed. “Here we go again. And this movie for tomorrow will be full of them?” “Oh absolutely, this one’s romantic even” she cupped her chin on her palms as she gazed at a couple outside. “The tension, the premise of destiny in one’s life.” “Ah, Serendipity. The moment in life where all coincidences in life were in fact,” she broke into song “meant to be.” Christine shook her head, ”That’s Synchronicity. Serendipity is simply leaving something to fates. Destiny” she exclaimed. “Oh so theoretical you have to be always. Its toma(ay)to, toma(ah)to.” Before Christine could protest, she dusted the crisps from her fingers and pointed, “I’ve got a bad leg, is this sign to not go to Italy tomorrow?” Christine playfully jabbed Marnie’s arm, “No mam, nothing should stop you. In fact, I hope that you will have a nice Italian man look at it for you.” “Ah, maybe I will. And I’ll ask if he has a rich son or a nephew I could give your number to.” Touching the brim of her tea set, “I like these cups, doesn’t it remind you of the tie Joe wore today; Shell colored baby pink tie.” “Speaking of, he almost caught you dazing at our meeting today, even answered a question from the sales team for you” "You know how boring it is, every time they send someone in from Sales. Joe’s a good manager for us, much better than the previous ones.” She sunk back into her couch. “So,” Marnie cleared her throat, “What are you going to do about this writing and film study thing. You know, when I met you five years ago, I REMEMBER, you said this was a temporary job to save some money to go to writing school.” “Ah yes, back when I was young and full of dreams.” She timidly joked. Marnie raised her eyebrows. “Come on, you know what I mean. That would have flopped if I actually did try that.” “And what about those quiet crying sessions by the work phone while sobbingly munching on those donuts I gave you in peace, it was quite a scene to watch then.” She pointed her fries at her, “I remember even telling you to go to therapy.” Christine raised her arms, “Oh Marnie, I was just tired and scared then. I went to business school because I couldn’t go to engineering or medical school like everybody in my family. And for a moment I thought what could I do to escape from whatever I am doing.” Her head shaking, she picked up her tea, “You are scared. You won’t admit it.” “I still write sometimes.” “And?” “And?” She asked back perplexed. “It’s good for me.” “But who is reading it?” “No one.” Her eyebrows kneaded as she answered that question. “Well then what’s the point?” “Marnie, what do you mean?” “Oh Christine, I didn’t mean to offend you. I just think if you wrote for someone, it would be more fulfilling, don’t you think?” “I don’t know. I never thought of it.” She sat with her palms over the bubbling tea.” “Don’t tell me” her eyes widened, “You're waiting for a sign?” Christine broke into an awkward smile, “Maybe. See, I just don’t feel like I’m there yet. If I was meant to quit this job and go to Europe and study film and writing, I just would know from some sign out there. " “Sometimes a sign is not a leading man from a movie or a ghost of the Christmas past, “ she spat sarcastically, “finding and telling you what to do, if only you simply looked at your heart.” Marnie sighed as she looked at her ruby-stoned watch. They got up and walked out of the cafe together, arms linked, in the late hour on the bustling street of the city. Christine stopped and patted on Marnie’s arm, “Maybe I’ll write something for you. And when you come back from Italy, you’ll read it?” “Yes, and maybe I’ll send you a postcard, scribble some Italian saying that sounds inspiring. Can that be a sign?” “Depends.” Christine kissed Marnie’s cheek as she walked Marnie towards her car. “Safe travels. Make a wish in the Trevi Fountain for me.” She called out. “I’ll get all the coins I can.” Marnie blew her a kiss as she closed her door. For Christine, she’s had this conversation ample times with Marnie, in about every cafe they dined at most Friday nights. Then she would come home, gaze at the drafts in her laptop, her handwritten scripts and stories, incomplete and abandoned. She would set goals in her notebook and it would suffer the same fate as her writing. Her thought process would go two ways; Maybe if I realized my dream earlier, she would think, and another, if should she had have taken another path, what would she be doing now. Perhaps, still miserable, she thought quietly. But she would never know. The week had passed, and the desk beside her was still empty, as her Marnie was still vacationing in Italy. Reassuring Joe that she could handle the workload just until then, she got ready for the day. “Wasn’t she supposed to come in today?” He asked her again. “Perhaps we misunderstood the time? It's possible she will be on her way today, her messaging skills are not so top-notch like her selfie skills,” she held up her phone to reveal the goofy photos Marnie had sent. “Is that on purpose?” He pointed to the caught off-guard men in the background of her selfies. “Yes, she is asking me to choose which Italian man I find best handsome, and she will happily pass my number.” “That is Marnie for you.” His cell rang, “Hold on, let me get this,” He walked away, while Christine stood up and dusted Marnie’s desk aligning her files. “Christine, come here a moment,” Joe called her into his cabin, his face seemed struck with shock. She felt an odd twist in her stomach. “I don’t know how to process this.” He clasped his hands on the table. “What do you mean?” “That was Marnie’s sister. Marnie passed away.” Christine froze, trying to make out if she heard wrong. After few moments, she spoke, ” That's not possible, she just sent me a message two days ago, that her trip was going well." “She died yesterday while swimming at the beach and she couldn't handle the sudden currents-“ No, she whispered a she stood up, her lips quivering and burst out, her vision blurred with tears. *** Barely beating the morning rush, she hastily sat at her desk rushing to catch up on the morning tasks. “Christine, can you come in, please?” Christine walked in, meekly sitting in the chair. “Good morning Joe, is this about me coming late?” “Oh no, it’s alright. I actually have some good news for you.” He leaned forward, his face animated, “I wanted to offer you a promotion.” Christine’s eyes widened, as she clutched a ruby-stoned watch that wrapped her wrist. “It’s been 5 years since you’ve been here Christine, there is no one as hardworking as you. I know Marnie’s death has affected us all in the past 3 months, but you really took over. In fact, you've worked the hardest I've ever seen you. “Ah, thank you, Joe.” She shook his hands excusing herself out, "I’ll consider it.” Her phone rang at her desk but her feet made their way to the stairs towards the rooftop, one of her hideout places. What followed was a wallowing scream that emptied out of her, as she felt her heart pound hard. She never felt so frustrated in her whole life and she still couldn’t see why. That night, she sat by her TV, beside her side a stack of DVDs that were emptied from her cupboard. Although she was watching a movie she adored, eventually her ears blocked out the sounds from the TV, her mind replaying back memories of today and some of her conversations with Marnie. The next thing she knew, she got up to her work table, held the stack of manuscripts and idea notebooks, and hurriedly threw them all into her trash, catching a glimpse of her handwriting before she took the bin out. No more running away , she thought. *** It was a day of buzz and Christine’s office looked different than before, with a new deskmate who leaned apologetically, at her table “Christine, I’m so sorry to bother you again, I left my report at your table earlier. She handed her a stack of files, “Here you go Jenna. Make sure you add this one as well.” Mr. Thompson walked by calling Christine over, “How is she doing?” “She’s caught up good. Much faster compared to when I was new here.” She watched the new girl fumble over papers and binders and she was reminded of herself once. So, Jenna how are we with the meeting prep?” “It’s alright, I’m a bit nervous, This is my first job after graduate school.” Christine waved her hands in protest, “You’ll be great. The team from that cabin will be helping you as well. That's a relief,” she looked at Christine worriedly," But I wish you were really my manager Christine, it’s too bad you’re leaving.” Christine smiled fondly at the young trainee who was going to take over her job. The girl reached over and placed an envelope on her desk “Oh by the way I picked up your mail while you were on break. It seems to be dated a few months back.” After a long day, she dropped back in her apartment, her hands clutching boxes of gifts and letters of farewell, as it was her last day at the company. Her packing was still a long way to go as she needed a suitcase separately for her DVDs as well as her manuscripts and notebooks. She checked her email and replied back to the coordinator at the university in London, where she would be studying in the summer. For someone like Christine who spent her whole life looking for the signs she had projected to find, she may or may not have had ignored many signs entailing as to why she should have simply pushed herself to change her life earlier on. It may have been the loss of her dear friend or the ache she felt in her heart as she threw away all her manuscripts and dreams of another life that night or simply her offered promotion, but it was the postcard from Italy that arrived today, that she held tightly to her chest, that confirmed everything.


I think this is the worst place to be in. There are no calendars; I don’t know what today is. No clocks; what time is it? There are no menus; I’ve been eating the same food since I got here. I can’t sleep; the lights are on all of the time. There is no privacy; anybody can see what I am doing. This place is really driving me mad. “I hate this place! Jail sucks!” “What are you in for?” asks John, the other guy in my cell. “I’m not sure why I’m here. It started out because I was hungry and went out to get something to eat.” “And they arrested you for that?” “No, of course not. But you don’t know the whole story.” I could not tell him all of it, because I did not know it all. At that time, I did not know that many people thought Barbara Taylor was the nicest woman in Sharpeville. Almost everybody knew her. She had been walking downtown on the Monday morning when I was arrested, and she had just left St. James Church, where she and a small group of parishioners had been counting the money put in Sunday’s collection basket. Next, Barbara planned to go one block away to the Hope House, a shelter for women who were the sufferers of domestic abuse, to ask if they needed her to help clean the office. And before she returned to her apartment for lunch, she wanted to stop at the public library to prune the rose bushes she had planted out front. She believed there was always something to do or someone to help. She was an attractive 72-year-old woman, and she dressed up when she went out for these chores, because she liked to look nice. So that morning she brushed her long silver hair, put on a light summertime dress, and wore comfortable shoes for walking. She did not have far to go, every place she went was nearby, but she knew she was getting old and she did not want to have sore feet when she returned to her apartment. Her eyes were blue and her eyeglasses had thin silver frames. An umbrella she carried if there was rain that morning. And always, she toted a very large brown leather handbag, because she liked to have everything with her that she needed: snacks, books, her fat wallet, the morning mail, her cosmetics, her comb and brush, an extra pair of shoes, a large bottle of drinking water, as well as anything else that would fit in it. Some people, if they could be believed, said she carried a puppy in it too. I was able to tell John, my cellmate, that I had been downtown that Monday, and because it was close to lunchtime, I had decided to go into Nick’s Full Eclipse Bar & Grill for a cold beer and a toasted cheese sandwich. I brushed my dark hair away from my eyes and tried to neaten my short beard before going into Nick’s. I felt hungry. I was about to cross East Main Street when I saw Barbara walking on the sidewalk. She was coming from the public library. However, it was not Barbara that I noticed. It was her bulging handbag that had my attention. It looked like a prize to me, something I had to have, and I could not live without it. Anything that big had to have something good in it. Hopefully, a lot of cash, I prayed. I could imagine tens and twenties and fifties falling out of the huge handbag when I turned it upside down. And some expensive jewelry in it would be good too, I hoped. When I got into Nick’s, I would be able to buy a pitcher of beer and a steak sandwich and have money left over. I could not believe how lucky I was that day. I wanted her handbag! This was going to be easy, I contemplated. Her handbag was loosely strapped across her left shoulder. All I thought I had to do was run from behind her and snatch it and keep on running. It would happen so fast, she would not realize that I had it until I turned into the alley behind Nick’s and disappeared. I laughed. It would be like taking a handoff from the hands of a quarterback and dashing toward the goal line with the football and scoring a touchdown. I looked around. There was no one else on the sidewalk. There were no cars passing by. It was a perfect opportunity! This was the moment. I needed to do it quickly. But I had to stop laughing. “Something tells me that it didn’t work out like that,” said John. “Not at all,” I told him. “That’s why I’m here.” “I think I’ve seen Barbara Taylor,” John said. “I think I know who she is.” Barbara was not as old and slow as I had thought she would be. Maybe she heard my footsteps behind her. It could have been her instinct. But I did not surprise her. She was holding tightly to her handbag by then. “Give it to me!” I yelled as she pulled one way and I pulled the other. “No!” she exclaimed. “Get out of here, right now!” “Not without your bag, old lady.” “Who’s an old lady?” And she started swinging her umbrella at me. “Stop it!” I screamed. I might have thought she was old and slow, but her umbrella hurt every time she hit me with it and she was not turning loose of her handbag. “You’re a terrible young man,” she reprimanded me. “You ought to be doing something good with your life, instead of attacking someone that you call an old lady.” Damn, I thought. It was heavy. I wondered what could be in her handbag that could weigh so much. There had to be more than money in it. That was about when the bottle of water fell out and burst on the sidewalk. I slipped and fell down. It was a perfect opportunity for Barbara. “Quit kicking me!” I screamed as I rolled around on the sidewalk. “You’re starting to make me mad!” “I’m already mad,” she told me. Then she kicked me again. “You’ve made me so mad that I can’t stop kicking you! I’m going to kick you until your little butt turns black and blue.” And she kicked me again and again. “Where’s your mother, young man? Do you think she would like to see you like this? While trying to take a bag away from an old lady!” She was hitting me with her umbrella and kicking me with her shoes when people began to come out to the sidewalk to see what was going on. Nick, in his Nick’s Full Eclipse Bar & Grill apron, came out too. There were at least a half dozen people watching her beat me. They were amazed. They had never seen Barbara like this. They had only seen her when she was doing good things in the town. They had seen her cleaning windows at the Hope House and calling out bingo numbers at the nursing home on Friday nights and serving plates of food at the home for the homeless and taking out the trash at the center for senior citizens, but never, ever, anything like this. Two or three of them had to pull her off of me. I got up and tried to brush myself off. I wiped my wet dark hair away from my eyes. I felt my chin as if she, in her anger, might have pulled the beard off my face. But I could not run away. There were people standing around me that would not let me go. I sat on my cot in the jail cell and looked at John who was sitting on the other cot. “I was hungry and wanted to eat,” I said. “She just got in my way.” “Do you know what I’d tell you?” asked John. “No, what?” “Don’t mess with Barbara Taylor!” he told me. “I know that now. I know it!”


User 1 You only wanted me for my money and that was clear from the start. I could see straight through and the ugly was showing. I kept on giving and you kept on taking. I couldn't stand you and your simpering ways. The pleadings and sighs made me feel cold. When I was hungry, you refused to feed me- yet I fed you. User 2 You only wanted me for my body and that was plain to see. Everything was cheap with you. I remember some kindnesses but you were my enemy all the way along. There was the pretence of keeping costs down at any length. Even your car was cheap. I hated your touch- it left me cold. Now I was free I was happy. I could go where I wish and do as I pleased. After time wasted on you, I felt my cup over brimming with joy. The anger wouldn't subside. The door mat syndrome was gone and I had awoken from a deep sleep. Like an automaton that did as it was told- I was yours for a time. Life was easier without you. My heart had hardened against you. I wished awful things but kept my mouth sewn for fear of a backlash. What goes around, comes around and yours was coming. User 1 How did you sleep at night? Didn't your conscience bother you? Your arrogance and selfishness bordered on the psychopathic. You kept on coming for me like a B52 bomber. I couldn't take it. You thought me rich. I was sympathetic and kind- but no longer. I was putting my foot down. I was relishing the rolls of time. I was defending myself- the defenseless. Barriers were being erected for security in my heart. I would not allow you to replace me like a one-use item. I was going to stick around. This quiet determination of mine was making me feel very good indeed. Your control over me was vanishing. You would never have me and it made you very angry indeed. I flattered you to make you feel secure. I sometimes meant it but you still failed to move me. Your act had become apparent. Why should I give up everything for you. Why should I sacrifice? What did you ever do for me in return except expect me to make you cups of coffee and do things for you for free. Remember when I was hungry and you refused to feed me? I had a word for you then and it remains true. Whilst I had a good heart yours was rotten to the core. I knew that, but awoke slowly from the spell that you had cast on me. None of us are without faults but yours were showing all the more. You said that you wanted to move to a country house somewhere. You even wanted to move in with me. Never. Not on your mother or father's life was that going to happen. I know the tricks you played. The slurs you delivered. You were trying to break me, shake me, overtake me but I wasn't going to give in. The sun was shining on my contempt for you. How would it end? I don't know. The build up had come slow and painfully. I was sick at being walked on. You wanted me to serve you again and again without reward. I disliked you severely for it and you never had a clue. You still came to me like a bee to honey. You You were like a fresh breath of air. Good looking, tall- a dream boat. Nothing was happening between us and nothing ever would, but the tantalising element of both of us together had crossed my mind. Like the lost loved for longing I lounged around hoping for a cure. I knew that I was sick from the start, and even the attempt at life would make me even more sick I knew that I'd be forgotten like everything else. Swept away in a cloud of dust, filed away somewhere until I disappear. Only being dragged up when required and the story changed to meet the user. The history books always lie. The truth is always somewhere in between. But you, you were worth the wait so far. I was happy to keep you at a distance, my heart dangling dangerously in the dungeon of my soul. I could not escape defeat, even when I won. The temptation to fool myself that everything was fine was there. Lurking, like some lovesick lost soul, I lingered. We were both problems waiting to happen. Two whirlwinds competing against each other until they caused even more destruction. The ruining of my soul was coming and I was unprepared. Looks don't mean a thing when you're packed full of sin. Evil to evil only brings more evil I had found out at my peril. The only thing left for me was to mourn the dead. They couldn't harm you. I get done to you what you let others do to you. She wanted to fight and fight until the last round. Never give up or give in. She was fighting on all sides. Had her time come? It was unknown. That decision was in her makers hands. Her heart was subsiding. She wanted to forgive and calm down. She didn't want a heart attack. We are near the end The traffic went by in its usual fashion. Around and around. Where she was was quiet and she liked it that way. Occasionally she wanted some interruptions, but not too many. Control is what she wanted- but there wasn't any deep down really. She secretly laughed when a passer by was laughing. A window pane had separated them both, so they were unaware of each other. She saw many people that way, secretly, silently. There wasn't any point in revenge now. There were so many things to do. She was struggling just to stay alive. Like a juggler using as many different objects as possible, she had to stay alert just to survive. She did not want recognition- merely justice. Even if she didn't see it in her lifetime. Her weaknesses were showing and she didn't know what to do or where to go. She called upon her ancestors and they answered her quietly and carefully. Maybe they wanted to minimise the damage done or let her go- she was unsure. The taste of freedom had her hustling for more. If her feathers were cut and ccurtailed anymore, she would not be able to fly. And fly she did.


The dust had not even completely settled when the junior intermediates dragged the chief midwife from the dance arena. Her blood-curdling scream pierced the African night - the drummers halted their rhythmic poundings, the elderly women poring over calabashes of fermented maize drink, hwahwa , ignored the gourds that impatient young men of drinking age waved irritably in their ancient brown faces. Dancers, swishing and gyrating in decorated hides, mhapa neshashiko ,-for it was a special occasion- had paused. The festivities had only just begun..... Colored beads and necklaces adorned the young women who had attended the celebration, mhandara , they are called in the language of Shona . Ribbons of green, red, yellow and blue tied to their ankles appeared in a kaleidoscope through the dust as the girls danced, their hides flying up as they leapt into the air. The young men, majaya , donned majestic headpieces decorated with striking feathers from the rarest of birds. Around some of the young men’s necks were lion or hyena teeth held firmly with treated bark, a testament to past deadly encounters with the beasts. The necklaces impressed ladies to no end, and some small groups of young women huddled around alpha males to hear fables of peril and victory. The people of Dzimbabwe feasted on game meat and sadza , a hardened maize porridge, and drank to good life and good harvest. Pairs had formed on the circular dance arena, in whose centre was a blazing inferno tended to by small herd boys who added bits of wood to it in faithful fashion. A cloud of dust had erupted from the frantic dancing which was characterised by gigantic leaps into the air and continuous swivelling. Sweat glazed the dancers’ skin where dust particles glued to and accumulated. At this point, the dancers’ thick bushy black hair had become grey with dust - they resembled zvigure , a social group of outcasts who had been banished from Dzimbabwe , the great city of stone. The city was a thing of wonder, not one blob of plaster or cement kept the city in place - everyone knew the great ancestors, madzitateguru , kept the stones intact, one on top of each other, until the walls of the city threatened to reach up to them in the hallowed skies. The walls had never once toppled. Zvigure were a group of murderers, thieves and social pariahs whom, the whole city presumed, had abandoned personal hygiene once outside the city walls and had morphed into cannibals. The dancers looked quite like how the savages were thought to look like. Chayarutsa , the chief midwife, had stumbled into the dance arena from the surrounding darkness and thrown herself onto the hard dust in languish, wallowing in her grief and making a scene. The theatrics drew everyone’s attention, including the king, Ishe , and his table of advisors and tribal chiefs. They sat on an elevated platform of stone to the north of the bonfire, the Ishe at the head of the table in a stone throne, while his immediate subordinates were seated in significantly lower carved wooden stools, flanking the king. On the platform was the only sign of foreign possession - the throne was padded with fleece blankets and the king’s assortment of meats, as well as drink, was served in china. Each chief owned something of foreign make, some socks or a cotton shirt brought in by traders from the East in exchange for minerals, or hunting rights. Presently, some servants had been ushered onto the Ishe’s platform to serve some more goats’ meat, but they too had stopped dead in their tracks. Murmers rose from those gathered at the Festival of the First Harvest, Zhizha . The Queen’s first child had surely died, they chattered amongst themselves. Or she herself had succumbed to child birth - the gods took whom they pleased; as long as it was time to reunite with the ancestors, even the Queen could go. It was the norm of the land that when royalty died the whole city wept and rolled in the dust in agony and pain. Chayarutsa was that exact picture of misery. She lay still on the grass, small twigs protruding from her knotted hair which was grey with dirt. One could easily mistake her for the outcasts. The junior midwives consoled her so she could speak, as she was the only midwife who could address a crowd in the presence of the Ishe . Those gathered looked on in bewilderment as the king arose and uttered in a commanding voice: “ Taura Chayarutsa ! Speak Chayarutsa!” Chayarutsa composed herself and bowed to the king. She quaked, and so did everyone at the festival; the king rarely stood and he almost never addressed common folk by name. There still he stood, a menacing hulk of a man, clothed in leopard skin from head to toe. Leopard skin, mbada , was a symbol of kingship, the king himself had to hunt and catch the elusive creature; that alone was a mountain of a task. Chayarutsa spoke, her head bowed and her voice trembling. It was hardly audible when she said: “The Queen, she has given birth to two sons.” But they heard her. A quiet enveloped the place. So much so, that the birds of night could be heard clearly as if the city grounds were deserted. Owls, the infamous companions of evil witches that made children sick and charmed away their neighbours’ harvests, hooted in the still night. The gibber of monkeys high up on the stone castle’s summit, the resting place of the king, could be heard quite loudly by those on the ground. Some screeched and the groan of nearby trees as they swung from one branch to another was resounding. “Two sons, you say?” the king repeated, more loudly. Chayarutsa nodded then bowed. The common folk whispered amongst themselves. Some pieces of conversation resounded from all corners of the crowd: “It’s the first moon, blood cannot be spilled....”, “But the gods instructed explicitly......”, “Surely they must die......” Hushed conversation befell the king and his subordinates also. They deliberated for a short period amongst themselves until the chief justice stood to address the crowd. He silenced them then spoke: “This news, of the two sons, has vexed us. How this evil could have befallen our beloved queen, our king is at a loss. But no one is above the truth of the gods. If we keep this abomination amongst us, a bad omen will wash over the land, queen or not. Surely, the sons must both die, for between them is a demon and we cannot tell which is which. But we do not forget. This is the first moon, the Festival of the First Harvest. No blood can be spilled on such a day, the ancestors forbid it. Even the gods will not allow it, and our harvest will be cursed for ten seasons. We cannot risk it. The sons will die tomorrow.” The Ishe’s expression was stone, quite like the throne on which he sat. There was no pain in his eyes and no underlying emotions he seemed to be harbouring. He concluded the festival and dispersed the gatherers. The Ishe’s courtyard was soon empty, the red hot ambers of the fire the only reminder of the dead celebration. The Ishe hurried to Imba Huru , the Queen’s abode. He refused escort and wielded his gilded assegai, a short spear, just in case. He exited the Great Enclosure; a stone walled monument apt to its name for it held the spirits of past kings and ancestors that dwelled in the inner caverns below the Ishe’s own royal abode. He made the uphill trek to Imba Huru which was also a stone-walled construction with big mauyu trees looming above the walls. A conical tower grew high and mighty from the centre of Imba Huru , a symbol of power and economic wellbeing that drew in traders from far and wide. Ishe entered the queen’s abode and handmaiden fell to the ground at the sight of him. Even in night his royal regalia was imposing. He was let in to see his wife, whom he found lying meekly on a bundle of blankets on top of a reed mat, rupasa . A junior midwife attended to the perspiring Queen in candlelight. She dabbed the Queen’s forehead with a damp and soft cotton towel and adjusted her bedding. “Go get my sons” the king ordered her. The junior midwife hesitated for a moment, and then withdrew from the Ishe’s presence to do what she had been commanded. They were left alone in the eerie light of the candle, husband and wife, Ishe and the queen, their shadows dancing on the walls with each movement.The Queen turned to look into her husband’s eyes. Her pain seeped through from her being, and her eyes were red from crying. “Ishe, before you see them...” she said weakly “No, rest.” The king paused. He looked outside the entrance of the room then returned to his wife’s side and spoke in a hushed tone: “The gods be damned. You must run away from this place, before sunrise. There’s not long. I will tell Taurai to escort you and the babies outside the city. To a safe place, you can......” “Please, I must....” The Queen fell silent. The junior midwife had returned, clasping a small bundle of blankets in her arms. Another midwife followed closely behind, holding the other identical baby. They both eyed the king in reserved fashion as he took one baby in his arms. He gazed down at the wriggly child in the blanket. “What is this?” he demanded. The queen broke into hysterical and convulsive sobs. The midwives rushed to her side to calm her -wiping away the mucus that ran freely from her nostrils- but they failed to subdue her. The baby - both of them - were white little children with pink lips. The Ishe shook with rage. “It is Gonzalo, the missionary eh? You betray me so?” The Queen sobbed more loudly. She shook as she cried and in between gasps of air she tried to talk. “I didn’t mean for it......my Ishe, please I..... pardon me I beg of you....” “It is the white Gonzalo, a man with no knees, that you go to and bring this atrocity among my people” The king was black with fury. He took a deep breath, so deep he felt rivulets of tension escape his body and leave a numb serenity in their place. Ishe finally spoke, in his stately voice: “I do not hear your pleas. The gods decided your fate before your inception. You turned away from them, and committed an abomination with the Portuguese who openly condemns the gods. This is the price, you see for yourself. And you will justly pay it.” ~.~ On the other side of the city, a harrowing scream was heard in every mud hut. Men clenched their spears, and some women gave out shrieks of fear. Dogs barked in the silence of night as if in response. The scream shook even the heaviest sleepers from their dreams and many woke up with a jolt. Parents who were still up, bolstered by the scream, recited ancient stories of zvigure to their petrified children. Some said that maybe a witch had been caught mid-act in someone’s house. Others joked that it was Chayarutsa practising for tomorrow.


Sensitive content: The story mentions the current wars in the world. Do You Remember? My best friend, my beloved husband, Today, I woke up with the memory of our visit to your parent’s home. Your mother had made your favourite foods and spoke of your naughty childhood days. She narrated the story of the stray puppy you adopted when you were six. You fed him, played with him and named him ‘buddy’. She said you cried for days when he was hurt in a street fight with bigger dogs. Our eyes were moist when we looked at each other. A soldier and his wife. Do you remember? You left for war the next morning. It’s been weeks. As I look out of the window at the garden in our front yard, I notice the pretty Marigolds and Zinnias blooming. You dug the soil for me and I planted the seeds. I watered them regularly, just as you wanted me to, and the seeds sprouted and grew. I wish you could see them, yellow, orange, pink. I’m sending you a picture. How I miss you. Red used to be our favourite colour but you will notice that there are no red flowers since I snip off the red buds before they bloom. Please forgive me, Now, that colour reminds me of blood and it hurts. I must admit, I water the garden sparingly, just enough to keep the plants alive. Why? My darling, I’m going crazy. I think of the people trapped because of the war, with no food and water. I hear they are drinking impure water, whatever they can get. The lady on television said there is a danger of disease. Imagine, being thirsty for days and days. The images form and disappear and come back. I push them away but they swirl like a sandstorm in a desert and leave me changed, unrecognizable even to myself. Sometimes, I wonder if you will know me when you return. Will you love me still? You gave me so many flowers when we first met. You had explained that for you they were a manifestation of divinity. I had a lump in my throat when I heard the sincerity in your voice. Do you remember? Where you are now, amidst the fallen buildings, the destroyed roads and bridges, with toxic smoke in the sky, can you see flowers growing around you? Do the tanks swerve to avoid flowers in the field or do they single-mindedly move forward, leaving every living thing squashed into oblivion? When will flowers grow there again? Who will grow them? Perhaps there is no place for beauty in a world such as this. Is there a tear in your eyes? Yesterday, I saw the images of what is left after a bombing. Why would I not be shocked? The world was horrified. My beloved, I saw the mayhem. Even thousands of miles away, I gasped, my skin prickled. Those bodies, cries, blood. Children, dead children. And what about those who are forever disabled? I shed tears for their suffering. I cried more when I thought of the mothers and the families. These civilians, people like your parents and me. Were they alive, only to mourn their dead for a lifetime? I could not bear it. I switched off the television and hugged our child close. Our child was safe. I kissed her cheeks, once from me, once more from you. They speak of war crimes and there are protests all over the world. Thousands of people are demanding this war be stopped. No one from their family is out there; their loved ones are not in danger. Yet the news and images have stirred up enough passion to bring them to the streets. Is anyone listening? I thought of the protests we joined during our University days, asking for better cafeteria food. It’s laughable now. At that time, you had said, “Decide for yourself, don’t get carried away by public sentiment.” We had both left the protests because we did not live in the hostel and hardly ate in the cafeteria. We were spoiled by the delicious food made by our mothers. Do you remember? Now, you can understand my reaction to these “Stop the War” protests. Indeed, I’m sure, though I sit inside and the front door is locked. Our neighbours, the nice old couple who sent us sweets on weekends, no longer speak with me. I know they have loved ones across the border - dear family members who they have not heard from because of the breakdown in telecommunications. They look through me and shift their gaze as if I am responsible for this war. I want to tell them how I feel but then I pause. I remember your words, “Be brave, you must be brave. Hide your fears behind a smile. You have a beautiful smile, my dearest.” Yes, I smile a lot. I smile till my lips tremble, my muscles ache, and beads of sweat form on my brow. It’s like a workout, then I laugh. I will not let you down. Your letters tell me so little. You only ask about me, our family - Is everyone in good health? Do I have enough money for all I need? Do I feel safe? You don’t speak of yourself, your days and nights, your state - physical and emotional. I can’t imagine how busy you must be. Busy - such an imbecile word to describe your life as a soldier on active duty. A time when days and nights are one, when killing is a mission, when you are not yourself but a man in uniform, a tool to carry out a leader’s decision even if it means fighting ordinary people, not just the enemy’s army. Sadly, you must obey orders. Oh, God! I don’t know what to say in my prayers. You had said, pray for victory. But often I sit silent. I have stopped praying for victory because in this tidal wave of brutality, I no longer know what victory means. Then I pray for peace. I pray for life. I pray for your safe return. I know you understand how desperate I am for you, for your touch, your gentle gaze, your calm, just as you must be to come back home to me. My darling, return soon. Can you tell? I’m so confused. But I see, like me, you are a victim: of complexity, lust for power and selfish gains. In your darkest moments, when you see our child’s face in the enemy, the screams of the wounded echo like a blade within you, the blasts obliterate your love for music, and your soul is filled with questions, think of me, my love. Take heart, I am here, waiting for you. If I am alive, I will be by your side through the rest of our days, whatever form they may take, however many or few there may be, and we will traverse the rest of our journey together. That was a promise we made to each other. I remember. With all my love, A soldier’s wife.


I Know What You’re Thinking “George, while you were in the bathroom, we received a call from the university for you.” “I hope that they don’t want to take my degree away after having a second look at the papers I wrote way back when.” “Very funny George. This is serious. Apparently there is a group of scientists at the university who have made what they called a great discovery. So far no outsiders know about this discovery, and they want you to interview them and observe the effectiveness of what they have invented.” “Wow. Well I did take a first year foundational course in science when I was there, and I got a good mark, the highest mark that year for me.” “No George, they were apparently quite impressed with the article you wrote about the strengths and weaknesses of electric cars and self-propelling lawnmowers.” “When do they want me?” “As soon as you can get there. They are quite eager to let the world know what they have discovered.” George grabbed his camera and his recording device, and sprinted out of the office, into his car, and sped down to the university. Although it had been years since he was last on the campus, he found his way to the science building easily enough. He was greeted on the main floor by a university security officer, and told to take the elevator to the top floor. George was surprised by what he saw when he arrived at his destination and the elevator door opened. There were two police officers standing there, one of whom asked him whether his name was George Stanley, and did he have ID on him to prove that he was who he said he was. He replied in the positive, took out his wallet and showed the officer his driver’s license. He was then escorted by the two officers into the room that apparently housed the experiment. Everyone in the room except for the officers, and, of course, himself, wore long white lab coats. The one who seemed to be the leader approached him and said, “Before we explain what it is that we have discovered, we are going to demonstrate it to you, with you as the research subject.” George began to feel a little nervous at this point. The leader then reassured him that this experiment would be painless. “I am just going to expose you to some electro-magnetic waves, that will pair up with the waves created by your brain. What we are going to show you is our lie detector. I am pretty sure that you are about to tell me that such a device has already been developed, but it really has not. What was previously invented is what we call a psychophysiological detector of deceptions, and it is not infallible. It is more an intimidator that it is a detector - no intimidation, no detection. For our invention to work we have to influence a person’s brainwaves with the waves from our machine. Now stand still. What I want you to do after I send the waves your way is to have you say what colour comes into your mind. If it is the same one that we have programmed our wave machine to send your way, then the two of you are connected. And we will be able to catch you in a lie. George was usually a big talker, with a sarcastic comment for every occasion. In this case he was more than a little stunned by the experience, and said nothing. When the device was turned on, he heard a kind of buzzing in his brain, that had lasted a few seconds, later to fade away. Then the scientist pointed the device at him again, and there was a different tone of buzzing, followed by the word ‘brown’ resounding in his head several times. “Okay, George, what was the colour?” After a few seconds, in which George seriously contemplated giving a wrong answer, he said “brown.” “Right! Now George, we are going to ask you a question, to which you can lie or tell the truth. We will tell you which one it is. George, are you married?” George said that he was, and the lead scientist correctly replied with “That’s a lie”. George just nodded his head in response. “We are now going to explain to you how it works. Let us know if you don’t understand. It is highly technical of course.” George then asked a question, “Are you not going to de-program me first?” The reply hit him like a hammer blow. “Oh, we cannot do that. We tried, but could not find a way to do that, so we ended that part of the research. We feel that it would be relatively harmless to keep people programmed, as we will have absolute control of the devices. There will be no misuse.” George recorded the explanations of different aspects of the technology, so his complete attention was on what he was learning. He had the distinct impression that when he did not quite get what they were saying, they would repeat what they had said slowly and with more explanation. When he was about to leave, the lead scientist asks him a peculiar question. “When are you going to be writing this piece?” He replied by telling the man that he always wrote his articles as soon as he arrived at work at nine o’clock in the morning, as he was a ‘morning person’. He gave his standard joke about that saying, “I never wrote anything intelligent in the afternoon.” After he had left and was driving back to the newspaper office, he wondered that the repetition of the explanations that he didn’t quite follow was the product of their ‘reading his mind’. He wondered how far he would have to go to be beyond their range. Or would there be no ‘beyond the range’. He knew from his regular reading of scientific journals that electro-magnetic waves were used to travel far into space. Travelling on earth should not then pose a significant challenge to their use. When he got back to the newspaper office, he went straight away to talk to the editor to explain the problem he would have with writing an unbiased article on the research. The editor, whom George respected for his intelligence, particularly as it was demonstrated in his ability to write meaningful articles, presented him with a strategy that could resolve his problem. He followed it to the letter. The next morning, at precisely nine o’clock, he first wrote an article that was solidly supportive of the research, and the researchers. Minutes after he was finished the draft copy of this piece, he received a phone call from the lead researcher, who stated that he was sure that whatever he wrote would be fine with them. He should not worry about “getting it right”. Then, as the editor had suggested, he wrote what he truly felt, giving the article the title “Do you want to be programmed?” It had a powerful impact on the readers. The research ethics committee of the university soon declared that they would cut the funding of the project until such time as they found a way to deprogram those who were subjected to the waves. The committee asked George whether he wanted to be a research subject, as he was one of the very few who had been programmed, the others being university students who had badly needed the money. While he was apprehensive of the scientists ‘messing with my mind’, particularly after the critical article that he wrote, he agreed to participate as he wanted his brain purged of the effect of the waves. When he made his return to their research room, his first words were “I know what you’re thinking.” There was an initial silence. Then they laughed.


“I have to kill a dragon?” Danielle shook her head. She paced the granite flagstones of her tower. “Your last challenge, little knight.” The god’s herald no longer called her that with venom. Obag Sleagh had admitted his respect for her. “You’ve done what I thought was impossible before.” “I don’t know anything about dragons,” said the knight. Her green tabard was completely restored by the herald’s magic after her last battle. It flapped as she turned on her heel and paced back to the other end of her bedroom. Obag smiled. Every tooth was a deadly needle. Holding out his chalk-white hands, a book appeared in them. Dragons, a Guide for Would-Be Slayers . The book was larger than any the knight had ever seen. The title’s gold print flowed in beautiful calligraphy. “Tell me this has a magic word that stops their hearts instantly?” Danielle looked hopefully at Obag. His silver eyes were merciless. “No, little knight. This tells you everything you could ever wish to know about dragons, but no such spell exists.” “Fuck. I wish I had Lupita. She’s good at researching weaknesses.” Danielle thought of her lover. Lupita’s glowing smile, her warm brown eyes and her curves brought a flush to Danielle’s chest. “Obag?” She took the red book from his clawed hands. “Yes?” His brow lowered with the question. “Is it really possible to kill a dragon?” Danielle asked. “I know the things we called dragons on Eshrep are just drakes, pint sized compared to the real things.” She ran her muscular hand through brown hair that was creeping down towards her light brown eyes. “I didn’t think it was possible to kill a greater chatter-jaw, Sir Longbow. Especially alone. You proved me wrong yesterday. Killing a dragon should be impossible for you. Prove me wrong again.” He conjured a throne for himself and sat in the gilded chair. Both hovered over the granite. His hands rested on the golden skulls of the armrests. “I have a lot of reading to do then,” Danielle said, more to herself than Obag. She wanted to hate him still. But she had come to see that he had honour. He served his god, doing terrible things because it gave him power. Obag seemed to enjoy the death and destruction be brought but he had warmed to her. Sir Danielle asked for a desk to read at. The reading table the herald summoned with a wave of his hand was fit for any emperor. The rosewood and ebony were seamlessly carved into twisting dragons. A Crann green leather surface tilted towards her as she lay the heavy red tome upon it. The seat for the reading desk was as beautiful. “A full-grown dragon is up to five miles long from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail. A single dragon tooth typically measures twenty feet long. Dragons are amphibious, able to breathe underwater or on land. Most dragons prefer to sleep in the depths of the blood sea. While drakes rely on wings to fly, true dragons have the innate ability to swim through the air.” Danielle poured over the book for hours. Meals appeared on another table beside her as she read with mouthfuls of chicken and wine. “A single dragon scale is typically three feet from base to tip and can withstand the heat at the heart of a volcano?” Danielle looked at the herald incredulously. “Is this real?” The herald wore a red leather outfit decorated with bones. He nodded. “That book is entirely honest. Playing fair means you know just how screwed you are.” His eyes reflected her and the desperate look on her face. “A dragon’s breath alone is hot enough to scald the flesh from human bones in moments. They breathe jets of flame which can extend up to four hundred feet from the dragon’s foremost tooth? The gust of their flight has been known to sink ships?” “All true, little knight. Every word.” Danielle rubbed a cold, sweaty palm across her creased forehead. Wine wasn’t helping her headache. She watched the herald who held her kingdom hostage. If she failed, it would be destroyed by dragons. “Do the borders on the maps matter to dragons? Will the hounds of your god burn down Crann’s neighbours?” She wasn’t sure why it mattered, but she was curious. He shook his pale head. “We are bound by strict codes. The borders your people set themselves bind what can be attacked. One must invite us, and always does, their kingdom alone can be destroyed.” “Why?” Sir Danielle Longbow asked. “What does your god have against our world?” Obag Sleagh shrugged. “The arrangements were made long before my time as a herald. I believe they were meant to protect the worlds from open war. Every god has dragons. None have as many as mine. It’s said my god was responsible for the banishment.” “What banishment?” Danielle asked. Obag sat up in his chair, eyes wide for a moment. “You should keep reading, Danielle. Unless you want to use up your life in this tower talking to me?” He spoke as though it was an option. “Could I?” She asked. It was tempting. If she lived for years, her family, friends and home would be safe the whole time. When she breathed her last, Crann would be back on the menu. Were her broad shoulders strong enough to bear that burden? What would Lupita do? She would find a way . Being inside the chatter-jaw was safer than outside . “You could stay,” said Obag. “It might ruin the respect you’ve earned from me.” “ Dragon ears are a cavity behind and beneath the eyes .” Danielle looked at a diagram of a dragon’s skull. Obag had used Leonor Castle from Crann’s capital to illustrate the sheer size of the beast. Horns atop a dragon’s head rose as high as the tower atop the castle. “ Dragons sleep unless they are feeding or laying waste to the enemies of their god .” Sir Longbow had an idea. “I need strong rope and some harpoons,” she told Obag. “Harpoons will not scratch a dragon’s scale, never mind pierce it.” He sat up in his chair, leaning forward to look at her with his mirrored eyes. “I don’t need them to. Harpoons, can I have three? They must be barbed.” With a wave of his hand the murderous god’s advocate summoned three harpoons. “Can you make them shorter, all metal with a ring in the end to attach rope?” A finger twitched. Wood turned to steel. Metal hoops formed in the ends. “I need a hammer.” With a click of his snow-white fingers a broad ended hammer made from one piece of metal sat on the floor. “Metal armour will be a bad idea. Can you make my gambeson thicker?” Danielle watched the plates of her armour unbuckle themselves. They floated to rest on a summoned armour stand. “I’ll leave the shield here.” “It wouldn’t last a moment against dragon fire anyway.” “I need some light for my plan, but a torch is impractical.” “How about a glowing sword?” He winked. “Say solasaich.” “Solasaich,” she said. Light began to spill out of her scabbard. Drawn out, it glowed with green light, bright as a flame. She held her other hand over the blade, expecting heat. For a long while she was mesmerised by the might. At long last, after waving the sword through the air, she felt ready. With the barbed harpoons and hammer hanging from the rope over her shoulder Danielle was ready to go. Her sword sat in the scabbard on her hip. “I’m ready Obag. Please find me a dragon on land. I don’t want to drown.” The former sealgair stood up from his golden throne. He opened a bloody portal wreathed in fire. She stepped through. Her feet sank in the sands of a desert. Red light from the aurora that covered the world danced across the purple and gold pearlescent scales of the dragon. Danielle had never witnessed anything so enormous. Serpentine coils were her horizon in every direction. It was a living mountain range. “Your plan is madness, little knight.” A frown on his face hinted at concern for her. “The climb alone might be the death of you.” “I know,” she said. Feet slipping in the sand, she strode towards the head of the beast. As fast as she walked, it always seemed further away. By the time she stood beneath the dragon she could only see the scales before her. They were rough to the touch. Striations in the scales were thick footholds for her as she clambered up. Her weapons clattered together on her back as she climbed. Before long she was a sweating mass of exhaustion wrapped in muscle and bone. Sitting on one, she rested. The beginning of the ascent was the hardest. She had to pass the natural overhang created by the curve of the dragon’s neck. After an inadequate rest she began again, reaching for a handhold to pull herself higher. Her feet often hung in the air as she hauled herself up to the next scale. The scales wore the skin of her hands to blisters. The relief when she reached the end of the overhang was palpable. Muscles thanked her for the rest as she clambered on all fours. Stepping from scale to scale, she hiked up the living mountain. Horns rose into the sky before her, casting mighty shadows. Even atop the dragon there was no such thing as walking. Every step to every scale was a stretch that risked a slip and fall to her death. From the peak of the neck Sir Longbow saw other dragons in the distance. Their heads were silhouettes in the permanent twilight of that hateful world. The ear was a cave below her. The black cavity sat on a ridge of scales she could not have traversed from below. Going down, seeing the drop below her was more nerve wracking for the knight than the ascent. “I fucking hate heights,” she said beneath her breath. A rumble reminiscent of an earthquake followed her words. She gripped her handholds for dear life. The world to her right became a heat haze. Hotter than the brightest day she’d ever known. Danielle’s skin screamed for mercy. Finally at the entrance to the ear, she spoke to the sword. “Solasaich,” she whispered. The sword’s glow lit the space immediately around her. A short walk ended with the sheer wall of the dragon’s tympanic membrane. She tied herself a harness with the rope. She tied an end to one harpoon and looped it through the others. Danielle pressed the point of the first harpoon to a gap in scales at the other edge of the ear. She raised her hammer and prayed. “Gods guide me. I know this is madness.” She brought the hammer down with a mighty blow that put it down between the scales. CLANG! It stuck. The noise of the mountain roaring made the knight clap her hands to her ears. She grabbed at her hammer and harpoons as the world beneath her feet began to soar. Walking closer to the eardrum she hammered in the second harpoon. CLANG! The second harpoon did not catch in the gap. The world shook. Danielle fell to the ground, blessing her gambeson for the padding. She recovered as the ear began to tilt. Her harness caught her as she bounced from side to side. The third harpoon slid away. She dived to catch it. Seizing a moment of stability, she slammed the last harpoon into a crease in the dragon’s skin by the tympanic membrane. Bringing the hammer down with both hands she watched the shaft of steel sink into the skin. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. A roar which dizzied her rushed in through the ear from the outside world of Craspeur. Pulling herself along the rope she felt like a spider clinging to the wing of a bird in flight. The green glowing sword emerged from her scabbard with the hope of light in endless darkness. Finding a wrinkle in the skin across the dragon’s ear cavity, she pressed the sword point to it. Danielle brought the hammer down on the pommel with all her might. The clang was lost in the raging roar of the flying titan. The pain of the beast came through in the guttural scream it made. The knight hated to murder something so beautiful. To fail would be the death sentence of her home and all she loved. Dragons would swim through the skies of Crann and burn it all to the ground. The wrinkle became a rip as her sword punched through the tympanic membrane. Danielle was ripped from her feet. The dragon jerked to the side and down towards the world below. Slammed up into the air, she tried hold onto the sword and the hammer. Paying more attention to the heirloom sword, she saw the hammer slip through her fingers. It sailed out of the ear and away. What would Lupita do? She’d keep going . When the dragon twisted, still trying to shake her loose, she stabbed at the hole in its ear. She kicked at the cross guard. “Come on!” She screamed as she slammed her foot into the metal. The blade sank deeper into the wound. She kicked again and again. She was thrown aside with every twist of the dragon’s head. Whenever she could, she opened the rip wider. Time stretched and contracted without meaning. Every moment hanging on the rope instead of attacking was a lifetime. Whenever she could press the sword into the wound her chance was over too soon. Any moment the harpoons or the knots she’d tied could come loose. Once more she struck at the rip, tearing it wider. “I can get through that,” she thought aloud. The dragon had other ideas. Yanking its head to the side sent her flying with all the slack in the rope. The first harpoon crunched from its place between the smaller scales of the dragon’s ear. The jerking of her against the second harpoon ripped the glowing sword from Danielle’s hand. The green glow spun through the air and away. “NO!” When the next opportunity came, she ran blindly to where she hoped the hole was. Hands slid along the rough skin in darkness. Try to the left, little knight , said a voice in her head. Sliding her hands left with the haste of mortal peril she found the rip and pushed through. The ear tipped up. She hung from the rip, half in, half out. The dragon turned again. An agony reminiscent of her whipping sparked up her leg as the loose harpoon broke through her thigh. Through the rip, she screamed. “Die you bastard. Just fucking DIE!” She fumbled with the knots of her harness. Each one had been carefully tied not to be undone. Fumbling fingers burnt against the rope. Slammed against the tympanic membrane from the inside, she felt the rope pulling her out, the momentum of the harpoon ripping her away. So close, little knight. Don’t give up now . She hung on the end of the rope in the perfect darkness of the dragon’s inner ear. Knowing the harpoon hook was flying towards her she kicked away from the rip. The barbed metal dart caught on the slack in the rope. Danielle held it to her as the dragon turned again. Flesh inside the ear was soft compared to outside. Stabbing the harpoon into the skin, she kicked the hoop with her good leg. Anchored to the new position she began untying herself from the harness once more. Desperate hands found unknown strength. Knots yielded. Weightless for a moment, she grabbed the ring of the harpoon. Sweaty fingers slipped on the metal. Gasps of desperation escaped her lungs. A crash yanked her until she felt a bone give under the shock. Hot agony flooded up her arm. There was no movement. No flight. The last knot gave. Danielle cried to herself in the darkness. “I should have stayed in the tower.” Never give up, little knight . The herald’s voice was the slightest whisper in her mind as though he was committing a sin behind his master’s back. “It’s not flying anymore.” It can’t balance. It can’t fly . Danielle pulled on the harpoon that had been her anchor. Blood poured from a deep gash in her side. She ripped her only weapon from its grip. Flapping sounds beyond the dragon’s tympanic membrane caught her ear. A feast has fallen from the sky. Scavengers have come to try their luck . Defending itself from an onslaught all around, the dragon twisted and turned. Danielle had to crawl on all fours with the harpoon held in her right hand. Roaring shook her insides. “Why am I still trying, this is impossible,” she sobbed. No. Keep going . “I can’t.” I can’t believe we’re arguing over this, finish it . Crawling in the dark on ever softer flesh, she stabbed at it here, there, and everywhere. Blood flowed. Other fluids soaked her as she crawled through the endless insides of the dragon’s skull. She stabbed at every surface she found until it flowed. Finding a wall of soft flesh through a hole in the skull, she went wild. The dragon lost its mind, little by little. Just a little more . Danielle swung the harpoon until the dragon stopped moving completely. Done . Now we wait . The body cannot live without the mind . Giving in to agony, Danielle knelt in blood and cried. “I’m going to see you again, Lupita. Just wait.” The green light preceded her sword as it appeared in the red mess before her. Eyes on the green light. She waited. “It’s dead,” Obag said. “Time to go back to your world, little knight.”


My mother always told me. It was a familiar theme of conversation. She would say “if you keep doing these things, nobody is going to like you”. “These Things” was never clearly defined. The best I could surmise was that it roughly translated to “whatever makes you the way that you are as a person”, but that was an educated guess at best really. It seemed *anything* I did warranted a reminder, even when I hadn’t tried to get myself into trouble. I always felt so cold when she spoke like that, like my heart had been injected with some kind of coolant so that my blood was freezing into thousands of tiny prickling shards all over. When I got older, I would learn to inject my ~~veins~~ words with enough heat to ~~numb~~ combat it. “My friends like me just fine.” She smiled. It was not a warm smile. “Because they don’t have to deal with you all the time. When you’re an adult, things will be different. My job, as an adult who knows all of that, is to pass that knowledge to you, and your job is to *listen*, not argue.” Every time she said that word, *knowledge*, I would get distracted. It was one of the few words she said where you could still hear a heavy hint of her accent every time, though she would deny it fervently if you so much as implied that she had any kind of accent at all. They say that a person’s real accent becomes more prominent when that person is tired, drunk, upset, or angry. I had a penchant for making the adults in my life all of those things all of the time, it seemed. I knew a *lot* of different accents, at least. She continued regardless of my distraction. I was, after all, meant to be *listening*. “Right now, school forces you to spend time together. But years from now, when there is no school or dance class or youth group to make them see you all the time, it’ll be up to you guys to invite each other and make plans to see everyone. And they will stop coming, and calling, and inviting you, *mark my words*. Just wait a few years, I’ll be *more* than happy to tell you I told you so.” ...... “......*You* like me.” “I don’t like you. Sure, I *love* you, because I’m your mother so I have to, but I certainly don’t *like* you. And once anyone spends enough time with you to learn and know the real you, neither will anybody else. There’s a difference between *liking* someone and *loving* someone.” Oh. Well, maybe, it didn’t matter if people liked me as long as they lo- “And *I* only love you because *I’m* your mother. Nobody else will have that obligation, *they will leave you*. People usually don’t tend to love people they can’t even stand to be around, let alone like, unless they *have to*. They don’t have to. So just watch, because one day, *nobody* is going to like you, not even yourself, and you are going to be a very, *very* lonely little girl. And it will be *nobody’s* fault but your own.” ...... ......I don’t really remember how the conversation went after that. I never did find out what “These Things” really were, or how I could stop doing them, though not for a lack of trying. For a while, years later, it didn’t matter. For a while, I was more loved ~~and more liked~~ than I *ever* could have imagined or hoped for, surrounded by so much warmth I was sometimes scared I would burn up. I was also scared that if I got too used to feeling warm, the cold would feel even more bitter upon its inevitable return. And then- just when I had *finally* decided that my mother was wrong, and the memory of those particular words failed to make me feel even chilled anymore, and I was sure that I would certainly never ever ever feel *freezing* ever again- that warmth gradually slipped away from me, as I willingly scrambled to burn myself on the embers in a ~~futile~~ desperate attempt to stay warm and received nothing but the stinging stench of acrid smoke and choked lungs full of ash in return. The cold *did* hurt more upon its return, as I had just gotten used to its absence before it came back with a vengeance, so I was able to relish the bitter victory of being right about *that* at least- even though it meant I was wrong about almost everything I had previously been so sure of, and therefore had to exist with the *knowledge* that my mother was right, *mark her words*. As the familiar cold settled in, it stung so fiercely it almost reminded me of burning all over again. There is a special sort of quiet brutality in finally finding something you never quite dared to hope you would have, then having it pulled cleanly from your grasp no matter how much you fought. It’s almost an act of mercy, a kindness, to go without and never truly know what you’re missing, rather than to know and to *feel* the empty, aching hollows the absence leaves behind. I am wary now of even a spark, too scared of forfeiting my reclaimed numbness just to burn to even consider striking a match and daring to feel anything but cold *ever* again. She certainly did tell me so. ...... Sometimes at night, years after I’ve stopped needing to strain my ears to listen for angry footsteps and voices but ~~compulsively~~ devotedly continue to do so anyway, when it’s quiet and I’m alone and ~~begging~~ ~~sobbing~~ ~~pleading~~ wishing that I wasn’t as charred memories play on a hazy loop in my mind, I wonder if I was missing the obvious the entire time, if “These Things” simply meant talking, moving, thinking, feeling, breathing, *living*. And if maybe, just *maybe*, if I stopped, someone might like me. ...... Sometimes, if I keep the TV on during at night, sometimes I can fool myself into thinking I’m not alone during those hazy moments between the waking world and sleep. Currently, a documentary plays across the screen, casting the walls in a soft blue glow that is almost ethereal in the still darkness. A man on the screen is demonstrating methods one should employ to stay warm enough to survive alone in a blizzard long enough to wait for help, should one ever manage to land themselves in such a position. He explains how crucial it is to find a dry, safe place to take shelter and build a fire, teaches his audience how to use the bare minimal tools and materials to produce a tiny, dancing flame. He does not explain what to do if you have no tools and materials, however, nor how to find such items should you find yourself lacking. He also does not mention what to do if there is no *help* on the way. Those possibilities aren’t even acknowledged. I’m only half awake, but it still doesn’t escape my attention that there’s some sort of metaphor, or irony, or something to be found there somewhere. ...... ............ I’m so cold.


I look up, a break from staring at the same old blank page on my notebook. It would scream at me if it could, only because it had watched me stare at it aimlessly for a few weeks now. I let my eyes wander a bit - I do that quite often, and you know, the reason is quite extraordinary. They catch the wildest of things when you just let them be. Imagine, you, this very second, while you are reading this so-far-pretty-pointless paragraph, are blindfolded and tied. Just suddenly, blindfolded and the kind that doesn’t let light seep through. The utter black and nothing but black blindfolded - I think you get the point. So now you, my borrowed protagonist, can see nothing but darkness but you can feel your body being pushed into a small space, maybe a car trunk or the floor under a backseat? You don’t know, but it’s pleasant, of course. The car makes sharp turns, makes sense because you’re abducted. You can smell something horrible enough to trigger a gag reflex resting against your slammed face - soft and smelly - but your wildest guesses as to what that is will remain unverified, for obvious reasons. Every turn that you take, you are yearning to see it, every little movement around you, every weak sound is tickling your imagination and you can’t help but crave to see it. This happens for a while before you are made to sit on a metal surface, and the blindfold is taken off. Now you would think, what kind of a maniac would not be freaking out in this situation, and rather be thinking about how to look around after a while of being blindfolded - but it’s a story, we are not open for discussion. I am just telling you how you are feeling, and you are to play your part. You take a moment and then open your eyes. Your eyes take a stroll of the setting. Now that, that walk, which is part sheer happiness of having the power to see the world around you and part panic that is making you scrutinise all that surrounds you - that is the stroll I ask my eyes to take. It’s not a cakewalk, so the story and setting are essential, don’t frown. Now we know how to do it, so we can go ahead and look around the room. There really wasn’t anything extraordinary, it was a plain white desk, not one scribble that I hadn’t seen before. A bottle of water - we should have a sip perhaps, and keep going. A bag that’s half open, pinned down with the weight of things we can’t see and a notebook peeping from the inside. And yes, a peripheral of people populating the room. Not a crowd, but honestly, we would prefer less right? Now this doesn’t feel so exciting as I had built it up to be so we no longer walk, we start moving faster. More things that we know aren’t it - the ‘It’ we are looking for. More garbage, simple drab objects that I know all about already, nothing is really fascinating here. What an immense waste of time and imagination this is turning out to be - the setting exercise turned out to be pretty useless, too. Nothing, just garbage. I think it’s safe to say we should return back to the blank page, this seems pointless. And right then, right when I, or should I say we, were up on the inexplicable brilliance of this stroll, it happened. Now you don’t want another long analogy of how quickly it happened, I know that too. So, imagine it to be a second and half - that will do. I locked my eyes, the ones I had set free to roam around and pick things and bring them back to me, they stayed put for one and a half second. I had seen him before. A million times would be a hyperbole, but yes, I had seen him before. But for one and a half second, I looked at him. I looked at him while he looked at me, and I realised how deceptive is the concept of time. How can I feel my blood rush to my face, while my heart suddenly decides to skip a beat and breath is a forgotten concept over all. Now all that was physically happening inside me, I gave away with the pink on my face, and he is still looking right here - and say a second still remains somehow. I scrutinise his face, a similar tint of red I was wearing, looking at me as if I caught him off-guard. I stabilise a bit, I can act like it was a mistake, I have the window. But I couldn’t. Because I wouldn’t breathe, unless he looked away. I wouldn’t lose the hint of blood from my face, unless he looked away. I wouldn’t remember a thing but this for a lifetime to come, unless he looked away. It was like we were caught red-handed in the middle of a crime so brazen that I wanted we knew we had to run away. I panicked and took my eyes off him - forced the time to move. That’s how weird time is, it felt like hours passed in those five minutes, and nothing seemed the same - the things around me didn’t seem like waste of matter anymore.


The balls drifted in and out of focus as James gripped the edge of the table. The cushion sticky under his fingers from years of spilled beer. He took a few deep breaths and bent forward steadying his hand on the baize, the cue tip wobbling in time with his breathing as he tried to work out which of the pairs of balls was the right one to aim for. Blinking quickly the balls merged into a single blurry shape and he took the shot. The white ball jumped as the cue tip slipped underneath, leaving a long stripe of blue chalk along the scuffed green felt. “Oops,” he belched, standing quickly to avoid the next burp spilling his last pint onto the table. The bar swam again with the sudden movement. James grabbed for the edge of the table, missed and toppled slowly sideways. He hit the mismatched sticky tiles with a thud and lay there staring up at the stained ceiling while spilled beer soaked into his Atari tee-shirt. “Dude you’re hammered,” Andrew said as he lurched from where he’d been leaning against the wall. He downed the last of his beer, putting the empty glass unsteadily down on the edge of the pool table. “Haven’t seen you this shitfaced since...well, last night. “Black in the corner pocket.” “Never make that, you’re crap at this game,” said James still lying in his puddle. The spilled beer had started to warm up and felt less clammy the longer he lay there. “Well, I’ll bring the ketchup, and you can--” “Yeah, yeah,” said James, his eyes closed, cutting out the harsh fluorescent light beating down on him. “Jus’ take the shot.” There was a crack, then the mechanical rattling sound of a ball rolling through the table, lining it up in the little glass window ready for the next game. Andrew’s head appeared over the corner, casting a shadow over James, who blinked trying to focus on his friend’s face. “Your round, piss-head.” “Double or nothing,” said James without moving. “No way, you lost, your round, them’s the rules. Same as always.” “Trick shot,” James said still lying on the floor, “I call trick shot.” “Ahh, balls... Okay, but something aerial after that last effort.” “No problemo. How many still on the table?” said James closing his eyes again. “Five. Now wake up.” “’m thinkin’ not sleepin’.” His eyes snapped open, “Got it.” He reached up gripping the corner pocket and dragging himself upright. Stumbling his way across the bar, he weaved in and out of the other regulars, nodding at those he recognised, smiling at those he didn’t. James clung to the juke box bolted to the wall, as he fed change into the slot. The music started, soft vocals at first, then the beat kicked in. He closed his eyes, nodding his head in time with the heavy baseline. The sounds of the packed bar faded into the background as the beat flowed through him. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck and down his arms. He smiled as the fluttering feeling settled in his gut, stillness spreading out across his body. His breathing steadied and he opened his eyes, the fuzz around the edges of his vision pulling back, leaving the bar in sharp focus. He walked slowly back through the packed room, more heads now turned to watch him. A few people got up from their tables and followed. He paused at a table, there were four young women tucked into the booth. Their makeup and hair done, tight low-cut tops and skinny black dresses. “Good evening, ladies,” James said, and bowed theatrically, the effect marred slightly by clipping his head on the edge of their table. They looked at him, like he was a huge cockroach dropping into their girls night out. The two nearest to him gave him a slow up and down stare, from his battered muddy work boots to his torn jeans. They weren’t fashionable ripped jeans, just old enough to be worn through in one knee. As he followed their disapproving looks, he hoped that the torn seat of the jeans would hold up the rest of the night and his arse wouldn’t be hanging out before last orders. Their gaze lingered on his tee-shirt, he was proud of the retro logo, as he looked down, he realised that he had perhaps been wearing it for too long and the kebab stains did little for his image. None of that really mattered, he was only after one thing, “Might I trouble you for an empty wine glass?” Without waiting for an answer; he lifted one of their empties and headed back to the pool table. When he glanced back, they were all watching him, looks of relief that this drunken idiot had left them alone. “You’re such a dick. You really shouldn’t bother the normal people, you know,” said Andrew. “I didn’t I just needed a wine glass, this is O’Flannigan’s. You see anyone else drinking wine? That white wine vinegar, those giggling girls are drinking, has been open behind the bar for the last three weeks.” He looked around, from the bar flies drooping over their stools at the counter, to the slightly orange lit area of cracked wood flooring in the corner, jokingly called the dance floor, a trendy wine bar it was not. The music from the juke box faded, the beat slipping from his mind. In the quiet that followed the fuzz started to return to the edges of his vision, his feet grew heavy and he leaned against the pool table. The next tune started loud and fast, clarity snapped back with the familiar beat, flooding through him, his fingertips tingling. A small crowd was now gathering around the table, he looked around at the familiar faces and small glow of pride pricked within him. He was crap at pool but his trick shots were legendary, a small break in everyone’s otherwise unremarkable Saturday night in the pub. As always there were a few new faces in the crowd, drawn by the pack of people, eager to see what happened next. His gaze caught on two people at the back, dark grey hoods drawn up, their faces in shadow. They were motionless in the jostling crowd. He couldn’t see their features but he could feel their eyes boring into him. As he set the shot up, four balls in a square on the black spot, his eyes kept flicking back to the two dark figures in the crowd. He flipped an empty pint glass, placing it in the centre of the table, the wineglass balanced upside down on the top, the final yellow ball was laid carefully on top of the stack. As he lined up the white behind the baulk line, he could see the dregs of beer forming a wet ring on the baize. Sandra, the landlady, would have his ass for this, again. As he straightened and looked around, he smiled at the four ladies who had come to see the drunken cockroach make a dick of himself in front of everyone. They didn’t smile back. The two dark figures in the crowd had disappeared, vanishing as if they had never really been there. “Four yellow balls, four pockets. And the rest, well you’ll just have to see,” he added with a wink. As he lined up the shot the cue came into sharp focus, the grain of the wood tight under his fingertips, he could almost feel how it used to be alive. The twisting lines in the wood marking the growth of the tree, a hidden record of its life, snaking together towards the tip. He looked up at Andrew who was standing at the far end of the table. “I’ll bring the ketchup.” “Yeah, yeah, and I’ll eat my hat.” Without looking he took the shot, the small white ball lifted from the table. It arced gracefully through the air clipping the base of the wineglass. The glass toppled forward and there was an audible gasp from the watching crowd, it flipped, landing perfectly behind the pint glass, the white dropping neatly inside with a ding. The yellow ball, knocked from its aerial perch, landed in the middle of the remaining balls sending them scurrying for the pockets. There was a hush as they slowed, the only sound the pounding beat of the music, his trick shot track. Then as one they dropped into the four pockets. There was a pause as the last remaining yellow continued to spin lazily on the black spot. The music ended, someone clapped and then the crowd was cheering. As he felt the beat leave him, he staggered sideways, sagging against the pool table. The yellow ball spun to a stop and the wine glass shattered behind him, the white dropping into the broken shards. Within moments the crowd ebbed away, their evening’s free entertainment over. Andrew reluctantly nodded and headed to the bar, leaving him unsteadily picking bits of glass from the table, dropping them into an empty pint. James felt someone move up close behind as he bent over the table. He hoped it was the blonde one, with the tight white top and the blue eyes. Had he seen a change in her expression after he made the shot? He tried to drag the memory forward, those last few seconds of clarity before the music ended. No, she had still been looking at him like he was a cockroach, a performing cockroach, but a cockroach none the less. A hand landed on his shoulder, dragging him upright, then one gripped the other side. He felt two people close up against him, his arms were gripped tightly. It felt like a steel vice was clamping down on them. “James Hale,” said a deep gravelly voice, “we’ve been looking for you for a while.” James twisted in their grip trying to look over his shoulder at the two shadowy figures, their hoods still pulled low over their faces. No-one in the bar was reacting, the noise and bustle continuing as if nothing was happening. He could see Andrew leaning over the bar, flirting with Amy, the barmaid he’d been seeing for a few weeks. His attention was fixed on her, not so much as a glance over his shoulder. James opened his mouth to shout, earning him a headbutt to the temple. It made the world swim even more than the pints of Guinness he'd downed earlier. “Enough of that lad, I don’t want to hurt you. But don’t test me.” The grip on his arms tightened, bending his wrists forward. He tried to push up on his toes to ease the pressure, but the hands on his shoulders prevented him moving. “Okay,” James blurted out, his voice high and squeaky. The pressure eased and he sagged in their grip. “That was a very impressive shot, Mr Hale. Would you like to know how you’re able to do that? And perhaps how much more you may be able to achieve? There could be so much more to your life than trick shots in some shithole bar.” “Maybe,” James said, his heart now beating faster as the cold feeling of panic spread through him. This was making no sense, why could no-one see these apes trying to break his arms. Only a few moments before. the eyes of the whole pub had been on him. “That’s good, Mr Hale. It makes no difference either way; you will be leaving with us now.” The grip on his arms and shoulders increased lifting his scruffy boots off the floor, they started dragging him towards the toilets. The fear now grew into blind panic as adrenaline coursed through his system, momentarily overcoming the excess alcohol he’d drunk. James lashed out with his work boots, the muddy steel toecaps connecting hard with their legs as he thrashed about. The hands let go. As he slumped to the floor a fist flashed out hitting him hard across the jaw. The world spun as he lay on the tiles. Then a boot hit him in the ribs with an audible crack. Pain, like fire, lanced down his side. The shadowy figures bent over him again, their loose grey smocks concealing any features. “Mr Hale, I told you not to test me,” came the gravelly voice again, “Don’t do this the hard way. It’s not worth the pain.” They took an arm each and dragged him through the door to the toilets, the chipped white wood swinging closed behind him, cutting off the sounds of the busy pub. His precious Atari tee-shirt caught and ripped on a cracked beige tile as he slithered across the filthy toilet floor. The fire door beyond the urinals banged open, the cold night air flooding the reeking space. In the orange glare of a street lamp, James caught a glimpse of a white van, the side door wide open, he thought he saw more shadowy shapes inside. They dragged him headfirst down the steps and dumped him onto the cold metal floor. As the door slid closed, cutting him off from the world, a bag dropped over his head, he heard zipping as his hands and feet were bound tight. The van pulled away. Through the hood, James could hear harsh breathing beside him, he tried to shuffle away, his bound feet kicking at the floor. His head hit something soft. “Watch it dickhead,” came a muffled female voice. “Sorry,” he mumbled in a half whisper and lay still. The adrenaline was now fading, the hot tight hood across his face, made him want to throw up. The van eventually came to a halt, the back doors thrown open. Harsh white light seeped in through the tight weave of the bag making him blink after what seemed like hours in the dark. “Wakey, wakey, ladies and gents,” came the gravelly voice once again. “Your new life is about to begin.”


The worn-down diner was oddly empty for a weekend. The soft, electric glow of the aged lamps illuminated the cracked, red vinyl of the vacant booths. Bored, the waitress wandered between tables- filling the mugs of the scattered patrons and wiping up the occasional mess. Aside from the clatter of the dishes in the kitchen and the hushed murmur of two men conversing quietly over cups of mediocre coffee the diner was filled with a near overwhelming quiet. “More?” Asked the waitress, her voice strained with the weight of fatigue. I looked at her, unintentionally picking apart every detail of her face. The day had left faint purple rings around her aging eyes. Wrinkles toyed with the corner of her mouth as she spoke, hinting at a life filled with more frowns then smiles. The look of pity, tinged with a poorly hidden bit of repulsion incited feelings of annoyance and self loathing within my gut. As much as I detested the watered-down, lukewarm, gritty liquid I accepted a second cup. Again left alone with my musings, I turned my attention to the grey world outside. Night had crept up on the city. Every now and again a couple would wander by, huddled together under the dim light of the street lights. A slight breeze churned up the leaves and debris that had gathered together along the curbs. It seemed as though the entire world had gone to sleep leaving only a few brave souls to traverse through this scene of darkness and silence. The odd car would drive past occasionally. Headlights pierced the night, overpowering the muted light of the street lamps and illuminating everything in harsh, blinding brilliance. One of these cars pulled up in front of the diner and parked. The glare of the lamps roused a somber muttering of a complaint out of the two men in the corner as the car went dark and still in the lot outside. I stood up, drained the last of my now cold coffee from the small ceramic mug and approached the waitress at the cash register. She smiled half heartedly, her eyes flickering over to the Coca-Cola clock on the wall as she counted down the seconds until her shift ended. That smile quickly faded as she saw not the $3.50 she expected for the coffee but the foreboding barrel of the weapon in my hand. Words of apology crossed my lips as I reached over the register and emptied the drawer. There was not much to be found between the plastic dividers, the night had been slow. But it would be enough, perhaps for a blanket, or another coat, something to keep the chill from my bones at night. As I stuffed the bills into my pocket, I took one last look around the diner. The men in the corner continued talking; unaware of what was going on but 20 feet from where they sat. An old woman stared at me in silence, her eyes burning with disgust and disapproval but not a hint of fear. The waitress, sweating and on the brink of collapse shut the now empty register drawer with a rattle and a click. Again I apologized, the terror in her eyes sinking into my stomach with the all too familiar heavy weight of guilt. My battered shoes padded softly across the well trod carpet as I left and turned to amble down the tree lined street. The bell on the door chimed quietly as it shut, closing the warmth of the diner off from the chill of the world outside. I gathered my shabby coat around me in a hopeless attempt to protect myself from the bite of the breeze and let myself get lost in the unending maze of the city streets.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: Happy Holidays, everyone - or if you don’t celebrate, happy end of year! Let’s get into the spirit this week! **Image Prompt: ** **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** Use at least 3 of the following words - tinsel - yule - menorah - invictus - elves - spirit This week’s challenge is to use the above image as inspiration for your story. Get creative, you can use it any way you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required (it is worth points). You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d like to have you, we absolutely love new friends!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for *Note, there will be no campfire or post next Monday (Christmas Day). We will follow the same schedule, but it will be moved to Tuesday. Don’t forget to submit your nominations then!* - u/MaxStickies *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.