Fiction – LITERASEA

Happy Birthday!

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

blood, suicidal thoughts

a short story by Jehan Ammar

‘10.’ My family and friends chant, counting down until it’s finally my 18th birthday. I feel surrounded by love, with my close ones gathered around me. Never have I felt more myself than in this moment—an anchor for all the future versions of myself.

‘9.’ They start shouting louder, and my cat hisses, hiding behind some bushes. I love her.

‘8.’ My best friend raises her arms, a few dots from a failed DIY stick-and-poke tattoo still visible on her wrist. I have the same. We were so foolish at 16. Perhaps we will never be again. The thought saddens me.

‘7.’ My father doesn’t count, but he nods approvingly. That’s as much as I get, but he’s here, and that’s all that matters. I wonder whether my father’s father also nodded approvingly back at him when he was just a child.

‘6.’ My boyfriend counts the loudest, as if trying to express his immense love through the sound of his voice. It’s both silly and endearing.

‘5.’ My little brother kicks me under the table. I screamed at him earlier for drawing a picture with my makeup; I kick back.

‘4.’ I can see a single tear running down my mother’s cheek as she comes to the realization that I won’t be her little girl anymore. Is it a tear of sorrow at losing a part of me or a tear of joy at gaining another?

‘3.’ The sound feels muffled in my ears. I feel disoriented. The ground under me starts shaking.

‘2.’ It’s all quiet now. The moon and stars above me are gone. The sky is pitch black. I feel as if I am dissolving.

‘1.’ My vision goes completely dark. This is the end of my journey.

‘0.’

‘I extend a cordial welcome, ushering you back into the embrace of the realm that inherently belongs to you. In what manner did the experiential sojourn transpire, eliciting intricate layers of emotional resonance and cognitive reflection, culminating in a nuanced synthesis of subjective realities within the temporal confines of the undertaken odyssey?’ A person in white robes is talking to me. I look around; I am in a seemingly endless illuminated white room. It’s neither hot nor cold and I feel no breeze around me, playing in my hair like it did just seconds ago. I feel like puking, but nothing comes out. There is a weird high-pitched noise coming from everywhere.

‘W-What. I don’t understand.’

‘Perceive not distress in your countenance; rest assured, the retrieval of recollections shall imminently manifest within the recesses of your consciousness,’ the creature adds calmly.

‘I don’t understand. Please, where am I? Where is my family? I was just home. Don’t hurt me, please, I am just a child.’

The creature sighs. ‘You are no child.’

‘Please, I still count sheep when falling asleep. I want my mom back. Help! I need help!’ But there is no one here aside from us. My screaming is not based on logic but on instinct.

‘Just wait a few minutes.’ I bend over. My tears fall to the ground, I cry, not prettily but hysterically as I hiccup on my own snot. My hands feel bigger, somehow, as I cover my ears with them. Minutes pass. I do not remember anything that could explain this situation. The figure before me stands still; I can see the seam of their gown within my vision. The ends of their long blonde hair appear strange and unreal but not out of place. I wipe my tears away.

‘Please let me go. I- I- my name is Allie Anderson. I like the colour green and I like cats and-’ the figure kneels down in front of me. I look up but not directly at it. It appears human-like with features both androgynous and soft yet in a way unsettling.

‘You should remember by now. Why can’t you remember? I know this is the first journey, but you said it would only take a few minutes. You must remember-’

‘Remember what? I have never met you before, so what are you talking about?’ I try not to weep. The noise becomes louder.

‘You are not Allie Anderson.’

‘I am.’

Now the figure seems slightly panicked. I avoid their gaze as they search mine.

‘Technically, yes. You made her. You made them all. You made everything.’ I look at the creature’s hands, now fiddling in a strange way as if they have never been nervous before. ‘You went there to dwell amongst them, to navigate a labyrinth of mortal emotions. To experience it all as a lower being and take in what it means to be blind to the future and the past. To feel not despite your seeming mortality but because of it. And now you have returned. So please just tell me what we have wanted to know from the very start, how was it? Did you acquire mortality in some form?’

I can’t follow; my heart beats, proof that I am human.

‘No, I want my family back, please. Let me go.’ My fingernails push through my skin; blood gushes out. The creature looks at me with sadness and perhaps a bit of pity. It hurts.

‘You are still in this form because you choose to be. The blood is not real because you are not human. You once made me, remember? You couldn’t possibly forget that?’ Their voice aligns with the high- pitched noise.

‘I am a fraction of yourself that you sacrificed and granted freedom. Like a cell having been cut from its original body, you understand? Please don’t forget me. Please. You are all I have,’ they add but it still makes no sense. Maybe I am dreaming? But what if I am not?

I search for its gaze now, observing a loneliness in their eyes that seems to have originated in the depths of mine. I know their eyes, the first eyes I have ever formed with my hands, a part of myself and yet another being. Not all-knowing but the closest it will ever be amongst all other fractions.

Second to me in everything, yet the companion worthy to hold my cold, all-mighty hand once we are finally dying. Doomed to be born, to exist until I cease to, yet still being frightened by the possibility of my absence? Has my creation ever experienced panic before, dreading eternal companionship with a stranger named Allie, now intertwined with me? Can they even name fear as an emotion? Or is this perhaps the first piece of humanity and thus mortality I brought along with me? The reason why I even created it all in the first place, so I can feel what being alive means and therefore acquire what it means to die.

Mutual understanding floods us as my being shapeshifts into something familiar. The blood dripping from my hands doesn’t stop but subsides. Proof that I am now part human. Part mortal. I remember—the making, the loneliness, the indifference, the wish to end it all. The decision to create something so I can destroy myself. The creature feels calmer now; I can sense it. I do too.

‘So, how was your first part of the journey?’ they ask.

I feel warm and sad for Allie and the beautiful experience it was to be her. I miss my home, the uncertainty that comes with being young and vulnerable and the love of the people around me. It pains me to leave her behind, yet I cannot wait for the next part to come.

‘It was lovely. I am feeling… warm.’ I take the creature’s hand, emphatic. ‘It’ll be easier next time. Don’t panic. I will bring great knowledge with me. Six more journeys to go until it’s time to start demolishing. I shall return soon.’

Surprised at the unknown warmth of my hand and the blood still dripping down occasionally, the creature’s brows furrow. This will be our end.

‘I will be waiting for you then,’ they answer while running their thumb across my knuckles. I close my eyes; all noises fade away.

‘9.’

The chanting startles me, and I hiss.

Fruitful

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

abortion, violence

a sequel to BBQ by Lea Köster

The cool autumn air was refreshing on her delicate skin, the breeze surrounding her and every passerby in a way that one might think the autumn had missed the people and was glad to be back. The smell in the air was that of life and new beginnings. Her elegant grey coat, that looked as though one might find it in a museum for almost forgotten fashion, was not yet closed.

A smile appeared on the woman’s lips as her gaze fell on the flowers that were arranged outside a florist. She stopped and let her fingers brush over the soft, delicate petals. Those precious beings always remind her of home. Their smell and beauty and feel had eventually pulled the woman onto their side and had turned her parents’ garden into a sanctuary.

Smiling at the memories of a happy childhood, she continued down the street, the warmth of the sun surrounding her. She could feel her head and hair becoming warmer and the sun beams tickling her nose. It was too late in the year to wear sunglasses, but it would have been nice to be allowed to make an exception, the same way others were. Everyone seemed to be outside and enjoying the last rays of sun – so warm, and soft, and full of life.

Passing a small park, the woman’s eyes fell onto a mother with her young child, laughing and sitting next to each other. On a bench they were enjoying a scoop of ice cream. She could see the love the mother had for her child in her eyes and the trust the child had in return, not paying any attention to its surroundings, too focused on its ice cream and its happiness. That is a perfect little family right there, the woman thought, smiling. A protective mother and a perfect little girl.

Walking into the doctor’s office she was a bit sad to have to go inside and leave the warmth and beauty and love outside, but also excited, as she was soon to start her own little family. At the reception, she was greeted by friendly voices and bright smiles. The receptionist asked her to take a seat in the waiting area, where a nurse would pick her up. The woman waited patiently – some might have said stiffly- for her turn. She made sure a smile was on her face as she was shown to the examination room and, with it, the doctor.

‘Good morning, Carol, how are we doing today?’ she was greeted by her gynaecologist.

‘All good, I hope.’ She responded with a small, almost nervous laugh.

‘Let’s see then, shall we?’ the doctor said, gesturing towards the chair that Carol always found scary with its attachments for legs and feet, like a torture device.

The doctor pulled up her shirt and made sure, by using paper towels, that the gel for the ultrasound wouldn’t get on the waistband of her trousers. The gel was cold on her exposed skin, but she didn’t let it show.

‘Everything looks great,’ the doctor said finally.

‘Could you let me know if it is a boy or a girl?’ Carol asked and could immediately see something change in the doctor’s face.

‘It’s a bit too early to tell for certain.’ The doctor said apologetically.

‘Please,’ Carol said, ‘we are well into week eleven, and you have been able to make accurate predictions so far.’

The doctor thought for a moment.

‘Okay but let me check again.’ And so she did, wondering if it was the right decision.

Carol waited patiently while the doctor moved the small device gently over her belly, again and again to find the right angle. As the doctor removed the device from her belly and finally looked at her again, with a smile on her face, Carol held her breath.

‘It’s a boy, congratulations.’

And let the breath out again. Jonathan.

‘Thank you.’ Carol said, her smile this time forced.

The doctor said something else, but Carol didn’t hear, her hands and mind occupied with the task of wiping the gel off of her exposed skin. Throwing the paper towels into the bin, zipping up her trousers, and pulling down her shirt, she thanked the doctor again before saying goodbye. She booked her next appointment at the front desk, knowing she wouldn’t go, before making her way out of the practice, feeling worse than she had upon entering.

The ladies at the reception had been arrogant, treading her like she was beneath them, giving her fake smiles and judging everything that was visible above the surface from the moment she had walked in. Their mothers should have raised them better.

She passed the park again, only turning her head to see where the screaming was coming from. It was the child again. It was throwing a tantrum on the dirty park ground, demanding another ice cream. She should have seen this coming; the child had been too loud and too happy earlier. It was too imperfect. What a disappointment: the child was rather beautiful.

Stone-faced, the woman continued down the street, not taking another glance back, even as the screams increased. They weren’t worth it.

Squinting against the sun, she almost walked into a bucket of flowers. Such ugly things, what are they even good for, she thought. All they do is look and smell pretty, to hide the things that people want to stay unseen. Wrinkling her nose, she suddenly had the scent of her mother’s garden in her nose, and her eyes and nose began to itch. With blurred vision, she looked up into the sky, to let the sun shine onto her face and let it hide her weaknesses and fears. She hoped no one else could see. Flowers are such breakable things, watching them decay is just not worth growing them, she thought, and a sudden feeling of failure overcame her. She let it go.

A breeze wrapped itself around the woman and she shivered. How had she not realized how cold it had been earlier? She closed her coat forcefully. She would have to visit her mother soon. It was time she added to the garden.

At home she took off her shoes and hung up her coat before ascending the stairs to get to her bedroom. There she went to the wall-length wardrobe and took out a box from the top shelf, hidden behind other boxes.

Opening the box, she glanced over a few pictures that were facing upside down, only showing a name on the back; two small glass vials, that had something red in them and some writing on the outside; a tiny leather pouch, filled with a single tooth; and a metal coat hanger, which her hand briefly hovered above.

She made her way into the bathroom. She placed what she needed onto a shelf in the shower before starting to undress. First her trousers and underwear, then shirt and bra, exposing her sensitive skin piece by piece. The socks followed last. She placed everything, neatly folded, onto a chest of drawers, next to the washbasin, before stepping into the shower. The metal felt cold and rough on her hands and thighs. She crouched down and let the pleasure and pain begin, hoping for quick relief.

***

He found her in the adjacent bathroom to their bedroom. He had no idea how long she had been home, but there was dried and fresh blood alike. She was sexy like that. Pale and weak, and still the strongest person he had ever known. Her breathing was shallow as she made to stand up.

He knew how it had all started, but it was unimportant now. He looked at his beautiful strong wife and the now bloody devices he had shown her how to use. He had taken them from the practice, on a day he feared for her life, despite his better judgement – but she wouldn’t let him do it and he couldn’t lose her.

‘Another boy?’ he asked in a monotonous, tired voice.

She gave a nod, and he walked over to a dresser in the bedroom, returning with a small glass vial in hand. He handed it to her, and she knelt down, next to the fig-sized clot. Now she would have two additions for her mother’s garden.

„Hurra, die Schule brennt!“ (oder: Ein ganz normaler Tag in der Grundschule)

a short story by García Kaletta

Die Namen der Schüler*innen und Lehrkräfte sind fiktiv.

Es ist Mittwochvormittag und Religion in der G2 steht auf dem Plan. Zwei Stunden Mathe in der G3 und G4 sind schon hinter mir und ich bin bereits ziemlich geschafft. Schleppe seit einigen Tagen eine nette kleine Erkältung umher und die Halsschmerzen machen meiner Stimme zu schaffen. Aber das Selbstmitleid muss warten. Betrete den Klassenraum und werde von schreienden Kindern begrüßt, es herrscht Chaos. Irgendwie habe ich plötzlich nicht mehr so Lust auf die Stunde. Überlege zu gehen, doch irgendwas hält mich ab. Ach richtig. Bin ja der Lehrer. Mist. Dann sieht mich das erste Kind. Ein ohrenbetäubendes „Herr Kaletta ist daaaaaaa!“ besiegelt mein Schicksal. Kein Zurück also.

Cassandra hat Geburtstag, wie sie mir stolz erzählt. Wobei sie es mir eigentlich eher ins Ohr schreit, während sie vor mir auf und ab hüpft. Der Rest der Klasse ist total aufgeregt, ist ja klar, Cassandra hat ja auch Süßigkeiten zum Verteilen mitgebracht. Für diesen einen Tag ist sie also das beliebteste Mädchen der Klasse. So einfach ist das Leben auch nur in der Grundschule. Leider hat sie bereits mit dem Verteilen angefangen. Wobei Verteilen das Durcheinander nicht ganz trifft, was sich vor mir abspielt. Sie hat zwei ihrer drei Tüten an ihrem Platz geöffnet, weshalb sich eine gewisse Meute um sie gebildet hat. Es kommt, wie es kommen muss: Die beiden Tüten sind leer, vereinzelte Kinder haben die Hände voll mit Bonbons, der Großteil hat noch gar nichts. Jerome hat so viele ergattert, dass ich besorgt überlege, ob ich für neu entstehende Diabeteserkrankungen rechtlich belangt werden kann. Unruhe kommt in der Klasse auf und die ersten Kinder werden nervös. Ob da wohl noch genug für sie übrig bleibt? Jannik und Lisa haben noch nichts und fühlen sich ungerecht behandelt, wie sie mich lautstark wissen lassen. Na dann, räuspern, Stimme erheben, Stimme bricht, ach ja, die Halsschmerzen, nochmal räuspern, Stimme erheben, ich muss den Mob auflösen. Irgendwie gelingt es mir. Ich bitte Cassandra beim nächsten Mal doch bitte rumzugehen beim Verteilen, damit auch alle etwas bekommen. Na ja, zum Glück hat sie ja noch eine Tüte für den Rest. Erste Katastrophe abgewendet.

Würde jetzt gerne loslegen mit dem Stoff. Aber huch, was ist das? Ein neues Gesicht in der Klasse. Na toll. Kann mir jetzt schon nicht die ganzen Namen der kleinen Racker merken, da brauch ich nicht noch Zuwachs. Hilft aber nichts, dann wohl mal die neue Schülerin begrüßen, das Mädchen hat ihre Stofftierkatze dabei. Shana heißt sie, so sagt sie, also nicht das Stofftier, sondern das Mädchen, aber vielleicht auch nicht, vielleicht heißen sie auch beide so, oder vielleicht auch keine, sondern das Mädchen neben ihr. Kann dem Redeschwall nur begrenzt folgen, muss nebenbei nämlich noch Jan-Malte davon abhalten, sich beim Kippeln mit dem Stuhl das Genick zu brechen. Weise Jan-Malte zurecht und dreh mich wieder zu Shana, die währenddessen unbekümmert weitergesprochen hatte. Na ja, immerhin ist sie nicht auf den Mund gefallen. Nettes Kind.

Jetzt aber mal loslegen. Ich erkläre den Arbeitsauftrag, wiederhole ihn sicherheitshalber, dann noch ein drittes Mal, nochmal in langsam und dann ein letztes Mal für die ganz großen Spezialisten. Die Kinder fangen an zu arbeiten, wie schön. Ein Junge mit kurzen blonden Haaren kommt nach vorne. Jackson heißt er, wenn mich nicht alles täuscht: „Herr Kalettaaaaaa…?“ Ich schaue ihn lange an und bereite mich mental auf eine Frage zum Arbeitsauftrag vor: „Jaaaaa….?“ Ich freue mich richtig, als er nur erklärt, dass ihm schlecht sei und er abgeholt werden will. Ärgere mich, dass diese Idee nicht mir gekommen ist. Schicke ihn zum Sekretariat und einen Jungen namens Elias gleichmal als Unterstützung mit, zack, der Lärmpegel fällt um wichtige, hörschädigende Dezibel. Wie angenehm. Überlege Sabine, Markus und Mira gleich mitzuschicken. Ein schöner Gedanke. Dann meldet sich Jerome, er hat Bauchschmerzen. Ich versuche gar nicht erst die leeren Bonbonverpackungen auf seinem Tisch zu zählen. Schlage ihm vor, doch einfach noch einen zu essen, um den Magen zu beruhigen. Er sieht nicht überzeugt aus, erwägt die Option jedoch, ich kann es in seinen Augen sehen. Nehme ihm sicherheitshalber die verbleibenden Bonbons weg.

Jackson und Elias befinden sich schon wieder in der Klasse. Die waren doch gerade erst runtergelaufen…? Hmm. Versuche, sie zu ignorieren. Vielleicht verschwinden sie dann ja einfach von alleine. Nein, schon stehen sie an meinem Pult: „Herr Kalettaaaa…?“ „Jaaaaa….?“ „Die Türen des Foyers sind zu, man kommt da nicht rein. Außerdem ist da ganz viel Rauch im Foyer.“ Rauch? Das klingt nicht gut. Obwohl da waren doch vorhin noch Handwerker zugange. Wird also wohl vom Bohren sein oder so. Nichts, worüber ich mir Gedanken machen muss, denke ich mir. Dann geht der Feueralarm los. Innerlich läuft eine Träne über meine Wange. Rein gar nichts, worüber ich mir Gedanken machen mu… Shit. Jackson ruft: „Cool, Feueralarm, bei uns brennt’s!“ Sage ihm, er soll die Klappe halten.

Mira und Sabine geben gleich ihr Bestes, mit dem ohrenbetäubenden, schrillen Heulen der Sirene mitzuhalten. Mia lässt sich davon anstecken. 20 Sekunden Feueralarm, bereits drei weinende Kinder. Bin begeistert. „Keine Panik!“, hör ich mich rufen. Ob zu den Kindern oder zu mir weiß ich selbst nicht so genau. Fordere die Kinder auf, sich in Ruhe in einer Reihe aufzustellen, während ich versuche, sie zu überzeugen, dass das nur eine Übung ist. Die Handwerker haben wohl einfach ein bisschen Rauch beim Bohren verursacht. Das scheint halbwegs zu wirken. Schaue in den Flur, die dritten und vierten Klassen sind schon weg. Es ist meine zweite Woche an der Schule, von einem Feuerprotokoll habe ich nicht den Hauch einer Ahnung. Verfluche meine Unwissenheit. Wer, wie und vor allem wohin? Egal, erstmal raus. Sehe Frau Maser ihre erste Klasse rausführen, also nichts wie hinterher. Die wird schon wissen, wo’s hingehen soll. Also die Treppen runter, am Foyer vorbei, welches abgeriegelt und komplett voller Rauch ist. Riecht zudem auch ziemlich verbrannt. Hoppala. So viel zum Thema Übung. Draußen auf dem Platz kontrolliere ich die Anwesenheit. Gut, dass ich das Klassenbuch mitgenommen hab. An meinen Laptop habe ich wiederum nicht gedacht. Man soll ja schließlich nichts mitnehmen, wie ich den Kindern vor wenigen Minuten noch erklärt hatte. Die sich nun in der rauchenden Schule befindenden ungesicherten drei Semester Uniarbeit lösen allerdings etwas Unbehagen bei mir aus. Wann war nochmal das letzte Back-up? Mir wird schlecht. Ich rufe das letzte Kind auf und mir fällt ein Stein vom Herzen, als alle Kinder da sind. Frau Maser fragt mich, ob ich wissen würde, wo wir jetzt mit den Klassen hingehen sollen. Wie bitte? Ich? „Na ja“, sagt sie, sie wäre ja auch erst seit ein paar Wochen an der Schule. Na, ausgezeichnet. So viel dazu.

Die Zahl der weinenden Kinder hat sich mittlerweile trotz vieler Tröstungsversuche auf fünf erhöht. Einigen Kindern ist eingefallen, dass sie ja Geschwister in den anderen Klassen haben. Die Angst verbreitet sich, dass es irgendwer nicht rausgeschafft haben könnte. Mira weint und sagt, sie will jetzt nach Hause. Ich weiß genau, wie sie sich fühlt. Bei Shana fließen die Tränen jetzt auch in Strömen. Selbst die Stofftierkatze sieht traurig aus. Ein schöner erster Schultag. Drei weitere Mädchen weinen aus Solidarität gleich mal mit. Immerhin, Klassengemeinschaft wird in der G2 ganz großgeschrieben.

Mein hilfloser Blick trifft den von Maria, die an der Schule ebenfalls als Studentin arbeitet, ich mit drei weinenden Kindern in den Armen, sie mit zweien. Überlege, ob diese ungewollte Situation vielleicht sogar doch was Gutes am Ende hat. Finde, ich gebe grade einen ganz passablen Familien-Papa ab. Dann kommt jedoch das vierte Kind mit Tränen in den Augen an und will getröstet werden. Verwerfe die Papa-Bewerbung also schnell wieder, sind außerdem auch noch zu nah an der Schule dran. Laufen mit den Kindern in Richtung Gemeinschaftsschule, wo einige achte und neunte Klassen stehen, die natürlich total entspannt, mustern mich eindringlich, als ich mit meiner Horde weinender und aufgedrehter Kinder an ihnen vorbeigehe. Lehrer des Jahres, klarer Fall. Drei Neuntklässlerinnen kommen rüber, um mir einige weinende Kinder abzunehmen und beim Trösten zu helfen. Sehr freundlich. Erlaube mir kurz durchzuatmen. Dann ruft Jackson: „Schaut mal, da kommt Rauch oben aus der Schule raus!“ Sabine, die ich grade erfolgreich beruhigt hatte, bricht wieder in Tränen aus. Ja, vielen Dank auch Jackson. Sage ihm, er soll die Klappe halten. Von seinen ‘mir ist ganz schlecht, ich muss abgeholt werden und nach Hause – Symptomen’ ist nicht mehr viel zu sehen, die Augen leuchten, als wären Weihnachten und Ostern auf diesen Tag gefallen.

Auf einmal steht Theo weinend vor mir. Das ist neu. Bis jetzt wirkte er ziemlich gefasst mit der ganzen Situation. Er klagt jedoch, dass sein Bein wehtut, er hat es sich wohl gestoßen. Verspreche ihm, dass der Schmerz gleich aufhören wird. Nach einigen Minuten seines schmerzerfüllten Schluchzens bin ich nicht mehr so sicher. Er auch nicht, wie er mir tränenüberlaufen klarmachen will. Rufe Maria und bitte sie auf meine zweite Klasse aufzupassen. Schnappe mir Theo und bringe ihn ins Trockene der Fahrradständer. Schuhe aus, Hose hochgekrempelt, ein lauter Schrei. Bein ist komplett dick und blau angeschwollen. Wie hat er das denn geschafft? Bin endgültig überfordert. Zu Hause anrufen wird ohne Sekretariat schwierig. Einen Krankenwagen will ich aber auch nicht rufen, dafür sieht es dann doch nicht drastisch genug aus. Die Rettung kommt in Form einer Schulbegleitung, die die Nummer eines Familienangehörigen auf dem Handy hat, welcher Theo abholen kommt. Auch mal Glück haben.

Die Direktorin der Gemeinschaftsschule kommt rüber und informiert uns, dass wir am falschen Treffpunkt stehen. Zeige mich wenig überrascht. Zwei Löschfahrzeuge der Feuerwehr fahren aufs Schulgelände und fangen an, ihre Schläuche an die Hydranten anzuschließen. Maxi freut sich, er kann seinen Vater sehen, der ist nämlich bei der Freiwilligen Feuerwehr, wie er seinen Mitschülern stolz erzählt. Finde es immer schwieriger, die Kinder von der ganzen Übungsgeschichte zu überzeugen. Die ersten Feuerwehrmänner gehen in das mittlerweile ziemlich dunkel qualmende Gebäude. So auch der Vater von Maxi. Maxi sieht auf einmal nicht mehr so glücklich aus. Jackson beschließt, ihn zu beruhigen: „Boa, die gehen in das brennende Gebäude, das ist voll gefährlich, hoffentlich sterben die nicht!“ Sage ihm, er soll die Klappe halten. Maxi sieht jetzt definitiv nicht mehr glücklich aus.

Dürfen jetzt in die Gemeinschaftsschule, damit wir nicht mehr in der Kälte stehen müssen. Will mit den Kindern Galgenmännchen spielen, das ist immer eine sichere Bank. Der Klassenraum hat keine Kreide mehr. Natürlich nicht. Mein Kopf rattert, Klasse beruhigen, Klasse ablenken und beschäftigt halten, was gibt’s noch? Musik sollte funktionieren, fange an den Kindern einen Rhythmus vorzuklatschen. Das klingt zwar nur so einigermaßen gut, was vor allem daran liegt, dass ich in meiner Aufregung selbst ständig den Faden verliere und total durcheinander trommele und klatsche. Dafür beruhigen sich die Kinder immerhin und schenken mir ihre volle Aufmerksamkeit. Grade, als wir uns einem einigermaßen flüssigen Takt nähern, kommt die Direktorin herein und erklärt, dass wir wieder in unsere Grundschule dürfen. Bringe die Kinder wieder in die Klasse und lobe sie dafür, dass sie sich so vorbildlich verhalten und die Anweisungen befolgt haben. Immerhin haben sich jetzt alle wieder beruhigt. Jackson meldet sich: „Herr Kalettaaaaa…?“ Ich weiß bereits, dass ich es bereuen werde: „Jaaaaa…?“„Kann es ab jetzt jede Woche bei uns brennen?“ Ich kann förmlich spüren, wie Sabine bei dem Gedanken die Tränen wieder aufsteigen. Sage ihm, dass er das mit der Schulleitung abklären soll. Ich wäre jetzt bereit, in Rente zu gehen.

Author’s note

Warum man Grundschullehrer*in werden könnte:

In einer Welt, in der die Missstände kaum noch zählbar sind, die Frage nicht lautet „ob“ schlechte Nachrichten, sondern nur noch „wo“ und „wie viele“, kann die Grundschule nicht nur für die Schüler*innen einen willkommenen Ort der Zuflucht darstellen.

Als Lehrkraft hat es etwas Faszinierendes, in diese Lebenswelt einzutauchen, die zumindest teilweise noch nach einfacheren Regeln funktioniert. Zu den größten Sorgen gehört die Frage, ob der Thomas auch morgen noch mit dem Jakob befreundet ist, ob Marlene in der nächsten Pause wieder mit der Luna spielt und der Streit um das Fußballtor die größte Krise seit der letzten Neuverteilung der Sitzordnung darstellt.

Dabei sind die Probleme und Belange der jüngeren Individuen in keiner Weise unbedeutend, noch sind die Sorgen auch nur ansatzweise auf die genannten oberflächlichen Konflikte begrenzt. Trotzdem ist der Schulalltag meist folgendes: positiv, ehrlich und auch wenn es vielleicht nur so wirkt, simpler. Nicht immer, nicht alles und nicht für jeden. Aber zum Glück noch häufig. Die Arbeit bringt unerwartete Interaktionen und Situationen, die nur das Leben schreiben kann und unüberlegte Aussagen, die noch Wochen später zum Nachdenken oder Schmunzeln verleiten. Die Routine bleibt gleich und doch ist jeder Tag anders.

Zwar ist nicht immer alles Sonnenschein, aber man lernt auch mit den Gewitterwolken umzugehen. Auf eine Sache ist jedenfalls immer Verlass: Grundschulkinder tun alles dafür, nie Langeweile aufkommen zu lassen. Und das ist einfach immer wieder schön.

Und anstrengend.

Vor allem anstrengend.

Werdet nicht Grundschullehrkräfte.

Compound Eyes

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

cancer, death, depression

a short story by Luc Salinger

Jessica and Mark were sitting on a bench in the park. The weather was scorching hot. A perfect summer’s day. Besides them, the park was completely empty, as if they were the only people who were aware of how great the weather was. A couple of bees were there, occupied with burying their heads in flowers. Birds were ploughing the ground for worms and occasionally, a mosquito tried to test its luck with the couple, gently flying to their exposed legs to ram its snout into their flesh.

Jessica’s breath was irregular. She was panting, and tripped over her words, clearly excited about something she had in mind. Her friend Mark stared at her, patiently, expectantly.

‘There is something I want to pitch to you,’ she said, her breath shaky, her eyes glistening with excitement.

Mark smiled at her. Knowing her, it was probably something stupid. Last time she started a conversation like that, she told of crossbreeding pigs and ducks to develop a special bacon that stays crisp and doesn’t get soggy once she heard that ducks, even when spending time in water, don’t get wet. As she got older, getting her own apartment and her own responsibilities, she developed the habit of completely obsessing over things that only Mark was willing to put up with. She knew that Mark was the only one who listened to her, so she was always excited to talk with him about her ideas.

‘What’s the pitch?’

‘You know…’ She stared into his eyes. ‘You know, how we have all sorts of pictures at school for things like the solar systems, atoms or those sliced up bacteria cells?’ She waited for him to nod.

‘Yes?’

‘Nobody took those pictures. Those are just concept pictures! You know that?’

Mark tried not to laugh. ‘Course I do. They aren’t photographs. They are illustrations. Everyone knows that.’ He put on a look of suspicion. ‘Is that all?’

‘That is not all!’ She put her finger up. ‘Consider this now…’ She leaned a bit closer forward. ‘All those illustrations have been made with the sole intention of helping humans understand the universe.’

Mark still had no idea what Jessica was rambling on about, but her tone was building up to something. He remembers her bacon pitch, too, being like that. Picture this, she had said, you’re swimming in a pool and crave a crispy slice of bacon, but oops, it falls into the pool and now it’s not enjoyable anymore. Reason for that is the hydrophilic nature of the bacon strip itself! It had been hard for him to visualize the scenario at all, but she had a way of gripping Mark as if the things she was saying were really sound. Even if she was completely delusional.

Mark nodded now and she continued. ‘I ask you this now: have you ever seen such a visualisation for any other species?’

‘I guess not. No. Those pictures are for humans because they are the only species that studies the universe in such a way.’ His eyes trailed off from Jessica.

He thought Jessica looked really cute when she was getting riled up by her ideas, even if they felt like she was just sharing her shower thoughts with him, as opposed to really interesting concepts worthy of discussion. She had little bags under her eyes whenever she pitched him an idea, as if she mulled over it for the entire night beforehand. It drew attention to her eyes. Those eyes, with their verdant tinge. So tired. So beautiful. He smiled.

Jessica put her hands on her thighs and looked at him smugly. ‘I don’t think that’s quite fair now, is it? For example, you have those colourful pictures of DNA. That would be so useless for a dog because they don’t see the colours that well. We are in the position that we know better. And gatekeeping our knowledge is just plain cruel. Don’t you think?’

Mark thought back to the time Jessica was at his place. Back when he still had his dog. She’d seemed so gleeful and giddy at that moment. His big mastiff tongue had caressed her cheek like it was vanilla ice cream on a hot summer’s day. Back then, she’d never told him of ideas in her head. She seemed so close, but also not as talkative as she was now. He couldn’t help but shake his preference for the old version of her, back when he still had his dog.

‘I don’t think dogs would care.’

‘Some might,’ she quickly responded and a daring smile crept on her face, as she looked into his eyes. ‘But my idea doesn’t pertain to dogs. I need to start somewhere else. How do you think a fly sees the world?’

‘With compound eyes?’

Jessica jumped up from the bench, putting her palms in the air as if she was balancing an invisible cheerleader on top of her. ‘A huge tapestry of eyes. Like a kaleidoscope. And if that fly would see a picture of the solar system, it would see hundreds of thousands of planets in its view.’ She adjusted her glasses. ‘And that’s not scientifically correct.’

Mark remembered the time when she hadn’t worn glasses. She broke them. It was in the summer, must be seven years ago, back when it took her parents over a year to replace them because they had to spend a lot of money on some stupid stone, as Jessica had put it, for their son. So many emotions inside her, she didn’t know what she was saying. Back then, she was upset that she was so dependent on others. She saw everything blurry. It was the only time that Jessica had said to Mark that he looked beautiful. He knew it was meant as a joke, but he remembered it.

‘I don’t think flies care about the accuracy of their conception of the universe.’ Mark said, now. He stared too much. He shouldn’t look at her this intensely. He should break eye contact once in a while, he thought.

‘You can be such a hater sometimes.’ She nudged him a bit with her shoulder as she sat down on the bench next to him again.

Mark smiled. ‘I’m not a hater. I just don’t think your idea is feasible. I can’t even begin to understand how you would conceive a picture, where a fly, with its hundreds of little eyes, could see a single image as we do. If you turn the solar system into a kaleidoscope, then it would just see the kaleidoscope in its own eyes, multiplied again.’

Jessica rubbed her chin. ‘My hypothesis was that two negatives make a positive and the kaleidoscope and the compound eyes would cancel each other out.’ She looked at him. ‘Did you know that flies can see UV light? Maybe that’s the key.’

He began to yawn. If only Jessica could see how annoying she was being. Back when they were still at school together, it wasn’t draining, talking to her. Ever since that one summer, when his dog was diagnosed with cancer and Jessica’s brother Dylan had drowned in their swimming pool when she was supposed to be watching over him, their relationship changed. Jessica used to talk about real things during that summer. Not crispy water-bacon or fly-friendly pictures. Things felt more real.

‘Is something wrong?’ Jessica asked him. ‘You tired?’ she added with a teasing undertone.

‘Yeah, the weather is getting to me. I think I should go.’ He stood up from the bench. They used to hug each other when departing but this time, Mark didn’t feel like it. He waved to her and left, leaving Jessica wondering why.

When Jessica went to her apartment, the idea she had just talked about with Mark was still in the forefront of her mind. She felt excitement coursing through her and immediately got to her working station. When she sat down in her chair, an army of fruit flies flew from the partly empty yoghurt cups on her desk. The entire working station smelled like rotting cheese or spoiled milk, depending on which yogurt cup was closest and able to overpower the others.

She opened up her photoshop app and worked throughout the day. The smell of the yogurt served a practical use of ruining her appetite whenever she took a breath, so she never felt the need to eat as she diligently worked. Hit the Save-as button, printer on and out came a kaleidoscope, where every little hexagon was a small image of the solar system. It filled the entire page and with pride she held it up in the air.

Jessica rushed towards the kitchen, paper in hand. Once she opened the door. Her ears were filled with buzzing noises. On the kitchen counter, the flies living with her couldn’t have been happier with the accidental hospitality of the hostess. Opened cans of fruits, black bananas, fish bones, half a pack of minced meat that had turned completely brown and served as a maggot kindergarten.

Whenever she stepped into her kitchen, it was a stark reminder to her just how hard living alone was. She hadn’t seen her parents even once since she was kicked out, at eighteen. They hated her guts for letting her brother die. They never used the pool after that. Not even on the hottest of summers. Careless. She didn’t care about anything, her father had said. It stung, and he was wrong. She did care. She put the paper she designed on her kitchen table.

After a couple of seconds. A lonely fly landed on the image and it was the first time a fly got an accurate representation of the solar system. It tapped its trunk on the paper, still warm from the printer. Rubbed its tiny little hands and flew away.

Hidden Away

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

drugs

a short story by Paula Solterbeck

By the time I first saw her, I had stopped counting the days. I remember how little she fit in my world then, with her hair still all shiny and this weird look she gave me, almost a grin. In contrast to the dark, colourless barn, where it stank of horses you never saw nor heard. The dryness of the south, and the dust that reached every corner of any lung. Surrounded and trapped by all the wood, wood that offered splinters when pushed up against. No, Anya didn’t belong here.

He sat, no, rather pushed her down into my little coop and clicked the newly-bought handcuffs around her wrists. Then he said something about her being my new friend or something. At the time I thought that was some sick joke, but ironically, he would be right about it in a way. No, I’m actually not going to think about him. I want to think about her. Anya. My Anya.

Anya wasn’t the first, obviously, but neither was I. Now that I think about it, I don’t know who it was. I had kind of always assumed that it was Holly, but she was merely the first I knew about. I honestly don’t really remember how I got here, when it was still her place, Holly’s place, or how many days I was unconscious; that’s how drugged up I was and to be fair… that wasn’t all him. I know my way around those kinds of things. Drugs.

Anyway, when I woke up all those nights ago, Holly was there. Watched me in my misery of the withdrawal. This sweet girl I went to middle school with, all dirty and broken, you could see that from miles away. I knew then and there, as soon as my senses started to clear, that she was not the same girl I met as a child. That girl with the thoroughly-combed blonde hair, straight As, and all the talk of future husbands and shit – that girl would never come back home. That was what I first thought, after I had recognized her under all the dirt.

She didn’t really talk, other than trying to soothe me, the first few days, just prayed. Perfect girl. It is kind of an awkward reunion, right? At least, that’s what Anya said about it later and she wasn’t wrong. When Holly finally talked to me, she mainly repeated that they would find us soon. Probably more for her own sake than mine.

Now, I didn’t know who they were supposed to be, with almost everyone in town thinking she ran away, after some bad breakup with her fiancé or boyfriend or whatever. Apparently, she had also become some kind of theater kid in high school, at least her friends said something about her dreaming of Hollywood, I guess they hoped that was where she went. Maybe that was wishful thinking. I was unsure about her parents, but with her Christianity and her perfect-ness, I guessed that they were still looking. But, still, no one has found me and the others, even after he took Holly away from the barn and didn’t bring her back. Instead, he replaced her. Twice. And we remain hidden away. Maybe they stopped because they found her body or something, but wouldn’t they start looking for that asshole then?

Although, no one out there would be looking for me, I don’t have to be delusional about that. I had been away for weeks at a time, high on some shit a friend of a friend of a stranger had sold me. The folks were used to it and I didn’t really have any friends before I met Anya. Oh yes, Anya.

After she arrived, she had nervously laughed sometimes, and I thought the psycho had caught himself one of his kind and hoped they might kill each other. Honestly, I get it; while crying would have been the more appropriate choice, I, too, sometimes laugh in absurd situations. Though I have never been in a situation this absurd before. That was something we joked about too, because she seemed so collected (aside from the laughing). She didn’t really need my advice, didn’t let me be her teacher. I guess that’s why we felt like equals, except that she still smelled better than me back then.

‘I’ve never seen you around town, where are you from?’ I had asked, while cleaning the wounds he had given her and her eyes had widened a little. When she answered, I understood why.

‘Which state are we in?’ she had asked in her silly West Coast accent. San Fransisco was where she caught it, she told me later. The sad expression on her face didn’t look right. Unnatural. Not fitting in that beautiful face. I wanted to cheer her up – after all we would be here for a while.

‘Sweet, sweet Louisiana, honey.’ I leaned into the accent with this one and to my surprise, she actually laughed about it. That was when I knew she wasn’t like my other companions. ‘Why would a Cali girl come down here? Family matters?’

‘Passing through,’ she had answered and her expression told me to leave it alone. In hindsight it feels like fate, right? Had he never brought her, we would never have met. Of course, I wish she didn’t have to endure the things he did to us, but selfishly I’m glad that she is the one here with me. For the sake of our moments together, not his. Maybe I’ll share these moments one day, but for now, they belong to us and us only.

In the time with her, my face hurt in a way that I can’t easily describe. The muscles meant for the happy kind of expressions which hadn’t been in use for a while, and the intensity of the soreness, made it clear that I was here for longer than I had imagined. She made me smile so much, she even made me laugh sometimes. Occasionally, I even thought I was happy to be here. After all, this was the place I fell in love.

Memories Keeping Me Awake at 3 am

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

death, funeral, sexual harassment

a collection by Jehan Ammar

Mondays, Am I right?!

It’s 7:50 am on a Monday. My eyes feel tired as I stare at my phone again, waiting for the bus to arrive. I look up, taking in the sun as I see a grey Smart pass me by. I worry about my seminar and how my group is so far behind. They better show up or else I got out of bed at 6:30 for nothing. I did not know at the time that they were still peacefully sleeping in their beds, dreaming and snoring. The Smart passes me again. The man looks confused. I remember when I first moved here, getting lost in the narrow streets and being too shy to ask for directions. He looks fifty, bald, possibly without family. That much I can tell from the car. I take a step forward, hoping to provide help. I can see the fast movement of his arm, and then something pink. It is his dick. In his hand. He looks at me and continues. I step back.

***

Goodbye

My mother next to me smiles. I feel unsure about this and stare at the camera lens and my reflection within, black ruffled blouse matching my hat in color. My father’s face is telling me to smile as well, which I find weird and strangely out of place. Almost the whole family is here, only one member missing. What a chance to capture this moment. I shift in my seat and look at my mother. I hate being here and I hate my father for taking pictures now, even though I don’t really hate him. I argue and argue and never quite smile. The camera shutters. We leave the restaurant and make our way to the funeral.

***

The good, the bad and the medium

I remember your death more than I remember your life.

But when I do, I think of mostly the good.

How the thriller we were writing had so many twists that, by the end, not even we knew who the killer was. Maybe we never did. Maybe it was never about the ending anyway.

But I also remember the bad.

Sometimes.

The moment when you came out as queer. I told you I’d support but never told you how seen I felt in that moment. How that moment mattered. But it mattered only to me because you declared it a joke an hour later. But you were perfect and beautiful and as long as you looked at me, no joke could take away words unspoken.

I also think of the medium occasionally. The moments when you felt on top of the world while climbing a tree, happy and carefree while I stood chained to its roots in worry. We were 13. How we were both failing math at 14 but you didn’t care at all while I cared too much. Now you’re eternally 15 and I’m 22 but a part of me isn’t. I wonder if it’s a piece of me you took to the grave or a piece of you, I keep carrying every day in the depths of my heart.

Your birthday is coming up. We barely knew each other, just a fleeting moment passing by, long gone. I miss you. Sometimes. In the good, the bad and the medium.

Passed On

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

depression

an extract from a novel project by Lina Ketelsen

Monica’s mother had been staring at the wall for about an hour now, whilst Monica was staring at her. She wondered if her mother even registered her gaze, if she even noticed the desperation hiding behind it. Monica was holding a cup of tea in her hands, the print of a white kitten sitting in front of a pink window peeking out between her fingers. It was her favourite cup; her mother had gotten it for her when she was only eight. The tea had gone cold. She had only drunk half of it.

I wish you would still care about me. I care so much about you. She kept her thoughts to herself, as she did often these days. The only person she ever shared them with was her husband. He’d always listen and she felt as though he would never judge her for thoughts she herself would deem as cruel coming from a daughter about a mother. She didn’t want to be cruel about her mother, but there was only so much a person could handle, even if that person was a daughter.

Monica was staring a hole in the back of her mother’s head, completely lost in thought. She grabbed her red, clothbound journal and a pen out of her bag and started writing.

***

When did everything get this bad? You haven’t left the house in weeks and I can barely get you to eat anything. I wish I could go back and pinpoint where it all went wrong. I guess no one’s to blame, really. Could I have stopped your depression from getting this bad if I had just gotten you help earlier? I was just a kid and back then there was barely any help available, and I didn’t even really know what was wrong with you. But still. I wish I could go back to the days of me and you sitting in your bed, with you telling me stories about your childhood, while we cuddled until dad came back home. Everything was better then. I barely see him anymore. I guess it’s just too much for him to handle, too. You know, sometimes I blame him for your sadness. And sometimes, if I look closely, I see the same sadness in his eyes. I wonder if Rob will ever look into my eyes and find it in them too. The terror I feel at such a thought. I would never want to do that to him. He deserves to live a life full of happiness and laughter and I will make sure to give him just that. Not just for him, but also for me. I promised myself I will get help as soon as I start to notice the same signs you had shown once everything began. I still remember how you used to take care of me, Mom. You took me to get birth control when I was only thirteen because my cramps were so bad I could barely get out of bed. Everyone in our neighbourhood judged you for it but you never cared. Now I’m not sure you care about anything at all. I wonder what you will say when I tell you about the baby. The baby that I will give birth to because I forgot to bring that birth control on my honeymoon. Rob just said that whatever happens happens and if we do conceive a child it must simply be meant to be. I hope you’ll love your grandchild. I’m sure deep down you will, even though you might not be able to show it. I promise to make sure that my child will know how much you love it. Mom, I am so scared of becoming a mother. I am so scared of becoming you.

***

She put the pen down and got up to make her mother dinner she probably wouldn’t eat.

A week later, Monica had an appointment at her gynaecologist to check up on the baby. Rob had taken a day off from his job at the bank to come with her. Aside from some nausea, the pregnancy was going very well, and everything had been fine at her other appointments, yet Monica was overcome with anxiety every single time.

As she lay down on the bed, Rob sat down on the chair next to it. He squeezed her hand, looking at her with his warm brown eyes and giving her a small smile. It was the same smile Monica fell in love with the night they met in that Jazz Club, and she still got that same warm feeling inside of her chest whenever she saw it. His leg bounced up and down quickly, but his thumb drew comforting circles on the back of Monica’s hand.

Her nurse walked in, greeted them, and began the examination. Monica sighed in relief as soon as she found out that the baby was fine and everything looked exactly as it should.

She thanked God in her head and flashed her husband a wide smile who promptly reciprocated it.

Then, the nurse asked, ‘Do you want to know the gender of the baby?’

‘Yes.’ Monica and Rob replied in union. They had talked about it beforehand and had decided on satiating their curiosity instead of waiting until the baby’s birth. Now, with the answer to the question being so near, Monica felt her heartbeat quicken and her grip on Rob’s hand tightened.

‘Congratulations, you’re having a girl!’

Monica had gotten a little quiet on the car ride home, while Rob did his best to console her worries. He had calmed her racing thoughts down a bit by talking about all the options for the nursery they had been working on and the dresser he was planning on building for their baby girl. As soon as they arrived, she told her husband she needed some time for herself and sat down on their terrace. She closed her eyes and took a moment to feel how the sun tickled her skin and, as she breathed in, she smelt the scent of freshly cut grass. Rob must have mown the lawn earlier this morning while she was paying her mother her daily visit. Monica remembered her journal entry that she wrote a week ago and decided to return to it, overwhelmed with emotions and desperate to make some sense of them.

***

How is it possible to feel so happy yet so scared at the same time? I’m so glad that my baby is fine, but I am also a little scared. A mother is more likely to pass her depression onto her daughter than her son. Will I lay this burden upon her that has been throwing shadows over my life ever since I was a little girl? Is it my fault if she will be haunted by the same fate as my mother? If I know that it cannot truly be my fault, then why do I still feel guilty somehow? Sometimes, I feel myself waiting for the day when it’s my turn and I start to feel my mother’s depression creep up on me. I’m scared of it. But all I know is that I cannot pass the fear onto my daughter, I cannot, and I will not make her experience the things I have had to go through with my mother. I will do anything I can to show my baby that the world is a beautiful place and that she is unconditionally loved by her parents, just like any child deserves. Just like I deserved it, too. I cannot wait to give birth to her, I’m sure the sight of my girl will clear my worries, at least for some time.

***

Monica closed her journal, took a deep breath, and put her hand on her round belly. Just then, Rob walked out on the terrace holding a tray with tea and cookies, smiling at the sight of his wife. She smiled back at him and felt that everything would be alright as long as they had each other.

Author’s note

This piece is going to be a part of a coming-of-age novel spanning the sixties through to the early 2000s. It centres around the issues of womanhood, mental illness, motherhood, and love. It follows the protagonist Monica, whose story is based on my own family’s history, as she grows into womanhood, finds love, and navigates life with a depressed mother while becoming a mother herself.

Escape

Content warning. May contain spoilers.

child murder

a prequel to BBQ by Lea Köster

Everything is glowing bright in the setting afternoon sun, the light covering the world in a million shades of red. Smoke is hanging thick in the air, making the heat of the disappearing day even more unbearable.

The neighbours all around are bidding the summer farewell with a last barbecue. I can hear the children laugh, and play, and cry. I can hear the grownups laugh, and talk, and shout. I can hear dogs and cats and cars. I can hear sounds all around. I can hear sounds everywhere, except in our house.

Our house is empty and quiet. No one has said a word, acknowledged the other one’s presence or tried to make oneself heard. I have tried. I have tried a hundred times. The other times I pleased my mother and stayed quiet, showed everyone the perfect daughter. She tells me then that she is proud of me, that she loves me, that I am all she ever wished for.

I love her. She made me the person I am today. She gave me the strength to leave and never come back. I love her. And that’s why I haven’t told her yet, that’s why I haven’t told anyone. It will destroy her. Losing both her children exactly one year apart.

My bag is packed, stored under my bed. I will get it out when everyone is asleep. I am not sure I should have packed it, not last night. But it’s too late for these kinds of thoughts now – I made up my mind.

The grandmother clock in the foyer chimes six. The sound moves through the whole house, through every part of my body and I close my eyes for a moment.

‘I hate that fucking thing!’ I hear her voice as if it were yesterday, but it wasn’t yesterday, it’s been exactly one year. My sister was the smarter one, she was braver and prettier too, she was… is… everything my mum loves about me. Will I find her on my travels in my new life?

The sound fades and shortly after, like clockwork, I can hear my mother working in the kitchen. I can’t hear her, just the pots, and pans, and bowls clanging together. My father will be in the living room, in the big worn armchair facing the garden, reading the newspaper.

At seven we dine. Not a word is exchanged. No need for those. I said my goodbyes – with pen and paper, to be delivered two days from now. My mother never speaks if it isn’t absolutely necessary, and my father is a naturally quiet person. Everything is as it always was. And nothing will change when I am gone.

It’s seven twenty-three as I glance at the clock, and seven thirty-five as we finished dinner and I make my way up the stairs. Just a few hours left until I am finally free.

In my room I finish up a homework and then fold some paper birds out of colourful paper to pass the time. As I am hanging them up by the window and watch how they dance in the breeze it knocks at my door. My mum is standing in the doorframe, wearing her apron.

‘Your dad and I decided to have a barbeque tomorrow. Could you help me get the meat out of the freezer?’

‘Sure,’ I respond and jump down from the window seat I had been standing on to pin the paper birds to the ceiling.

I follow my mum, down the hallway and down the stairs, contemplating if she is aware that we had a barbeque last year, too, after my sister left.

We continue along the hallway of the ground floor towards the door to the basement. She opens it and lets me descend the steep steps first. I let my fingers brush past the rough stone walls. I always loved the feeling: cold, somewhat sandy, close to painful but never hurting me. Today they prick my finger and a drop of blood appears. To not get any stains on my clothes I put the finger in my mouth. I hope my mum doesn’t see.

‘I hope you didn’t get any of that blood anywhere near your clothes. Let me see!’

Shit. I turn around at the bottom of the stairs, holding out my finger for my mum to see.

The next thing I know, I am crouching on the ground, the white tiles splattered with red dots. My head is hurting terribly and something is dripping down the side of my face.

‘Look at me!’ Her voice doesn’t leave any room for protest, so I do. She is looking down on me from three steps up. Her hair is perfectly arranged in a neat bun at the back of her head, her dress showing wrinkles under the apron, her make-up smeared at her eye. Did she cry? She isn’t looking her usual self. Did something happen?

‘Mum, are you okay? Were you crying?’ I ask in a weak voice. My eyes are heavy, my head hurts and my body tells me to stay down – getting up would be a bad idea. It is then that I see the hammer in my mother’s hand, dangling on her side, her knuckles white, drops of blood falling to the concrete steps.

‘Mum, what is going on?’ My voice quivers now and I try to get up, try to create more distance between us, but my legs give out under me, and I fall, once again, to the floor.

‘You slipped and fell. But that’s okay, we all make mistakes. Let me help you,’ she says, her voice sweet now. But she doesn’t move.

‘Mum?’ I plead as the edges of my vision become darker. I raise a hand to my head and realise that it is blood that’s running down my face and shoulder, onto my clothes and the floor. Is that bone I feel? How am I still awake, conscious?

‘Mum?’ I whimper again. Why is she just standing there?

‘You glanced at the clock, twice.’

‘What?’ I voice my confusion, not knowing if she heard it, my strength declining by the second.

‘You really thought you could outwit me and just run away?’ She leaves a short pause. ‘You are just like your sister.’

She just stands there watching me as I slowly sink further to the ground, soaking my clothes with the blood that has been oozing onto the floor. My eyes are so heavy and all I want to do is sleep. In the daze that is trying to pull me under, I hear the basement door open.

‘Dad?’ I whisper, knowing that he can’t hear me. There are no shouts, no pushing, no steps, no words from him or anything that would indicate that he is going to help me. What I hear instead is my mum speaking calmly and quietly to him, using her everyday voice as though nothing is wrong.

‘She was like her sister.’

My father’s response is tired, heavy, almost bored, as if he has been through all of this before and knows that he can’t change a thing, and still he asks, wants to know. ‘Carol, honey, was that really necessary? She was our daughter.’

‘She was a disappointment, a disgrace, weak, like her sister before her. She is no daughter of mine. Now go upstairs and send the invitations!’

I can feel my eyes closing, there is no use fighting it anymore and still, I feel sorry. I am… What am I? Sorry, free, happy, dying, surviving, fighting, loved? A few tears roll down my cheeks and I am suddenly certain that I will see my sister sooner than I had planned and hoped and with a smile on my lips everything goes dark.

Entwicklungsbericht der Spezies „Mensch“ auf dem Planeten „Erde“, verfasst von Xluptr-03342

a short story by Jule Kaben

Sie sprechen in fremdartigen Zungen auf meiner Sprache zu mir, sie nutzen Wörter wie „Heuristik“ und „Transzendenz“. Sie zwängen sich in unbequeme Anzüge und Kostüme, Schuhe, die sie offensichtlich unangenehm finden. Sie verstopfen sich die Poren mit hormondurchtränkten Kosmetika, welche teilweise zu (Erd-)Mondpreisen über den Tresen gehen. Schlimmer noch: Sie motivieren persönlich oder im Internet andere Menschen dazu, dieses kuriose Körperpflegeritual selbst zu vollziehen. Im Internet sehen sie sich stundenlang Inhalte an, die sie offensichtlich unglücklich machen, hören allerdings nicht auf. Diese Menschen im Internet erzählen anderen Menschen, sie würden sich hauptsächlich von Haferschleim mit Beeren ernähren, Hausputz sei ihr Hobby und um fünf Uhr morgens aufzustehen die große Offenbarung. Der moderne Mensch glaubt nur noch an einen Gott, dieser ist viereckig und muss alle paar Jahre in der Religionsstätte für ein kleines Vermögen neu erworben werden. Zu diesem Gott beten sie sehr häufig mehrere Stunden am Tag ohne Unterbrechung, hierbei ist es erstaunlich, dass junge Menschen der Religion noch fanatischer anhängen als die älteren, welche dieser allerdings auch völlig verfallen sind. Den Geschlechtsakt vollziehen sie nur zögerlich, denn sie haben in ihrem religiösen Portal gesehen, wie andere Menschen es schon viel besser und ästhetischer als sie selbst gemacht haben.

Damit der Mensch in seiner eigenen, zerstörerischen Genialität die Welt nicht in einem unüberschaubaren Tempo unterwirft, haben sie die Bürokratie erfunden. Grundsätzlich gilt: Je weniger Humor der jeweilige Volksstamm besitzt, desto mehr Bürokratie hat er sich auferlegt. Es gibt Regeln für das Aufstellen von Regeln und Regeln für die Regeln, für das Aufstellen von Regeln und Regeln und Regeln für die Regeln der Regeln der Regeln. Während gestern noch die Menschen völlig ohne Papierkrieg ihre Lehmhütte aufstellen konnten, behindern sie sich nun selbst im Bau einer Behausung. Verletzt man einen Menschen emotional, so tut dieser alles, um emotional möglichst unverletzt zu wirken. Lehnt man die Avancen eines romantisch-interessierten Menschenwesens ab, reagiert dieses mit „Ich wollte dich sowieso nicht. Eigentlich finde ich dich zutiefst abstoßend und mein Interesse basiert auf Mitleid“. Möchte ein erwachsener Mensch weinen, unterdrückt er diesen Impuls, bis er die Sicherheit seiner spärlichen Behausung oder einen stinkenden Abort gefunden hat. Wenn Menschen doch einen begrenzten Zugang zu ihrem unterentwickelten Emotionsleben erlangen wollen, trinken sie in größeren Mengen einen schädlichen Saft aus gegorenen Früchten und teilen sich hemmungslos mit, bis nur noch ihre letzte Mahlzeit ihren Mund durchdringt. Dabei besteht die Kunst darin, diese Situation für alle Beteiligten, auch das Individuum im Nachhinein, möglichst beschämend zu machen. Dazu läuft üblicherweise Musik, die zu jung ist, um als geschmackvolles Überbleibsel einer besseren Zeit zu gelten, jedoch auch zu alt, um als frischer Wind aus den Lautsprechern empfunden zu werden. Wichtig sind hierbei sich wiederholende Strophen mit hohem Nervfaktor und Songtexte, deren geniale Philosophie man erst nachvollziehen kann, wenn man ein paar Gläser von dem Saft hatte. Der Schlager ist im Prinzip das Wackelbild zwischen Nüchternheit und Rausch, weshalb die Meinung des jeweiligen Menschen in einer engen Beziehung zum jeweiligen Promillewert steht. Dazu genießen mittelmäßige Menschen die Beobachtung von fragwürdigen Individuen, um sich für einige Stunden von der Enttäuschung über die Sinnlosigkeit ihres eigenen Lebens hinwegzutrösten. Basierend auf der Pigmentmenge ihrer Epidermis bestimmen Menschen den Wert des Individuums, in der Regel sind wenige Pigmente gut und viele schlecht, wobei auch an dieser Stelle viele Streitigkeiten herrschen.

Ansonsten wird Brutpflege und Stammeserhaltung nicht als basale Praxis der Arterhaltung, sondern eher als nebensächliche Gefälligkeit angesehen. Der Mensch hat es sich zum Ziel gemacht, kleine digitale Zahlen bis in die Unendlichkeit zu erhöhen. Das Problem dieser digitalen Zahlen besteht darin, dass sobald alle hohe digitale kleine Zahlen haben, niemand mehr hohe digitale kleine Zahlen hat. Trotzdem sitzen viele dem irrigen Schluss auf, die kleinen Zahlen könnten sich bis ins Unendliche erhöhen. Dazu wurden sogar komplexe Theorien und Systeme entwickelt, die dazu genutzt werden, nichts ahnende Opfer auf Cocktailpartys zu langweilen und die eigene Überlegenheit zu demonstrieren, welche die grassierende soziale Ungerechtigkeit rechtfertigen soll. Ansonsten ist das aktuell höchste Produkt der menschlichen Innovation die 5-Minuten-Terrine, denn sie bereitet exquisite Nudelgerichte ohne weiteres Zutun innerhalb von fünf Minuten preisgünstig zu und verkürzt durch ihre fragwürdigen Inhaltsstoffe das trostlose Leben der Menschenwesen auf ihrem sterbenden Planeten. Die beste Spezies auf dem Planeten ist die Gans, denn sie ist wie ein Schwan, nur kürzer und mit einem höheren Aggressionspotenzial. Die schönste Stadt der Erde ist Neumünster, denn nur an diesem Ort wird das Vermögen des menschlichen Auges an die fünfzig unterschiedlichen Schattierungen von Grau zu erkennen, richtig ausgekostet.

Abschließend lässt sich sagen, dass die Erde aufgrund ihres hohen Unterhaltungspotenzials in der interstellaren Tourismusbranche einen festen Platz hat, für die Entwicklung unserer Spezies jedoch nicht von höherem Interesse ist. Man erlaube mir dieses persönliche Urteil: Die Menschheit war um einiges charmanter und schneidiger, als wir sie beim Bau der Pyramiden unterstützt haben. Wir, die wir erkannt haben, dass der Bau von Hochleistungsraumschiffen nur funktionieren kann, indem man nach der eigenen Intuition einfach ein Bauteil ins andere steckt, haben den wahren Kern des Seins bereits erkannt, während der Mensch sich weiterhin durch absurde mentale Konstrukte und sinnfreie Bedenken behindert. Man kann nur hoffen, dass mit dem statistisch bewiesenen Absinken des menschlichen Intelligenzquotienten die Menschheit doch noch ihren Weg zur Erleuchtung finden wird. Um diesen Zustand zu unterstützen, leisten wir Entwicklungshilfe in Form von Gammastrahlung und wertlosen TV-Formaten im Abendprogramm der privaten Fernsehsender.

Unterm Strich gebe ich der Menschheit auf dem Planeten Erde 3/5 Milchkühen.

Acts of Desperation

an extract from a novel project by Carolin Hansen

Margaret woke up to the dim light of dawn slowly creeping through the cracks of the worn-down shed. She shivered. The shelter barely kept out the cold, and she didn’t know how they would survive the winter months ahead. Margaret glanced around the shed. It was a cramped space, barely big enough to fit them all. The few belongings that Margaret could gather in their frantic rush to flee were stacked neatly in one corner: a few blankets, some worn-out clothes, a couple of cooking utensils, and a cherished family photo. Beside her, Rosie and Doris huddled together for warmth. Their small bodies were frail and thin, their faces pale from weeks of being on the move and little to no food. Doris had Erika in her arms, protecting her from the world around them. Since the night they left home, Doris had been a constant source of comfort for Erika, holding her close during the most frightening moments. Margaret watched them for a moment, before pushing the blanket back and sliding, quietly, out of bed. It was time to get up. The day’s work would begin soon, and lateness was frowned upon. They were working on the harvest for the Heinrichs, the family that had taken her and her children in. With a heavy sigh, she stood up, feeling the familiar gnaw of hunger in her stomach; she had given most of last night’s food to her children, as she had done the previous nights. Though Margaret was grateful for the roof over their head, the price she had to pay was steep.

Outside in the middle of the vast, muddy field, Margaret knelt down, shivering as a cold blast of wind cut through her like a knife. She looked up at the sky, the thick, grey, low-hanging clouds stretching endlessly over the landscape. She looked down at her knees and winced. The ground was uneven, and the clumps of hardened soil and rocks were digging into her flesh with every movement. The repetitive chore of digging into the soil and pulling out the potatoes was exhausting. While she worked, she would reminisce about the time before the war, when everything was still alright. She thought about the candlelit evenings with her husband and children, the sound of their laughter, now a rare memory, echoing in her mind, reminding her of the joy she once knew.

As she dug her hands into the cold earth, Margaret’s fingers brushed against a particularly large potato. She paused; her children’s cries from the night before echoed in her head, their thin faces marked with pain. The rations that the Heinrichs provided were barely enough to survive, let alone keep them healthy. She quickly looked around the field, ensuring no one was watching. The other workers were busy on the opposite side of the field, their voices faint in the distance. Margaret’s heart pounded as she hesitated, the potato still half-buried in the soil. Why had it come to this? She thought, her hands trembling as they dug into the soil. With a quick, decisive move, she slipped the potato into the deep pocket of her apron. Her heart began to race and she quickly continued working, her hands moving mechanically, while her mind was racing with doubt and anxiety.

Am I doing the right thing? The question gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside. This isn’t theft, Margaret told herself. I’m not a thief, I’m just trying to keep my children alive. Her thoughts raced, and she recalled the tales of Robin Hood from her childhood. He stole from the rich to give to the poor. Wasn’t she doing the same thing?

But what would happen if she got caught? Would they lose the shed? Where would they go? The thought of her girls not having a roof over their heads made her stomach turn. Then she remembered the stories about how Mr. Heinrich liked his belt. Would he raise his hands against her children? Her heart stopped for a second, and a cold wave of fear washed over her, making her hands tremble. Was he really capable of that? The thought of his belt cracking through the air haunted her, her pulse quickening as she fought to keep working.

Suddenly the sharp voice of Mr. Heinrich echoed over the fields. Margaret’s jaw tightened as she listened to his commanding voice.

‘You have to finish this field in the next half hour, so hurry up!’

Margaret paused to wipe the sweat from her brow, looking out over the field with a mixture of bittersweet relief. Another potato won’t hurt, she thought to herself, emboldened, and quickly slipped another potato into the pocket of her apron.

That evening, after bedtime, she boiled the stolen potatoes over a small fire.

‘Mama, why are we eating again?’ Doris asked.

‘This is a secret and special meal just for us. You cannot tell the other children about this, you both have to promise,’ Margaret said.

‘I promise,’ Doris said.

‘Me too,’ Rosie said.

Margaret mashed the potatoes with a little water, stretching them as far as it would go. Her children’s eyes were brightening. Margaret sat on the wooden floor, cradling Erika in her arms and feeding her with a small spoon of mashed potatoes.

For the first time in weeks that night, they fell asleep without crying.

Author’s note

This excerpt is taken from a longer piece of work, a historical fiction novel set towards the end of, and in the aftermath of, WWII. The story follows Margaret and her three children and the immense hardships they endure and, in doing so, also concerns itself more broadly with the struggles of women in this period of history. In this extract, we see Margaret’s resilience and determination to provide for her children.