The Wall falls, tensions rise. East meets West in an underground battle of youths: Neo-Nazis versus anti-fascists.
We’re waiting for the subway train after touring East Berlin, using up the currency while it’s still valid. I’ve just moved here, and I don’t speak German. My boyfriend shows me around and does most of the talking.
Shooting a look over his shoulder, he ushers me towards the end of the platform. I too look and see a gang of teens over by the stairs.
“We passed them earlier,” he says.
It’s my coloured hair and ripped tights that are getting their attention.
He grabs my hand. “Come on.”
We slip into the empty carriage before the doors slide shut. But the train idles.
“Scheisse,” he says. “Hurry up!”
They burst into the carriage, engulfing the space. Striding down the aisle, they surround us. A boy shoves a baseball bat under my chin. My hand, with a mind of its own, swipes it away. The bat is the colour of the German flag. Its wielder is very young.
The bright platform gives way to the dark tunnel. A heated discussion ensues.
My boyfriend shrugs, shakes his head. “Touristin aus Amerika.”
Batboy smirks. “Texas,” he drawls, in a thick German accent. The others laugh.
“Los Angeles,” I state.
Eyes widen. Postures ease. I’ve transformed from enemy to exotic creature. I smile at one, feeling like a traitor. They talk and laugh loudly until the train pulls in and they disembark.
We sigh!
The reegrets stood like statues in the marsh, staring with their beady eyes, pointing with their pointed beaks, one leg folded up beneath like landing gear.
The reegets gave no sense of why they were there, no hoot or cry of ridicule, no dance of protestation designed to blame or shame or split a hair.
No, the reegrets were simple beasts, their silent stance, their unwavering glare, a cold portent of what now can never be.
The gentle pressure
Of his fangs against my neck;
One more little death.
‘Welcome!’ the receptionist says through a plastic smile.
Beth glances anxiously at the women scattered around the waiting room. No one is paying attention, but she still feels a flush of self-consciousness.
‘I have an appointment under my husband’s name,’ she whispers. ‘Harry Broderick.’
Bright and loud as ever, the receptionist says, ‘We have you here, Mrs Broderick. Please take a seat.’
In the face of the woman’s sparkling rictus grin, Beth finds a seat and doesn’t mention that she didn’t take her husband’s name.
Opposite sits a perfect, doll-like woman. She looks at Beth with what might be sympathy, but it’s hard to tell under the unmoving mask of her face.
‘First time?’ she asks. At Beth’s nod, she clucks. ‘Don’t worry. It’s easy. The doctor puts you under and then it’s done. You don’t even have to make any decisions!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your husband booked the appointment, right?’
‘Yes, but it’s just a consultation.’
‘There isn’t much to consult! They’ll only change you slightly this time, and he’ll have told them his preferences.’ She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘Much easier, if you ask me. If I had to choose, I’d never get anything done!’
‘Mrs Broderick?’
A figure in a white coat stands in the doorway, studying the waiting women.
‘That you?’ the woman opposite asks.
Beth Radley smiles for the first time since arriving and stands to make her way to the exit. ‘You know, it really isn’t.’
Lunabella liberally applies sunscreen — from wild-foraged beeswax — when, jar still open in her palm, something appears, glinting in the sunlight speckling the forest floor.
Someone?
A bulbous head bobs atop an impossible long, rubbery body.
That’s a frigging alien. She doesn’t panic; she’s disappointed… Nobody’s gonna believe this.
Its eyes land on her, hold her.
She can’t look away. Her mind is drained like a sink.
Believe what again?
She looks down. The sunscreen drips from the jar. Her skin is bright red, even though the light has softened high into the treetops. She curses. She should’ve gotten the store-bought stuff.
My breath comes fast and shallow. Desperate gulps ripped from the air against the rising tide of panic. The metal confines press into me from all sides, locking my arms in an awkward angle. Its surface runs slick with my cold sweat. I struggle, I kick, I scream against the unyielding walls, but their vice-like grip only contracts further on me, squeezing my lungs dry. “Let me out!” The little air left to me is thick and stifling. I’m going to die in here. Please, please, please…
"You’re such a wuss Casey. It’s just a prank! See you after lunch.”
House For Sale
Quiet Neighbors | NOT HAUNTED
“Paula, are you fucking kidding with that sign?” I slam the car door. This listing’s been a bitch and now Paula’s got jokes.
She gestures to the graveyard across the street. “People’ll think it’s funny and wanna see the place!”
“People will think it’s fucking haunted.” Which it is.
But not for long.
I head over to the cemetery, stilettos click-clicking on the asphalt. Take the broken stone steps two at a time, Paula following like a stumbling puppy.
“OI! GHOSTS!” My voice echoes across the gravestones.
No response.
Paula scrunches her face. “What’re you doing?”
“It’s broad daylight, why’re you whispering?” At her shrug, I continue. “Come out, come out wherever you are, Ghosties! Got a proposition for you!”
Dead silence.
“I know you’re here, assholes.”
The temperature drops ten degrees; I smirk. Misty apparitions surround us.
“Assholes?” The gravelly voice reverberates through my bones.
“Given the circumstances, ‘assholes’ seems light.” Arms crossed, I stare down the de facto leader: an expired school principal. He blinks first. Or an approximation of blinking. Straightening my shoulders, I switch to negotiation mode. “Look, you’re making it impossible for me to sell that house.”
“And?”
“If I don’t sell, I’ll have to fire Paula. I know you like her and the little trinkets she leaves you.” Paula’s gaze hits the dirt. “I wanna make a deal.”
“I’m listening.”
“Great! So… what do I need to do to get you into a new haunt today?”
The secret to writing an infallible work of literature is this: write from the first person perspective of someone else. If a critic dislikes one of your sentences, you can justifiably say that you were attempting to write something someone else would have written.
Even God Himself cannot criticize your work if you use this approach. God could have written
Macbeth or Hamlet while asleep, and He can write a book vastly superior to Hamlet if he desires. However, he cannot criticize your sentences if you are merely trying to accurately reflect the inept mental capacities of someone else, regardless of whether your own mental capacities are equally inept.