“Why are you reading this?“ asked Jim, pointing at Graham’s copy of William Tell by Friedrich Schiller. “Have you gone all German?”

Graham stared at him for a second, but ignored the question and carried on reading. He was at the café inside the Student Union with Jim and Neil.

“It’s not even on the reading list!” Jim shook his head hopelessly.

Neil and Jim started talking about Shannon’s leaving do which was the night before. Graham was a strict non-drinker and therefore it was no surprise that he was a complete outsider at parties or any kind of social gatherings. The only advantage the guys drew from Graham’s presence at parties was him driving them home afterwards.

“Anyway”, Jim began, “I did try my luck on Shan last night, since she broke up with Furry Fred the other week…”

Neil chuckled. It was a common thing to laugh at Fred’s nickname. Nonetheless, he was one of the best cricket players on the whole Bristol campus. Girls like Shannon obviously liked confident athletes. Graham licked his finger to turn the page.

“The odd thing about her is that even when she’s drunk, she’s still sober” Jim said.

Neil raised an eyebrow “What do you mean?”

“Well, as soon as I tried it on with her, she knew what I was up to and threw me off the chair. Do you know any girl like that after five shots of tequila? And hell knows how much she’d already drunk before we came!”

“Well, obviously not over The Fur”, Neil presumed.

“Bernard would have nailed her straight away…”

Graham twitched after that comment.

“Well,” Jim continued, “after all she finished the relationship! And I just wanted a memorable goodbye-shag! Well, her loss, I guess.”

Graham closed the book and slammed it down on the table. The noise made the waitress spill the coffee whilst serving a student.

“Gee…” Neil muttered, recovering from the shock.

“Rubbish, I guess?” Jim grinned at Graham “How far did you get?”

“He’s about to hit the apple” Graham answered.

“That’s the only exciting part!”

“I’m saving the best part for later.”

On his way home, Graham stopped at Tesco Express to pick up some coffee and paracetamol. In the queue was a couple arguing about whether crinkle fries or curly fries tasted better; on his right a little girl crying uncontrollably because her mother wouldn’t buy her any Hello Kitty chocolate biscuits. Crowded places hold nothing but nasty human scents, he thought, such as the sharp smelling breath of the person behind him and the awful rustling noises coming from crisp bags and shopping bags.

“Hi.” A voice came out of nowhere.

On his left he saw Shannon, smiling. “Graham, right? You were at my party yesterday.” She was holding a bottle of skimmed milk, a pack of cereal and a pregnancy test.

“Hello.”

She looked hung over; her dark curly hair was worn out and unwashed, the blue of her eyes pale with exhaustion.

“You didn’t have fun last night, did you?” she asked.

“Of course I did. What makes you think I didn’t?”

The queue was moving forward. Graham noticed that the person behind him looked disapproving of Shannon’s presence, as if she was about to jump the queue.

“Come on”, she said, “you were staring at my Francis Bacon posters for hours!”

“I like disfigured faces.”

She narrowed her eyes in slight disgust. “You’re weird” she said.

“Oh, and you’re not? They are your posters after all…”

Graham was next at the till and Shannon immediately handed him her shopping. “I’ll pay you back in a minute.” As she disappeared behind the magazine stand, he could smell the sharp breath of the person behind him even more than before. Graham felt nauseated. The man at the till scrutinized him before scanning the pregnancy test. Graham stared back.

“What are you staring at, young man?” the man asked.

“Your thumb.”

Graham quickly turned to leave just to spare himself witnessing the agony. But already before he reached the magazine stand, he heard the closing of the till, the crunching of bone and a shriek.
Graham was dragging Shannon out of the shop with such force that she had to push him away to release herself.

“What the hell got into you?”

He noticed that the blue in her iris had come back to life again.

“Nothing, just some precog…, oh never mind!”

The startling noise of the sirens on the main road almost sliced his brains in two like a butcher knife. That reminded him of his unfinished coursework on Kafka and he started to walk away from Shannon.

“Precognition? I get that when a forgotten dream comes true.”

He stopped and turned back around. She was one of the few people who wouldn’t confuse precognition with déjà vu, he thought. The sound of the sirens was now far away.

“Do you want to come around my house?” he asked.

“I…I don’t know. I haven’t had breakfast, yet…”

“I have bowls and spoons…”

“I actually have something important to do…”

“I have a toilet as well.”

She looked slightly irritated and probably felt uncomfortable with his persistence but finally gave in.

He was watching her walk around in his apartment, which looked extraordinarily neat. The air held a fragrance that recalled the liveliest notes of a midsummer morning. Her previous insecurity about entering a student apartment had suddenly vanished. Down the corridor were two bedrooms, one on each side. One of the doors was open.

“Is that your room?” she pointed at the one with the open door.

“Find out” he said whilst preparing her breakfast. The midsummer smell had fused with Shannon’s sweetly-scented water lily deodorant.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you live with Jim.” She must have seen Jim’s party pictures on his pin wall; one showing him and Bernard dancing naked at the union, or she had simply smelt his terrible Jean Paul perfume.  “You could have warned me that you live with this dirty guy!”

Suddenly he heard her opening the door to his room and spilled the milk. “Hey!” The moment he stormed into his room, he saw her standing there stiffly; staring at his myriad H. R. Giger posters showing biomechanoids, aliens, necronoms and Debbie Harry – all twisted works painted with dark acrylic colours in shades of metal. To Shannon, they probably looked like ominous eel-like creatures with heads resembling either men’s glans or women’s buttocks, and numerous naked female reptilian humanoids intertwined and penetrating each other. His room still smelt of the black coffee he had in the morning.

“Speaking of dirty…iew” she said.

It sounded like “eel”. He was still standing behind her stiff back, and then he watched her carefully tilt her head as though examining the Anima Mia poster in greater depth. The rigidity in her posture loosened up. She put both of her hands on her hips and they slowly moved towards her bum.  Graham licked up the tasteless skimmed milk from his hand before it dripped onto the carpet.

“You lost weight since last term” he muttered after guessing that she was comparing her bum with the eel’s head. She turned around with a questioning face indicating perplexity and curiosity. She quickly looked to her left where the bed was; as if she had missed something and then she looked to her right. Her curls seemed revitalized; they were dangling like tinsel. She had had a shower after all.

“Are you religious?” She pointed at the cross above his bed.

“I guess. Why?”

She looked on her right again, scrutinizing his favourite piece of art by Giger Satan I which portrays Satan using Jesus as a bow. The background shows a vast wasteland of piled up, decayed human remains.  Jesus’ pose is exactly like on the cross, except that on the picture there is no cross, just a string threaded through the wounds of his hands to form a bow. Satan’s hand is tightly clasped around Jesus’ lower body. His gaze and the gaze of his demons are fixed firmly at the viewer, but the most unnerving facet of that picture arises from the arrow, which is a nail, also aimed at the viewer. Every time Graham looked at it, he saw Satan in his comfortable stance, drawing the arrow back to the anchor point and…

“How do you sleep at night?”

“What?”

“How the hell do you sleep at night?” she repeated “Every time you sit up in bed, you have the devil playing William Tell with you! In fact, it doesn’t even matter where you are in the room.”

He could feel a grin developing at the corner of his mouth and hoped it was an innocent one. “Your breakfast is in the kitchen.”

“You’re weird.”

“I’m not having breakfast at 1pm!”

Awkward silence hung in the air while both were sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty TV screen. There was an ashtray on the table with a No Smoking symbol in the middle of it.

“So uhm, who do you think might have impregnated you?”

She almost choked on the milk and he saw milk coming out of her nose. After a round of coughing and wiping her lower face, she threw a fierce glance at him.

“That was beyond impertinence!”

“As far as I’m concerned, I paid for the pregnancy test…”

She shook her head numerous times and carried on eating her cereal. His leg started shaking.

“Since you’re so straightforward and direct, let me ask you something.”

“Anything.” His voice sounded nervously high all of a sudden, but she hadn’t noticed.

“I’m not convinced that you believe in God.”

His leg stood still again. She continued “You use Him as the apple on your head…”

He lowered his head and felt how everything around him was turning black. His head had started to ache.

“I didn’t put it up there. My mother did”, he said finally.

“So…you don’t believe in God?” she carefully put the empty bowl on the table.

“I do”, he muttered and swallowed a paracetamol. “It’s just – everything was so much easier when I didn’t…”

As she approached him, she said “But nobody’s telling you what to believe in?”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because of what I did.”

It was almost 5 o’ clock. Whilst walking around in the living room, he could hear her in the bathroom. She had told him that if the test was positive, she would not drop out of university and leave Bristol but would make Fred marry her after the final term.

They were both sitting on the sofa again, close to each other like a nervous couple, staring at the strip, which was in Jim’s glass – the one he used for mouth wash each morning.

“I can’t believe it took us two and a half years to become friends, Gray.”

He remained quiet.

She continued “That’s what you get when no one makes a move. Or it’s simply fate.”

“You made the first move today.”

“Yeah…that was because I had no money on me”, she smiled. “Other than that I always thought you were a weirdo.”

“And that says a girl who likes Francis Bacon.” He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in her presence.

“You’re weirder.”

A minute had passed and there were still no coloured bands visible.

“I told you, I never used to be like that”, he said. “It’s my new perception on life. I feel no guilt towards what I did. It’s only my mother who says I should.  And yet, I pray to her God to go away.”

“Don’t make yourself paranoid. I don’t approve of what you did, but ultimately it was not your…”

Finally one color band appeared on the control region, but no band showed on the test region. She had completely lost her flow of mind and looked fairly mystified. Maybe she was double-checking that there was truly no band appearing on the test region. None appeared.

-

When Graham’s archery lesson began, he felt alone like never before. Even though he had numerous people around him carrying bows just like him, he couldn’t remember what fellowship felt like or what the significance of it was. Their instructor always spoke with a dull tone of voice, where people failed to listen carefully:

“Safety and responsibility always come first! Watch your companions and make sure you don’t endanger anyone! And don’t ever shoot bent or broken arrows – self-explanatory…”

Graham noticed some people getting impatient. One of the guys started fidgeting with his arrow.

“Stop it or you’ll poke yourself in the eye”, Graham said to him with a serious stare.  The guy stopped fidgeting and simply stared back.

“Quiet!” the instructor said “Now, an archer, who intends to hit the bull’s eye, must not directly aim at it, but slightly to the side…”

Graham shuddered. There was no wind.

“…Ok, get ready then. First put on your finger and arm protection, then check your bow, the strings and your arrow!”

The blinding sun was decreasing Graham’s attention span. At least there were clouds approaching.

“So. Now get into your comfortable stance and don’t forget you draw the arrow back to the same anchor point on your cheeks!”

Every student had drawn his arrow and was aiming at his target intensely. Graham felt that his target was not 20 yards away, but a lot further. After closing his eyes for two seconds, he opened them again and recognised a man about 25 yards ahead of him with the target painted on his body. It looked like Bernard. There was an arrogant smile forming at the corner of the man’s mouth. Graham couldn’t see it, but he knew it. His hands started to shake and sweat was running down his head.
He bent his right knee a little, drew the arrow back tightly and shot it slantwise up into the sky. The arrow faded to a dot that became lost amongst the sea of white gathering overhead.

“Oh my God!” the instructor shouted.

Everyone was staring at the sky. Suddenly Graham felt his cheekbone lifting up to a smile which then evolved into laughter.

“We’ll evacuate this place right now!” the instructor shouted, but everyone was already running. He grabbed Graham tightly by the arm and dragged him off the lawn. It was getting windy.

“I won’t tolerate this! You are in trouble. What were you thinking?”

“William Tell”, Graham answered, still laughing.

As soon as they reached the sports hall, the instructor grabbed Graham by the collar and hissed “Stop fooling around, buddy! If anybody gets hurt, you’ll be responsible!”

“Sir, do you think I’d have done that if I had known somebody would get hurt?”

“You’re out of the team!” He finally let go of Graham, who was still grinning from ear to ear. “And listen to yourself when you speak. You’re absurd!” The instructor turned around and was about to walk into his office.

“Watch your foot…” Graham murmured.

“What are you mumbling?” As he turned his head back to Graham whilst still walking, he failed to notice the janitor coming along from his right with the cleaning trolley. A heavy groan followed, and Graham was out through the door. His grin had faded into indifference and he felt how a dark shadow was casting upon his entire face.
He headed back to the empty field even though a voice had just spoken through the loud speakers telling people to steer clear of the field or anywhere near it due to the danger of an arrow. The sun was behind the clouds now and it was still slightly windy. Further down the field was a small millpond where Bernard’s accident took place. Nobody had dared going near the old oak tree ever since. He remembered that it used to be a place where many used to sit and have their lunch.

The arrow had landed near the water, head first. As he tried to pull it out of the ground, he got startled by a grass snake which first, before he even noticed, had looked like a pile of deer dropping.

He fell on his behind.  “Joe-fucking-Strummer…”

He watched the snake move back smoothly into its hole. For a second he had to think of Shannon and biomechanoids. Then the snake slithered back out and disappeared quietly into the water.

He remained sitting and simply stared at the still water. Ever since Shannon left the city, he had been feeling more detached from the world than before. Every now and then she would text him, but he hardly ever replied.  She asked whether he had known that her heart would be in pain and she would also text him when she encountered people going through pain, because they reminded her of him. She wrote that if he had been there with her to foretell others’ painful moments, they’d both have lots of fun together. He looked at his phone and there was a new message: “You should come visit me in Devon! I kinda miss our conversations…”

He was trying to remember the last time he was at the millpond and it was indeed two summers ago.

-

Graham was taking care of the campfire whilst Jim, Neil and Bernard were drunk and stoned, laughing on the grass. If the fire went out, it would be utterly dark, since it was new moon.

“If I had a bow and an arrow now, I would shoot right up into the sky” Bernard muttered and the rest carried on laughing, except Graham. Then Bernard continued “William Tell never misses anything. He could even shoot God down.”

Graham smoked the rest of the joint without feeling anything, yet. Nonetheless he could still taste the remaining bitterness of the absinthe on his tongue. Bernard had brought some real Czech absinthe from Prague to test out the hallucinations myth. Graham was not a good drinker and was still sipping at his first glass whereas the others were already preparing their second.

“Come on, Gray, drink up!” Bernard shouted, and he did.

The flickering noise of the fire sounded like cracks in a brick wall and their laughter was just behind it. His head was spinning, his heart racing. He felt nauseated, every part of him started to work slowly as if he had just awoken from anaesthesia. Then his vision blurred and all he could hear was under-water-talk. Suddenly an uncanny feeling surrounded him when he noticed Bernard’s figure rising. Bernard was mumbling something to him, but all Graham heard now was the flicker of the fire or were those cracking noises? All he saw was a blurred, disfigured outline of Bernard’s body.

“Hey” Graham mumbled as Bernard walked away, “Wait…”

Through his blurry vision he could see that he stopped for a while to listen, but then he carried on walking towards the oak tree. He heard the cracking noises repeatedly in his head and tried intensively to concentrate on Bernard. Now he could also hear fractions of Neil’s and Jim’s laughter.

“Bern…!” He wasn’t sure whether he had said it or only imagined it. Through his hazy vision he saw Bernard’s leg disappear underneath the dark branches of the oak tree. That was when Graham began to vomit feverishly into the fire. Now the only clear cracking noises he heard were bones and neck – followed by a splash in the millpond. The laughter had died and the fire had gone out.

-

The water was still peaceful; the grass snake hadn’t come back, yet.

Graham remembered the day his mother started praying for him desperately, saying that he should never interfere with God’s will. Bernard’s death was God’s will. The guilt will go if you have trust in God, she had told him. Ever since then his mentality, not to mention his cognition, had been under surveillance by something he didn’t even believe in, and yet his mother thought her son was a prophet of pain and was destined to suffer torture twice – except she was wrong. He looked at his mobile phone, uncertain about whether to write to Shannon or not.

The area did not change much except that the oak tree was looking more fragile than it did two years ago. For some reason he felt he and the tree had something major in common.

“Hey, sorry I’m late” someone said behind his back.

He got up, turned around and saw Bernard who was wearing a t-shirt with a target on it. The bull’s eye was not red, but black. As they were walking along the field, the colour of the sky had changed to magenta, but neither of them were interested in the peculiarity of the sky.

“It’s been a while, huh? How have you been?” Bernard asked.

“Crap, what else?”

“So as usual then…what’s new?”

Bernard’s enthusiasm and sleaziness revealed something slightly unsettling, especially in association with his entire appearance in that uncanny atmosphere. But yet, it all seemed so ordinary at the same time.

“Nothing.”

“Any girls?”

“There is someone, but…” Graham stuttered.

“What? Are you being a coward again?” Bernard asked, sounding disappointed.

They walked past a beautiful female ballet dancer practicing in an alley of white spruces. Her curly hair dangled like tinsel. Then the disappointment on Bernard’s face had vanished and changed into something familiar and honest.

“You want this madness to stop, don’t you? You just want to accept the past.”

They were now walking past a tree feller felling an oak tree with an axe. Each hit on the tree equaled the sound of a thunder.

“Bernard, I tried…” Graham said, unable to finish.

“I know”, he interrupted.

“I could’ve prevented it.”

The magenta sky was darkening to burgundy and the trees which they were now approaching were losing more and more leaves. It smelled like autumn.

“It’s ok”, he repeated and continued “It wasn’t your fault.”

That was the ultimate key phrase which had almost brought Graham to tears.

“But I still…”

“No” Bernard interrupted again and there was blood gushing out of the bull’s eye of his t-shirt, but he felt no pain and indicated no kind of alarm. All Bernard did then was smile and held Graham in his arms with the blood still flowing. Graham could feel his friend’s broken ribs pressing against his body.

“I’m sorry” Graham’s voice trembled.

“No, don’t be. Don’t carry around a burden that was never yours.”

As Graham woke up in the middle of the night, he saw the bright moonlight stalking his room like a madman. He grabbed for his mobile to write a text message to Shannon, saying

“How about next weekend?”

Then he sat up on his bed and looked straight ahead. He saw that the hand was gradually drawing back the arrow. William Tell never misses anything.

–

Paula Cheung, October/November 2010

or: The archer’s crisis

„Why are you reading this?“ asked Jim and pointed at Graham’s book by Dostoyevsky. “Have you committed moral suicide or what?”

Graham stared at him for a second, but ignored the question and carried on reading. Jim and Neil started talking about Shannon’s leaving do which was the night before. Graham was a non-drinker and therefore it was no surprise that he was a complete outsider at parties or any kind of social gatherings. The only advantage the guys had from Graham’s presence at parties was him driving them home safely afterwards.

“Anyway” Jim said “I did try my luck on her last night, since she broke up with Furry Fred last week…”

Neil chuckled. It was a common thing to laugh at Fred’s nickname. Nonetheless he was one of the best Cricket players on the whole campus in Bristol. Girls like Shannon obviously liked confident ‘athletes’. Graham licked his middle finger to turn the page.

“The odd thing about her is that despite of being drunk, she’s still sober” Jim said.

Neil raised an eyebrow “What do you mean?”

“Well, as soon as I approached her, she seemed to know what I was up to and immediately threw me off the chair. Do you know any girl like that after five shots of tequila? And hell knows how much she’d already drunk before we came!”

“Well, obviously she’s not over Mr Fur.”

“Well after all she finished the relationship! And I just wanted a memorable goodbye-shag! Well, her loss, I guess!”

Graham closed the book and slammed it loudly down on the table. The noise made the waitress spill the coffee whilst serving a customer.

“Gee…” Neil muttered, recovering from the shock.

“Rubbish, isn’t?” Jim grinned at Graham “Whereabouts are you?”

“He’s about to pull the axe” Graham answered.

“That’s the best part!”

“I’m saving the best part for later.”

On his way home, Graham stopped at the off-license to pick up some coffee, mints and paracetamol. In the queue was a couple arguing about whether crinkle fries or curly fries tasted better, on his right was a little girl crying and sobbing uncontrollably because her mother wouldn’t buy her any Hello Kitty chocolate biscuits. Crowded places hold nothing but nasty human scents, he thought, such as the sharp smelling breath of the person behind him and the awful rustling noises coming from crisp bags and shopping bags.

“Hi.” That voice sounded like an arrow through his heart.

On his left he saw Shannon, smiling. “You are Graham, right? You were at my party yesterday.” She was holding a bottle of skimmed milk, a pack of cereal and a pregnancy test, which she attempted to hide.

“Hello.”

She looked hung over; her dark curly hair was worn out and unwashed, the blue of her eyes pale and enwrapped in exhaustion.

“You didn’t have fun last night, did you?” she asked.

“Of course I did. What makes you think I didn’t?”

The queue was moving forward. Graham noticed that the person behind him looked disapproving of Shannon’s presence, as if she was about to jump the queue.

“Come on” she said “you were staring at my Francis Bacon posters for hours!”

“I like disfigured faces.”

She narrowed her eyes in slight disgust, whereas he began to smile. “You’re weird” she said.

“Oh and you’re not? They are your posters after all…” he stated.

When Graham was next at the till, Shannon immediately handed him her shopping. “I’ll pay you back in a minute.” As she disappeared behind the magazine stand, he could smell the sharp breath of the person behind him even stronger than before. He felt nauseated. The man at the cashier scrutinized him before scanning the pregnancy test. Graham stared back at him.

“What are you staring at, young man?” the man asked.

“Your thumb!”

As Graham turned around to leave, he heard the closing of the till and a shriek.

Graham was dragging Shannon out of the shop with such force that she had to push him away to release herself.

“What the hell got into you?”

He noticed that the blue in her iris had come back to life again all thanks to him grabbing her arm and overflowing her with confusion and a little bit of his frenzy¬.

“Nothing, just some precog…, oh nevermind!”

The sirens on the main road felt like a butcher knife slicing his brains in two. He started walking away from Shannon, who was terribly insulted and chased after him:

“It’s precognition! Do you think I’m stupid?”

He stopped and turned back around. She was one of the few girls who wouldn’t confuse precognition with déjà vu, he thought. The sound of the sirens was now far away.

“Do you want to come around my house?” he asked.

“I…I don’t know. I need breakfast…”

“I have bowls and spoons…”

“I actually have something important to do…”

“I have a toilet as well.”

She looked slightly irritated but finally gave in.

He was watching her walk around in his apartment, which looked extraordinarily neat and smelt as fresh as a midsummer morning. Her previous insecurity about entering his apartment had suddenly vanished, as she was overwhelmed by how tidy guys could be. Down the corridor were two bedroom doors on each side, one open, the other one closed.

“Is that your room?” she pointed at the one with the door open.

“Find out”, he said whilst preparing her breakfast. The fresh midsummer smell had combined with the smell of Shannon’s sweetly-scented water lily deodorant.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe you live with Jim.” She sounded almost aghast like a little girl who had just realized she wasn’t looking at a ladybird but a firebug. She must have surely seen his party pictures on his pin wall or smelt his terrible Jean Paul perfume.  “You could have warned me that you live with this dirty guy!”

Suddenly he heard her opening the door to his room and spilled the milk. “Hey!” The moment he stormed into his room, he saw her standing there stiffly; staring at his myriad H. R. Giger posters showing biomechanoids, aliens, necronoms and Debbie Harry which are all fascinating masterpieces painted with dark acrylic colours resembling the shades of metal. But what Shannon saw were probably ominous eel-like creatures with either a man’s glans or a woman’s buttocks as heads and numerous naked female reptilian humanoids intertwined and penetrating each other. His room still smelt of the black coffee he had in the morning.

“Speaking of dirty…iew” she said.

It sounded like “eel” to him. He was still standing behind her stiff back, and then he watched her carefully tilt her head as though examining the Anima Mia poster in greater depth. The rigidity in her posture loosened up. She put both of her hands on her hips and they slowly moved towards her bum.  Graham immediately licked up the tasteless milk from his hand before it dripped onto the carpet.

“You lost weight since last semester” he muttered after guessing that she was comparing her bum with the eel’s head. She turned around with a questioning face somewhat indicating perplexity and curiosity simultaneously. She quickly looked on her left (where the bed was), as if she had missed something and then she looked on her right. Her curls seemed revitalized; they were dangling like tinsel on a Christmas tree. She had had a shower after all.

“Are you religious?” She pointed at the cross above his bed.

“I guess. Why?”

She looked on her right again, scrutinizing his favourite piece of art by Giger Satan I. That poster illustrated Satan using Jesus as a bow. Jesus’ pose was exactly like on the cross, except that on the picture there was no cross, but a string attached to both of his hands, which ultimately formed a bow. Satan’s hand was tightly clasped around Jesus’ lower body. He and his demons were staring right at the viewer. The most unnerving facet of that picture arose from the arrow which was also aimed at the viewer. Every time Graham looked at it, he saw Satan in his comfortable stance, drawing the arrow back to the anchor point and…

“How do you sleep at night?”

“What?”

“How the hell do you sleep at night?” she repeated “Every time you sit up in bed, you have the devil playing Wilhelm Tell with you!”

He could feel a grin developing at the corner of his mouth and hoped it was an innocent one. “Your breakfast is in the kitchen.”

“You’re weird.”

“I’m not having breakfast at 1pm!”

Awkward silence was hanging in the air while both were sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty screen of the television. There was an ashtray on the table with a No Smoking symbol in the middle of it.

“So uhm, who do you think might have impregnated you?”

She almost choked on the milk and he was certain that milk was coming out of her nose. After a round of coughing and wiping her lower face, she threw a fierce glance at him.

“That was beyond impertinence!”

“As far as I’m concerned, I paid for the pregnancy test…”

She shook her head numerous times and carried on eating her cereal. He looked at his watch and couldn’t overlook the fact that it was time for lunch and not breakfast. His leg started shaking.

“Since you’re so straightforward and direct, let me ask you something.”

“Anything.” His voice sounded nervously high all of a sudden, but she hadn’t noticed.

“I’m not convinced that you believe in God.”

His leg stood still again. She continued “You use Him as the apple on your head…”

He lowered his head and felt how everything around him was turning black. His head had started to ache and he was tired. “I didn’t put it up there. My mother did” he finally said.

“So…you don’t believe in God?” she carefully put the empty bowl on the table.

“I do” he muttered and swallowed a paracetamol. “It’s just – everything was so much easier when I didn’t…”

As she approached him, she said “But nobody’s telling you what to believe in?”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“Because of what I did.”

He carefully leaned his ear against the bathroom door whilst she was inside, urinating. She had told him that if the test was going to turn out to be positive, she would not drop out and leave Bristol but instead would make Fred marry her after finishing the last semester.

They were both sitting on the sofa again, close to each other like a nervous couple, staring at the strip, which was in Jim’s glass – the one he used for mouth wash each morning.

“I can’t believe it took us two and a half years to become friends, Graham.”

He remained quiet.

She continued “Sometimes things end sadly when no one makes a move. Or it’s simply fate.”

“You made the first move today.”

“Yeah…that was because I had no money on me” she smiled “Other than that I thought you were a weirdo.”

He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in her presence. A minute had passed and there were still no coloured bands visible. Suddenly he felt numb and nauseated again.

“I told you, I never used to be like that” he said “It’s my new perception on life. And yet, I feel no guilt towards what I did; it’s only my mother who says I should. After all it’s her God who is either too weak or spiteful to eradicate evil. And yet, I pray to him to go away.”

“There seems to be a lot of paradox going on in your life. Your own introspection is making you paranoid. I don’t approve of what you did, but…”

Finally one color band appeared on the control region, but there was no apparent band on the test region. She had completely lost thread and looked somewhat confused, as if not knowing whether to be happy or disappointed or as if double-checking that there was really no band appearing on the test region. None.

When Graham’s archery lesson began, he felt alone like never before. Even though he had numerous people around him carrying bows just like him, he couldn’t remember what fellowship felt like or what the significance of it was. Their instructor always spoke with a kind of manner, where people failed to listen carefully:

“Safety and responsibility always come first! Watch your companions and make sure you don’t endanger anyone! And don’t ever shoot bent or broken arrows – self-explanatory…”

Graham noticed some people getting impatient. “As if we were kids with no common sense!”

“Now” the instructor said “an archer, who intends to hit the bull’s eye, must not directly aim at it, but slightly to the side…”

Graham shuddered. There was no wind.

“…Ok, get ready then. First put on your finger and arm protection, then check your bow, the strings and your arrow!”

The blinding sun was decreasing Graham’s attention span. At least there are clouds approaching.

“So. Now get into your comfortable stance and don’t forget you draw the arrow back to the same anchor point on your rosy cheeks!”

Every student had drawn his arrow and was aiming at his target intensively. Graham felt that his target was not 20 yards away, but a lot further. After closing his eyes for two seconds, he opened them again and recognized a man about 25 yards ahead of him with the target painted on the lower part of his body. There was an arrogant smile forming at the corner of the man’s mouth. Graham couldn’t see it, but he knew it. His hands started to shake and sweat was running down his head.
He bent his right knee a little, drew the arrow back tightly and shot it up into the sky. The arrow disappeared in the clouds.

“Oh my God!” the instructor shouted “What are you doing?”

Everyone was staring at the sky, as if their feet were glued onto the ground; all looking frightened and uncertain about whether to run or not. Suddenly Graham felt his cheekbone lifting up to a smile which then evolved into laughter.

“We’ll evacuate this place right now!” the instructor shouted after which everyone started running away from the field. He grabbed Graham tightly by the arm and dragged him off the lawn.

“I won’t tolerate this! You are in such a mess. What were you thinking?”

“About Twilight Zone” Graham answered, still laughing.

As soon as they reached the sports hall, the instructor grabbed Graham by the collar and hissed “Stop fooling around, buddy! I think you’re in for trouble, aren’t you? If anybody gets hurt, you’ll be responsible!”

“Sir, do you think I’d have done that if I had known somebody would get hurt?”

“You’re out of the team!” He finally let go off Graham, who was still grinning with a fierce radiance in his eyes. “And listen to yourself when you speak. You’re absurd!” The instructor turned around and was about to walk into his office.

“Watch your foot…” Graham murmured.

“What’re you mumbling?”  As he turned his head back to Graham whilst still walking, he failed to notice the janitor coming along from his right with the cleaning trolley. A heavy groan followed, but Graham was already out through the door. The ghastly grin had faded into indifference which ultimately cast a dark shadow upon his entire face.
He headed back to the empty field even though a voice had just spoken through the loud speakers telling people to steer clear of the field or anywhere near it due to the danger of an arrow. The sun was behind the clouds now and the wind had returned. Further down the field was a small millpond where someone had committed suicide before and therefore it was a spot which everyone avoided. He remembered that it used to be a place where many used to sit and have their lunch at. The arrow had landed nearby the water, head first. As he tried to pull it out of the ground, he got startled by a hissing grass snake which first, before he even noticed, had looked like a piece of deer dropping.

He fell on his behind.  “Joe fucking Strummer!” He watched the snake crawl back smoothly into its hole. For a second he had to think of Shannon and biomechanoids. Then the snake crawled back out and disappeared quietly in the water.

***

The area did not change much even though he was certain that at that particular spot was no tree. It was impossible that a tree had grown that high after only two and half years. And who would even care planting a tree there?

“Hey, you’re late” someone said behind his back.

He turned around and saw his old friend Bernard. They’d been friends since the early years of High School. Bernard was wearing a t-shirt with a target on it where the bull’s eye was not red, but black. They were walking through the colourful park; though the colour of the sky was not clear, as it was changing from pink to magenta, but none of them was interested in the peculiarity of the sky.

“It’s been a while, huh? I didn’t expect that you were still talking to me” Bernard said.

“Why wouldn’t I? Well, I’ve been busy.”

“So what’s new?”

Bernard’s enthusiasm and sleaziness revealed something slightly unsettling, especially in association with his entire appearance in that rather uncanny atmosphere. But yet, it all seemed so ordinary at the same time.

“Nothing.”

“Any girls?”

“Found the one, but I can’t have.”

“Your life seems miserable…” Bernard said, sounding disappointed. He looked like he was trying to come up with a resolution. There was a beautiful female ballet dancer in the park practicing the Swan Lake. Suddenly the disappointment on his face faded like ice on fire and then changed into a familiar sinister look.

“You want this madness to stop, don’t you? You just want to be who you were.” Bernard’s facial expression had become stern and threatening as he was saying that.
They were now walking past a tree feller, who was killing a tree in the old fashioned way – with an axe. Each hit on the tree equaled the sound of a thunder. The sky had now turned burgundy.

“It’s not easy to believe that there is anything good…”

“Not even the good will?” Bernard interrupted.

“That’s mere illusion. We are still spiteful.”

“Who is ‘we’?” Bernard grinned and it turned out he was only joking. The burgundy sky was darkening and the trees which they were now approaching were losing more and more leaves.

“What is free will if He knew from the beginning how I was going to decide anyway?”

“That’s all I needed to hear, my friend” said Bernard and there was blood gushing out of the bull’s eye of his t-shirt, but he felt no pain and indicated no kind of alarm. All Bernard did then was smile and held his friend in his arms with the blood still flowing:

“Now that we’ve come to an agreement, let me tell you something: I want you. I promise you can be you again.”

***

As Graham woke up in the middle of the night, he saw the bright moonlight stalking his room like an obsessive madman. He sat up on his bed and looked straight ahead. The hand was gradually drawing back the arrow. “Do it”, he whispered with a smile evolving on both sides of his mouth.

–
by Paula Cheung, 2010

Laurie was standing half naked in the bathroom, drying her hair. Her hairdryer was old and feeble.
Vincent was shouting: “Mommy!”
Laurie was daydreaming as usual and because the monotone noise of the hairdryer had dragged her into a world of stillness, she was unable to perceive anything outside that universe of hers.
“MOMMY!”
All of a sudden she felt something pulling the string of her underwear and when looking down she accidentally hit her own head with the hairdryer.
“For God’s sakes, Vince! Watch it!”
This attention-seeking brat, she thought. A headache was on its way. She found it hard to keep her blood pressure low these days. On the day Vincent was born she knew that she had literally shortened her life by ten years, if not more. Though, she had never told anyone about those evil thoughts and was trying her best to shove them aside.
Vincent was pouting at his mother.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I want breakfast!”
“I told you to prepare your cornflakes yourself! You know where the milk is, don’t you…”
“I spilled it…the bottle’s empty…”
She took a deep breath, and wondered where her private universe had disappeared to. When she looked at herself in the mirror, she noticed that it had never been there in first place. Maybe it would be a good idea to start exercising soon.
How many sit-ups would she manage now?
“I’m HUNGRY!”
She looked down again and stared at Vincent fiercely.
“Go clean up that mess, before I make you lick it all up!”
Vincent started to sob.
Laurie took a deep breath before acting. Then she covered the mirror with her towel.

There was some UHT-milk in the cupboard, which she had bought in case they would run out of milk. She would only have a fruit salad in the morning and self-made orange juice. Vincent was no fan of fruits or anything. There was no morning where he wouldn’t get his Coco Pops.
“You’re gonna become a fatty one day, do you know that?” she said.
Vincent didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure whether he was listening at all. Kids never listen.
“A fatty…” she repeated. No reaction. It was sunny outside, but it would definitely do no harm taking two pills of sedatives before work.
“I don’t wanna go to school today” he moaned.
“It’s kindergarten. You’re not even old enough yet for school, so quit the whining!”
“I don’t like the other kids. They don’t like me.”
“Should I be surprised…” she murmured and suddenly felt terrible tweak in her tongue.
The school bus had arrived outside. She was astonished that Vincent had put his coat and shoes on by himself without her telling him to.
“Bye ma…”
“Have a nice day.”
As she was about to wash up, she noticed that Vincent had not touched his bowl of Coco Pops at all. The entire milk had turned to chocolate.
“What a strange kid…”
She poured it down the sink.

Laurie knew that her chief editor Mr. Golding had a crush on her. Nobody had noticed so far, but she had a sixth sense for things like that. He was in his mid forties, but due to the great amount of exercise, food combining and holidays in the mountains had kept him young. She couldn’t believe that there was fourteen years difference between them. She didn’t just respect him, but she was also scared of him. He was simply too good for anybody and made every other man look like a cockroach. Despite his charisma and attractiveness, no woman even dared to fancy him. He was not the stereotypical chief editor that people usually knew. Mr. Golding didn’t reflect any sort of flaws in his character; nothing that his employees knew of anyway. A rumor said he was divorced. So if the rumor was true, then he definitely did have flaws. Laurie’s work colleagues loved chatting about Mr. Golding; they enjoyed speculating about him.
“Miss Laurie!” Mr. Golding shouted from his office door. Laurie was looking nervously around her and noticed that some of her colleagues were throwing scrutinizing glances at her, as if she was about to walk the red carpet.
“Miss Laurie…” someone whispered behind her back“…And me he calls Miss Walker…”
Laurie hated sitting in Mr. Golding’s office, as it felt like being in a job interview if not worse. Her finger tips were tapping against each other.
“Take a seat, please.”
Now her hands had turned icy cold. She clasped them tightly and put them on the table.
“Can I do anything for you, sir?”
“Well, actually I need to have a chat with you about your latest article…”
Her right leg started to shake.
“Anything wrong?” she asked.
“Well, yes, but I take the blame, because I didn’t cross-read your article before publication, which you know I usually do…”
“I’m sorry, what was wrong with it?”
He was gazing at her hands.
“Laurie, your fingers are turning blue!”
Immediately she hid her hands under the table and stopped the right leg from shaking.
“Sorry…please tell me, what is the matter with the article?”
Mr. Golding had to recollect his thoughts, but before he spoke he had to laugh for a while. She knew he was laughing at her gestures or whatever appeared to be weird on her right at that time.
“Well, first you are a wonderful writer, Laurie. There’s no doubt. But you seem to be forgetting that the magazine we publish is supposed to be informative and informative only…”
She nodded and wondered why he was beating around the bush.
“When writing articles, you have to be careful, deadly careful when you decide to ask questions. This is because you are not asking the questions to yourself, but you’re asking the reader! And this is risky. We can argue about rhetoric and philosophy, but that question you asked the reader was inappropriate…”
Was he her teacher or what? She smiled and began to stare holes in the air in a very unsuspecting way. Mr. Golding bit his lower lip and raised an eyebrow.
“You have no idea what you wrote, am I right?” he asked.
“No” she said. “The me that writes and the me that’s sitting right here in front of you are two different persons.”
His eyebrow went even higher and for a moment she thought he would bite his own lip off. Eventually he laughed again and shook his head. He didn’t usually laugh very much she thought; you could tell by the uneven, shy wrinkles around his mouth, which signified that the last time he laughed had been a couple of months ago.  And it was the first time she noticed that she often was the cause of his laughter. Was it a good thing? Her leg began to shake heavily again. Finally he grabbed hold of the latest issue and started to read:
“10 000 US soldiers have been sent to Afghanistan. According to President Obama this is the only way to end war: Fighting fire with fire. Will America always repeat itself instead of looking ahead?”
He stopped and looked at Laurie, who was smiling.
“I wrote that” she said with a smile.
“Now you remember, eh?”
She nodded eagerly, sitting straight in her chair.
“We have to get serious now, Laurie.” He paused for a while. “The majority of Americans are very conservative people and because of that the conservatives are gonna like what you wrote because it sounds so…anti-Obama. The liberals on the other hand are gonna throw eggs at you for being such a pessimist.”
Laurie shrugged her shoulders. She did not dare to say that she didn’t give a damn. The world was waiting to die anyway, so why should she wait with everyone in death row while she had her own universe to build?
“I always thought you were a liberal, Laurie.”
“Listen, Mr. Gol…”
“It’s Ethan” he corrected.
“Yeah, um, listen, I’m not a conservative and I’m not a liberal. I’m just a…I’m an individualist, I don’t take sides… and I admit that sometimes I’m not careful with the words I choose.”
“You have a big mouth you mean…”
Again she shrugged her shoulders.
“You write things that I never hear you say. This is strange…”
“You don’t know me…”
He smiled in a way, as if he had known her for years. Actually she was not sure anymore whether he had a crush on her or whether he was only empathizing with her.
“Now I’m beginning to believe that the person who writes for me and the person who’s sitting right here in front of me are two different Lauries.”
For the love of God, Ethan had no idea who she really was. Knowing her sarcasm, satiric standards and uncontrollable offensiveness was nothing. Those were mere honesty, but honesty was not something that everyone appreciated. She could identify herself best with Molière’s misanthropic character Alceste. Honesty is a dangerous tool. Sometimes it even makes people go away. Though the problem was that she was now sick of being considerate and care about what other people were thinking.
“Would you like to see the two Lauries as one?” she asked out of the blue.
She had never seen a more astonished face in her life before. He surely didn’t expect anything like that and didn’t seem to know what to say upon it. There was a slight possibility that he misunderstood her question, but she didn’t know because he wasn’t fucking saying anything!
“Are you asking me out?”
“Did…did it sound like it?” she stuttered.
“Yes.”
She had no clue what to say after that. His eyes were unpredictable and simply waiting for a straight statement from her.
“Um, do you like Cottage Pie?”

She had to finish work early to pick up Vincent from the kinder garden. His teacher called saying that he had fainted and that he didn’t bring any lunch and wouldn’t eat the food the teacher had offered.
“Why didn’t you take the sandwich I made for ya?”
“I didn’t want it” he said.
“Do you wanna mess up your circulation even more?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you eat Mrs. Gable’s sandwich when she offered?”
“I didn’t want it.”
“You’re driving me crazy!”
She let go off his hand while they were walking towards her car. The veins in her head were throbbing like mad, so she tried to take a deep breath. Her chest felt tied up.
“I don’t want to become a fatty, mommy.  Stu is a fatty. Other kids pick on him. I pick on him, too. I don’t want others to pick on me…”
“I don’t believe this…” she murmured. “Do you have to take everything I say so seriously?”
He looked at her like an unsuspecting child, who didn’t understand what was going on and what the whole world was about. Then she remembered that he was a child.
“Just get in the car now.”

When changing Vincent’s bed sheets, she noticed the bluntness that his room was expressing. There were a couple of mini soldiers lying around on the floor and some racing cars. His wallpaper was plain and then she remembered wanting to buy some framed art pictures whilst being pregnant, but she never did. His duvet cover had little spiral patterns on it, instead of cartoon rockets and green spacemen. And his night lamp was an old fashioned one which she had bought in a second hand shop. Then she remembered that he had asked for a star projector which she had forgotten about. He had also asked for a telescope for Christmas, but instead she had bought him Brother Grimm’s fairy tales and never bothered reading to him. She thought of Ethan and immediately left Vincent’s room without finishing the sheets.

“Damn, I haven’t made cottage pie in a long time!”
“What is it?” Vincent asked curiously.
“Minced beef, sausages, potatoes… Good, everything’s there.”
“Is it tasty?”
She thought it was nice of Ethan to say that he was ready to eat her home made cottage pie, even though he would be breaking the second rule of food combining. He was very surprised when she told him that she ate fruits for breakfast (first rule of food combining!). Still she found it way too hard to separate carbon hydrate from proteins.
“Damn, I have no sweet corn…”
“I’m allergic ma!”
Now she remembered why she never bought sweet corn. Vincent once suffered from terrible stomach ache after eating a corn on a cob.
“Would you mind having pasta instead, tonight? I mean it’s your favourite!”
“No! I wanna try cottage pie!”
Take a deep breath, she thought. Well at least she didn’t have to go out to get more groceries. It had never taken her so long to prepare a cottage pie; almost one and half hours for the first part. It used to be her specialty, but all of a sudden she felt that it would taste terrible. She used to prepare cottage pies for her dates, in order to impress them – surely not to show that she’d make a good housewife, but to simply prove to everyone that she was a good cook.
Vincent would follow his mother everywhere watching her prepare food he had never tried before.
“You’re getting on my nerves. You’d better behave later.”
“Who is this guest?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s mommy’s boss. So if you don’t want me to lose my job, then behave!”
“I just want to help.”
“No, thanks. Just go and get yourself some orange juice.”
She made him drink a glass of self made orange juice every day.  He preferred the sugared drinks, but she forbade him. “Those sugared drinks will definitely make you fat!”
“I don’t wanna be a fatty…my head is fat.”
“Yeah, your head is enormous” she muttered and remembered his birth and those terrible needles used to sew her vagina. While she was mixing up some thick gravy, Vincent climbed up the stool to open the cupboard. All the glasses were on the top shelf and he was still too small, so he tiptoed in order to reach one. His hand was too small to clasp the glass, so it slipped and smashed on the kitchen table, where the mince beef was.
Laurie was about to choke when she heard that noise. She even had to make sure that her ears weren’t bleeding. As she turned around, she saw Vincent standing frightened on the stool not knowing whether to get down or not. Then she looked at the broken glass and saw tiny pieces of glass in her well-prepared mince beef.
“I have no time to go buy new mince, you know…” she said with a shaky voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“AHHH!” Laurie screamed and threw the wooden spoon against the kitchen window. From the outside it looked as if blood had been spilled; the thick gravy began to drip down slowly like a dog drooling.
“I’ve had enough of your fucking foolishness!”
He was still standing on the stool and glanced at her with huge eyes.
“Can’t you do anything right?!”
Finally he lowered his head and stared at the floor like someone who was about to jump off a cliff.
“I’m talking to you, goddammit! Is your big head that heavy? Did you know I needed some stitching on the day you were born?! Do you hear me?!”
It was like talking to a ghost or something, but she had no control over herself anymore. All she knew right at that moment was that she hated herself. Deeply.
“Talk to me…FINNEGAN VINCENT!”
He looked at her finally. “DON’T CALL ME BY DAD’S NAME!” He had nearly screamed his lungs out. Never had she heard him yell like that. There was so much anger in his eyes, too, which she had never known. He jumped off the stool and landed safely on his feet. She shuddered.
Vincent ran out of the kitchen and ran upstairs with fast steps. He didn’t cry, but Laurie did. For a second she thought she would choke on that lump in her throat. Accidentally she laid her hand on the stove and burnt her palm.
“Fuck!”
The crying got even worse and she wasn’t able to stand upright any longer. She couldn’t feel her legs anymore, as if her entire body was melting away. God, she wished she was melting away. Where had her universe gone, she asked herself. While staring at the broken glass on the floor, she covered her eyes with her other hand. When having her eyes closed she saw herself in the hospital after Vincent’s birth. Finnegan was not there.  (After all he was the one who had stopped her from aborting the baby. Vincent was never planned; Laurie had never planned to get pregnant ever. All she knew was that when she got home from the hospital, Finnegan and all his stuff had gone.)  -She was not surprised anymore, as she had spent all her time grieving in the hospital already. – The first couple of months Vincent had been the invisible baby in the house. She never talked to him, never held him for long and sometimes even let him cry all night without going to see what was the matter. Then she opened her eyes again and saw Vincent kneeling in front of her, holding a piece of cake in a plastic box. The guilt on his face mirrored Laurie’s own.
“I’m sorry mommy.”
(Those words hurt so much that) she had to sob uncontrollably.
“Stop crying, please.”
She was shaking her head and then hid her face in her hands.
“What is this?” he asked and gently took her hand. “You’re hurt, ma.”
“No, it’s nothing.”
He grabbed some cream from the cake and rubbed it in her hand. Now she was crying and laughing at the same time.
“It’s Stu’s birthday today. He gave us all cakes…thinking he can make friends. “
“You should make friends with him” she sobbed.
He shrugged his shoulders. She had almost stopped crying now. Carefully he took the cherry off and placed it in Laurie’s mouth.
“There is your fruit”, he said.
It was the first time she saw him with different eyes. She couldn’t believe that she had never been aware of her other half. Her universe had been there all the time.
“My God you’re just a child…” Her eyes became wet again, as she touched his face gently.
“Mommy, watch the cream!”
He wiped the cream off his face immediately. Finally she was given the chance to hold her son tightly like she had never done before.
“I’m so sorry, Vince…”
“It’s just cream…”
Then she noticed Ethan standing by the kitchen door and wondered how long he had been there already. His smile was more illuminating than anything. He gave the window and the floor a quick confused glance, but everything else seemed to be alright in his eyes.
“I guess there’s only just one Laurie in the world after all…” he said.
“And I guess it’s pasta tonight, boys!”

Paula Cheung (2009)

That biscuit only diverted her for a tiny moment. Other people would just step into their shoes and go outside. She thought a nice taste of something sweet would occupy her brain for a while. Maybe she had been lying to herself all this time without realizing it. Once you’ve got what you want, you are not convinced about your dreams and desires anymore. Though, she was different. Ever since that dream she had come to realize that she was ready for something which she had dreaded for so many years. Sex. Ellen was a type of girl who was aware of her mistakes and thoughtlessness; despite all the unpleasant consequences she had experienced and all caused by herself. If nothing happens in your life, you tend to breed something exciting, something evil no matter what the outcome is. You prepare yourself a Strawberry Surprise and jump straight in like a thirteen year old. Taking risks after demonstrating years of innocence and loveliness which are by no means genuine or authentic of any kind, but at least good enough to deceive people around you. But she had never jumped into a Strawberry Kiss; not with thirteen, not with fourteen. She only remembered having almost choked on pure absinthe at the age of 24. That biscuit’s aftertaste reminded her of a pink lady apple she had never bitten into before, but she had always imagined the taste.

There was a boy sitting on her bed that she hadn’t noticed before. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“What are you talking about? Have you got a blackout again or something?”
She noticed the song Hole to feed in the background. “I don’t know.”
“Come here.” He reached for her hand. Their legs were touching and she could feel his warm breath on her ear.
“Who are you?”
“Shush…” His kisses on her neck made her twitch upon which he embraced her tightly. If electricity and lust were the same, this is how it would feel, she thought, remembering that feeling again. Then unexpectedly, she pushed him violently down the pillow and sat on top of him.
“Just so you know buddy, you’re here cos I want you and not the other way round. You got it?!”
Before he had the chance to nod, her lips were already pressed hard against his. Something uncontrollable was steering her emotions so that her violent acting was inexorable. Her head was burning up and her heart racing; the biscuits’ aftertaste was still there, but reminded her of absinthe. She felt like taking a bite into the pink apple. He screamed.

Maybe it wasn’t sex she was dreading, but something else. In her past sex used to be easy. For her, it was important to make more effort than the man did. Due to that way of thinking she was convinced to have been a man herself in her previous life. In this lousy life she was punished by karma – there was no doubt. If you don’t notice yourself coming, there is no reason of having climaxes in first place, she thought. There was nothing more embarrassing than having him to remind you that you had come and that you could stop already. Some men don’t care how you feel as long as they feel your come on their hands, mouth or dick.  So…best you can do is make them feel good, forget about yourself during sex, girl.

She was close to forgetting what it felt like in general.  She even dreaded her vibrator, ice spoons and tampons. What does it mean if a woman fears her own gender, not to mention her genitals? She didn’t understand why all the good men say that women are the stronger gender in the world. She also wondered why exactly those men were her best friends and not her lovers.

On that particular autumn evening she was thinking about her previous two lovers from the past. That was so long ago, it felt like it had never happened, as if she was still a virgin. Both had caused blood parties; makes you wonder how often you can be a virgin in your life?

In Germany they say “alle gute Dinge sind 3” – basically meaning, keep trying and the third attempt will work out fine. For her that was a matter of luck, but she was dreading it already.

Ellen couldn’t remember what happened to that boy from the night before. He was gone when she woke up. What happened? The bed felt cold. She felt paralyzed. Sounds of the universe was still running in the background on repeat.

The truth is: There has never been a third. The Strawberry Kiss is only imaginary. I’m just staring at my shoes.

Paula Cheung 2010

(Note: based on character from the novel Somewhat Damaged)

It had been a while since Laurie’s last short story. But getting back to work by starting from scratch was not easy. The journey of a story is trickiest. You draw a destination and a starting point on a map and then you begin to sketch out your trip to your destination.
In fact, once you’ve had a long break from writing, you’ll feel anxious about planning out that inner journey again. They say talents don’t go; instead they get buried in the basement. She also realised that her confidence to write fiction had disappeared almost completely. Whom does she write for other than herself?
Stephen King calls that person the “Ideal Reader”. Laurie knew where her I.R. had disappeared to and therefore she started packing her bags to go to Lübeck.

As she knocked on I.R.’s door, she heard him say “Come in.”
The door squeaked. She smelt freedom, tranquillity and solitude in the hotel room, but also some tension.
“Hello” she murmured.
I.R. was sitting by his desk, scribbling something onto paper. He still looked beautiful as ever, but the sense loneliness floating in that room made him appear distant.
“I knew you’d come back crawling one day” he said.
“I am not crawling.”
“You would, though.”
She smiled. She knew that despite her honesty toward the entire world, he was the only one to ever hear everything from her.
Awkward silence hung in the air, making the room grow even bigger than it already appeared to be.
“You know things haven’t been easy for me” she sobbed.
“Neither for me. You needed some space, so I granted you that.”
He carried on scribbling words down. She noticed a pile of paper next to him on the desk.
“What are those?”
I.R. looked at her and smiled for the first time since her arrival.
“Well” he began, “these are ideas still locked up in the back of your head.”
“Locked up?”
“Yeah, with me inside.”
The moment she approached him, he stopped writing after a nervous flinch. It felt there was a shield between them, separating two delicate worlds that weren’t meant to fuse with each other.
“Don’t” he said.
“How can I open the door?” I asked.
“You can’t.”
There were traces of fear and desperation spread on his face, guided by an encouraging smile.
“Only I can open it”, he said quietly.
He turned back to his writing, as though she wasn’t there. She was still standing there in despair, unable to approach him, unable to put her hand on his shoulder.
She remembered they first met when they were eleven and used to be inseparable since. Now was the first time ever that she felt that the connection had been cut off. It was a matter of trust; trust leading towards confidence, will and plenty of hard work. Consolidated teamwork would rebuild that broken connection.
“You’ve just read what King wrote. Sort out your tool box now and get started.”
Now her heart began to fill with hope.
“So you’re still my muse?”
He gestured at the pile of paper on his desk and started to laugh, as though saying “What a ridiculous question!”
“Well” he said, “first revitalize your language, sort out your grammar and work on your style. They are appalling. Your recent stories are good, but they need a hell of a lot of polishing and you know it. I can’t open the door for you if you don’t start putting your shoulder to the wheel.”
There was a long pause between them again. Though, this time the silence had dissolved the tension.
“Will you forgive me?” she asked.
He laughed. “You are writing this now. You’re gonna make me forgive you anyway! Have I got a choice? But honestly…” he paused and then looked at her in earnest. “Don’t you know me at all?”

Paula Cheung 2010

(in dedication to Stephen King’s On Writing)

She got off bed at 7am. Awake since three and everything packed since four. She had spent the remaining three hours lying in bed, staring at the ceiling whilst he was asleep. Numb, counting his breaths every minute like she used to do with her dog as a little girl. At the same time thinking about the past, future and God and everything she had lived for, which after all had come to an end. A person’s mind grows old and dries out like a withered leaf on a cold autumn day. It was autumn – the end of a story. The last chapter that yet seemed endless and uncertain, but Nothingness was justified. She looked at herself in the mirror and slowly took off her ring, then her ear rings and bracelet. The wardrobe was open and she could see her favorite dress that he had bought for her birthday. It used to emphasize her waist and hips in an attractive way. However she shoved it aside and grabbed for her black hoodie in the far back and some ordinary jeans that she had not worn in a long time; less attractive, but at least comfortable. After she had cleaned her teeth, she put the tooth brush and her lip balm into her bag.
When she was ready, she looked at him once again, as if she had never seen him before.
She got onto the bus as everyone else did and began to count the rest of her changes that she had in her pocket. The bus drove past the local church where she got married and the supermarket she used to go to almost regularly to buy her lunch for work, because she hated preparing lunch herself, just like she hated anything that cost a lot of time. Nevertheless, it didn’t mean anything anymore. Time was over. As she searched through her heavy bag, she found a copy of Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, which she had never managed to finish reading and never would, so she put it underneath her seat apathetically. Also there was a small bottle of eau de toilette, which she chucked into the bin beside her. A middle aged lady looked into the bin and then at her. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell the lady to grab it, but she would do it eventually. Sad bitch.
As she arrived at the train station she noticed that her mobile phone was vibrating at the bottom of her bag. Feeling disgusted, she threw it on the floor and stamped on it without looking at who was calling. That sudden outbreak of anger had caught a few people’s attention. Immediately she walked towards the platforms and threw a quick glimpse at the screen, looking at all the departures, but still uncertain of where to go. Lastly she decided for the small town Tonopah, because there weren’t as many people getting on the train. Just do it don’t think. So she bought herself a ticket, leaving herself only fifty-five cents to maybe buy water with. The train would first stop at Rhyolite, a so-called ghost town. But her destination was Tonopah, as she was thinking about the Tonopah Test Range, which was a military installation, where people launch rockets and undertake free-fall experiments. Or maybe a donkey would lead her to some gold. On the train she carried on emptying her bag. There was a nail file, photographs from the past. Next she cracked her ID card in two and placed everything underneath her seat.
A lump began to develop in her throat and she began to shiver. Her eyes were filling up with tears and she was clenching fists with a raging manner. She locked herself up in the bathroom and collapsed on the floor, crying in pain. It was troublesome for her to gasp for breath whilst sniveling like a hurt little girl. It felt like she had severely injured herself that she was not able to get up anymore. Suddenly the choking feeling was gone.
She looked around her and had visualized the toilet, toilet paper and a slightly wet floor; the tiles were octagon-shaped, blue and dirty. She got up listlessly by holding on to the wash basin. The mirror in front of her represented eyes that indicated a lack of sleep, colorless lips with little wrinkles in the corner and uncombed hair hanging down her face.
The train got to Tonopah station in the late afternoon. It was a small town, but luckily she had met a truck driver who was planning to drive across the Great Basin Desert on Highway 95 and he was ready to take her with him. The view presented an assemblage of dry plants, salty-looking valley soils and mountains that made you think of thirst and carcasses. Both of them heard a noise that sounded like an explosion from far away, but they ignored it. It had become fairly dark and slightly cool. Suddenly she saw a bright flicker in the sky that looked like the glimmer of a satellite or even a moving star. Please just let me get off here, she said. He looked at her as if she was crazy. It’s in the middle of nowhere. There’s a gas station another five miles…, he said. However, she insisted on getting off and he let her.
She wondered off into the desert following that glimmer in the sky with dreamy eyes and suddenly tripped over a prickly plant. She fell on her face and without even perceiving the pain she started laughing about her own clumsiness. Afterwards she noticed that her leg was injured, as one side of her jeans was running dark. But she couldn’t stop laughing hysterically. Curiously she rolled over, so that she could observe the sky again. Then her laughter had weakened into a delirious chuckle. Beautiful firefly. Her chuckle had ultimately backtracked to the previous demented laugh, as the firefly was getting bigger and bigger.

Paula Cheung  2007

24th October 1986

Today I’m going to start keeping a diary. It was mother’s idea. She was upset that I wasn’t using this journal when she first bought it for me. I think she loves me very much, but she doesn’t think I love her, because I don’t tell her things. Well, I don’t tell things to anyone. There is nothing I can think of to tell people. Anyway, I’m supposed to write down what I’ve been doing today. I woke up at 7am and got ready for school. A boiled egg and a glass of milk is all I usually have for breakfast. I don’t normally like carrying lunch to school. I don’t like eating in front of other kids. Mother always makes lunch for me, and I either throw it away or I eat it secretly in the girls’ toilet. I did that today.

Mandy followed me after lesson. She took Jessica with her, because otherwise she would be scared of me. I was sitting on the toilet seat, looking up. I could see Mandy’s hands grabbing hold of the wall, as she was trying to climb up.

“Disgusting bitch!” she called me. “You’re eating on the toilet! I’ll tell Mrs Mills!”

I carried on eating and then she started spitting on me. I felt ill and threw my sandwich at her. At least Mrs. Mills is a nice lady, she knows what Mandy is like, but I don’t think she likes me much.

When I got home, I went straight into mother’s library. She has read a lot in her life and I want, too. All four walls are covered with bookshelves, which go high up to the ceiling. Each single book is a part of life; I know it and I want to know what life is about. Mother seems to know, but she won’t tell me. The bookshelves in the far end of the room were the ones she used to read as a little girl and she wants me to start with those, if I ever want to read anything from her proper collections.

“You’re too young to read the others”, she always says. I have to admit that I don’t understand them anyway; I have tried reading Frankenstein earlier, because I liked the front cover of the book. I only made it to page four until mother came and took the book off me.

“You won’t understand the language, dear.”

“But it’s English and I understand English”, I said
.
Mother read out the opening of the book with such fluency that I couldn’t follow. “What did you make of it?” she asked me.
I only remembered having read the same words, but not in the same way as she did.

“At your age, you should start from where I tell you.”

She shook her head as if I was stupid. I hate her.

None of her children’s books interests me, I know them all and it is no fun to read them again. I didn’t get a quiet minute to read anyway, when mother is bored, she keeps coming into the library to see me, checking on me. I won’t stop reading the books she forbids me to read. So whenever I hear her footsteps on the corridor I immediately go change the book before she enters. When she thinks I’m reading Huckleberry Finn (again), I’m actually reading Madame Butterfly. I had to climb up the shelves to get the book. I was so attracted by the word “butterfly”. I love butterflies. It reminds me of playing badminton with daddy in the garden during summer. It was a strange book, there were only people talking; it was like watching a theatre in a book. I’m tired now.

26th October ’86

I forgot to write yesterday, I was so impressed by Madame Butterfly. I don’t understand the story, but I like her. I feel like the child, who she blindfolds. It also reminds me of mother covering my eyes when Rusty got run over by our neighbour’s car. Madame Butterfly is like Rusty; she is not a butterfly. Is this life? I don’t want to tell Mother that I want to go as a geisha for Halloween. Maybe I shouldn’t go at all. But Phil is going! I hate him. He is the only one who is nice to me, but I don’t trust him. I don’t talk to him, either. He smiles at me for no reasons and then goes talking to Mandy. He is an idiot!

27th October ’86

I pulled myself together today and asked mother to paint my face like a geisha. She used to be an actress on stage. I saw pictures of her with painted face. Maybe I shouldn’t have said ‘geisha’, because she gave me a funny look. She said she would and painted my face white.

“Guess you have already decided what to go as for Halloween.” I smiled and then she looked me deeply in the eyes, which I didn’t like. It was as if I had done something bad. I don’t know what. She became strange and kissed my head. I didn’t like it. After she was done, I found myself looking like Snow White.

I didn’t look like a geisha at all. It wasn’t what I thought I would look like.

“It’s because you’re not oriental looking, dear” she said.

It upset me, even though it looked very pretty. But then mother suggested getting me a wig, which might change everything. I can’t wait.

29th October ’86

I fell asleep last night. I couldn’t be bothered writing. I started reading Great Expectations, which is difficult, but I have replaced “Pip” with “Phil” and this made it easier for me, I don’t know why. And I imagine myself being Estella, because I love the name so much. I asked mother why she didn’t call me that. She said I was no Estella and that she had a cold heart.
“But you will have someone like Pip running after you one day”, she said and had spoilt my interest in carrying on with the book.

30th October ’86

School was terrible today. I threw my lunch at Mandy again. Everyone was saying that Phil fancied me. But they weren’t laughing at him, they were laughing at me. I don’t understand why.

“Phil has such a bad taste”, Mandy shouted.

In fact, I didn’t see him in school; otherwise I would’ve thrown my lunch at him instead! Idiot! I haven’t been reading today. I can’t concentrate; I’ve got a funny feeling in my stomach. I wonder if Phil is coming to the Halloween party tomorrow, I’ll slap him! Mother showed me the wig today. It looks strange. It looks like I’m wearing a black gift box on my head! Or a black puppy!
Mother said she was going to work on the wig, so it doesn’t look so big. I told her to hurry, because the party is tomorrow. I can’t wait!

31st October ‘86

15:40
I couldn’t wait. I have to tell you about my costume. Mother has bought me something that looks like a dressing gown; I forgot the name, but it has very pretty patterns of flowers and butterflies on it. The wig doesn’t look so bad anymore. For the first time, I find myself really pretty. I wonder what Phil will think. But if he dares coming near me, I will punch him!

22:30
I’m not tired. Mother just helped me to wash my face. I look the same again. Maybe it’s better this way. Attention is nothing good, I hate it. I can’t stop looking at the mirror. I don’t want to be me. Mandy pulled my wig off…right in front of Phil. In the end I just looked like a pantomime or even a clown in a dressing gown. I must be so ugly, not even hiding my face helps. Mandy dressed as the snow queen. She was very pretty, but cold like Estella. I don’t know to whom I’m similar. I locked myself up in the girl’s toilet, until Mrs. Mills came to see me.

“Your costume is the most beautiful of all tonight, my dear”, she said to me. I didn’t believe her.

If I had had a sandwich I would have thrown it at her. “No one knows what you are going as, because they are not as culturally educated as you are.”

I don’t know what she means by that, I don’t care, either. I just wanted to go home and hide in the library. When I left the girls toilet, I bumped into Pip. He looked at me, first with no expression and then I saw him attempting to smile. I walked off straight away. Idiot! Mother came to pick me up, but Mrs. Mills had stopped her. They were talking while I was in the car. Mother didn’t sound happy; she was raising her voice, making angry hand gestures. We didn’t talk on the way home. All she said was:
“At least she agreed that you were the most beautiful tonight.”

I think after mother has gone to bed, I’m going to sneak into the library.

1st November ‘86
10:12
I had a very bad dream. I woke up crying. I only dreamt of Russian dolls. Like the ones I got from grandma. I kept opening them, but they wouldn’t go smaller. I don’t know what I was looking for and began to cry. Whatever I had wanted, it must have been hidden in those little monsters. It’s Saturday and all my homework is done already.

21:35
I went into the library today and lay myself on the floor in the middle of the room. It was so nice and quiet. The sun was shining through the window, right in my face. I think I fell asleep for a while. I got woken up by a whispering voice, but it wasn’t mother. I got up and looked around me, but the voice had gone. I couldn’t remember what I had dreamt, either. My eyes rested on a red book, which was on the top shelf of what mother called the “adult” corner. She had told me that she was a feminist and that those were the books she had spent years reading. She said that I would read them, once I’ve grown. It was too high, I couldn’t reach. Mother had taken the stool out of the room. Then, I remembered the story of The Tower of Babel. Daddy used to read things to me out of the Bible. I had an idea. I piled books up, only big and heavy ones, until it was high enough to get the red book off the shelf. It was called Giambattista Basile’s Folk & Fairy Tales. Why did Mother put children’s fairy tales on the top shelves? It didn’t make sense to me. It is a very old book and the writing is very small. There are no pictures, either.
I hid the book in between some children’s books and replaced the gap on the top shelf with One thousand and one nights, because it was huge and red, too. There are many stories in the big book of fairy tales and I’ve started with Sun, Moon, and Talia. I think Talia is my age and I’m not sure, if she has sex with her father. The language would be easier to understand if I read out loud, but then mother would hear me and ask me what I was reading. I wonder how sex works. A girl in school says it’s when you start bleeding. Daddy never told me. I don’t think I ever want sex, then, if I have to hurt myself. I sneaked the book into my room…I’m going to carry on reading in bed.

2nd November ’86

Oh God, I nearly got myself into trouble! Mother woke me up this morning, but luckily I was lying on the book, so she didn’t see it. I can’t remember when I fell asleep last night. I was scared, because I heard someone knocking on my window. When I looked there was nobody. It couldn’t have been anyone, because my room is too high. But I was scared. I don’t know if it really happened or not. I can’t remember. I carried on reading the story from yesterday. I didn’t like the queen, she sounded evil, but I don’t know why I had to think of mother, because I don’t think mother is evil, except sometimes when she forbids me things. I read Rapunzel as well, but it was different from the real version. This one is so sad. No one seems to like her. She always cries and the prince is an idiot! Maybe she needs sex. I spent all afternoon reading the stories.

3rd November ’86

School was terrible. Pip and Estella laughed at me when I slipped over a wet floor. I hurt my knee, it still hurts! The cleaner shouted at me that I couldn’t read. I can! I can! I just couldn’t see WHAT was written on it, because it was blurry. Mother took me to the optician today and they said I was short-sighted and needed glasses. I’m going to look ugly! Uglier even! Everyone is going to laugh at me! I hate everyone! I hate them all! I’ll just stay in bed for the rest of my life. This is not life.

4th November ’86

11.00
I’m ill today. Thank God. I had to vomit this morning and I couldn’t stand the sight of eggs today, so mother made me some porridge. There was blood on my bed, but I don’t know where it came from. Mother didn’t say much, except that it was all right. She was only angry that I had the window open. I’m sure Peter made me ill last night. He knocked on my window again. It was him the night before, too. I opened the window and he flew in. He wore tight green clothes and had both of his hands placed confidently on his waist. Like all the actors on mother’s photographs. He is a little bit older than I am and taller, but I like him.
“You’re a very pretty girl, so full of life”, he said.
I thanked him and he gave me my first kiss ever. I blushed!
“There is so much you haven’t seen!” he told me.
“Are you going to show me?” I asked.
He held my hand and led me to the window, as if he was going to take me away.
“Wait”, I said quietly. I was afraid to wake mother. “I can’t fly!”
Peter looked upset, as if he didn’t understand. “But where are your beautiful thoughts?”
I couldn’t think of any. I had no idea how to cheer him up, which made me feel really bad. “I don’t know. Maybe tomorrow.”
Finally he smiled again. “Maybe I can help you.”
Peter put me to bed and we cuddled. I don’t know what happened next, I must have fallen asleep in his arms.
Mother has been looking after me today. I didn’t want to talk to her about what happened, because it’s a secret. Peter would get angry and never talk to me again.
“Darling, there is something not right with you…”
“No, I’m ill…” I said to her, it was obvious, like she couldn’t see!
“I got you sanitary towels. I told you how to use them…”
“I know!”
She was making me feel more ill, I didn’t want to talk to her, so I didn’t listen, until she said: “I’m taking you to the doctor’s.”
“No! I’m only unwell!”
“It’s not just that, darling…”
It always stinks at the doctor’s! I get goose bumps all over my arms when I see all those people in white who look like ghosts! But the doctor I went to see was different; he asked me questions about me: what I do, what my hobbies are, what I eat, my friends…
I suddenly heard Peter whispering in the room: “Don’t tell our secret!”
I looked around in the room, forgot about the presence of the doctor and mother. They looked at me as if there was something wrong. The doctor’s beard made him look like a king from a fairy tale. I was thinking of Briar Rose’s father.
“What is life, doctor?” I asked.
He smiled, led me to the half opened window and threw his handkerchief out. It flew like a butterfly; the moment it fell, it flew back up again, wherever the wind was leading it to.

At last, I there was my beautiful thought.

20.45
Mother just wished me good night. She has tears in her eyes like a little child! I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I have to think about the handkerchief again that turned into a butterfly and I have to think about Chio-Chio San. I’m going to blindfold myself tonight before Peter teaches me to fly. Everything should be all right tonight, because I have my beautiful thought (and I won’t even tell you). I have to make sure mother won’t come in as I want to open my window.
Life, I know what it is!

–

Paula Cheung 2006

July 8th 1967, Saturday
Yesterday was Kitty Genovese’s birthday. It would have been her thirty-second. I turned twenty-five yesterday and spent the entire night working at the bar, listening to old men babbling about President Johnson whilst playing poker. One of them was Michael Voorhees. He is a sixty-three year old fellow whose wife died last month. They say that she died of cancer and never went to see a doctor about it in first place. I wonder how she had managed to hide her pain from him. I’m sure there is no true love evident behind all this. Voorhees lives in the same neighborhood as Fred, which is in the Bronx. That is why I know about him. Fred brought Voorhees along to the bar that evening. He even decided to open the bar a little bit earlier than usual, because Voorhees was in such a bad state and needed some cheering up. I was actually hoping to finish early yesterday evening, so that I could go spend the night with Fred in the Bronx, but I already gave up on that thought when I noticed that Fred seemed to care more about that old man. I told him last week that I wanted to spend the night with him and a bottle of red wine. After all we were having red wine at the goddamn bar together. However, there was no “happy birthday”, either. I’m sure that one day I will get to the point where birthdays are absolutely meaningless to me. I remember being scared of the heart dying; that the child in me would eventually grow up and wither. I think losing the enthusiasm in one’s birthday is already a serious symptom. My mother used to value her birthday a lot and gradually I’m beginning to wonder why. When I saw Fred laughing at the table with Voorhees, I knew that the old man hadn’t had such a good time in ages. His cheeks were burning red and it looked like his cheekbones were about to burst out. For some reason I couldn’t look at them any longer and I went to clean up the glasses in the kitchen. We left the bar at around 4:30am. All of them appeared to be kind of sober, which was impressive. It must have been the morning light, I guess. Fred knows that I am unable to sleep when it is bright and the fact that he has no curtains in his bedroom really infuriates me. He fell asleep within minutes and turned his back on me. “You’re an idiot, Fred Myers!” I whispered sharply and hid my head under the blanket. I couldn’t sleep well and left his apartment three hours later. I took the subway back to Queens. I went to grab some groceries before I went home to prepare some breakfast. Something weird happened in the grocery store. A middle aged man with pitch black shades was observing me from the produce department. He had short dark blonde hair, which shimmered red under the horrible fluorescent lights in the store. Even though he only looked at me for about three seconds, it seemed like much longer. But I must have been paranoid because of those shades, as everyone would feel observed. He had no reason to fear his actions, because no one was able to see his eyes. Strangely, I was not afraid of him. My guts told me that I was safe and that there was no need to worry. However, the moment I stepped out of the store, I heard someone firing a gun inside and I intuitively let go of my shopping bag. I screamed, bent down and placed my hands on my ears. I didn’t dare turning round to see what was happening. I knew that I was safe because I was outside. I saw cops from across the road hurrying towards the store. Immediately I grabbed for my bag, left those apples on the path and walked away with frantic steps. People had their eyes glued at the store and all their mouths fell open like that of a nutcracker. Witnessing crime scenes usually scare the hell out of me and bring me to tears. It makes me want to shout at President Johnson “Is this the Great Society that you have dreamed of?” I knew that man was up to no good.  All of them looked up on Truman, who, in my eyes, was nothing but a bomb planter, who thought he had created peace. If peace comprises millions of deaths, then it’s non-existent for me.

July 10th 1967, Monday
I’ve not been sleeping well lately. It has been incredibly hot and I’m constantly getting head aches. I am tired but when I go to sleep I would wake up an hour later because my throat is too dry and then after that I would wake up again just because I need the toilet.
There was a little article in the New York Times about the heist in my local grocery store. I was relieved when I read that no one was harmed. The criminal got knocked down by an unknown person who had violently thrown salt into the culprit’s eyes. Before he could fire his second shot, the stranger had broken his hand with a single kick. Each hostage was saying something different:
“The man was moving so fast you couldn’t see a single thing!”
“He used his elbow to break the robber’s wrist! Each of us could hear the crack!”
“He broke the criminal’s hand with his knee, upon which the gun fell onto the floor and slipped against my face!”
“…The next moment I looked up the stranger was gone. He must’ve left through the backdoor. The robber was lying there unconscious.”
It was an incredible story and people didn’t bother publishing this piece of news with the other major ones on the front pages, but instead it was placed on the page after the obituaries. I am aware of the fact that robberies happen daily, but this case is different. We have a hero here and nobody seems to care. Finally we have someone more useful and braver than the cops, someone who stands up for justice, but to the people out there it was nothing more than a one -off show. They are all ignorant and apathetic. Or maybe the atomic bombs are at fault that we have become so indifferent and torpid towards life and death.

July 11th 1967, Tuesday
I had a fight with Fred last night. So I refused to spend the night at his after work. He must have thought I would take the cab home, but I didn’t. I was too stingy to spend my last ten dollars. Besides that I needed to cool my head. I thought it would be safe anyway to walk on the main road where a few off-licenses were still open. It does not matter what kind of clothes you wear in New York.  Certain people will always notice you; even if you only wear casual clothing that normally wouldn’t draw any attention. I always pay heed to what I wear anyhow, as I’m a woman. I don’t wear skirts, because they make me feel vulnerable. Femininity causes nothing but trouble in this world. I was thinking of Miss Genovese whilst walking home and how she must have suffered. Did she wear a skirt? The thought of her made me feel even worse than how I had felt about Elizabeth Short. I must have been about seven when my parents talked about the murder of a woman in California. All I knew was that California was far away and that we were in no danger. It’s different with Kitty Genovese, because that murder happened in my neighborhood. There I was walking home in the dark and suddenly my guts were sensing something very unpleasant. I had to change to 26th Street, because the main road was closed due to a severe car accident. It was enough for me to have seen the two crushed cars: a Chevrolet Corvette and an Imapala. Several people were standing there, gaping around whilst the cops were investigating the situation. I couldn’t take it and rushed into 26th Street. My heart was racing and for one moment I wished I was elsewhere; it didn’t really matter where. I just wanted to be out of New York. The street was dark and brittle, but you could tell that many people lived there and accepted it. There was light coming out from nearly each window. But suddenly I heard whispers coming from the corner. It must have been some kind of an alley, but I couldn’t quite detect it. The street lights were very dim, though still bright enough to recognize faces. I followed the smell of urine and the whispers became clearer. This time I even heard someone cry, begging whoever to let him go. I heard water flowing down and the cry got slightly louder, more mortified. When I reached the alley, I saw a group of men urinating on a half Asian boy. He must have been in his early twenties and was surrounded by four tall men dressed in black. They were calling him names and then one of them boisterously punched him in the face. Another hit the other side of the face. They had gotten louder than before, shouting racist names and I saw a few more lights going on. Some people were looking outside, but not for long. There was this man who had immediately switched the lights off as if nothing was happening.  From another window someone shouted: “Shut up! And get your business done elsewhere!” The Asian boy’s face was covered with blood and all of a sudden one of the men pulled a knife. I swallowed hard, took a step back and then began to scream my lungs out. Across the road was a man whose face I couldn’t identify. I took more steps back until I stumbled on an old man who was holding a hunting musket or a rifle of some sort. “Where’re these fuckers?” he mumbled and I saw no teeth in his mouth. The four men came out of the alley and immediately put their hands up. The old man was seriously ready to shoot at them, but before he could do that, I stepped right in front of him and said “No!” He pushed me aside and started firing at the group, but they had escaped. “I shoulda let you die, shouldn’I?” He threw a very resentful glance at me, so that I felt too intimidated to thank him after all. The old man went back into the house and left me standing there on my own. The man who was standing across the road was gone. I was looking up to all the windows and saw how several lights went off; one by one. I rushed back down to the alley and saw the young man lying there, unconscious. I dragged him all the way back to the main road, because I didn’t know what else to do. My clothes were covered in blood, my fingernails were bloody… I was so close to crying. The veins in my head were thumping like crazy. The cops were still there investigating the car accident. The gaping people noticed me first and started pointing at me with their evil forefingers. I couldn’t deal with the adrenaline rush, so I sat myself down to catch some breath. It’s been a while since I had my last panic attack. My hands were bloody that I didn’t dare to touch my face. The cops drove me home in the end and told me that they’d get back to me about the incident. However, they will not. I don’t know about the young man’s condition and I’m not sure whether I should try to find out. There is just one thing that I’m not sure about. Should I have let the old man kill those criminals? What if they do the same thing again elsewhere, but this time with success? People in their homes will only switch the lights off as if they hear nothing.

July 15th 1967, Saturday
I haven’t been to work for five days. Fred didn’t call me until day two. I never answered it. I’m sure he thinks I’m still angry with him, but I have no intention of telling him the truth about what happened days ago.  Maybe I fear that he would lack of interest or maybe it is simply something that I want to keep to myself. To be honest I haven’t quite digested it all, yet. Already the thought of the blood, the smell of the urine and the old man’s musket terrify me vehemently. Sometimes when looking at my hands I see blood. Instead of washing the clothes I wore at that night, I threw them all away. The nights are harder to get through now. Despite of the heat there are other worries that prevent me from having any good night sleep.
July 17th 1967, Monday
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read the New York Times today. Four criminals were found dead in 26th Street, Queens. All four got brutally beaten up and died of internal bleedings. In the article they write about innumerable bones being broken, but nothing got stolen from them. I went totally numb after having read all that. They were previously convicted for robbery and rape. The cops presume that there had been a gang fight. Apparently the people living in that area had heard nothing. Usually they would at least admit of having witnessed something. Surely it couldn’t have been a silent fight. Little by little I’m starting to wonder whether the word “justice” is more than just a word. The Asian boy appeared in my dreams again. This time I saw him dead.
July 20th 1967, Thursday
I nearly faced death on Tuesday. It was late at night when I was taking my trash out. There was a black Chevrolet El Camino in the middle of the quiet street. The lights were dim and it was too dark, I couldn’t see into the car. Shivers were running down my spine when I opened the damn trashcan. But before I could sense the danger in my guts, I was suddenly feeling two hands around my neck. I made choking noises and attempted to set myself free by kicking and elbowing the person, but it didn’t seem to hurt him one bit. It was a stranger with a lunatic expression on his face. The way he looked at me gave me the feeling that I had done something that made him angry. His eyes were glassy and his teeth yellow. I saw my face in his eyes, which ultimately made me believe that he had eaten my soul already. I couldn’t take it any longer, so I tried kicking him again; this time between his legs. Finally he released me with a loud howl. I fell against the trashcan and then onto the bottom. My cry for help was useless. I knew that people heard me, but I saw no one coming. He called me a bitch and pulled a knife. He said he would cut me into pieces and feed me to his dog. Tears had come before I had noticed them. He threw himself over my body, whereupon I began to scream. I was holding both hands in front of him and the knife went through my left hand.  I screamed again in pain and was close to losing my consciousness. Before I was able again to perceive the current situation, someone had torn the lunatic away from me. I looked through my tears and saw the man with those pitch black shades fighting the lunatic. Each punch and kick ended in a painful scream. Both of the stranger’s fists were firm and enraged. “Go”, he told me with a deep coarse voice. It took me a while to take that in. “GO!” he said again, angrily. The lunatic’s eye was squirting blood. I acted under his demand. I was running up the stairs back into my apartment. Something inside of me told me that everyone knew I was in danger, but they did nothing except for looking through their keyholes.  Again there was blood on my hand, my own blood this time. Even though it needed treatment very badly, I couldn’t think of anything else except for what was happening outside. Was he the one they mentioned in the newspapers? The one I saw in the grocery store? About ten minutes later I heard the ambulance outside. I would have expected the cops at least, if anyone had bothered calling for help. It didn’t take very long until the ambulance men were knocking on my door. They took me to the hospital and I ended up staying there for the night. A sleeping pill helped me to sleep; however the sleep consisted of multiple nightmares: Starting off with the fight with Fred, the robbery at the grocery store (with me present) and the attempted rape. When I woke up on Wednesday I was more exhausted than ever. It felt like having had a mental breakdown or something. The moment I looked into the mirror I didn’t recognize myself at first. I looked like thirty. However, I didn’t feel as bad as I should have or perhaps I was only repressing all the emotions that people would consider as psychologically normal. But no, the truth is that I had someone in mind and this person needed to reveal himself to me.
I saw the man with those pitch black shades after leaving the hospital. He was sitting in a coffee shop on Roosevelt Avenue. His shades were glaring at me and I knew that he was observing me, probably waiting for me as well. I went inside with no hesitation. His face showed no expression. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a black pair of jeans. It was the same dark blonde hair that shimmered red in the light. I sat myself down, although it didn’t look like he would have asked me to. “Who are you?” I asked. His cup of coffee was still untouched and there was no steam coming out of it anymore. I noticed a little smile around his mouth; a tantalizing smile that already signified that I would not learn about the truth. Carefully, but elegantly he took off his pitch black shades and placed them silently on the table. “I admire your courage”, he said with his hoarse voice. I couldn’t say a word, because I was examining his deep blue eyes. I saw myself in there and felt relieved that I still had my soul. Those blue eyes made him appear slightly younger than I had expected, thirty-nine maybe. If his face didn’t appear so worn out I would’ve guessed thirty-five. “What did you do to the man?” I asked. “He got what he deserved.”  He sounded firm and determined. “I don’t believe in killing, you know….” My voice was trembling when I said that. He smiled again, as if he was going to laugh at my statement. “Justice is not just a word.” I cautiously laid my injured hand on the table. “But I’m not dead, am I?” “You would’ve been”, he explained. “So what makes you think I’m courageous then?” I wanted to know. He lowered his eyes as if he wanted to put his shades back on. “You are no bystander. You take action.” It sounded like a compliment, but I didn’t want to go deeper into that, because I knew myself well. I was there to learn more about him. “What’s your name?” “I’m Joe.” “Joe…what?” “Just, Joe.” He put his shades back on and was ready to leave. “Please don’t go! I have so many questions.” “I’ve said too much already.” He stood up and walked towards the door. I grabbed hold of his arm and asked him quietly: “Will you stop killing?” He shook me off. “That’s not the idea of justice. You can’t be serious!” I shouted. “Sometimes you have to drop a bomb to show how serious you are.”
The feelings I have for Joe are so ambivalent. On the one hand it feels like I’ve been talking to Truman and on the other there was Joe’s idea of moral absolutism. In today’s New York Times I read about the murder of the necrophiliac criminal Jason Krueger. He had strangled five women to death in Brooklyn and was found dead in Queens. I recognized the picture of the lunatic.

July 21st 1967, Friday
I met Joe again today. He suddenly appeared on my balcony. I don’t know how he managed to climb all the way up to third floor and how he knew which apartment I was in. I was looking at him through the glass. He was not wearing his shades and therefore refused to look at me. I opened the glass door to let him in, but he wouldn’t move. His lips were motionless, so was his entire body. “Joe?” “Too many innocent lives have been annihilated, but no one endeavors to do anything about it, except me.” A long pause followed. I wanted to say something, but I knew he was not yet finished. “I was in love with Kitty Genovese…” I stopped breathing for a while. “But she never knew. You bear resemblance to her…” He finally raised his head and looked at me. “However, this is not the reason why I saved you. Murderers will deal with death and all other felons deserve life-sentence.” “Is this your idea of a Great Society?” I asked. He then asked me back: “Do you think peace exists?” I began to shake my head tentatively. “There’s your answer then. But it doesn’t change the fact that I faith in my city. I spill vermin’s blood and watch it flow down the gutter.” “Will this bring Kitty back?” “THIS IS NOT ABOUT HER!” he shouted and ultimately seemed to regret having told me all that. Quietly he carried on: “You can make justice happen with your own hands…You encounter this moment of bliss. Unfortunately it doesn’t last for long.” There he was vindicating himself and I could do nothing except stare at my hands, which for one second were full of blood again. I turned around with arms folded; trying to think of a way to persuade him. “Do it for me!” I suggested and turned back to the balcony, but he was gone.

July 23rd 1967, Sunday
I can’t deny the fact that I feel safer now, as if Joe is keeping an eye on me, wherever I go. Last night I was overcome by fatigue, I didn’t even bother responding to Fred’s call. I lay myself down on my bed and fell asleep immediately. I dreamt of Joe lying next to me. When sleeping, he appears to be very delicate and slightly vulnerable. I knew that if I touched him, he’d immediately open his eyes. When I woke up this morning, I noticed that I was covered up by a black leather jacket and my balcony door was open, but Joe was nowhere to be found.

July 25th 1967, Tuesday
Today they finally mentioned Joe in the New York Times. Of course no one could identify him; they portray him as “lithe and lissome, but strong as hell”. His shades are “as dark as the night”. Though, these are the words of the criminal who got arrested. His name is Pat Bates, a triple murderer, someone who in Joe’s eyes would deserve death. According to the newspaper, Pat Bates, during an attempt to kill a helpless foreigner, got beaten up severely: broken rips, arms and nasal bone, two black eyes and internal bleedings. The ambulance arrived just in time to save him. I smiled.

–

Paula Cheung 2009
(Inspired by Kitty Genovese and Alan Moore’s Rorschach)

Mum cut herself again. It is the third time this week. But it always seems to happen when she is not cooking. It often happens that you cut yourself whilst cutting the cabbage or something like that. I always watch mum cooking food and she smiles at me. But not always. Sometimes she tells me to go watch cartoons, but I go up to my room instead to talk to Simon. It somehow bothers mum that I don’t like watching cartoons and that I’m in my room most of the time. Recently she doesn’t even let me go in my room, because I say I’m going to play with Simon. Then she changes her mind and lets me watch her cooking and even help.

“How old is Simon?” mum asks.

“My age.”

“What does he want from you?”

“He just wants to be there and play, mum”, I answer.

I put the cabbage into the pan and fill it with water. I hope she is proud of me for helping her.

“Why don’t you introduce me to Simon?” she wants to know.

“He is shy.”

“What about your classmates?”

“He doesn’t like them.”

Somehow I feel that something is bothering mum and I don’t know what. I feel upset but don’t say anything, not until I have thought of something that will probably cheer her up a little bit.

“I introduce him to you, ok? After dinner.”

She seems more curious now, I think and I’m glad about that. We are having a nice dinner watching Goofy in his car. Mum keeps pointing out scenes, which seem funny, but I don’t laugh, apart from her. After dinner, she says I don’t have to wash up, but I should go to my room and tell Simon that she’s coming up to say hi to him. I enter my room. I change my baggy trousers to jeans and my superman t-shirt to a black sweater. I comb my hair straight in the mirror, although I usually have spiky hair, as mum likes it so. But I comb my hair straight anyway. Lastly I change my slippers to my black shoes, which I usually wear to school. Mum knocks on the door.

I say: “Come in.”

“Kevin?”

“No, I’m Simon.”

Paula Cheung 2005

Batman Spawn! Spiderman vs Green Goblin!

Thomas grabbed a copy of each comic book, which he exactly knew he did not yet own. He knew his mother would buy them for him. They were only 1.99 anyway. She would not mind. All the colors and scenes of action were fascinating him and also stimulating his brains; almost too much, that he cut himself out of reality. He was strongly absorbed by the magnificence of the colors and the smell of the paper.

“Tom! What are you doing there?” Mrs. Andrews asked.

“Sorry, mom…”

He didn’t say anything more, although he had thousand of things going on in his head.

Batman: “Why are you in Gotham and how soon are you leaving?”

“What did you say, Thomas? Are you listening to me? Put these down! You’ve got enough. I can’t keep buying you comics every time we come into this shop! Come on.”

Quietly and carefully he put them all back; making sure they were all in the right order.
After he was sure, that they were standing straight and untouched, he left with his mom.

“I wanted those, mum.”

“I know you love them, darling, but you can’t read them all the time. You know I will get them for you at some point, but do read other books I buy for you, ok? They are colorful as well!”

They carried on shopping until he suddenly saw a Wolverine costume on a shop window and went closer to see it, but his mother noticed it and was trying to get hold of his arm, but his desire was stronger.

“I like this mom”, he said, pointing at it.

“Darling…it’s way too small for you.”

“My size!”

“I told you I was going to sew you something nice for Halloween, do you not want me to, then?”
Despite of trying to sound really upset and hurt, his eyes were still fixed on the costume, as if he didn’t care.

“A Spiderman one…” Thomas mumbled.

“As promised, darling.”

Although Mrs. Andrews knew that she was a good tailor, she was not too sure if her talent was going to satisfy him and she personally found the combination of red and blue more than horrible. Thomas was six foot and in his late thirties. Sometimes when they were walking quietly beside each other, her arm around his (, as his mom is the only person he allowed to touch him), people would think they were an ordinary couple, unless they met their neighbors, especially the Clarks. The Clarks were well-known in the whole neighborhood. They were the only ones with a swimming-pool in the backyard. Their son Dean claimed to be Thomas’ friend, but when given the chance he would corrupt Thomas and cheat him, in order to get his money and then made Mrs. Andrews believe that Thomas had spent his pocket money on sweets, which he was not supposed to eat. After all, Thomas didn’t mind Dean’s company.
One day Thomas got invited to go round to Dean’s, because he offered him a comic trade.

“The wings of the vuu-ture!”

“It’s vulture, you dumbass!” Dean shouted, but there was no reaction coming from Thomas at all. His eyes were fixed on the pictures in the book. Dean was shaking his head.

“I can’t believe what a loser you are, man! …So stupid that he doesn’t even realize that these are his own comics? God, am I talking to myself now?! Hey, dumbass!”

He took the comic out of Thomas’ hands, looking him in the eye, but there was no reaction. He noticed Thomas’ big forehead and how he was becoming bald already.

“You’re so retarded, man…”

“I want them back”, Thomas said, lifting up while lifting up his arm.

“Forget it, dumbass! Who said they were yours?”

“I want to have them back…”

Dean smacked Thomas’ head and grabbed hold of the comics. Suddenly Thomas jumped up, screaming, with his hands covering his head. The comics fell out of Dean’s hands, as he looked at Thomas, who gave the impression of a person who had an epileptic attack. Dean started to shake and slowly stepped back, but as he did, Thomas came towards him and uncontrollably hit him in the face, whereupon he fell over.

Mrs. Andrews was preparing dinner when she received a phone call of the Clarks.
Tears were dripping down her face as she was slowly stirring the stew. She could hear Thomas laughing whilst watching cartoons, which cheered her up a little. Halloween was only about one week away and she was only halfway through his costume. She would sit there sewing until midnight, until she was too tired to keep her eyes open, but Thomas’ excitement kept her going. Customers were already complaining about her delays, but they knew she was the best in town.
Thomas always stirred his stew until it had gone slightly cold; he found it amusing licking the food off the spoon. Mrs. Andrews thought that teaching him table manners was pointless.

“That’s dad, mom!” he said laughing whilst pointing at a photograph on the wall.

“Yes, darling…Finish of your stew. That’s a good boy.”

She always tempted to take the photograph down, but she knew that Thomas would notice it and complain. Everything in the house had to be in its right place, so that he felt he was at home. Exactly at ten in the evening he would have fallen asleep whilst reading Spiderman or Wolverine, which were his favorites and Mrs. Andrews would come into his room to switch the lights off.

“Mrs. Andrews”, Mrs. Clark said “I’m not going to take any offense, because I know your son’s situation, but I can tell you that I don’t want him anywhere near Dean.”

She was certain that the whole village knew about what had happened, since it was the Clarks who were affected. She felt how Mrs. Clark was grudging her, as those words were full of resentment, which were expressed through her stinging eyes.

“I’m sorry”, was all Mrs. Andrews could say.

It was one night before Halloween and Thomas’ mother had finally finished his costume. She had never seen him any happier. He was jumping up into the air.

“Spiderman! Spidermaaaan!”

She was happy with her work and the nylon material she used to create the costume.
It was stretchy, but still looked kind of tight on him as his belly was hanging down.

“Don’t get too excited, darling!” she said worried, because there was sweat dripping down from his forehead. “Calm down!”
He carried on singing and jumping against the walls, whereupon Mrs. Andrews became very nervous. Suddenly he started choking in his own laughter. Thomas was coughing heavily, upon which she had to rub his back softly.

“I told you…Won’t you listen to me, Thomas…Take your medicine and go to sleep ok…Be a good boy.”

The day after he was still very excited and would not even eat his cereal, but instead he was reading The Coming of the Hulk in his Spiderman costume. Mrs. Andrews had to catch up with all her customers’ requests, which was why she couldn’t go out with him and therefore she asked Thomas’ schoolmate’s mother to take him out with them.
It was already dark when Thomas and his friend Dave knocked on their first door.
Before Dave could say anything, Thomas was already shouting:

“Trick-o-treaties!”

The old lady looked slightly irritated, but gave them sweets nonetheless. Before they reached the next door, they met Dean, dressed as the Green Goblin. His face was painted green and he wore a purple costume and a purple hat.

“Hi there people!”

“You alright, Dean…” Dave said.

All over the sudden Thomas jumped back and spread his arm as if he was shooting cobwebs out of his wrists like Spiderman.

“Oh dear…” Dave moaned.

“Can I borrow him for a while?” Dean asked.

“Help yourself.”

They were on their way to Dean’s house, because Thomas was told that he would get his comics back. On the way to his, Thomas was constantly trying to shoot cobwebs at the Green
Goblin, but it wasn’t happening. There was only spit dripping down Thomas’ mouth.
Dean was quiet and walked slowly whilst looking around him. Just before they had reached his house, Dean stopped in the middle of the empty path, as he could hear something. A second later, screaming kids jumped out of the bushes from across the road and ran towards them. Dean got off their way as they all jumped on Thomas, hitting his head, kicking his stomach and spitting on him. Dean was standing there stiff and motionless, watching. Thomas’ cry wasn’t heard, but still sounded terribly loud in Dean’s ears that he suddenly turned cold. Thomas was still trying to shoot cobwebs with his wrists, but nothing ever came. As his screaming had stopped, the kids had stopped as well. They laughed at Dean and then ran away. Thomas’ eyes were looking straight into Dean’s, as he was standing there looking at him, shaking heavily and drooling uncontrollably. Thomas slowly tried to lift his arm, in order to shoot at Dean, but instead, his eyes closed and his arm fell back down to the ground.

Paula Cheung 2005