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Three flashes by Anjali Menon - July 15
How to eat like you belong
I. The Velvet Trap
Sitting at the chandelier-lit table, I look down: a silk napkin, too fine for my thrifted skirt, outshining my entire black ensemble. A single stain on that royal cloth could spiral me into panic.
I glance sideways. Colleagues dressed in black are discussing wines that shimmer identically in their glasses. Their voices are smooth, their laughs synchronized. I’m an outlier pretending to round off their curve. I don’t even understand the joke, but I laugh anyway. I’m okay. I’m trying.
II. The Art of Imitation
“Do you taste the aftertaste, lingering on the back of your tongue?” asks my boss.
“Yes,” I lie. “The back of my tongue, yes, I feel it.”
I’m tired of wine. Tired of swirling, hoping not to spill.
People are skipping levels across tables, camouflaging strategies, planting promotions.
I’m perspiring under the aircon. I’m new to this, new to this job, new to this country.
I’m starving.
III. Ghosts in the Grains
After toasts and roasts, we progress to actual food. A glimmer of rice catches my hope, something known. Then I see the crab in the center of the table, an unspoken challenge, its claws a threat to decorum, even with the tiny, useless scissors provided.
I grew up in a little coastal town in India, and crabs meant the ultimate party. On Sundays, Grandpa would bring them home, alive. We’d play with them for a while, then kill and curry them when we were bored of games. Later, we’d hammer shells on steel plates, excavating the last bit of flesh. A primal joy in the hunt for fresh meat.
At home, I knead rice and yogurt with my right hand into a soft slurry, roll them into little balls, add a bit of pickle for the punch, and pop them into my mouth one by one. I’ve never learned to eat pretty.
IV. The Masquerade Feast
“Oh, your rice is here,” someone says. I shake like I got caught.
I don’t want to feed the stereotype. So, I don’t take the rice.
Instead, I reach for the garlic bread. I don’t know what to do with garlic bread.
I start adding things to my plate things I don’t understand. A spoon of sauce I don’t recognize. Something gelatinous. Something cold. Something stiff. Someone looks at my table and says, “That’s… interesting.”
I carefully avoid the crab. Which is absurd. I love crab. But I don’t know how to eat crab pretty.
V. Hunger in the Hollow Room
I try to eat, but the knife and fork slip through my hands. I can’t hold on. I can’t do this the right way. My food sits untouched.
I sit still, trying to swallow the mess I curated to look like someone else. But my stomach knows, it remembers, it’s ashamed, not of who I am, but who I wanted to be.
How Parasites Operate
My mother and Donald Trump had me believe in a strange fiction that real art blooms only from masculine seeds. Starry Nights, Great Gatsby, Led Zeppelin, were all constellations dropped from a giant phallus. I was oriented up in a hole where Maya and Sylvia weren’t allowed to voice. I was just a dreamless girl. No verse of my own. No egg to hatch. No ladder to climb.
So I came down to one noble mission: to find and feed an artist in need.
I knocked on doors, offering my pieces in service. Eventually, I found him - tall, hefty, paint-stained pants. He welcomed me like I was white light, ready to be sprayed onto his empty canvas. I had a purpose now. I would feed the artist.
From day one, I got to work. I curated his inspiration: flowerpots to please his eyes, pumpkin soups to soothe his throat, wet hair to calm his blaze, strong fingers to run through his dreadlocks. Anything to feed his imagination, top to toe, I dissolved in submission.
He called me his muse. The one who brewed the best coffee. Whose giggles were the first sound of his music. I fed his hunger, some days soft, some days cruel, and called it devotion. I became the shadow making midnight stew surrendering to his insatiable hunger.
Then something happened one Sunday. I had nothing to do but make him dessert for dinner. That’s when it began.
A hum. Silly at first, crawling under my skin. I tried to hush it. Keep it down, I told myself. There’s cream to whisk, sugar to measure, crumbs to collect. But the hum grew louder. I reached for the cream, but the percussion took over. The whipped cream hit the floor like confetti. Then I broke a few bowls for percussion. I was no longer making dessert. I was creating something else.
He walked in, eyes wide. “What is this chaos?”
“This,” I said, “is art.”
It was messy.
But it was mine.
He was furious.
I was alive.
The kitchen, once a sanctuary of order, became a battleground for my hunger. The parasite of an artist in me trespassed into his world. I smeared paint into his brushes, scribbled on his sketchbooks. I was no longer the hands that served.
I was becoming something too.
Colors bled from me, deep reds, furious blacks, golds with no restraint. Fluorescent lines ruined his outlines. He called it destruction. I called it art.
He shouted. I laughed.
My mother and Donald Trump had me believe that real art only blooms from masculine seeds. But now my colors spill freely. I let the tacky override the sublime. I choose the cracks no one notices. I choose the fire, the passion that howled: I am something too.
My Ex’s First Wedding
It was my ex’s first wedding. Naturally, I accepted the invitation. A masterclass in self-sabotage.
I draped my hollow soul in six yards of brown kancheevaram, eyeliner sharp enough to slice through any illusion.
He was my college sweetheart. We went on long bike rides post exams, planning our future lives, colour of our future curtains and thickness of the cushions. Somewhere, all along I strongly knew it was all a lie. Deep in the rotten corner of my gut, I knew he would disappear.
He broke up with me in a café with a mental PowerPoint. Each reason delivered like a bullet point:
-
too intense
-
not ready
-
his Mom wouldn’t approve.
Period
I didn’t cry. By then, I had already grieved the end. I just hadn’t exited the building.
We stayed fake friends. Exchanged memes, mutually stalked each other’s pictures. Sent “congrats”, “happy birthday”, “hope you’re safe in this flood” messages to each other.But intentionally aware of whose life looked better from the filtered side of the screen.
Now he’s won. It’s his first wedding.
Tonight, his bride was tall and luminescent, the kind of girl aunties manifest during temple visits. Her family gifted him heirloom gold and a car. The same man who once told me he didn’t care for “all that.” His smile tonight told a different story, like a child who’d gotten everything on his list.
We spoke during the after party. Drinks in hand. Spite in heart.
“I feel very bad for you,” he said. “You should listen to your parents. Settle down soon. Find someone more… your league.”
I smiled. Swallowed my gin. Clicked a picture, him in the middle, trophy bride by his side. Said hello to all his friends who still think I’m “too much.”
Then I found his brother.
Who offered me a drink.
And a grin.
And a ride
I made sure the groom saw me leave with his baby brother’s arm around my waist.
Lipstick a little smudged.
Eyes calm.
Caspar David Friedrich, Moonrise over the Sea, 1822
Anjali Menon is a writer and spoken word artist based in Tallinn, Estonia. She holds a Master’s degree in English Language and Literature, specialised in translating oral folk songs from her mother tongue, Malayalam, into English. Anjali currently travels across Europe with her poetry collections, performing spoken word sets at slams and local gigs. She also curates intimate poetry and music gatherings, guided by a deep belief in the transformative power of artistic communities.
The song of the desert ant by Neil Macdonald - July 8
Upon a boundless field of yellow sand, which stretched to meet the horizon, there was a great pilgrimage of a little ant.
Her long and rigid legs caressed the soft and shimmering sand. Her delicate and triangular head studied the landscapes rendered before her. The little Saharan ant swayed through them with persistence, as would a boat sailing the tumultuous ocean.
Around her, the sand curled into hills scattered across this canvas of yellow. Above her, the vile Saharan sun had poured its utmost brightness onto the earth.
How feeble she was against the colossal desert; how vulnerable against the dreadful heat!
The lizards she passed were all cowering in crevices between the rocks; their throats rapidly expanding and tightening as their bodies lay idle.
The vipers she passed were all sinking beneath the fine sand. Only their eyes were visible, slowly surveying from place to place.
But the sun had not ended its regime! The air of the desert was shuffling and distorting. The sands seethed like piles of exotic gold.
Her fragile body was nearly incomparable to the massive terrain it was engulfed within. From a perspective aloft she resembled not even a speck of dust. The saharan ant moved with such an imperceptible pace that the sands could hardly notice her trek!
Yet, unfaltering, she continued to traverse. Patiently, she pressed onward without a word. Behind her a faint and deep imprint was found upon the lifeless yellow plain.
Sahara! Sahara! How far would you stretch?
The night descended silently. Darkness creeped onto the smooth canvas, shading the scene in blues and greys. Under the illumination of moonlight, the sands shone. The gentle night-wind blew through the air.
Traces of life intensified as the sun receded. Now those indolent lizards and cowardly vipers had finally emerged from their comfort. When they gazed around they would find that the tiny Saharan ant was still marching tenaciously.
One after one she went across the enormous hills. One after one she slowly climbed. Never did she hesitate, nor did she rest. Only did she march forward—alone in this desert portrait that spilled over the edges of the frame.
Sahara! Sahara! How far could you stretch!
The sand fluttered in the air, embracing her in an unbreakable veil. The soft wind whistled, swiftly brushing away her weariness.
Her head studied the dim landscapes drawn ahead. There was something she must reach.
Let the Sahara stretch farther!
John James Audubon, Stormy Petrel.
The birth of the womb by Natalie Gachoka - June 28
It started with a cough lodged between my breaths, stuffing my throat and pressing against my lungs like water drowning bubbles. It was a pain that grew into a beast that could no longer be contained, a feral need to break free from its cage. For days on end, the sickness would expand, and each day, it would be a struggle. I would cough again, again, and again. Each time, sharper—a knife cushioned by the edge of my ribs, sculpting my bones into art. I sought out the wisdom of men, but doctors said it was nothing. My pain was a delusion I concocted in the haze of dreariness. They could not see the pain I was experiencing, as they had no notion of anything beyond the ideas of man’s medicine. So I let it fester within me, a dormant sickness that seemingly had no cure.
The beach became my comfort, where sand tears met the edge of the Earth, and the sky bent into the sea like a prayer. The foam of the tide whispered howls of love. I would walk on the pier, the waves becoming one with me. The air shimmered with something not quite wind. The waves pulled toward me like hands. On the eve of its birth, on my strolls spectating the seagulls mate with the sun, the seed of the cough sprouted, a single petal, pale yellow and soft as silk. It was streaked with blood and lace.
An excruciating battle commenced within my body, every inch of me recoiling in the fight. I was being rewritten from the inside. The core of my being was fracturing under the weight of the invasion within me. It was not just my body; it was my soul, every breath, every heartbeat, resisting. My body writhed as the root tore through my flesh. My blood was the soil that fed the bloom, devouring me from the inside out until my very organs pulsed with their hunger. The roots spread with merciless purpose, forcing their way out, carrying the scent of a sickly perfume— a rot disguised as nectar.
Was this a curse? A prophecy? A rebirth? I did not know. Only that it would not relent. The flower had transformed me—its roots were my intestines, leaves my veins, petals my voice. I tried to scream, clawing at my skin. I tried to peel the bark away from my skin, but the more I grasped, the more my flesh dissolved—oozing, sloughing off in ribbons. My vision became blurred with golden spores. The roots crept upwards, threading through the hollows of my skull, bursting through my sinuses, coiling around my jaw, claiming every hollow space as their own. I thrashed on the beach; the sand crawled towards me, drowning my feet in grain. I felt like a sinner being punished for the sin of man. I prayed, denied, raged. I wept at any foot that would answer my prayer.
"What did I deserve the pain? Do I need to become a faithful servant of the wind?" I asked the sky. "Will you spare me if I bow low enough?"
The tide licked at my feet like a loyal animal. I watched the sun shatter into the ocean and wondered if it hurt to sink. A melodic hum vibrated between my ribs. I was losing hold of my body; it was transforming into Her instrument, any note to be played by whim. My pulse felt foreign as a symphony played through my bones. I was being orchestrated by Her—the Mother, the Earth’s conductor, guiding me to Her will. I screamed. I dug into the roots and yanked at them with trembling hands. I tried burning them with salt water, stabbing them with driftwood, and biting at the vines as they slipped up my throat. "Whoever you are? Whatever you are, leave me be." The wind laughed at my plight. My muscles trembled in resistance. My skin blistered where Her bloom pressed near the surface. I spit petals into the sand.
Who was She? The sea, the storm that carried my birth? The Earth that cradled me from the moment my feet first touched Her soil? I could no longer tell where I ended and the bloom began, our bodies entwined, indistinguishable—like roots weaving into each other, one form growing into the next. But there was comfort in that union.
Was this what She had destined me to be—tethered to Her whims, kneeling at Her mercy, a servant bowed to the curve of Her knee? She caressed the slick of my womb, ready to be opened to release the budding flower, nurtured from the river of my tears. She had cast the curse, waiting for me to beg Her to undo it, to free me from the very thing that called me to Her. I had fought Her with everything I had with teeth, pleas, and prayer. There was terror in her embrace, yes, but there was also warm stillness. She was remaking my body of clay and mud into a sacred relic.
“Why do I fight you?” I spoke to Her.
“Because as a child, you still believe pain is punishment. But this is creation.”
"Who are you?"
"You are the beginning and the end, the milk of the breast you suck on?"
"You're God?"
She laughed as if a child had asked an ignorant question
"You can not see past the need for a god and worship, but some have called me a god. Some of my past friends have called me Mother as I nurture your air. Though recently, the hubris of man has forgotten me, rotting my body."
"So why have I been barred to pay the sins of man?"
"You are not meant to repent for their misgiving but be their revelation”.
“What am I to you?”
I breathed in Her scent and let it root in my lungs. My rage no longer roared. It sighed.
“You are my seed. My storm. My becoming.”
And with those words, something inside me broke—then healed. Like a dam giving way not to flood, but to cleanse. Was She not the force that shaped us all—the dark womb of creation and destruction? She was both the end and the beginning, the soil and the storm, the cradle and the grave. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my racing pulse, but there was no escaping Her. She had consumed my mind, and all that remained was the rasp of Her nails against the ridges of my brain.
“Come with me,” was all the drums of my heart said to me. Who was I to ignore what my body thrummed for? I craved Her, and She craved me just the same.
“Why am I suddenly at your mercy? Do you hold me in the palm of your hand to embrace or to claim me as your own?” Did I need an answer to the question? I breathed deeply, accepting what She was. She was not my captor; She was the Earth, pulling me into Her embrace—the soil, the sky, the sea. Every part of Her was me, and I was Her. My becoming was not my choice but nature’s will—unstoppable, eternal.
“Make me yours,” I whispered, “as I make you mine.”
“As you wish,” she hummed in my ear—and it felt like a blessing. We moved as one, perfectly attuned. I shed my weakest parts to become the whole: the Earth—the Mother.
I knelt by the seaside, the salty air brushing against my skin. The wind stole the petals from my lips, scattering the remnants of my voice across the waves. My knees sank into the damp sand, the grains enveloping my body. I breathed Her in, taking in the world's stillness, waiting for me. I gazed out at the water, where the waves became one with the land. I closed my eyes, letting the wind and sea lull me into stillness. There, on the edge of the world, I planted myself. My body was no longer my own but something more. It was fertile ground, the cradle of a blossom that would outlast me.
I could feel the Earth breathing through me. The wind sang through my petals. I ripped open the edge of my womb, breaking as easily as soft clay, my ichor the color of the wine of the gods. My aureate tears flowed from the altar of my body, one with the Mother who had long awaited my submission. I was Her chosen child who needed Her cradling arm to wrap around my soul, to be blessed. The entrance of my womb opened for its destiny, a raw, untamable birth. Bouquets poured out of me, a cascade of their resident gold and ivory hues kissed with red vines. It was a sacred offering carved from love and pain. My palms, stained with the Earth’s kiss, trembled.
The scent of decay curled through the air. I had not died. I had flowered into something more. I was finally where I was meant to be, carried by the wind singing Her hymns, no longer caged by flesh, ignorant of Her will as there is no freedom without her blessing. And when the bloom within me opened its eye, I saw not the world, but Her, watching through my body, breathing through my bones.
John William Waterhouse, The Soul of the Rose, 1903
Natalie Gachoka is a Liberian and Kenyan writer whose work explores girlhood, diaspora, political violence, and transformation. A student of both creative writing and political science, she is passionate about storytelling as a means of resistance and healing. Her writing weaves poetic language with historical and cultural depth, often centering Black women navigating rupture and reclamation. When she's not writing, she’s studying international law, mentoring youth, or dancing to Afrobeats in her kitchen.
Midway upon the journey of our life by Andrew Abelev- June 21
…The journey of your life, you find yourself ascending a high cobblestone stair. The steps—some smooth, some jagged—stretch endlessly in both directions. Behind you, the womb of earth has vanished. Before you lies an expansive field of azure.
Unaware of how long you've been climbing—only the heaviness in your heart reminds you of the time passed—the stairs begin to straighten. A vast screen rises. From it comes a door, thin and vague, as if made of a translucent veil.
Stare. Reflect. If the door is a mere screen, then behind it shall be a platform, where the edge of the sky can be observed.
Open. Close.
Beyond the door lies a strange corridor—strange for all termination has been lost. The corridor flows outward into a point so distant that it appears infinite.
Doors line the walls. Unmarked. Indistinguishable. Where would they lead? An apartment? An office? A church?
You wander on. The corridor behind you has filled with a dark mist. You cannot return. This revelation stirs a feeling of urgency within you. You reach for one of the doors.
Open. Close.
Another cobblestone stair awaits.
Behind you, the ground has dissolved. Ahead, only the unblemished blue remains.
How long will this trek last? How long will you wander on the stairs?
Naturally perplexed. Universally certain. You know: you must keep moving forward.
Midway upon…
Caspar David Friedrich, The Monk by the Sea, 1808-1810
Andrew Ablev is an university student in Ontario. While not studying chemistry, he loves to write short stories and walk with his dog, Fynn. His work has been featured in numerous anthologies.
Ruth by Zary Fekete - June 14
Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.
Ruth 1:16
The sun hung low upon the horizon, casting its weary light across the gentle rise of the treetops, when Ruth descended from the coach. Her shoes, scuffed and brown with time and toil, pressed uncertainly into the dampened earth, and her coat…sufficient only for fairer days…clung to her frame with the tremble of early autumn’s breath. The town, though resting in familiar stillness, bore the uncanny air of estrangement. It was unchanged in structure, yet wholly transformed in spirit. Whether this alteration lay in the absence of Thomas, or in the collapse of all they had built together, Ruth could not determine; but every window, every fencepost, every silent stoop seemed to whisper questions for which she possessed no answers.
The distance from the coach stop to Naomi’s dwelling was not far, but it passed with the heaviness of a dream. The house stood small and unassuming, its whitewashed boards bearing the honest scars of time, and lace curtains, faded yet fastidious, watched solemnly from their frames. Ruth recalled her first arrival at this doorstep, when youth lent her heart the courage of expectation and the bright blush of devotion. But now the path was heavy beneath her feet, as though every step was laden with memory and mourning.
Naomi stood at the threshold as if summoned by some secret chord. Her gaze…once sharpened by the habits of observation…was softened now, as if the years had worn down its edges with their quiet abrasions. Her smile, small and solemn, was both welcome and apology.
"Ruth," she murmured, arms extended in gentle embrace, "you cannot fathom the gladness that stirs in my heart at your return."
Tears brimmed in Ruth’s eyes, though she cast them away with trembling fingers. Naomi took her arm with a mother’s reverence and drew her across the entryway’s shadow. The interior, familiar and fragrant, bore the same mingling of cinnamon, timeworn dust, and lilies…those delicate blooms that Naomi faithfully placed on the kitchen table, whether for guests or ghosts.
The silence within the home seemed almost sacred, each creak of the floorboards beneath Ruth’s tread echoing louder than propriety permitted. Naomi said little, and the hush between them felt like a veil drawn not in awkwardness, but in mutual reverence. Ruth was led to the guest chamber, once her retreat during happier times…when marriage had been a new and unspoiled garment.
The bed had already been prepared, modest but tenderly made. Naomi, whose movements bore the quiet elegance of practiced grace, adjusted the lace at the window before speaking.
"I know not how long I shall remain," Ruth said, her voice brittle. "I intend to find employment, seek a place…"
"Stay as long as you require," Naomi interrupted gently, her voice soft as linen folded for Sabbath rest. "There is no debt in your presence here. Let time have its say."
Though Ruth nodded, the kindness fell upon her like a mantle too fine for her shoulders. She brought nothing but her wounded spirit, and even that seemed an imposition.
"Tomorrow," Naomi added, with a glance over her shoulder, "we shall go to market. I should welcome help with the bread."
Ruth offered a smile…pale and faint as moonlight…but it did not reach her heart. The quiet cadence of the town, the familiarity of its pace, felt both shelter and snare. She longed to be elsewhere, yet no elsewhere called.
That night, beneath the hush of rafters and the whisper of linens, Ruth lay motionless, her eyes tracing the ceiling’s faint contours. The streetlights beyond hummed a distant hymn, and stillness settled upon the house like a shroud. In the dark, her thoughts turned to Thomas—his laughter, the warmth of his hands, the look he reserved for moments of quiet affection. She recalled his smile, always a little askew, the murmur of his voice in the morning kitchen. Such were the echoes of a life that had slipped quietly beyond reach.
When dawn broke, it brought the delicate chorus of birdsong…an unnoticed symphony that now sang like the only voice in the world. Ruth rose slowly, the ache of memory dragging her limbs like weights. The light spilled gently into the corridor, calling her forward.
In the kitchen, Naomi was already about her work. The scent of fresh bread mingled with that of bacon, conjuring a memory of Sabbath mornings long past. Ruth, clad in a faded blue dress, took her place at the table. Naomi moved without speech, her every action measured, as though she had built for herself a world where ritual was the only sure ground. Ruth felt at once welcomed and out of place, like a painting returned to the wrong frame.
"Plenty to eat," Naomi said kindly, placing a plate before her. Ruth stared at the repast…eggs, toast, bacon…as though it were an artifact from a world she no longer inhabited.
"Forgive me," she whispered, nudging the food with her fork, "my appetite has not yet returned."
Naomi asked nothing more. Her gaze was not curious, but knowing. She had buried much in her years, and Ruth knew her strength came not from hardness, but from having survived with softness intact.
"It shall return," Naomi said gently. "But grief teaches slow lessons, and healing is no hasty tutor."
Later that morning, Naomi entrusted Ruth with a market basket. Though the town was small, Ruth knew she would meet familiar faces, and the notion filled her with dread. Memory clung to every doorway, and the thought of kind eyes filled with pity made her shrink within herself.
The market bustled, more lively than Ruth had recalled. Children darted among the stalls, women bartered with cheerful insistence, and sunlight fell in warm gold across the worn stones. Ruth kept her gaze lowered. Her grief pressed upon her like a yoke.
A stall of flowers beckoned her with its fragrance. Her hand, almost of its own accord, reached for a bundle of daisies. Their delicate simplicity brought to mind a childhood untroubled by sorrow. As she turned to go, she encountered a face from the past.
“Ruth?” It was Mrs. Porter, her mother’s pew companion from church, her expression alight with startled warmth. “My dear girl, how long it has been.”
Ruth’s heart clenched. She wished for invisibility. But Mrs. Porter’s countenance bore only compassion.
“A fair spell,” Ruth replied, her voice barely more than breath.
The older woman searched her face, then, with a tenderness rare in such moments, pressed the daisies into her hand.
“Take care of yourself, dear,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back.”
The words followed Ruth as she returned to Naomi’s house. The daisies, light in hand, seemed heavy with meaning.
That evening, the two women sat upon the porch as twilight drew long shadows across the lane. Naomi sat with the composure of one who had befriended time itself.
“I never thought I would return,” Ruth confessed.
Naomi did not speak at once. Her silence was not absence, but presence.
“This place awaited you,” she said at length. “It does not demand; it only abides. Let the soil settle beneath your step. It will carry you when you are ready.”
Ruth did not understand the fullness of Naomi’s words, but in their cadence, she found a lullaby for her unrest.
Upon a morning touched with the gentlest hue of rose, Ruth ventured again into town, her heart yet wary of the gazes and greetings that might await her. Outside the modest grocer’s shop, she beheld a small commotion: a young woman, slight and anxious, wrestled with a torn sack of flour, its contents spilling like sifted snow across the steps. And there, beside her, stood a man of quiet demeanor and noble bearing.
He was neither loud nor commanding, and yet the calm in his voice moved like oil upon troubled waters. Ruth had passed the store on prior errands, never noting him particularly. But now, on this morning, something in his composure, in the way he stooped to assist, arrested her notice.
He bore the age of seasoned manhood, with silver whispering at his temples and hands that bespoke both labor and gentleness. He did not seem fashioned for grandeur, and yet a kind of still strength emanated from him. When he looked up from the bag he had mended with twine and cloth, their eyes met. Ruth felt within her chest a flutter, faint and unfamiliar, like a harp string stirred by distant wind. She cast her gaze downward, her cheeks tinged with unbidden warmth.
As she made to pass him, his voice, mild as late summer wind, found her ear. “I trust the breeze has been kind to you this day, miss.”
She paused, uncertain, then answered in a voice halting but sincere, “I find it agreeable. It reminds me of other places.”
He offered a slow, understanding smile. “The south wind brings to me a kind of renewal. When I’ve leisure, I climb to the roof and let it carry away what troubles may have gathered.”
“That sounds pleasant,” Ruth murmured.
“It is. Should you need assistance…should the road from the market prove long…I reside at the old farmstead just above the ridge. Boaz,” he added, with a slight nod, as if the name should root itself gently in her memory.
“Thank you, Mr. Boaz,” Ruth said, inclining her head and clutching her basket.
The conversation, brief as it was, lingered within her mind with the tenacity of a dream. It was not solely the words he spoke, but the sense of quiet understanding that emanated from him. Something dormant within her had stirred.
That evening, Ruth loitered in the kitchen while Naomi prepared supper. Her thoughts, like flocks unsettled before dusk, would not settle. Naomi glanced at her, sensing the shift.
“I met Mr. Boaz,” Ruth said, her voice low.
Naomi nodded, not pausing in her labor. “A good man. He has lent me aid more than once. Quiet hands, kind heart.”
Ruth said no more, but something within her braced against the ache of aloneness.
A week hence, Ruth encountered him once more…this time within the store itself. He greeted her with gentle regard and offered to carry her basket. She allowed it. They walked in companionable silence.
“Have you been settling in?” he inquired.
Ruth hesitated. “It is quiet. Perhaps too quiet.”
“Quietude can be a balm,” he said. “But in silence, we sometimes lose the thread of ourselves.”
She turned her eyes to his face. His words, soft though they were, struck with the truth of bell chimes.
“I have not yet remembered how to hear myself,” she admitted. “It is strange to learn again.”
Boaz stopped. “It is strange. And noble. Your Thomas was a good man.”
She did not answer, but his affirmation wrapped around her like a shawl.
At the counter, as he prepared to leave, he paused. “I shall be upon the roof this evening, attending to some crates. The sunset is generous there. You would be welcome, should you wish to join.”
Ruth’s heart quivered with both apprehension and anticipation. “I shall consider it,” she whispered.
As the day drew to a close, Ruth found herself ascending the steps to the roof, where Mr. Boaz awaited with a pair of humble chairs encircled by potted greenery. The sun poured its golden libation across the sky, parting clouds like a priest raising the host.
They sat in reverent quietude. The silence between them was not a void but a vessel.
“I am glad you came,” he said at length.
She looked toward the west. “So am I.”
He smiled…not a smile of conquest or invitation, but of recognition.
“Do you think much of the future?” she asked, emboldened.
“I do,” he said. “But I place my hand more firmly in the present. The future is uncertain; the now is what we shape.”
She nodded, her spirit buoyed. For the first time in what felt an age, she glimpsed the possibility of something beyond sorrow.
The stars came then, one by one, as if summoned by their quiet communion. And in that gentle firmament, Ruth saw not an ending, nor even a beginning…but a space into which something living might, one day, grow.
Jules Breton, The Song of the Lark, 1884
Jean-François Millet, The Gleaners, 1857
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films.
The New Prometheus by Devin Xiao - June 7
“An age of darkness I lived”
Confused.
He laughed, eyebrow locked.
“Don’t need recall that, that cursed memory”
Darkness, pure darkness. People work. Stay alive. Hate it. No one
can
escape
“So one day they announced: People shouldn’t have to work if they don’t like it. Blue collars, White collars, Same. Freedom.”
Everyone was excited.
“They won the Ejection—Elation? Elevation? Anyways, from then on.”
Chewing a piece of grass.
“And then there was the liberation”
Freedom. No more laws. It was a great advancement
“Are you listening?”
Running towards a field of more vibrant colors. Whistling.
Horizon. Needles
sprouting. Behind the Wall. Prosperous. Reflect the sun.
“I…Want… Her…”
Looking at a female standing not too
far.
“Get her! You are free”
Running toward her.
“Thank them, you should, thank them!”
He looked at the needles
on the horizon.
Those criminals are living there. They said they must be imprisoned. To protect Us
from the corRuption of their civilization
What’s it called?
Pity, Witty, Gritty…
city
no
CITIES
Carl Hoeckner,
The Prometheans, 1950s
Devin Xiao loves writing, reading and making art. He is currently experimenting with different writing styles while intermix them with deep ideas and social issues.