We Saw You Coming
Kamika Cooper
Response

we saw you coming quickly

stepping lively with all those ill begotten riches
stolen gold, rubies, time, minds, and souls
you walked like they were bags of feathers that just
glided down to you from the generous sky
falling off your slippery fingers and never hitting the ground once

twice, we saw you coming in the broad daylight

moving and shaking through the world without concern
with stealth acquisition though you never appeared to be
the type to move that way, lacking some piece of swagger
and the tailored suits typical to others in your profession
we laughed at your preference for cats as accomplices

fuzzy distractions of purring lies that we thought untrue, so
we were unprepared, but we saw you coming

you were one step ahead of your own game
we were three steps behind and at least one to the right
you looked like a fool but we forgot: the fool is always lucky,
stepping lively with all those ill begotten riches
we saw you coming, but you saw us first

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Pharoah Bolding
Response

Remember Grey
By Guillermo Warley
Inspiration piece

He remembers his mother’s pain. Her crying at night, how helpless he felt when he could not console her. Back then it was all his father’s fault, the villain that had left her, breaking 25 years of marriage.

It was so long ago. All the stories he heard about his parents’ marriage were skewed. What his father had done, what he hadn’t done but should have done. The dismal finances, and the treason.

He was just a teenager in those days, and he took sides. He took his mother’s side. Options were only black or white at the time. So many incomplete versions, so many biased opinions heavily influenced by emotions. There was pressure. From close friends of the family, from relatives, and from society and its rigid rules about what is right and what is wrong.

It would shape his life for years to come. His thoughts on relationships, his perception of love, even his own happiness. He dutifully took care of mom, the victim, the wronged woman. He suddenly grew 10 years, assumed a role of mediator, peacemaker, and breadwinner. All of it way too soon for such a young man.

He listened to his mother, for years to come, constantly making excuses for not working, for not trying to find love again, for not starting over. Eventually, like a self-fulfilling prophecy, she became a bitter and sad woman. A defeated person who did not have the will, or perhaps the courage, to pick herself up and move on. She had already “invested” 25 years of her life, why should “she” have to start over because of his father’s decision to leave?

He grew older. A decade and a half passed. His own life taught him about relationships and how inherently complicated they are. He reconnected with his father. He now knew about marriage and about fatherhood. He had learned the difference between the intent of “till death do us part” and real life. Devoid of the intense initial emotions, no longer blinded by his mother’s pain, he could finally hear the other side of the story. Conversations, letters, emails. A different story slowly emerged.

He learned that black and white explanations are rarely true, or sufficient. Different facts, different circumstances to those that had been engraved in his mind for years. He saw the gray, both on his father’s thinning hair and on the reasons for the divorce from his mother.

He saw a man not unlike himself across the tables of many cafes along the narrow streets of Buenos Aires. He asked tough questions, he did not spare his father any criticism, he made sure his father understood his pain, his mother’s pain, the roles taken, the opportunities missed. But most importantly, he listened. They both did. He finally understood. He found peace within himself. The lesson learned, though long and painful, was a worthy one. It now guides his own life. He no longer takes sides quickly. “Remember gray” he says to himself when faced with many of his own conflicts. Remember gray, indeed.

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Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Pharoah Bolding
Inspiration piece

Full Moon
By Guillermo Warley
Response

Little Johnny was the undisputed champion of the world. He mastered all varieties of computer games and had racked up millions of points. There was simply no rival. Video game arcades, Internet games, smart phone games or cloud games. It didn’t matter.

His fast fingers, focused eyes, and quick mind had killed, maimed, obliterated and destroyed thousands of aliens, monsters, and evil-looking creatures. At the tender age of 17 he was respected and revered among the gamers. He walked the school corridors with confidence. The game name, the rules, the particular shape and size of the monster of the day were simply inconsequential. Johnny always won, and the monsters always died.

But, do game monsters ever really die?

After we see the quick flash on the screen and a smoking pile of rubble where the monster was, just an instant earlier, is that really the end of the creature?

Johnny found the answers to these questions in a sudden and brutal way. Unfortunately, he can’t share them with anybody. His dead body was found in a street ally. The eyes wide open, frozen by horror.

For each monster so skillfully incinerated by his powerful cyber gun, a tiny bit of energy was added to the Monster ‘s Revenge Project. The MRP existed in a world of fantasy, electronics, and computers. Only a huge amount of energy could break the barrier between that obscure world and the real world. And then only for a short period of time, enough to bring a measure of justice to billions of monsters destroyed by game players. The two worlds rarely crossed paths. But this one time they did.

By the time the giant monster had him in the cross hairs of its perfected laser eyepiece, there was no escape for Johnny. Crawling out of the room and into the streets was merely prolonging the agony. The outcome was inevitable. Johnny’s fate was sealed. The monster had no face, except for its huge black laser eye. But somehow he was smiling. He pursued Johnny relentlessly, agitating his multiple mechanical arms as if performing a macabre victory dance.

Johnny hoped someone would see them. He crawled towards the streetlights fighting the panic that had completely overtaken him. But suddenly it was dark. And all he saw before dying was the shadow projected on the floor by his relentless hunter. The night of Johnny’s demise turned out to be a full moon night.

Gabby Holden
Response
(Click for larger image)

N.O.M.E.
By Hildie Block
Inspiration piece

“That was the best game we’ve ever had!” Her eyes were shining as the setting sun glinted off her long dark hair with the pink streaks. She looked like a little girl instead. Instead of the 25 year-old with a wasted B.A. in English, suffocating as an administrative assistant that she was.

He dumped the Scrabble tiles into the box without another thought. She suddenly looked like she’d been stabbed.

“What are you doing!” She was standing and looked agitated. She was digging her nails into her palms. The blood started to drip again. He wondered, not for the first time, why she filed her nails to a point.

He looked shocked. “Wha’”

“The perfect game! The perfect game! It’s gone!”

She sat down and looked about to sob. He looked around the park to make sure no one was looking. “Look,” he said covering her hand with his, “we know we played the perfect game. We know we did it, finally, we used every tile, and we know the score was exactly even.” The wind stirred the leaves at his feet. He put his hand in his pocket, fingering the blue velvet box that he kept there like a talisman – the box that would come so close to making a public appearance and then disappear again– and instead grabbed a clean napkin from lunch. “Here,” he said, handing it to her so she could dry her hands. She stood, wiped her hands, shook her head, as if to shake a thought out of it and then smiled – off they went for coffee at the new place around the corner, as planned.

Standing in the toy store with another box of Scrabble under his arm, he debated walking to the register. She’d freaked on him last night. Again. For not putting the cap back on the toothpaste at his place. Not her toothpaste like last time. “Suppose everyone is entitled to pet peeves,” he thought to himself, not convincingly.

But except for these random explosions, the rest of the month, and the incidents did seem to happen monthly, she was wonderful, cheerful, fun and full of life. She’d been the answer to his prayers, to his lonely burrito and Jeopardy dinners, that didn’t happen every night, but were lonely enough when they did occur. She kept him up and moving, she kept him from sinking into the couch and disappearing from view.

Even a board game like Scrabble, for her, was played in a park, was an adventure, an outing. He thought of her, of the life that sparkled in her eyes, and he marched to the register and bought the box. Just for the extra tiles. Just in case.

He put down the tiles for the word “M.A.R.R.Y.” and looked up. He used the “R” from L.U.N.A.R. She was staring at her tiles. He stared at the board. He’d done it. He’d put down all the words: W.I.L.L., Y.O.U., M.A.R.R.Y., and M.E. with the help of the extra tiles stealthily retrieved from his pockets. The words were scattered all over the board. He still had the homemade question mark tile, he wasn’t really sure how to make use of it. He fingered it and flipped it over and over in his pocket. He was sweating from the stress of sneaking the tiles out of his pockets, and kept checking his watch. On the ground was an empty Starbucks cup from when he’d knocked her coffee down to create diversion so he could get a chance to check his pocket tiles. W.I.L.L. had been in his left shirt pocket. Y.O.U. had been in his right shirt pocket. M.A.R.R.Y. was in his left pants pocket, and M.E. had kept the velvet box company on the right side.

She started to put down her answer, wordlessly. N. O. Oh god, what had he done? He’d scared away the best thing he’d ever had. He’d gambled and lost. He’d . . . M. E. The M from M.A.R.R.Y.

“As in Alaska,” she said, watching his face for a reaction to the illegal proper noun.

He sat there, crestfallen. There in his right jeans pocket was a formerly blank Scrabble tile with a question mark drawn on it and in his left pocket a small blue velvet box, the corners getting worn – in his back pockets were all the tiles he’d switched out for the “special” ones.

She’d used her last tiles on N.O.M.E.

“Want to go for sushi?” she asked. “There’s a place two blocks from here, someone was talking about at work. They have bubble tea!”

He stared at the board and tears welled up in his eyes. He blinked hard.

She took the box and dumped the tiles off the board. Into the box slid his proposal, instantly mixed with all the other letters, like a blender full of possibilities.

They walked to the sushi place in silence. Sort of. She was humming, humming a familiar song. That “Minutes” song from Rent he guessed. Something like that.

Along the way, he, for no good reason, kicked a trashcan that was sticking out of an alley. A hard kick. Harder than he meant to. A cat mewed and ran down the alley.

He stopped to rub his sore foot; she bent down to the toppled trashcan.

“Kittens!” she said, and it was true. Five blind, squirming kittens, behind the trashcan, next to the dumpster of the sushi place that was their destination.

“Smart mother,” he said. She wrinkled her brow at him and looked down the alley. She looked back at him scrutinizing his every feature. He felt like he was on display.

“What? Next to sushi. That’s what I meant. Food. Fish. Close by,” he bent down, crouching next to her to get a good look at the new kittens. As he did, the tile and the box popped out of his pockets, the tile fell right on top of one kitten’s head. The box hit the cement with a clunk and bounced under the dumpster.

She picked the tile up off the kitten’s head. “I knew you were cheating!” she glared through him, as though he’d broken some sort of solemn vow.

“No,” he answered, and grabbed her wrist, harder than he meant to, trying to turn the tile over so she could see. So she could see what was on back and understand what she had done by dumping the game.

“Hey!” she yelled standing up, “Ow – what do you think you are doing?!” She pulled her wrist away and dropped the tile. “I can’t believe you would cheat!” It fell question mark down and she stepped down on it, grinding it into the ground.

“Wait!” he yelled at her, harder and angrier than he would have liked. He grabbed her wrist again and got down on his knees, pulling her down with him in the alley. He used his other hand to reach under the dumpster for the box. Feeling around, he yelled, as something bit him, pulled his hand back, bleeding and hit his head on a jagged piece of dumpster. “FUCK!” he screamed, in both frustration and pain.

She looked at him as if she’d never seen him before. He was bleeding, crazed, and had pulled her into an alley. She looked around for help.

He had to practically lie on top of her to get her hand under the dumpster to help him look, he had to give it to her and now. He had to or she would never understand. She tried to wriggle away, looking at his bleeding forehead, his glassy eyes.

“I’m trying to ask you something here!” he yelled, and at that moment she broke away and ran back onto the sidewalk and out of sight. He leaned his face against the dumpster, as he found the box and shoved it back into his pocket.

“FUCK!” he yelled loudly enough to make people on the street turn away.

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NOTE:  All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it.  Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Gabby Holden
Inspiration piece

In That Sleep of Death
Hildie S. Block
Response

“Shhh!”

“Oh, whatever.  She sleeps like the dead.”

“You’re horrible”

“OK, so you totally should have come last night!”

My eyes opened enough to notice that the lights weren’t on yet.   And the curtains were drawn, but daylight was leaking through the cracks where the curtains swayed over the air conditioner.

Sleep threatened to pull me under again.  Not before I noticed at least one warm body sitting on the side of my regulation dormitory bed.

“OMG! I totally should have!  I can’t believe it! “

“It was crazy”

“I mean red lights flashing, sirens blaring!”

“Everyone, EVERYONE STOPPED AND STARED.”

“But she was all right?”

“Yeah.   Look at her.  Sleeps through anything.  I swear.”

“Right.  I remember.”

The door opened with a creek and another one came in.  And sat on my feet.

“So wait, you guys never showed up right?”  On my feet, did I mention that?

“Oh my god, you have to hear what happened.  They went to NV – and actually got in!”

“Wait, you guys never came to the party at Steve’s because you got into NV?”

“No, you have to hear what happened.  Like police and shit, no lie.”

“What?”

“Ok, Ok, so we went out – you know just Maddie, Gwen, Victoria, Iliza, Grace and you know who.”

I knew who “you know who was.”  It was me.

“Right.  But you were supposed to get to Steve’s by 12, I was like, you know, waiting and stuff.”

“I know, but that wasn’t going to start happening until at least 11 or 12 right?  We headed out around 10 – took a cab.”

“You all fit in one cab?”

“OMG!  It was so funny, we were freakin’ clowns getting out of that thing! “

“But the cabbie was sooo nice.”

“Oh but for real.  He was totally nice!”

“I’m not sure we gave him enough money, but he was cool.”

“Anyway – so like we get out and there’s bars all over and she’s like – “   I can feel them pointing at me,

“Let’s try to get into NV.”

“Oh, no way!”

“Way.  It was so cool.”

“So we stood in line for like ever “

“For real, and then this guy came up”

“Not a guy, a GOD”

“and he talked to HER” (me again).

“and he like KNEW HER” (he was my second cousin, Johnny)

“and the next thing we know, we are going in a side door”

“WITH HIM!”

“Like serious VIPs or something.”

“OH. MY. GOD.”

“That’s what I’m saying!  Totally.”

“So was it awesome, like completely?”

“Of course.  You should have seen it!”

“There was a band playing in one room and the other room was like a total disco from like, the 70s or something.”

“And the drinks all glowed!”

“It was just the black light.”

“I don’t care – they glowed!  It was awesome!”

“But the police?  What happened?”

“OMG.”

“You won’t believe it.”

“Seriously.”

“What happened?  Celebrity skirmish? Congressman with a woman-not-his-wife?”

“Better.”

“So there’s like this death band in one room, this disco and all these lights and loud music in the other room, even the back bar had loud music playing, right?”

“OK.”

“and SOMEONE, wanted to leave and go to Steve’s.”

“OK.”

“But we didn’t want to go, not yet.”

“I was dancing with this guy, OMG was so hot.”

“I still had a drink left.”

“We had just like gotten there.  That’s what it felt like, and who knows when we’d get in again.”

Me.  I knew.  My mom’s cousins owned NV.  I can always get in.  Can’t drink in there.  But I can get in.

“So SHE wants to leave but we don’t.”

“Right. “

“So she is sitting in the back bar – Music totally blaring from everywhere, right?”

“My ears are still ringing, I swear.”

“You should have worn ear plugs”

“I know, I know, but still”

“Anyway, so what happens?”

“SHE FALLS ASLEEP”

“SATURDAY NIGHT AT THE HOTTEST CLUB IN THE LIKE WORLD!”

“She’s completely out.”

“I was dancing”

“I was listening to the band, right?”

“and she’s in the back bar – which is packed.”

“But people start noticing she’s like, you know, out.”

“And no one thinks, OH MAYBE SHE JUST FELL ASLEEP, because it’s like 200 degrees”

“And loud”

“And who falls asleep at a club on a SATURDAY NIGHT?”

Me, when I’m bored.  That’s who.

“So they like think she’s OD-ed, so the next thing we know there’s all like sirens and lights and  . . .“

“A Stretcher!”

“So the guy I’m dancing with, he’s like, let’s go see what’s happening  . . . I’m all like, no way, I’m dancing here.”

“But then I figure since the rest of the world is going”

“So we get there, into the back bar”

“I pushed to the front to see what was going on and they are loading her onto a stretcher, and THAT’s when she wakes up.”

I’m not going to deny it because it’s all true.  But here’s what they didn’t get.  I hadn’t slept in who knows how long.

OK.  Me, I know how long it was.

Maybe a  week or so earlier, was the last time I really slept, in bed, at night.

I mean I had afternoon naps, where I just crashed, and I fell asleep once, no twice at the library face down in my stupid Econ text book.  And maybe a couple times in dark lecture halls during class.  But not in bed at night, since that Friday night, maybe what?  Nine days ago.

It’s not what you are thinking.  It wasn’t because something happened IN the room.  It wasn’t my roommate bringing a guy in because she thought I was asleep or some such dorky thing.

It was worse.

So we’d all been at a party at Steve’s – we’d gone together – you know – how freshmen girls travel in packs.

The guy I had been watching in class, Alex, he was funny, maybe even cute, we went for a walk.  We kissed and he told me about his girlfriend back home.  Present tense.  Things got complicated, but I wasn’t feeling good about this situation.  Things went too far.  But not so so too far.  But I just decided to get out of there.  There by then being his dorm room.

Things were complicated.

So I walked back across campus and crawled into bed and fell fast asleep.

The next thing I knew, hours later, there were a bunch of people in the room, all chattering.  I squinted at my phone – 4:11 am.

SO I asked, politely.  As politely as could be expected considering the circumstances.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Which is when they seemed to notice me and all the pieces slid into place.

“Wait, have you been sleeping?”

I seriously need to transfer.

“How long have you been here?”

“Weren’t you outside?”

Were they talking in code?

Which is when I noticed the red flashing lights reflecting on the back wall.

“Didn’t you go outside for the fire alarm?”

“Aren’t the Resident Advisor’s supposed to make sure everyone is out?”

“If she couldn’t hear the blaring alarm, you think she heard a knock?”

“I think I told the R.A. you were still out with Alex – – you left the party with him, right?”

I guess I could say, “at least there wasn’t REALLY a fire.”  But that didn’t really help.

And it certainly didn’t help me fall asleep.

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Pharoah Bolding
Response

A Little Excitement
By Helen Lewis
Inspiration piece

I blame my mother-in-law, Amelia. If she hadn’t been visiting us when my husband Greg staggered into the kitchen with his clothes torn and gently smouldering, announcing he’d finally got the time machine to work, no-one would have suggested throwing a dinner party to celebrate, and the worst night of my life might still be the sixth-form disco when I was carted off on a stretcher after hyperventilating during a slow dance with Dave Harrison.

On the night of the dinner party, Amelia and I were in the kitchen peeling prawns when Greg poked his head round the door and announced the guests had arrived. I followed him into the living room.

Oscar Wilde was standing on the hearthrug, reading from the copy of The Importance of Being Earnest I’d left on the mantelpiece for him to sign. In his other hand he held a lit cigar, which he was waving about for dramatic emphasis. Mrs Beeton, Amelia’s guest, was perched on the edge of Greg’s favourite armchair, surreptitiously running a finger over the top of the lamp table to inspect for dust. Reclining on the sofa was a young man in a gold-edged toga. He was dipping his hand into the potpourri bowl on the coffee table and popping handfuls of its contents into his mouth.

‘Your guest?’ I whispered, elbowing Greg in the ribs.

He nodded.

‘And he would be?’

‘Caligula.’

There was a choking sound from the sofa, and several pieces of damp pot-pourri arced across the room and landed on the hearthrug, narrowly missing Oscar’s shoes.

Caligula jumped up, shouting obscenities in Latin, and tossed the pot-pourri bowl over his shoulder, decapitating the shepherd girl figurine Amelia gave us last Christmas. As the old adage goes, every cloud has a silver lining.

Amelia chose that moment to make her entrance. ‘Bonsoir, bonsoir,’ she beamed, lifting her kaftan and giving a little curtsey. ‘I am so enchantée to meet you all.’ Greg says his mother has been peppering her speech with French phrases ever since she took a Cordon Bleu cookery course in the seventies.

Amelia ushered us into the dining room, and to our places at the table, where a glass of white wine and a serving of prawn cocktail were waiting for each of us.

Caligula sniffed the wine and held his prawn cocktail glass up to the light. He slammed both glasses down in front of Greg.

‘I’ve got my own. Those are yours,’ Greg explained, returning the glasses.

Caligula shoved them back.

‘I think he wants you to taste them,’ said Amelia.

‘Whatever for?’ asked Greg.

‘Maybe after ingesting some of your dried flowers earlier, he thinks you’re trying to poison him,’ suggested Oscar.

‘Look -’ began Greg, but he stopped short when he caught sight of the expression on Caligula’s face. He took a sip of Caligula’s wine and ate a spoonful of prawns from his glass. ‘Yummy,’ he said, smiling broadly and rubbing his stomach as if talking to a toddler.

For the next minute and a half Caligula didn’t take his eyes off Greg. At last he took the prawn cocktail glass by the stem and tossed back the prawns in a single gulp. He did the same with the wine. He wiped his mouth on the edge of the tablecloth and gave a satisfied belch.

The main course was another of Amelia’s spécialités.

‘What is this?’ asked Mrs Beeton, suspiciously.

‘Chicken korma,’ said Amelia, proudly. ‘It’s very à la mode.’

‘And this on the side?’

‘Mango chutney.’

‘Is it supposed to be that colour?’

‘That’s how it comes out of the jar.’

‘I see,’ said Mrs Beeton, her voice dripping with condescension. She prodded at the chicken listlessly, and then put a piece in her mouth and winced. ‘It has a rather … unusual consistency.’

‘Consistency is overrated,’ said Wilde. ‘I’ve always considered it to be the last refuge of the unimaginative.’

What wit. Oscar and I laughed like drains. I don’t think anyone else can have heard him.

Caligula must have decided we weren’t trying to poison him after all, because he polished off the chicken korma with aplomb, and motioned to Greg to top up his wine glass. He then leant across the table, took the pencil from behind Greg’s ear, and started drawing something on his paper napkin.

When he’d finished he gave it to Amelia.

‘And what has our budding Da Vinci drawn?’ asked Oscar.

Amelia put on her reading glasses and held the napkin at arm’s length, squinting. She turned it around a couple of times.

‘It, er… looks like a self-portrait… and he’s… mon dieu, he’s having sex with a horse!’

From the other side of the table there was a tiny gasp followed by a hefty thud, and Mrs Beeton disappeared from view.

Oscar came to the rescue with a bottle of smelling salts. When Mrs Beeton came round, she thanked him for his kindness.

‘My good woman, think nothing of it,’ he replied. ‘One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing.’

At that moment there was a horrible retching noise. Caligula was throwing up into the fruit bowl.

The arrival of Amelia with the dessert was a welcome distraction.

‘Tell you what,’ said Greg, ‘why don’t we have our dessert out on the patio? It’s a lovely evening.’ Everyone was happy to agree, and get as far away from the fruit bowl as possible.

Amelia’s dessert, tiramisu, was a great hit. Neither Mrs Beeton nor Oscar could find anything scathing to say about it, and despite his dodgy digestion, Caligula came back for thirds.

‘Have you left something on the stove, Mum?’ Greg asked, as he was scraping the last traces of dessert from his bowl.

‘No,’ replied Amelia.

I sniffed the air. There was a smell of burning coming from inside the house. I sent Greg to investigate.

‘I don’t want anyone to panic,’ said Greg when he came back, ‘but the living room’s on fire.’

*

When the fire engine eventually arrived flames were licking from the bedroom windows and a black pall of smoke hung over the whole street.

‘Been having a fancy dress party?’ asked the fire chief, chattily. I glanced around. An ageing ‘hippy chick’ wearing a kaftan and a headband was pacing up and down the pavement, taking photos of the blaze with a mobile phone. A young woman in a crinoline and shawl was sitting on a neighbour’s wall, fanning her face with a paper napkin, a man wearing a velvet smoking jacket and carrying a silver-tipped cane was chatting animatedly with one of the younger members of the fire crew, and a youth in a toga with a golden laurel wreath perched precariously on his head was throwing up noisily into the gutter.

‘Fancy dress?’ I said. ‘Yes, something like that.’

Greg came over to the fire chief and started blabbering incoherently about the shed.

‘Now calm down, sir. We have everything under control.’

‘I think my husband wants to know whether the garden shed is still standing,’ I explained. ‘He keeps his time ma- … I mean… his tools in the shed.’

The fire chief gave me his best ‘we’ve got a right one here’ look, but he made a call on his walkie-talkie, after which he was able to confirm that the shed was not only still standing, but was completely undamaged. Greg hugged him.

As soon as the fire engine had left, Amelia announced, ‘You two are coming to stay chez moi while all this mess gets sorted out. I insist.’

I didn’t have the energy to argue.

We all made a point of seeing our guests off. We said our goodbyes outside the shed.

Caligula was the second person that evening to be on the receiving end of one of Greg’s hugs. As Greg embraced the young despot there was a clinking sound, and as he pulled away, three bottles of wine fell out from under the Emperor’s toga and smashed on the garden path. Greg pushed him through the shed door with somewhat more force than was necessary.

Amelia turned to Mrs Beeton. ‘I’d like to say what a plaisir it has been to meet you,’ she said.

Mrs Beeton managed a smug smile. ‘Well…’ she began, but Amelia hadn’t finished.

‘I’d like to be able to say that, but I can’t. I’ve never met such a snobby, stuck-up vache in my whole life.’

Before Mrs Beeton could say anything in response, Greg ushered her hastily into the shed.

I turned to Oscar. ‘I’m sorry to have to say goodbye so soon,’ I said, ‘but I think, all things considered, it’s probably for the best.’

‘My dear,’ replied Oscar, ‘I am quite ready to return to my own time, thank you. As I always say, a little excitement is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.’

I couldn’t have put it better myself.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Pharoah Bolding
Inspiration piece

Dead man falling
By Helen Lewis
Response

Angelo’s going to die.

Of course, we’re all going to die some day; it’s just a matter of when and where. And how. For Angelo, the when, where and how have already been decided. As for when, he’s going to die today. Let me fill you in about the where and the how. It’s a story I’m uniquely qualified to tell.

I met Angelo when I was fourteen. I was a weedy kid with terrible acne – a magnet for bullies. One day I was lying on the ground in the foetal position while a lumbering troll from Year 11 kicked me repeatedly in the ribs, when suddenly the onslaught stopped and my assailant started making a choking noise. I looked up to see a muscular, dark-haired boy standing over me. He was lifting the bully up by his school tie so that his toes were scraping the ground.

‘If you beat him up again, I’ll kill you,’ he said. From the look in the bully’s eyes, I’d say he believed him. The stranger let go of the bully’s tie, and the bully ran off in the direction of the science block, without looking back.

The dark-haired boy helped me to my feet. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I think so…thanks…’

‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, handing me a business card.

Printed in white gothic lettering on a black background were the words ‘Angelo Morris’. I turned the card over. There were no contact details.

‘What -?’ I began, looking up, but Angelo had gone.

After that I often saw Angelo around school, and we’d nod to each other when we passed in the corridor, but we didn’t hang out together. I never mentioned the incident to anyone, but word must have got around somehow, because bullies never bothered me after that.

I bumped into Angelo again about six months ago. I was sitting in the lobby of City Computer Services, waiting to be called in for a job interview when Angelo walked in, wearing a white suit, black shirt and white tie.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘long time no see. How’s life treating you?’

I mumbled something non-committal. The chair next to me was free and Angelo sat down in it.

‘Here for an interview?’ he asked. I nodded.

‘Snap. What time’s your appointment?’

‘Three thirty.’

‘Really? Mine’s at three. I’ll put in a good word for you.’ He winked.

About a week later I opened my front door one evening to take delivery of a large quattro stagioni with extra olives, to find Angelo standing on the doorstep, dressed in an Eezee Peezee Pizza uniform and carrying a pizza box.

‘Congratulations on getting the job,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but how -?’

‘Do you mind if I come in?’ asked Angelo, walking into my flat.

And he’s been here ever since. On the plus side, he always pays his rent on time, and the extra money comes in handy. It’s also good to have someone to talk to, and someone to look after the flat when I go away, although one weekend not long after Angelo arrived I went to visit my parents, and I got back to find that Angelo had decorated the entire flat while I was gone. He’d painted the off-white walls in vivid colours: lime green in the living room, fire engine red in the kitchen, fluorescent yellow in the hall, bright turquoise in the bathroom and flaming orange in the bedrooms.

‘But the terms of my tenancy agreement!’ I spluttered.

‘Relax,’ said Angelo, putting his hand on my shoulder.

On evenings when he’s not working Angelo brings people round to the flat and they hang out talking, laughing, drinking and smoking until the early hours of the morning.

It was during one of these impromptu parties that I first met Caitlin. I was making myself a cup of cocoa in the kitchen when she came in, rushed over to the sink, and started dabbing at her chest with the dishcloth. She was trying to get red wine out of her white blouse. When I told her it needed washing straight away, she whipped her blouse off and put it in the washing machine. Offering to lend her one of my shirts, I went to get one from my wardrobe, and she followed me into my bedroom. One thing led to another, and we ended up having sex.

The next morning Angelo noticed there was something different about me. ‘Bloody hell, you shagged somebody last night, didn’t you?’ He thumped me on the back.

After that Caitlin began coming round on a regular basis, and we’d often spend the night together. One evening Caitlin told me she liked to make love in the open air. I explained that when you live in a twelfth floor flat, the only open air is on the balcony. She said that would have to do. As we were lying naked on the balcony after a hot and sweaty bout of sex that must have got all the binoculars in the neighbourhood twitching, I asked,

‘Are we an item?’

She lifted her head from my shoulder and stroked my chest. ‘I think so, Babe.’

About a week later I took Angelo out for a drink and broached the subject of Caitlin moving in.

‘I’m not keen on the idea,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t like her.’

‘But she’s one of your friends!’

‘I know, but she’s not good enough for you.’

‘You’re not making sense, Angelo.’ I tried again. ‘Do you think I’m asking you to move out? Well, you needn’t worry about that. I want you to stay. Really.’

So Caitlin moved in. And Angelo stayed, but I didn’t see as much of him any more. Sometimes, when Caitlin was out at work, he’d poke his head round my door and we’d hang out together for a while, but when Caitlin was around he kept a low profile.

And that was how things continued for several months. Until today.

I had to stay late at work tonight, and when I got home the flat was in darkness. The doors to the balcony were open and the long net curtains were swaying in the breeze. I pushed one curtain aside and saw Angelo and Caitlin going at it like a couple of rabbits.

I’ve heard people refer to rage as a ‘red mist’ before, but I always thought it was just a poetic description. I didn’t realise that when people talk about ‘seeing red’ they’re describing something that actually happens. Until it happened to me. Suddenly, I was in the middle of a thick, red fog – everything was tinged the colour of blood.

‘Caitlin!’ I yelled.

Angelo got up and covered up his genitals with his hands. ‘I know what you’re thinking, but it’s not what it looks like.’

‘Then what the fuck is it?’

‘It’s all right, Babe,’ said Caitlin, who had also got up. She reached out and touched my arm.

‘Don’t touch me!’ I shouted, shaking her off.

Caitlin gathered up her clothes, which were scattered all over the balcony, and stormed back into the house. She delivered a parting shot over her shoulder as she left: ‘You’re crazy!’

I advanced on Angelo, and he backed away, his hands still covering his genitals.

‘Don’t be angry,’ he said, ‘it really isn’t what it looks like.’

‘Oh really?’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me – you were helping her look for her earring. No, wait… you were out here watering the tomatoes. Or were you stargazing? Go on, I’d love to hear your explanation of what you were really doing. I’ll bet it’s fascinating.’

‘It’s not so much fascinating as… well…complicated. And possibly a little hard to believe.’

‘I’ll bet. You know, I used to think you were so brave, so tough. But that was all a show. You’re just a little weasel, aren’t you?’ I advanced on Angelo even further.

‘What are you doing?’ Angelo said, backing up against the balcony railing. For the first time I saw fear in his eyes.

‘I’m going to kill you,’ I said.

All trace of fear left his face. ‘No you’re not,’ he said. ‘Killing me would easily be the most stupid thing you’ve ever done. And you’ve done some stupid things in your time. Like that time you superglued your finger up your nose when you were eleven.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he said. ‘Maybe it isn’t, when you’re as stupid as you are.’

And so I pushed him.

And this is how I know Angelo is going to die. Very, very soon.

I know I pushed him. I know it. So why is it me who’s falling through the air, arms and legs flailing, staring at the pavement as it rushes up towards me from below?

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Translation
By Amy Moffitt
Response

The wall between us
is thick enough to feel.
When I speak, I see the words
bounce off of it and fly away.

If we had met as children,
would the wall still be there?
Or is it the fears we’ve gained in growing
that instinctively push us apart?

I find myself longing for translation…
the gestures I make that put you off,
your tone of voice that shuts me down
decoded, made clear and laid out.

I want to believe that beneath
our troubling layers
our hearts and desires are the same.
We just need an interpreter
to explain us to each other, and ourselves.

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

John Isaacson
Response

History
By Amy Moffitt
Inspiration piece

Everything bears marks of everything else.

This street has tire tracks
from where he hit his brakes too hard.
That sidewalk still has chalk on it
from where the children played weeks ago.

This tree has a name carved in it,
and a stub from where you cut off a branch.
This chair has leaves and pollen on it,
and that one a stain from
where she dropped her glass of wine.

Even the raindrops have fallen before
in another place, in another time…
have soaked other soil,
have changed other plans,
have made other streets shine.

We are marked, all of us,
made up of matter that
came from outside ourselves.
We are made up one another,
porous and fluid
and spilling into each other,

Like these raindrops, running together,
down the window,
down the wall,
out of sight,
into time.

Pharoah Bolding
Response

Attain to Innocence
By Nickolas Lotze
Inspiration piece

Wounded’ness becomes an idea turned vehicular

traveling through darkly lit tunnels expanse;

wounded romantics rushed stage left

exit by blaring ambulance;

not for sakes of discernment,

but a second chance.

Viewed through hospital doors automatic,

residence in the emergency room refusing treatment;

expectations rise no higher than traumatic,

and the views kept obscured by misinformed consent;

tragedies often sit opposite the pragmatic.

Flashing lights in the night mix

with feelings deflated by a grieving process,

with fingers crossed behind our back in regards to

something resembling a plan to find a fix,

trying to separate the dead excess

from what’s left intact of your wholeness,

and what can be written off as expendable losses.

Time will always sacrice parts of itself,

in the interest of pleasing particular part

of ourselves ’ll keep us from taking risk;

offer refrain to recover;

satisfied with everything it lacks

and with its inert ability to see reason.

A method seems to be strategic in

ever meeting the half a person of you ’s left;

realization you’re half of what you began with,

and these are simply facts enforcing our gullibility

in so much hopes are the same as unreasonable expectations

and in this crooked state of mind we’re hoping to find

a tangibility representing a better present,

able to exist far into our future serving as a distraction.

And so we wrap ourselves up with tragedy

and this becomes an adaptive strategy

serving as a wall to keep everyone at arm’s length

and only stokes our issues with abandonment,

the what ’s, pain and other irks

stale accomplishment.

The real trauma becomes the sum

of all of our assumptions;

shattered laid with us on the floor,

alongside innocence in the trust lost we’ll never get back,

betrayal has forced us across a line in sordid affinity,

feeling the same way when a young person is robbed of virginity.

But it’s in colossal betrayal

we gain the awareness

and understanding of what was once compromised

wasn’t measured in terms of infinity

and we’re shown we have the ability

to transcend into a type of secondary purity.

I suppose the only question left

is when will you attain to innocence?

_____________

Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.