Some people aren’t cut out to be strippers. When I applied to a semi-upscale Bourbon Street club, the owners sent me to their sister establishment, Papa Joe’s. It was a grungy, unisex joint. A woman named Tammy served as its undisputed queen. Her act seemed more gymnastic than sexual. As a finale, she sprang onto her pole like a trained monkey and hung upside down, tongue dangling. My erotic offerings were more modest. I mounted the stage and swayed half-heartedly for several minutes. Tammy tried her best to coach me. “Honey, these men are drunk and stupid. All you gotta do is shake it.” I staggered onstage in my ill-fitting stilettos. “My Prerogative” pounded in the background. I closed my eyes and drifted into a reverie. Undulating like a snake, I squeezed my thigh flesh and licked my lips. Several men burst into applause. The music came to an abrupt halt. My eyes fluttered open. Tammy stood beside the jukebox, plug in hand. “Goddammit, keep your pubic hair inside your G-string! I’m not going back to prison because of your bush!” Exposed pubic hair was illegal in Louisiana. I gazed downward. Sure enough, an errant tuft protruded from the edge of my costume like a patch of weeds. Those pubes could send an innocent parolee back to the slammer. Who knew? I tucked the hair back into place and resumed my awkward dance. Two hours remained in my shift. Then I could go home and forget everything.
Monday, 23 March 2026
My Prerogative by Leah Mueller, frosty Hurricane
Saturday, 21 March 2026
Saturday Sample: A Bolt from the Blue by Mark Winson
A cup of unstirred tea that only presents the sugar
to the tongue
with the last mouthful
It was a strange day. There
was a grating silence hanging in the air. There were few birds singing, few conversations
of passers-by that I could gate crash and less than the usual stampede of
traffic rumbling down the high street. Most notable was the stillness that
settled over the school playground, a clamour I ordinarily enjoyed; the chatter
and giggling of children are to me, so representative of the continuation of
life. The sunshine, the glorious sunshine that had dominated so much of that
summer, was also absent, as
if God had flicked a simple switch. My face felt abandoned, condemned to
defending itself from the sharp wind that brought about the change in the
weather. Perhaps there had been something more, on that noteworthy day, that I
should have been aware of.
Needs must, however. I had drained the house of milk, blitzed out the
bread bin and was suffering an oral withdrawal after eating too many dry
crackers. Dry, I say dry, but they had turned, were slightly damp, so I had to
venture out. It would at least break the silence, not that my silence
inconvenienced anyone, living alone on my meagre income was hardly going to
open sunflowers. I had learned to cope however, made mistakes along the way, as
we all do, but there was a subtle difference between wanting to and having to.
The doctor had told me that!
So, I donned my overcoat. I feel the cold much more these days and wear it
more than often. I’ve taken to sitting in it, to listen to The Archers, rather than putting the heating on. Then, I took up my
not so macho shopping bag, which was the wife’s, bless her, and fully equipped,
I left. I tried to walk with a defiant step, something I’d learned that
relieved my trepidation and hesitation. Shoppers with swinging bags and
drag-along children are normally the only waves that fail to part in front of
me, but I was far more confused when there were none. An ever doubting mind you
see, a propensity for reflecting on the downside of my existence, and a
tendency to ask myself taxing questions all the time. I did on that day. Was it
that people were avoiding me? Maybe the case had I not washed for a week, but I’m
always fastidious with my personal hygiene and always indulge in a drift of
aftershave.
I did well to dodge the abrupt parking bollards and spewing litter bins, which
were more than testing, but getting across the road was like negotiating my
life away. Screaming cars, articulated lorries, silent but deadly push bikes
are bad enough, but I also had to contend with the state of the road surface.
What do they do all day long, in those bleeding council offices? Most likely
they are engrossed in that Facebook thing, playing games and talking to fellow
anoraks. They even twitter, according to my nephew, as if they’re all birding freaks
or something. I ride over the ruts in smooth roads when out of town, but I’m at
far more risk of falling down those cut into an urban street. It’s then I
wobble like jelly, scrabbling to right myself just in time to avoid yet another
skidding car with all the tread of a fried egg in a well-greased pan.
I walked past the arcade, listening to the pinging pinball machines and
jingling of coins falling over the waterfalls, past the last remaining record
shop, one
that persists in playing
music that you’re supposed to listen to in your garage! I stopped just outside Mothercare,
somewhere I think all babies dislike judging by the bawling coming from inside
and turned to stand at the curbs edge. Hesitating,
assessing the odds in
crossing the street, I suddenly felt a splash from God’s watering can. I cursed
him under my breath. I have my doubts about religion
and would like to know just
how God can be held so reverently, what with all the bad in the world. There was
twice the urgency if I wanted to stay dry. So, prompted by my chiding mind if
nothing else, I quickly stepped out into the oceanic expanse of tarmac, leaving
behind the security of its coastline, with no more focus than getting across
the channel.
It was then that it happened. I’d been so preoccupied; I’d paid little
heed to the rumbling overhead and failed to realise or recognise what was coming.
I always listen to the news of a morning but have an unerring habit to switch
the radio off before the weather report.
You don’t hear lightening, you have little warning that it’s coming, only
a heavenly notification that it’s been and gone as the furniture overhead is
dragged
across the sky. Then
wallop! This bolt from what must have been a power-station in the clouds hit
me, pummelling me into what became scorched tarmac! It
rifled up through my body,
from the ground beneath my feet until the hair on the back of my neck stood like
that of a cat’s angry back. I felt myself go rigid,
statuesque and hard; any
chill of the day being blown away in a millisecond. There was a distinct smell
of dry burning and a crackling closing over the vacuum left in the air as all
the oxygen was consumed. Probably being the only reason why I hadn’t burst into
flames. I could feel the blood in my veins beginning to boil, taste a hit of
what seemed to be barbecue sauce, infused into my tongue. I yelled,
believe me you would! I don’t
think I swore, least not as this generation seem to, but something leapt from my
screaming mouth all the same. Then all was dark,
all was silent.
I don’t remember much more at that point, I had no inkling of how long I
been away with the fairies, it was just, well, black. They say your life is
supposed
to flash before your eyes,
not that it did in my case, but neither did it occur to me that I’d been
deprived of a promised liaison with St Peter, and had never stood before the
gold wrought iron of heaven’s gates. I could have lost days, I could have lost
weeks, things might well have accelerated to the point of memissing several
episodes of The Archers.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes. The shock
was more than palpable, as stood in front of me was Jesus Christ, nestling on a
fluffy white cloud formation, in a long blue robe that rolled comfortably over
his relaxed arms, folded to allow his hands to come together in prayer. A legion
of angels had glided over him, with the faces of innocent babies and the wings
of mighty eagles
outstretched illustriously.
Dainty birds with gloriously coloured coats, either heaven bound or in ghostly
flight, swooped and played across the orange of the sky as they were welcomed
by him. His smile was gentle, a forgiving smile to those that needed forgiving,
and that could well have included me.
The vista in front of me was inspiring, inspiriting and yet in its own
way, reassuring. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, believe you me. At first,
I was
shocked, so shocked in
witnessing what I was seeing that I felt sure it had to be a miracle. Had God
put aside my perfidiousness, my dishonesty, that time I pinched a new band saw
from work, that time I jabbed Richard Smith in the eye, I could go on. If asked
I would never have admitted that I was unworthy, but then he is supposed to
forgive you, isn’t he?
“I don’t believe it,” I said, “after all these years, after all this time,”
I said. “I’m so sorry!” Frankly, it was surprising that this last-ditch
confession was accepted and that the trapdoor to oblivion remained shut.
I was just about to kneel in front of Jesus and ask him for further
directions, when suddenly, a panicked voice broke the serenity of the moment.
“He’s awake Vicar! He’s alive Vicar! but I think he thinks he’s dead, that
he’s gone to heaven, he’s in a daze. You have to do something!” I could hear
this lady’s
stampeding voice rattling
round my head as I felt my stupor lighten and my feet finally touch down again.
She sounded in some respects like the wife, always having her say, forcing her
opinion, bless her, and then handing responsibility over to someone else. We
survived as long as we did because I had the foresight to listen and then
disregard much of what she said.
“Oh my, oh my Lord, how did he survive a strike like that? Just look at
the state of him!” said a man more from somewhere behind my head, whose hands
were holding it steady. “It
knocked the power out to the church and half of the town’s shops!” I was lying on
my back you see, but then I’d hardly be standing
upright if what he was
saying was true. In actual fact, I was lying exactly where a compassionate band
of church goers had laid me, after rescuing my burnt
corpse from the middle of
the charred road. How lucky that they were meeting on such a day, how lucky was
I? They stood hopeful, crossing themselves over and over repeatedly, beseeching
God not to take me before time, until eventually, thankfully, I opened my and
managed to focus. I felt at first, as if I was in a hospital bed, with seven
shades of junior Doctors angling over me, putting forward observations and coming
to a bizarre diagnosis.
“We should never have brought him into the church, never have put him just
here!” the Vicar said, chastising himself and looking up at the beautifully painted
church ceiling. “He thinks he’s looking into heaven, thinks he’s meeting Jesus.
You’re right, he thinks he must have passed away!” I don’t know whether it was
the shock of the ceiling that I was looking at, or the crucifix hanging from
the vicar’s neck!
It was then that I felt my mouth crack with an allowance for a broadening
smile, or more likely a look of wonderment that had spread across my face, those
looking down at me exhibiting much the same reaction. I was alive, I was more
than alive, I was, well, repaired. I was no longer looking at Jesus and his
cloud hopping minions, I’d focused on the vicar.
“No, you don’t understand,” I said. He wasn’t listening of course, not
many people do when looking at someone of my age, they think that just because
my bodies failing, my mind is too. His intentions were commendable all the
same, Godly, saintly or whatever a man of the cloth strives to be.
“Lie still my son,” he said, “you’ve had a great shock!” Well, state the
bleeding obvious he did, which didn’t help. “The ambulance is on its way,
don’t worry!” I looked
directly into his eyes, the miraculous fresco above me didn’t matter anymore. I
took hold of his arm, quickly, before he began preparing himself to give me the
last rights.
“A shock it is, Vicar,” I said, “but not the shock you thought I’d had.
You see, before I tried to cross the road and before I felt the heat burning up
through my body… truth is…” I remember rubbing my eyes with the back of my
hands at this point, as tears began to spill into tributaries running over my cheekbones.
I smiled again, ready to make my announcement to the whole world and in the
sight
of God. “Truth is… I was totally blind!”
About the author:
Frankly I don’t know how I came around to writing books. My teachers at school all said I could do better, although to be fair my English teacher Mrs Bullock extracted every last drop of mental substance from me, and fired up what has turned out to be a creative bent. Or is it that I’m just a daydreamer? Only in 2016 did I finally, after much persuasion from family and friends, take up writing more seriously and publish my first book. Since then, my style and genre evolved, until comfortably, I can now describe it as quirky fiction.
Friday, 20 March 2026
In The Right Place and Time by Aminah Khan, iced mint tea
After hearing an infant’s first cry, a pair of white
wings from the bed of clouds would fall from the skies. Everyone had a
guardian angel. Their kind stood bright, cherubic, and rosy-cheeked. Their
strong wings stretched for miles and shielded their wards from harm, with
the promise of protection said on musical tongues that any child would
believe. The only exception was that their assigned guardian angel would be the
only one they could see. The rumour of their non-existence had come to a stop
long ago because it surely wasn’t a coincidence that every youth had an
angel’s hand to hold.
A guardian angel was the sunshine of every child's life.
That is, however, with the exception of Letha Merigold. Her angel, who
introduced themselves as “Styx,” did not wear ivory robes or golden halos but dark
shadows that wrapped around their figure and face with a pair of crow-like
wings resting on their back. However, despite their formidable appearance,
Letha’s angel was just as timid as she was. She recalled peering up the
dark, willowy mass as it loomed over her cradle, their wings hunched. The look in Styx’s
sooty eyes shone a marriage of fear and hesitation, framed by lashes that
curled like calligraphy. They then reached down to wrap a wispy finger
around her tiny one and spoke.
“The spring solstice will help you bloom, dear Merigold.
And so will I.”
Styx’s low voice meshed with the thunder that poured
outside, making it tolerable and somewhat pleasant. A surge of sudden
calmness waved over, accompanied by the sweet scent of narcissus, lulling Letha
to sleep. Her angel let out a satisfied hum, promptly vanishing in the air.
Over the years of learning wrong from right, Letha also
learned that not everyone will accept her. Her classmates cried in horror
as she described her guardian’s form with candour, finding no reason to lie. In her
case, the truth wasn’t so kind to her. As she grew older, those cries turned to
taunts, and eventually, her voice became mute, as well as her soul.
She never bothered with her parents, and they never bothered
with her. Though she couldn't be sure if that's what she wanted. She still
complied, keeping her soul hush since it became apparent that her plethora of
endless chatter was simply too much for them to handle. So by the time she
turned ten, her father forced a used but sturdy camera in her hands, and
soon her attention drifted.
Her passion for photography led her to her adoration of
butterflies. Their gossamer wings showed up bright on screen while their
delicate legs ested on twigs of lilac and honeysuckle. The window in her room
was the perfect way to see them coming, though sometimes there was no need to
beckon them. It seemed that they loved her back, fluttering around her
head, forming a resplendent crown. Still, Letha decided that it was Styx’s
wings that she favoured the most. Wings belonging to her invisible muse.
On the morning of her eleventh birthday, Letha
discovered that Styx’s form could turn to something more “tolerable" with
a bit of glamour,” as they explained. The inky shadows morphed into a tall,
lanky figure with human limbs, complemented by an androgynous visage with
shoulder-length black hair and rueful onyx eyes. They didn't seem as
thrilled as she was, and upon further discovering Styx’s self-shame for their
supposed ugliness, Letha felt her heartbreak. So before they headed out to the
kitchen where her cake sat waiting, she plucked an orange chrysanthemum
from the garden and reassured Styx that she did not mind whatever form
they presented as.
“I don’t care,” Letha said firmly while holding the
angel’s hands after making them kneel down to her level. “As long as you
can brush my hair and give me hugs, I'm happy.” She gave their hands a squeeze.
“Thank you, little one,” Styx replied, voice sounding
slightly hoarse. The flower was tucked in their hair. “In fact, with your
hair, I can practice french braiding!” she chirped, grinning when their eyes
widened.
That morning, Letha realized that her guardian was just as
human as she was. She knows that Styx will stay with her as her life
continues till death, so she had to be strong for them too. Even ethereal beings
could use a hug.
The two were seated on the grass in the backyard after
blowing her candles, verdant flora surrounding them in a fragrant cocoon.
She sat in front of Styx on the blanket, cupping her knees, her purple sweater draped
down to her knees. Her camera lays carefully near her feet, next to the
utensils and slice of honey cake, ready to be eaten once they are done. The
fluttering of butterflies was not enough to fill the silence, so while
Styx weaved flowers in her hair, she asked.
“Are you a boy or a girl?”
The weaving stops, and she feels a petal tickle her ear.
“That’s a hard question,” Styx murmurs, “why do you ask?”
Letha shrugged. “It’s been eleven years. I’m curious,” she
explained bluntly. There was no need to dance around questions with Styx.
Only this time, they said nothing, and she mistook the silence for discomfort. “I’m
sorry.”
Styx hushed her with a bemused look on their face. “I’m not
so sure, blossom. It’s not something I think of often,” Letha turns to
face them. “However, it should all depend here,” they tap where their heart would
be. Letha frowns and reaches for her camera to fiddle with, the smell of cherry
blossom tickling her nose. “What if I’m unsure right now?”
Once again, her guardian angel said nothing, instead of
looking down at the stray flowers in their lap. They spoke after a while,
“Then for now focus on becoming like water. You’d slip through nimble fingers
and hold up mighty ships. You have plenty of time to think about this
stuff for later.”
Letha hummed her approval. “We can hold them up
together.” You’ll always hover nearby.
“Of course, buttercup.” They tucked one accordingly behind
her ear.
Letha wrinkled her nose, laughter spilling from her lips.
“Buttercups are weeds, Styx.”
“No,” they chided softly, “if grown in the right place and
time, they too are flowers.” They are wanted.
“Buttercups are also poisonous.”
Fondness glowed from the angel’s eyes. “Yes. Yes, they are.”
Bio:
Recently graduated in Biochemistry, she enjoys intertwining
creative expression with science. Alongside writing fiction, she worked as a
student journalist at her university. She has a strong interest in gene
therapy, philosophy, and classic literature, and hopes to return to writing as
frequently as she once did in the future.
https://www.thelance.ca/author/aminah-khan/
Thursday, 19 March 2026
It’s All in the Dirt By Henri Colt, Chai latte
Sushil and I plodded along the trail in single file. We had a lifetime of experience climbing jagged snow-covered peaks in the Sierra Mountains. Now we were coming home from another trip, hiking in familiar fields covered with wildflowers. Just around the next bend, we’d start moving faster on our last downhill trek through the valley to our campsite. Usually, we climbed as a threesome, but Christian was dead, and after leaving his ashes at the summit, it was just the two of us, for the first time in years.
I noticed that Sushil had picked up the pace.
“You’ve dragged your feet all day,” I shouted. “What’s the sudden rush?” For a man who spent more than twenty years in the special forces and the rest of his life rescuing victims of child trafficking, he was in great form. Sushil had just turned seventy and told his girlfriend he felt in the best shape ever.
Yet he cried like a baby when I tossed our friend’s ashes into the wind.
“I was just remembering how Christian always wanted to run the last mile back to our tents.” Sushil broke into a slow jog.
I adjusted my waistbelt and felt my pack tighten against my back. I realized he wasn’t going to give me time to readjust the position of the empty urn I had stuffed under the top flap, so I heard it banging against the tent poles with each rise of my accelerating steps. I wanted to leave the urn on the summit, but Sushil thought we should give it to Christian’s daughter, even though she hadn’t spoken with her father in weeks and never made it to the funeral.
Christian’s wife and her mother were there and said we should do whatever we wished with it. He had never been attached to material things and probably wouldn’t have cared, but I poured a handful of ashes into a freezer bag that I put in my pocket, to give her with the urn just in case.
The man went downhill fast. He was a former investment banker turned philanthropist whose interests spanned everything from mountaineering to hang-gliding, with lots of photography in between. He had been healthy his entire life, never smoked, and drank only when he was climbing or camping with us somewhere in the back country. After he was diagnosed with a rare form of leukemia, the doctors told him he might have only six months to live. A stem cell transplant and chemotherapy didn’t help, and he was gone in five.
The three of us had known each other since grade school.
“Do you think you’ll cry when I die?” I shouted, wondering if Sushil could hear me over the thuds of our boots hitting solid ground. Either he could not, or I never heard his answer. It’s probably better that way, I thought, checking the heart rate monitor on my watch, but I wasn’t sure.
For an instant, I slowed my pace on the trail, trying to catch my breath and letting Sushil get far ahead of me. I paused to do what I felt Christian would have done. I looked to the sky and turned in place to take in everything wonderful and beautiful around me. The windswept clouds stretching to become wispy long white cushions, a dozen ravens cackling from those branches in a nearby tree, a small mound of scat, probably from that roving coyote I saw earlier, the deliciously orange poppy field on the other side of the creek, and memories which seemed to have blossomed out of nowhere after each kick of dirt under my feet. I checked my heart rate as my breathing steadied. As much as I thought I knew him, perhaps I didn’t really, and I wondered whether Christian ever felt as fearful about his future as I did that very moment. Whether he had ever spent any of his precious waking hours searching, as I so often do, for the drive to recapture the drive.
Down the trail, Sushil had stopped, his large frame silhouetted against the forest of pines behind him. He wasn’t looking at the view. He was waiting for me. I readjusted the urn in the top of my pack and broke into a light jog. When I reached him, he turned, and we walked on.
Bio:
Henri Colt is a physician-writer and mountaineer who marvels at beauty wherever it may be. His short stories have appeared in CaféLit, Rock and Ice Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. His biography of Italian artist Amedeo Modigliani, Becoming Modigliani was published in 2025.
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)
Wednesday, 18 March 2026
Merton Library by Renee Ebert, half decaf expresso served with sweetener.
The Merton
public library was a melting pot of the haves and have-nots, a mixture of
homeless people and the wealthy older residents of the nearby neighborhood. The
rain, though, or a threatening of snow would guarantee larger numbers of seats
filled. But the library boasted comfortable in all ways, there were sofas and
love seats in the reading rooms, and large tables made of very solid oak for
the researchers in that section of the old building.
Sarah often
thought about the two things she loved best, this library and people, but especially
those who frequently visited the Merton. She looked up from the multiple
research tomes in front of her to calculate the ethnic mix of the room’s
current inhabitants. Never surprised that just one room held a healthy share of
Asian, middle easterners, lots of Hispanic and the usual Anglo and European
mix.
There was Luiz
devouring a book on how to interview, guess he’s looking for a new job. She
thought this as she craned her neck to see the cover of the book. It looked
decidedly corporate, a photo of a suit and tie type guy on the front, smiling a
perfectly dental record of teeth. Nope, she decided, this was not a short “how
to,” Luiz was looking for a career move up.
It was then he
looked over at her, catching her out, and he smiled his own brilliant and
natural set of teeth, his handsome and brown face lighting up the room, well,
maybe her room.
“You almost done
over there?” He whispered in a tone of voice that said he was a guy with a long
history of whispering in a library, this one, for sure.
“Almost, why?”
Sarah not any less a devotee of The Merton herself, whispered as appropriately
with just enough timbre to be heard by Luiz’s eager ears, but not loud enough
to perforate the ear drums of the old guy, Mr. Hemmings who sat across and two
chairs down from Luiz. He hardly looked up from his Brief History of the World
Volume II.
Luiz raised his
hand, five fingers, five minutes, he gestured, not wanting to push his luck
with whispering. And Sarah nodded and compiled her neat stack of notes and with
them, her own books back into her briefcase with the reference materials to be
returned placed on the side table meant for such things. Luiz had less to
assemble and was with her in quick time, maybe breathing a little faster for
the effort or his own eagerness. He was hoping for her attention for several
weeks, the darkening windows and the suggestion of sleet were not going to stop
him, now.
“How about there?”
He pointed to the corner luncheonette across the street. His eyes dived down to
look up into her eyes, making him seem shorter when they were actually the same
height, five feet seven. He said as much, “Ah you’re taller.”
Sarah responded
almost automatically, “Nu uh, the same.”
“Yeah, but not
when you wear heels, then you’d be statuesque.”
“I never wear
heels.” She smiled and so did he.
Sarah handed
over her large umbrella and Luiz drew her closer, their breath coming out in a
stream into the just below freezing rain. This weather always descended her into
a kind of melancholy that went along with near holiday joys. Decorations were
already in a smattering up on Fifth Avenue and she would find the time to see
them, but the quieter little streets held the less than festiveness that is
natural when entire families cannot celebrate together. This year Sarah would
be alone with her mother and father at their house one block down from the
library. She said this to Luiz as they settled into a small booth across from
the counter.
“I forgot to
check the time.” Luiz looked at the menu. “Let’s have some dinner, okay?”
Luiz then
remembered she had told him something, and hurried not to be rude, to respond
to Sarah’s remark. “We’ll have many of my mother’s family, her brothers and
sisters and cousins.”
Sarah was still
in that other quiet place, thinking of roast turkey and the farmland outside
her grandmother’s dining room table far from the city. She looked at the dinner
side of the menu. “I’ll have the open-faced turkey sandwich.” After they ordered Sarah leaned forward to
say, “I saw the job interview book today. Are you planning an interview?”
“I’ll bet I
never told you my last name, did I?” He touched her arm where she had reached
out. “It’s Luiz Rivera, my family is in Puerto Rico, except for a younger
brother and my mother.” Then he said, “you and your Dad should be with us.”
She noticed his
brow, creased as he looked down briefly, he’s thinking of his family and waited
because she knew Luiz would tell her about the book.
“I have an
interview next week, on Wall Street, an investment bank, not the biggest but
still that address…”
“Yes, of course,
how exciting. I have a good feeling about this.” She didn’t know right away,
but when she was alone later, she would remember what she had said, and knew it
was because she could feel his success. It was coming now, and nothing would
stop it.
“Why did you say
that?” He asked her.
“Because you are
smart, you are healthy and you like people.” She wondered whether she should
have said this, her voice, to her, sounded reluctant but her thoughts would not
stay still. She believed in him.
Their coming
together happened over a much longer period of time. Sarah remembered and told
him throughout their dinner, her first recollection of Luiz at the age of
seven, coming, alone, into the Children’s Hour, which Merton librarians had
created for neighborhood elementary school boys and girls. “You were seven and
I was six and I thought that was perfect.”
Luiz sipped some
of his hot tea which Sarah thought an unusual choice for a young man. She
listened very hard, intent on the rhythm of his voice, the rising up and down
of his tone as he breathed out the English, he learned at age five or six.
As though by
magic he picked up her thought and said, “I have no accent because I learned
English before the age of ten. I read about accents a short while ago, that ten
is sort of the cutoff point. You retain a portion, however small, of your first
language pronunciation if you’re over the age of ten. My cousin Gabriel has
that Latino intonation.” He had interrupted her and now wanted most to get back
to what she wanted to tell him about their first days in the Merton. “Tell me
why it was perfect, Sarah.”
She luxuriated
in him saying her name. “I knew some things about myself even when I was just
six. I knew we would share this evening someday.”
“How could you
know such a thing?” She was a mystery yet was happy to know he could spend the
rest of his life unravelling her thoughts; all, not just those about him.
Sarah thought as
he was forming the question and knew he would ask how was it that they would be
together.
“I see things,
when I’m reading a story, the characters jump out at me and the greater the
description, the deeper I see into them, not just what they’re doing but then
why.” She stopped to catch her breath because it isn’t every day that you
confess such a thing, never having done this before, though she was satisfied
that she would tell Luiz anything.
Luiz rubbed his
head in concentration, “I remember. You told me when we were children, you told
me this. Then I thought it was because books, everything, influences a young
child with all of its color and actions; that would not be true for everyone.
For you it would be a defining gift.” He left off telling Sarah he was thinking
how, if they had children, they might inherit this gift.
Sarah reached
across the table and touched Luiz’s hand. It was warm, like his smile. “Tell
me, Luiz, tell me about the future.” She hadn’t meant to be bold, but she
sensed the need for this urgency, that it would carry them forward and faster
and they needed to be quick or lose their chance.
If you didn’t
know Luiz the way that Sarah did, you might not see his own life force surging
forward with the same energy as hers. To outsiders, it seemed slow motion,
slogging through thick and heavy syrup, but it was only a moment for them. “It
will be wonderful, the interview, they were so excited on the phone when they
called. Imagine, a conference call, all seated around a big glass table in a
glass walled room.”
Sarah squeezed
his hand. “Yes, it will be all of that.”
Bio:
Tuesday, 17 March 2026
A Hero’s Story by Aditi Surana, cold coffee
The boy sat at the table right in front of the entrance, so directly in front that it was impossible not to see him when you stepped into the café. He kept glancing at the door every time it opened; perhaps awaiting someone. He is well dressed in a half-sleeve shirt and jeans, a whiff of perfume, and neatly tousled hair, like he is on a date.
A girl walks in, just as I am about to make more Sherlock Holmes-like (or Dr Watson-like) observations and draw up hypotheses. And I know from the way our hero’s mouth stretches, it is the ‘someone’ he is here for. I shall refer to him as such, for I reckon he shall be an interesting character. His date will be ‘the girl’ until I determine whether she will play a part in our hero’s story or, rather, in mine.
‘Story’ might not be the right word; this an assignment for my creative writing class I’m taking to be a ‘writer.’ I certainly look the part in black, thick glasses, oxidised silver jewellery, hair in a bun, sitting hunched over my laptop in an overpriced but aesthetically pleasing café.
I glance at my watch, 5.36 p.m. The girl is late; our hero, early like a gentleman, has been waiting for nearly ten minutes.
It doesn’t matter though, because our hero is pleased to see her. Perhaps, because they are seated back, heads leaning against their chairs, or being soft-spoken myself, I can overhear their conversation. They are talking about their jobs now, the schedules and bits about their families. They don’t seem to know each other intimately, yet they find common bits and cling to them as children to familiar faces in a crowd. At one point, the guy asks her- Didn’t she work at so and so?
As if he hadn’t looked her up on the various socials to know it already. But he is the hero, so I give him the benefit of the doubt; he didn’t want to make any assumptions. Their drinks arrive- a coffee with a small biscotti for him and an iced tea for her. They sip them during lulls in the conversation, which is now getting quite monotonous, at least to me.
I imagine at the very moment my attention drifts from the conversation, perhaps he draws the conclusion that she is ‘the one’. Perhaps, she realises how much he reminds her of her father- this can go both ways. Perhaps he decides to ask her out again, or not. Or he recognises the flash of the notorious red flag in her behaviour.
I shall utilise this time to describe her instead of cooking the imaginary biryani. She is wearing a crimson jumpsuit, matching lipstick, a nearly invisible pair of glasses and has let her hair down. She is pretty, has a nice, wide smile that our hero draws out ever so often, or perhaps she is generous with it.
They are going to the counter to order again, making me wish I could either follow them to keep my story going or that the café had waiters. Why does the coffee cost Rs. 250 if I can’t even hear the waiter say- ‘Is that all, ma’am? Perhaps you’d like to try a dark chocolate muffin with it?’ Then, I might make a comment about watching my weight and hopefully, be cajoled into getting one anyway.
To be fair, I am certain the host taking the order might say something to that effect. There was a bit of a cute exchange before this. The girl, upon being asked if they should order food, replied- ‘Oh, I thought we were just getting coffee?’
I infer that our hero had asked the girl if she’d like to get coffee, and she had taken it literally.
They are talking more openly now, perhaps because he has asked her a question about saving taxes, a subject she seems disproportionately passionate about. At one point, she lowers her voice and whispers- ‘Now, I’m not supposed to tell you this…’
And I can’t overhear the next words without giving away my eavesdropping, so I restrain myself.
Our hero guffaws loudly, and the girl is pleasantly surprised by his amusement. A waiter carries over a rectangular pizza, and the couple pulls out a slice each on their ceramic plates.
Just as I think I should crown her a heroine, she tears a piece off the crust and plops it in her mouth like a toddler tearing a chapati. She quickly recovers, though. Perhaps it was the dent in our hero’s cheek when he laughed that had distracted her, she eats normally after that.
The conversation proceeds like a determined beginner running a marathon- sprints, nearly jumps, stumbles, slows down, stops for a break, and then restarts with vigour. When the girl has learnt all the patterns on the colourful tiles covering the table, our hero suggests they leave. The girl nods, and they head to the door. Shoving my laptop into the tote, draining my cup of forgotten, cold yet precious coffee, I run behind them.
I arrive just in time to see our hero driving away with his heroine.
Their story continues, but mine ends here.
Bio:
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Monday, 16 March 2026
Silence is Scented By Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos, a flat white with extra foam
I didn’t mean to become LinkedIn’s reluctant oracle. I was simply trying to mute Dave. Dave was a guy from high school who had discovered 'nuance' last Tuesday and subsequently decided to treat the platform like a hostage situation run by bullet points and passive-aggressive emojis.
I opened the app with a
singular, quiet objective: three dots, a thirty-day mute, and closure. Instead,
the interface prompted me: ‘Share your
thoughts?’
I felt irritation rather than inspiration. I typed, 'Silence is the most radical form of engagement,' and hit post before I could overthink it.
Twelve
minutes later, I had three thousand likes. Hundreds of comments flooded my
notifications, including a direct message from a man calling himself an ‘ethics ninja.’ The responses were
a chorus of 'This,' and 'Let this sink in,' and ‘We’re not ready for this conversation.' I wasn't ready either; I was still trying to find the
button to hide Dave’s latest update
about his morning cold-plunge routine.
Soon, a startup invited me to keynote a session titled ‘Listening Louder.’ A boutique company offered to manufacture ‘Hush,’ a candle scented
with what they described as ‘Intellectual
Ambiguity.’ When I attempted a
clarification—explaining that I was just trying to ignore an old classmate—it
received only twelve likes. One person replied: ‘Downplaying your genius only proves how necessary it is.’
My sentence began to circulate without me, returning to my feed wearing a metaphorical turtleneck and a monocle. Think pieces appeared. Panels were assembled. I was eventually added to a group chat called 'Quiet Resistance (Real Ones Only).' No one spoke in the chat; this was considered powerful.
Engagement rises when I say nothing. Mystique compounds
interest, and interest compounds invoices. Dave still posts daily, driving the
conflict that drives the visibility. Now, I post once a week. People call it
restraint. Some call it genius. I call it sitting in a quiet cafe, watching the
steam rise from my flat white, and wondering if anyone realizes that silence is
now a subscription service—limited edition, and scented like existential dread.
Bio:
Tamara-Lee Brereton-Karabetsos is a writer and professional mute-button enthusiast. She prefers her insights like her coffee: a flat white with extra foam and a side of existential dread. She finds that the best engagement usually happens when saying absolutely nothing.