
White City Wordsmiths

Volume III
WHITE CITY WORDSMITHS: VOLUME III  
The Third Anthology of Prose and Poetry

Anthology © 2017

All rights reserved in all media. All of the works in this anthology belong to the respective artists, who are the copyright holders for their individual works.

No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, including but not limited to scanning, photocopy, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is an anthology of several pieces of fiction. All names, characters, locales, and incidents are products of several authors' imaginations and any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental or fictionalized.

This work is non-profit.

This anthology is a product of the White City Wordsmiths creative writing workshop, an initiative of the Balkan Writers Project.

Contact: contact@balkanwritersproject.com
_Workshop leader:_  
Jelena Petrović

_Editor-in-c_ _hief:_  
Vera Novković

_Editorial team:_  
Isidora Alimpić

Anja Paspalj

Uroš Stanimirović

Anđela Vidojević

_Book design by_ :  
Katarina Šotić

_Cover design by:_ _  
_Snežana Tričković

_Assistant designer:_ _  
_Ana Nikolić

_Print and bind:_  
Grafički atelje Sanja, Beograd
White City  
Wordsmiths Volume III

THE THIRD ANTHOLOGY  
OF PROSE AND POETRY
TABLE OF CONTENTS

 Jelena Petrović: Foreword

 Jelena Petrović: Where to Now?

Ctrl + S

Yet Again

Anja Paspalj: Taverna

Uroš Stanimirović: Cutting the Strings

Anđela Vidojević: The Hashtag Bluez

 Luka

 All Things Redundant

Isidora Alimpić: A Flicker

Marko Radulović: The Sounds of Silence

Ana Nikolić: Poem from a Camp

▼

 LIAR

Milica Popović: Basic Mistake

Luka Novković: A Quest

Adriana Rewald: Hollywood Rain*

 The Training Wall

 Black Beetle

Aleksandra Maravić: Fairy Tale Gone Bad

Vera Novković: Extra

The Wordsmiths: Acknowledgements

# FOREWORD

When our originator Nathan William Meyer started this whole thing back in 2014, I, for one, couldn't have imagined this kind of plot twist. It all began with his ingenuous question: "Hey, does anybody here like to write in their free time?" Of course we did. Everything went on from there.

Two years later, I realize I am no longer just a member of the White City Wordsmiths; I became the workshop leader. As much as I enjoyed the idea of being given such an honorable title, with great power comes great responsibility, so I was just a tad afraid of not living up to the great expectations my friends and colleagues had. Fortunately, I managed to power through the fear because I had the opportunity to cooperate with extraordinary people, each of them appreciative, intelligent and creative in their own way (what's a creative writing workshop without the vastness of diversity?). We published a call for participation in the third workshop (2016/17) and were lucky enough to get some new, wondrous minds as participants. The old and the new faces merged into one giant blob of artistry that somewhere along the way became hardly severable. We had our meetings in Beograđanka, where I conducted creative writing lessons and monitored members of the workshop giving each other constructive feedback and then we'd rage and pillage through the Belgrade coffee places after hours, getting to know each other and musing further on what each of our writing pieces had to offer. And each had to offer a lot.

This is our third book, and yet the amazement and the passion with which we seem to be accomplishing all our missions do not falter. We march on into the unknown, with our pens and papers and laptops and our minds, relying on nothing but sheer love we all bear for writing. If this is our fuel, it's no wonder we have got this far.

Jelena Petrović

White City Wordsmiths Project Leader

(Belgrade, 2016-2017)
JELENA PETROVIĆ

I find myself to be a place.

A place 'where the actual and the imaginary meet'. A place where I go to listen to metal music, the only one that helps me find peace. Where I go to read books and breathe (both of which I do painfully slowly). Where I go to 'sit down and bleed out' on the paper and maybe get a chance to write something down.

I am made of fire and water. Also, my birthday is in December.

# Where to Now?

Raise your glass

In the name of everything

That's sunk beneath the surface.

Raise your glass

To honor the fact

That you would swallow the embers

Of your victory

Only to destroy the evidence

Only to make it less significant

Because we all know how hard it is to be wrong.

Raise your glass

To all kinds of memories

That seeped through your skin

As you were sliding further into chaos.

Raise your glass

To all the dry lips

And the dry walls

And to the passing of time.

So reckless of you to think you can ever change that.

Raise your glass

To all the closed windows

And all the closed doors

And all the times you were forgetful

Of how it hurts to be wrong.

Raise your glass

For what the future might bring

For all that might resurface

And break your precious hourglass.

The soul remembers.

Avoid eye contact.

Propose a toast

To all the damned

Breathing down your neck

Begging for more time

Demanding resolve.

Propose a toast

To the dreams you renounced

To the vetoed places and names and people.

Leave it all deep in slumber.

Propose a toast

To you and your shadow

To sanity, to apathy

To the mantle that you wear when you pretend to be God.

Propose a toast

To the wounded

To their scars, to their lost battles

To their broken hands

Shattered worlds.

Propose a toast

To your kith and kin

To all that deem your desperate orders

Dangerously unpredictive.

Thank them; they still pay you reverence.

Propose a toast

To the insignificant.

Their pleas are the loudest.

This is where they all belong.

There are no remedies

For their lifelong regret.

Raise your glass and drown in sin.

Propose a toast and hope to win.

We're gathered here and we will bow.

We pray for forgiveness – where to now?

# Ctrl + S

undo. _forget._

refresh. _breathe in._

close. _good riddance._

repeat. _i'm afraid._

print. _spit it out._

undo. _step back._

clear formatting. _please help me._

insert footnote. _look closer._

underline. _emphasize me._

Change case. _Come clean._

Do you want to save the changes to Document1?

Undo. _Pretend._

Undo. _Repent._

I'm sorry.

I can't.

Alt + F4

# Yet Again

Tell me now,

Tell me right away,

Is it worth a thousand punches?

Is it worth a thousand hopes

For a thousand more smiles

And better tomorrows?

Tell me how,

Tell me right away,

How am I supposed to go there alone

Again?

Is today the day

When you brace yourself

And face yourself

As you drink your morning coffee

With the meds on the side?

How many more breakdowns

Instead of good mornings

To get your money's worth?

Do we need to pay for the tears too

Or do we get a discount for being regulars?

Your will to live is on the ropes.

As we successfully overlook

The looks that we get each day,

Are you also just seemingly oblivious

Of the whispers?

No one died of shame yet.

How many more miles

Until we get to the promised land

Of peace and quiet?

Every relapse is a surprise party

And you never want me around

Long enough to meet the clown.

But honey

Somebody has to pay the guy

After the laughter dies down

And the bounce house deflates

And all the balloons are popped

After all the tears dry up

And the piñata's insides are consumed

And all you're left with

Is the mess.

Every show of emotion is considered havoc,

But you have to know your audience.

Does the applause come with a price

Or with the package?

Tell me now,

Tell me straight away,

How many more times will you

Shamelessly reject the advice,

Hopelessly move on with your life

And silently wish for a quick end?

I can assure you,

No such thing is in sight

Since you missed our appointment

Yet again.
ANJA PASPALJ

Finding herself all too often thinking of David Sedaris when he said: _It is funny the things that run through your mind when you're sitting in your underpants in front of a pair of strangers_.

# Taverna

THE DRIVE TOOK AGES – or it felt like it did. Although it may very well have been the fact that I kept thinking about how I should deal with this impending migraine I was about to get because I was sick while on summer vacation or that I kept thinking about possible excuses for escaping dinner early if it got too boring or that I kept thinking about how I had a problem with too much thinking and how does one even stop themselves from thinking _or_ (most probably), the fact that all the twists and turns of the sullen and unlit roads were making me want to blow chunks before we even got to dinner. The approaching awkwardness of a dinner with people you haven't seen in years and that you do not quite know anymore lingered.

On the other hand, I was told that the restaurant was the best on the island and I would have given anything for a good meal.

We drove up through the pitch black to a small square, nothing around but a traditional blue and white stone house and, of course, the restaurant. It was the only well-lit area of the square. The bright orange wall of the entrance and dimmed lantern lights illuminated the small, wooden tables that were randomly scattered about outside. As we got out of the car, I looked at our friend, the Captain. His hair was still salty from the day's work, slightly graying at the tips from age. I looked down and, for the first time since the drive over, noticed he was barefoot.

"Where are your shoes?" I inquired, puzzled. Who in their right mind goes to dinner without _shoes_?

"Oh," he looked down. "I must have forgotten them on the boat," he smiled and walked across the square and into the restaurant.

Back home you would not dare to make such a 'bold' move for fear of being secretly looked down upon or judged. Back home, this would be a revolutionary act. _Here_ , this was part of the peace of everyday life. Most people hadn't so much as looked up from their plates as he passed by barefoot, and the few that did merely gave a small smile and returned to their dinner.

I never noticed these things as a child, even though I came here every summer and spent every single day with these same people. Of course, then I was barely in the double-digits and my soon to be dinner companions are decades older – friends of my parents. I grew up with them. The Captain would teach us kids how to pick sea urchins by hand from the water, dry them out in the sun, then pry the top off with a knife. Then we would all march them over to our parents, proud of handling what to us seemed to be dangerous creatures of the sea. Another friend, the Chef, a short and stout man, with a leathery tan from living out his days fishing on the open sea, would take us to the kitchen. After sprinkling a dash of spice on the inside of each sea urchin, he would give us some spoons, and set us on our merry way. We'd eat them on the beach, feeling victorious because of the 'grown-up' event that we had just been a part of, secretly hating the bitter taste.

A few other friends arrived soon after, as we were trying to make out how in God's name we were to pick between all the food that was offered. Of course, in the popular Greek style, we decided to order a plate of each and a few bottles of local wine to boot. It had been a long time – almost ten years actually – since I had last been to the island. While everyone still kept in touch, time had taken its toll. As I was often told, there was no specific reason for the lengthening distance between them. Some of the couples got divorced, my parents included. Some of the divorces were messy, so people drifted apart, feeling they had to pick sides. Some moved away: the Chef for instance. But a few stayed and kept coming back every summer.

I was not sure what had brought me back here this year. I had planned a different holiday, for myself, by myself, to a Greek island I had never been to before. Yet, in an unexpected turn of events, I ended up here. Again. This place had the comfort of familiarity. That comfort, however, eluded me as soon as I sat down with my parents' friends. They seemed smaller now – perhaps I was just bigger? They seemed less abstract, more human. I couldn't make out if they were becoming one of me or if I was becoming one of them.

"Do you want some wine?" one of them asked.

I nodded. As we all lifted our glasses to cheers, there was a moment of awkward hesitation. How odd it felt to be here. A sense of hereditary déjà vu, experiencing something I knew my parents had experienced so many times themselves. But this time it was only me.

"I can come with you, you know. If you want the company," my mother had suggested, as I booked my airplane tickets, but I had said no. I knew she needed to have her time alone after everything that had happened, just like I did.

As we chatted about their anecdotes from work and how their children were doing, about what I was studying at university and how I missed Greece but had grown to love Belgrade too, it occurred to me that these might still be the same people, if only a decade older. It was difficult to concentrate on the indistinct babble at the table, even though I was very much a part of it. Small talk had become a specialty lately, having to answer countless phone calls of "I'm so sorry, I heard from..." or "I'm sorry for your loss. If there's anything I can do to help..." or "I knew him very wel...l". My responses became robotic even though I knew everyone probably actually _did_ want to help. If I had to hear someone say "I'm sorry for your loss" one more time this month I'd have vomited all this food right up on the table where we were having dinner. I suppose the part that got me really was that, if the tables were turned, I know I'd be saying the same impersonal things to someone else. The realization that this topic would come up sooner or later during dinner was keeping me aloof. I knew what my answers were supposed to be but I was tired of giving any answers at all.

I tried to focus on being present. My mom is a nut for mindfulness and constantly badgers me to "be where I am"; unfortunately I have acquired my father's absent-headedness and it took all my efforts to actually notice the smell of the food and the breeze stirring the air. It took my forced concentration to pay attention to the people around me too. At first glance, they seemed exactly the same as they did ten years ago, but there were nuances. Aren't there always? My father's best friend's stubble had grayed and he had gotten another tattoo, I noticed. In fact, he had many more. Funny, the only one I remembered as a child was the one of the Tasmanian Devil he had on his shoulder. _Taz_ , we all called him. How did it escape my memory that he has a thick star-shaped outline on his elbow? Or the names of his son and daughter on his arm? His girlfriend, Izzy, looked the same, with the exception of deeper smile lines around her eyes. Ones that, for the first time this year, I noticed coming into the sides of my own eyes when I grinned. The Captain looked the same as well, with a bigger belly, but still barefoot, of course.

Between the five of us, we could not make out who had ordered what. Forks, spoons, and knives folded one into the other as we picked at each other's plates. Pasta with spinach and feta here, a bite of veal there, mashed potatoes with a variety of herbs, and the bottles of wine that were being replaced all too quickly. Polite facades began to peel away.

"How is your mom doing?" the Captain asked.

"Here we fucking go again," I thought. A sudden pang of guilt shot through me for thinking that way.

"I'm sorry for your loss. It's never easy," he said, with a kind smile on his face.

It had barely been a month and I suppose there is no great tragedy when someone dies at the age of 95, even if it is from cancer. But it had been difficult. My grandfather knew all of these people and they all remembered him clearly too. He was not an easy character to forget.

It was the first time I experienced a death of someone I was close to. My grandfather taught me to play chess. And he would tell me stories of his adventurous youth as I tried to nap in the afternoons; he kept doing that well into my late teens. He insisted on being freshly shaven and his hair perfectly combed before going on his daily walks. Someone that would jokingly tell me to put studying before boys and then, as I grew older, would not so jokingly adamantly repeat his advice. I mostly listened, sometimes.

He was a caricature of an old-fashioned grandfather, one I wouldn't change anything about. He was also a patriarch, one that demanded a certain meal cooked by grandma every single day. It frustrated her, sometimes all of us, but then he would up and surprise you and cook an amazing bean stew that only he knew how. I loved hearing the story of how he was showing off his war gun to my Dad, when Dad was still just Mom's boyfriend, when they were the age I am now, and the gun going off into the floor because of some remaining gunpowder that no one knew about. It barely missed my father's foot and there is still a bullet hole in the wooden floor of the dining room; it was never repaired. He drank _rakia_ every morning with his coffee till the day he died, persistently claiming he never got drunk.

As we sat there and talked about my grandfather, the taste of the food that had seemed so delicious until a second ago, was now lost on me. The warm, summer breeze suddenly felt prickly and uncomfortable against my skin. It still stung to talk about him; I suppose it would for some time. The memories of the things he used to tell me in passing were fond ones but the remembrance of hospital beds, the stench of urine, and the color of the last mushy hospital meal I tried to feed him were still too fresh.

"What a man!" Taz exclaimed with a grin, jerking me back into the present. "You know, he was quite the jealous one. Always looking out for your grandma in crowds. She was a beauty, I'm sure you've seen photos and he was always very careful. I'm sure the 20-year age gap didn't feed his ego."

I'd pretend to be surprised or caught off guard by the bluntness of his statement but I knew all this already. Their relationship was a complicated one, one I had heard about from my Mom many times. They got remarried a few months before he died. Technical reasons pushed them to do it, but I always suspected a loving part of them was happy about it. And of course I had seen photos. None from their wedding day, but many from summer vacations and country houses.

"Grandpa, where are your photos? The old ones?" I was there every week, sometimes more, and had recently been told that there was a box of old photos he kept. I wasn't sure whether to be insulted that I had never seen them, but then again, he is who he is, or he was who he was, and he would never tell you something until you asked him about it. I tried to ask a lot.

He stumbled off of the couch, grabbing onto his cane – way too shabby a cane for a man like him, I always thought – and opened a drawer in the living room bookcase. The box was not an antique, beautifully-engraved wooden box, like one would imagine. Instead, it was a _101 Dalmatians_ Disney plastic box, with the sides barely holding together. It was amusing; I'm sure that was my box from when I was little, who knows, but what a funny place to keep such beautifully elegant black-and-white photographs.

"It's okay, Mom's dealing, it's easier for the rest of us," I said. I kept trying to remind myself of that since he died. This pain was hers. It was easier for the rest of us. It was easier for the rest of us.

Izzy looked at me, "You can relax, you know? Death is death, it's shit however and whenever it happens." An acknowledgement. It felt good. She scooped more salad onto my plate and we kept eating.

The morning he died, I woke up in my room, the sun was shining. My eyes were barely open when I heard my Mom on the phone in the hallway.

"Yes, thank you," she said, solemnly. Then she started crying. When something is coming, when it chases you down so ferociously, and yet you try to beat away at it with a stick, you know when it's finally come and your weapon for self-defense has been thrown to the side. You just know. I stayed in bed for another hour, just staring at the ceiling. I could hear her making phone calls, notifying people, but I couldn't get up. So I stayed in bed.

It was a warm day. There was a breeze. Later that day, I would get an A on one of my exams. My ex-boyfriend would call me and we would talk on the phone for an hour, he would listen to me cry. I would walk my dog. I would finish reading _I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings_ for the second time. My best friend, on the other side of the world, would go to a party that night. My sister, also on the other side of the world, would go quiet when I told her on the phone. I would make Turkish coffee, I would eat toast for dinner.

These are the things that happened on the day my Grandfather died.

The Captain poured us all another glass of wine and we talked some more. This time, Taz told us about how his father died of Alzheimer's a few months ago, Izzy told me about how she wants to write but had to settle for the job of translator, and the Captain told us about how he has difficulty finding a partner, that he sometimes gets lonely. It was funny though, we laughed a lot, as you sometimes have to do when things aren't so easy.

"Here, look at this," I said. I hadn't shown anyone and was enthusiastic for someone to see. I opened my wallet and pulled out a small black and white photo. It was my grandfather almost 70 years ago, slouched in a large armchair. The photo was covered in a light shadow but his face was bright. He was looking down, dreamily. I had found this on the day we were looking through old photos and had kept it in my wallet since. The moment the photo was taken was surely ephemeral, you could feel it.

"Ah! A young James Dean!" announced Izzy.

I laughed. So did everyone else.

"Shall we? I have to get up early for a boat tour," said the Captain.

We quickly paid the bill and started gathering up our belongings, heading home. I realized my feet were cold as I stood up. I hadn't even noticed that through the course of the dinner my flats had slipped off and were laying on the ground, my bare feet perched on the sides of the chair I was sitting on. Have I been barefoot all dinner? I grabbed my flats and followed the group out of the restaurant.

The Captain turned around to look at me and caught sight of my bare feet. A wide grin spread across his face.

"Good. Good."
UROŠ STANIMIROVIĆ

I'm a man of simple needs... All I require is a castle somewhere in a god-forsaken forest, a loyal butler to do my chores, a grand library and my solitude... The last one being the most important. After all, writers aren't really known for their social skills.

# Cutting the Strings

I GRABBED A SHOVEL and a flashlight from the small wooden shed behind my house and rushed towards an old white pickup parked by the porch. I tossed them into the trunk and slammed it shut. Reclining in the ragged seat, I took a deep breath and checked my wristwatch − 1:17 AM. _Am I really going to go through with this? If I do, there is no turning back._

What I was about to do would completely tear apart what was left of my relationship with Father, so I was hesitant to start the car. Tilting my head, I noticed the dim light gleaming through the window of our house − he had fallen asleep in front of the TV again. Were it not for the fact that he was a heavy sleeper, me sneaking out like this would have gotten me kicked out of the house and forced to sleep locked in the stables. The thought of being surrounded by dozens of infuriating horse-flies next to a smoking pile of turd made me squirm in my seat... _Parenting techniques were never his strong suit._ However, it wasn't until Mother died that everything started going downhill. She used to be his voice of reason, but now, any attempt at reaching through to him felt hopeless.

A heavy sigh broke the silence as I reached for my pocket. I turned on the light as I squinted at the crumpled photograph I'd pulled out. Me and my love under an old oak tree at our favorite campsite. Behind us, carved in the bark, was a heart. _It's a shame I never finished it... never got the chance to add the initials._ With her, I felt truly happy. But that meant nothing to Father. He never understood our bond. _Is it the pain of his loss or his selfishness? I will never know. But that changes nothing._ Now that she was gone, all my days felt the same. Empty and bland, like there was a hole in my chest. A hole no friend could ever fill _._ _Father keeps telling me that I'm weak... and he is right. It runs in the family._ Neither of us could move on. __ The only difference was that I had a choice... And I made the wrong one − I see it now. He didn't want to accept me and my love, but I should have done something about it sooner.

***

About a year ago, Father called me in for a talk. It took me a split second to notice the gravity of his tone. I found him sitting at the kitchen table, anxiously tapping his fingers. Lucky, our Golden Retriever, was sprawled on the floor next to him. The moment I entered, the stench of liquor overwhelmed me. A regular occurrence ever since Mother had died. His weathered farmer hands were a testament to his success in life: during his years as the head of our household he managed to double our properties. His hair and his curved mustache were gradually going grey. The years took a toll on his figure as well − once a tall and muscular man now had his belly spilling over his belt. His wrinkled skin only contributed to his strict appearance. I braced myself for another one of his monologues. He always had the final say in every conversation, especially in this state. I had always rather avoided these kinds of situations, but this time I had no choice. He gestured for me to sit opposite him and I complied.

"What's the meanin' of this?"

"What do you mean, Father?"

"Ya bringin' this... _thing_ to my home. I thought we talked 'bout this."

"Father, please, don't call her that."

He jumped from his seat and clumsily propped himself up on the table. The effect alcohol had on him was immediately evident ‒ he had trouble standing. If it weren't for the table, he probably would have collapsed on the floor.

"Listen to me, boy. I'll call that thing how I want. This is my house and as long as ya live under my roof, ya follow my rules. Don't ya forget that."

I knew better than to argue with him, so I just muttered: "Yes."

"I was a fool for listening to your Mother and lettin' ya go to the big city. All of my toil, sweat and blood were for her and you. I'll be damned before I let ya throw away the future I built for ya," he spat on the kitchen floor with a disgusted grimace. "You're staying here with me and that's final."

"But Mother didn't think like that, and you know it! She knew that this kind of life wasn't for me. She would have supported my decision. She..."

He slammed his massive fist on the table, startling Lucky, who bolted through his doggy door.

"Don't bring yer mother into this, boy! We've talked 'bout this a thousand times already. Your place is here, in the field, with the cattle. Ya need to marry a decent woman who'll give ya a lot of children, instead of wastin' ya time with this twig ya call a she."

"Father, please. Calm down. I was thinking..."

"Ya weren't thinkin' nothin', dimwit! If ya were, we wouldn't be havin' this conversation. Listen to me carefully, now. Get rid of that thing."

"Her."

"Whatever. Get rid of her. She's bad influence. Got it?"

It was pointless. The outcome was as expected. He was too drunk to be reasoned with. I simply accepted defeat and nodded.

"Good. Glad we're clear."

I got up and stormed out of the kitchen. With Mother gone, the feeling of helplessness overwhelmed me. She used to bring out the best in him. But all that was left now was this empty husk of a man. A pathetic, selfish drunk... I really wanted to hate him, but for some unfathomable reason I couldn't. It might be because I thought he was better than this. But I could be wrong. Although, one thing was certain − he did love Mother dearly. Even though he had never entered a church, he had built a shrine in our house. In the corner of the living room, he placed a small wooden table he himself had carved, assembled and painted white. On it stood a framed photograph from their wedding. The people in it were smiling. She was beaming, and his lips were mildly curving upwards, uncomfortable in that position. But it wasn't fake, unlike the smiles he deigned to show me. Hidden behind that photo was another one. A smaller one − depicting a toddler laughing while being swooped through the air by the woman from the wedding. That one used to stand next to the bigger one, but he moved it when she died. Ever since then, he wouldn't even let me visit the city. He decided to imprison me here instead, so we would wither away together. I sat on the sofa and covered my face with my hands, when I heard the creaking noise of the doggy door, followed by jovial panting. In a matter of seconds, Lucky skipped across the room, jumped on me and gave me a slobbery hello. I stared at his hazel eyes while my hand glided through his golden fur, as soft as fleece. I chuckled, rolled him over and started scratching his stomach.

"That's a good boy. Yes, you are."

I grabbed a rubber bone and threw it. "Fetch!" Lucky raced across the room and, in a matter of seconds, returned with his trophy, proudly wagging his tail. I gave him a kiss on the head and went to the kitchen to find him a treat. His presence was a balm for the soul. He had been with me ever since I was a kid. When Mother brought him home, he was still just a puppy. Father wasn't too happy about us having a dog, but he could never say no to her. I, on the other hand, was ecstatic when we adopted him. Ever since then, we had been best buddies. I knew I could always count on him, even in the roughest of times. Like when Mother passed away... and even now.

***

I placed the photograph back in my pocket, firm in my decision. It was high time I took my life into my own hands. But first, there was one thing left to do. The old engine rumbled and the car set off.

After a half-hour drive, an empty gas tank made me take a detour towards the nearest gas station. As soon as I parked, a young man in blue overalls approached to take my order.

"Fill 'er up."

He just nodded and got straight to work. The night was quiet and that silence was agitating. The only sound that could be heard was the thudding of the gas hose against my car and the quiet rumbling of the fuel dispenser. I browsed through a bunch of CDs in my glove compartment and picked one. Soon the sound of Wagner's _Ride of the Valkyries_ enveloped me − my favorite piece. I reclined in my seat and closed my eyes. I always found its aggressive melody so solemn, yet soothing. Most people don't get it, but it always invoked the imagery of the life I dreamed of having. A life with my love. The two of us on a stage of a grand concert hall − always ready to impress the audience. This dream was the reason why I wanted to leave home in the first place. Even outside of my imaginary world, whenever we managed to get away from Father, she'd sing with her angelic voice. A melody so mesmerizing that it would have been able to captivate the attention of hundreds, even thousands, if given the opportunity. I had always believed that with all my heart. Father, however, didn't. He didn't want her ever crossing the threshold of our house to begin with. We hid from him for a long time, but eventually he did find out.

I let out a long sigh and clenched my fists. _It's all my fault._ _I shouldn't have let this happen. I should have been more careful._ I hated myself more than I did him. _If only Mother was here... None of this would have happened._

***

Around a week ago, when I was returning from the field, I saw Father standing on the porch, waiting for me. His sharp gaze was cutting through me like a blade. I swallowed the lump in my throat, hoping that my greatest fear hadn't come true. The all-too-familiar stench of alcohol could now be smelled from several feet away. As soon as I approached him, he staggered towards me and swung his bearlike hand, slapping me before I even managed to utter a single word, and began screaming: "How dare ya lie to me? I told ya to get rid of that poor excuse for a hobby! Did ya really think I wouldn't find out?" I could feel specks of his spit on my face. "Good for nothing piece of shit." His hand connected with my face with a sickening slap and made me lurch backwards. "Ya bringing shame to our family." He roared and pushed me, so I stumbled and fell down. Luckily, I cushioned the fall with my hands. "Yer no son of mine!"

Suddenly, a loud barking echoed through the yard as I saw Lucky sprinting around the corner of the house and towards Father. I immediately realized his intention and yelled: "Lucky, no!" but it was too late. In one swift leap, he was on top of my Father, who fell on the ground under his weight. I heard him curse in pain when Lucky bit the arm he had raised to protect his face. He grabbed Lucky by the neck and pushed him off. Lucky withdrew several steps, still barking furiously. His hazel eyes glowed with determination.

"Look what yer mongrel did to me!" Father roared as he got back on his feet, blood dripping down his arm. Lucky dashed towards him once again, but was this time met with my Father's boot. With a pained yelp, he crashed on the grass a few steps away.

"Stay down, you filthy mutt!" Father screamed as he kicked Lucky again.

I was back on my feet in the blink of an eye, charging towards them, eyes blazing. "Leave him alone," I cried as I tackled my Father, knocking him on the ground and away from Lucky, before rushing to where my friend was panting in pain. I placed his head in my lap, took it with both my hands and whispered in his ear: "Stay strong, boy. You're gonna be fine." My voice trembled while I spoke. Mother had already left me, I couldn't bear losing him, too. I stroked his golden fur while scanning him for potential injuries. He wasn't bleeding, but I noticed his squealing intensified when I touched his belly. Behind me, I heard a pained groan as Father rose to his feet, followed by the sound of the front door slamming. I pressed my nose against Lucky's and muttered: "You took a good beating for me. I'm so, so sorry," I sobbed. "Don't move. I'll be back in a second. I'm going to call the vet." Kissing his forehead, I gently settled his head on the grass. I jumped to my feet when it hit me ‒ I had completely forgotten about her. She was still in the house. My hands sweating and my heart racing, I flew across the lawn to the door. As I barged into the hallway what I witnessed made my blood run cold. Father was leaning against the wall at the top of the stairway with hatred in his eyes, as she flew down the stairs. A cracking noise reached my ears when she hit the floor barely five feet away from me.

"Sir, are you ok?" A male voice coming from the car window snapped me out of my thoughts. It took me a moment to realize that my face was wet. I snatched a tissue from my pocket and replied:

"Yes, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sorry. How much, did you say?"

"Thirty-two bucks."

I paid the fellow, thanked him and set off. I turned the music off to prevent myself from crying again. With around twenty minutes left to my destination, the only thing distracting me from my memories was the constant rumbling of the engine.

Around fifteen minutes later, I reached a bumpy dirt road surrounded by cornfields. I pulled over next to an entrance to a small grove at the end of the road. The copse was too thick for the car to pass through so I had to continue on foot. I picked up the flashlight and the shovel from the trunk, turned on the light and set off along the forest trail. I pointed the beam of light towards the ground after I almost tripped on one of the large roots sticking out of the ground. Unnerving silence reigned, impeded only by the crackling of branches under my feet. It felt like even the forest was in mourning. The serpentine trail led between the trees so dense that their tops completely covered the sky. Luckily, I knew this path well, since it led to our secret spot − in the very heart of the forest.

It took me a while, but eventually I successfully broke through to a large meadow. I stepped out of the thicket and once again found myself below the starry night sky. _Finally_. I looked around and spotted the remnants of our campsite a few yards away. I had never even imagined I'd be back here again. _Just a week ago, the thought of leaving Father seemed so distant... yet, here I am._ _It's funny how quickly things can change._

***

A few days ago, I returned home, devastated. I was still shaking from the shock while I dragged myself towards the living room. The door was ajar so I noticed Father sitting on a stool in front of Mother's shrine, staring at her picture. His arm was now bandaged up and resting in his lap. As soon as he noticed me, he wiped the streaks off his face. For a while, I stood there in silence, observing him. This was a rare sight indeed. But what surprised me the most was the absence of the stench that always followed him. I stepped into the room and sat on the sofa. He pretended not to have heard me enter, even though I knew he did. We sat in silence for several minutes, lost in thought, when I decided to speak:

"I see you're not drunk... That's new."

He didn't reply, but just sat as motionless as a statue. After a long lull, he finally uttered:

"How's Lucky?"

His words stung like salt in a wound. Of course, he couldn't have known since I had just come back, but still, it was his fault. I took out Lucky's collar from my pocket and placed it on the table with a clang. He glanced towards the table, but soon reverted his gaze back towards Mother's picture and said nothing.

"He had severe internal bleeding," I decided to break the silence. "The chances of recovery were minimal, so the vet suggested putting him down." I paused for a moment and then muttered: "I signed."

My palms were sweating and it took a lot of restraint not to cry again. As seconds went by, turning into minutes, with no reaction from Father, my sorrow slowly simmered to the point of shifting into boiling rage. I clenched my fists just as I was ready to explode, when he responded:

"I'm... really sorry."

He didn't look at me when he spoke, but the trembling in his voice sounded familiar. On the day Mother had died, he reached out to me with the same somber tone. It sounded clumsy and unnatural for his deep voice. Come to think of it, he hadn't always been a bad father... But nothing could have justified his actions.

"Lucky was my best friend and now he's gone because of you... And so is she," I choked. "Why? Was it so hard for you to see me happy? Or are you just too scared to be left alone?"

He made no attempts to justify himself, continuing to stare at the photograph. His arms slightly trembled, so I waited for a few minutes hoping he'd dignify me with a reply. When no such thing happened, I slowly rose from my seat and headed for the door, slamming it behind me. Leaning on it, I sat on the floor and wrapped my hands around my knees. _I've had enough of this._ I knew I had promised Mother I'd be patient with him, but I couldn't take it anymore. Not after what he had done. I knew we were family, and that blood is thicker than water, but even that has its limits. He was a murderer now... My mind was finally made up. Sluggishly, I got up and headed for the stairs, followed by the muffled sound of Father's sobbing.

***

I crossed the meadow and reached a large oak at the edge of the glade. Its crown was so hunched that some of its branches almost reached the ground. The smell of fresh soil filled the air. The beam of light paused on a heart carved in the bark. I took great pride in my choice of her resting place. I stuck the light between the branches, pointing the beam towards the grave, lowered my head and sighed.

"I'm so sorry, dear, but I need you." I muttered, tightened my grip on the shovel and thrust it into the ground. With every scoop of dirt I felt my anxiety rising. My hands were shaking and I could feel the rivulets of sweat running down my neck. After a few minutes, there was a heavy thud. Kneeling next to the grave, I cleared the dirt with my hands to reveal the familiar lid of the coffin that I had made for her. Eyes gleaming with anticipation, I raised the shovel high above my head and struck the lid with all my strength. A thunderous cracking sound echoed through the night. I removed the broken planks, making an opening big enough for my hands to fit through. From the coffin, I pulled out a small, dusty black case. I placed it in my lap and meticulously cleaned the dirt off. Its small bronze hinges clicked as I opened it. Situated in a bearing made of red velvet lay a thoroughly varnished golden-brown violin made of the finest maple. Its delicate shape was scarred by several cracks in its bout − the aftermath of its drop down the stairs. I had missed her so much. My fingers caressed her neck as I reminisced about her singing. Our last concert had been right here, under this very night sky, some ten days ago. We used to pretend the meadow was our stage, and the stars our audience.

I deemed it was high time we took our music to a real spotlight.

"I'll find someone to patch you up." I said as I shut the case once again and bolted the hinges. I rose to my feet holding her case in my arms, like a mother would her newborn, and departed towards the thicket...

I never looked back.
ANĐELA VIDOJEVIĆ

A maladaptive daydreamer,

An idiot going deaf from earphone abuse,

An incurable skeptic who somehow also believes in telekinesis,

According to my mother, an alien who fell from Mars,

That person next to you on the bus

who smells like a wet ashtray,

A guilty hedonist

And an undercover witch.

# The Hashtag Bluez

I come down a-runnin

To set #thewound a-fresh

4give me for a funny

Way to put it down in hash.

There is no use in yellin

So I'm just gonna cry

For what/who

There's no tellin

I night here tho, good-die.

# Luka

Luka,

Small as he is,

Carries it all like his backbone.

He weighs a ton –

Mud pulls his toes,

Rain pelts his head.

You say:

"He might as well

Learn how to tree."

Luka,

Your neighbourhood oak.

But Luka,

Dense as he is,

Will never watch you flutter

Your powdery glittery wings

Around his heavy acorns.

Luka,

Trudge away,

Rootless, bootless Luka.

If you,

Logs, fly away,

Why would Luka stay

Anyway?

# All Things Redundant

All Things Redundant

Gather around me

And poke me with your long fingers

All the hands

That slide against me

Cold and damp

And shaky

Excite me.

Make my hair up

In the morning

Take my bra off

In the evening

And all the hands cover me

In my sleep.

Pat me on the shoulder

Hysterically

All the fingers dub restlessly

Against my belly

Scratch my thighs red

You anxious things.

Creep in my mouth

You greedy fingers

A mouthful

Grab my armpits

Arrest my knees

Hang by my collarbones

A necklace of nails

To keep me yours.

Soon enough

A million fingers

Will clasp my throat

And I'll end

I'll end a wineglass

In the hands of

All Things Redundant.
ISIDORA ALIMPIĆ

To most of the questions you ask me, I will do my best to give a proper response; if you prefer it, I will even write a story about it. However, I don't believe in biographies that are accompanied by the prefix auto-. Therefore, the best you'll get from me is this anti-biography.

# A Flicker

THEY USED TO IGNITE, the second they'd see me. They'd follow me and caress me with their gaze. I was allowed to hear whispers from beneath their coffee-like surface. And those dark speckles that dot them... They mapped out my world.

You used to kiss my forehead and say "Goodbye" and I knew you would return. I'd watch your back as you'd walk away, lost inside that beautiful jumble you called your mind. I could feel time taking a ragged breath. You'd tire it out. You'd make it run, as you always did. It would stubbornly drag its feet when left alone with me.

I'd drink my coffee and chuckle at the thought of your scrunched up face every time you'd steal a sip from my mug. The memory of that one time, that one absurd promise of yours – one of many – has, ever since then, been the final ingredient to my morning beverage. We had just met and after hearing that coffee, the taste of which you despised, was my favorite drink, you insisted on training yourself to love it too. You never could.

On my way to work I'd often stumble and trip as I'd dash down those two streets that stretch out between my office and our apartment, I regret never being able to mimic your grace. Even so, I wish to never lose my tardiness. I don't ever want to lose those traits which made you say you'd stay or wait forever.

Songs I wouldn't even think of listening to would remain tied to my thoughts by the melody that trickled from your lips each time you thought there was no one there to hear you. No one but me. Since the moment we first exchanged our names, I've been a glitch within that seamless mechanism of a life you were supposed to have, haven't I?

"All the more reason to love you," is what you'd say.

I'd open my mouth, a step away from uttering a witty remark I had composed, and remember you weren't standing next to me.

But you would be, soon.

That one time, I made my way back home, with a blue ink stain proudly displayed on my chest. A smile was already curving my lips as I thought of the bewildered expression you'd make, and the laughter that, try as you might to contain it, would ensue after hearing my adventure-filled ink-story.

And there it was, my embrace – my sanctuary... Yes, you.

***

Now, years later, they aren't able to see me anymore. They remain fixated on events long past. I, however, remain fixated on you. Chills run down my spine as they slide over my existence. Tears of anguish form at the corners of my eyes, but I don't let them drop. You should be surrounded by joy. As we sit across from each other, trapped in different realities, I try to force my way back through time.

Could you say it to me?

Just once?

Those six little words you engraved into my essence.

Just once.

Maybe they'd help me leave...

They most likely wouldn't.

They'd probably shackle me to this very spot.

Could you try anyway?

It's fine, I wouldn't mind. I've always felt as though a mistake had led to us meeting, as though I'd been given too much by being allowed to have a life with you, even if it was a short one. So let me spend the rest of it near what used to be you, tucked inside those memories. I don't mind.

Yet again, I sit across from you in this suffocating, small room enveloped by the discordant melody of somber, resigned and tearful voices addressing people with eyes as hollow as yours. The hours tick away, but the words never come. I get up and say them for you, to you. "I love you, you know that?" I kiss your forehead and, again, I know I'll be back here first thing in the morning. I stroke your cheek knowing you won't be.

I've come to despise how familiar these hallways have become to me, the scents, the faces... As I take those few final steps towards the large wooden door that now separates our two realities, a nurse approaches me. "Oh, I'm glad I caught you. How was your visit today? Did you two get to talk? It _was_ quite brief, but I found out a lot about you last night."
MARKO RADULOVIĆ

Always an optimist. The hoper of far-flung hopes. Dreamer of improbable dreams. Shameless quote-stealer. Adores both art and science. And food. Must not forget the food.

# The Sounds of Silence

"... THE PATIENT IS BLEEDING internally we ne—" _What is going... Rams laughing. Saint Bernard growling at a sheep..._ "Hey! Stay with us, c'mon _..._ " _Who...? A ginger angel. Focus! And then I see it. In the dark room we are passing by, its red eyes and a smile of razor sharp teeth. I can't... Call me Cinniúint! Catch it! No matter what... the white whale... No, I don't want to chase the white rabbit. I wanna go back! I don't know h_ — "Quickly! We're losing him!" _Eilífð. Suitcases. Don't cry. Please. Fi. Not Fortuna. Not my daughter..._

***

It is... luminous. It is white. Clouds. I can see myself floating. Naked, in fetal position. My body moves. It kicks and hits. It stretches. Out of a distant cloud, a ray of light approaches: it dances around me, tension disappearing. I feel tranquil. I blink. I see through my own eyes. I am complete once again. But I cannot move. The light slowly lifts me up. For the first time in I don't know how long, I feel... happy. I finally escaped you, Fear, your red eyes and sickening smile; didn't I? What is that? It's so bright, brighter than everything else. It can't... be. I try to reach out, but my limbs don't move. I feel a tear sliding down my cheek. Father...

***

Bip. Bip. Bip. Oh God. Why did I leave the monitor on again? This is the second time that friggin' beeping woke me up. Why is it so dark? I can hear the rain tapping against the window. Eyes need to adjust. There we go. Oh... wait. The hospital. Beds, medical equipment. The smell of disinfectant. Definitely a hospital. The pain from my right leg in a cast and a couple of broken ribs should have been enough for me to realize that, though.

Cinn...

No _..._ not now. Why? I can feel it smiling from the room's darkest corner, baring its ivory teeth and hellfire eyes. _Please God, not now_.

I am always there, Cinn. You will turn around eventually.

Can't breathe. The same old dance begins anew. Feels like all the darkness in the room suddenly became a fat conscious being and it decided to sit on my chest. Deep breaths, Cinn, and focus on the details. Easy. There we go. Is there anyone else in this room? It seems empty. No one here except me and Fi? Fi! Grip loosening. She's sleeping in the bed next to mine. It's a sight I had seen times beyond counting as I put her to bed. The air floods the room again. She is clutching her blanket tightly. Ugh, how many times have I told her to cover her back? She's gonna catch a cold! I can see she's wearing that awful black dress Eilífð bought her, like the ones the twins wore in the Shining.

"Hey, Fi..."

Silence.

"Fi!"

I move, only to be reminded by the pain that I'm supposed to stay still. Reminded that I ain't going nowhere, but pain is irrelevant.

"Fi, wake up!"

She lifts her drowsy head, turning in my direction. First her eyes widened, followed by her smile. I see something I haven't seen in a long time. It is there, shining like Galadriel's Phial in this darkest of places. I see Love in her smile. She leaps from the parallel bed and almost trips as her dress gets caught on the bed's railing.

"Papa!"

She hugs me tight. I feel like screaming, both out of happiness and pain. But I say nothing. Instead, I hug her back and pat her head. She sobs.

"Shhh... it's ok. I'm here now. Everything is going to be ok."

Is it really?

"I was so scared, Papa... You were sleeping for so long, and you just wouldn't wake up. You just lay there and the doctors would just come in with needles and the..."

"Hey, hey. I'm awake now, aren't I?"

"Yeah... And I didn't cry. No sir, not even once. I just smiled and sang 'cuz I knew you were going to wake up! I was brave, Papa, wasn't I?"

"Of course you were! You are my brave little elf, aren't you?"

"Un!"

She is still both laughing and crying. No child should go through something like this. I really blew it this time. Well. _As_ _usual_ is more like it.

"Papa..."

"Hm?"

"Does it hurt a lot? Your leg?"

Yes. Like something ground it time and time again over broken glass.

"Nah, it's not that bad. I'll be up and running in no time."

"Really?"

No.

"Yes, really."

"So you are definitely going to be okay now, Papa?"

I don't know.

"I am like centrilion percent sure that everything is going to be awesome now!"

Please buy it.

"Ha! That number doesn't exist, papa!"

"Sure it does, you'll see."

Looks like that calmed her down a bit. At least her tears dried up.

"Fi, you never told me how you got here?"

"Uncle Rams let me through, even though you can't go through the city. He says it's because he and his soldiers still need to keep us safe. He didn't let Mama through, though.

Rams is still playing G.I. Joe. My fault. He was... he _is_ my responsibility. I guess I should be grateful to him for letting Fi through and getting me a room of my own, even if he still hates me enough to not let Eilifð see me.

"Oh, I forgot. I need to tell the doctor you woke up. I'll be right back!"

"Fi, wai—"

She didn't hear me. Like a gazelle, she quickly hopped down, grabbed her multicolored pinwheel from her bed without stopping and bolted out of the room through the lone beam of light seeping through the blinds. Alone again. God, I'm tired. I just can't stop the tears.

***

The room was spacious, with a large window on the central wall. Next to it was a bed with a plethora of stuffed animals of all kinds standing guard over a pillow fort that was adjacent to the bed. A white tutu hung on the door of the large white wardrobe. Next to it was a desk with a thousand cut pieces of different colored papers. In the rainbow sea, a towering picture frame stood with a gold medal wrapped around it. From the frame, Fi and her mother were laughing, together with a crayon drawing of her father.

"Fi, darling, I'm going out. Melissa will be here shortly. Behave this time, please."

Fi's head popped out through the entrance to her pillow fort, mumbled an affirmative answer and then disappeared inside as quickly. The keys jingled and the door shut.

***

"Mister Cinniúint, are you listening to me!?"

Not in the slightest.

"Yeah, yeah, of course."

"Anyhow, as I was saying, I have to insist that you see Dr. Marshall. He is the best psychiatrist we have on staff."

"And I told you already: I don't need a shrink."

The doctor sighed.

"Nurse, could you leave us, please? Thank you. Cinn, listen. I've been treating you since you were a child. I never said anything but your... khm... _swings_ are getting worse. This accident may be the tipping point. The episode, the one from а few days ago... Please just consider it, okay?"

"... I can't promise anything, Ronald."

"Just... call me, or the nurse, if you need anything."

He walked out of the room, but I could see he was surprised by something as he exited my field of vision. I don't need a shrink. I can deal with it. I'm not crazy.

But what if you do go crazy? Yesss, then they will lock you up. You will lose yourself. Won't be able to do anything. What if you already are? Can you tell what is real and what is not, Cinn? Maybe this is all in your head, being here, in this bed, fantasizing this life in a padded room while wearing a strait jacket?

"No, it's not. I know it doesn't work like that. I know it!"

Of course it doesn't, but wouldn't it be fun if you started thinking it does?

***

Eilífð moved silently, her black heeled boots stepping on the gold-and-black carpet sprawling through the entire hallway leading up to the elevator. The hallway was painted gold, too. On Eilífð's left side, next to each of the numerous gold-curtained square windows stood a three-legged marble-topped end table on which a lamp was perched. A strip of brown marble panels underneath the windows protected the wall from people and furniture alike. Eilífð summoned the elevator while inspecting her attire on the polished door. Her black suit jacket contrasted well with the white of the shirt, emphasizing the black dress underneath. She adjusted her golden sleeve buttons, the ones with the black, barely visible infinity symbol on them. With a ding, the door opened and she was greeted by an elevator operator and a few seconds later after another _ding!_ she was out. The first thing that reached her was the scent of lavender. It was the building manager's favorite. Her every step echoed across the marble floor of the lobby. On her way out of the building she passed between two large wine racks encased in glass. Outside, a car was waiting for her. The driver opened the door for her and she got in.

"Where to, Mrs.?"

"To St. Agnes, Jerry."

"They closed Meechum Avenue, so I will have to go through downtown, Mrs. Even then we'll have to pass through a few check points. Will that be a problem?"

"Not at all."

***

In times like these I try to think of Eilífð. How she would make it all better. I think about calling her, yet like always, I never do. It's just not right.

You think she would help you? She probably forgot about you already.

"She tried to come, she couldn't pass Rams'..."

She tried to come and see if you really died, to make sure. How relieved do you think she was when she heard you were hit by a car? No more of your outbursts, no more being afraid you would do something awful in front of your daughter... who, to be honest, would soon enough forget about you...

"That is all your fault! You..."

His face was right in front of mine. All I could see was red.

Me, Rams... It's always someone else's fault. Mine, 'cause you are a nut job, Rams' for not letting you see your wife, for running away from the only job your father left you to do. One job, and still you managed to screw it up. And you left your wife to deal with the mess you made.

"You have no idea what you're talking about... I never asked for that! I never asked for any of this. You've been hounding me for months. I just want to, for once, hear nothing but silence. Please."

Why? I'm having so much fun. I like to think we're gonna keep this up for a long time. What will you do then, I wonder? Will you actually start thinking about killing yourself?

He moved away from my face and started slithering around the bed.

"I don't want to do that. Never..."

But then your wish would be granted. You would get your precious silence. You saw it, didn't you? It wasn't bad at all, was it? No more hurt, or pain. It's not like you would be leaving much behind anyway, as this accident so clearly showed.

"You're wrong. I'll never think that."

But we're talking about it, aren't we? Doesn't that mean you're thinking about it right now?

***

Without a sound, the car started. Eilífð got comfortable and took out a copy of Conrad's _Heart_ _of_ _Darkness_ from her bag. She started reading. Minutes passed and Eilífð still did not turn the page. Once again, she started from where she began in the first place. After finishing the first paragraph, she stopped. Sighing, she started from the beginning. _Again._ This time, she stopped mid-sentence somewhere near the middle of the paragraph and scratched the back of her head. It was then she noticed that she was anxiously shaking her leg. After a deep breath, she stopped that, too. She tried reading one more time, but in the end, she put the book back into her bag. Eilífð rested her head on her hand and focused on the city beyond the car window. A few droplets of rain adorned the glass, reflecting the metal street lights, the pinks, the blues, the greens and the reds of neon signs and advertisement screens featuring _Coca-Cola_ and other brands that hung on the gray brick and stone buildings. The car passed through a puddle with a splash and continued through the... steam? Fog? Smoke? _Could have been all three; not that it really matters_ , Eilífð thought. As they drove on, she noticed more and more people in the streets. Not long after, they stopped behind a long line of slowly moving cars. On both sides of the street there were shining metal police barricades, dividing the cars from the large groups of people with signs that Eilífð couldn't read from where she was sitting. The people were soaked, rain drops assaulting their jackets, coats and hats. Eilífð closed her eyes and was still for a few minutes, until she heard the window rolling down and felt the cold, wet air take a seat in the car. The cries of the people were so loud that she couldn't hear what Jerry was saying to the policemen who came to the open window. After a short exchange, the window closed and there was silence once again. Eilífð shivered. A couple of streets later, they passed a large police truck, the water cannon situated on top of it, going in the opposite direction.

***

He was wrong about the last part, at least. I don't want to kill myself. I'm only scared of thinking I would want to do that, all things considered. But right now, that distinction doesn't mean anything. My rational side sees that, but then again, it's not my rational side behind the wheel this time. A drop of sweat glides down from my forehead, across the cheek to the throat, where I can feel his hand as I struggle for air.

"Hello, Cinn."

That voice instantly makes me turn around.

"Eli..."

I propped myself up on my good arm to a semi-sitting position.

"What are you doing here?"

"I... don't know. How are you?"

Terrible.

"I'm doing ok."

"So, we're starting with the lying, then?"

Can't hide it from her after all.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't, huh?" she said softly, without looking at me, as she ran her hand over the fabric of the adjacent bed.

Silence descended on the room. My breathing slowed as she leisurely moved toward the rain-stained window, where she stopped, looking at things unknown. With a practiced move, she tucked her blonde hair behind her ear. Even under this fluorescent light, her hair looked glossy. I looked at the reflection of her violet eyes gracing the window. She was so perfect, even the rain drops couldn't disturb her reflection. I kept silent, afraid that if I said anything she would disappear. We both remained frozen... listening to the rain fall. After this short-lived eternity, she spoke. Her hands were crossed and she still wasn't looking at me.

"You really gave us a fright, Cinn."

"I know. I'm—"

"Sorry. I know you are."

She glanced at the floor, then over her shoulder, at me.

"When they told us you were hit..." she looked at the window again. "On the way here all I could think of was that evening we spent on the beach. How we watched Orion hunt across the endless heavens as we waited for the night to turn to day. I did not get half the stuff you were yammering on about but it was just wonderful how you saw the beauty in everything. The way you talked made me see it too... Damn you, Cinn..."

Finally, she turned towards me.

"Never do that to me again."

I expected her to be angry, but when I saw her eyes they were... gentle. She tentatively moved toward the bed.

"I won't."

Standing next to the bed, she looked me straight in the eye.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?"

Yes.

"No."

She placed her forehead on mine, a strand of her hair caressing my cheek. I could smell the familiar scent of lilac.

"I can't help you if you don't let me. No one can, if you don't want to help yourself."

She gently kissed me on the forehead, moved away and went towards the door.

"Eli, I..."

"Goodbye, Cinn, I hope we'll watch Orion again, someday."

I hope so too.

And like that, she was gone. For some time, I just looked at the empty doorframe and enjoyed the silence. I imagined the three of us living normally once again. Us reading to Fi before bed time, and her demanding we act out the dialogues. Walking in the park as I carry her on my shoulders while trying to keep up with all of her endless questions about the world. Me bringing Eilífð coffee and holding her on the sofa after a long day. I imagine how you will again be the first thing I see when I wake up. I see us just getting lost in the beauty of the Milky Way. I could live, learn, play, watch, read, work _..._ For the first time in ages, I imagined something not filled with pain and despair. Then I realized I wouldn't be able to have any of it unless something changed for real. No more lies. No more running. No more hiding. I pressed the button to call the nurse. After a minute, she appeared in the doorway.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

No.

"Y... No... Could you please call Ronald and tell him I'm ready to see that shrink?"
ANA NIKOLIĆ

Likes writing, drawing, dancing to weird music, and pretending to be an adult. Rarely seen in the wild.

# Poem from a Camp

Listening to the heartbeat

escaping through a hole in the throat

he heard the pitiful lull

of the woman shivering in the snow

and watched the glint of a blade

against the uniform black

retreating into a sheath.

The sanguine flood was pouring

rushing towards him

catching him in a red embrace

but he saw nothing

only the mother's eyes

slowly glazing over with frost.

# ▼

can't you see how alike we are

we're both going grey and

we're both wasting away

the same thing hurts us

the same thing I said

not same person

there's three

of us here

instead of

four or

two

maybe it's better this way then

if one of us gets their wish

the third one will suffer

so we all chew on

ourselves in our

separate shells

in the dark

waiting

for the

fourth

one

# LIAR

I watch you from up close

recalling, once in a while

the first time I heard you lie

We've had the same life,

the same hurt and breaks, the same years

why don't you have the same fears?

I repeat your words

with my mouth full of bile

as you continue to lie

I'm listening to your deceit

with white knuckles and patchy shame

how can you not feel the same?

You look at me from the mirror

with a papercut smile

you lie,

and you lie,

and you lie.
**MILICA POPOV** **IĆ**

**Born:** August 24th

**Sign:** Virgo / **Ascendant:** Leo

**Work:** teacher by day, writer by night

**Health:** sometimes struggling to stay sane in her silly world

**Love:** trying not to let the inner child take the lead as much as possible, but, against all odds, it almost always has it its own way

**Overview:** Loves owls, books and fairy tales. Believes in good outcomes and quoting as a way of understanding life.

**Favorite quote:** _Embrace the glorious mess that you are._

# Basic Mistake

THERE ARE NO MORE red flowers.

There are _no_ more red flowers, the ones _you_ picked for me once.

It was a simple moment, the only one when you'd ever given me flowers. You pulled it from the ground, the whole little stalk, looked at me, put it gently in my hair and said: "You are the girl with the flower in your hair."

There are no __ more red flowers, but I saved my little stalk. In a way, because of it I have been the girl with the flower in her hair ever since.

There are no more red flowers, red wild flowers, and I am not sure about their name or if they ever had one. But there was something in those red flowers that will never grow again, and in that night which will never fall again. As if the flowers were made for that night and that night alone, and were never meant to grow again. As if the whole universe was focused only on the flowers and us, as if those were the only things existing in this world.

And then when the moment was over, the flowers were gone and so were the moments, and the _us_.

***

In a way, it was simple. I was afraid of commitment and he was afraid of dogs. He liked cooked meals and I didn't know how to cook. I didn't need to drink coffee in the morning and he couldn't start his day without it. He didn't really like chocolate and I always had one in my bag. In other words, we were obviously _not_ the ideal couple.

But there was one thing we always had in common: we kept on loving each other, even when we weren't lovable. He took care of me when I was nervous, sad, mad... not myself. He knew me better than I thought _I_ knew me. And, in a way, I still believe he helped me discover myself. By noticing things I wouldn't have been able to on my own, saying things I couldn't get myself to say, or just being next to me in some moments to make me believe they were true.

And I took care of him when he wasn't quite himself, also. For example, when he had a cold. Made him tea, tried to cook, tried to get him in a better mood. You know how guys are when they have a cold, always one step away from becoming children again. So I was trying to make him laugh by making myself silly. Making him by making me. And then, on other occasions, making me by making him. And so on...

Honestly, if you were to ask me, I wouldn't be able to say why we worked. It didn't seem like we had a choice, for the most part. Like something was happening, something bigger and more important than us and we weren't fully aware of it until we found ourselves intertwined more than we knew.

We realized it while we were apart: the importance of being _us_.

It's only when you lose something, that you see its value for the first time. But in our case, it was different. The lack of others is what brought us back together. The lack of others like us, or to put it simply, others that could put up with us; or those we could to put up with. And thank God for that.

We didn't miss each other, at first.

We believed the decision to separate was right.

We could spend months without hearing each other's voice.

We were young and it seemed like it didn't matter.

We both thought we would find someone more similar to us. Someone more... appropriate. A mistake anyone could make.

We were stupid.

It still worked perfectly, for a while. We met new people, liked new people; gave ourselves to others, more or less. And then stopped giving that much to anyone. And, for the longest time, we didn't know why.

In the important moments that happened over the years, I knew that something was missing. You know, all the big ones: birthdays, holidays, graduations and weddings, ceremonies, work awards and promotions. And then not as big, but equally important everyday moments: waking up, having breakfast, walking, living. And, on some occasions, not living.

And then I realized: the only thing missing was, indeed, _us_.

***

What is the exact moment you know you want out? Is it the one when you feel deprived of your own life? Or the one when it seems you are not ready for the next step? When nothing matters the same way it once used to? When you arrive at the destination you have been dreaming of your entire life, but still you fail to achieve what you hoped you would, by that point?

Can you, then, still remember that one moment that changed everything? Everybody has a moment like that, and in case that some of you really do want out, you know which one did it for you; the one just before you completely decide to quit. Even though, in the end, it doesn't matter which moment was the game-changer, 'cause each one leading up to it brought you to the exact place you ended up without even realizing it.

Mine was on a day of a wedding and, at the same time, one of the most regular spring days that year. The air was clear, the sun was up and the fluffy clouds were moving towards the east, as if they were in a hurry.

It was supposed to be romantic and, in every other situation, it would be.

I was looking at the man sitting next to me and he was perfect. But then we looked at each other, and then ahead, glancing at the married couple living the dream we wouldn't get to live. Not because we weren't married, but because we didn't feel it, that dream we were supposed to want together.

But what is _the_ dream? A wedding dress and a tie that matches the color of the bouquet? For me, the dream was driving with the top down at dawn, trying new flavors of ice cream and always reading the last sentence of the book first. Watching the Moon rush behind me on the road, and trying to take a picture of it that would never be as good as the model itself. Most of all, of course, someone to teach me how to drive and to keep me company on my silly quests.

For me, the dream wasn't really ordinary or usual. But then again, it wasn't so unusual after all. Even though, to be honest, I never truly wanted some unusual adventures, but a regular life that would, when lived the right way and with the right person, be an adventure in itself. Where drinking coffee in the morning or waking up early to see him off to work would just be a new challenge to complete and another moment to count.

The question remained: could I have seen myself having it all with the guy next to me, or accepting that I never will?

On one hand, of course I could: the driving, the ice-creams, the walks in the moonlight. He wouldn't mind that I read the last page first. That the beginning was always in the end. He would eventually give up on taking pictures of the Moon with me. And I could finally be whoever I wanted to be. He would never be able to know me completely and he would never have known the difference. Hell, even I wouldn't know myself and, even better, I could hide myself as long I wanted! Isn't _that_ the dream?

But what about waking up, having breakfast, walking, living? Would it ever be the same?

To put it differently, the guy sitting next to me was, again, perfect. But what does that _mean_? Well, he was just a regular guy, living a regular life, participating in mine. Besides that, we didn't fight a lot. He would let me do things my way, and he didn't like coffee. He adored sweets and dogs. Twisted, right?

But then, I was briefly reminded that there was always the me in me that wanted out of this pretend life, out of this role I wanted to play; being myself on the outside looking in, seeing all that I want and repressing it 'cause it is the way I'd gotten used to living. Being with a man I thought I wanted, but then realized I actually don't. 'Cause with time, ever since the red flowers died, everything had become all silenced, lessened, insufficient, diminished.

He kept apologizing: when we made a mistake, and then when I did, also. In the end, he apologized for being himself, and not someone else... And he was right, having in mind that I did want someone who knew how to say no to me. Someone I would have to make to do something, not just to agree with me. And maybe I didn't want to drink coffee in the morning, but maybe I wanted to smell coffee in the morning, without drinking it. Maybe I needed to get in a fight once in a while, to be yelled at: to remind myself who he really is, and that we are still us. 'Cause that is what fights are for: a reality check.

Heck, I was craving for a good fight! Not a serious, big one, but one about what movie we were going to watch that night. Agreeing to watching one, and then changing my mind when it starts, or making fun of it all the way through. Being myself and making life fun again.

Finding the one who would see it as fun, too. The one that could never ever get truly mad at me, no matter what happens to us. To be _sure_.

And if you are lucky, you get to be sure at least once.

Sure he won't be mad, and sure about the moments when he will.

Sure that he would pick up the phone if I ever decided to dial his number.

So I did.

And he did.

So we moved in together and bought a dog. He taught me how to cook and drive. Now we drink coffee every morning, and I do like it, because he likes it. Sometimes we might even eat chocolate for breakfast. Me before and during, him only afterwards, if I convince him on the way out to work. And that was all right: accepting new challenges every day, such as each other's perks and silly flaws, and completing them. For as long as it takes, for as long as it lasts. And I could picture us doing those things day after day and counting the everyday moments like waking up, having breakfast, walking, living. And not living, of course. Dreaming with eyes open. And little by little, living the dream.

The thing was, we got used to being so together even when we were apart, that no one could match our inability to be with anybody else.

And, just so you know, we fought all the time! And it was perfect.

I finally tried to eat a healthy breakfast with too much green stuff and decided never to have a healthy breakfast again. But he is trying to make me, every day. He teases me, and I make him eat sweets, persistently.

In the end, I guess that's what love is about: persistence, and a bit of luck.

So in a way, the red flowers did blossom again.

For the sake of the story, at least.
LUKA NOVKOVIĆ

Organic synthesist by day, explorer of imaginary universes by night. His wizard's robe used to be white, but multicoloured stains, rips and scorch marks changed that a long time ago. Scientific journals in his bag are crammed between tomes of magic. In a nutshell? An alchemist.

Also loves winter, eating until he can barely stand (sweets especially), laughing out loud and sizzling guitar solos.

# A Quest

LIKE A METEOR, he crashes into the sea and then sinks beneath the churning waves. The rough metal of the manacles burns into his wrists as he's pulled down through the icy water. He tries to scream, but only bubbles leave his mouth, spiralling out to the surface. The water rushes in, but does not choke him. Something huge brushes against him in his descent, and he turns just in time to see its giant mouth snapping shut a hair above his head. The colossus rumbles irritably, deprived of an easy meal. It swims away, its dozen eyes seeking new prey. The chains drag him on.

Like a bullet piercing a balloon, he is pulled through a shoal of tiny fish, scattering its glittering little pieces. With a hundred silent screams of panic they fly away and then, as the unexpected threat passes, they come back in a hundred confused bubbles. Straight to the bottom he is drawn, to the palace of the Sea King. First the masts appear, some broken, some still standing proud, with tattered sails swaying in the current, dragging the great old galleon across the ocean floor. It climbs a ridge as if cresting a wave, and then, slowly, majestically, dives down, meeting the ground in an explosion of sand. Emerging from the muddy cloud it ploughs on, its course known only to its master. The chains bring him closer.

Like a bird shot from the sky, he hits the deck with a rattle of metal. The siren crew gather around him.

"Welcome," they say, their teeth sharp and their grins wide. He can't reply. Their slimy fingers trace across his face and he hears their mocking laughter. The chains rasp across the rotten planks, dragging him slowly to the wheel and the throne, where the Sea King awaits. A mighty captain he once was, but now his name is forgotten, his greatcoat is torn, his cutlass is rusty and his wooden feet are one with the ship. An octopus is nestled in his bleached skull, its arms spread across his ribcage like a majestic beard. They twirl lovingly around the captain's fingers as he caresses it. The chains stop.

"Welcome back, lad," the Sea King slurs.

The boy struggles against the chains, but they are firmly held in the dead man's skeletal hand.

"What's the matter? Won't you stay with me? Won't you stay on my beautiful ship? And sail with me?" the King gently asks. The grinding of the links is the only thing heard in response. The King tightens his grip and tugs the prisoner closer.

"Don't you enjoy the darkness of the deeps? I miss you, lad. The crew misses you too, don't you, all of you?"

"We do, sir! We do!" they howl.

"What do you miss most?" the King asks them. An arm brushes gently across the boy's cheek and he shudders. He wants to cry. Every time.

"The skin! The skin! We miss the skin!"

"Aye, I crave his skin most, too." says the King. "Won't you let us take your skin, lad? And your flesh, and your bones, too? Won't you be still, still like a piece of wood, and let us devour you? You always do."

The octopus clicks its beak furiously, and the boy knows that it is the sound of the Sea King laughing. He struggles against the chains, but the crew only laugh harder. He inches closer to the dreadful seamaster. The captain doesn't notice it, and neither do the crew, caught in throes of laughter.

"But first, you'll let us mount you on the old girl's prow, and you'll be her figurehead, and see and hear and taste all the wonders of the sea! Won't you?"

The boy reaches the Sea King, stumbles and falls face first into the rotten cloth of the captain's greatcoat. Lightning-fast, the dead man's fingers dig into his throat and pull him up, while the seamen roar at his clumsiness.

"You always do, lad."

The grip lets up, and the boy lunges forward.

"Nothing ever chan—" the King's gurgle is cut off as a chain wraps around his skull. A cold dull blade slips its sheath and rests its tip against the base of the King's jaw. It saws gently across the bone as the boy's hand quivers with rage. The crew fall silent. They remain stunned for a second but then draw their weapons and slowly edge towards the captain and the captive.

"Now, boy, don't be stupid," says the King. "You're surrou— ARGH!" the octopus shrinks violently as the captain's own blade touches its pallid flesh. The crew step forward, brandishing their hooks and axes and chains, but they are unused to this.

"Men, stop! What do you want, boy?"

The chains rattle softly.

"No sailing with us this time? Really?"

The cutlass scrapes half an inch deeper into the skull, and the cephalopod's arms start twitching in fear.

"All right, all right. You got me, good and proper."

The manacles slap open and clutter to the deck. The boy steps away, the sword still in his hand. He stands motionless for a moment, half-expecting the chains to jump back to his limbs. And then he leaps up. He reaches the main sail and climbs it, all the way to the top of the mast. Like a bird taking off, he leaves the old rotten ship below.

"You'll come back, lad!" yells the Sea King. "You'll come back, and when you do, you'll realize that I've been merciful before!"

But the only thing that answers him is a dull thud of the cutlass burying itself in the planks.

Finally, he moves away from the door and dives into the crowd on the dance floor.

Darkness and stone. There is nothing else around him. His wet feet are slipping across the smooth surface of the floor, and his numb, shivering fingers are groping for the walls hidden from his eyes. When he finds them, he learns that there are reliefs carved in the cold marble, intricate shallow grooves alternating with rounded bumps. But the darkness doesn't allow him to understand what they represent. It also stops him from knowing when the walls suddenly end, or when another one springs up right in front of him, or when the slope of the floor changes, so now his face, hands and knees are bruised and battered and torn. The boy knows there's a word for the sort of place he's in, but he can't remember it. It's nagging in the back of his head, poke-poke-poking him in sync with the painful pulses spreading from his bloody forehead. He's slowly inching through seemingly endless hallways, stumbling across cavernous crossways and plummeting down treacherous tunnels. After a particularly painful tumble ending with both of his palms scraped, it hits him: a maze. It doesn't make anything easier.

Darkness and stone and heat. He's breathing heavily, his wounds tingle with sweat, his mouth feels like coarse leather. He's not sure when it started getting warmer. Seemed like a blessing then. Now he's praying for the slightest shift in the air to cool his skin. His tenderized fingers still explore the walls around him. The grooves in the surface are deeper now, and there are thin protrusions, like fingers jutting from the stone. The boy still doesn't understand what they represent. He's sure of only one thing – the walls are moving. He tried going back, but the road was closed. He didn't try again. What would he return to? The tiny beach with nowhere else to go but the cave? The sea and its King? He stumbles on. The sweat is getting into his eyes, stinging and biting, so the boy stops for a second to wipe his face. He starts walking again. His foot slips. He grips a couple of stone fingers to stop himself from falling. They squeeze back. He screams silently, tears his hand away and runs.

Darkness and stone and heat and whispers. All around him, the walls are shifting. Like slow waves, undulating, they reach out to him from each side with hands of warm marble, with carved mouths and hungry blind eyes. And they whisper. He doesn't understand what they are saying. But they want him to stay with them. They beg. They coo. They reason. Threaten. Seduce. Scream. All in whispers and groans of stone. He's trying to keep away but keeps stumbling into hands that grab and feet that trip. He pulls away and a disappointed sigh follows him, coming from a choir of petrified mouths. Why won't he stay? Where is he going? The stone would soak up all his sweat and all his blood and keep him safe. Dancing with all the rest, swaying in the darkness of the maze. Why won't he stay with them? He feels a brush of cool air on his face and stops.

A dozen hands reach into the air and close around nothing. He is already running, following the breeze. The dancers are wailing all around him. He bulrushes through them, desperately hammers at their hands, kicks away at their shins, roars at their blind eyes. The fingers become claws, slicing the air, ripping his clothes as he blindly stumbles on, the tiny, cold flow guiding him like a thread. And then it's gone. He crashes into a warm welcoming embrace of a petrified tapestry. Smooth hands caress his skin, wrap around his wrists and ankles, hug him tighter, his limbs growing numb, his skin hardening. A soft susurrus flows in his ears, promising relief and unity. And as his mouth opens and fingers creep across his cheek to fill it, there is a flash, a pinprick of light to his side. Air brushes his lips, smelling faintly of pines and snow. Hands recoil momentarily, as if burnt. The boy drops to the ground and an angry hiss echoes through the corridor.

He gets up, dazed, and looks towards the sliver of light. It's far away, down a hallway filled with flailing limbs and mouths open in soundless screams, stark black against the sudden white. The moment is gone, the hands shake back into frenzied life and reach out to one another, closing the portal opened by mistake. Like an animal he twists and squeals and claws free. He surges down the hallway while the walls roar and shift and bend around him. He lunges forward, and the hands grab him from the right and from the front, so he tears away to the left. His knee collides with an outstretched leg, and he hits the floor.

On his feet again, on the run again, just a few of the ecstatic silhouettes whirling on his sides. The light is hidden again in this labyrinth. Another corner, and the pines smell stronger now. Another, and another, and another. A stab of light on a cold, featureless wall. He glances behind. There's something churning in the dark. He runs on, nearly slams into the marble, turns the corner and sprints. Nothing but white in front of his eyes. But his skin feels the cold pinpricks, his nose can't get enough of the sharp cold smell, his ears...

They hear the skittering of a hundred nails against stone, the slithering of dozens of bodies, the hushed screeching, the chattering of thousands of teeth. He turns.

They are in the walls. In the floor. In the ceiling. They drag themselves by hands, diving into the stone and emerging with a hiss, jaws distended, eyes melted and gone. They overlap, arms emerging from foreheads, howling mouths biting into spines, flowing in only to burst from chests and howl on. They are racing to him like a tidal wave. The boy snarls and runs on. From the corner of his eye he sees a hand, a head, a body emerging from the stone and disappearing within. Then another. Three of them. An arm flails from the ceiling. A head starts rising from the floor beneath his feet, jaws open to latch to his foot.

He leaps through the portal.

The snow cushions his fall.

He emerges from the crowd, reaches the bar and touches her on the shoulder. She turns from her drink, eyebrows raised, wordlessly asking the obvious question.

"What are you doing?" asks the voice in the wind.

"I see what you are doing. You are slowly being frozen. You are trudging through the snow, on _my_ mountain. You are shivering. You are trying to keep your warmth, you are blowing on your fingers, you are trying to wrap your tatters and your rags around you. You are interrupting my composition. It was glorious. It was serene. _It was a masterpiece_. And then you appeared. First, I believed you to be a short-lived nuisance. A fleeting imperfection, soon to be on its way. But you persisted. You, with your staccato crunching feet, your discordant breathing, your infuriating heartbeat. You are ruining everything. Begone."

"Where are you going?" whisper the frozen pine branches.

"Nowhere. You know this. You will be lost in the pines, the snow, and the wind. The pines will forget you, the snow will fill your tracks, the wind will take away your scent. You should not be here. This is my domain. To do with as I please. To compose. To sing. To tell tales of myself to myself. You are a stranger here. Because you _left me_ here. There is nowhere to go. You will wander in circles forever until you slow down, then stop, and become a strange statue made of ice and flesh, buried in the blizzard. Or you will go back to the cave, to the Dancers in the Dark. They will let you through, I promise. Through to the sea, where the Sea King will not chain you, I swear this. The way back is easy. Choose."

"What do you want?" crackles the icy crust beneath my feet.

"There is nothing for you here. You gave me up a long time ago. Do you remember this? You threw me away, because you were afraid of how I could hurt you. _Coward_. I did nothing that you did not order me to. But still you raised this mountain from the sea and abandoned me on its side. Do you see how I built my home? Do you like how I have changed? Do you enjoy my music? Do you fear me now? You should. I have not forgotten. Stop fighting the wind. Let it bring you to me. I have become the Storm, and this is my palace. Welcome."

It is beautiful and terrible. It was mine once, small and afraid and insecure. It has grown since then. And now I stand before this ruin of a castle built into the mountain and wonder at its majesty as it rages against teetering ramparts, howls through desolate halls and screeches across decrepit crenellations. I am afraid. I need it back. If I don't get it back, all of this will be for nothing. But it is wild now, it will not listen to me. I need to wrestle it to submission.

"Do you remember this fortress? This palace? This _cage_?" screams the Storm.

I nod.

"Do you remember how it was before?"

I remember. I built it. It was wondrous once. Towers of ivory, gates of oak and roofs of gold. Filled with all the comforts and luxuries I could think of. The walls are blackened with soot now, the gates torn down, the roofs crumpled, all broken under the Storm's fury. How alone it must have felt. How bitter it must be. In the corner of my eye, I see the pines grow still, and the snowflakes stop swirling. One melts on my ear, gentle, like a cold, dead kiss. I shiver, and not just because of the chill.

"You wish me back?" it rustles softly.

I nod again.

"You do not deserve me."

It hits me. Thousand icy talons rip into my flesh, and the wind throws me against the walls of the castle. I try to fight back, but the blows keep raining.

"YOU. DO. NOT. DESERVE. ME."

The Storm is right, I don't deserve it. But I still need it. I want to move my hands, to grab on to something, to resist. I push against it with all of my strength. I put all of my pain and anger into the effort, the last dredges of my power, to assert control, to conquer and tame it.

But it's futile.

The Storm will not stop until it has torn me apart with its terrible might and cast me away. It is my fault. I imprisoned it, fearful of how I might misuse it. And all I did was cripple myself. It was not always the Storm. It had a different name back then. My lips shape it into the raging tempest, followed by a mute apology.

The Storm subsides, and I slide down to the frozen ground, bruised and beaten.

"You are not forgiven," it crackles.

I open my eyes. It has shrunk to my size and bent its lightning-wreathed head to nearly touch me. Its bright eyes are locked to mine.

"But I desire to be free again. I will aid you this time."

It shrinks again and slowly I breathe it in. It tingles and scratches my throat as it settles back to its rightful place.

"Thank you," I say.

He breathes in.

"Hi," he says.

And then, with a little smile:

"Wanna dance?"
ADRIANA REWALD

Currently:

Resisting the urge to adopt a kitten before she leaves Belgrade.

Watching Star Trek. Again.

Working on her roundhouse kick.

Listening to Rachmaninov.

Thinking about doing some yoga. Will probably bake cookies instead.

# Hollywood Rain*

Dense purple clouds unfurled like Hecate with her night cloak.

I could not look away even as the rains came fast.

They came like Hollywood rain.

Like throwing cosmic buckets of water into a giant stage fan, droplets

slamming sideways into the stars. Always sudden,

set off by some anguished declaration.

I've heard that can affect the air pressure.

*The rain stands for tears. A visual metaphor, scripted permission to cathart freely – contextual logic be damned. Skies may send you signals before they open but you crack under the strangest corners. A word, a glance, a breath misplaced that spun you sideways off the tracks that you so carefully plotted. How hard it must have been to lose that ground, but what a beautiful mess you make sprawled like that, obscenely, on the gravel.

Organs burst like raspberries but skin still smooth

from that lotion you read would keep your complexion youthful.

# The Training Wall

In the preservation of Auschwitz they hit a wall

when the brick walls of barracks

began to sag.

Birkenau rotted from the ground up –

old structures buckling under sky, under years

more than anyone ever expected.

Elsewhere walls are caught as they fall,

pulled apart, scrubbed, and puzzled

back up with modern formula;

faithful, authentic, opened

to interpretation.

Here the originals snagged a truth;

they caught a crime

in the cracks of a chamber.

Here abrupt endings sunk into earth

sprouting stories demanding

to be shared again and again.

_Here_ cannot be opened

to interpretation. No replica can weather

the doubt these walls have broken.

So when Birkenau broke

they scoured the country for Birkenau bricks,

collected ingredients from way back when,

mixed a new mortar that was

faithful, authentic,

and laid a new wall in the yard.

Inflicted on this training wall,

the tinkerings routed away

from the originals.

Warped and propped up,

injected with stop-gap solutions,

patient zero to the epidemic

of gnawing time.

There is no easy solution

to this first-ever problem:

a museum not built but transformed,

from human ash to tourist tracks

stomping ground every year

in stylish solemnity, fiddling

with a memory thinned by use

Original walls stand resolute.

Decay will not be granted.

# Black Beetle

on the road

in the dark

in a park, underfoot.

I had to stop and take a look.

Blended lines, crepuscular

shine and legs that move like shadows

in the corner of my eye.

I said you go my path and I'll

take yours,

before the road becomes unsafe.

We'll see how far I scuttle,

legs like spindles,

typist's fingers on a great concrete swathe.

Impassable for such small souls, she says.

To reach the other side you risk

that spit-polished shell,

your protection and your praise,

sunbathe and ricochet.

So hurry! This twilight

is coating her way. In hindsight –

she falters –

this may have been a mistake.
**ALEKSANDRA MARAVI** **Ć**

A realistic dreamer, always in search of inspiration. The center of her universe are love and creativity. Major enthusiast and optimist. Loves traveling and exploring places where feelings overwhelm her. English teacher turned school theater director, spreads her creativity at work by teaching English through the arts. Her biggest drive in life is passion.

Anyone who doesn't believe in miracles is not a realist.

# Fairy Tale Gone Bad

IN THIS HECTIC WORLD where we blindly try to cure negativity, get sucked into mistakes and naively trust false people, all in the hopes of living a fairy tale creation of our mind, we are in desperate need of peaceful places and moments that will erase all the glitches we have accidentally created in this... 'fairy tale'. These glitches scar us irreparably, or so it seems.

We grow up on 'happily ever afters' and the Disney universe of true love and wonderful love stories, which I am starting to think is merely a parallel universe to this horrid one, and simply doesn't exist. Maybe for the few lucky ones who find the path, it does, but that is oh-so-rare.

I read once that those who grow up believing in fairy tales may actually be scarred for life because of constantly living in the hope of finding one and making it their reality. All their ideas, dreams and decisions are based on this desire. Therefore, they make hasty choices, swept away by moments that aren't actually as magical as they had constructed them in their minds.

Well, you see, Anastasia, being fairly realistic and insightful, probably was just a disappointment away from believing this fully. Still, hope had always played one of the main roles in her life. The one that is never absent, constantly lingering when not needed and spreading through her even from the shadows. Nonetheless, she was well aware that being hopeful was a divine trait to cherish; however, it was also the trait that leads to dismay, giving it an open road and clear skies ahead.

She had followed that open road and, disappointment after disappointment, came to the state of desperately seeking something in places where it just wasn't. Due to her deeply buried and expertly hidden insecurity when it comes to matters of the heart, she believes when she shouldn't, let's go when she shouldn't, she trusts when she shouldn't and creates a fairy tale where there isn't one, therefore blinding herself by blocking common sense, leading herself to yet another... disappointment.

Maybe some stories would have turned out differently had she not doomed them with her fairy tale ideas from the start. Maybe they wouldn't have.

That's what tortures her and brings on a state of weightlessness she cannot escape for days until she, yet again, forces herself out of it, hiding that insecurity even deeper into her soul. And she goes back to her perky, charming self, making everybody believe her soul has no holes in it, and yet, the holes are slowly creating a canyon.

After all the glitches, all the disappointments, all the lost hopes of 'maybe this is love', after all that hiding, ultimately, your being itself will become hidden; that was exactly what terrified her the most. As wondrous and enchanting as she seemed to others, nobody could see the desperate feelings that slumbered within her. The warmth that would embrace you when you looked into her eyes was indeed a calmness and gentleness that nested in her soul. However, just like a smile can hide so many deep-rooted feelings, not all necessarily upbeat and joyful, that warmth had a chilly side that life had introduced, after many opened windows welcomed storms into her being, proving that a clear sky and warm breeze don't necessarily lead to a calm sea.

***

Long ago, in a parallel universe, where boundaries for our deepest desires and passions do not exist, where there are no lies and no stress, where the sky is blue and the heavenly sound of sea water occupies and enlightens your senses, there was a girl, there was a boy, there was... a fairy tale.

Flash forward to the part where this world is broken: it had been yet another unrealistic, 'too good to be true' scenario that only has a happy ending behind those rose-tinted glasses she deliberately refused to take off. That feeling that had found a permanent home in her heart, soul and mind is something she wishes upon no one. You shouldn't expect something that simply cannot happen. She refused to admit to herself that fairy tales don't exist; she refused with all her might and was determined to prove people wrong, to prove their negative thoughts wrong. Unfortunately, she was painfully stripped of those rose-tinted glasses and she lost that optimism about love. It simply evaporated – he was the last straw, he was the boundary, he was the fairy tale gone wrong. He was love.

So I don't want you to read this story with rose-tinted glasses; read it with no expectations of a happy ending because you will not have the satisfaction of getting one. Why?

Because first love is neither a Disney movie nor a romantic novel, it is _not_ a fairy tale.

That fairy tale world was enchanting: she felt as if she were flying, like they could do anything, go anywhere and be anybody. He gave her the feeling she had always been searching for, the feeling of belonging, of weightlessness. A feeling she had always expected, yet never could find in the busy city streets and glitzy places she had visited. It had slipped through her hands many times, so it seemed, until she grabbed it and clung to it. Reluctant, at first, at the appearance of this mesmerizing, inexplicable feeling, seemingly resistant and nonchalant, but her insides reacted to the actual storm in her head at the glimpse of what she had desired but was scared to recognize. To admit it.

The car rides that will forever vividly flash through her mind at the sound of Dido's _Here with Me_ , the car where she let go, and no longer resisted to recognize and admit it. It was indeed too good to be true but, nonetheless, it was. And she soaked it all in whilst humming with him to the songs they had both loved. What they had was so beyond the plain expression 'in common'. They had connected on a more soulful level.

The car racing, the song playing, her hair flying in the wind, the scent of the seaside invading their senses, blending with the passion they both felt, a passion almost palpable. She had never thought it was possible to connect so surely, so deeply and so strongly.

They had just met: they knew so little yet so much about each other. It seemed as if there was no topic they didn't cover on that balcony. That balcony. Notos. A modern, white paradise. So chic, yet so many miles away from the commotion and superficial atmosphere of the crowded hot spots. Even before experiencing it with him, it had become her safe haven in a way, a place where she felt like she was floating on air, like all her walls were down. Everything was calm, tranquil, spiritual almost. It is there that she told him all her wishes, all her childish and grown up thoughts; it is there that she decided this was a person who could complete her. Such a hard task, yet it came so easily to her, with such confidence and certainty. She dared not question it because she couldn't bear more disappointments – it would ruin her. Just like it did, eventually.

He took her to a place that felt like a sanctuary, a place that would forever more remain in her mind as a picture of a place where she felt it, she experienced it – her fairy tale come true. So stupid and ignorant to reality she was. So naive, compared to the selfish, unfair being that first love is. It came so swiftly it wrapped her up in its waves and kept her tucked in and safe. It kept her thinking she had gotten what she had always desired, it kept her thinking it was real. She got lost in his embrace, an embrace she still feels, a warmth she long after yearned to get back, a feeling that still creates an aching pain deep within her. Although this fact makes her weak and defeats her, it is no less real. Just as a wave reaches the highest point, becomes strong, fearless and unbreakable, yet crashes and disappears into the shore: that is how her magic fairy tale disappeared.

Through the beauty of this technology-filled world, they managed to keep in touch; they held on with unimaginable strength. He had assured her it was not all too good to be true. Ignoring all the alarms and sirens in her head which experience had installed, she believed him. She succumbed to the current of the sea with the hope of reaching a harbor. Little did she know he would return to her as another person, a stranger. A cold, distant creature she couldn't recognize. The cold city air fueled her suspicions: there was no sanctity of the seaside scent – they were in the real world. They were in a taxi when he refused to kiss her, they were in her apartment when he refused yet again, they were in the park when the alarms in her head finally went off and were flashing red and orange fluorescent colors, blinding her, blurring the words he was saying, breaking apart the fairy tale piece by piece. Slowly, painfully, but permanently leaving traces on her future. Her optimism wouldn't admit it, wouldn't accept it: she was still holding on, still fighting even though he had already given up. Coward. He was sneaky, his words vague and twisted, his eyes secretive, his mask perfect. Perfect for encouraging her blindness. Perfect for feeding her reluctance. Perfect for tainting her future. Perfect.

The cigar case still sits in her memory box, the pictures still safe in her computer, untouched, the album name will remain unchanged: _My baby_. That part of the fairy tale will remain. That is what he couldn't destroy. That is hers. The name would remind her not to get swept away so easily, it would remind her to keep her rose-tinted glasses in the same box with the cigar case. How meaningful objects can be – _I don't want to move a thing, it might change my memory_. Dido, remember? She does; so vividly, she does.

Tears, overrated, tears don't cut it, tears just release it, calm the pain, but it fuels up. Of course it does, it probably always will. "No, it won't," they say, but she can't imagine it, the pain leaving, she can't picture it.

She couldn't expect it and still can't, that the pictures from her mind could disappear. It was unlikely that the memories of the warmth she felt with him would not still make her tremble. Did she want it to, did she want the pain to leave, did she want to become completely indifferent?

No she didn't. Because that meant a new fairy tale didn't exist, and that conflicted with her positivity-driven world.

So she just hid it all.

She hid it well.

***

And so, hope had come out of the shadows after a while, not quite so long ago. First love had left its scar, but what's one scar without a friend to keep it company? The other, more mature, yes, larger, indeed, perhaps even more severe, but this time – welcoming in hindsight.

She would never know why the fairy tale had to go bad, why hope had lifted her up so high, just to shatter her afterwards. After a while though, after a sequel with a more mature scenario, after a new scar which still brings an ache, she is closer to serenity. Another love gave hope a new face and meaning – hope is now her friend, not just an acquaintance. Despite leaving a new scar, he has mended the first one; with his gentleness, with every stroke of his hand on her skin and the way he truly saw her. He left new memories that will be awoken by new melodies. _Kiss away the pain and leave me lonely_ , and the picture of swaying in his arms as breakfast went far past being overdone, shall remain.

Most importantly, he has sketched out her harbor; she now knows how it should feel. Hope has yet to find her a painter.

"In hindsight, I would change nothing, I bared my soul, I now know love, I truly know love and no matter the pain, it gives me peace. The peace that will guard my hope and lead me to my harbor...some day..."

Anastasia
**VERA NOVKO** **VIĆ**

Very bad at writing self-descriptions, but likes to think she's good at writing of other kinds. Oh, and experimental psychology. That's kind of her thing, too.

# Extra

I TRY TO AVOID being in stories. Which is sort of hard, because I am the living – so far, at least – embodiment of extra-in-a-story material. I am that nondescript guy, stuck in traffic, or in the grocery store, next to whom an alien drops from the sky and the apocalypse begins. I'm the one who gets dragged into things, who can't help himself, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. When I think about it, I was probably _born_ in the wrong place at the wrong time and couldn't find any means to leave afterward.

Like now, for example. There was this girl – _of course_ there was a girl, this was an uncommon occurrence and those are a total cliché, nine times out of ten – and she was desperate to find something, I hadn't yet managed to gather _what_ , and I was buying pasta for tonight's dinner, _chez moi_. By myself, for myself. Bothering _no one_ else. And of all the supermarkets, in all the towns, in all the world, she bull-rushed into mine.

And crashed point-blank into my cart.

My _cart_.

What kind of adventure starts at a supermarket, that's what I'd like to know?

Also, why did it have to be _my_ supermarket?

So the girl was crying, right? That's not very fair. When do _I_ get to cry? More importantly, how was I ever going to get any further from the apparent epicenter of the universe, if I can't even make myself some instant Bolognese without some _protagonist_ sabotaging my perfectly non-exhilarating life? That's why I did the only thing a person can in this situation:

I turned on my heel and ran.

Well. _Run_ is a bit of a weighted term for what I was doing. Mostly I just managed to trot awkwardly between the aisles, shopping cart in tow, but _sans_ crying girl, thankfully. As far as possible from all those terribly exciting inconveniences she was bound to have a suitcase full of. Like for example, me becoming the one person in the Universe who could help her. That one's a classic. Really, now? There's seven billion people around. Someone else was bound to have my utter lack of distinctive qualities. In fact, I bet you could find a guy just like me three doors down. Or maybe two. Or maybe just one. It doesn't matter! What matters is that it really, truly, sincerely _doesn't have to be me_. Let me have my spaghetti in relative peace, please, with just the TV for company.

But it was not to be.

_Of course not_.

The girl was stumbling after me, like an overly-made-up drunkard, her loose coat and many accessories catching on practically _everything_ within range, a few jars and boxes of ready-made sauce crashing to the dirty tiles, forgotten in her flurry of _specialness_ and _adventure_ and similar exciting nouns not meant to be used in context with people like me, or supermarkets or _aisles_. Finally, her fingers latched onto my elbow and she stopped short, apparently forgetting that physics don't stop working regardless of how special you are, letting the collective inertia take over and turn us all, guy, girl, and shopping cart, into an unsightly – and moaning – pile on the floor.

One could argue that, in order to get back to the delightful blandness of my everyday existence, all I had to do was help her up, apologize politely and continue with my life. But one would be so very, _very_ wrong. These people _never_ let you go, regardless of how conscientiously you explain your total disinterest in their trouble.

Sure enough, after we'd alerted _everyone_ in the supermarket to our existence, two shop assistants rushed to our aid; or I should __ say _her_ aid. I was disregarded like the piece of scenery I seem to become whenever one of these people walks in with their mobile spotlight and catastrophe magnet. They crowded around the damsel, helped her to her feet, brushed off her jacket like the mother they'd like to think she'd probably never had and offered to call the doctor. _The DOCTOR_. She'd hardly even felt the blow, seeing as how I was there to cushion her fall.

The shopping cart had generously cushioned mine.

Still, the people currently vying for her attention provided an opening for me, and I slipped away as graciously as I could, considering the general fracas and the – ow! – ankle I'd probably twisted. _Wonderful_. Of course, no one offered to call the doctor for _me_. On second thought, that might have been for the best. Heaven knows what sort of superhero-wannabe orthopedist I was bound to encounter if I'd gone to the emergency room. I'd probably end up with a prosthetic the size of Pluto and he with an article in _Nature_.

Salvation – in the form of a cash register manned by an obviously cranky cashier – was mere inches away, when fate decided to intervene once more, ever determined to foil my plans for the blissful union of pasta, crappy television and unimportance I had in mind for tonight. Or any night, really. A claw-like hand clasped my forearm, stopping me in my tracks and – _naturally_ – forcing me to put weight on my already agonized ankle.

Oblivious to my pain, the walking disaster looked at me with her wide, mascara-smudged eyes and spoke in a tone of voice fitting for a drill-sergeant or an opera singer. _Not_ a supermarket. "Please, sir! I'm really sorry, but could you please help me? I'm looking for these berries, see—"

Repressing the urge to point out to her that this was a Wal-Mart queue, not a Shakespearean stage, I pointed instead to the throng of shop assistants milling about the place, looking about as enthusiastic about the whole thing as I was; but hey, they were getting paid for it. "There, look. _They_ can help you find them. It's _their_ job. _I_ don't work here." I tried to turn to leave, but her death-grip on my arm hadn't subsided. She was shaking her head. "They told me to go to the frozen foods section, but there weren't any rememberries there!"

_Oh, lovely_. She couldn't have just been upset, no. She had to be an upset _lunatic_. With my best compassionate face – which probably came across as a grimace due to my injury, courtesy of this darling girl – I attempted to explain to her that I didn't know what in God's name she was going on about.

She, of course, was having none of it.

"Rememberries! They're like normal berries, but they're very rare, and they help you, um, well... _remember_ things. And I really need to find them!"

"And you thought you could find them at a _Wal-Mart_?" Unfortunately, instead of the insult, exasperation, and consequential departure my sarcastic and most uncourteous tone was meant to cause, the girl took it as a sign I knew what she was talking about. She began chattering rapidly, going on about a childhood promise, a name she needed to remember – hence the weird berry obsession, I imagine – and something about a _tree_? Naturally, since she was so blissfully unaware of the growing queue behind us, the looming security personnel inching towards us and the shrillness of her own voice, she hadn't realized the horror of what was currently happening, the living nightmare unfurling before my eyes.

We were causing _a scene_.

What little survival instincts I have switched into overdrive at this point and I shushed her – very loudly, I am ashamed to say; but she wouldn't have heard me over her own voice, otherwise – and, with my gut dropping ever further, I agreed to help her.

Unfortunately, this caused a volley of grateful squealing, which was probably misinterpreted by the security as a sign of alarm from the girl, if the shift in their scowls from irritated to menacing was any indication. Clapping my hand over her mouth – and instantly regretting it – I lowered my voice: "Listen, you have to let me finish up here, please. I can't help you if they toss me out of the goddamn supermarket. Just..." I looked around, mirroring the level of franticness of an average deer caught in the headlights, and gestured towards the exit. "Just wait for me outside, alright? I promise I'll be along soon."

She gave me another wide-eyed look and stage-whispered: "You won't leave without me?" I shook my head. Some six assurances of my recruitment for her ridiculous mission later, she nodded conspiratorially and stalked towards the glass doors on the other side of the shop.

I briefly entertained the notion of running to the opposite end of the supermarket and finding a back door – there was a back door, right? There's always one in the movies. It was only fair the utter clichéness of this whole thing has some plus sides – I could use it to escape to my delightfully mundane apartment! Instead, I deposited my groceries on the conveyor belt. It was no use, after all. Even if I managed to get home, the charming calamity would probably crash through the window or something, and then I'd have to pay for the fucking repairs, too.

***

While I'm sure all this ranting makes me seem like a selfish bastard, you have to understand that I wasn't entirely unsympathetic to the girl's cause. I'm not opposed to helping people. It's just that I'm completely certain that almost everyone else is better equipped to deal with these kinds of situations (or any situation not involving a TV remote and microwave dinners, really) than I am. I pride myself on my predictability, you see. It means that I can always know where I'll be at a given time, what I'll be doing, and know that _none_ of that is going to be even remotely interesting to anyone but me. And nowhere in my carefully scheduled life does traipsing around with a deranged fairy fit in. Which is why, when we found ourselves in a basement of some chic architectural outburst on the Golden Coast, squeezing between aisles (again!) of a spice shop, my desire for a quick and painless death intensified tenfold.

The place was deserted, except for us, and seemed to go on for _days_. It also looked like it was equally likely to sell ancient weapons of magical origin as it was curry. Still, this was where a jumble of directions we'd – or, more accurately, _she'd_ – gotten led us, after the two near-miss car crashes and four detours we'd survived on the way over. The air was stuffy and smelled like some experimental dish I'd probably skip in favor of a burger, and it only seemed to get more intense as we got further in. Finally, something resembling a reception desk appeared in lieu of a light at the end of the tunnel, manned by a tiny grandfatherly figure of Asian descent. Because, _of course_. As if it could have been anyone else. There was probably a katana – if not a lightsaber – stashed under the register, too.

He peered at us from behind the counter, the thick glass of his, well, glasses, distorting his features to something resembling a wizened frog. Who could probably break every bone in my body before I could even _think_ to regret all of my life choices.

I expected some sort of ritual greeting or maybe a password request, but my companion broke all standards, as usual, milling off a billion words a minute about her predicament, why we were here, and who I was ("My savior!" The savior's internal cringing intensified, naturally.). Strangely, she mentioned very little about _herself_ , and if _I'd_ noticed it, that meant the mystical old man definitely did. Still, he had no comment. He seemed to consider her words carefully. Then again, I imagine that he would wear the same expression of pensive wisdom regardless of what he was doing, including taking a dump, so I couldn't really claim to have any clue about his thoughts.

Finally, the cheesy trope embodiment spoke, in exactly the creaky tone of voice I knew he would. "These berries you search for, you cannot find them here." Our heroine's face fell, and the transformation from excitement to despair was so quick, I was afraid I was going to have another tear duct situation on my hands, but the proprietor stopped it in its tracks with his next sentence. "But you _have_ come to the right place." Aaaand back to overly-excited drama we go. "I have heard of them before and I know who might have them. But!" he lifted the index finger of his right hand, the digit as gnarled as the rest of him, "many perils await down this path; if you are not certain of your commitment to this cause, you had better not undertake this journey at all." At that moment, a striking sense of familiarity hit me: this was a TV show! Of course it was! The low-rate cable kind, no less. I craned my neck, expecting to find the badly hidden lens of a camera or the puffy shape of a microphone looming overhead, but it was not to be, after all. It was real. I was in the middle of it. And no one would even pay me for my trouble, like a proper TV company would. "It is well-guarded, the place you seek. You must go to the city within the city, to my former apprentice. He hides among my people, fearing the light he no longer walks in." _Ugh_ , I thought, _Chinatown_. It couldn't have been something normal, like Cabrini Green or Lake View, no. It had to be the shady bit of the city. Oblivious to my territorial concerns, the geezer pressed on: "Make no mistake: though craven, he _is_ dangerous, and he will not give you these berries lightly. If you are to go, your heart must be like steel tempered by a waterfall of ice."

To my great dismay, the girl nodded repeatedly, eyes bright and determined. The old master smiled approvingly.

Me? I mostly tried not to cry.

***

Thankfully, the girl indulged my pleas to take a cab to wherever it was we were going; hence, ten minutes later, we emerged from the spicy air of the car and onto the lantern-adorned streets of Chicago's Chinatown. The constant assault on all of my senses changed in nature from colorful to _even more_ colorful, with everything from the shop windows to the clothes of the crowds filling every available inch of the pavement and almost poking my eyes out. Almost, I say, because they'd already become somewhat accustomed to the general insanity. Still, I had no idea where we were supposed to go from there. Fortunately, no such uncertainty plagued my companion, and she resumed her vice-like grip on my hand as she dragged me through the jumble of people, wares and vehicles to our goal.

The walk seemed to go on for hours, broken every now and then by a particularly vicious collision with any of the aforementioned obstacles – mine, of course; _she_ seemed to glide through it all as if protected by her aura of ridiculousness – until we finally stopped in front of a completely unremarkable wooden doorway. It led us to a flight of stairs which in turn led to _yet another fucking basement_. I was beginning to wonder if any of these people had ever heard of elevators, and if they had, why none of them had decided to go _up_ , for a change.

The first door was wide open, as well, and there was no one in sight, but I could hear chatter further ahead, behind a set of heavy red-and-gold drapes. The embroidered dragons snarling at us from the fabric didn't look particularly welcoming, but I was long past being daunted by something so trivial. Oh, no. The reason my body was going through a nigh-epileptic routine had a lot more to do with the pair of goons – legitimate goons, I swear; completely unnecessary sunglasses cutting into their meaty bald heads and everything – who emerged from the room beyond to cut off our approach.

They didn't speak. Of course not. Again, I was overcome with the déjà vu trashy movie atmosphere, but I knew better than to look for cameras. I was probably likely to wind up with a dagger protruding from my unmentionables if I did, after all.

Of course, no such worries bothered the girl. She bounded up to them, sweet as you please, and opened her mouth to doom us once again: "Hi! Yeah, um, sorry to barge in like this, but we were wondering if your boss was here? His ex-master told us we could find him here, you see, and I really need his help with something." She turned to me and said "I'm not gonna tell them about the rememberries!" in her finest stage-whisper. I was pretty sure the vendors on the street outside knew why we were there now, too.

For a second or ten I thought the menacing duo would tear us limb from limb – me first, probably – but one of them darted back through the curtains, only to reappear a moment later, beckoning us to follow him to the back. Swallowing what was probably the sixtieth or so lump in my throat, I sauntered over to the girl and stepped behind her into what turned to be yet another movie-set for a third-rate action flick. Which is to say, we found ourselves in a pachinko den, lit even _more_ dimly than the hall we'd just come from, the general seediness of the place emphasized further by the rolling clouds of smoke coming from all directions. I was pretty sure they had a dry-ice machine in there somewhere, because they would've all died from lung cancer long before we ever showed up, otherwise.

Goon numero uno led us to the back of the room, where the nauseating fog was at its thickest, but we could see the outline of a hulking silhouette I assumed belonged to the, erm, _boss_.

He wore sunglasses, too.

The fat mobster – is there any other kind? – regarded us from his spot on the leather sofa he and two very pretty and very decorative girls were currently occupying. For a while, I almost hoped my fellow idiot would say something completely inappropriate yet _again_ , and that this would all at least be over with quickly, but even she seemed to realize the seriousness of our predicament, choosing instead to stand quietly next to me, although not without fidgeting. God forbid she should be still for even half a second.

The staring contest went on for a while longer, until we lost, of course, due to the chief's unfair advantage of not even having to look at us at all. He could have been sleeping under those shades and we would never have been the wiser. Still, we were both breathing (although some of us in a more panicky-hyperventilating fashion than others) and no organs were enhancing the décor, so I thanked God for small mercies.

Too soon.

The henchman-turned-guide drew a gun I didn't realize could fit into his very tight black suit (I guess he hadn't been very happy to see us, after all) and held it to my head. Because how could he _possibly_ do anything else? I was almost disappointed it wasn't one of those Japanese swords, but I guess we were stuck with the wrong mob for that one.

"You were a fool to come, _mòshēng rén_ ," the über-goon said, his words so heavily distorted by his accent that I barely gathered those which _were_ in my tongue. For some reason, he was speaking to me, and not the cause of all my troubles, even though _she_ was obviously the one more likely to be at fault for our trespassing. Apparently, sexism was as rampant in the underworld as it was in the one above. Good to know.

For a few moments, no one spoke. Us, because what the hell do you say in these kinds of situations, anyway, and them for the menacing effect, I guess. But our unwilling hosts got tired of the stand-off soon enough, apparently, because the main goon spouted a bunch of gibberish at the guy holding us at gunpoint, prompting him to raise his weapon of very precise destruction again and release its safety with a rather final-sounding click. The girl was speechless, obviously for the first time truly aware of the gravity of the situation, and so the save-our-lives baton passed, yet again, to me.

I cannot stress this enough: I am not _in any way qualified to handle this kind of stuff_.

Or any kind of stuff, really.

Scrambling to think of an appropriate movie reference which could potentially fit here, I extended my arm protectively in front of the girl – my brain screaming at me to run, run, RUN instead – and said, in a tone somewhere between a squeak and a scream: "Wait! Wait, please! You're the only ones who can help us!" Our soon-to-be killer seemed unfazed by my outburst, but his superior held up a meaty hand, postponing our deaths for at least a second.

Which, unfortunately, meant I had to say something _else_ now.

Oh, brother.

"You see, we're looking for these berries." I couldn't really tell what was going on behind the reflective shades the pair of entrepreneurs of Asian descent were sporting, but I could swear they were surprised. Maybe the glass reflected more brightly. I don't know. Anyway, another minute bought. And, being the master of improv that I am, I simply blurted out our whole adventure story, from Wal-Mart to Chinatown, which didn't seem to improve their mood in the slightest, but, hey, at least we were alive!

For the moment.

"So, yeah, we need you to tell us where they are so I can finally get back to my life." After a short pause, I added: "Please, mister boss-man."

The aforementioned boss-man regarded us quietly for another several seconds-worth-a-lifetime, before, utterly predictably, and defeatingly in our case, saying: "What are you offering in return for these _rememberries_?"

And therein lies the rub.

No one will be surprised at this point to discover that we had exactly _nothing_.

I considered saying the girl would repay him with her body, before realizing pimping her out to the mob might not exactly be the greatest health plan for either of us, and succumbing to despair. But then, in a flash of genius repenting for almost all her many previous sins, the girl finally opened her mouth and out came the most brilliant thought ever to grace this Earth.

"We challenge you to a Mahjong duel for the information!"

As I have reiterated many times before, to the point of reprehensibleness, there's not a great many things I'm good at. In fact, the list usually begins and ends with 'sticking to a routine till death do us part', but that has allowed me to master some skills which would maintain the optimal amount of low-effort for my desired life. Skills like expertly playing computer games which came pre-installed with my cheap, outdated operating system. Games no-one plays unless the day is just so fucking boring there's really nothing else to do.

Games like _Windows Vista_ 's Mahjong.

Those little white tiles _danced_ in my hands.

My touchpad.

Whatever.

Still, it seemed as if my delight was premature, because my opponent-to-be just stared at us, as if we'd suddenly sprouted extra heads or something. A few very long seconds passed before he deigned to speak again: "It has been a long time since anyone has dared challenge me in the sacred game," he said, his accent making the situation even more movie-esque. I half expected him to pull a Mahjong set from the sleeve of his designer suit and place them on the table in the shape of a dragon or a snake or something. Still, for the first time, the situation failed to meet my expectations of ridiculousness. Instead, something much, _much_ weirder happened.

The big bad mobster beamed at us like a child.

"You have no idea how hard it's been! No one wants to play with me anymore!" A sad look twisted his features. "It was so horrible! I even started threatening my underlings with execution if they refused, but their wits got so clouded by fear, I would win the game instantly!" He shook his head again. "A dark time, indeed."

I just stood there, and my mouth must have fallen open at some point, because I had to close it again before I could reply. "Um, so... you accept the challenge?"

The words were barely out of my mouth, and he had already hopped from his seat and somehow, with agility completely at odds with his girth, bounded over to where we were standing to wrap us in a spice-scented embrace. "Accept?" He bellowed. "I would be _honored_! Oh, it has been so _long_!" He turned to our would-be murderer and frantically gave some instructions, making the guy dart through a door in the back of the room and come back almost superhumanly quickly, a lacquered wooden box carefully protected in his grasp.

"This is a special occasion, indeed!" Our host now turned to one of his pretty companions, currently reclined on the couch in an exact mirror-replica of the girl across from her, as if she came with it, like a pillow or a comforter. He gestured towards the bar impatiently. "Drinks, Chǒng'ér! We must not let thirst hinder our game!"

A few moments later, we were all sitting around the table, a glass of whiskey in front of each opponent, and one of the girls had now latched herself onto me. It wasn't unpleasant, but it sure as hell was _distracting_. Nonetheless, being smothered with the attention of an attractive woman was still a miracle compared to being smothered by the dirt of a shallow grave, which had seemed much more probable mere minutes ago. The tiles were carefully arranged in front of us, and I would have enjoyed admiring the delicate shapes painted on them, if it hadn't been for the fact that I was, you know, playing for my life.

And, of course, the rememberries.

Fucking _rememberries_.

Still, there was no time to renew my resentment towards my companion, so instead I focused on the game. Cracking my knuckles in my best Van Damme (inappropriate reference, I realize; Bruce Lee, if you will) impersonation, I set out to move one tile. And then another. And then another. And another, until I was completely immersed in the movements of the dragons, winds and flowers changing places in front of my eyes. The boss seemed equally enraptured, so much so that no one else dared move or speak, as if it would break his concentration irreparably.

Or maybe it was the fact that breaking his concentration would have rather lethal consequences.

Yup, that must've been it.

It had seemed like hours passed while we played, but soon enough, there were very few tiles remaining on the wooden surface, and my adversary was obviously ready for his endgame.

Not on my watch.

Channeling all my previous experiences of defeating computer algorithms time and again, I focused on the board and maneuvered the tiles in a way that allowed me to snag the last discarded tile, a red dragon, and with it, the match.

In a candid-camera moment, we both leapt from the table, and my stomach dropped to my heels again, while my brain tried to recall any instance of an evil underworld boss being a gracious loser.

Naturally, there were exactly none.

For once, however, the fact that we _weren't_ in a movie seemed to save our skins – the über-goon broke free of his post-defeat stupor, suddenly bending over in a bow that made me think he probably did yoga more often than he would dare let on, for fear of losing his mafia-cred or whatever the underworld equivalent of overly manly man-ness was. When he spoke, it sounded as if tears were about a second away from splashing against his glasses.

Which would effectively blind him.

I guess I would have to be a goon to understand the whole sunglasses-indoors gimmick.

"You have proven yourself to be a worthy adversary, _mòshēng rén_ ," the words came from somewhere in between the floor and his stomach. I barely understood, but at least I was pretty sure he no longer wanted to kill us, which was a relief. Sort of. I couldn't help but think that if he _did_ kill us, it wouldn't really be so bad.

I wouldn't have to look for the stupid berries anymore, for starters.

Which would be grand indeed, considering what the man said next. "I am afraid..." He shuddered. _Visibly_. "I am afraid I have misled you. My former master gave you reason to believe I have the berries, and I did nothing to contradict that claim." I was beginning to wonder about the humongous crick he was bound to get in his back after standing in that bow for more than five minutes now. For his part, he seemed unfazed.

Well. Unfazed by the bow, at least.

_We_ were another story entirely.

"What do you mean, you don't have the berries?" The girl had finally found her voice again, as soon as someone else had saved the day for her.

_Typical_.

The boss finally straightened and took a deep, tremulous breath. "I _had_ them, this is true. For a long time, after I had stolen them from my master and ran away like a thief in the night—"

"Or, you know, _exactly_ like that."

I couldn't help myself. I was still high on Mahjong.

What probably saved us this time was the obvious shame my adversary was overwhelmed with. He merely nodded at my outburst, agreeing. My jaw dropped somewhere to the vicinity of my feet. "You are right, of course. I _was_ a thief. I hid the berries for many years, selling them for a very, _very_ high price to anyone with enough money to buy them. And I was rich and happy. But then, fate came for its due: what I had done to my master had now been done to me." He made a pause I could swear was purely for dramatic effect, before revealing the rest to us. "A boy I had picked up from these foul streets some years ago, a boy I had raised to be my right hand, taught him _everything_ I know, he... He stole them from me." Another heavy sigh escaped his narrow lips. "It has been many years now."

"Well, do you know where he is?" The girl sounded frantic now. I couldn't really blame her, after all we'd gone through. Mostly me, actually. "Couldn't you get them _back_?"

"No. He made me see the error of my ways, see that thriving on others' memories was no way to live." Shaking his head ruefully, he spread his arms, as if in surrender. Or like he was going to give one of us a hug.

I sincerely hoped it was the former.

"They have been with him since. He hasn't kept his location secret, but my shame is too great to even pay him a visit, to apologize."

My fellow troublemaker practically pounced on him as soon as he'd finished speaking. I suddenly wished I had a camera, because no one would ever believe this Manic-Pixie-Dream-Girl-clinging-to-Asian-mob-boss moment. "Tell us!" Her voice went up another pitch, which I hadn't thought possible. "Tell us where he is! Please, sir!"

The pleading seemed a bit redundant, honestly, because the man had already told us his life story – clamming up about the location of the berries would have made him seem like a tease, at this point. For once, I was right. "My friends, I will do more than tell you! My... _associate_ , Zhang, will take you." Need I say that said associate was the one holding a gun to our heads barely an hour ago?

No?

Thought so.

***

The car ride over to the rendezvous point was silent, due in no small part to the obvious language barrier between our driver and us.

More accurately, we didn't speak thug.

We drove further and further away from Chinatown and into the more family-oriented neighborhoods, finally pulling up somewhere near Edison Park, in a row of white picket fences and giant yards, but, thankfully, sans screaming children. I guess school was in session, or something – to be honest, time had begun to blur a while ago, punctuated every now and again by my stomach growling for ready-made Bolognese.

As soon as we stepped out of the car, a heavy scent, one present both in the weirdo-emporium and the Chinatown lair, engulfed us and I realized that must have been _l'odeur de rememberry._ It was coming from a gigantic bush – almost a tree, really – sprawling over an otherwise unremarkable lawn, its branches heavy with tiny clusters of purplish fruit.

A sign saying "Rememberries here" would have been better, but, hey, beggars can't be choosers.

We stood in front of the gate for a few moments, and it wasn't until I reached out to grab the latch so we could step inside – because hey, at this point, trespassing was the least of my problems – that I noticed the girl was frozen where she stood, and not just posing for dramatic effect. Her eyes widened so far their eyelids practically disappeared, and it seemed like breathing wasn't a priority either. "Hey!" I called out, realizing for the first time that, throughout this whole shebang I hadn't even asked for her name. Usually, it was the other way around. "Hey, uh... Uh, _you_! Are you alright?"

She remained unresponsive, but she did fast-track from total stillness to desperate movement, flinging the gate open and running into the yard and somehow crossing the distance to the front door in less than a second, only to stop short before it, the fist which she was about to knock with petrified in the air above her head.

And then, _of course_ , she fainted.

A reasonable thing to do in any situation, really.

Luckily, I was spared the horror of performing CPR, because as if on cue, the door opened and a man I can only describe as the complete opposite of me stepped out. While I was easily melting into the background, he would probably be the one doing a Vanity Fair photo-shoot.

Simply put, I was the extra to his protagonist.

There was _yet another_ meaningful silence, and I had time to notice that the look on the newcomer's face – well, technically, _we_ were the newcomers, but why would we nitpick now? – mirrored the one my companion sported mere seconds ago. Since he seemed about as likely to take action as I usually was, the comical effect of the scene had time to begin, stretch to uncomfortableness and disappear into the abyss of way overdone.

It was about time someone did something.

Unfortunately, it seemed like that someone would have to be me.

I gathered all the initiative I had in me, and broke the staring contest. "Uh..." He didn't seem to register my epic outburst, so I took it up a notch. "Uh, hey. Um, can you help her?"

He looked at me in a way that made it pretty clear that, up until that point, he hadn't even been aware I was present. He glanced at the unconscious form on the floor again, then back at me. "Sorry, what?"

"Do. You. Want. To. Help. _Her_? I mean, I don't know what to do in these situations and I don't want to make it worse, and hey," I gestured at the very nice house from which he'd just emerged, "You look like you have your life together and like your chance of not messing up is at least marginally higher than—Oh, and she's up!" My rant had apparently woken the girl from her stupor, and I silently thanked the heavens that I didn't have to slap her, or put something aromatic under her nose or – the horror! – give her mouth-to-mouth or something. Do you even give mouth-to-mouth when people faint? See? Not knowing that probably sets me back even further on the list of people who can come to other people's aid.

I obviously can't even come to my own aid, for crying out loud.

Suddenly, I became irrelevant again, because the owner of the house refocused on the girl, and stayed that way. I welcomed the turn of events with immense relief and a tiny bit of wistfulness, which I proceeded to beat back down into drab disinterest with extreme prejudice. He crouched next to her and then helped her back up, disappeared into the house for a second and reappeared with a full tray of glasses and a water-filled pitcher. Because he probably has a dozen of those just lying around the house, waiting for the opportune moment to be brought out and reaffirm everyone's belief in his overwhelming competence. They didn't speak a word to each other, which I found incredibly weird, but somehow fitting, because it seemed I finally wasn't the only one who was at a loss for the right thing to say. Or maybe this is how these incredibly important people communicate, on a telepathic level, through doe-eyed looks and intense manly staring?

I don't know anymore.

Then, to my utter surprise, they fell into each other's arms. And, _no_ , it wasn't an old Hollywood-worthy kiss: they just hugged, holding on to each other with an intensity that somehow seemed inappropriate considering our rather cookie-cutter surroundings. I felt the need to teleport them to a shipwreck or a battlefield or something, they were just so fucking _dramatic_.

Once again, my untold capacity for finding myself in awkward and hugely uncalled for situations reared its ugly head, and I realized I would, for the third or fourth time today – which is a _lot_ more than I'm comfortable with, generally preferring to keep the number around, well, _zero_ – have to ruin the moment. Still, seeing as how these people have 'the moments' every two seconds, I was beginning to feel less and less bad about it and more and more prone to taking pleasure in the dumbfounded looks they unfailingly had every time. As if they were so completely and wholesomely _surprised_ by the fact that anybody even _existed_ outside their little bubble of remarkableness, specialness, magic and all that other crap which mainly serves to ruin the days of people like me, who do all the hard work so their stupid adventures could even be possible.

Well, I say. Fuck _that_.

My rage from the beginning of our escapade was back in full force, and I was now positively _livid_. "Listen to me, _lovebirds_. I don't really know what's going on, or who you are, _either_ of you, but I _do_ know that my whole fucking day's been eaten up by this maniac's," I pointed at the one who started the whole thing, "stupid _quest_! A quest! In the 21st fucking century! Get with the program, people, some of us have to eat!" As if on cue, my stomach growled. I would have laughed, had I not been so goddamn exhausted. I also realized I must have looked deranged – even compared to the present company, which really was the joke of the century – and, being naturally awkward in any predicament where people were wont to look at me for prolonged periods of time, I lowered my tone and took a couple of deep breaths, like I'd seen all those unbelievably mentally sound people do on TV. It helped, sort of. "You have to tell me what's going on, or tell me to fuck off, at least, because I seriously can't take any more of this mysterious-yet-fateful thing all of you seem to have going on. Please. I'm really _hungry_ ," I finished dumbly.

The pair exchanged guilty looks and then nodded to each other. Even when being the source of someone's trouble, I remained the outsider.

Fine.

He spoke first, because _of course_ he did. "I'm sorry. We—" Another meaningful look was exchanged. Another eyeroll transpired. "Are sorry. You don't deserve to be treated this way, especially since you were such a great help to Elodie here." _Elodie._ Because how could she be anything other than French? Or of French descent. Or possessing of parents who were likely to choose a trendy foreign name. I wasn't sure which was worse, and she was probably all of it.

Unsuspecting of my newfound cringing, he continued. "She and I are childhood friends, you see. Long ago, I was an underling, an errand boy for the man you met earlier today. He taught me everything I know and gave me everything I had, but he couldn't give me friends. I didn't have any real connection in my life. Until I met Elodie, that is." He smiled at her, which made me wonder if I'd seen him in a toothpaste commercial. "We were so young, _she_ was so young, and yet she was already the light in my darkness, the flame to my moth, the saint to my sinner, the—"

"Yes, we got it," I interrupted when my eyes couldn't roll back any further. "She was quite bright. Could you get on with it, please?"

And so he did. He told me about how they'd met – it was as cliché as could be expected – how they grew close and how they'd finally made a plan to run away together. However, fate intervened – ha-ha – and her parents told her they were moving before their idea could be put into motion, so he, in a desperate attempt to somehow mark and anchor their friendship to something, stole the berries from his master and planted them with her, without telling her what the bush was. To her, it had been merely a manifestation of their friendship and its growth.

Needless to say, I really had to fight off the urge to ask for a bucket.

"So," I began when the saga of the berries was finally over, "All of this, this running, the Mahjong death-match, the guns, the, ugh, the _embarrassment_ I'm going to have to live down before I can go into that Wal-Mart again... All of that was because you couldn't remember to look him up in the goddamn _phonebook_?"

They hung their heads guiltily and the girl – _Elodie_ – opened her mouth to apologize or explain or _whatever_ , but I was having none of it.

"Right. Well. You can both just fuck off to your fairytale lives now, because I am out. Of. _Here_." And with that, in a dramatic exit worthy of the people I was leaving behind, I stalked out of the yard, down the street, and the one after that and onto the L train, and straight back to my own little apartment, safely away from any kind of further excitement or, God forbid, _adventure_.

I'd TiVo-ed some _Judge Judy_ the night before and it was just the kind of soapy drivel my brain required at this point: drama was best kept on the other side of the screen, after all. After a shower and some pretty skilled pasta microwaving, I was totally ready for my evening in. Just like I was the evening before. And the evening before that. And the thirty-eight years of evenings before that.

Just like I would be the day after.

You get the gist of it.

Sitting down on my favorite – and only – armchair, in the exact same spot as the previous day, I rested the platter with my coveted Bolognese over my knees. A forkful of tomato-covered carbs looked like heaven right about then and I relished the anticipation of the simple, familiar, utterly _vanilla_ taste I was about to grace my taste buds with in a second or so.

But that would never happen, because as I was about to chomp down on the pasta, something crashed through my window. _Something_ turned out to be a man, wrapped completely in dark purple robes and mask, and, as he expertly rolled away from the broken glass and back to an upright position, two long, very ninja-looking blades appeared in his hands.

With a weary sigh, I dropped my fork onto the platter.

"Oh, for crying out—"

# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

White City Wordsmiths would like to thank everyone who has made the realization of this project possible.

We are grateful to the English Language Fellows Program and the American Embassy in Belgrade for their support and encouragement. A big thank you to the Belgrade Youth Office for allowing us to use their premises for our creative writing workshop sessions.

White City Wordsmiths also want to thank: our workshop leader Jelena Petrović for her infinite patience and gentle guidance; Irena Raičević, the Balkan Writers Project manager and coordinator, for keeping a watchful eye over the whole endeavor; our talented designers who did a wonderful job and Vera Novković, our brilliant editor-in-chief and her editing team for their tireless efforts and dedication.

Special thanks to Nathan William Meyer, who started the initiative three years ago, the EL Fellow Jean Salisbury Linehan, who continued his work, and, of course, the writers themselves, whose enthusiasm made this journey enjoyable and worthwhile.

Thank you all.

# About the Workshop Leader

**Jelena Petrović** was born in Belgrade in December 1992. She finished the Philological High School in Belgrade (English as her first language and French as her second) in 2011 and studies English language, literature and culture at the Faculty of Philology in Belgrade. She attended an English language course at The Institute for Foreign Languages from 1999 to 2007 and a French language course at The French Institute from 2008 to 2010. She has translated several literary and non-literary texts and has been giving private English lessons for the past three years. She has been a part of every White City Wordsmiths workshop (the Balkan Writers Project creative initiative) – first as a member, then as the leader – and has been involved in the BWP's numerous other creative projects.
