thought_fox_spring_2009

International School of The Hague10/03/09

Spring Issue


The Thought FoxSpring Issue

ContentsNewsday 2009 3A new piece of gauze 6Babysitting on Friday the thirteenth 8Too much success 10One big happy family 11The Door 13His Lie 16King of the World 19Untitled 21Life Story of a Penny 23Inspired by the Olympics? 26The Painting 28All the dead voices 32A Dragon’s Whisper 44Paper Love 53A satellite for my soul 54The Wind 55Like a Phoenix 56The Fisherman 57Untitled 58Just a few words 59A stab called love 60A soldier dies… 61Tales 62Words of power 63To Stand Mad or Fit Alive 64New Years 67Photograph 68



Newsday 2009

An epic quest. An epic challenge. An epic epic. Newsday 2009. Like the heathen Gods of yore, we arose early to a true champion’s breakfast. Except the great and mighty Editor, whose work began before even the sun’s. And anyway, he had already feasted on the souls of three late article writers. Terrified of the monster, his minions did his bidding like the slaves of ancient Egypt. Except not in the sun. It was Holland. So it was raining. The views outside were vigorously dull, inspiring the holy bards and story-weavers to new heights of journalistic self-expression. The sun dawned, reflecting of a myriad magical goggle boxes, on which the Journalists were diligently working. Not so far away a whip cracked. A scream shred the air. The Editor (DOB 6/6/6) was at his work. “Up, Pigs!” he shouted at his minions, “Think!” And indeed they thought. “Feel happy!” And indeed they felt. Such loyal workers are the foundations of the greatest stronghold. And indeed, so it was. ISHnews, a mighty bastion of journalistic freedom fused with the good will (and blood) and enthusiasm of a million men, rose unto the skies. Some called it unholy, saying “’Tis blasphemy, to challenge the work of God, my lord!” But still he drove them on, his horns barely covered by his thick black hair. And tail. A long, swishy tail. Swish, swish, then you know you are done for. You hear it and the next moment you are enslaved forever, dragged down to the great-vaulted halls of The Editor, a servant forevermore. Interviews happened. Images were created. Stories were written. Layouts efficiently lost. And lost again. The deadline, once so far away, loomed heavy in each worker’s mind. Insanity began to grip the press room. ‘Where’s that article?’ ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Work! Work! WORK!’ ‘Separate those pictures from you articles!’ Such cries became common, echoing through the fiery chambers as the ginger-clad Technical Editor finally succumbed to the suffocating madness. ‘I’M NOT IN THE MOOD!’ He screamed. Some call him Hans, others the Ginger Bear. We call him Satan’s servant on Earth, or A Technical Editor.

He was later found dragging ‘Mad Aha!’, a discombobulated Goggle-Box King, into our burning realms. The ceiling blazed red then all was silent. There was only the sound of adverts being created and a scanner being broken and the harsh palpitation of fear.



There were no survivors.Here, for the honour of their memories, we list their names:

R.I.P.

• Saville, Philip (time of death: 14:22 cause: Poor grammar)• Sunko, Ruben (09:37, Suicide) • Omar, Mohammed (15:12, Assassinated)• Stegeman, Emiel (16:10, Sat on by a cow)• Fonseca Topp, Sara (11:05, Old age)• Lopez, Nicole (12:02, Too much agony)• Letcher, Alexandra (16:07, The horoscopes came true)• Grevers, Dorothee (16:08, Attacked by vampires)• Flores, Maria (10:21, Dragged into the seas by the Kraken)• Joshi, Tanisha (10:08, Accidentally set self on fire)• Clarke, Sinead (16:30, Tripped on scanner cord – scanner exploded)• Ileiwat, Muna (15:58, Killed by exploding scanner)• Belilos, Claire (15:01, Sucked into computer – alive in a parallel universe)• Gittins, Elinor (11:43, Anger)• Feliciani, Chiara (14:02, Rode off on tiger – missing)• Court, Libby (13:43, Fatal blood loss from extreme paper cut)• Pimm, Charlotte (10:12, Stolen away by the gremlins of doom)• Gilmour, Sam (16:06, Rebelled against editor – electrocuted by Editor’s

hans) ••• By Philip Saville and Dusan ???????



Short Prose



A new piece of gauze

At around 6:30 pm, Dai’s father, David, picked Dai up to eat in the Pizza Hut. It was Children’s Day. A lot of people were already in the Pizza Hut. The music was cozy, and all the children were smiling.

Dai went to wash her hands. She was a pretty girl, short and quite thin. She looked cute but something strange was on her face, she hardly ever smiled like a normal girl would. She felt safe because she had brought a piece of gauze with her to cover the knife wounds. - It had happened three days ago. She was feeling very distressed about studying and “friends” were around her. Finally, she had taken out the knife that she always kept in her pencil case and used it to draw a few lines on the back of her hand… - After a few minutes in the washroom, she went back, prepared to tell an unreal excuse. Dai walked towards her seat, using big steps to get there as quickly as possible. As she was passing David, he unexpectedly said: ”Wait!” Dai felt bad, as if she were a guilty cat. Her heart pumped faster and faster, it seemed it would pump out of her throat at any time. For two years, she had tried to be honest with her father. This time…… She didn’t know how to start.

But David did: ”Show me your hands, let me check how clean they are.” Her hands started shaking, her heart beat even faster; the worst was that her neck was also turning red. She tried to calm herself, then pulled up her hands slowly, the palms facing him. She couldn’t remember how many times she prayed that David would not ask her to turn them over. But he did. Of course he saw it, very clean hands with a piece of new gauze on the left hand. It looked like the back of her hand was swollen. Dai’s eyes were filled with tears, she raised her head to stop the tears from falling. Finally, she sat down. As she was sitting down, she saw white hair on David’s head like a small chrysanthemum. He was getting old. Then he asked:” What’s wrong with your left hand?” Dai was trying to not look at him and answered casually:” Nothing. In PE I just fell on the ground.”

David still didn’t let it go, he seemed to know everything. He used his strong, rough hand to caress her left hand. Dai was scared when David touched that piece of new gauze. He said:” Look at me! Are you sure you are ok?” Dai’s cheeks were turning pink as she said: ”Yes, Dad, I am sure. You don’t need to worry about this.” Then she turned her eyes away from her father’s glance.

After the meal, David got up. He was tell and very thin. His dark arms, together with the shirt he wore on that day, shaped him like a tube of preserved mustard. Dai was given a pen container from the Pizza Hut as a special surprise on Children’s Day. It was very



pretty and had several rings with different pictures of children playing on a rainbow. Dai played with the rings on the pen container and started telling David: ”When I got this gift, I wanted to open it to see the inside and take it apart. I was curious how it worked. But I didn’t open it, because it is fine now. It works. If I opened it, I wouldn’t be able to put it back together afterwards.”

David was quietly driving and listening. He seemed to agree with Dai.

By Nounou Bao



Babysitting on Friday the thirteenth

It was a normal Friday the thirteenth - a superstitious day for people, but for Sabina this was just any other day.

Sabina wasn’t superstitious at all. She was just like any other typical girl from her school in Costa Verde. She couldn’t remember what her natural hair colour was, she has dyed her hair too many times but at that time she was brunette, her hair was long, and her eyes were as green as an emerald.

Sabina had to baby-sit that day. “It is just like any other time I have to baby-sit,” thought Sabina to herself. But it wasn’t like that; she didn’t know what would happen to her while she was baby-sitting.

The house Sabina had to go to for baby-sitting was enormous and beautiful. The house was divided into three floors. Interestingly, the third floor was locked.

The children had the flu so they were asleep in their rooms. Sabina had a look at them to see if they were all right, and so they were.

Suddenly, Sabina heard a noise. She got up and checked on the children to see if they were troubled. “The children are fine,” thought Sabina.

When she came downstairs, she heard the noise again and she felt something in the back of her neck. She turned around but there was nothing behind her, and when she put her hand on her neck, she felt nothing.

She heard the noise again and realised that it was coming from neither the first nor the second floor, but from the third one, the one that was locked.

Sabina quickly went to the second floor and tried to open the trap door to the third floor, but she couldn’t so she decided to go to the kitchen to grab a sharp knife. She finally succeeded in opening the trapdoor with the knife.

After lowering the stairs through the trapdoor, she climbed all the way up. When she saw that there was a candle, she decided to light it and she saw thirteen bodies. They were as pale as snow in winter. Sabina realised that the bodies were dead and started screaming, but no-one seemed came to help her.

The trapdoor closed with a loud sound. Sabina screamed again and unsuccessfully tried



to open the trapdoor. It was stuck from the outside.

The candle started to melt down while Sabina looked around at the attic, which wasn’t very big and had no windows.

When the candle was finished, a voice said to Sabina: “Don’t be scared, I’ll make it quick.” Sabina was really scared and started to scream again, but no-one heard her. After a few seconds the screams stopped.

No one knew what happened to Sabina; no-one heard from her again.

Thirteen months later, a girl baby-sat in the house on Friday the thirteenth.

By Rodrigo Martin Alonso



Too much success

Saeed was a boy of short height and with a small face. Although he was growing up in a poor family, the most important things to him were reputation and prestige. He was very proud of his family including his mother and sister. Being a man, treating everybody in a gentlemanly fashion and protecting his family like a powerful and attentive lion, were big goals in his mind. They were living in a poor conditions but the flame of their love was keeping the family warm.

It was a shame that they could not even buy new shoes for themselves, so the children had to take turns wearing shoes. Their one pair of shoes was pretty old and they had to repair it frequently. Saeed and his sister were punctual and nervous about being on time for passing on the shoes. Sara, Saeed’s sister, was a girl of eleven but her bitter life had made her stronger than her friends. She had suffered from not seeing her dreams come true. She did not want to complain about her life but Saeed could read it on her face. Despite the hardship in their lives, they were still hopeful and optimistic.

One day, Saeed was going to school in cold and rainy weather. He could not walk properly because of his disjointed heels. His feet peeped out of the sides of the shoes. He said to himself: “This is a bad thing but no real problem; I can solve real problems when I become a doctor.” When he arrived at school, something on the board drew his attention: “A big race will be held on Friday and you need to sign up for it. The first winner will get a ticket to travel to London, the second one will get a play station and the third winner will get a pair of sport shoes.” He was surprised and decided to attend the competition and come in third so he could win the shoes.

On the day of the competition, all students were ready to start. They were in a row like an army on the battle field. The gun was shot and Saeed started to run with the hope of getting that pair of new shoes to share it with his sister. Suddenly something hit him and he fell to the ground. A runner laughed at him as he passed by. He felt a big pain in his knees but he got up and continued. After a few seconds the other runner pushed him away and repeated this several times but Saeed was strong enough to keep running. Although he was sweating and getting short of breath, he reached the finishing line. Exhausted, he sank to the floor.

After a while he opened his eyes and saw himself in the hands of the Principal of the school who said proudly: “Well done, my dear. You are the first winner and you will get a ticket to London!”

By Yasaman Erfanian



One big happy family

“Oh dear, I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to keep this up!” the normally so cool woman was now nervously biting her lips as the numbers on the paper flashed by and by ever so rapidly. Terror was growing inside her, as she was sure she would pop if those papers would keep on arriving. Every time she heard the postman at the door, she’d give a little yelp of fear of how many horrible, yellow colored bills were lying there on the ragged doormat, cynically grinning, feeding on her pain. “you know I hate to see you like this, we’ll get through! We’ve brought the little ones up so far, we’ll make it as long as we stick together” his raspy voice, chewed on by much too much cigars, was sounding quite delighted, she new he found her fear rather amusing, but she didn’t dare tell him the truth of her thoughts. She sighed. “No harry, we won’t. You’ve told me again and again, but even with Charlie working as a horse, we’re not even able to buy the most basic food for the children. Our Shawn is now growing so mighty fast, he would even eat us if he had the chance. And poor Carrie and Nina, oh, don’t get me started on those two…” she was now shaking all over. Her husband was watching her intensely, trying to detect any bit of the vastness he dad once built on. Nothing. He was sure she’d break down before the year was over, and silently, he even hoped she would. The initial neatly ironed shirts were of no use now he did not have anyplace to wear them. Barely ever did they eat anything but thin soup, so the coarsely seasoned potatoes were of no importance either, so why should he put up with any more of her senseless whining? Suppressing his real feelings by a bittersweet voice, though he really didn’t care how she would react, he sighed and sweetly laid a hand on her leg. “Well, then we must eat him! Simple as that! Genius!” “What?” she was thunderstruck. “What do you mean?” “Oh, well, it’s just a stupid idea, but an idea nonetheless…” she couldn’t help feeling interested in what else he had to say. “It would surely help us out of trouble, you know!” he tried to sound careless, but pride was burning in him as pepper. “But darling, you would not by any chance be suggesting that we must literally eat poor Shawn?” “Oh, most certainly not! Blimey, the idea alone!” Mrs. Leeds sighed relieved. “I think,” her husband went on, “we must poison one of them. I don’t care who, leave god to that, but it would surely keep us safe. The woman started hyperventilating. “But…harry! How can you! After all we’ve been through! Are you out of your mind? Of course it would spare us a hundred pounds a month, what with clothes, and school, but I prefer having my lot alive to live off the bit we do have.” “Sweetheart, now don’t overreact. We won’t cut them up and eat them if you don’t feel like it. But only moral has never withheld me from doing what I thought was right. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some shopping to do. Where do you reckon I could find venom?”With a smug grin he shut the door, knowing he left her behind paralyzed, devastated, and he adored the feeling. Mother used to play around with the children in the shabby looking living room,



they would spend hours and hours playing hide and seek, and jumping about, but today mum just didn’t seem to be able to pull off a good mood. It killed her seeing her beautiful children’s faces, she was smothered with a feeling of betrayal, and she simply couldn’t stand the idea of one of them dead. She knew she had no choice, harry overpowered her, and he wasn’t going to change his mind now. Nina jumped onto ma’s lap and pressed her far too thin face against her chin. “Mummy, is there something wrong? You seem so tense!” “Oh, don’t worry little one, it’s just that I had a horrible dream that one of my children died. It could happen you know, there’s a horrible flu going on, and there’s danger everywhere.” “It’s going to be fine mum, this drought will soon be over and we’ll be one big happy family once again. You’ll have me off your neck quite soon anyway, I’m planning on starting with a real man’s job next season.” Charlie was an incredibly mature boy for his age, and he too sensed fright in his mother’s voice. Mother decided to entertain the children by pulling down the shutters and lighting a candle. With horrible ghost stories, she made an attempt at ruining their appetite, so they wouldn’t feel like eating the deadly soup she had prepared. Her husband had given a mushroom injected with a horrible, fast working poison. Swallow it, you’re dead. Over and over she had prayed that the mushroom would end up on her own plate, although she didn’t wish to think about what father would do with her children when she was gone. The huge amount of alcohol that harry had consumed over the years was seriously beginning to chew on the few brain cells he had. Every last penny was secretly spent on whisky and cigars in the pub down the street while his family was starving at home. Mrs. Leeds was not surprised at all to hear that her husband wouldn’t be having supper with them on soup day. It was typical of him to squeeze out of it and let her finish the dirty job. She had to do it, for if there were no bodies tonight when he came home, he would not at all be happy. It was with pure resentment that she bitterly told her children to eat up now the soup was still warm, and made sure to give them less than normal. She clasped her sweaty fists under the table throughout the meal, and looked away every single time a child would lower a spoon into the soup, she was afraid to detect an ugly grayish veggie, that would change her life. Mrs. Leeds simply couldn’t believe her eyes when she put all four of her little ones to bed in the evening and kissed them goodnight. She did not feel ill herself either, and was completely confused. She cleaned off the table, put out the lights, and went to bed. In the middle of the night she awoke by a stumbling noise in the kitchen. Maybe she even heard a soft shriek of surprise, and a slight clatter. “Oh well” she thought, and shut her eyes. Mrs. Leeds awoke in the morning and went downstairs to set the table. She had no strange feeling whatsoever when she mopped up the now cold vermicelli that was spread out over the kitchen floor and tugged the spoon out of the lifeless hand. “Charlie dear, please do come over and help me, I think daddy’s had a sip too much.”

By Fenne van den Heuvel



The Door

The tall white houses twittered to each other, like old ladies at a tea party, as the wind fingered its way down the street. It poked at a heap of red and brown leaves that lay dying on the cobbles. Its cold fingers picked them up and dragged them, screaming, down the road, before dropping them and roaming on. All the while the plump bushes that guarded the smoothly painted front doors rustled their leaves authoritively. A stray van wandered into the street, making its slow way down. It came to a halt beside a scratched white door, guardless and lonely. It opened its doors and out stepped a family. Drab brown box after drab brown box was carried through the scratched white door, until the van was quite disembowelled. Its eyes lightened up and its voice sang out and it was gone, soon to return full once more.Inside the house light was streaming in onto the freshly polished wood panelled floor. The drab brown boxes were stripped of their tape, the contents bursting out, eager to conquer the empty spaces. The dog was free to bound, the floor making a clipping noise when its nails got dangerously close. Soon the house was full; the piano perfectly placed, the vases safely standing and the kettle snugly settling in on the kitchen counter.The lanky, long haired girl flitted off to school every day, her bag firmly attached to her back, bus cards at the ready. The father tapped away at the computer for hours on end, only stopping to feed the dog or devour a sandwich. The mother swished her way out in the mornings; bright lipstick smudges on coffee cups the only evidence of her presence. The little boy with ruffled hair and his thumb stuck in his mouth skidded his happy way around the house, or curled up beneath the piano with the dog.

One Saturday afternoon the mother and daughter appeared, striding off in the direction of the town. An hour passed without their return and soon the father emerged holding the little boy’s pink hand and winding the dog’s leash tightly around his wrist. The set off down the road, the little boy’s ruffled head bobbing up and down as he jogged by the dog’s side, thumb stuck in mouth. Silence fell and the houses twittered on. Hurried footsteps suddenly cut the twittering short as the mother and daughter appeared once again, this time holding a can of what looked like paint. They raced in through the scratched white door and it was not long before out they raced again, both wearing a pair of scruffy trousers and clutching indignant paintbrushes in their hands. Peeling off the lid of the paint can the mother’s face lit up and her hard voice spoke. “Burnt orange. It’s perfect!”Soon the scratched white was only just peeping through the bold strokes of striking orange, the desperate pleas for help ignored by the curious onlookers.In no time at all the white was gone and in its place stood the striking orange. Its bright rays spread far, putting all the other doors to shame.



***

Winter was setting in- strands of grey creeping their way into every living thing, seeping into the very air. The striking orange was starting to fade, its rays of radiance stunted by the cold. The mother could be seen every morning standing before the front door and staring. For five minutes she would stand, stock still, her heels digging into the cobbles, her hands balled at her sides. A week passed in which this strange occurrence continued. On the Saturday morning out she strode, her daughter at her side, a look of pure determination and regret shaping her fine features. Within an hour they were back, glints of light in their eyes, racing through the door and back out again in scruffy pants, paint brushes in hand. They peeled off the lid of the can of paint and cried a shout of joy. There it was; the perfect replacement colour.No desperate pleas escaped from the burnt orange, only a muffled groan as the door found itself tickled by bristling paintbrushes. Smoothly painted, the Robin Red's warmth and contentment beat back the seeping grey strands. It wove its own magic through the air instead.

***

The cold slaps of air and sharp bites of wind were no match for the magic red. It welcomed home the trudging family from their daily errands with waves of warmth. One cold day as the darkness retreated leaving the grey to take over, the father and little boy emerged, dog in tow, for a walk. The little boy, tightly wrapped up, stuck his thumb in his mouth and leant against his father's large shape. Off they set, past the twittering houses and rustling guards.Afternoon set in, bringing with it the girl, home from school. She too passed the twittering houses and rustling guards. Then she stopped. Short strong strokes of black cut over the Robin Red, shredding its warmth. Hurried, messy scrapes of emotion pummelled the woven magic, tearing the strands to pieces. Its dark crudeness slapped her hard in the face and dragged her breath from her chest. She stepped a little closer and a moan ripped at the air. Grey was seeping in, filling in the empty space. It grabbed at her long hair and soaked into her face, her lips parted in anguish.But then the black was gone, replaced instead by the figure of her mother standing in the doorway."I couldn't think of anything else to do." Was all she managed to utter. The girl followed her mother’s gaze, down the street to a white car with streaks of red and blue running across it, like trails of blood and tears. The dormant blue lights sat squatly on top, resting after the recent action.



A lump was forming in her throat, a ball of dough, heavy and sour. She forced her mouth open, moving it to form the question she had to ask. She must know.“How? How did it happen?”

***

Months soon passed, taking with them the seeping grey and biting cold. Green buds burst from the wood bringing new life to the dead landscape. The sign stood tall and lean for many weeks, its feet soon starting to hurt and its shine starting to dirty. When the houses' twitters of what would happen next had entered a phase of repetitions, the sign suddenly disappeared. Not long after a van appeared and released a family from its sweltering cavern. Drab brown box after drab brown box made its way through the smoothly painted red door with its rough strokes of black. The mother hung up artwork of simplistic beauty and filled each room with mounds of cushions. The little boy hugged his blanket to him and jumped about with the little fox terrier. The girl rode off every morning to school, bag swinging from her shoulder. The father drove off not soon after her, briefcase in hand and tie loosened slightly. The mother drifted about all day, rushing up to the second floor room for long periods of time before trailing the smell of paint after her and chasing after her child. The heat of the summer days passed quickly and a fresh tinge could be felt in the air. One day, scarf in hand, the mother pulled the jumping boy and excitable fox terrier in the direction of the town. An hour passed without their return, the sun ploughing its way across the sky. Silence had fallen and was suddenly broken by the sound of hurried footsteps. The mother, little boy and dog came into view, racing through the front door, a glint of light in their eyes. Soon they were back, racing out the door in scruffy pants, indignant paintbrushes in hand. Peeling off the lid of the paint can the mother's face lit up and her soft voice spoke."Burnt orange. It's perfect!"

By Georgia Letcher



His Lie

It wasn’t possible. He had lied to me. He told me we were too far from anywhere for them to want it. He said ours wasn’t good enough, worth enough, big enough for them to want it. I had believed him. I always believed him.

I only found out when I went running. It was early morning; the sun was just climbing her way out, her long hair not yet brushed out across the land. I ran past the tall coffee plants breathing their rich smell deeply into my lungs. On past the dam where the acacias extended their lean limbs to the sky, ever hopeful of catching the first drops of rain. Past the bend in the road where I had told him of the child that grew within me, the one that was to be born with unseeing eyes and little blue feet. I came to the baobab, its fat and bulbous shape comforting to me. This was the time I savoured most in my day. The time when I could soak up the stillness and anticipation that hung around me like a veil, ready to part at any moment and let the new day through. I reached out my hand to try to grasp it and keep it closed just that little bit longer. That was when I noticed the figure. It stood at the side of the road some distance from where I was. It was a man. A man with long slim legs that seemed rooted in the ground. He stood there like a tree, not moving or speaking. I could hear his breathing, a slow and rhythmical breeze rushing towards me. Who was he?

The veil was lifting, slowly peeling away the cool air and replacing it with dryer and harsher air. Air that was to become stifling later on in the day. Still the man stood, his arms hanging at his sides like broken branches, his hands like the splintered ends, bare of any leaves. His eyes remained staring at a point just beyond me. There were wisps of smoke starting to rise behind his head, coming from somewhere within the mangled bush. They were like fairies, dancing off into the day, or ribbons that were weaving themselves between the sun’s hair. But they were evil. I knew that now. They were evil fairies that wanted to own the land they floated over, black ribbons that wanted to darken the sun’s rays. They wanted to throw me off. They were the war vet fairies, the ones that all the people at the club were talking about. They went with the noise. The loud beats that sent ripples across the very land, like they were trying to push you off with the mere sound. I couldn’t stay here. The smoke would poison me and the sound would rip me to pieces. I had to get away quickly before he snatched me or shot me. I turned and ran, faster with every step I took. Faster because I realised now what his lying had done to me. To us. To our farm.

I had to go running in the morning. He’d notice if I didn’t. He’d know. But I couldn’t risk seeing the tree-man again. There was something about him. I could always go the other way. The way I prefer less. Down to Andrew’s land, down to that tree. A Fair Tree, I



called it. Affair tree. So when the sky tinged pink with my panic I set off, one heavy thud after another. Down that familiar road to that tree. A tree riddled with empty words. Thousands of them. The weaves and bends of the road. The dust rising up behind me, chasing me on. Another bend. No. It can’t be. Tree-man.

“Please. Slow down. I don’t want to die.” My cowardice had won over my fear of him. Of speaking to him. “No. I expect you don’t. Murderess.”Another one of those blue marks came floating my way to punch me hard in the chest. Just below my heart. Where all the others were. The silence melted in once more. A solid object filling up the space around us. Separating us further. Pressing us together. A sudden flurry of ears and coarse coats are caught in the blunt headlights that cut through the grainy twilight. Over this and we’ll be there. There at the club.

“Look, hon, just eat it, hey. It’s not gonna kill you. Ja?” I was staring hard at Louise. She was talking to her son, stroking his hair. His lips were an inch from her ear. I could see the pieces of glass filling up his eyes. Making them glisten. She glanced over at me, an exasperated look on her worn face. “Do you think you could persuade him? Here, go and see what Mrs Daws has to say about it.”He approached me slowly, holding his plate out at arms length. The sound of male laughter, a gong of mellow vibration, struck its way out onto the veranda where us wives were sitting. The smell of fresh wet grass and boerworse reached me. Kids were out there in the dark, playing just outside the light’s reach, sticky footed with droplets of wetness. I could hear their giggles and shouts. They weren’t ready for bed. No, they were at the club. “I don’t want it.” His pink lips parted, gasping for the air that would keep the glassy pieces from tearing down his cheeks. Breaking the fragile skin.“You know what?” I said, “If you put it with hoboes of butter and salt its really yummy. You want me to help you put them on?” I reached out my finger to catch the piece of glass that was descending. I had to catch it before it tore him. Ripped his cheek. Drew blood.His mumbled answer was uttered as he turned and fled. Away towards the doors behind which his father would welcome him. Give him advice. Manly advice.“Don’t take it personally,” Louise called across to me, “You’re accustomed to it as a parent.” Another blue mark collected. More breath drawn sharply from me. And not the first from her.

I was standing behind the frosted glass as they took second helpings. I could almost hear the moist chocolate cake being cut. My mango offering hadn’t been touched. “You never know who could be next. It’s scary, hey.” Came the soft tones of Angela. “I told Jack we should go now. Before they come to us, you know?” A murmur of consent.



“He didn’t listen.“Ja. Shame hey. It was such a shock to hear that the Mandelsons went. They were the last people I expected to be thrown off.“I know.” Her voice lowered and I leaned my warm head against the cool, smooth cream wall. “I heard Jeff Daws has refused to move, but that the ma just won’t budge. No one’s told his wife yet. Apparently she has no idea.” A clucking noise.The door creaked when I pushed it back. Two blue pairs of eyes flicked up and widened as I stepped out. “I’ve seen him. “ I said. “The tree-man with his evil fairies. When will he go away? How can I make him?”That rock hard silence. Then an intake of breath.“Look I don’t know anything about what you and Jeff have discussed about it. But, well. Maybe you should consider moving?”My stomach is lurching. Throwing itself from side to side, jumbling itself up. Trying to make me sick. “No. We can’t leave.”“Well, hon, those war vets won’t take no for an answer.”I can see that blue mark, just hanging there before me. And then it hits.

I’ve run past the coffee plants, the acacias, the dam, the baobab. He’s there. I knew he’d be there. “Leave us!” I screamed. I wanted it to hit him like all the blue marks hit me. Bruise after blue bruise. His face stays unchanged. Tree-man. “Go away. Take your evil fairies with you. We don’t want you here.”His long legs are untangling themselves from the ground, shaking loose of the red soil. He’s approaching, bringing the wind and dark clouds closer. I can hear the trees protesting. Shushing us. Trying to make peace. “You may not want me here, but the land does. My ancestors do.”Those wisps are rising above his head. Grey ribbons, swirling and twirling up into the sun’s hair. I look at him. He was staring at a point just beyond me.“Look at me.” I whispered. “Just look at me.”Those ribbons were widening, thickening, grouping together. They were sliding above us, slippery snakes out to ruin the sky. They were bringing smells with them. Smells of dust and dirt. A smell that lodged at the back of my throat and made my eyes cry.“Why the tears, white one? There’s no need to cry.”But I wasn’t. I wasn’t crying. It was just that smell. And that sound. A crackling sound. And that heat. Prickly heat.

By Georgia Letcher



King of the World

There we stood, together for the first time in months, confined to the limiting space of the hotel bathroom. She stood at one side leaning back against the white door, with it’s golden door handle just visible beside her hip. I sat on the other side, mounted on the counter beside the sink. After a while she finally spoke. “Why?” she uttered in a voice barely above a whisper. “Why what?” I replied. I knew what was on her mind, but I wanted, needed to hear her to say it. “Why are we here?” She paused. “Why haven’t you moved on?” Her voice was unsteady, it was easy to tell she didn’t feel comfortable being here in this small space, talking about this, with me. “I have.” I said, my eyes fixed on the light blue tiles that made up the bathroom floor. “No, you haven’t!” She was angry, frustrated, but what could I do. “I have.” I repeated. “But that doesn’t change how I feel about you. You can’t expect me to just forget.” “Yes, I can.” She said in a louder voice than before. “Yes, I can. And yes, you have to.” “That’s not fair.” I could feel my own anger and frustration slowly breaking through into my speech. “All you’ve ever done is taken from me, but I won’t let you take this.” “Don’t be so overdramatic. I never took anything from you.” “Oh yeah?” I was out of control, I felt offended, disrespected. “I always told you everything, shared everything with you, but I was always the last to know everything.” “That is so not true.” Her hand reached for the door handle, she wanted to leave. “Don’t you dare leave me.” I jumped of the counter and rushed to the door, pinning her between my own body and the door. “ We are going to settle this once and for all.” I backed off, and my eyes, which had been focused on hers, sank back to the light blue tiled floor. “Not even at the end,” I continued, in a calmer tone, “did you come and talk to me. I was your boyfriend, I would think that would make me somehow involved, no?” “I didn’t want to …” She broke off. “Hurt me, right?” I finished her sentence for her, the frustration started growing back. “Look …” for a moment she seemed frozen, incapable of outing another syllable. “If only you talked to me, I could have prepared for it, now it came out of the blue, hit in me right in the face, and ran the other way.” I no longer knew what I was



saying, and it no longer seemed to matter. We were slowly getting to the heart of it all, and the way forward kept getting harder an harder, but there was no way back. “I knew we’d never last. I knew from the first day. You were too good for me. Too kind and forgiving. I didn’t deserve you, never will.” A grin appeared on my face. “But then again, if you hadn’t been so kind and forgiving, I guess you would never have lasted so long with me.” She smiled, and the room seemed to get lighter, it became easier to breath. “I just always hoped we’d last till you had to leave, that way we could fade away slowly, and I could have blamed the distance for us not working out. Maybe it would have given me time to really move on, to forget.” Her mouth opened, as if she wanted to say something, but after a few seconds she just closed it again. “But now,” I continued, “it was as if one day I was the king of the world and the next day my queen was gone, just gone. Sure, I still had my castle and my throne, but what is a king without his queen? What is life without someone to share it with.” A tear, so small and gentle, traced a wet line down her right cheek and our eyes met. For a moment it seemed as if she was finally going to say something, but just as a sound seemed to manifest itself at the edges of her lips, the small hotel bathroom was flooded with bright light. Everything became white, clean, innocent.

By Vincent Maes



Untitled

Twenty years later facing the barrel of his gun, Eve would remember the day that Lisa burnt all the clothes she owned. In those days, it had been very cold. It had taken people time to realize that summer was a dead concept. In the beginning, many refused to believe it. Some never did. It was back in the days when the streets were still of the same colour. Back in the days when it was hard to distinguish one day from the next. In the days when appeasing different Gods brought about strife; times when people knew what others were thinking, but never dared to express themselves beyond the veil of normality that everyone wore. God forbid. People thrived as individuals. There were no communities, only gangs. And there were outsiders: the shunned who were different. And it came as no surprise when the fragmented town did not manage to withstand the Separation. Over time warped versions of peace had been constituted by a corrupt army basking in the light of their self-proclaimed justice, who had soiled their initially righteous notions. That was in the early days of the Muteness Epidemic as it was called; when silence, and with it Sameness, was clandestinely beginning to set on the town of Gahnead.

Sticky streams bled through the cracked landscape of her pale knuckles. They trickled silently down the sides of her hands, stealthily flooding her upper fingers. Eve pressed them together, pushed them against her chest and continued walking. It was so cold in those days. Freezing cold. Not the superficial kind that briefly lingers on the skin. But the icy wind that howls at one’s core. The kind that obliterates all traces of summer. The kind that gives one’s breath a spectral body, like smoke rising from a grave.

One more corner. Six minutes if she were to run. Twelve if were to walk. Usually she would run, rushing through this purgatorial part of her day. Not on that day. She took her time walking down the imperfectly paved streets, her thoughts silenced by the city’s incessant noise. The masses of people were usually claustrophobic. But not on that day. Scrawny boys as young as five tapped wearily on icy windows, begging for a pittance. Taxis honked loudly, attempting to lure pedestrians into the warm, heated sanctuaries of their interiors. The aura of the city was often too much for her, but on that day it was soothing. Their apartment block materialized inexorably. It was not raining. It was not hailing or snowing either. It was just cold. Freezing cold.

He was inside waiting for Lisa. Lisa knew he was waiting. Lisa said he would not understand and that he did not see what was coming. Eve herself did not understand. At this point, she did not really care. Eve would have to wait with him. Salty tears meandered down her red cheeks as she entered her apartment building. It was not supposed to be like this.

Twenty minutes later. A cold, thick stillness. A calm that seemed to last an eternity. The deadened silence of a cease-fire. Luca’s indignant face was creased with disappointment and despair. His body boiled with fury: an earthquake quivering



ominously within, playing with the plates of his sanity. Time seemed to slow. His melancholic eyes were drowning in angry tears, seething with infuriated passion. The room was still ringing from his outburst. The cold silence prevailed. Yet Lisa’s face was far more terrible in its impassivity. Blank. Expressionless. Solid. A pale ivory moon pulling at the tides of his anger. Eve recoiled, silently admiring her sister’s composure. You do not understand Lisa said gravely and on that note walked solemnly to her room. Luca did not follow.

An hour later Lisa’s pyre of clothes was alight. She sat outside their apartment block in a pair of faded jeans that were torn at the knees and a huge shirt they used when cleaning the apartment. If it had not been for the fire, she would have frozen to death. Eve looked down at her for a long time from her window. Lisa’s hair had been jet black before the Epidemic and curled up on the path, she looked devastatingly angelic. Her eyes were an unearthly turquoise and her pale skin had an ecclesiastic quality. Being around Lisa gave Eve the sensation of being in the presence of something greater than life. It was more than just a strong admiration for an older sibling. There was something about Lisa that was abnormal. When Luca had begged for her to stop – knowing that they would not be able to afford more clothes, she had ignored him. Something serious and huge was going to happen – Lisa could sense it. She told them she had been trying to make a point: a point far greater and more important than clothes and money. But the meaning of her stance escaped everyone. Including Eve. Eve did not understand it. Luca definitely did not either. But then again no one understood what Lisa was preaching until years after she was gone. Luca claimed it was ‘a hippie stage that all teenagers go through’. Eve stared at the thick, ominous texture of the barrel taking short, raspy breaths through gritted teeth. Sirens exploded in her chest. Her heart was beating in a frantic fury that left her breathless. She stared squarely at the small gun. Despite herself, she was shaking. Death had never worried Eve. She knew, when taking the risks she did, that any moment could be her last. This had never preoccupied Eve. She enjoyed having something to believe in. Something to fight for. But at that tenuous moment, where life hung in a wavering balance, Eve could feel her suppressed humanity surfacing in irrepressible waves of fear. The pistol was the lightest of browns and was engraved with small diligent symbols. It had a darkly seductive shape and an elegance that was mesmerizing. Eve had seen him wear it for years, tied firmly around his sturdy hips. Who would have thought that that small, beautiful instrument would end her tragic and accidently wonderful plight of a life? Who would have thought she would die in this manner and at his hands? There was something painfully comical about it all.

To be continued…

By Sinead Clarke



Life Story of a Penny

I feel cold. I try to look around. I cannot move. I try to call for help. I cannot. There is movement around me. I can feel it. I can hear a muttered conversation: it sounds muffled. I suddenly feel a tightening around my sides. I feel a whooping sensation in my stomach (if you can call it that). I am suddenly able to see. The surface that I had been lying on previously was grey and was littered with several circular shapes. Each had an inscription on them and a kind of picture. I wonder if these were the things that had been moving around me. They were getting smaller, after all. Wait, the whole surface was getting smaller too. That cannot be right. Then I see the giant thing. I see a great beastly being, clad in a type of blue material. It is picking me up, I realise. I try to twist around, to try and get a better look. This time I manage it. My mistake. The thing dropped me. I realised a little too late. Then the blue-with-odd-pink-parts-everywhere thing lurched. It catches me in one of its big, pink, square things, that had five giant sticks on one end and one even bigger and fatter stick on the other. This time I can see it better. There are two giant, transparent rectangles covering what I suspect are eyes. They are blue and shine slightly even under the rectangles. There is a large curved pyramid shape sticking out of what I take to be the face. From where I am, I can see two large holes at the bottom of it, and furthermore, I can see what is inside there too. I think it is the nose, because there are loads of hairs in there and something green that I do not like the look of. A big booming voice says: “Oops, nearly dropped it, then, I did.” I see where it came from. There is a hole that opened and closed in time to the voice. This is the mouth. This is where I am going. Brilliant. First hour of my life: I get eaten. I wonder if this is a Human. I have heard rumours about them. There was continuous muttering around me when I first opened my eyes and I heard the words: “Human, pink or a darker colour, big and ugly”. I put these together and compared this creature that was now examining me with great interest. The blue eyes seemed to be checking my condition. The Human held me between one of its pink claws again. It held me to the light and checked something on me. I feel suddenly aware that I do not know what I look like. Willing the Human to put me down so I could inspect myself, I hear the Human say in its big voice: “This one seems all right. There’s not a scratch nor anything that shouldn’t be there.” A response came unexpectedly from another side of the giant platform with four legs (the one covered in numerous little circles). “Harold, just pass it here, we have a job to do.” The Human called Harold passes me over to the Other Human. The Other Human is smaller but still as intriguing as the Harold. I am sitting silently in between the claws of the Harold, who drops me into the palm of the Other Human. The Other Human says something, but despite how loud he says it, I cannot hear. I am lying face down again. Then I feel the horrible sensation that I felt moments ago when the Harold dropped me. I hit something hard and now everything goes black. There is a searing pain in my face. I feel sleepy…



I do not know how long later, but I wake up in a cold and dusty room. It is dimly lit. I see light at the back of the room. There is a shiny rectangle beneath it. I shuffle towards it. I look at it. There is a thin, circular shape lying face down. It has some kind of writing on it, and a picture. I notice that it looks identical to the others I saw that had been littered on the grey surface with four legs. I try to experiment, to see what this circle will do. I shuffle to the right, and the circle shuffles to my left. It does the same as I do, yet in the exact opposite direction. Curious! I open my mouth, or what I consider a mouth. A small noise comes out. The circle in the rectangle copied me. It moved in synchronized timing with me. I shuffle closer. So does the circle. I reach out slightly and touch it. The circle does the same, and in doing so I feel it. I want to see whether it is real or not. Every move I make, my Twin copied. I am certain it is there; it is real, for I can tell this is not an illusion. There is no doubt, there is something blocking me from my twin. I think back to the Harold. He had something transparent covering his eyes… There is a window between my twin and I! I wonder how to break it. Looking wildly around, I find something that could damage the window. There are crumbs all over the place. I try to pick one up, without success. I try again. This time, I bend down and scooped up the crumb. I tried to get up, balancing on my thin side. I roll towards the window. Stopping in front of it, I flick the crumb at the widow. Nothing happens, I stare at it wordlessly. The crumb had seemed so heavy. At that moment I heard a swinging behind me. I look behind me, dreading what I will see. Another Human clad in funny black materials comes in. It seems much smaller than the Harold. It is less than half of the Harold’s height. It has a strange squeaky voice and sits down on a wooden round surface with three legs. The Little Human says: “Mama and Papa said: “Sit on the stool, and don’t come out until you’ve thought of what you’ve done!” I don’t know what they want, making me sit here. Uncle Harold says it’s fine…” The Little Human’s voice tails away, mumbling quietly to itself. It seems totally oblivious to my existence. I see the slightly open door, and decide that my chances of escape are not bad. Yet even as I get up quietly to roll towards the door, I have a horrible feeling that my Twin would not be safe. I look towards the window that encases my twin. To my complete surprise, he too is on his way to the door, about to escape. What shocks me even more is that the Little had gotten up and was facing the window. It was admiring its twin. I look from one Little Human to the next, my mouth open with surprise. I glance at my Twin and I become slightly happier when I see that he is just as surprised as me. Then a thought comes to me: “What if this window shows you what you look like?” I look at my Twin. Then I notice that I am round. To roll around like me, one must be round. I look at my Twin, round and gob smacked. I felt the same way. I realise that this is what I look like. I look at my Twin again. He is quite good looking… Yes, it could be what I look like. I make up my mind. ESCAPE. I head for the door, only to enter a big corridor. It is stuffed full with antiques, and wobbly old oak desks, with patterned vases on them, umbrella stands, and



portraits and many other objects I know nothing of. I roll straight through. I come to a door at the end. It has locks on it; therefore it must be the main door. I slip under it. No one notices. I leave.

The first thing I do is breathe in the fresh air. It is raining, but I do not care. Then I roll forward some more. I am on the pavement. The street lights are on, bating me in a strange orange light. There is a road ahead of me. I roll towards it, only to be stopped by a giant black fur ball. It has pointy ears, a long tail tipped with white, cold slit like eyes and paws with claws. It had pounced on me. It grabbed me between its fangs and was carrying me away. I sit there helplessly, the thing’s saliva dripping onto me. I yelled. A drop had gone into my eye. The thing lets a loud “MEOW!” and lets go of me. I hit the hard concrete surface. Then a giant metal contraption on wheels comes out of nowhere. It has lights on its head, and strange sticks moving over its windows. I suspect that the eyes may be hidden behind the windows, like the Harold’s eyes. It caught me on the side, flattening my half body. I howl in rage and pain. What are these things!? Are they on a mission to kill me!? I shuffle towards a drain. Another metal thing appears before me. I feel cold and dizzy. The metal thing passes me, but it causes a wave of water to push me further into the drain. I fall. I hit the wet floor with a dull clink. I struggle to look around me. There is nothing. It is dark. I can hear and feel the movement of water near me. I wonder how many other things like me survive for only one day. I realise I do not even know who I am. Well, maybe it was not one day. I was asleep for a long time. Did not the Little Human mention the Harold? He might have taken me to that room. Maybe…

I can still hear the water when I fall into a deep, untroubled sleep.

By Habiba Mukhtar



Inspired by the Olympics?

Watch the Olympics. What do you see?Games? A sporting event? Victory and loss? A gathering of overpaid athletes? Look again. What do you see? A lifetime in a hundred meters. Art personified in a jump. Magic in a goal. Raw humanity defying the gulf between the physical and the ethereal. Delicate purity born of a synergy between mind and matter. The magnificence of a struggle. There is a story. And lingering on the periphery of the obvious, there is a message. There is grandeur and perseverance. A passion-ridden strive to exceed limits, blistering and burning at its base. Can you see it? Look closer.For two to three weeks every two years, people and cultures shed their differences and gather to celebrate the talent of athletes and the beauty of sport in a breathtaking search for excellence. Resonating from Ancient Greece, the words ‘Citius, Altius, Fortius’ have driven athletes throughout the ages to be faster, to reach higher and to become stronger. In these few days, bodies and spirits are flushed in a searing and honest revelation of character. Despite political meddling and drug abuse, the passion brought about by the Olympics far exceeds its downfalls. The worldly event makes for a truly international language. The pressure and splendour of sport at its finest escapes few. From those who walk grudgingly to their school’s physical education department to those who win gold medals: universally mankind feels the allure of the Olympics.The meaning of sports and the Olympics differs greatly amongst people. I arrived in The Netherlands not being able to speak Dutch. Field hockey was my favourite pastime and I was determined to join a local club. Inhibited by a language barrier, I felt awkward and tremendously different. After the first four uncomfortable trainings I resentfully considered giving up hockey. As my team entered the pitch to play our first match however, we were transformed. I was no longer a stranger and it did not matter that I could not speak the language. At that moment hockey elevated me. Working towards a common goal we became One. Watching the Olympics every two years, my love for sports is nourished as I recall the day it filled the infinite between strangers. This was the effect of one local hockey match. Imagine the Olympics. The Olympics have always signified far more than a collection of competitions between nations. It is a period of harmonized willpower culminating in humanity at its greatest. In essence it is not the anthem we hear after a race that makes us applaud. It is not the colours of the flag we see fluttering in victory that makes us cheer. Nor does our rooting stem exclusively from the national pride that so often confines people to their boundaries. But rather our wonder springs from watching humans reach the outposts of possibility and realizing that they are victorious for us all. As an American sports presenter said: ‘Say what you will about the ravages of sports



in this corporate age where rich athletes expect prima donna treatment, there is still something so unifying about sports in its purest form when athletes rise above themselves and touch greatness and in doing so remind us all that we have greatness inside of us.’ So next time you watch the Olympics, stand back. Scream for the athletes. Hold your breath for them. Cheer for their story. Wait. All belief is restored.

By Sinead Clarke



The Painting

Once Howard George Cole had made up his mind about his intentions, he sat down on the crumpled silk bedsheets and took his head in his hands, staring at his soft leather brown shoes.He had found the richly furnished Master Bedroom deserted, however clear it might have been that it had been inhabited earlier on in the night. The fire was struggling to keep burning, sucking the last morsel of fuel from the blackening wood. Above the fireplace hung a large painting of Cole’s wife, Andreia, a gift from him to her on their 3d wedding anniversary. In fiercely applied, thick strokes the artist had transferred her very essence onto the canvas – he truly was a genius. Cole had paid him more than double of what was initially agreed upon.

A quiet, insignificant-looking man he is, Cole mused, while absent-mindedly rubbing a piece of the cool silk that was loosely draped over the couch between his fingers. Someone they would call a mailman if he worked at the office; whisky hair of a drab colour, not very tall, always the one to end up promising the higher ranking people at the office to handle their administrative inconveniences. Someone who only ever found time to get a coffee when everyone else had already had theirs, and the machine was empty.But something in the way that the craftsman prepared his brushes and set up his clean, white canvas suggested a quiet self-confidence that a mailman by definition could never have. With relaxed, fluid movements he moved around the room – the very same one in which he was now sitting – and tactfully told Andreia, who was impatiently waiting for him to start, how to pose and to stop fidgeting, please. Andreia had been a model in her early years, and had married Cole, a rising star in the business world, when she grew too old to walk the walk. Despite this, she was still nearly twelve years younger than Cole, who sometimes had to fight to suppress a parental annoyance at her unpredictable, dramatic behavior – she was proud, pampered, easily offended, and had a fantasy that often got in the way of real and serious life. But Andreia was also breathtakingly beautiful, and that was ample compensation. ‘How is it looking, Howard?’ she purred in her characteristically elegant (and so deliberately enhanced) Russian accent, approximately every five minutes once the man had started.‘Lovely, dear,’ he would answer, or something of the sort. It was clear to him that it was going to take a lot of sessions before this would look lovely, let alone anything resembling his wife, but he didn’t say that. Watching Andreia became extremely boring: her seductive smile acquired an increasingly impatient twitch, her smouldering eyes flicked restlessly about the room. On the canvas, a thin piece of charcoal flew in the artist’s hand, expertly outlining the features of the pose before him in grey lines that seemed as insubstantial as smoke. One quick wipe with the slender index finger made them vanish without a trace. Howard could decipher the legs and arms, a few curving lines for the hair, then, suddenly,



two large black eyes in the middle. A voluptuous mouth! A perfect nose! With concentrated, precise movements, the artist drew her fingers, with the flawlessly manicured nails. Very rapidly now Howard saw Andreia take shape and form, a dark and mysterious beauty, from the pronounced cheekbones to the narrow jawline to the almond-shaped eyes and the petite little ears. ‘How is it looking, Howard?’‘Magnificent.’ Howard wanted to flee to his study, or at least read a book, but he knew that he would insult her most terribly if he even insinuated boredom.‘Honey, I’d love to stay and watch, but I’ve really got a hell of a lot of work to do, ok?’A shadow of annoyance flew over her face, then immediately the smile was restored. ‘Of course Howard. You go off and do your immensely important work. I’m quite amusing myself here.’Relieved that she threw in so little resistance, he escaped the room.

On hindsight, he should have been worried by this lack of irritation: she didn’t even pout. He looked again at the painting. Like a Venus (but not quite as nude) Andreia was sprawled out on a sofa, littered with random shawls and embroidered cushions. She had insisted on a classical depiction. While her pose was very sensual and seductive, the way she looked dreamily into the distance had an innocence to it that was quite unlike her. Or was it so dreamy? It was more like she was having an inside joke about something with herself; a private moment of glee that subtly expressed itself through the slight twitch in the left corner of her otherwise serenely smiling mouth. Her fingers draped over the sofa’s armsupports like spider’s legs, as if she were tapping them against the carved wood. Her nails shone. Who did one have to approach to, to achieve…what he had in mind? Damn him, he couldn’t even formulate the thought. Some avenger he was. No, he needed a professional.Sweat broke out on his forehead; his armpits were drenched. It was cruel, pure wrath, that drove him to this solution. Cole, who hadn’t exactly earned his money by sticking to the straight and narrow (but who did? no-one that he knew), suddenly felt overwhelmed by his unexpectedly vengeful, evil and devious mind. After all, he mused, slightly bewildered, one lived with the comforting consistency of one’s personality, to the point of taking it for granted, so that one never stopped to think about it anymore. One’s morals and principles were so fixed that they could be automatically employed in any reasonably familiar situation.But now, facing this (from his perspective) completely alien and impossible twist in his life, all sorts of macabre and sadistic possibilities arose in his mind, each more evil and satisfying than the previous.She had sent him an e-mail, of all things. Subject: I’m sorry… the Andreia he knew would have written a sentimental letter on her best crème-colored, handcrafted paper and left it on the bed or something. Or on the coffeetable in the corner, a little still-life



against the backdrop of the velvet curtains, artistically arranged with an extinguished candle and an empty cocktailglass. The message she sent him, however, was so very business-like and matter-of-factly that it was almost tragically comical. Unrealistic. Cole had read the e-mail, closed the inbox, and kept on working as usual, had joked around with his collegues, flirted with his attractive secretary, maybe drank a little more coffee than average as if it were Monday instead of Thursday…who had made that joke again? Probably the secretary…he’d forgotten her name…Only when he came home, late at night, and had been confronted with Andreia’s empty wardrobes and the minibar, which was in a similar state, and the bed, which at least explained where the vodka went, and the cufflink, which was made of nickle and so definitely not his (nor the butler’s) that poked jeeringly into his behind when he sank onto the mattress where he’d slept with his wife only the night before…

‘Howard, doesn’t it look brilliant? Isn’t it fantastic? Oh, I love it!’ Andreia clapped her hands in joy as she kept goggling at the painting that its crafter had dramatically revealed moments before.Cole slapped the painter, who was examining the work with mild interest himself, on the back enthusiastically. The man was caught by surprise and he buckled, straightening himself rather stiffly as Cole expressed his praise for the piece.‘Absolutely stunning, man, you’re a frigging genius! How much did we agree on again?’’8.000 dollars.’ ‘Double that.’‘I really can’t accept that, but thank you for the offer. I’m glad you like it.’‘Shut up, are you mad? 16.000 bucks, and you deserved every last one of them. Just take it. I want you to.’‘I really can’t.’‘You will, you have to. Stop being so damn stubborn. 16 grant it is – no wait, make that 17.’The painter nodded, then quickly averted his eyes as if he’d caught a glimpse of something obscene. Andreia had ignored the conversation, enraptured by her own perfect depiction. When she did tear herself from the thing, she looked to the painter with absolute adoration in her eyes. He gave her a slight smile, nothing more than a humble twitch of the corners of his mouth.‘Thank you so much, it is extraordinary…a true work of art. Maybe we shouldn’t keep it, we should give it to a museum!’ she joked. Cole looked at her through half-closed eyes, satisfied to see that she was, for the first time in months, really happy. Quietly, he congratulated himself. I knew it was a good idea.

By Myrte Vos



Long Prose



All the dead voices

“All the dead voices,

like leaves

like waves,

like leaves…” *

“Oh what a terrible storm!” Mamma sat bolt upright in her bed; she clutched at the blankets covering her; stared feverishly about her; looked through all of us to some fixed point on the wall opposite and then she fell back down to the pillows-dead.

May 1918, nearing the end of World War One and The Spanish flu claimed two more victims for Mamma had been expecting to be confined soon. We all stood numb taking our cue from Papa who remained stoic as ever; his flinty eyes did not show a trace of emotion. The servants whispered that she must have been delirious with fever and ushered us quickly out of her chamber. ***

I entered Mamma’s room. The light was coming through in small moonbeams through the chinks in the shutters. Papa had shut it up after her death and we were not allowed in but I needed her most at night and so, when all the servants retired for the night, I sneaked in. I turned and looked at the bed; there she had lain; there she had died. Now it was fully made up but it was empty and lifeless. I shivered with the knowledge of what had happened to its occupant some three months ago. I padded softly and warily avoiding the creaky boards to her dressing table. I was surprised that the servants had not noticed the absence of dust on its surface but then, like Papa, they did not come to this room; its light was always shuttered.

I sat down and looked at my reflection in the mirror which was made all the more ephemeral because of the thinness of the light. Then I examined her brushes and combs. I had always been fascinated by these even as a young child. I would watch for hours as Mamma let down her hair and groomed it; it was like a tumbling fountain of gold and the silver of the brush like the crest of a wave. I touched the metal and I heard Mamma laugh as she turned to me and started to brush my hair too; I could almost feel the strokes of the brush and feel her elegant hands gently smoothing out the tangles. Suddenly I smelt the sea. The smell was so tangible that I jumped and looked about me startled. It was definitely the sea; the saltiness of the air tickled my nostrils and I



tasted brine in my mouth. And then I heard it far away like listening to sea shells it was definitely the sea’s roar. I dropped the brush and it clattered to the floor. I sat petrified in case I had disturbed Papa or the servants. Luckily their rooms were at the back of the house. Minutes passed and no one stirred but the spell was broken. I reached down and picked up the brush. For the first time I really paid attention to the design on its back. Embossed and entwined in what seemed like silver serpents were what looked like an ‘E’ and an ‘N’. Mamma’s name had been Ellenora but why the two letters? It did not make sense and I was getting too cold; it was time to return to my room. I put the brush back exactly where it had been on the dresser and left the room quickly.

Sleep did not come easily; the design on the brush floated in and out of my mind as I slipped in and out of my dreams. In the last I was slipping below the sea’s waves; clawing for breath; clawing for life.

“Edward!” I awoke with that name on my lips. ***

[* adapted from S. Beckett’s ‘Waiting for Godot’]

“Is the child sickening for some thing?” Aunt Joan asked as she put her puffy dimpled hand to my forehead. I hated the way she always smelt of lavender water and the way her bloated skin swallowed the moles on her face and hands. I hated her because she was not my Mamma; I

hated her because she gave me the creeps. Most of all I hated it when she talked of me in the third person as though I did not exist.

“Of course Clifford, you appreciate that I can only take the one child. Geoffrey and I have discussed the matter at length and we’ve concluded that Margaret will do nicely but we couldn’t possibly take Benjamin or Dennis as well. They will have to go elsewhere.”

I had not misheard; we were to be farmed off to relatives like pieces of misplaced luggage. I waited for Papa to shout this woman down to tell her to get out of our house for saying something so outrageous; to fight our cause but all he did was nod his head acquiescently. He nudged me forward and said;

“Shake hands with Aunt Joan, child, she’s your Mamma now.”

I stuffed my hands deep into my apron pockets forcing down the waves of resentment pulsing through me. How dare he; how dare she; she IS NOT my Mamma! Papa nipped



sharply in my arm;

“Shake hands Margaret.”

His voice was imperious and menacing; there was no gainsaying. I proffered my hand to Aunt Joan unwillingly. I watched it vanish amongst the puffy flesh and moles but then she let go abruptly and her expression changed. Frowning she said;

Oh dear, Clifford; I hope that she’s not a…”

“I will not have that nonsense spoken of in this household, Joan.”

He silenced her with a withering look.

“Now run along Margaret and ask Jessop to help you pack.” ***

Hours later I sat on my battered leather trunk thinking of all the things that I would miss in this house and dreading the life to come without Ben and Dennis. Ben was to go to Gran; at seven he was terrified of the old bird but I had managed to convince him that she was not too bad once you got to know her and if you took care to mind. Ben was better off than poor Dennis, aged five, who was to be shipped to the Orkneys to a distant Aunt and Uncle whom we had never met. Oh Mamma had you known that this was to be our fate would you have deserted us so? I had cried enough by now so I fought back another wave of self pity; instead I sneaked to her room and stole her combs, mirror and brushes. As I put the mirror in my trunk I thought that I saw something flicker in its surface; it must have been a trick of the light. I traced the ‘E’ and ‘N’ on the backs of the brushes and then I pushed them into different layers of my trunk to prevent discovery. ***

It was very dark when I awoke. For a few seconds I did not know where I was and then I heard what had woken me up; it was the sound of the sea; the distant sound of waves not loud but close. Through these I thought I heard a watery whisper;

“Margaret, rest easy child, you are not alone.”

And I knew whose voice it was. I jumped out of bed but I could not see anything in the darkness. I listened but the voice and the noise of the sea had gone. I got back into bed and pulled the covers over my head in an attempt to still my heart.



The next morning I noticed something on my dressing table. It was the tiniest pale pink cowry I had ever seen. ***

For a treat I was allowed to visit Ben. We stood on stiff ceremony around Gran. Once she had checked that our chores had been done correctly our time was our own. Ben looked so tired and worn as if he was trying to grow up too quickly but I could not get much out of him about life with Gran except he said that he missed Mamma. I showed him the little sea shell and his face lit up. He took my hand and we went to explore the Attic. It was a treasure of boxes, trunks, broken toys, old paintings and furniture; no wonder Ben had found his way up here. Ben handed me a small tin. It was an Old Holland biscuit tin and I could see why he liked it for the windmills and farm scenes embossed on its rusted tin surface. I opened it; inside was a bundle of letters which were mildewed and tied with a faded blue pin-moulded ribbon. Under these was a surprise because it was obviously much younger than the letters. It was a newspaper cutting dated… May 1918. It was an article about a young man lost at sea. I folded the article and popped it in my apron pocket. On impulse I dropped in the little sea shell and closed the box. I could not be certain but at the same time I though that I heard a wave break just once and then all was dusty attic once again. ***

“And just where did you get that piece of paper young lady?”

Aunt Joan had appeared out of nowhere. I could not be certain how long she had been watching me but she was too angry; she was trying to hide something. For once I decided to counter with a question of my own;

“Who was Edward Atkinson, Aunt?”

She jumped guiltily and re-arranged her wrap clumsily; she was thinking how to reply.

“Don’t meddle with things that are not of your concern Margaret; it is unseemly in a young lady. Now we’ll say nothing more about the matter. Give me the cutting and I will return it to Gran.”

Something was not right; normally she would have emphasised that Gran would have something to say to me about taking her property but she just left the room leaving me even more curious.

When I got into bed that night my feet touched paper. I pulled it out; it smelt and felt



very old. Curious I re-lit my lamp. It was a really old letter-faded, ochre tinged and mildewed but the handwriting was exquisite. I read:

My dearest Nora,

My love, for so I must call you and so you are and always will be. I can not bear the separation forced on us by our families and the knowledge that you are in the arms of another man, a man who does not love you and so I leave for Europe tonight by paddle steamer. Do you still think of me as you use the brushes, combs and mirror on your dressing table; the ones I had commissioned for you; the only gift I dare give you and the only gift you could accept under the circumstances?

Be safe, my love

Edward

I read the letter over and over again as the ‘E’ and ‘N’ twisted into clarity. The words of my dying mother suddenly made chilling sense but I could not work out how she had known about the storm and how the letter had come to be in my bed. Exhausted with too many questions I fell into a fitful sleep.

“Margaret, Margaret, Margaret…” the waves called my name as they broke gently on the dazzlingly white sand. I opened my eyes to a strange world. It was a world of shadows through which I could see details of my room but it was like looking at it from underneath water. Mamma was sitting at my dressing table brushing her hair with her brush. She smiled at me in the mirror. I leapt out of bed and then stopped dead; my blood ran chill with the memory that she was dead.

“Too soon.”

She had not spoken aloud but she had spoken the words I had been thinking of and she had answered the question I had been thinking of. Only then did I notice the smell of the sea once again.

“Too soon, too young.”

A second voice had joined in.

“Doomed to roam the universe until our allotted time has passed; doomed to slip between worlds as ghost to all; tangible to none except those whose destiny is to die



young.”

Now it felt as though I really was slipping beneath the waves and looking back at my room through them. Salt water poured down my nose and throat but I was not afraid.

“Join us, Margaret.”

I reached out and felt their icy fingers curl over mine. Their hands were pale as death but I knew no panic. I felt an incredible warmth and joy as I finally embraced Edward and Nora, my Mamma and my Papa. ***

Velvet darkness; muffled voices.

“I think she has passed the crisis.”

“Thank the lord.”

These voices were different, coming from a great distance. Where were Mamma and Papa? The sound of the sea had turned in to a regular pulse inside my head. I moaned my grief into the depths of the pillow. “Come back; don’t leave me to drown alone in this cold world!”

The voices again.

“She’s still incoherent.” This one was anxious and I caught something familiar in its tones.

“But she will recover Mrs Jameson, and you should indeed thank the lord for she will be the only child to do so in this district. Those from the poorer areas were not so lucky.” This voice was hard and unfamiliar and it frightened me.

“Then God must have plans for her.”

“Who can indeed say?” This reply was flat and clinically disinterested. “And now Mrs Jameson I must be off on my rounds. Keep the child warm and give her sips of water when she wakes for the first day and then very thin gruel. If there is any alteration for the worse send for me immediately as she is not completely out of danger yet but her pulse is strong.”

I decided to try to open my eyes. As if through very fine, red lace curtains I was finally



able to focus on two dancing figures near the door to my room. Gradually one steadied in to the familiar rotund figure of Aunt Joan as she ushered out a very tall black figure clutching a matching black leather bag. And then the realisation of where I was hit me with full force. Angry and resentful that I had come back I tried to cry out but my voice was filled with sand. I tried to move but found that the pulse anchored me to the bed. Waves of resentment overwhelmed me; I had been orphaned once more and it was too much to bear; too much.

Aunt Joan retuned to hover over me. I felt her hand cold on my forehead. Pity overcame anger and I tried to smile but it was too much effort. Instead she smiled and the warty moles danced about her puffy face as the waves broke over me. She chewed on her lips, reached for my hand and squeezed it tight. She swallowed and blinked before she blurted out:

“Oh Margaret, I thought that I’d lost you, just like…” she broke off and looked away before she continued, “just like, I lost your dear Mamma and your little brother.”

I had not mistaken the emotion in her voice or the wateriness of her eyes but I could not respond; they were not enough; she was not enough; where were Edward and Ellenora?

Through the curtain Aunt Joan held on to my hand and stroked my forehead. I must have managed some kind of recognition because she suddenly smiled in response and said:

“Sleep child, you’re safe now.” ***

I looked down and watched the gravel leave wisps of powdery white on the bramble black of my boots as I struggled to keep pace with Mamma. It was difficult as my feet would keep sinking into the loose gravelly depths of the path but at least it meant that I could hold on to her hand tightly. I felt its long, delicate elegance and the bands of her rings through the thin, satin cloth. I looked up and she smiled at me. The sun shone through her fine golden hair and at that moment she was my angel but then the sun disappeared behind some crippled, ancient ebony yew trees and I noticed a sudden chill in the air. Startled I faltered a little. Only then did I become aware of where I was. The path was guarded by black pillars leaning ever closer to it. Names and dates, in various stages of decay, were etched on them in thin, papery layers and the air was trapped by a twisted curtain of yew and rook. I shivered and tightened my grip on Mamma’s hand. She squeezed mine in response, looked down and smiled at me but it gave me no comfort as an unspeakable feeling of dread was edging its way into my mind. As the



distant building loomed up from the path I knew that I did not want to go anywhere near it. But still it kept getting larger and larger. The dread turned to simple panic. I stopped dead, pulling back on Mamma’s hand.

“Margaret, dear, what on earth?” She stopped too.

“NO!” I could not move.

Puzzled, she turned and stooped down to my level.

By this time I had started to shake as the blindness of panic overcame me. I just knew that that building was wrong. All the voices were crowding in on me like dead leaves.

“NO!” The panic must have crept into my voice as I noticed Mamma’s eyes grow round with concern.

“What ails the child, Nora?” Even the warning imperative tones of my father could not break the spell.

Mamma put her hand on my forehead and the look in her kind blue eyes was more than I could bear. I clenched my fists and shut my eyes tight; I could not breathe.

Then I found myself being lifted roughly from the ground as Papa has swung round and picked me up. The world did not improve for being upside down and the voices only intensified as it slowly started to spin.

“This is how we deal with wilful young ladies of four,” Papa said in triumph.

“Clifford, please, something ails the child.” I felt Mamma struggle with Papa but he shrugged her off viciously.

“Nonsense, Nora. Do not interfere, Margaret must learn her lesson.” Through the waves his cruelty hurt the most.

I felt myself going stiff when, within three strides and carrying me under his arm like an unloved rag doll, he had crossed the threshold of the ancient church. ***

I woke up screaming black terror and coughing up sand. I had to get out; I had to get away. The voices pressed in on me closer, ever closer, whispering. I was halfway to



the door of my bed chamber before I realised where I was. Giddy from the exertion I staggered back to my bed. And there it was again; the smell of the sea. I sank back into the pillows and let it wash over me as I wept for Edward and Ellenora. But they did not come and I knew that I would live; my bitterness was never again so complete.

Aunt Joan

“Shake hands children.” We all stood on ceremony in Aunt Joan’s morning room. At Papa’s command I jumped slightly and proffered my hand to Uncle Geoffrey. He clasped it tightly and when I looked up I’m certain that I caught him wink at me and then nod deferentially in the direction of Papa. Ben and Dennis followed suit. My polished boots creaked on Aunt Joan’s spotless wooden floor as I turned to shake her hand. She took mine and then almost grasped it as if to protect me from something and without letting go she started to speak, “Oh child…” But then she stopped mid sentence because Mamma had shot her a frightened look. Confused I looked up to meet the firm disapproval of Papa’s steely grey eyes. I knew that I had displeased him yet again but in my childish logic I was very angry with Aunt Joan; just what had she accused me of that had incurred such disapproval from Papa? I looked down at my right hand and tried to work out how it had offended. Only then did I become aware of the whispers. Startled I looked up at the many stuffed animals lining the walls of the darkened room. Their eyes stared at me in blank, frozen accusation; what was I guilty of? Then it dawned on me that Uncle Geoffrey had drawn Papa aside; he could not know how grateful I felt towards him at that moment. ***

“Aunt Joan is really odd.”

“Balmy!”

“Batty!”

“She’s completely taken leave of her senses.”

“I think she’s a witch!” Ben’s statement stopped us in mid track and made me shudder and rub my right hand vigorously on my apron to erase the sensation of her flesh on mine.

Dennis frowned with concentration and said, “Aunt Joan is an…” We waited patiently whilst he struggled with his idea. Finally he lisped, “Aunt Joan is an old fool!” We all laughed. Through my laughter I warned my little brother; “Careful Den, Aunt Joan will



‘old fool’ you if she hears you.”

It was a treat having tea with just the three of us in Aunt Joan’s parlour free from adult supervision and Papa’s imperious eye. We three were conspirators enjoying the spoils before us.

Dennis grinned from ear to ear and took another big bite of his iced bun smudging icing on his button nose. He was pleased with himself for being able to join in the fun. He licked his nose clean with his tongue; a feat which he knew always impressed us with its impossibility, and then proceeded to suck his fingers contentedly with loud smacks.

I suppose it was rather ungrateful of us to abuse our Aunt so but there was something very peculiar about Aunt Joan. The warty moles on her puffy face did not help to remove the impression but it was more in the way she looked at you that could be particularly disturbing and that business with my hand had put me out of sorts with her. It had also frightened me; what had she felt to cause such alarm? I blotted out the whispers of that morning. ***

I had sneaked out of the parlour to eavesdrop on the adults’ conversation during their tea and finally the conversation was taking a turn that interested me.

“The older she gets I do think that Margaret has the gift of…”

Yet again Mamma warned Aunt Joan off this subject. I could not quite hear what she had said but she looked really distressed and so Aunt Joan finished, “of becoming quite an elegant young lady.”

The sneer on Papa’s face could not have wounded me more deeply had I been in the room with them but pity for Mamma stopped me from feeling sorry for myself. She looked so sad that I vowed that I would try to behave more fitting to a young lady of my station. I looked at Mamma’s elegant hands and dress and wished that I could be more like her. She was too good for the company she was in. I decided that she must be a princess who had been swapped at birth and now she was trapped in this restricted circle of people to live in obscurity. ***

In disgrace again; I had not kept to my vow. In the carriage home I feigned sleep; that way I could avoid exacerbating Papa’s anger. Poor Mamma I had failed her once more and my heart ached for her but I could not be angry with myself. I snuggled closer to the



sleeping forms of Ben and Denis and strained my ears to their conversation.

“Really Nora I can’t think what can have possessed the child to climb the ash tree in Joan and Geoffrey’s kitchen garden.”

I knew why I had done it because Ben and Dennis had dared me to but I had not offered this information when Papa had demanded to know why I had done such a thing at the time and I was not about to divulge it now. I was the best tree climber in the family and this was one of our best kept secrets as we all knew how Papa would react and his outburst at Aunt Joan’s had only confirmed our suspicions.

The ash had had such inviting branches at just the right distance for my arm’s span that I could not resist pulling myself up from branch to branch. Even when I snagged, dirtied and greened my petticoats nothing could daunt the feeling of absolute freedom in the branches of that tree. Dennis had squealed; “Higher, Margaret. Go higher; touch the sky!” and it really felt as though I could. I sat there looking down at my midget sized brothers and I really do not know what quite possessed me but I suddenly stood up and jumped. I shall never forget the rush of warm, May air or the sound of my nose breaking as it hit the top of Ben’s head. The next sound I heard was of Dennis screaming. I opened my eyes on the blackness and I saw his eyes widen as he looked at me and then repeated his screams. His arms were stiff and his fists clenched shut. As I turned to look for Ben the pain hit me in waves. Within seconds Uncle Geoffrey was at my side. He picked me up and one of the servants quickly picked up Ben. There was lots of confusion, shouting, blood, servants and towels everywhere. Uncle Geoffrey checked my nose and ascertained a break and Ben had a bump on his head like a chicken’s egg. Papa was livid; I had never seen him in such a rage and I think the only thing that saved me was the amount of salty blood gushing from my nose. I checked and even now I still had the dried salty taste in the back of my throat. As the gentle swaying of the carriage almost lulled me to sleep I thought with satisfaction that my broken nose would prevent me from a visit to the family dentist the next day and a tooth extraction I had been dreading. I stole a quick glance at Ben, he was very pale and I felt sorry for the bump on his head because it had not been my intention to fall on him. He had squeezed my hand tight when Papa had given me a very public dressing down and I had almost broken down but I was determined not to shed tears in front of Papa even though I was crying inwardly.

Through gentle waves of sleepiness I caught something of what he was saying again,

“Really, Nora, it was mortifying to see Margaret so bloodied and dirty, especially in front of the servants. She is so headstrong and unladylike. She does not take after anyone on my side of the family. It is impossible.”



There it was again the sneer in his voice almost as if he knew that I was listening.

Mamma’s voice was sad when she replied meekly; “Yes. Clifford.”

And then I realised something about Mamma and Papa. They never used terms of endearment to each other. I had lost count of how many times Aunt Joan had called Uncle Geoffrey ‘dear’ and he always referred to her as ‘my dear’ or ‘your dear aunt’. There was something so very cruel in the way Papa said ‘Nora’. Then it was true; Mamma was the long lost princess and Papa the handsome prince who had turned toad with her kiss.

By S.K. Marinus



A Dragon’s Whisper

Scene 1

(Inside of a castle in the Southern Kingdom. Father, king of the Southern Kingdom is sitting on a throne in the middle of the stage. He is wearing a crown, a blue robe and has a sword in his hand.)

(Enter Knight, prince of the Southern Kingdom. He is wearing full armor, a helmet with colorful feathers on its top; shield with an image of a blue star, symbol of the Southern Kingdom and a sword; all light grey. Underneath the armor he is wearing black clothes and chain mail.)

Father: My Son, I summoned you because I can only trust this task to an honourable knight like you. Knight: Father, I am most honoured.Father: (Stands up.) As king of the Southern Kingdom, I have the obligation to help less fortunate kingdoms as much as possible. The Northern Kingdom has suffered from the presence of a Dragon in its mountains. It demands sacrifices every full moon, and if its requests aren’t fulfilled it threatens to destroy the city. The king of the Northern Kingdom has been sending prisoners as sacrifice, but it is only a temporary solution. Soon innocent villagers will have to be sent to appease the beast.Knight: I will make sure the foul beast never sees the light of the day again, father. Father: No army has been able to defeat it, but where armies have failed I am confident you will succeed. The dragon lives in the biggest mountain of the Northern Kingdom. When you arrive at the city, ask for permission from the king. This is a formality, but it is important for the king to know what happens in his country.Knight: I will make haste, father.Father: Wait. There is also a guild called “The Dragon’s Roar.” They are a group of rebels threatening to overthrow the king. I believe that slaying the Dragon, although not directly connected with the guild, will destroy their most powerful symbol. Hopefully it will encourage the villagers to act against the guild. Now go my child. (Approaches knight and kisses him in the forehead.) May God be with you.

(Knight Exits)

Scene 2

(Town Hall in the Northern Kingdom. Knight is on a stage giving a speech to the villagers. Knight addresses the audience as if they were the villagers.)



Knight: Citizens of the Northern Kingdom! Your days of terror are over! I have come from afar to help you! I, prince of the Southern Kingdom, knight of justice have come to slay the Dragon which threatens to destroy your city! With this shield (lifts up shield) and my faith in God and the kingdom, I shall protect you from this beast! With this sword (lifts up sword) and my honour I will vanquish the evil threatening this kingdom! It is a promise! Let God be my witness, and let him guide my shield and sword! I will now go to your king and demand that he allows me to slay the beast!

(Loud cheers are heard from the “Villagers” in the audience)

Scene 3

(Inside the castle of the Northern Kingdom. The King is sitting in a red throne in the middle of the stage, wearing red robes and holding a scepter.)

(Enter Knight)

Knight: Honourable king, I ask you to grant me access to the Dragon’s lair in order for me to defeat it.King: I am afraid I can’t allow you to do such a thing. Knight: I insist. I am confident that I will prevail where armies have failed. You don’t need to fear for my safety. It is a risk that I and the Southern Kingdom are willing to take for the sake of all the citizens in this kingdom. King: I don’t think you understand, knight of the Southern Kingdom. I am aware of your skill and I am confident you would indeed slay the Dragon. Yet I haven’t asked the Southern Kingdom for help in slaying this Dragon. I haven’t because I want it to live. (An incredulous look in knight’s face.) This kingdom needs that Dragon to live, knight.Knight: (Angry) What is this madness you speak? Don’t you care about the victims of the Dragon’s sacrifices? (King stands up and approaches knight)King: (Calmly) A small price to pay, knight. The Dragon ensures our protection. No army dares attack this kingdom because of its presence. Without it, we would be susceptible to an enemy attack, which we would be unable to defend. We barely have an army. More victims are created from a war than from this Dragon’s whims. Knight: Why would anyone attack your kingdom, my lord? Your kingdom has not offended any other, and there is no kingdom who wishes you evil. (King continues moving slowly to SL, moving past knight, and talks to him without facing him.)King: Foolish knight, this is because they know that they can’t face the Dragon’s fury.



When it is gone, the kingdom will be an easy target. Let me make this clear: there is no such thing as morality or honour in being a king. It’s all about empowering your reign by whatever means necessary. If I hadn’t learned this I wouldn’t be here today. Say no ruler had an interest in my kingdom, and I am not attacked once the Dragon is gone. What then? I won’t have a punishment for the prisoners. Imprisonment, death, even torture doesn’t scare the prisoners; especially not those belonging to “The Dragon’s Roar” rebel guild. They will get bolder and bolder with each passing day until I can’t control them anymore. They will overthrow me, and impose anarchy on the whole kingdom. Chaos will reign. I will not allow that, knight.Knight: (Anger and bitterness in his voice) What is this nonsense? How do you have the nerve of calling yourself a king when you rule by inducing fear in everybody’s hearts? This is not right, and I’ll change it. The villagers won’t accept this. Did you hear how they cheered for me? They are on my side. Without them you are nothing. I will put an end to this.

(Knight exits)

Scene 4

(Town Hall in the Northern Kingdom. Knight is on a stage giving a speech to the villagers. Knight addresses the audience as if they were the villagers.)

Knight: Citizens of the Northern Kingdom! I have slain the Dragon! You shall fear the beast no longer! Remember me; I am the prince of the Southern Kingdom, your savior! (Pause) But I must ask of you one favour in return. This kingdom is not completely cleansed of evil yet. Your king tried to prevent me from slaying the Dragon so he could continue to exploit the fear in your hearts! But not any longer! I ask you to help me to end this tyranny! Only then will you be free! Together we will banish this evil!

(Loud cheers are heard from “Villagers”-actors in the audience-.)

Scene 5

(Same stage as before.

Enter The King to the middle of the stage. Shouts of disapproval are heard when the King enters. The King addresses the audience as if they were the villagers.)

King: I assume that everybody who is here today knows about the heroic deeds of the prince of the Southern Kingdom. You would probably also have heard his speech



criticizing my reign. I will ask you to forgive me, my citizens, if I am skeptical about this prince. I find it hard to believe he risked his life for a kingdom that is not even his so… uninterestedly. I know from experience, my citizens, that there is no such thing as disinterested act, at least not between rulers. (Murmurs are heard from offstage.) Before the knight intervened, no kingdom dared attack us, as no army could confront the Dragon. Now that he is gone, there is nothing to stop an attack from, say, the Southern Kingdom! (Sounds of surprise and murmurs are heard from offstage.) Your hero was sent here not to save you from the evil of the Dragon, but to destroy the city’s only defense against the army of the Southern Kingdom! Your hero is no more than a spy, a traitor, part of the Southern Kingdom’s evil plans to destroy us! (Shouts of anger are heard offstage. The king gestures for silence.) But this is not all, my citizens. There will be no more peace in our lives, citizens! You heard your hero talk about overthrowing me. He did not, as you suspect, because he thinks I’m a bad ruler, but to instigate anarchy. Now that the Dragon is gone, no punishment will be able to keep the rebels at bay. They will help your hero instigate anarchy. And with anarchy chaos will enter our kingdom! This will be a perfect situation for an attack form an opportunistic kingdom such as the Southern Kingdom. All thanks to this knight, prince of the Southern Kingdom! Traitor, spy, anarchist!(“Villagers” –actors in the audience-): The knight is a traitor! The knight is a spy! The knight is an anarchist!

Scene 6

(The streets of Northern Kingdom. The Knight’s helmet has no feathers on it anymore, his sword seems cracked and his shield and armor are covered in tomatoes; the blue star can’t be seen anymore. “Villagers” are yelling “Traitor! Spy! Anarchist!”)

(Enter Knight. The voices start fading.)

Knight: Why don’t the villagers understand? I cleansed the kingdom from its greatest evil. (he thinks) Or have I? Was the Dragon the kingdom’s greatest evil? No. No, it isn’t. The greatest evil is something else. The evil of corruption; the evil of ignorance. How can I defeat this enemy, armed only with a sword and a shield? How can I slay this invisible enemy which is all around me? How can I free this kingdom form this curse? (he thinks)(Furious) I am their savior; why can’t they see? I tried to free them from the king’s reign of terror. Why can’t they see? Why are they so easily mislead? They are a flock of sheep; that is why. A flock of mindless, subordinate sheep. How can good triumph in such conditions? (he thinks) (With hopelessness in his voice) How could God allow this to happen? All is hopeless. But I must try, I must keep believing, mustn’t I? I must follow your lessons father, mustn’t I? Mustn’t I?



Scene 7

(Inside the castle of the Northern Kingdom. The King is sitting in a red throne in the middle of the stage, wearing red robes and holding a scepter.)

(Enter Father, moving directly and determinedly towards King.)

Father: (Furious) What is this!? What have you done with my son!?King: (Stands up) King of the Southern Kingdom, I can assure you –Father: Where is he!?King: I had no choice. Father: This is an act of war.King: (Calmly) Compose yourself. Your son’s body may be trapped in my cells, but I can assure you his spirit died when he faced the Dragon. Why do you think I never asked for your son’s help to get rid of the Dragon? I am aware of his skill as a warrior. But there is an inexplicable evil in that Dragon. When he came from slaying the Dragon, he had… changed. He started talking about anarchy, and it only became worse and worse. I can allow you to see your son, but I must warn you. He has become nothing more than hatred and rancor. Father: I refuse to believe your lies.King: Then see for yourself.(Father exits, determined.)

Scene 8

(A prison cell in a jail of the Northern Kingdom. Knight is sitting in a precarious bed in the middle of the stage. He is without his broken sword, or shield, or helmet; which are piled in a corner of the prison cell. He is wearing black pants, boots, shirt, gloves and bandana)

Knight: (angry) I freed them from the Dragon, and this is how I’m repaid? I put my life in danger, and this is how I’m repaid? By being imprisoned, with little water and no food? By being left in a prison cell to wait for my execution? Is this how I’m repaid? I should have known that it is useless trying to help a flock of mindless sheep. That the world is unfair, that God does not reward morality as my father taught me. That God probably doesn’t even care. That there are evils that can’t be defeated with honour, shield and sword. That believing in magical solutions is childish: no kingdom can be healed by something as easy as slaying a Dragon because the evil I promised to fight is rooted in everybody. Nothing matters anymore, everything will be over tomorrow. I will see God and question why he allowed all this to happen. (resolved and sad) But then I know what



his answer will be.

(Father enters)

Father: Son! (Advances towards knight and tries to kiss him on the forehead, but he backs away.) What is this? What has come over you? Knight: (Bitterly) Is your love a lie as well, father? Father: (confused) What is wrong with you, my son? I am your father, I have always loved you.Knight: (cynical) Like you have always taught me about honour and God, and they have been a lie. There is no honour among rulers, and yet you pretend the contrary. You lied to me when you said ruling was about honour and morality: it is all about empowering your reign. You lied when you said God would be with me at all times. Look at me. Look at what I’ve become. Do you think this is the will of God? Do you think God cares about me? I helped the kingdom, and I am now a criminal. Do you call that justice, father?Father: God sent me here to take care of you, son. God sent me to protect you.Knight: God sent you here to try blind me from the truth when I just discovered it. I will never be your foolish, naïve son anymore, father. I know the truth now. Your son died playing the hero in the Dragon’s cave.Father: Then it is true. There is nothing to be done then. (Starts leaving. Stops at the end of SR.) If you meet my son tomorrow, tell him I still love him.

(Father exits)

(Knight starts sleeping.)

(Rebel enters furtively. He is wearing clothing like Knight’s and a longsword. )

Rebel: (whispering) Come knight, I am from the Dragon’s roar guild, and I came here to rescue you. Make haste before the guards realize I am here. (urgent) Get up! Move!

(Rebel and Knight exit. In his way out, Knight grabs his broken sword.)

Scene 9

(A forest outside the Northern Kingdom. Knight and Rebel are sitting next to each other.)

Knight: Why did you save me?Rebel: Because I sympathize with you, knight. You promised to kill the kingdom’s Dragon, but didn’t complete your task; for there are many Dragons threatening this kingdom, and



you only killed one. You killed the Dragon that roars, the one which shows himself truly and threatens our morality directly. But you forgot to kill the Dragons which whisper. Those Dragons are far more dangerous, because they disguise themselves and become invisible. You can’t see them, but they are there. Subtly they gain power and extend their reach. Corruption, Ignorance, Fear; these are only some of them. You see knight, we have a common cause: to destroy these Dragons. So far you have been more successful than we have. Knight: If we had met earlier, I might have agreed with you completely. But now I’ve realized that honour and faith are useless, that God doesn’t intervene in mortal affairs. How do you expect a small group of rebels to fight a whole kingdom? Rebel: If we can give evidence to the villagers that his king is untruthful, our roar will blast his deceitful whispers. Knight: Such stubborn beliefs. I can assure you that the villagers suffer from a disease which can’t be cured. If you really believe in healing this whole kingdom, there is only one way. Start from scratch.Rebel: What do you mean, “start from scratch”?Knight: We will kill the king and burn down his whole kingdom. Only then there will be justice. Rebel: (Rebel stands up.) What is this madness you speak? Don’t you care for the victims of your actions? I can’t allow you to do such a thing. Knight: Then you’ll be the first thing I’ll purge.

(Knight stands up and stabs Rebel. Rebel falls to the ground and Knight leaves.)

Scene 10

(A forest outside Northern Kingdom: “The Dragon’s Roar” headquarters. Knight is on a podium addressing the members of the guild which are offstage.)

Knight: Dear rebels! Some of you may know me as the prince of the Southern Kingdom! Some of you may know me as the knight who killed the evil Dragon! But I am none of those things any longer. For I appeal to you today to help me destroy a bigger evil: The Northern Kingdom itself! For too long have we tried to convince the villagers that their king is evil, and that they should rebel. For too long have we tried to protect them from the Dragons of Ignorance, Corruption, Fear; and for what? To be ostracized like an evil ourselves. Well, my patience has run out. I believe that it is time to change things, to purge things. It is time to eradicate the whole kingdom and start anew! Only then we will destroy the Dragons! (Lifts up his broken sword.)

(Loud cheers are heard from “Villagers”.)



Scene 11

(Dark stage, only the sound of screams of agony and cries for help are heard from “Villagers”. The Knight’s voice is heard over everything else, saying: “Burn it, burn it all!)

Scene 12

(Outside a town in the Northern Kingdom. Duke is on a podium giving a speech to the villagers Duke addresses the audience as if they were the villagers.)

Duke: (addressing the audience) Citizens of the Northern Kingdom! Your days of terror are over! I, Duke of the Western Kingdom, have come to defeat the guild which threatens to destroy your city! With this shield (lifts up shield) and this sword (lifts up sword) I will vanquish the evil threatening this kingdom! It is a promise! I will now go to your king and demand that he allows me to send my army to attack the guild!

By Hans Erich Biorklund



Poetry



Paper Love

Sweetness of the first hour Love of the first day

The passion of this stupid worldIs dragging me away

I don’t want to sufferIn simplicity fakeOut of the cliché

I soon wish to break

Living a real life As waves go in the sea Stuck to bloody paper

I do not wish to be

In the drag of morningWords are just as brightIn sound as on my paper

So why then must we write?

Love and ink don’t go togetherPaper is not pure

A kiss can’t be recordedA cuddle won’t endure

Typewriter of the ecstasy Won’t ever type my smile

If words are well examinedThey soon do end up vile

So why not live the momentLove life just as it comes

For set paper on fire And fall it will to crumbs.

By Fenne van den Heuvel



A satellite for my soul

Orbs in an eclipse of the sunOf a timely turn, touching the moon.

Going round the dark side, to seeThe end of the bang that’s

Still not long gone.

A void in a mist of colours and it histsI don’t know why, but its wisdom,Will pass through my eyes soon.I can see through my Telescope

It’s a brilliant satellite. My satellite.

It’s moving past the moon,And it passes echoing mars, to give off a

Pink. As brown hurls through,Its deep set core of new sights. Those it shares.

And leaves behind.

Pulses, Pulses, Pulse. All aloneWith a stone freezing, blue cold stare

It probes Jupiter, then turns at a tangentIt’s scared. I see through my Telescope.

My soul’s Satellite.

I write for passions passion sake,Of a new satellite, of the new shades.

A shade long gone, a shade yet to come,

But also a shade seen long ago. So I seeThe mixed mash of ruby, sapphire,

Emeralds. A lesson received within.Its message be shouted throughMy Telescope. As it was my own

Satellite.

By Oscar Smallenbroek



The Wind

It flies by,With the wings of a swan,With the speed and agility

It glides through fields,And waddles through towns

Never in need of a rest.

By Linda Rousseva



Like a Phoenix

A single moment,A single touch,

I see her smiling,It hurts so much,

To watch time passing,To start to fall,

Memories fading,To loose it all,

But light is dawning,Now change has come,

The sun is rising,Now that I’m done,

I’m done with crying,I’m done with pain,

I’m done with trying,I’m back again,

I have my family,I have my friends,I have my talents,

My bumps and dents,

Like a Phoenix burned,In a flaming storm,From the ashes I,Will be reborn.

By Vincent Maes



The Fisherman

No sound, no movement is made from him.

No one and nothing surrounds himExcept the water and the fish.

They came to him,To their food.

Unaware, they areOf the danger lying ahead.

They swim straight to their death,Another man’s meal.

By Linda Rousseva



Untitled

Star, star of the nightStar, star of the weekend

Star, star do not pass me by

Star, send your lightShoot it at my heart

Send it through my veins

Star, conquer my senseFlaunt my failings

And turn them a blind eye

Star, treat me rightOr treat me as you will

I will abide

Star, it is you that I sawIt is you that I chose

It is you that will hurt

Star, I am flesh, and bonesYou are divine.

You will make me hurt

Star, you are right;You might shoot,

So send me a signal,So I may mark you out,Before you pass me by.




Just a few words

More powerful than a speech,Like a casual smile from a passer by,

Or a flag waving half-mast high,Or walking in on an ice-cold stare.

Words that flow like measured steps.Each word chosen with more care,

Then flowers of a bridal wreath.

The point, driven home;To the diligent scholar only,

Or perhaps making the heart beat faster

They are a deafening roar,Passionately spoken,

Or quietly read.In those who are privileged to have been read.




A stab called love

It’s a summer rose with green thorns a side

Scarlet red like fire in a lovers’ eyes

These hands of guilt can not touch what you hide

They formed callus, protecting thought-out lies

Thorns heavyset, guarding the few inner buds

Fecund, but forming flowers of my spring

Withering, without passion of soft hands

No more joyful, merry mornings will ring

Misty morning will gather all the duds

The rose I see will no longer be rud

Too good for this world and gone was my love




A soldier dies…

Life explodes into slow-motion -A tomblike stillness erupts,

Into a birth of confusing emotion.

Futile, violent noises die into distant drones,As agony splinters his every bone.

He gives up the ghost, his senses battle -

His heart slows. Who cares? Of this war he is a mere chattel.

His sight swirls into a collage of human pain,Glued together as a country littered with deaths in vain.

Seeing the remains of his life in debris,He roars in desperation,

Staring at the man he will never get to be.

Every cell screams, his limbs are at war,Pain thunders through him, bleeding memories of before.

Nostalgic, he remembers old days,And staring at the burning heavens he asks,Is there a point to this soul blighting craze?

As his life seeps into the trenches’ soil,He wonders: Was it really worth the toil?

By Sinead Clarke



Tales

And what are words but the tragicVisitations of the soul, the flatteringWriter’s magic with which he wields

A world unreal?

A circular ring, followed for eternityAbout and about a million times,

Molten colours flowing as far awayThe old man cries, as closer the angel sings.

Until at last on the shores of lifeWe stand at once drowned, at once alive

As far away once more, and over The frozen seas the flighty sun does rise.

And we stand together at the shores of our souls,Gazing out into ocean infinite, distant andFull of the myriad sudden-shining shoals

Of life beneath the rippling blue -

You hold my hand and I canOnly think of you.

By Phillip Saville



Words of power

And what is life and deathAnd what is time

When the world lies

Broken, lost in our minds asGod’s tears drop down and cool the flamesAnd slowly those fat drops become rain.

Rain to sooth the burning cold;Rain, to cool the aching soul,

Rain to wash away all sins,

Rain to flood, to drown all things. Rain to make us swim

And rain to make us die;Rain to take us, break us,

Make us cry;Rain to imagine that we too can fly

One day, to fall from heavenAs, at last that day

We collapse heavy to the earthAnd her embrace as

Our fanciful castles crash about usAnd the land burns once more.

By Phillip Saville



To Stand Mad or Fit Alive

Let us begin as all such things should:With a naming of parts. I name the Outside

Fire; I name the Inside Warmth.

Outside is the blazing infernoOf the wrath of the damned, the giddy heights

From which true inspiration flies,The surreal plane of ethereal ghosts;

The madness in which true genius hides.Inside is lukewarm, heat

All stifled by the woollen blanketInto sullen nothing-warmth

That’s all egall, all ways the same;A path well stepped.

I name you Fools, all of you Jonson’s FoolsWho sit there and judge as in paltry words

The pathetic author fails to answer your call.It is your call. ‘To fit in or stand out?’

You do not want the world, the word to stand out.I take my cap and bells, proffer them to you

And yet you wish to live on in your silent train

As a sheltered passenger you thunder through life,Watching dimly through the glass

The broken, shimmering madness of the world beyondAs one-two one-twoIn rhyme and meter

Slowly you pass.

Now, though, I carry you. You read my wordsAnd though you see them as an objectAnd not the beauty, the love-emotion

That they truly areStill you read, still you have read.

You must read. You are damned to read to the endAs I am damned to write



These phrases, broken-entry sounds that empty my head;How else do I still the madness, the raging anger

And bitter fury of the inspiration still not-quite dead?A view of a pig.

Back to naming. To fit inLike some human jigsaw-piece insignificant

In the multitude of a million others?To stand out, to be the peace that does not fit,

Incongruous in a congruent world?Is that the choice you give me?

It is the choice you give me.You hope for eloquent prose

On the subject of fitting in, or standing outAs though man were beasts or clothes or colours –

We are beasts.And so I stand out.

Two legs better.

I make you read as lost in the darknessI stand out. Like a beacon of light,

A shimmering moonlit tower risingUpwards and shining so that

Even from your house so far awayIt lights up your world. I am lost

In darkness, in madness.

Welcome. to my madness;it knows no rules;

I smile.

I know what you are now; your name is found.Taxidermist. You take God’s work,

His heartfelt and most poignant creation –

And you stuff it. It might be dead alreadyBut still you hunger for its life, creatingCrude simulacrums of what was once



That bright shining spark, the single phraseThat burnt your world.

You cannot find it. You read, passive-Drawing your meanings like blood, like poison from the page.

My page. The poet’s page. It is not yours;I stand in the dark, sitting in the blackness on the rough wooden boards,

Watching with sad eyes as I hear the train of life go by,As I hear those gasping, grasping desperate to get in.

I write by the light of my wordsIn the graveyard of sanity;

I write of fools and kings and death and life,I write of you and me and man and time

And vanity.

I proclaim my self insane,My mind all fired and my hand

Aflame as

I hope, curse you that fire that burns me nowThat will pin you down, back to the page

As phrase by phrase you pieceThis work apart, calling, ever calling,

‘How?’

By Phillip Saville



New Years

Far too long have our eyes,Our mouths been closed;

Perhaps then silence was appropriate,Words not the cause of the common man

But now, in a world transformedWhy do we not speak?

We stand silent, immobilised, asFar away, all around so close

The lights blink out one by oneTo be replaced by the flash of quickfire

And the cries of battle.

Beowulf the mighty fought at the lastOnly to save his kin, the hearth and love

He had cultivated all those years.War is a mis-guided thing.

As we step out our doorwaysTo light fires in the street

And blow the sky to kingdom comeIn delicate showers of blue and green

Far away, so close, the world

Is blown apart as those fires are real,Those explosions aimed at human flesh

To destroy and occupy, to seize backWhat was ours, to protect ourselves.

Misery deepens like a coastal shelf,And we hand it to our children;

Our hates and fears, the people we don’t knowExcept that they hate us, that they would kill us

If only, if only they knew we were here,Hiding in the monstrous warmth.

Children scream, the fires burnAnd the explosions wrack the air

As far away, so far awayMankind burns for pleasure.

By Phillip Saville



Photograph



By Alexandra Letcher

By Alexandra Letcher



By Dorothee Grevers

By Dieuke Vos



By Dusan Ristic

By Dusan Ristic



By Georgia Letcher

By Dusan Ristic



By Georgia Letcher

By Georgia Letcher



By S. Madahar

By Georgia Letcher



By S. Madahar

By S. Madahar



By S. Madahar

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