Short Fiction

The Art of Being a Recluse

By Ippa

He wakes up at half eleven and gets dressed haphazardly. Stumbling out of his apartment he grabs the morning paper from the corridor and proceeds down the few flights of stairs.

On the pavement outside he stops, as in the bright of day, he awakens to the throbbing in his temples. He closes his eyes in an attempt to rid himself of the pain. Opening them once more he is startled by the masses of people around him. He shakes his head slightly and continues down the street to a quiet café, where he sits himself down at a table in the corner, before the window that faces onto the street.

Coffee, black, no sugar. The waitress knows him. Here he sits reading the paper and regarding the passers-by till the late afternoon, lost deep in his own thoughts. The people hurrying to and fro baffle him, the infinity of different realities and meaningless storylines they carry on their shoulders.

Around half two he orders the mushroom omelette and a bottle of Chardonnay. He fumbles in his pocket for a pen and starts scribbling on the corner of his newspaper. He often writes small notions, observations of the people around him, the city itself and how it all seems to change, how time draws the cityscape anew.

At four he’s outside, walking towards the old antiquariat where he tends to spend an hour now and then, perusing the tattered books. The shopkeeper is always glad to see him even though they hardly ever exchange a word. On rare occasions he might have a question or two about a specific tome, and they indulge in short, intelligent conversation. The shopkeeper leaves him be, for now.

After six he finds himself wandering the darkening streets. The city lights are beautiful in the rain. Hunger drives him to a small restaurant not far from his block. Here, too, he is recognized by the waiter, who brings him an aperitif along with the menu. No words are uttered between them, as usual.

Veal, medium, with potatoes and a bottle of Bordeaux. People are pacing past, on their way home after a day’s work. He looks at them through the window but sees nothing but grey. This makes him anxious and he orders a sherry before departing for home.

Walking up the stairs he feels lightheaded and has to find support from the old, wooden railing. It takes him a moment to get the key in the lock, for his hands are trembling. Opening the door he stumbles in. He takes off his coat and makes his way to the empty drawing room. He sits down, exhausted, on the leather chair he’d turned towards the window facing east. On the side table there is a glass and a bottle of bourbon, which he drinks every night, reading or just sitting there, regarding the city as it slowly goes to sleep, until he too falls into a drunken slumber.

*

Circus

By Valendis Suomalainen 

”Hey, seal boy! We need your help here!”

There was a time when I would've hated him for calling me that. Years ago. Now I just sighed, put my book aside and hurried to where the men were struggling to erect the tent. Johnny (or Zanbar the Negro King, as they called him on stage) nodded at me and pointed at the tools he needed me to fetch.

When I'd first met Johnny I had been scared of him. Not only was he huge – seven feet of hard muscle – and his skin so black and scarred I'd never seen anything like it, he also never spoke except for a grunt every now and then. People often mistook him for a mindless, sinister savage. So did I, and for the first months I avoided him as best I could. But when I saw how kindly he took care of Fatima, how he lifted her humongous body out of her bed in the morning washed her and helped her dress as gently as if she was his sister, I learned that inside that scarred, ebony shell was a kind heart. Later Fatima told me that his quietness was not caused by lack of intelligence, but rather lack of an actual tongue, as his had been cut off as some sort of punishment back when he was still a slave.

I enjoyed working alongside Johnny. With my deformed hands I'd never been too handy, but he didn't mind me working slowly or making mistakes. He'd often help me with my chores and when someone bullied me or called me names he would appear, scaring them away. I repaid him by reading to him, for that was something he'd never learned to do himself.

Mr. Sullivan (or Surly, as we called him behind his back) watched us get the tent up, a fat cigar hanging from his pouty lips. Every now and then he gave a command or instructed the men, but nobody really listened to him. We all knew it was just his way of feeling important, showing anyone who might be watching that he was the boss. When we were done he nodded, approvingly, and rubbed his hands together. He had a habit of doing that and still, after all these years, it made me feel uncomfortable. It's funny how I never minded Fatima massaging her surprisingly petite hands with scented oils or Mariela's dad practicing his dexterous tricks with his. It was only Surly's fat, hairy hands that I disliked.

Speaking of the devil, I heard Mariela call us, saying lunch would be ready in five minutes and we all should wash our hands. Surly grinned at me.

”A pretty lass that one, eh? I bet you'd like to see her naked in your bed, seal boy.” He chuckled.” I've seen you watching her alright. All blushing like a fool you are. It's a pity she's so pretty, far too pretty for someone like you.” I knew what was coming next. He'd tell me how lucky I was to be with them. He didn't disappoint me.”What a lucky lad you are that we found you and took you in. No future for you out there, in the outside world. I'm all surprised that your momma didn't drown you when you were born, looking like that.” Then he patted me on my back and strutted away, smelling of tobacco and cheap cologne.

In the tent where I spent my evenings in a cage, goggled at by the people, there was a sign explaining how I was the result of an unholy union of a woman and a walrus. Surly had made an artist paint a picture in which a woman (who had nothing in common with my real mom) was staring dreamily at a huge beast, which I was told was the walrus in question. Behind a folding screen, hidden from the eyes of the more sensitive viewers, was series of pictures showing what they said was the whole story. Fatima, in her caring kindness, had advised me to never lay my eyes on them. Although (or because) I had a pretty good idea of what those pictures might be like, I had obeyed her.

It wasn't the truth, though, as I hope you've already guessed. Mariela’s dad had many books which he allowed me to borrow, and from them I had learned that it's just not possible for people to reproduce (I just love knowing words like that!) with animals. Besides, I once heard my mom talk with a priest when they thought I was asleep. She was crying, telling the priest how she'd always been faithful to my dad and wanted nothing more than to give him a healthy son or two, but all she ever got was three dead babies and me. And then the priest told her that maybe it was because of my dad's gambling and that no matter how angry he'd get and how hard he'd hit her she'd just have to keep on telling him to stop drinking and gambling and fighting. Apparently her efforts weren't enough, for my dad kept on gambling and, to pay his debts, he sold me to this circus when I was six years old.

*

Ines

By Pekka Komulainen

When I was a little girl, we frequently visited the homestead of my mother, a mansion where my grandparents lived. The mansion was big with many rooms and a large courtyard, just made for children to play in. I remember it like yesterday, how glittering windows on two floors and a blazing red façade dazzled the eyes.  But the most mysterious place was in the backyard where, in the shadows of a stonewall, laid a large garden with lumpy apple trees and many bushes full of berries offering secret hiding  places. In the back corner of the garden was an old well made of rough natural stones. Our elders warned us children about that well very often; we should not go near it, because Nixie lived there in the well and would take any child foolish enough to look inside.

I did not have many friends at my age, except one girl, Ines. I was fortunate because she could often play with me at the mansion. Somehow in some scary, but fascinating way we were attracted by the well. Even though we were prohibited to play in that corner of the garden. But often, as though just by chance, we found ourselves near the well. Nevertheless, we were too afraid to even touch the well; just a careful glance gave us shivers.

But one evening, when the odor of autumn was lingering on the air, my friend Ines gathered her courage and carefully went closer to the well. From under the bushes, I watched her, worried and listened how her soft steps were covered by the handle creaking in the wind. When she got to the well she lifted her hand to the lid. I was too afraid to look, so I just took a peek through my fingers and saw how she smirked at me while raising the lid. I do not remember who shrieked first. I could not watch, but she was gone and I ran away, to safety, under the pile of clothes, under my bed.

I was found hours later, but Ines was not. I remember that she was looked for, but she was lost and never found again. After she was gone, my life did not feel the same again. Sorrow fulfilled my hearth and all the joy I once had was lost.   Eventually, the summer ended and we went back to the city.  Next winter, my grandparents passed away and the mansion was sold, so I never went back there. Over time the memory of her faded, while I grew up, the dreams changed to toil and I got a family of my own.

But once, when I was already old, by a coincidence I was passing by and saw the old mansion again. Time had treated the mansion well, but the magnificence from my memories was gone.  I asked the new owners if I could see the house and they kindly agreed. I wandered in the house calmly, but It was like walking in a house I didn’t know, because all the decoration and furnitunes was changed.  Eventually, I came to the backyard and saw how it had changed. Gone were the apple trees we used to climb and gone were the bushes where we hid, but in the corner, there was the old well unchanged, creaking quietly in the wind.  As I was not a child anymore, I went to the well; I raised lid and looked inside.

And there I saw, on the water’s surface, a little girl looking just like me, watching back at me. And then I realized that I had missed Ines since that day. Back then, I had lost something dear to myself. But there she had been, waiting for me; so we could be together again.

*

Empty Gaps

By anonymous

Have you ever been thinking how many zombies there are among us?

They are not anymore mindless and uncontrollable corpses with a great hunger for human flesh. They are just roaming aimlessly, pointlessly. Walking, talking, eating, sleeping – living without any kind of burning. They just don’t care. Lack of conscious experience, one could call it lack of soul, I’ d say.

They are no longer extremely violent or otherwise easy to recognize. Actually, there is no way of knowing if somebody has consciousness or not.  They don’t feel any pain, but they behave as if they do.

One thing has remained: this disease is chasing our brain. It’s not literally eating it but it paralyzes. The zombie apocalypse, the end of the world begins, when we let our inner world wilt. We can easily build bridges to conservatism. Strict rules, routines and conventions are like the dead ones: they have caught us, and now they rule our behaviour. And at some point one gives up, gets numbed and forgets herself. It’s easy. There is no-one demanding that we think. On the contrary, the outside world is very happy if we find our own box and stay there. This might seem very desirable and purposeful, but it is not.  Don’t go into a box, don’t stop and be satisfied.

How many empty gaps do you have during the day? How many thoughts without thinking, emotions without feeling? Aren’t we mostly just repeating our patterns, maintaining the prevalent reality? Aren’t we just acting like modern zombies?

*

Untitled

By Inka

“Oh my God Charlie! What have you done!? Who’s going to clean up this mess, huh?”

There was bread stuffed in the coffee machine, two cups shattered on the floor and sugar all over the kitchen. Charlie was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper upside down. He looked at his wife.

“She looks very angry,” he thought. “I don’t know why, but it seems that she’s very upset about something.”

“I can’t stand this any longer Charlie! 50 years of marriage and this is what we have come to. I’m with an old man who cannot even remember his own name. Oh.”

“Oh no, now she is crying. I hate it when she cries. I have to do something.” Charlie pondered. He walked to his wife and took her by the hand.

“Oh Charlie,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you so much. I’m just so tired sometimes, you know.” She tried to put a smile on her face and continued, “lets go for a walk, shall we? I think it would cheer me up.”

Charlie loved to see her smile again. This woman was everything to him. And there they were walking, in the silence, hand in hand when the sun was rising from the east.

*

Nothing

by Johanna Yrjänäinen



The morning came, pale and blank. Against the sky I saw you, not knowing if you were real, or if the sky was real. There was something wrong with my hand, it felt different.

It was quiet on the deck. Not a single joke, not a single song dedicated to those waiting for us on shore, not a single ode to wine or rum.

I shook my hand.

"Richie," I said, raising my voice. "Come, take a look."

He fixed the sail rope to the mast and turned to look at me. He sighed and jogged to me, his heavy boots pounding and chinking.

"Is this normal?" I said, touching the sail. "Are our eyes still working?"

He looked at my hand, then looked at me and shrugged.

"You're just hungry. And I'm hungry. We're all hungry."

"Rob," I shouted, my voice breaking. "Take a look."

"It's just an illusion, I swear," Richie said as he turned away. Rob walked to me, frowning, his beard nearly touching the floor. He looked at my hand and a shadow passed over his eyes.

"It's true then", he said, quietly. "But what does this change."

I took my hand away. Nothing, I thought. Nothing.

"Where's the captain?" I said and everyone stopped. A few men went below deck to look for him. Then we heard a soft voice from the bow.

"In here."

Everyone froze at their stations. Then there was a long silence, after which everyone continued doing what they were doing before. No one talked about the captain again, not a single word.

The wind started blowing, I put my hand against the sail and the sail went through it, and I felt nothing. I had missed it. Its warm hands, its embraces. Though the hunger had been overwhelming, I didn't even notice the moment it went away.

Startling all the crew members, we heard a scream below. There was a moment of quiet. Then Rob said, "I guess Willie's still alive," and some men laughed.

Steps were echoing on the deck. Not my steps, not anymore. Rob brought Arnold near me and said, "look at this" and put my hand through the sail. I laughed, for a reason I didn't know. Maybe because the pain was gone. Or maybe because you were right, the sea did get the better of me.

“Are we close to New York?” I asked.

"Yes,” said Jack. "You died two days before the harbor.”

“So did you,” Arnold said. Jack let the rope go through his leg and laughed.

“Well, what can you do!"

When they slept, we didn't sleep. When the black sky reflected itself on the black sea, we played poker in the moonlight. I beat Jack all the time, he couldn't bluff, not even a little bit. When I had won the tenth time, he started strangling me and we laughed, a weird laugh of men who died two days before the harbor. The next morning, there were no jokes, no speaking of the weather, no "good mornings". Rob was on the rudder. His eyes were burning in a weird way, as if he was fighting against time.

Everyone's head turned when the deck door opened, creaking. A man slowly came out. He had blood on his head - and on his chest, as we could say when we saw more of him. Finally, we could see his feet, also covered in blood. His eyes were dark, but there was no pain, only a weird sadness. Jack took a dagger from his belt and threw it in the air, straight through the man. He wasn't startled, and Jack dealt him five cards.

"Guess Willie's not alive anymore," laughed Richie, and one man laughed with him.

Willie played with us silently. He was speaking in a low voice, about how weird it was, now that the pain was gone. He was speaking about how he would like to feel it again, feel anything again. But I shook my head.

"Nothing feels good to me," I said. "I wish I could eat nothing! I wish I could destroy all the letters from the word "nothing". So there'd be absolutely nothing left. Nothing, just a simple nothing."

Willie said he'd rather go to Hell. He said he'd rather feel the pain, again and again.

Night came, black and starless. We played all the night, and Willie turned out to be a wizard at poker. He told us how he once saved his own life playing, five cards before him and a pistol on his temple. He kept beating me and Jack, until the sunrise. When the other men woke up and climbed up onto the deck, Rob's steps were heavier than ever. Richie was pale as the white sky behind us.

"How much longer to the harbor?" Jack asked.

"One day," said Rob. "Just one. I think we may even arrive before that."

Rob was getting weaker and weaker. I was almost sure that next night there would be four men playing poker. But the night passed and morning came and he climbed onto the deck, leaned on a sail and looked at it closely. His hand didn't go through it.

Seeing this, he closed his eyes and sighed very deeply. When he opened his eyes, I saw them glimmer with tears. Richie, who had been steering since sunset, said that the rudder was getting rusty.

"How's that?" I asked.

"It's been really hard to move it today."

I turned away and crossed my fingers. Jack looked at me and shook his head.

"If there was someone up there, he would've heard us a month ago."

I turned to Richie again and saw him staring at his hand. He lift his leg in the air and through the rudder it went. He then raised his chin and looked forward for a moment, then closed his eyes.

"Someone else should steer now," he said quietly. "I think I saw the Statue of Liberty."

"What?"

The question came from ten mouths at different times.

"I saw the Statue of Liberty."

Everyone rushed to the bow and stared towards the horizon.

"There it is," said Arthur and laughter began. "I could drag it here and kiss it!"

"There it is," I whispered. Rob was now steering the ship, the horizon moving closer and closer to us.

First we saw the shoreline. Then we saw the sails of the biggest boats in the harbor, then a churche's cross. Then we saw figures here and there and finally we could see their faces.

The sun wasn't in the sky yet, but there were some people waiting there, sitting on benches. You were one of them. You had a black dress on, and you saw me, looked at me in a weird way and smiled, but only with your mouth. There were some other familiar faces too. Rob's fiancé was standing on the platform, crying. Rob laid his eyes on her, and they were lit by the same light the Statue was holding. He looked at her and something happened to him, he bent over the rudder, holding his heart. Every single man turned to look at him and I crossed my fingers tight. He bent over the rudder, he was shaking and twitching like a fish on sand, trying to breath from the bottom of his lungs.

When Rob stood straight again, not breathing anymore, Arthur ran to him and grasped his shoulders. But his hands went through him like he had been air.

Rob didn't hesitate. Tears now running through his face, he drew his pistol from his pocket, turned around and fired it at Arthur. His face distorted with anger, he continued firing his gun at everyone, living or dead, shooting the men too shocked to move.

I turned my face away and looked at you as Rob's bullet went right through my back and stomach and dropped into the ocean. Your expression changed, your mouth opened for a gasp. Hearing the gunfire and the screams of those crew members who so far had been alive, I jumped over the edge and fell a long way. Near the water surface I stopped falling and stepped on it, smiling a weird smile for you. You answered my smile and didn't weep as I walked closer and closer to you. As I laid my feet on the ground, you tried to touch my chest but couldn't. As I walked closer to you, you tried to touch my cheek but couldn't. You then raised your hand away, sighed and said: "I'm glad to see you."

"I'm glad to see you too."

"I knew this would happen," you said, your voice shaking.

"I know."

"How long do you have?"

I shrugged.

We walked home. The same road we always walked. The city felt different, safer. When you ate, I didn't eat. When you slept, I didn't sleep. When the sun switched places with the moon, I watched your face and felt gratitude, a weird gratitude that wasn't bound to anything. You woke up and smiled at me. I smiled back at you.

We walked in the park. We went to the market to buy meat and carrots. We looked at the sunrise and we looked at the sunset. The fading would start at some point. I didn't know when, or how fast. The captain had faded without anyone noticing.

The next morning you opened your eyes, saw me and smiled at me. And the morning after that. And the morning after that. But I started feeling redundant. Whatever I wanted to touch, I couldn't.

On the first morning of June, the sunrise was beautiful. If I used the word "perfect", I would use it to describe that particular sunrise. You opened your eyes slowly. Then you frowned.

You said my name and looked around the house. You said it again, raising your voice. I didn't reply.

Tears filled your eyes, forming two little rivers on your cheeks. You put your head back on the cushion.

"Goodbye," was the only thing you could say. I sent you a flying kiss and left.