Ghost Fire by Lingjuan Fan, espresso

I cradle a soft, chubby baby in my arms. I take a close look at its face and realize the baby is not mine. My baby is a chubby, cute boy—though I have no idea where he is now.

‘Where is your mom?’ I think, tempted to leave but unable to bear the thought of her alone.

Then she speaks, her voice clear and insistent. ‘Mama left after I was born.’ I remember a woman in red who appeared briefly, then hurried away from the hospital. I know her mom will never return.

I glance around at the patients slumped in their chairs, the nurses gliding like shadows against the white walls, the fluorescent hum bathing everything in stark white.

‘I have to leave,’ I murmur.

‘Take me with you,’ she begs, her tiny body now lying on the cold metal bench, my hand touching her soft head.

‘Okay,’ I whisper, rising. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ She stands up and turns into a toddler, following me on unsteady legs.

We soon find ourselves walking through the hollow darkness of night streets—not completely dark, but dotted here and there with red glimmering light. From a distance, I see incomplete corpses frozen in eerie gestures. They are scattered about; some trunks are piled up like debris, ghost fire flickering around the shapes.

The limbs of the corpses seem to rise from the ashes. My chest tightens with dread, a strong urge to flee clawing at me. Just as the words ‘This feels like hell’ form on my lips, the baby tugs my sleeve. ‘Please, get me out of here.’

We veer left toward a lone illuminated shop where a few shopkeepers seem alive, then dart right to the bus stop. A double-decker has just left, its windows aglow with passengers we envy.

The next one soon arrives. The baby scrambles aboard first, clutching my wallet. She hands it back as I face the driver. I search every pocket and find my thousand yuan gone. I stand petrified under the driver’s glaring eyes.

Then the alarm blares, loud enough to drive me out of that hell-bus and land me back in the bright, dull dawn of the waking world.

I wondered what happened to the baby girl I adopted in the dream. Had she found a good household to be reborn into? Had she made it to the terminal?

I wished I hadn’t wound the alarm. There was a dark charm lurking in that deceased world. It felt like a rehearsal—to have been there before I actually go there.

I sat up in bed and spat on the floor. A baby in a dream signals a petty schemer lurking in the real world. 

‘Spit to dispel!’ my mother taught me when I was little.

About the author 

Lingjuan Fan is a scholar and teacher whose writing has appeared in Life Writing, The Translator, Translation Studies, and elsewhere. She lives near the Canton Tower in Guangzhou, China. 

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Natural Beauty by BJ Thoray, espresso

 

A glint of sun cut between the slats and caught Amanda in the eye. Woken by Vincenzo’s operatic snoring, she sat up and smoothed her dress. Vincenzo, unsurprisingly a blanket hog, had the covers pulled all around him. He’d been far drunker than she, quite blotto actually when they’d first met, and she wondered if she should wake him.

She picked up her phone, opened that app and checked yesterday’s big post. There he was – Bret Tuck. Instantly, she was back in her childhood bedroom, the movie theatre with friends as a teenager, just back a few people behind the barricade between people like her and the red carpet. If she’d gotten there half an hour early, she could’ve gotten a selfie.

Vincenzo’s snoring popped and he startled himself awake. He sat up, glanced around manically, then fell back to bed.

Surely, he wouldn’t mind if she took a peek at the balcony. Maybe even had a cigarette off it. After all, last night he wouldn’t shut up about his room and how much she’d like it. For both of them, it’d been the perfect end to two amazing, and very different days. She stood up went to the balcony door that was gently tapping the frame.

It took her a minute, but she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

 

“What’d you say? We need a fourth to split it,” Tomas her flatmate’s friend’s boyfriend explained.

Amanda was doing a semester in London. Her fellow Yank and flatmate Laura had a cousin who had a friend who “was a fellow cinephile” Laura just had to meet. Sofia and her boyfriend met them for drinks before a movie, and about a month later, mentioned that they were planning on attending a film festival on the continent.

“Well, an island. Of the continent, not the city. Our friends were planning to join, but they had to back out because of work, and we’re looking for someone to split the accommodation,” Tomas said.

Amanda still hadn’t seen much of Europe between classes, which were harder than she expected, and the partying, which went harder than she’d anticipated. This was killing two birds with one stone, and even the late August heat – drenching everything with sweat – couldn’t damper the wonder as they caught the public water taxi to the canal-strewn neighbourhood to their (relatively) cheap rental, which was muggy and musty and seemingly always under attack by mosquitos.

The next day the four of them grabbed a coffee and a public water taxi and made their way to the makeshift plaza where the festival was held every year.

“Oh my god, who is that?” Amanda asked as they walked past the red carpet on their way to some arty indie.

“I’m not sure. I think a Spanish film is having its premier, so it’s probably not be anyone we know,” Tomas shrugged. “The day after tomorrow’s the crazy day.”

Amanda couldn’t see the actual red carpet, except on the huge screens posted above like billboards that showed the action. The carpet walkway was cordoned off and surrounded by paparazzi and press lined against the barrier. On the other side of the barrier were the fans mobbing and crowding on tip toes with phones aloft desperately snapping. Most of them looked young, barely old enough to drink, even in Italy. People loitering on the stretch with the main red carpet tended to fall into two camps: those camping out and dressed for the long haul and those who were immaculately dressed as if they were celebrities.

“What’s happening the day after tomorrow?” Sofia asked.

“Bret Tuck and George Pitner’s new movie is premiering, so they’ll be here.”

“I didn’t know Bret Tuck was going to be here. He’s gorgeous,” Amanda said.

“Yeah, apparently the film’s shit,” Tomas said, “but the festival needs star power.” He pulled out his phone. “Oof, we’ve gotta hoof it if we’re going to get to the showing on time.”

It was during the next day that Amanda started thinking of the logistics.

“How early do you think I’d have to get there to get a picture of Bret Tuck?” she asked Tomas.

“Hmmm…I’m not sure. I’m not really a celebrity person. Maybe an hour?”

The premier of Bret Tuck’s new movie would be in the middle of their nightly double bill.

A woman who looked like a model in impeccable makeup and a glittering, revealing dress walked by.

“What’s with all the fancy dress people walking around?” Amanda said misusing the Britishism. “Are they famous?”

Yet another young woman, probably not even in her twenties, swung past. A pack of similar girls, aspiring to the glitz but lacking the grace then passed.

“I think people just do that here,” Sofia said. “I guess it’s something to do if you’re a local. Maybe they’re trying to get noticed. Or meet a movie star. Some of them are probably publicists and influencers.”

The next day, she went to the afternoon screening then excused herself.

“Good luck,” Tomas said.

“We’re let you know how the movies are,” Sofia added.

She left the plaza, went to a café near the main drag, and then went into the bathroom and changed into the sexiest dress she’d brought, a tasteful, summery cocktail dress, did her makeup, and put her hair up. She’d planned on a nerdy, beachy holiday – great for the socials but maybe not up to snuff when all of the locals looked like models.

She got their fifteen minutes before the premier began and was able to jostle her way through. She keyed up her phone, set the filter, and hovered her finger over the record button. Evening was approaching, but the sun hadn’t yet set, and a stale heat was still lingering. She was grateful for the sea breeze wafting over. Then cars starting pulling up, and the crowd gasped cautiously in unison. Car doors opened to nothing but polite applause. Then the crowd roared. Record.

It was him. His hair was long. The magnificence of his genes was on full display in a fitted tux that screamed elegance. He turned to the crowd behind the barricade, smiled, and waved. The crowd went wild, but Amanda kept steady while smiling broadly. He went to the barricade and started taking selfies with the people closest. Amanda beamed. A publicist came up to him, touched his arm, and motioned inside. He took one last selfie, waved goodbye, and went inside.

She was planning on joining her friends at the theatre, but the movie would still be playing. She composed her caption and hit post on the video. The sun was setting. She went to the lounge sponsored by the aperitivo maker and ordered a drink at the bar. When she’d finished, there was still time to kill, so she ordered another.

“Quale film è qui per promuovere?” Vincenzo asked sidling up to her.

 

Bret Tuck shirtless, right there, three balconies away. Sure, she’d been closer last night, but not with a view this unobstructed. His bottoms were slung low, sweetly plain, with the V of his torso partially visible. She squeaked, but he didn’t look over.

Then what happened shocked her. He reached his hand to his face, extended his index finger, stuck it into his nose, and started ferreting around. Amanda didn’t know why, but she put down the pack of cigarettes and took out her phone. She tried to move quickly but quietly, but he was clearly in no rush. She snapped one with it in there. Just as soon as she had, he pulled his finger out and stared at a medium-sized booger. Amanda saw the minor clump of green and gave it features. Perhaps it had a hair on it. Maybe flecks of brown or puss yellow. Bret scraped his finger on the balcony then went back into the room. Amanda waited for several minutes then had a cigarette, hoping the smell would lure him outside. Alas, he was gone.

She went back in. Vincenzo was stirring awake.

“Ah, still here,” he said rubbing his eyes. “Take my number. If you want.”

Once she was in the hall, she three doors over. She quietly walked down. The door was ajar. She glimpsed into it. She briefly thought…but no. No mad dash.

“Ha bisogno di qualcosa, signorina? Qual è la sua stanza?” a voice thundered from the down the hall. It looked a maid. She was practically shouting. “Se c'è un problema, me lo dica!”

Maybe she could tell Amanda wasn’t a guest. Besides, it was a windy day. The thing probably wouldn’t be there anymore.

By the time she got back to her group, her post was doing a fair bit of business, at least for her circles.

“That’s so cool,” Laura said. “I can’t believe you got to party with the publicists! Did you see anyone famous?”

At first, Amanda said nothing about the booger. “He kept pointing people out, but I don’t think I knew them. I think he thought I was in the biz.”

“That’s crazy. Today’s gonna be boring compared to that,” Tomas said.

She took a shower and, since the water pressure was off, brought her hair brush for good measure. Drying off and applying her skin cream, she looked at the booger photo. She didn’t think he’d want it out there, and she wasn’t that kind of person. Revelling in someone’s private moment for their own attention. So, she simply atted him.

“@brettuckofficial, can you get in touch? got something you want!”

As soon as she sent it, she unsent it. He must get messages like this all the time. Besides, he probably has a team she’d have to go through. She went back to his account and hit the message button.

“Hi Team Bret. I think I have something you’d be interested in…”

She deleted the last sentence. What did she actually want here? She thought for a minute.

“Hi Team Bret. Just wanted you to know I happened to snap this cute photo…”

She paused.

“…obvi I’d never post...”

The knives came out.

“…but maybe if Bret’s still around, we could do a quick photo.”

After the first movie, she checked her messages and found nothing. Someone had seen the message, that much was clear.

“Hey Team Bret. I get if Bret’s not around anymore, but maybe he could just send me a personal dm.”

Seen instantly. No response.

She went into the next movie. After fifteen minutes, she opened her bag, squeezed her phone, and looked for any notification. A light hovered over her. The usher was shining a light to shame her. They really don’t fuck around here, she thought. She sat back and watched the rest of the movie. Focusing on something else for the first time that day, she lost herself.

Once the movie was over, they convened outside.

“I thought it was amazing,” Sofia said. “The woman who played the mother was great.”

“Yeah,” Tomas said. “The whole thing caught me by surprise. Did you like it?”

“Yeah, it was really good,” Laura said. “Panda?”

“I thought it was really good,” Amanda said. She paused. “It was just so real.”

“It’s not a documentary,” Tomas said.

“No, I know, yeah,” Amanda said. She reached for her phone.

It was only after the last movie when they were heading home and there’d still been no response, that Amanda had an idea.

In the morning, she DMed Bump Daily. The response came after the group’s first cappuccino.

“Hi TeamBret,” she typed. “Got an offer. No hard feelings.”

Once it went live on Bump Daily, she posted her own version and took questions from the caption throughout the day.

“@katwheel yeah he did finish. wiped it on the wall”.

“omg this is [link]”.

Amanda was taken to what seemed to be an Italian or European version of eBay. Once it came through the translator, she realized what it was, or supposed to be. She instantly thought of the maid who’d scared her out of the hall.

After they got out of the first movie, she checked her phone. It had sold for €5,000.

She checked again during the early dinner before the evening double bill. It looked like the booger had made it to eBay.

During the break between the two movies, she saw that it was now going for upwards of $7,500.

By the end of the second movie, as they were queuing for the water taxi back to their accommodation, a George Pitner booger had found its way to the bidders.

“Fresh from Toronto! Still slimy!” the description read.

The next morning, a cease-and-desist order had stopped the Pitner sale, but a new one (“super crusty”) was now on the market. While Tomas and Sofia would stay on for a couple more days, this was Laura and Amanda’s last day.

As they sat down for their last dinner together, Amanda felt compelled to speak.

“Let me pay for this one,” she said.

“You really don’t have to do that,” Sofia said.

“No, I want to,” she said.

“Really, it’s okay,” Tomas said.

“No, please,” she scolded. The three stirred in discomfort. She saw them exchanging shifty looks. “I…I can explain.”

“Hmmm…” Tomas began after she’d explained where her dinner money came from. “I kinda wish you explained when we weren’t thinking of food. But that is hilarious.”

“Dinner’s on you,” Sofia said.

Laura was rapt on her phone. “Have you checked MarketMarket?” she asked Amanda finally.

“No. Why?”

Laura held out her phone and saw a slew of celebrity-alleged boogers, eye crust, and lip skin on sale.

“Do you think any of it’s real?”

“Check out this one!” Sofia said handing her phone over.

Kis Kimiyian, super influencer, was now hawking her nose fruit in neon-tinged vials.

“What a mad world,” Tomas said laughing.

The double bill was a strange one. The first one, a highly anticipated work by an auteur, hit them all differently. Amanda and Sofia thought it was okay – good themes, sumptuously thought – Laura thought it was disappointing, and Tomas thought it was outright bad. The second one, by a local filmmaker none had heard of, was beautiful and good, but also patient, static, slow.

On the ride home, Amanda sat in the outside area of the public water taxi and watched the island fade from view. She thought she could espy the hotel where it all went down, but she couldn’t be sure. As they sped through the canal, she saw a rustic looking building with a party in full swing on the roof, with a projector and strobe and only the outlines of impossibly beautiful people swaying in clothes that were impossibly elegant and soft. A private, smaller taxi sped by, and her boat splashed into its tiny wake. A glop of water plopped up and splashed her. She felt the salt on her face wriggle into her pores.

About the author

 BJ Thoray is a writer/editor active in the nonprofit space. BJ’s publication credits include The Aesthete, Forum, Rundelania!, Black Cat Press, Mobile Data Mag, Prosetrics, and Kosmos Obscura. Originally from California, BJ is currently based in Belgium, less for the waffles, more for the surrealism. More work:  https://linktr.ee/bjthoray 

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.)

An Extra Gift, by Dave Dempster, espresso

It all began when John was 8. He was hiding in a cupboard, motionless and silent, when

the door opened. His father looked straight ahead at him, but then swore and slammed the

cupboard door shut. John was spared another beating that day.

An only child, John came to learn later in life that his dad was an alcoholic and John had

come off lightly compared to his abused mother. Thankfully, things looked up when John’s

dad left home to start a jail term long enough to give John and his mother the chance of a new

life elsewhere. And so, they came to Norwich, far away from their old and dismally violent

connections with Glasgow.

                                                                  

11-year-old John was in the primary school playground one day, when he saw trouble

heading in his direction. He hadn’t meant to cross Brown. He wouldn’t be so silly when

Brown was much bigger and stronger. John was only too aware of Brown’s reputation as a

schoolboy who often answered with his fists. Brown was regularly disciplined at school but

that was no consolation and no help in the here and now. John ran. He tried to get round to

the far end of the building but just wasn’t quick enough. He backed into a wall as Brown

advanced. There was no escape. Brown was a mere two metres away when he had a double-

take. He shook his head looking perplexed, turned round and walked away. It was just

extraordinary. Didn’t make sense at all. Luckily for John, the following day was the very last

day of the school term. Brown would not be sharing the same secondary school.

                                                                  #

The fair was in a field just to the north of the city boundary. “Let’s try it for a laugh” He

may have been christened Michael, but he was always ‘Mike the Fist’ as far as John was

concerned. That punch which flattened the worst school bully had earned Mike fame

throughout the whole secondary school. At 17, and nearly a full year younger than his hero,

John felt fortunate to have Mike as his friend and protector. Together they went inside the

tent, eager to learn what the future held for them.

The fortune teller was an elderly woman with what seemed to be two multicoloured

scarves around her head. The table was covered in a tattered ex-billiard tablecloth, or so

it appeared to the two lads. She promised Mike a wealthy career and long life. When John

sat down and laid his hands on the table, as instructed, the woman suddenly looked as if she

had seen a ghost. She moved forward and grabbed John’s hands. “Take care. Take care. It’s

a precious gift. You must take care.” John was stunned. Mike intervened, asking the obvious

question. “I can’t say. I must not say. You must discover for yourself,” came the perplexing

reply.

The boys were polite enough to leave without making a fuss. “Bet she says that to every

second customer, hoping for return visits,” Mike suggested cynically. Mike knows a lot more

than me, so he’s probably right, thought John, although he wasn’t entirely convinced.

                                                                   

Only a few weeks later in 2000 the two friends saw the newly released film ‘Hollow Man’

in a local cinema. Clever Mike had managed to arrange for John’s admission, even though

he was still only 17. “Wow. Fantastic power, being invisible” commented Mike, as they

exited. John agreed excitedly and began to ponder to himself.

John didn’t say anything to his best friend in the days which followed – Mike would only

have laughed at him. It was ridiculous to contemplate. Nonetheless, he started to wonder

seriously if there was a link between that time his drunken dad didn’t see him in the

cupboard, and the lucky escape from Brown in the school playground.

If there was a connection, what could it be? John took the small vanity mirror from his

mother’s room, making sure he was not discovered. He stared ahead, in the privacy of his

own room. There was no magic here. He could see his reflection as plain as day. Then he

remembered what his Uncle Richard had given him for his 6^th birthday. Not the toy, but the

extra present. Uncle Richard had always been kind to John, who treasured the little extra.

When his uncle asked John to keep it a secret, he was happy to do so. Made it feel important,

 especially as Uncle Richard told young John it was very special.

The old key didn’t look like much, but it meant a lot to John. He never lost sight of the

key. John reached into his pocket and felt for the key. He looked in the mirror. He wasn’t

there!! Nothing at all – even his clothes had disappeared.

Numerous experiments followed. John didn’t trust anyone with his secret, not even his

best friend Mike, far less his mother. He knew that once the cat was out of the bag his new

power would be shared, if not taken away from him altogether. He couldn’t allow that to

happen. John had to find out exactly how the key worked. How long did it work for? How

exactly was it switched on, and how exactly was it switched off? Did it always mask what

John was wearing, even the shoes?

It took John nearly three weeks to find answers to all his questions about the magical key.

He survived one awkward moment when his mother returned home unexpectedly. A close

shave, but his secret remained secure. John was confident that he could work the key at will.

When his skin touched the key his invisibility was assured, until he touched the key again.

The key would not work if John wore a glove. That knowledge led John to keep the precious

key in a safe place by using gloves. His mother knew the house like the back of her hand but

John was certain that the key was safe at the back of the top of his wardrobe.

For John, the next step was to decide how the key could help him. He wanted money. He

loved fast cars. He dreamed of having his favourite, an Aston Martin! But how would he get

the money, and how would he explain how he came by the money? Being found out was the

last thing he wanted. At first John thought that a bank robbery would be ideal. He would have

to use a disguise to make the teller believe his threat. His special power would be particularly

helpful in assisting his getaway and would give ample time to successfully dispose of the

disguise and clothes used in the robbery. However, John’s wariness of a bank dye pack

ruining the money put paid to that idea.

In the end John planned to rob a rich, elderly lady who lived nearby. If it worked out he

would consider more ambitious ventures. The lady clearly had a lot of money. She lived

alone in a large house without the protection of a guard dog. John had done his homework.

 

The lady did have an iron front gate. Entry could only be gained by way of an intercom.

John would use a false accent. The lady never went out, so far as John could tell. He was sure

a lady of that age would keep valuables at home. Looked like a promising target.

John bided his time. He wanted to get it right. He had to get it right. When he was sure he

had minimised the risk, he went into action. There was no difficulty in reaching the front

door. As it began to open John touched his key and went past the old lady unseen. When she

closed the door after some hesitation, John made his threat in the same false accent – “Just

give me your money and you won’t get hurt.” Disaster struck. The old lady gasped in shock

and collapsed. Her head hit the wooden floor awkwardly. She didn’t move. John bent down.

He didn’t want to touch his victim and leave his DNA behind. He couldn’t detect any sign of

life. In his panic John glanced at an old-style phone sitting in the hallway, but he didn’t dare

use it, for fear of leaving his fingerprints behind. Besides, the poor old lady was beyond help.

As he had planned, John was able to close the front door behind him, using a small

wooden wedge under the handle as leverage. He had been careful to take the wedge from his

right trouser pocket, staying well clear of the key in his left. John could feel sweat gathering

under his shirt. The same procedure applied at the garden gate. As it clicked shut behind him

the noise caught the attention of a man walking on the opposite pavement. The man stopped

walking and looked towards the gate. John froze instinctively. Was he really invisible? The

man seemed to hesitate for an eternity, before continuing to walk away. John took a deep

breath of relief.

   When he reached the safety of his home John reflected on the whole miserable episode.

He replayed in his head over and over to reassure himself that the Police would not think that

anything suspicious had occurred. After all, nothing had been stolen and no damage had

been done. The old lady simply had a heart attack. What else would anyone think? He felt

sorry for the old lady but it was accidental and unintended. Then he checked on the computer.

Causing an unintended death during a burglary? Felony murder! God, no.

John was racked with guilt. What had he done? Sleepless, or mostly sleepless, nights

followed. He still couldn’t dismiss the fear that somehow the Police would find him out.

 

Then, about a month later, there was a story in the local press about the isolation of elderly

people in the community. It was reported that the old lady had no-one watching out for her

and she ‘had died in the loneliness of her home weeks earlier’, or words to that effect. John

knew then for sure that his crime had not been detected but he felt even worse about what he

had done.

Could John make amends somehow? Could he use the key to help others in some way? He

remembered how the key had saved him twice. He also remembered how well he had

prepared for the burglary and look what happened there!

                                                                     #

 John had the key with him. He wasn’t sure why. It was as if he was being directed. He

was wandering, it seemed aimlessly, when he came across a church. Hardly surprising, with

Norwich bulging at the seams with churches. John was not religious. The last time he

ventured inside a church was years earlier when he attended Uncle Richard’s funeral service.

The open door beckoned to him, and he moved slowly inside, taking a seat close to the

door instinctively, in case his entry was unwelcome. The place was deserted. He bowed his

head and closed his eyes. The silence swept over him. It was inexplicable. After only a few

minutes he felt astonishingly refreshed. He now had resolve - he knew exactly what he had

to do.

Making his way quickly, as if moving more slowly would weaken his determination, he

walked along the streets. At last, he could see the River Wensum, partly hidden by bushes on

the near side. There was no-one around. Anonymity encouraged him. But as he came closer,

John felt temptation. It was tangible. Very real. Carefully using a glove from his right

pocket, he removed the key from his left. He looked down at the key, which had drenched

him in so many emotions - joy, ambition, greed, guilt, despair. He threw the key into the

middle of the water and saw it sink.

    The overwhelming sense of freedom never left him.

About the author

Dave Dempster is a retired lawyer and aspiring writer living in Norwich,UK. His work can be read, or is to be read, in two of the Crimeucopia anthologies, as well as online in Jonah, CafeLit and East of the Web.

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Temple of Love, by Emma Ainley, espresso

 Victor always watched.

            Some called him a guardian angel. Some called him a stalker. No nickname stopped him from hovering above proceedings from his throne, almost out of view. Those familiar with him struggled to ignore him as he watched them; the naïve didn’t notice him.

            The desert outside was too hot to accommodate everyday life events, let alone cultivate romance. Victor knew from his past relationships that lovers needed somewhere to spend time together. After his love life dissolved, he refurbished a temple and established it as a home for romance, for all explorers. As the man who spread the legend of the ‘temple of love’ he watched all romantic proceedings in his new home.

He offered advice. He set up new couples. He watched new couples take in the building’s history. He watched newly single guests plead as their lover left the temple. He’d seen plenty of arguments and reconciliations. It was not enough to repair his love life, but it was fascinating to view different lives.

            Arturo and Katia, who were not lovers but instead new acquaintances, rushed into the temple during a storm. Arturo laughed at how drenched they were. Katia scanned her surroundings. When her face rotated, Victor cursed his spectator’s position.

            ‘Looks like this is the temple of love,’ Arturo commented.

            ‘Are you sure? Where are all the tourists, then?’ Katia said.

            ‘It’s a bit out of the way. I guess people are exhausted by the time they get here. Anyway, I’m gonna explore this place.’

            ‘All right, I’ll meet up with you later.’

            When Arturo disappeared, Victor slipped out of his chair. The rustling of this motion, followed by Victor’s footsteps down the ladder, couldn’t be heard over Arturo running. Katia explored the central room – the brightest thanks to the wide doorway behind her. She ran her hands along the carvings on every pillar.

            ‘Welcome to the temple of love,’ Victor announced, stepping in front of Katia.

            ‘Are you the owner of this place?’ Katia said.

            ‘Yep. Don’t worry, you can stay for free. I might charge that man though.’

            ‘Why don’t you charge all your guests? You’d make a fortune.’

            Victor chuckled. ‘I’d take love over gold any day. I’m happy to watch over couples usually.’

            Katia said nothing, instead staring at him.

            ‘We need love,’ Victor said. ‘We need something to look forward to in life. Something that motivates us. Animals simply seek to survive and continue their species… but we humans experience much deeper emotions.’

            ‘I won’t argue with that, but why here, in this desert? There’s no shelter nearby. People are only thinking about getting out of the sun.’

            ‘Not true, I assure you. You’ve got a lover to stay here with.’

            ‘I’ve just met Arturo,’ Katia said, frowning.

            ‘Oh. Good.’

            ‘I’m sorry?’

            ‘The name’s Victor. I’ve seen plenty of lovers here, but I’ve never found the one for me.’ Victor held out his hand. ‘Let me ask you, Miss—’

            ‘I’m Katia,’ she said, ‘and I’ve just met you. No. I won’t go on a date with someone I’ve just met.’

            ‘Maybe not,’ Victor said, ‘but would you get to know me first?’

            ‘Not if I have to stay here. Arturo and I are leaving tomorrow. We’re both from Aberdeen, and we’re travelling back together.’

            ‘If I left the temple, would you consider it?’

            Katia shot an unimpressed look at him before leaving the temple. Victor didn’t move. Arturo, rambling about the temple’s history, rushed back outside, not noticing Victor.

            ‘Do you think the so-called “Guardian of Love” was watching us, ready to set us up?’ Arturo teased.

            ‘He met up with me. He’s just desperate for a lover, that’s all,’ Katia muttered.

            ‘Hey, really?’

            ‘Yep, and he asked me out. The temple’s weird, and so is he. Let’s go home.’

            From what Katia heard after leaving, Victor remained in the temple, but as more of a landlord than a guardian. She never heard anything else about Victor, even as Arturo and she continued travelling, or after she married Arturo.

About the author

Born in Scotland, Emma Ainley is a student who is studying creative writing and the English language. She usually writes fantasy and speculative fiction – novels and short stories. She has her own website at thebookstartsnow.com

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