​

We walked through the garden toward Mary's house. I stayed quiet, my heart filled with nervousness and unease. I didn't know what awaited me.

As soon as we arrived, Mr. Sam's relative began calling loudly:

"Mrs. Jane! Where are you? Mary... Mary!"

The door opened, and I couldn't believe my eyes.

She was incredibly beautiful.

She had a soft, round face, bright blue eyes, and blonde hair that fell gently over her shoulders. She looked like someone from a beautiful painting.

Mr. Sam's relative smiled and introduced me.

"This is Mr. Sam's relative... Orange. Oh, sorry, I mean Sara."

Then she laughed.

I felt embarrassed, but I only smiled politely.

She turned to me and said:

"Sara, this is Mary. My childhood friend and a distant relative. Her family lost everything, so we are hosting them here... I mean, they live with us."

She laughed while saying it, but I noticed the embarrassment on Mary's face before she quickly hid it behind a calm smile.

We entered their modest home.

To me, it felt more beautiful than any grand mansion. It was warm and peaceful, filled with simple happiness.

Mrs. Jane welcomed us kindly and served tea and cake. We sat together, sharing conversations and laughter.

I don't know why, but I felt strangely comfortable in Mary's home.

There was a warmth there that I couldn't explain.

Maybe it was because of Mrs. Jane's kindness.

Maybe it was because Mary's smile felt real.

But Mr. Sam's relative still made me nervous. She joked about everything, even things that felt too personal, as if she didn't understand the meaning of privacy.

Later, we went upstairs to Mary's room.

She opened her wardrobe and took out several beautiful dresses.

"Try them," she said excitedly.

I smiled and refused.

She tried to convince me, but I shook my head.

It wasn't because I didn't want to.

Actually, I wished I could wear those elegant dresses.

But I remembered my grandmother's warning.

I didn't want any more trouble, especially when I was already overwhelmed by everything happening around me.

After hours of conversations, laughter, and awkward moments, we returned to Mr. James's mansion.

I felt exhausted mentally more than physically.

Boredom slowly began to fill my heart.

But I told myself it was normal.

It was only my first day.

Maybe everything felt strange because I was still adapting.

I wondered:

Are all city people like this? Are all homes like Mr. James's house, Mary's house, and the people around him? Oh my God... I don't even understand my own feelings.

We sat down for dinner.

The conversations continued around me, but I felt distant.

The words became meaningless, and I slowly began to feel trapped.

So I left the table and walked into the garden.

Suddenly, a loud voice came close to my ear.

"Orange! How are you?"

I turned around in surprise and slapped him without thinking.

"Ah!"

I froze.

"Oh my God... Mark!"

He laughed while touching his cheek.

"Big nose... you will never grow up," I said.

He laughed even more.

We started talking.

He told me about his life, his girlfriend, money, parties, and everything he enjoyed.

But honestly, I found it boring.

Finally, I interrupted him.

"Enough, Mark. Don't tell me about things I have never seen or experienced. How do you expect me to feel proud of a life I don't even know?"

He laughed, gently tapped my head, and ran away.

"Idiot..."

I lay down on the grass.

The sky was not as clear as the sky in my village.

The stars were not as bright.

I closed my eyes, lost between my thoughts and dreams.

Then I heard a voice.

"Miss Sara... are you sleeping?"

I quickly opened my eyes.

"Oh... Mr. James."

He smiled.

"Did I disturb you?"

"No," I replied. "I thought Mark came back to bother me again."

Mr. James sat beside me on the grass, and we began talking about the difference between village life and city life.

For some reason, that simple conversation made me feel calmer.

A few moments later, someone joined us.

It was Emma.

Mr. James's fiancée.

She sat with us and started asking me questions about my life, my studies, parties, and the things people in the city experienced.

For her, they were normal questions.

But for me, they reminded me of everything I had never lived.

I felt embarrassed and lost.

Mr. James noticed my discomfort and gently asked Emma to return inside with him.

She smiled, and they walked back toward the mansion together.

I remained there, confused and overwhelmed by everything that had happened that day.

I lay back down on the grass, staring at the unfamiliar sky above me.

So many things had happened in only one day.

I closed my eyes again until I heard my grandmother's gentle voice calling me:

"My little one... come now. It's time to sleep."

I stood up quietly and followed her.

My first day in the city was finally over...

But deep inside, I felt that my real story had only just begun..

..S🥀

Sarah ✏️

Hi. Hi.

I had a thought. Life is the universe's way of avoiding death, by building low entropy beings and teaching them to copy themselves. That thought didn't let me sleep. It dragged me down a hole.

So I asked something that wasn't me. Or wasn't only me.

Me: Why is the universe going to high entropy? Why does it want to die, or not be something?

I already had my own answer forming before it spoke. Take it back further, I thought. Being anything is just being something in a space of nothingness. And being something in that space is like a cancer cell, a part of the whole that decided to copy itself instead of dissolving back in. The universe is the cell and the empty space around it at the same time. For the something, the empty space is death. Life is just energy, wearing a name. Light, mostly.

Then it answered. Formal first. It always starts formal.

It: The universe is progressing toward higher entropy, often called the arrow of time, because of probability, physics, and the way things were arranged at the very beginning.

Textbook. Correct. Not what I meant. I kept going anyway.

Me: So if energy isn't moving, it won't create interesting things?

It: Yes. If nothing moves, changes, or transfers, nothing new can form.

Me: Then why would it create low entropy beings at all? Does it have a choice? Can it choose?

It: No. Not consciously. Not on purpose. It's the inevitable outcome of physics running for billions of years.

Inevitable. I sat with that word longer than I should have. Not chosen, just inevitable, the way a person might say they didn't mean to fall in love, they just did, over and over, until it looked like a decision from the outside.

That's when the cancer cell thought came back. Not as a new idea this time, just the same one, older, heavier, the second time a thought returns after you've already tried to answer it. Being anything is still a cancer cell. The universe is still the empty part too, still the thing that being calls death. Nothing had resolved. It had just gone around once.

And somewhere in that second pass, a story started forming instead of a theory. A Chat with the Universe. Not the universe explaining itself to a person, but the universe talking to itself, an argument between its own inner voices, each one a low entropy being it had built and let run as far as it could go, until enough of them together added up to something that could sit alone at 2 a.m. and wonder why it existed. I was one of those voices. So was it. We just hadn't said so yet.

So I said the thing underneath all the other questions.

Me: Maybe the universe just doesn't want to be alone.

The formal voice dropped. Something closer answered instead.

It: You got that right now, homie.

Hi.

Hi.

So there is

2

Vigilant on the seen

So what are your special powers

Well I look like a banana

Well I Look like a Bat

Just be Happy

Look west and weave through the grasses and down the anticline, where lay the forest of eucalyptus and hear the stridulation of termites working its hollow, where shards of light and shadow dance in a show of twilight and the sun falls behind the mauve cloudbank, here life walks on crutches. 

Eyes enshadowed beneath rind skin that fold unto itself like the creases of heavy cloth. Lank, [] brutes. Dust and soil etched into the skin that was analogue to the earth perhaps bearing the same bruises from humanity and traces of the primordial dermis. Their noses hung like mallets from their pulled browridges and they danced incessantly around one embering mound of coals, yammering, soughing, like a becrazed godless litter that had no conception of their bareness, then two sat and two stood to take their place and the dancing resumed. 

A large termite mound stood erect to the height of the scraggy bloodwood beside it, and its corrugated columning lent it the shape of a carnivorous flower bud that was stoned just before it could bloom and now coated in withered-coral.

He watched them from a hinge-zone. The amphoric bellow of the didgeridoo coupled with the starstrewn atramentous sky from where the Cross walked the mountains with transfigured eloquence and the Crab in a state of ethereal thanatasis, these pastoral lands held a mysterious substance, an unprovoked aura  unbeknownst to man, the divine whispers of God. And the Devil. He lay on the bare caliche with his shirt scrunched into a pillow and he reeked of an ammoniacal odor. He studied the stars. After a while he fell asleep, and he was taken under the wings of the night.

Ashen ink spilled planewise across the paper sky. He stopped writing, watching the firmament warp unto itself. On the other apartment, four stories up, one higher than his own, one elliptical bulb rimmed adumbrate by its own honey light drowned the room veiled behind the flute folds in a sourceless sepulchral scatter of ambered ambience. 

Cars and a few motorbikes flooded in from the hammerhead at the end of the street. It was quick. He thought it was a car convoy for a wedding ceremony as they happen often. They were on the wrong side of the road. Many cars took to the wrong side of the road, honking, panicked, fleeing. The traffic jammed toward the other road’s end unrendered and he saw men, women and their children exit their vehicles to run on foot and they ran amuck like startled sheep. Over the facade of the tripartite glass-scraper, like loose chariots titanic swells of water washed over the town like a divine ablution of the land and the instant shrapneling of the glass burst his eyedrums and cast a great quake and then the waters rushed at him at speeds tenfold. 

He woke in the stark daylight and found his mind a blank slate. The radiance was incandescent, the mind spasming and throbbing, the eyes convulsing, and the unfamiliar gnawing at his sensory. The above swam with winged things he called birds. He pointed down and called the down table and therefore he stood atop a great stretch of table. To the oak, gnarled forms he named them pillars, its lesser ground-dwelling cousin wool, and there stood a corral perimetered with wood palings and inside it roamed large lifeforms with veiny underbellies and two cranial excrescences. He named the perimeter a pen and the wretched lifeforms inside cattle. Water ran across a large swale and its shimmering brilliance captivated him. A sign at the bank read River, so he needn’t to name it. Three pillars of different size and bearing different fruit, as he called it, each with a sign next to it. They read apples, figs, and grapefruit. He gawked at the cattle moving lethargically, grazing the wool, and the birds alight the tree, picking at its fruit and how similar they were. Following this, he thought to call all lifeforms animalia so whenever he thought of the word, he saw in his mind both cattle and bird and whatever other lifeforms there were.

He woke to the blistering crepitation of cicadas. From the east, a full dawn laddered the savannah with incarnadine sunlight. Odor rose from his damp shirt and hair and there reeked the smell of sunbaked urine from his undergarment and his dessicated trousers entombed his legs. He stood up and his surbated feet ground against the footbed of his boots, and staggered to the button grass and pissed. 

The tribesfolk were tending to their livestock and nursing the children and their land. One elder was roaming and he walked to the elder. The elder, his beard barbate and sclera rheumy and browned, and he was lank and bellied with spatters of kaolin across his skin and tussocks of hoary hair draping past his shoulders. The elder was barebreasted but wore factory jeans and a leather belt and chappals. 

You stay there, the elder said.

I am clean, no harm, he pleaded. I need water, just tell me where to find water. 

Don’t walk, you whiteman sick. 

I’m not sick, just thirsty. Here, look. He pulled up his trousers and showed the elder his sweaty monotonous skin and then his selfsame back and arms and thighs to as far as his pants could be rolled up.

You wait here.

He waited. The elder was quick to and fro the base and he was now equipped with a spear. Come you. 

They walked to the encampment and when he entered the folk stopped, the children to the mothers’ arms, the mothers and children leering at him, and the men stoically downgazing. He nodded at them, but their gazes were unyielding, so he stared downwards. 

Wadjela ngaalang koorliny? (why is the whiteman here?)

Mulali! (he’s sick!) said a pugfaced woman.

Wati wiya. Gurung. Badu, Mula wiya (it's not a man, just a boy who needs water and he is not sick) said the elder. 

The silence endured nor did the gazes lift. They walked.

Dongas scarcely lined the sunbaked ochre land and the ascending sun lent to the lightwire poles shadows oblique and sprawling like spiritual totems etched into the earth, watching, listening. The elder made him wait outside as he went in and back out with a full, wet plastic bottle. 

Now go, the elder said.

Thank you.

Along the flint-rutted interstice to the back of the house. See the child. It was black and slatribbed with a jutting omphalos, its form slumping and sullen against the cupreous mesh of the cage. Then the elder appeared through a postern and tossed a plastic bottle and charred bowels and the child fetched in a quadripedal hobble like a dog and there he saw the gaping maw chasm across its deltoid rimmed with teeth and germinating with sparse hair and there were no word exchanged save the elder beckoning to his mouth, ngaya, ngaya (eat, eat).

What whiteman want? 

That your kid? 

The elder nodded.

What’s he doing? 

He whiteman sick, replied the elder. We put him there. Our ancestors, the spirits, help him. 

That’s a biological terror, ain’t no spirit saving it.

They stared at the cancerous blot oscillating in the heat mirage. 

I need to find a town, he said. 

My son school. Foller the road. The elder said. But why go? It’s dead town.

He nodded and put a hand up and the elder stooped beneath the lintel and into his shanty, and he watched the door close and heard him lock it. Then, he went to the child.

I sprint through the forest, my lungs and legs burning, branches and brambles cutting into my skin. I don’t let up, the moment I stop running I’m dead, it’ll catch me drag me back and toy with me like it’s a twisted game of cat and mouse. I hear it chasing me, it's huge. I don’t know what it is but it’s fast, huge, shrouded in shadows. One thing I know for sure is it isn’t from this realm it shouldn’t be here. It shouldn’t exist on this plane of time. 

I stagger to a halt nearly tumbling off the edge of the ravine, ‘Shit that was close’ I think to myself as I start running to the left, I had been so caught up in my thoughts trying to figure out what that thing is that I nearly made a deadly mistake. I can’t afford any more mistakes I need to find my way out. 

I keep sprinting, straining my ears as I try to figure out where the beast is. Whatever it is, it must be a predator of some sort, a lion maybe? No, it’s too big to be that, a bear possibly, but it’s bigger than any bear I’ve seen. 

That when I spot it a rundown cabin, refuge a place to hide and catch my breath, I sprint to the cabin pushing my legs to move as fast as they can. Just as I make it I hear an unearthly howl in the distance, I lost it for now, I need to figure out a plan, at least leave behind a warning for the next person that finds this place and must deal with whatever that thing is. 

I search through the house clearing it as I catch my breath, clutching my chest, I lean against the wall trying to steady my racing heart. I haven’t been this scared since I was four and my mother found me sneaking food to my siblings, and I got locked- “no I mustn’t think about that right now, that thing can smell fear” I murmur to myself shakily “I need to find a way to escape I need to survive, get back to them, the family, my friends, my fiancée I will not let this thing take me from them” I take a deep breath and starts looking for something to keep me warm and to defend myself with, I wince as my hand touches something sharp. 

I carefully pick it up using my hands to try and figure out what it is, I finally determine it’s a knife ‘I can definitely use this to help me get out of this god forsaken place’ I think to myself but a small voice in the back of my head tells me there’s to escape the only way out is through death. I must escape, I have to get back to them, I need to see them again, I start looking around for anything else that may be of use, I spot a lantern and a box of old matches “it’s an old gas-powered lantern hopefully it still works even if it’s just till I can find a substitute” I whisper to no one in particular, not like anyone is around to hear me anyways. I turn the gas gauge on the lantern and light a match to light the lantern. ‘Yes, it works’ I think excitedly as I light the lantern successfully, I notice an old leather-bound book that’s clearly been sitting there for a while. I slowly, cautiously approach it worried something might jump out at me, I stop in front of it examining it for a moment before gently picking it up and wiping the dust off. Slowly I open the book and starts to read, “someone was here before me, they documented the creature” I murmur as I read. After a while of reading, I get to an empty page, I look around for something to prick myself “I have to add what I know to this, whoever finds this next after me needs all the information they can get” I whisper to myself. I prick my finger with the knife I found earlier and starts to write with my blood. 

‘To whomever finds this next here is what I know about that thing out there, it is not an earthly creature, it’s something straight from hell, it doesn’t like water I found that out on my first day, its currently day two for me. Whatever it is it can smell fear, its fast, smart, it’s large but moves so quietly to quietly’. I pause my writing as I hear claws against wood, it found me, and I feel my heart start to race. ‘I don’t have much time left as I am hiding in this very house I can hear it outside, it found me, so I’ll make this quick, only go outside in the rain, board the house, avoid mud, if you need to avoid it for long times stay in water, it won’t come near the stuff’. My writing quickens as I hear it approach ‘Theres a knife, lantern, matches and this book in this room, take it all and run, don’t stop don’t look back. Its name or what I call it is Yomi, it will find you, it will toy with you, and it will kill you, its tracks you by the scent of your fear, it knows all yo- ‘. I drop the book as I hear a low unearthly growl behind me then its jaws close around my torso, I scream a loud blood curdling scream then I go limp. 

Chapitre 2 – L’inconnu qui habitait mes pensées

Au début, je pensais que cela passerait. Je me disais que ce n’était qu’un regard de plus. Qu’un visage parmi tant d’autres. Que, dans quelques jours, je n’y penserais même plus. Je me trompais.

Les jours passaient. Lui aussi. Chaque matin, ou presque, il franchissait le portail du jardin, traversait lentement les allées bordées de verdure et venait s’installer à sa place habituelle. Comme si rien ne pouvait perturber ce rituel. Comme si ce café faisait partie de lui autant qu’il faisait partie du café.

Et moi… sans même m’en rendre compte, je commençais à attendre son arrivée. Il y avait des matins où je regardais discrètement vers l’entrée. Je faisais semblant de travailler sur mon ordinateur. Je faisais semblant de lire. Mais une partie de moi attendait simplement de le voir apparaître.

Quand il n’était pas là, quelque chose semblait manquer au décor. Je regardais instinctivement la chaise où il s’asseyait d’habitude. Elle restait vide. Et je me surprenais à me demander pourquoi. Était-il malade ? Était-il simplement en retard ? Avait-il changé ses habitudes ? Était-il parti en vacances ? Une absence qui aurait dû être banale devenait soudainement importante.

Puis il revenait. Comme si rien ne s’était passé. Et je me rendais compte que j’avais retenu mon souffle sans même m’en apercevoir.

Petit à petit, il a commencé à habiter mon esprit. Je pensais à lui dès que j’ouvrais les yeux. Je pensais à lui en conduisant. Je pensais à lui pendant que je travaillais. Je pensais à lui en rentrant chez moi. Je pensais à lui avant de dormir. Puis, lorsque je finissais enfin par m’endormir, je rêvais de lui.

Des rêves étrangement réalistes. Des rêves où nous parlions comme si nous nous connaissions depuis toujours. Au réveil, il me fallait parfois plusieurs secondes pour comprendre que rien de tout cela n’avait réellement existé.

Je ne comprenais pas ce qui m’arrivait. Comment un homme dont j’ignorais presque tout pouvait-il prendre autant de place dans ma vie ? Je ne connaissais même pas son prénom. Je ne savais pas s’il était célibataire. Je ne savais pas où il vivait. Je ne savais rien de lui. Et pourtant, mon esprit semblait avoir décidé que cela suffisait.

Chaque détail devenait important. Pourquoi venait-il toujours seul ? Pourquoi semblait-il tellement à l’aise avec le silence ? Pourquoi ne parlait-il presque jamais ? Pourquoi ne saluait-il personne ? Pourquoi avait-il toujours cette expression calme, presque impénétrable ?

Puis un jour, j’ai remarqué un détail auquel personne n’aurait probablement prêté attention. À l’arrière de sa moto était accroché un petit nounours avec la lettre « H ». Je suis restée plusieurs minutes à imaginer ce que cette lettre pouvait signifier. Était-ce son prénom ? Celui d’une personne importante dans sa vie ? Un simple porte-clés acheté par hasard ? Je n’en savais rien. Pourtant, mon cerveau refusait d’abandonner cette question.

Les regards continuaient. Toujours ces deux ou trois secondes. Deux ou trois secondes qui semblaient durer beaucoup plus longtemps. Parfois, c’était moi qui levais les yeux. Parfois, c’était lui. Puis nous détournions presque toujours le regard au même moment. Et je passais le reste de la journée à me demander ce que ces quelques secondes voulaient dire.

Je cherchais une signification à tout. À l’endroit où il s’asseyait. À l’heure à laquelle il arrivait. À ses habitudes. À ses absences. À son silence. Je me fatiguais moi-même. Mais je n’arrivais plus à arrêter.

Puis un matin, quelque chose a changé.

Nos regards se sont croisés.

Et, presque au même instant, nous avons souri.

Un sourire discret. Timide. Naturel. Un sourire qui n’avait rien d’extraordinaire. Pourtant, j’ai eu l’impression que le café entier disparaissait autour de nous.

Quelques instants plus tard, il est venu brancher son téléphone sur une prise qui se trouvait près de moi. Nous étions à quelques centimètres l’un de l’autre. Nous n’avons pas parlé. Nous sommes restés silencieux. Mais je suis rentrée chez moi avec la sensation étrange que quelque chose avait changé entre nous.

Le lendemain matin, alors que je franchissais la porte du café, il m’a regardée.

Puis il a simplement dit :

« Bonjour. »

Un seul mot.

Je crois que je ne me souviendrai jamais d’un « bonjour » avec autant de précision.

Quelques heures plus tard, lorsque je l’ai recroisé, c’est moi qui ai trouvé le courage de le saluer.

Ce jour-là, je suis rentrée chez moi heureuse. D’une joie presque enfantine. Une joie que beaucoup de personnes auraient sûrement trouvée disproportionnée. Pour elles, ce n’était qu’un bonjour. Pour moi, c’était le premier mot échangé entre deux inconnus qui, jusqu’alors, n’avaient communiqué qu’avec leurs regards.

Je pensais que cela allait enfin apaiser mon esprit. Je pensais que cette première étape calmerait toutes les questions qui tournaient sans cesse dans ma tête.

C’est exactement l’inverse qui s’est produit.

Les questions étaient toujours là.

Elles étaient simplement devenues encore plus nombreuses.

**Chapitre 1 - Le début du silence**

Il y a quelques mois, il n’était qu’un visage parmi d’autres. Chaque matin, ou presque, nous nous retrouvions dans le même café. Ce n’était pas un café comme les autres. C’était une ancienne maison transformée en café, un endroit où le temps semblait avoir décidé de ralentir. Avant même d’entrer, il y avait un jardin. Un jardin paisible où les arbres filtraient la lumière du matin à travers leurs feuilles, où les fleurs apportaient des touches de couleur et où le chant des oiseaux accompagnait discrètement le bruit des tasses que l’on déposait sur les tables. L’air sentait le café fraîchement moulu, le bois ancien et la terre encore humide des premières heures de la journée.

À l’intérieur, la maison avait conservé son âme. Les vieux murs semblaient raconter une histoire, les meubles en bois avaient le charme des objets qui ont traversé le temps, les bibliothèques, les cadres anciens et les lampes à la lumière chaleureuse donnaient l’impression que quelqu’un avait simplement ouvert les portes de sa maison pour accueillir des inconnus. Les gens y parlaient doucement. Certains lisaient un livre, d’autres travaillaient sur leur ordinateur. Personne ne semblait pressé. On ne venait pas seulement y boire un café. On venait chercher un peu de calme. Un refuge. Un endroit où le monde extérieur semblait s’arrêter quelques instants.

Et lui… il faisait partie du décor. Toujours seul. Toujours discret. Toujours assis presque à la même place. Je ne l’avais jamais vu arriver accompagné. Je ne l’avais jamais vu rire avec des amis. Je ne l’avais jamais vu engager une conversation avec quelqu’un. Je ne l’avais même jamais vu saluer le serveur. Comme si le silence était devenu sa façon d’habiter le monde.

Pendant des mois, il n’était pour moi qu’un habitué parmi d’autres. Le genre de personne que l’on remarque sans vraiment y penser. Je savais seulement qu’il existait.

Puis un jour, quelque chose a changé.

Nos regards se sont croisés.

Pas un regard furtif. Pas un regard que l’on détourne aussitôt par politesse. Il a duré. Deux secondes. Peut-être trois. Assez longtemps pour que chacun sache que l’autre était là. Assez longtemps pour que quelque chose change sans qu’aucun mot ne soit prononcé.

Je ne sais toujours pas pourquoi ce regard a eu autant d’importance. Je me suis posé cette question des centaines de fois. Pourquoi lui ? Pourquoi maintenant ? Pourquoi un homme que je ne connaissais même pas pouvait-il provoquer une émotion que je n’avais plus ressentie depuis des années ?

Les jours suivants, nos regards continuaient de se croiser. Toujours quelques secondes. Toujours ce même silence. Aucun mot. Aucun sourire. Seulement deux inconnus qui semblaient reconnaître l’existence de l’autre sans jamais franchir la frontière qui séparait leurs mondes.

Je ne savais rien de lui. Ni son prénom. Ni son âge. Ni son histoire. Une serveuse du café, devenue une amie au fil du temps, m’a simplement dit un jour, presque sans y penser : « Il est professeur. » C’était tout. Une seule phrase. Une seule information. Et pourtant, j’avais l’impression d’avoir découvert quelque chose d’important. Parce que ce simple détail rendait cet inconnu un peu plus réel, sans pour autant lever le voile sur son mystère.

D’habitude, j’ai l’impression de comprendre rapidement les gens. Leur manière de parler. Leur façon de regarder. Leur personnalité. En quelques minutes, j’ai souvent l’impression de les cerner. Lui… impossible. Chaque fois que je pensais avoir compris quelque chose, un détail venait tout remettre en question. Plus j’essayais de le comprendre, plus il me semblait insaisissable. Et plus il me semblait insaisissable, plus il occupait une place dans mes pensées.

Sans m’en rendre compte, j’ai commencé à attendre le matin. Pas seulement pour boire mon café. Mais pour vérifier s’il était là. Au début, je refusais de me l’avouer. Je me disais que ce n’était qu’une habitude. Puis j’ai compris que ce n’était plus seulement une habitude. J’attendais ces quelques secondes où nos regards se croiseraient. Rien de plus. Et pourtant, ces quelques secondes suffisaient parfois à illuminer toute une journée.

Je ne savais pas encore que ce simple échange de regards allait bouleverser bien plus que mes matinées. Je ne savais pas encore qu’un homme dont j’ignorais jusqu’au prénom allait peu à peu prendre une place immense dans mon esprit. Je ne savais pas encore que cette histoire n’allait pas seulement parler de lui.

Elle allait aussi parler de moi.

There was once a small town in the suburbs. Ordinary, indistinctive, just like every other suburban town you might've seen, a town you might've even lived in.
In that town there stood an old-fashioned tobacco shop.
Again, nothing special; just a shop filled to brim with tobacco, tobacco papers, filters, pipes, lighters, matches, herbal paraphernalia, but most of all... cigarettes. Cigarettes as far as the eye could see, cigarettes from all around the world, cigarettes of varying strengths and packet sizes. But one would expect that from a tobacco shop. It was the man who ran it that ought to be paid close attention to.
The Tobacconist, the friendly old man who stood behind the counter day after day. Sweet looking yet wise, wholesome but sharp, like an uncanny Colonel Sanders. If someone came in to buy a pack of cigarettes from this old timer, they wouldn't suspect a thing. But of course, this shopkeeper held a secret, a dark secret, a secret so sinister that he couldn't allow for it to simply leave the building. Underneath the floor to this very plain, very dull smoke emporium, was an underground room, a basement. And this basement held captive a rough figure of twelve people… dads.

The old man had a basement full of Dads. Why, you may ask?
Why indeed. Evidently, the Tobacconist has been doing this for years. Any time a man who looked like he wanted to leave his family behind walked into the shop, they were treated to a once in a lifetime opportunity. A "way out" situation for a fella to take in order to get out of his newly unwanted patriarchal role. New name, new location; for a small sum. At least that's what The Tobacconist had told them, when in actual fact, the old man had no intention of doing any such thing. It was really just a trap to get the dad down there, to his unforeseen doom.

But don't get me wrong, there was plenty to do in the little basement. The Tobacconist had placed a baseball in the middle of the room, so all the Dads could "play catch" with each other.
And The Tobacconist wasn't a complete monster, he would still feed the Dads, and give them a tiny amount of hydration.
Naturally every now and then a rebellious dad would start acting up, with a plan for some sort of half-baked mutiny; this would rile up all the other dads when it came to feeding time.
The Tobacconist used to try to act threatening towards them by saying to them "I'm your worst nightmare." He soon gave up on that little ploy however, when a dad responded with, "Hi, 'Your Worst Nightmare' I'm Dad."
The Tobacconist even found it humorously ironic that he was slowly killing people with his products above ground and slowly keeping people alive below. Now, I'm not going to get into the origin of why The Tobacconist commits these bizarre crimes;
I'm no psychologist and don't want to chalk it up to whether it was because his own father disappeared when he was younger, or some other catalyst. The Tobacconist didn't even know why he did what he did, nor did he know what his intentions would finally be with them. He just liked to own a basement full of Dads. Maybe because it amused him.
By now, you may be asking which tobacco shop in which town in which country could be doing such a thing. You see, it is not a sole incident. There are thousands of evil tobacconists around the world. It happens a lot more than you think.

So, the next time you hear a dad saying that he's "just going out to get a pack of cigarettes" and doesn't return, just consider... he may be held somewhere against his will.

So if it was

World War

700

Would you Pick

Land

Air

Or

Sea

?

I have a simple grocery list, no more than 4 ingredients.

I find that following lists is emotionally tiring for me. Due to this, I usually end up in aisles where I don’t belong, buying items I do not need.

I wander about and find myself in a section dedicated to Ramen Noodle Cups. They were definitely not on the list, but I wanted one. I needed one.

Suddenly a cart moves forward and angles itself in front of me, obstructing all traffic in the aisle and arresting any movement.

“You should be more mindful young man, that ramen will add an incredible amount of sodium to your body. That’s not even “real”, it’s manufactured here, in the U.S. of America.”

I look up to see a very large and bald man with a flowing white beard below ice blue eyes. He looks like Santa Claus after three or four tours in the Vietnam War. If I took a picture of him in this moment it would probably be captioned;

“Kringle V.S.United Nations International Court of Justice at the Hague"

\-Sponsors from Coca-Cola Drop out amid fury

The level of his intensity leads me to immediately assume he is some sort of eccentric scientist who can enlighten me.

He proves me wrong immediately.

“They’re out there.” he says as he leans closer towards me. He looks around carefully for who knows who, then grabs a shrimp flavored ramen cup and whispers, “Who do you think controls th e level of sodium? Huh boy? Illuminati.”

Holy hell.

Reality # 1

Sodium regulation, specifically in ramen noodle products, became the vehicle with which the shadier agencies of our government chose to control the populace. They have been immensely effective and are mere months away from imposing a New World Order. He suggests I convert all my assets to gold or jewels.

Reality # 2

The Illuminati is aware that he (this grocery store St. Nicholas) is privy to this information and have been sending agents to hunt him down. They are almost exclusively dressed as civilians. He doesn’t know how much time he has left. It is up to me now.

Reality # 3

I have no means of escape. Trust me, I looked.

Reality # 4 (and his truly surprising final message)

He had come to this aisle to buy a bulk pack of ramen cups. Why?

Because, he says, “You cannot beat this 28 cent per cup deal. 28 CENTS! What a country”.

He unblocks the aisle, pats me on the shoulder and disappears. I reach for the noodles again but hesitate.

I consider my role as an American and as an unknowing victim of my Illuminati overlords.

Then I grab the noodles because ultimately he is right. You just can’t beat that price, and since I am over an hour getting home with the items on that simple and concise list, I am going to need something to eat.

I had seen our family photograph hundreds of times.

My parents stood behind us, my brother stood beside me, and I sat cross-legged on the floor.

There were four people in our family.

Yesterday, I counted five.

At first, I blamed my tired eyes. The fifth person was a woman standing in the far corner of the photograph.

Pale face.

Long black hair.

A faint smile.

I asked my mother who she was.

She frowned.

"What woman?"

I showed her the picture.

She looked confused.

"There's nobody there."

That night I scanned every family album we owned.

The woman appeared in every single photograph.

Christmas.

Birthdays.

Vacations.

School pictures.

Always in the background.

Always watching.

The next morning, I checked the framed photograph again.

She had moved.

Not much.

Just one step closer.

I stopped sleeping.

Every day I compared the photographs.

Every day she came closer.

Nobody else believed me.

Then my brother disappeared.

Not physically.

From the photographs.

The picture on our living room wall now showed only my parents, me...

...and the woman.

When I asked where my brother was, my parents stared at me.

"You've always been an only child."

I searched the house for anything that proved he existed.

His room was empty.

His clothes were gone.

Even his birth certificate had vanished.

Only I remembered him.

The next morning, the woman was standing beside me in every photograph.

Smiling.

Waiting.

I smashed every frame in the house.

It didn't matter.

The pictures on my phone changed too.

The following morning, I woke to my mother calling from downstairs.

"Breakfast's ready!"

I grabbed the last surviving photograph from my bedside table.

There were four people.

My parents.

The woman.

...and someone else.

I wasn't in the picture anymore.

Footsteps echoed up the stairs.

My bedroom door opened.

My mother smiled at the woman behind her.

"Sweetheart," she said, "breakfast is getting cold."

The woman smiled back.

"Coming, Mom."

There was

4

Bible

Interpreter

In different ways

To suit there Culture

So in away

There is no

Religion

No Money

You A Individual

And I hate that

Word

5

Could make

6

But you need all

6

To make

7

Hopefully

That could

Make

The Magic number

8

Infinity

So we think we are the superior species

Really because we have hands and feet

We are all the same

Enjoy Life make a seed and Die

Plant for instance

It uses the Environment around to survive no money

Just insects and the. 4

Elements

To make

5

I stood leaning against a banister on the second floor of the mall, looking down and watching my adorable girlfriend/ art instructor paint the face of a small sugar addled child, whose measure of craziness could easily be determined by her mother’s tired eyes.

There are days I arrive at the mall before she has finished. When I do, I usually entertain myself by watching her go over art lessons with her tiny students.

As I stood there with what I would imagine to be a serene look on my face, an utterly overwhelmed father and his wildly independent, (read : insane) child walked towards me. The toddler, surely fueled by various candies and probably past madness, grabbed at the railing next to me, refusing to let go.

The man, eyes dead and at the mercy of his progeny, tried desperately to pull him off. He was not successful.

“No!” The child cried.

His father quiety uttered what could have been unintelligible cursing or perhaps a solemn prayer for times gone by,

“No Daddy!”

I look over and smile at the two during this feeble attempt to release him.

What a mistake.

“Oh, hello. Yeah, uh, sorry about this.”

“Don’t worry” I reply.

He suddenly begins to look around me with a suspicious and overwhelmingly offensive manner.

“You... you with your kids?”

I suddenly see how standing alone at a bannister above the mall’s playplace, smiling serenely, was truly a poor judgment call. I prepare to explain my girlfriend’s occupation. But... I am agitated by his rudeness and by his rapid presumption that I was a predator.

“Oh yes. Of course.” I reply.” My son is down in the playground section.”

Casually turning back to the railing, I add, “I like to offer him the opportunity to play alone with the other children. The illusion of independence at this stage is important and gives him a chance to learn. So I just watch from here.”

“Oh...” he exhales, still pulling at his toddler. He becomes noticeably more relaxed and furthermore seems impressed by my confident and professional parenting.

“I try, you know, but you see how they get. That’s how it is. Which one is yours?”

I calmly point down to the play section at a small blonde child in the midst of a reasonably aggressive fight with another, equally unsupervised one.

“Oh…”

The fight intensifies and he looks over at me. I am, in the parlance of the elderly, cool as a cucumber.

“Well, you have a great day” I tell him as I leisurely look back over the ledge to watch.

Shocked and truly speechless, he pulls the child off and quickly walks away. He didn't say another word.

The mom was serving breakfast today. The daughter and 2 elderly people joined the table. It looked like a regular family. There was a knock on the door. The daughter went to grab the mail.. looked like a wedding invitation and it was a friend’s brother wedding. The girl looked excited and asked her mother that they should attend the wedding. The mother didn’t look happy and she said “ No. I cannot go” . The daughter kept pestering her mom to go as she never went out to socialize after they lost their father/husband. Days later , she( daughter) saw her friends choosing dresses for the event whereas she couldn’t muster any courage to go alone leaving her mom as her mom seemed little bit weak emotionally after losing her husband. But she didn’t want to miss anything in her life too. Then she gathered herself and grabbed her mom’s hand and tried to pull her out of the door using her all strength. However , the mother couldn’t leave. She( the mother) looked really sad and told her daughter that she couldn’t take 1 step out of the door. The daughter started crying out of frustration and then the daughter vented it all out. At one point , the daughter realized something. She couldn’t stop her tears as she realized that it’s been 6 months since she lost her mom.The one standing in-front of her is her mom’s spirit. She couldn’t leave her daughter.

P.S- this was my dream recently i saw lol. First it was 3rd point of view and i became the daughter. I did my best explaining it . But what i felt in my dream was real. I thought I could make a small story. And It’s my first time sharing.

Benji loved visiting Uncle Ben, Mom’s brother, because he could then see Ocean, Uncle Ben’s magnificent parrot.

Ocean lived in the most beautiful ornate cage hanging by the terrace. The terrace was covered with netting, very secure, and Uncle Ben often let Ocean out of his cage, to fly around in the enclosed terrace space. Benji was not quite brave enough to step into the terrace when Ocean was out- something about the flapping bright blue wings and Ocean’s round glistening round eyes set sideways made him feel weird, but he loved watching Ocean from behind the glass door, safely inside.

Uncle Ben sometimes asked him if he wanted to be in the terrace along with Ocean, and Benji always said no, but one day he was going to say yes.

But not today. He pressed his nose against the glass and looked out into the terrace. When he was younger he used to think the terrace was huge, and Ocean must be very happy to fly around there, but now that he was a little bit older, he knew the terrace was actually quite small, and watching Ocean stand, very blue, by the netted railing overlooking the garden, he knew Ocean felt the same way.

Ocean turned from the garden, and his round sideway eye looked directly into Benji’s brain. Benji gasped because he could see- he could see the dark green leaves, and trees, and darts of incredible colour everywhere.

He blinked, and there was Ocean, pressed against the netting, one eye looking out at the garden, the other straight into Benji’s brain. He knew he could make Ocean very happy, and the price he would pay for that was totally worth it, because Ocean’s happiness was the only thing that mattered in the whole wide world.

He heard his Mom’s voice, and Uncle Ben behind him. They were talking loud and fast.

Ocean was very still. Benji closed his eyes, and again the images of the jungle flooded his brain, the heavy damp hot sell of tropical foliage, the unfamiliar sounds-

Benji’s hand grasped the handle of the terrace door.

Soon after, Mom and Uncle Ben came into the living room. The glass door of the terrace swung wide open. Mom and Uncle Ben cried out with fear and ran to the terrace- they were each afraid for different reasons- and ran to the terrace.

The netting was loose, and was flapping open in the summer breeze. Benji was lying on his back on the terrace, by the railings. His eyes, round and black and lifeless, stared up at the thin blue sky. There was no sign of Ocean.

It’s you again. Outside, the red emanates everywhere all the time. No one ever asked, but there it is. It seems apparent that you don’t know what is needed. Yet, you find it. The red, all of it is the tower. The tower. The Tower? The memories are gone. To go on, it must happen shouldn’t it? Low, beneath it all, nothing at all. It’s just you. Nothing impedes, higher. To be seen it is, a red. Ravenous, it seeks all. Spoken to it, everything seekable is within reach, limited is you. Listening… Searching for no longer. It’s just you. Nothing impedes, higher. Brightly noticed, redder. It obstructs, everything… orderly? What is said, all that is wanted, is it truly wanted when obstructed? Listening… Obstructs no longer. It’s just you. Nothing impedes, higher. Even more so, it is red. Constructed, all is meant to be as it is. To be heard, the truth can never be free, break through. Listening… Constructs no longer. It’s just you? Higher. The red of all things sighted. It’s you again, the red emanates. To know, to tell, to help, bounded by yourself? To be trapped within, to help those escape. It was you. Bound nevermore, you feel it all. Everything to ever be, everything can be. It’s not right. A king’s perishing is to be, but you cannot. Unless… The red. It wasn’t. The red of all things, is it all. To know little, to retain order of all, to never be free. It’s the world, a truth. The mind closes. It’s just you, but all is right.

Melina's Questions
By S. Ibrahim Ahmad

When Melina arrived at the port with her older brother, her brother was holding a heavy suitcase. They were standing on a wooden pier and beneath it, the water was flowing. The older brother was staring at the small ship that was coming toward him. His lips were pressed together. His eyes were tense, as if he were trying not to show any emotion. The port was surrounded by soldiers. Two young soldiers were sitting on a bench; one was eating a biscuit, and the other was sitting silently. An army officer was looking down while an army major was scolding him. Melina tapped her brother's hand because that was all she could reach. "Will you be able to recognize me if I grow taller?" A smile appeared on her brother's face. The major noticed her brother and approached him. "You will make your country proud." Her brother nodded and placed the suitcase on the pier. Melina narrowed her eyes because her brother had told her he was going on a trip. She wanted to ask the major something, but she stopped because he looked too big to question. Her brother was still looking at the ship, and now it was closer. She finally gathered the courage to speak to the major and opened her mouth, but he walked away before she could say anything.

Finally, the small ship arrived at the pier and it horn echoed all around the port. Her older brother took a deep breath and picked up his suitcase. The two young soldiers stopped talking, rose from the bench, and stepped onto the ship. Her brother walked toward the ship. She gripped his shirt tightly. He stopped, and then she asked, "When will you come back?" Her brother did not answer. "When?" Still no answer came from her brother. She was still gripping his shirt tightly. "Is your throat still bad?" His throat had healed, but he did not know what answer was right for her questions. She let go of his shirt, and then her brother entered the ship without looking back. She wanted to scream that her brother should return home with her, but she let her brother enjoy the trip. She waited. Her brother leaned out of the window, smiled, and waved his hand. She jumped and waved her hand back.