by Mikaela WongA short monologue from the perspective of a maid being questioned about the death of her lady .
“Forgive my curtness–-- my! I didn’t even offer you tea! It’s just that, I have so many things to attend to. Oh but of course you’d know! You are here about… the incident, aren’t you? Take a seat inspector, will five minutes do? Perfect, then let us start. Oh Lady Green was marvelous. She was whimsical, witty and always kind. I started working here when I was 17 and now, five years later, she remains the same person I first met. Or remained. My fondest memory of her? We had so many, I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head. As an example, we used to bring the rowboat down to the Thames every Saturday. The things we’d get up to, alone and far away from the rest of gloomy Llondon-- Inspector, I simply couldn’t tell you! But not because I have anything to hide. No, of course. Of course you understand. I pride myself on how well I knew Lady Green. As a maid, one must know her employer well–-- both professionally and intimately. I knew how if she was worried–-- which we quite frequently were, she’d run out to the veranda, lean over the railing and trace circles into the palm of her left hand. While I worked, I will admit that I often danced to the staccato clip-clop of her Louis heels, stepping in time and pretending to walk in her shoes. Oh, and her gowns! I can still hear the gentle swishing they made as she floated by, seemingly on a sea of fabric that swept behind her. Now, on that day, at about sundown, I knew my lady should have been returning soon. On record, I would have been relieved of my duties, but I enjoy my work. I like seeing when Lady Green comes home, cheeks blooming carnelian red, hidden well under a smattering of dirt and sweat, built up from a day well spent tending to her garden. I knew her well. I’d even say that I would have known her well enough to… do the deed. I bet she wouldn’t even protest. But obviously, there was no way I'd actually go through with the–-- a plan. What plan? Did I say something about a plan? Well Inspector, in this dreary city who wouldn’t dream of a way out? Truthfully, sir, this was something we had spoken about many times. She usually reserved this topic for our boat trips and to be honest, she didn’t really have much planned out. It was a lot of hoping and wishing that one day, she might get lost, or sick, or fall into some other misfortune and nobody would ever have to worry. Now, Inspector. My lady was a bright woman. Be that as it may, I always thought her dull as dirt whenever she thought that "no one would ever have to worry". I’d tell her it was too late for that. I had already started worrying a long time ago and wasn’t about to stop. If she glanced over the lip of our rowboat, I’d grasp her hands, pull her close and say: “The Thames is cold. Let’s just go home and I’ll fix you a cup of chamomile tea. My lady, even though you make me wash your dishes and fold your laundry, I must say. I have grown oddly fond of you.” She’d laugh. Oh my, not that you needed to know this! Inspector, I do apologize. It's just that, I've never told anyone about this. It's a relief to finally say it out loud. Did I always go with her? Some days, she’d suggest we go together. Somedays, she’d insist on leaving alone. But no matter what she said, I always stuck by her side. Inspector, I know its hard to believe but when she was like that, I’d never get short with her. Never. Alright, sometimes I might have imagined throwing her overboard, just so she would quit her whining, but then what would I do with myself! I’d have to dive in after her as well! Oh Inspector, lighten up a little! We all have our fantasies… most of us keep them in our heads. But some of us… we forget how imagination works.”
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by Alicia TaiYou fiddle with your new engagement ring, feeling it hang loosely on your fourth finger. It would probably fall on the ground if you didn’t grip it so hard. You slide your gaze through the white and blue gemstones, the world shattering within it. You breathe deeply, the scent of chemical coconut shampoo filling your lungs, and you put your book down.
“I’ve been thinking...” Your voice feels muted by the thick caramel walls and the blue blankets covering the bed. “Hm? What?” He’s been at his desktop for 6 hours already, his thin frame hunched over and typing up another assignment. His face is mere inches from the LCD screen although you tell him every night that it will ruin his eyes. “I said,” you choose your words carefully, “I’ve been thinking recently.” “About what?” “The ring…” You pause, staring at the fantasy posters tacked on the wall, a knight slaying a dragon. “It’s a beautiful ring.” “I’m glad you like it, babe,” he absentmindedly murmurs. “You said that your favourite crystal was sapphire, right?” You look up. Little upside-down mountains dot the ceiling like baby stalactites, threatening to fall and pierce the two of you. His right leg keeps bouncing up and down. His nervous tic. It makes you nervous too. “It’s a bit big, really.” “What?” “I mean, I love the diamonds and the sapphires. I love it… It’s just… A bit big.” “What do you mean?” He turns his head around, looking at you through his big bubble glasses, magnifying his bulging brown eyes like a goldfish. You want to tap on the glass and see if he’ll retreat to his plastic castle. “I mean... It slips off the fingers sometimes, and I’m afraid that I might lose it when I walk.” You pick a piece of beige cotton off of the ring. “Sometimes it catches on my clothing.” You wonder if it’s too big for him too. You try to look, but they’re busy typing again. 1 “Is that all you have to say? I need to work. I’ll finish soon. Sorry.” You inhale, twisting your ring so hard it cuts into your other fingers. They feel like they’re bleeding, but it’s probably nothing more than a minor scratch. Maybe it didn’t even make a mark. It feels like it did, though, so you preoccupy yourself with untangling the knots in your bleached blonde hair. “What’s the story about?” There’s another moment of silence. It’s thick and ugly and contorts itself into every little crevice in the tiny room until you can’t see anything but its tendrils, and you start to suffocate. Finally, he places both his hands down on the desk and pushes himself backwards, spinning around on his chair. “What’s going on baby? Why are you asking?” “Nothing. I just want to talk.” “Okay?” You open your mouth, but find that you can’t speak. There’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow, so instead you just sit there. You recall the days when you two would stay up making forts every night, watching movies until 5am in the morning, when you would promptly fall asleep on his shoulders while he stuffed popcorn in his mouth. In the afternoon, you would wake up to him asleep on your shoulders, but you wouldn’t move because you were afraid he’d wake up, and all you could smell was the coconut shampoo that you bought him on sale, half off. It wafted to you like a breeze, and with the sun streaming through the windows and the birds chirping, you could almost forget the calculus test that neither of you had studied for, but planned to study for way back, when the night was still young, the day before. When did it change? After graduation? “Hello? What do you have to say? Can you talk?” His brows are furrowed, his interest waning. He’s waiting for you to say something. You need to say something. But you can’t. All you can do is stare at him, with his soft features and his messy hair and the dark circles under his eyes. No. Even after you graduated, there were still days like that. Less, of course, since both of you were knee-deep in school work. You, furiously scribbling the notes to your new song, your family berating you for simply following your dream. Him, passionately telling you the new plot to his three part story that you knew would be discarded at the end of the next month. But it didn’t matter. None of it did. He loved you. That was enough. 2 He brought you into his world of stories, painting the sun when it was raining, teleporting you to the beach during the wintertime. He was gone, most days, tucked away in his mind. But at least he brought you with him. You don’t know where he is anymore. He’s lost in another dream. Is he ever going to come back? Something moves in your field of vision, and you realize he’s turned around again. He’s back working at his computer. Tears swarm and fill your vision. You really can’t remember the last time you two talked. For the past six hours, you had been sitting on his bed, flipping through a book you brought just in case he went on another one of his writing binges, the room silent. Maybe it was a joke. Maybe he had something surprising planned for later. You had hoped, all through the first hour, then the second, then the third. It took you three more hours to sum up the courage to say something. “What day is it today?” You ask him, keeping your voice steady while wiping your eyes quietly. You see him mouse over the date, and respond. “April 15th.” He switches the tab back again, and begins reading an article. He doesn't give the question a second thought. You nod. He doesn’t need to respond. He’s forgotten. You bite your lip. A part of you wants to scream, to throw your book at the ground and demand his attention. The other part of you wants to break down and cry, and wonder where it all went wrong, lament about the past and curse at fate. But you do neither. You keep your emotions close to you, as you always do. You look down. The ring sits idly on your finger, fracturing the computer’s dull glow to all corners of the dimly lit room. Why doesn’t he speak? Why can’t he turn around and talk to you? Why does he keep typing his endless stories when the most important one’s about to end? His eyes are glued to the screen. You realize that you’re standing up, so you take a seat on his bed. Your body acts without thinking, and your mind follows after. “You can have it back.” The ring falls off your finger. You realize something. You don’t want to fidget with it anymore. You don’t want it catching on your clothing. You don’t want to constantly have to worry about it slipping off. You don’t want something that doesn’t even want 3 to stay on. “You can keep it.” He doesn’t look up. You start walking, and then you remember something. “And my favourite gemstone is aquamarine.” When you reach the doorframe you hesitate for a split second, and turn to look at him. His back is still turned to you, nothing’s being written anymore. Is he trembling? You take a step back, but then you see his fingers. They’re completely bare. His leg is bouncing up and down again, and you exhale. As you push past his door, your fingers instinctively reach for the ring, but it’s not there. You look down. You were right. They didn’t cut deep at all. There isn’t even a mark. Writer's Statement: I wrote this piece because of a university assignment that pushed me above what I normally write about. To begin my process, I wrote the dialogue to this piece emphasizing on what was unsaid rather than said, the underlying thoughts of the characters. After the dialogue, I transferred it to a piece of short fiction, around 1,300 words, and made it into something that I would have never imagined writing about. I tried to incorporate a lot of symbolism and nuances throughout the piece, which required more thought and planning that I usually give my pieces. I revised this piece maybe 4 times before I finally decided on this one and, although it may still have room for improvement, I am quite proud of what I wrote. by Samantha Chan James opened his eyes to a concrete ceiling. It had holes and fingernail scratches imprinted on its surface, the paradise view he has woken to for the last 5 years. His bed was springy, but there was nothing he could do about it. Orange jumpsuits roamed the halls; ghosts of society. He put his hands on his head, the slippery feeling of skin. Breakfast was porridge, like every other day. He spooned the slop of food into his mouth, slowing down enough to make it last. The spoon was dented but it did the job. When the bell rang, all the orange jumpsuits gathered together outside, chests puffed up, their hands curling into fists. Tattoos rolled down their necks, bitten on bare biceps. They hissed when James looked at them for too long. He himself did not own any tattoos. His stick arms were unsoiled, an atypical look here at Creekside Correction County.
The sun was hidden behind clouds, terrified of making a sound. He prodded through the sea of inmates, struggling to not aggravate anybody. Craning his neck, a guard was already there, standing between two prisoners. The guard’s hand rested in his back pocket, fingers wrapping around the neck of a trigger. James hurried to the back where he had been standing. He stood there, observing interactions between orange and orange. In the corner of the graveyard, there was a huddle together. They kept their voices low and hushed whispers until one of them turned around. “Hey! What th’ hell you looking at?” someone shouted. “Get an effing life! Jesus Christ!” Laughter arose. James instinctively raised his hands above his shoulders while his ankled tied together. Cold sweat ran down his arm. His spine uncurled as if there was a straightener ironing out his posture. He looked down at his torn uniform. There were holes in between seams. The same man who yelled raised his arm to give the very simple expression nothing but his middle finger. That night, James dreamt about an outside world. A place without concrete walls, and buzzers, and secret weapons in every pocket. He fantasized about that life, a reality buzzing with civility, good intentions, healed flesh; days full of glory. James opened his eyes to a concrete ceiling. It had holes and fingernail scratches imprinted on the skin. He scrambled in his bed, put his hands on his head; his palms rubbing against raw skin. Snatching his keys, he slipped out of his room. He tapped in the keypad, buzzed the door open. His first steps outside were on eggshells. Then, his muscles in his thighs, and abs began to clench. His strides elongated, his sprint as graceful as a horse catching the wind. As he ran, the badge fastened to his navy uniform glinted in the streetlights until he dissipated into the shadows. by Wren Lee “Dread is a dark, shapeless thing,” she says, seagulls flying overhead and waves crashing at the sandy shore. She was familiar but you couldn’t really recall why. Years ago, you would have known her name.
She was wearing a green bikini and her hair was drifting into the breeze like smoke. “Fear is but a temporary drug meant to limit and stall you. They have no real or lasting meaning in your life. They lack relevance.” “I know you, don’t I?” “Hm,” she remarked, her back still to you. “Yeah, we went to highschool together, didn’t we?” “Such an inconsequential time, then.” You can’t recognize her voice. Her deep, anonymous voice. You knew her. From way back when. But not her name, not her voice, not her face. “I can’t remember,” you admit. “I know. There goes the course of a life; You live, you fear, you forget, you’re forgotten.” She stands there, silently. The sun hangs above, but the sky and ocean beyond remain shaded and hidden, obscured by something unknown. It hits you, like a ton of bricks. You wonder why you hadn’t noticed before. It was her. You still couldn’t remember her name or her voice or her face but you remember what made her important. “You’re-- that girl, they--” She laughed. A small, short, amused laugh. “That’s me.” She glanced over her shoulder, a bloody forehead and missing eye peering back at you. The Monday before Spring Break, she had disappeared. But you all knew. The sun had hung low that day, a bloody red sunrise. “You’d better wake up soon. Or else you might not remember how to.” She smiled politely and turned away, looking to the far off horizon. They had found her body too many years later, washed up on the beach. A skeleton in green tatters. And then you wake up. The sky outside your window is a dark inky black. Your heart races, sweat drips off your skin. Your black attire hangs from your closet door. A funeral is today, you remember. by Wren LeeThe first day Stevie first came to town, a Wednesday, she had a black eye, a star belt buckle, and a guitar case. The rising waters of the lake receded and the gas prices went down by a whole dollar.
Sometimes, she plays at the bar, screaming into the microphone, strumming along with a bright red guitar. I don’t think she really knows how to play it, but the way she claws at the strings mixes with the angry tones in her voice in a harmonious sort of way. Like they were meant to go together. It’s days where no one sees Stevie at all that make us the most… apprehensive. She’s a disaster magnet, in a way. All the terrible things happen to her and bypass the town. Or at least that’s what she told the baker. The truth of the matter is, that our town is constantly hammered by disaster. Floods, earthquakes, sickness are common occurrences. But whenever Stevie’s in town, everyone’s all right. She says she’s only kind of lucky. That she had moved here because she had used up all the luck wherever she had last lived. No one’s really sure what she means by that. I think it’s just Stevie’s rambling. Stevie herself, ignoring whatever supernatural power she may or might not have, is a unique sort of individual. She sits on the curb of the convenience store until early in the morning, feeding crows doritos and oreos and telling them all sorts of things. Apparently, she found an old cabin in the forest and well, now it’s her cabin. Her rock shows are filled with confusing and indecipherable messages, unusually ominous in manner. It feels almost as though she’s singing out an incantation. Old woman Josie swears she saw shadows bend around Stevie, making way for her. Some of the kids ride around Stevie’s cabin on their bicycles, swearing up and down that it hadn’t existed before. But Stevie likes the kids. Sometimes, on Tuesdays, she makes a fire and has them over to roast s’mores. Crows perch themselves on the tall trees all around, illuminated by the glow. Who knows where they hide when Stevie isn’t around. Whenever she comes into the shop, she winks and asks me for whatever surreal or unheard of subject she was studying that week. This week it was cryptozoology mixed in with a little astrology. I was certain we didn’t have any books on those subjects in stock. I had just sold the last one to the carpenter. But she found one and bought it, a grin on her face. Her grin. There was something warm about it. Like a late autumn when you’re walking about, admiring the changing colours. Or Halloween night, watching the children around trick or treating and the fireworks in the sky. It wasn’t exactly off putting. But there was something wrong about it, in the right kind of way. I’d like to think that she’s just a weird stranger whose, once she inevitably leaves, brief existence in town will be easily forgotten in the years to come. I don’t want her to be some ethereal presence here, unknown for whether she’s here for the worse or the better. I mean, what are the chances that there are two of us in this little town? |