Short fiction

Alejo

by an unnamed author


I keep staring at my legs and the changing landscape on the right. At the traffic lights he turns the music from pop to classical and asks me whether I know the piece. I don’t even bother to pretend it is familiar since it obviously isn’t. I start to look for my sunglasses. It’s hard to believe it’s November, the ultimate season of shopping for gifts. We didn’t really intend to look for anything but somehow ended up strolling around in Lincoln Square after the lovely brunch. I wish I had never told him that I actually hate oranges.

We found a beautiful menorah from this shady antique store window. First, he doubted if it was the right kind but after walking for a while we returned. The store was more like a living room full of old stuff, they didn’t even have any prices on the items. After a while, it came out that the owner was also from Bogota so they decided to have the conversation in Spanish. I never found out how much the menorah cost him.

Just before we left, with the gift carefully packed in brown paper, the owner said my jacket was beautiful. I said thank you.

I like to wear sunglasses because my eyes are super sensitive and tend to water in wind, sunshine and even when the weather is just.. well, normal I guess. I start to feel thirsty and I offer some to Alejo too. He says for the thirtieth time that he likes people who like to share. At that moment I turn my face towards the window and then he announces that we will soon be there. All I can think is that I might never be there.

Last year we used to listen to The Strokes and Bob Dylan. Our favorite spot was underneath his tree where we drank Americanos without milk and talked about environmental engineering. The squirrels were so fat at that time of the year that it was almost amusement enough for us to follow their moves. Once, he asked me to draw a house on a napkin. When I drew his portrait he asked whether I desired to be somewhere else. He dreamed about Barcelona, pretended to understand something about the fish and always bought some red wine.

When the winter came he told me that the time was up. I remember him talking to me with this weird tone that there wouldn’t be any time for me, for the squirrels or for the napkin drawings anymore. At first, I got mad and afterwards sad. I made a desperate phone call I still regret.

About month later I received an sms from him where he said he missed me and I knew what it meant. But because I tend to be naïve I hoped it was something else.

And again we ordered burritos together and watched the Darjeeling Limited for the third time and one Norwegian film I didn’t really get. I wore my black baby doll and we slept every night together.

At the end of that year we met always and only during the evenings very shortly and only to ask how the day had been. Every time it had been busy and just ok. The last weekend before the Christmas break we were supposed to have dinner together but they asked him to work so we didn’t. At the end of that week I almost begged him to meet me. He did. He arrived late, bought me a coffee and started to reread his thesis. I remember myself biting my lips.

When we left the coffee shop I gave him a gift. I wasn’t able to give it in the café where he was fondling my leg and I just looked out of the window again. He grabbed my wrists and asked me why I had done this. To be honest I didn’t know if he meant the gift or something else since the sun was shining to his glasses and I couldn´t see his eyes. When I turned towards my apartment he told me he was going to miss me. I said the same.




Niccolò and Apollonia

by Karri Rantala


The distant boom of cannons reached the ears of Niccolò Antinori from beyond the Piazza della Signoria as he proceeded from the clamour of Via Guicciardini to the more quiet Ponte Vecchio. Noblemen were moving about in great numbers because the festivities of the night offered an excellent opportunity to show off their elegant and colourful clothes and to associate with other worthy individuals. Proud ladies slid slowly past in their mule-borne palanquins like the heavily painted figures which one can see protruding from the bows of many a ship. Here and there a dame waved a fan, and the scent of perfumes filled the air. At one narrow corner, just before the bridge of Ponte Vecchio, two carriages had collided and the drivers were yelling at each other with red faces while the horses grew restless.
Even young Niccolò had dressed according to his best taste, but that did not in itself promise much, for he held clothes in fairly low esteem. He wore a red tunic, black trousers, a broad silk belt with a silvery buckle and a black beret with a dashing plume. However, the most important piece of gear in Niccolò’s view pressed against his left flank lightly and soothingly, like a kiss from a fair maiden. For there he kept his trusted rapier, La Rovina, on which he could always rely in unpleasant situations.
Walking over the bridge towards the tall and lantern-lit buildings of the opposite shore, Niccolò could not help but think how beautiful the river Arno was at night, when the lights of Florence embellished the surface of the water. Almost as beautiful as Apollonia or any Neapolitan horse I have ever seen. On the other hand, it would be pleasant to surrender to Apollonia’s embrace, while in that respect the river did not appear as inviting.
After crossing the bridge, Niccolò continued through some dark and dirty alleys, which were flanked by shady taverns and gambling places, and arrived finally at his destination, the Piazza della Signoria where the fair Apollonia waited. The central square of Florence was extensive and had many spectacular monuments: the Palazzo Vecchio itself was a fortress-like structure, with its only tower rising toward the heavens like a fat finger, and there were solemn statues of various heroes and magnificent loggias. All of this was mainly covered by darkness, but the light from balconies and many ornamental lanterns merged into a sort of ethereal twilight which illuminated parts of the square. The spectators were silent because a procession was to advance through the square shortly.
Niccolò noticed a young woman standing below an archway which led through a building at the edge of the plaza. Apollonia wore a red gown, a silver shimmering belt and long white gloves, and her neck was circled with a necklace which had a big sparkling ruby in the middle. The colour of her hair was very light, which was unusual in Italy. They spoke thus to each other:
Niccolò: Beloved Apollonia, have you thought about how beautiful this night is? And behold, the Moon itself has arrived to admire your comeliness!
Apollonia: Beloved Niccolò, have you thought that you are half an hour late? Well, I’m still glad that you came!
Niccolò: What is that divine scent, if I may ask? You smell almost as good as an Iberian horse, I think.
After this question Apollonia lowered her head a bit and covered her face with her palms, but then continued.
Apollonia: Oh Niccolò, your compliments are sometimes so peculiar! But I have to ask, did you make sure that no one followed you? It would not be desirable, as you know, if our families knew of our meetings.
Niccolò: Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I have the eyes of a mole and the brains of a hen.
Niccolò gave a wink and they smiled at each other. The procession for Cardinal Madruzzo’s homecoming finally arrived and passed them and they watched it peacefully. The Cardinal himself was an old man with a vulture-like, crooked and thin neck, and he looked angry as he turned his head from side to side. Niccolò demonstrated to Apollonia some new fencing techniques he had learned and also (inspired by the Cardinal) imitated the walking style and demeanor of old men, but stopped that quickly because Apollonia did not seem extremely interested. Soon the parade was over and they began their journey through dark alleys towards a hideout, as they had planned.
But they did not get far, because suddenly a group of thugs jumped down from a roof and ambushed them from both sides. Niccolò recognized their leader immediately, because he had had countless quarrels with him. Lionello Ravignani had once struck the head off Niccolò’s horse, and one could say that this tall, smug bully and Niccolò were not the best friends. ”Well well, Niccolò has found himself a lady! But that is Apollonia de’ Rossi, if some spell does not cloud my eyes. I think I have the duty and honour as a member of the high aristocracy to relieve you of your burden as her friend and guardian, for you are much too lowborn for her. She belongs to me.” When Niccolò had been a squire in Lionello’s family he had had no choice but to listen to Lionello’s taunts, but having grown a bit, he did not take it anymore. Thus a fierce battle commenced, with Niccolò in his wrath trying to avenge past insults. Despite all his anger, Niccolò was for a while clearly at a disadvantage because Lionello had heavier armour and weapons with a longer reach. Consequently Niccolò had to dodge rather than absorb hits while his own La Rovina did not easily ruin Lionello’s armour or penetrate it. But just when things were looking desperate for Niccolò, Apollonia, who did not like Lionello either, threw a rock at Lionello’s head and got him off balance, and Niccolò managed to trip him up and lowered his rapier to his throat.
”Mamma mia”, cursed Lionello and tried to plead Niccolò to save him, and despite the strong temptation Niccolò, who thought that in the presence of ladies it might be desirable to show mercy and softness, let him live. Angrily, but without honourable alternatives, Lionello and his henchmen (who did not interfere in the duel because that would have been dishonourable) left the scene, and Niccolò and Apollonia, happy after their victory, could warily continue their journey to the hideout.
After a while, having arrived at the outskirts of the nocturnal city, Niccolò and Apollonia were so close to the hideout that they could almost see its entrance looming on a low hill covered with various bushes. It was very quiet, but they could hear wolves howling somewhere beyond the nearby ridge. A few dark clouds drifted through the sky but the Moon was visible; and the wind which blew over the fields was very soothing, for in the city proper you could barely breathe because of the masses of people. Niccolò, however, sensed that something was wrong, and looking over his shoulder he suddenly saw a cloud of dust approaching from behind a low hill. Four great carriages drew nearer. Niccolò and Apollonia tried desperately to run away, but Niccolò tripped over and before he could help it, a tall man standing in one of the carrozze snatched Apollonia inside. Only a cloud of dust was left behind as they withdrew from the scene. Niccolò threw his beret to the ground and jumped several times upon it and cursed, ”Mio Dio, I will get you, Lionello”.




Untitled story

by Mikko Mähönen


He woke up almost two hours after the alarm had rung. It didn’t really matter. The only aspect of his day the late awakening made more complicated was the location of his phone. It was not the first time he had slung it somewhere between his sheets, blankets and pillows. It wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t actually expect a call. In fact he had no use for the phone whatsoever, excluding the wake-up alarm: he had no network connection. He needed the routine of setting the alarm to fall asleep.

Although he did have a clock radio and an alarm clock, they never really saw any action in the waking-up process. Both were lying on the nightstand unused: the former wasn’t plugged in, the latter didn’t have any batteries in it. He had bought them both a few years back, but never could get used to using either. Maybe he had no reason to. After all he never woke up simultaneously with the alarm.

The morning ritual was more or less the same as always. He sat a minute or two on the end of the bed, staring at the pale blue wall with the painting of the schooner Thomas W. Lawson on it. He didn’t really know what to think of the piece. It was skillfully done, he understood that much. It was also the artist’s original, painted in 1902 on the ship’s maiden voyage. It had no real monetary value: he had had it valued a few years ago when experiencing a bit of a financial problem. It didn’t really speak to him in any way, but there was something there, something hidden in the painting that he never could put his finger on. Maybe it was that it had been a part of his life for so long. Maybe it was the fact that it was the only constant in his life, he couldn’t really say. Or maybe it was a portal to a different dimension, to a world of great wealth and never-ending happiness. It didn’t really matter. The painting had been there always, and he saw no reason to get rid of it.

Besides, he felt that he had to have something on one of the walls.

Yawning and stretching, he padded to the other side of the room and sat on a stool beside a simple wooden table. It was empty except for a pocket calendar and a small portable record player. He glimpsed at the calendar, crosses filling the squares of days gone by. There were four empty squares left.

There was already a disk on the turntable. No point in removing it, he had always thought, the worn out vinyl being the only one he owned. One push of a button and the music of Salieri’s Les Danaïdes filled the aether of the little space he lived in.

A couple of years back he could have boasted of one of the widest private collections of records in the state, but they were all gone now. He had no real use for other music anymore, not for enjoyment anyway. Salieri was all he needed.

He had no idea whose performance it was, there had been no markings on the label when he had bought it. He had considered checking, listening to different orchestras performing Les Danaïdes, possibly via internet, but soon came to the conclusion that, like so many other affairs in his life, it didn’t matter at all. As long as it did its job, it was enough.

It was simple. Something was needed to fill the emptiness of the room.

The turntable had been a gift. It was an expensive piece of electronics, one of the manufacturer’s finer models. Earlier there had been thoughts of exchanging it for something else, maybe a cd-player, but the fact that he couldn’t remember who had given it to him and why, kept him from doing so. He knew it had been an old friend (and a noteworthy one, considering the price of the thing), but faces, names and voices were hard to recall. He always gave up after a while, there seemed to be no point in reminiscing.

Besides, he thought, were he to manage in recalling, there would be nothing keeping his brain from drying up like an old heap of leaves. He did feel a strange obligation to keep himself sane. Any human being had to have a purpose, a reason to exist. If everything else was gone, he would keep his dignity.

Dignity was the reason he had chosen the lethal injection.



An untitled story

by Silja Partanen


“Here she goes”, Michael had remarked. Tension had flickered around them, the excited sparkles almost visible to the eye. Like mental fireflies, Gabe had pointed out.
Their eyes had already adjusted to the darkness, shadowy corners and the faint glimmer of the sign. EXIT, the self-illuminating letters announced. She had wobbled out underneath them; stopping somewhere between the X and I. For a moment outlines of the distant doorway had been sketched in the brick wall with a golden, glittering paint. Then the door had closed transforming all the music and noises to muffled echoes. She had stopped to light a cigarette but her fingers had fumbled. The lighter had dropped to the wet tarmac.
“She sure knows her fucks and holy shits”, Raph had noticed cheerfully.
“Mind your manners.”, Michael had replied dryly. “Management…”
“…can kiss my big, fat…”
“… you’re not the one who has to do the paperwork.”
The anticipatory silence had fallen after his frustrated words.

“Where did she go?” Gabe asked suddenly. He lowered the night vision binoculars hastily and pointed downhill.
“You’re asking that from me?” Raph snarled back at once. He rolled his eyes.
“I’m not in the mood for your horseplay”, Gabe warned. He lifted the binoculars against his eyes and scanned the surroundings through the green lenses.
“Then you should have watched her and not the bloody birds.”
“I…”
“Keep focused. She’s approaching the park”, Michael pointed out, interrupting the flaring tempers. He glanced at the two men, feeling tired. He could already sense the headache climbing up along the back of his head. He was getting too old for this.
“The park? That doesn’t make any sense”, Raph stated.
“Civilians don’t make much sense when they’re intoxicated. And when in panic. She heard his footsteps”, Michael explained patiently. Raph made a grunting sound of agreement, yet ground his teeth anxiously. Gabe turned his head away. He looked like he could’ve used a smoke.
“Why on earth they are never panicking in our direction?” Raph continued the conversation with a desperate sigh. He raised his sniper rifle, hesitated for a moment and sighed again. “I can’t get a clear shot in a pitch-black park.”
“Put that down. This is a search and rescue mission, not a Schwarzenegger movie", Michael ordered wryly.
“They are stun darts.” Raph’s wide grin covered half of his face. He tried his best to look innocent - and failed miserably.
“Still. That’s no pop gun you are carrying”, Michael said with an icy tone. He frowned. “Understood?”
“Got it. Sir”, Raph murmured. He touched his temple briefly in the manner of a mocking salute. Michael paid no mind to the gesture.

“I can’t see her anymore”, Gabe informed, obviously worried. “Should we go?”
“Ants in the pants, Gabe?" Raph jeered. "She’s just behind that bush. Over there. Puking like an erupting volcano, see?”
“You’re disgusting, you know that?” Gabe blurted out.
“And you are as sour as a priest in a whorehouse during..."
“Raph”, Michael said patiently.
“Manners. I know. Sorry, sir.”
They kept watching. The girl was still there. She was now suffering from hiccups and the last tequila shot came up with a disturbing, bouncing sound. She took her time. Finally girl straightened up from her hunched posture and wiped her mouth with her own sleeve. Vomit left a moist, dark stain on the denim.
“Classy”, Raph noted.

Girl lurched onward. She was indeed heading for the small park. The heel of her left shoe had snapped but she limped ahead clenching and cradling the broken shoe against her chest. She ignored the zebra crossing and rushed across the black, empty asphalt only to meet the rest of the jungle. Footsteps, exaggerated laughter, yellow strings of sun-burned grass. The feline roar of the motorcycles, a drunken man staggering through the alley and bumping into the side mirror of an expensive Camaro. The air was humid and heavy with an oily, sugary scent and the lush graffiti hung around her head suffocating, entangling. She made a choking sound, managed to evade a long forgotten road kill hiding behind the bushes and hurried to the park alley. There was a lonely lamppost at the end of it: she made her way towards the saving pure halo over the pole’s rusty head.
“Like the moth and the flame”, Michael said. He smiled sadly. “It’s a deadly game. Let’s go. We’ve got a rescue to make.”
“You heard the man”, Raph rose briskly and shoved Gabe’s shoulder. Gabe scowled at him, straightened his tactical vest with a sharp tug and rushed to his feet.

“She’s taking a pee. That’s… impressive in a dress like that.”
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
“Listen”, Michael interrupted again. He cleared his throat. “As you know, I’m only supervising on this one since this doesn’t directly involve me. You know what to do.”
He bowed his head lightly, smiled and pressed himself against the rosin-stained trunk of an old pine. Gabe and Raph exchanged a curious look, measuring each other with their eyes. Raph shifted his weight uncomfortably, Gabe kept tapping his elbow absentmindedly. Moments passed. Then both nodded, the mute starting pistol bellowed and the two men were suddenly moving with determination and speed.

Michael observed. He noticed the man immediately: a neat suit, expensive corn-coloured tie and elegant shoes - now caked with wet leaves and fresh mud. There was a feverish, nervous and compulsive gleam in his eyes. He was scared, possessed, obsessed. So alone, so lost. He was going to rape the girl. Michael felt a sudden surge of compassion grasping his innards. He had seen thousands of them in a state like this and still the sadness and desperation suffocated his throat. It required every bit of determination left in his body not to interfere; to stand still and let Raph do his job.

Raph encountered the man near the two bird fountains. Wind was howling so loudly Michael could not make out any specific words but he saw the familiar, baffled look of disbelief and relief in the man's face. Raph reached for his hand and forced his petrified fist to open. Man did not resist. He let the butterfly knife drop from his powerless fingers. The knife hit the ground. The blade looked nasty.
”Target secured.” Raph formed the words only with his lips when passing by. He escorted the man towards the pale street lights and the waiting ambulance. Man cried. His shoulders were twitching and he gasped for air.
”I’m so sorry. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I never meant to harm anybody. I’m not the type, you got to believe me…”
”It’s all right”, Raph said hoarsely. ”Nothing happened. It’s all right.”
Michael could not help but smile when he noticed how tender, almost comforting Raph’s grasp was and how the sad, slow smile crossed his face.
He still cares, Michael realized, that big old softy still cares.

There was the girl as well, Michael remembered. He turned around. Gabe had already stopped to pick up her ridiculous broken shoe and the tiny briefcase clutch. Girl and Gabe made an uneven pair making their way through the dark grove, Gabe carefully watching her steps on the slippery path. Girl aimed every now and then an amazed glance in Gabe’s direction but he failed to notice them. The inviting yellow light could be seen in the distance – a taxi was promising safety, home, warmth.
”I’m Becca”, she finally whispered spluttering. Gabe smiled – that mysterious, comforting and archaic smile of his – and for a moment even Michael felt his lips twisting upwards.
”I know that.”
“Have we met?” girl asked.
Gabe’s smile got wider. He winked.
“No, please, tell me”, girl insisted. She stared at him stubbornly and refused to leave.
“We have”, Gabe admitted finally.

In the end, Gabe leaned over her and whispered something to Becca's hair. After that he touched her cheek gently and kissed her forehead for goodbye. His words made the girl look confused. Even when the taxi drove away she was sitting numbly in the back seat, still groping her neck for the silver chain and the pendant hanging from it.

Night remained silent.
”We did it”, Michael whispered dutifully and peeked upwards under his helmet. There was no answer but the rain – there never was – but it felt good nevertheless. They had saved him.




THE SHORTCUT

by Matti Linna

It was a cold November evening as a young man of 17 years of age was making his way home. The first snow had just covered the area only a few days before and the full moon was shining, illuminating the landscape. The temperature was just below zero but as is often the case late at night when the moon is shining, there was no wind at all and with his hands tucked in his coat pockets the young man made his way along the narrow road that wound through the snow covered woods.

In fact he was returning home from a good friend of his and was hopelessly late as it was already well past midnight. He was still living with his parents who owned a small house next to a lake and which was still at least a couple of kilometers away. He increased his pace and thought about the entertaining evening that he had just had, but the awareness of his parents probably being worried sick over him being late seemed to somehow spoil his good mood. The road wasn´t in a very good condition and the journey would take him at least half an hour. Suddenly he remembered something: about a 100 meters away there would be an old trail that would save him at least 15 minutes if he chose to take it.

When the beginning of the trail became visible he hesitated a little, as he very well remembered that as a child he had always been told by his parents not to take the trail even though it was considerably shorter than the main road. The reason for this was never actually revealed to him and he had never given the matter much thought, being an obedient person. Besides there probably wasn´t anything more to it than his parents being afraid of him getting lost following the narrow and at some points almost invisible path. The moon was still shining and the idea of getting home sooner definitely pleased his mind. After all, he knew that the shortcut was regularly taken by various people as they were making their way home from the town and besides, even if he did get lost it should be relatively easy to make his way back to the main road as the moon was shining high in the sky on his left side.

The path was in a surprisingly good condition and clearly visible as it was surrounded by tall trees and occasional rocks and it gave him no difficulty to follow its line even though there weren´t any previous tracks visible in the fresh snow. In silence he carried on with only the snow making those gnarling sounds under his shoes each time he took a step. The thought of soon being home made him immediately happier and his thoughts started to wander carelessly. Suddenly a short but very high pitched scream filled the air. He stopped and shivers ran through his spine. “It must have been a bird or some other animal,” he thought and carried on at a faster pace. After a couple of minutes the sound was repeated, only this time a little louder. He looked around him but nothing was to be seen except for the tall, snow covered trees, but instead a sudden but cold wind seemed to blow through the woods making him shudder. The whole situation had become somewhat eerie and the moon shining through the woods now seemed to be hostile in nature as if it was anticipating something to be revealed. Whatever it might be he surely wouldn´t want to know and his pace was now closer to that of running than walking.

He managed to keep a hold on his nerve and not start to run. It was completely silent for the next 5 minutes and he had already reached the end of the trail from where the main road and the lights of his parent´s house were already visible. As everybody knows, nothing ever happens this close to one´s home and the feelings of fear started to fade away as he carried on feeling slightly ashamed of nearly losing his nerve. Just as he thought that the whole ordeal was behind, there it was again. The same short and high pitched scream he had heard earlier, only this time it seemed to be relatively close and straight behind him. He quickly turned his head around and the feeling of undescribable terror filled his body and mind as there on the moonlit trail right behind him a black and terribly skinny figure of a woman with long hair was running towards him with both her hands stretched forward as if intending to grab him as soon as she got the chance. This time there was no time to think and before he knew it he was himself running towards the main road and the lights visible from his parent´s house that now seemed to be so far away. Adrenaline flowed through his body and he didn´t waste any time looking behind him as he rushed between the trees and eventually arrived on the familiar road.

No sooner did the feeling of relief fill his head than he got to his home yard and reached for the door which luckily was still unlocked. He rushed into the kitchen where his mother and father were still sitting and waiting for him. They seemed shocked at first, watching their pale son now panting in front of them with his clothes soaked in sweat. His parents tried to ask what had happened to him but he was too shocked to say a word. After drinking a few glasses of water and calming down a little his nerves started to recover. Regardless of the frequent questions from his parents he still didn´t feel like telling what he had just been through as it was not something that he wanted to go over again just then. To gain some time to think and calm down he chose to ask his parents a question instead.

“You know the old trail that goes through the woods just before the big rock on which we used to climb when I was a child? You know, the shortcut that you forbade me ever to take while coming home from the town alone?” He asked.

His parents seemed a bit puzzled. “Well of course we know what you mean, but why do you ask? You didn´t walk through it this evening did you? No wonder you are so upset then,” his mother said.

“You must have heard the screams and that is why you were so scared, but don´t worry it´s probably just some kind of a bird. I have heard it myself a couple of times while walking along that path late at evening. While you were a kid we just didn´t like the idea of you going through the woods alone as you might have got lost and besides there were these stories about the place and we were worried that if you had heard them from someone it might have given you a fright to walk there on your own.”

“It was something that the old people used to say about the place. I can´t remember the whole story but it had something to do with this woman who was travelling home one winter´s eve and there was a horrible blizzard. The poor woman got lost and tried to find shelter under one of those tall trees along the path but as it was cold she died under the tree. The body was searched but it wasn´t discovered before the next spring when it was already all rotten and black. Now you know that old people used to be superstitious and because of this the path was usually avoided. I must admit that I never fancied walking through those woods myself, but then again sometimes I have had to. But I have never seen anything strange, although one has to admit that the screams of the birds that live in the area are not exactly something that you want to hear on a dark evening, considering the story connected with the place.”

“But they are just stories and I am sure you understand that, my son. It seems like you really got a bit of a fright, but don´t worry. I think there used to be even this old lore or a poem about the place. I think it might be written down in one of those diaries that your grandmother used to have. Ah, here it is. Let me read it to you:

“When you hear her scream

Hurry up dear

As she knows that you are there

After the second scream

Better start to run

For she is now getting near

After the third one

Do not look back

Turn no more your head

For the one that should be dead

Now close behind you treads

Don´t wait for the fourth

Or you´ll hope…”

“Hmm I can´t make any sense of the last couple of lines as the page seems to be stained. Well, never mind. You look like you have already calmed down a bit anyway”.

His mother shut the book and gave him a little smile. Outside the wind was getting stronger and flakes of snow begun to fall and a high pitched scream filled the air.