THE GIRL – by Olivia Pad


The house music pumps out of the speakers as groups after groups of people you barely recognise enter your house. The neighbours won’t like tonight, you think. Well, it wasn’t your idea. You start to worry as more and more people enter your house. Your housemate pats you on the back and shouts at you to down your drink. He suddenly notices a pretty girl and stalks after her. It’s the beginning of the night and you wonder if you’ve already had enough to drink. Your housemate reappears with a beer bong and mouths the words “party” at you. The music is too loud to have a normal conversation. You nod and finally down your drink – if he isn’t worrying, why should you?
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Der Dachboden. – by Anne Krause


This short story is only available in German.

Read the German version here!

ONE – by Reza



Utter nothingness – not even blackness. No time. No Space.
However, . . . there is one “thing”: consciousness – pure, timeless consciousness; though it is not even aware of its own presence. And that’s all.

Then, for some reason, after an unimaginable aeon, it seems it is “time”. This consciousness simply chooses to become “something”. Maybe it is “bored” of its own loneliness, though it can’t possibly have any idea of boredom whatsoever. Or, perhaps, something even more incomprehensibly deeper within that consciousness already “knows” what it wants: it wants to live, to experience life. earth-11009_640But this consciousness, with its will to become “alive”, isn’t yet aware that in order to live, it has to go through an unimaginably long process of evolution. It is unaware that with its wish for creating a world in order to be able to see the world, it has already set in motion a gigantic apparatus of pain and suffering, with occasional, but highly disproportionate moments of peace and joy.
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Antipodean – by P. Bona


Jordan leaned over the guardrail and stared down at the electric blues and reds of the streetlights glinting off the surface of the river below. The rail was frigid beneath her fingers; she clenched them once, twice, three times. She’d read somewhere that it wasn’t the impact that killed you when you jumped from this height, but the fall. Looking down, she wondered if it were true.

“I’ve decided I’m a revolutionary,” said her friend, a bid for her attention. When she glanced over, Aliyah was leaning back against the rail, arms spread wide and head tipped up to the sky. Her coat was only a shade darker than the rusty red of the chipping paint beneath, but the lights from the buildings at the bank of the river caressed the curve of her shoulder, seeming to set it aflame.

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“Parents behind the line, please. We’ve got to separate the adults from the children.”
The harried woman in the yellow sweatshirt passed up and down the rippling line of children and parents. “We can’t start the Easter egg hunt until all parents are behind the line, please.”
Bill Willoughby, was jostled by the retreating parents. His daughter Jennifer Anne, five years old, turned and waved to him, smiling. The green lawn of the park spread out before her, dotted with multi-colored eggs. She held his baseball cap in her hands to hold the eggs she would find, since Daddy had forgotten a basket.
pick-and-mix-171342_640 Bill waved back and called out, “Good luck Jen.” The siren of the nearby fire engine sounded and the children surged forward, followed in a moment or two by the adults. Bill moved through the confusion, stepping over the occasional trampled egg and past the occasional bewildered child, too slow or too timid to have found anything.
Jennie stood on the path, a survivor, holding the laden baseball cap.
“How did you do, Jen?”
“Uh huh, I got seven. I got a number one too, see? Number sixteen”
“That’s my girl. That means you win a prize.”
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