Fiction

What is my voice when it has nothing to imitate? Whose beauty is this but not the beautiful ones it mimics?

Old and young came together, embracing in their triumph, entangled in the throng’s euphoria.

Guilt-ridden Joshua wanted his father to understand. “I want to be a physicist. Politics are of no interest to me”.

I was every fig on every fig tree. Those reckless writers warned the man and the woman not to eat me

The repetitiveness was mind-crushing. The cruise-lines he followed all day seemed like a prison.

So many questions. Who was she, that she would bury a book? Would it be wrong to dig it up and read it?

His scissors are soaking in soapy water. She turns and almost stabs him in the belly. He jumps back.

Marja would write the curse, seal it in a film canister, and then, in the guise of being a welcoming neighbour, bury it in the roots of whatever Marja planted in the garden as a gift.

As the video conference ended, quiet tears poured down her cheeks. She felt very small as if someone had taken her voice away.