Lemon Barley and Lavender - Rebecca Stonehill

When we sit next to one another in the arbour, I always sit on the right. The climbing roses have taken and they wind themselves in and out of the lattice. We must look a pair, sitting there for hours on end, nattering about this and that with our glasses of lemon barley water and drop scones. Sometimes we talk about plans for the garden and what’s going on in the village; more often our children and grandchildren come up.

It was our children that gave us this arbour for our diamond wedding anniversary. The best present we’ve ever had. It came with a honeysuckle plant, because they know how much we love it. We weaved it in amongst the roses and when it flowers, the scent quite overpowers me.

Honeysuckle. I remember when we first came to this house, looking for somewhere to bring up our children we hoped one day to be blessed with. It was the garden that did it for us, the garden that this arbour now sits in. We had just walked round the pond, filled with minnows and bottle blue dragonflies skimming the surface when she stopped in her tracks on the path. I remember her turning, her lovely pale, freckled arm reaching out towards me and her lips curling into a smile.

"Honeysuckle," she said. "Can you smell it? Can you?

And when I smell it now, I look at her and I think of that moment. I look at her arms, still pale and beautiful. And I look at the summer light slanting in diamonds through the lattice and falling on her hands. I marvel that these hands, so twisted with arthritis, can still make biscuits. Can still wind the grandfather clock. Can still play the piano. They are small, solid, decisive. Freckled like her arms which to me look no different from when she was a girl.

When dusk starts to fall and the shadows of the arbour and the apple tree which it sits beneath grow longer, I turn to look at her. And, as her lovely spirit starts to fade into the lattice, I stretch my arm towards her and whisper, "Please don’t go."

And then I realise I’m confused. That’s she’s no longer with me. Or is she? She is so real. I can still hear her girlish laugh; smell the lavender of her skin; see the waves of her auburn hair. She is real. She is real. No, she has not left me.

When we sit next to one another in the arbour, I always sit on the right. And I feel that thrill and pride, as I always do, that tonight this enchanting woman will be with me. Only with me.

-Rebecca Stonehill has just moved back from India where she blogged about life there through her three year old daughter's eyes at http://www.adventuringmaya.blogspot.com. She has had several short stories published but dreams of hitting the big time with her novel.

-Photography by Christopher Barrio

-Model in Photographs: Richard Pollard

Fiction Burns - Steven Harris

“…The virus is airborne and believed to be highly infectious. The government is advising everyone to stay in their homes, with the windows closed and doors sealed if possible…”

I scowled at the radio, and then turned it off. Today of all days. I was supposed to be meeting Reg; our first date after four years of being “just friends.” Ten minutes ago I’d slopped out of the bath and jammed the radio on, hoping for some funky music to help me decide what to wear. All I got was a repeating message, delivered in a clipped English accent from an “official spokesperson.”

I went to phone Reg, realised I’d left my mobile at work, again, and had to resort to the clunky, old landline.

“Reg. It’s Alice. Have you heard the radio?”

“The Fictons thing? I’ve had the TV on. Every channel shows the same guy telling us all to stay indoors.”

His warm voice down the phone was soothing and I knew his analytical mind would be trying to read between the lines of the story.

“Alice, do you swallow this stuff? Apart from a piece in the Telegraph two days ago this has come out of nowhere. No one else ran that story. Now it’s a national emergency.”

“I don’t know what to believe. Just wish this could have waited another day so we could have had our date. I can’t believe I asked you out.” I heard him chuckle quietly.

“What you doing reading the Telegraph, anyway?” I teased.

“Mum was round.”

“Well have you still got it? Might tell us something.” Apparently he’d used the paper as extra padding when sealing his front door. Reg kept the line open while he went to see if he could retrieve it.

He sounded sexily out of breath on his return.

“Still there? Get a load of this.”

“Stranger Than Fiction? Professor W. Carpenter, head of English at Berkley University in California, has teamed up with scientists at CERN, in an attempt to prove his most outlandish theory to date. Prof. Carpenter, a notorious radical whose appointment at Berkley two years ago was strongly opposed by many of his own colleagues, has put forward the notion that works of great literature spring not from human inspiration or individual genius, but from exposure to tiny, virus-like particles he has dubbed 'Fictons'.

According to the Professor, 'Fictons are microscopic particles which ordinarily exist in extremely small numbers in the atmosphere. However, if they enter the human respiratory system they can temporarily infiltrate one’s body chemistry and, vitally, find their way to the brain. Once this occurs Fictons fundamentally alter their victim’s sense of reality.'

He further alleges that relatively mild infestations of Fictons can have positive effects: 'A person whose grasp on reality has been destabilised by Fictons may well find their capacity for writing fiction or poetry is enhanced for a time,' Prof. Carpenter told a press conference yesterday. He went on to say that 'It is quite possible that figures such as Shakespeare or Tolkien were repeat sufferers of Ficton infection; or were even victim to permanent, presumably low level, colonisation by the particles.' More serious infiltration is considered by the Professor to be the underlying cause in cases of sudden psychosis and more lasting mental dysfunction.”

Reg trailed off and admitted he hadn’t managed to find the rest of the article.

“I remember the gist of it, though. Apparently this professor has the DNA of some prolific writer he is convinced was colonised by the Fictons. He’s got CERN to agree to put it all into a particle accelerator and smash atoms at it.”

“And prove what?” I said. “That he’s a nutjob and CERN are even more insane for granting him house room?”

“But Alice, it looks like they’ve succeeded, doesn’t it? And, beyond his own expectations. If they’ve actually created Fictons, or accidentally released them, then the particles are marauding over Europe in a giant cloud of craziness.”

There was a lengthy silence. The idea that the experiment could have succeeded was preposterous. Fictons! You might as well argue that babies come from jam jars.

“You still with me, Alice?”

“Yeah, just can’t really believe any of this.”

“Well that’s a good sign then. Shows you haven’t been attacked by Fictons. Say, do you know how I realised I wanted to be more than just your friend after all these years?”

“Tell me,” I stalled, wondering where he was going with this.

“The reading group.”

“Eh?” It had been my thing: a few of us just into our thirties, inexplicably missing university, would meet regularly and discuss the month’s novel. Reg had come a few times but I’d assumed it was a bit girly for him as he’d rarely said much. I didn’t know quite what it had to do with Fictons, but the change of mood was welcome.

“Sitting there listening to you spouting with such passion about literature, I realised something I hadn’t properly understood about you before. You’re in love with books, aren’t you Alice?”

“Er, well not exactly in love, no. But they’re extremely important in my life. Surely you knew that? The fact that my house is full of them must be a clue.”

“I say it’s a love affair. I was really moved by the way you could give out so much love without the faintest hope of it ever being reciprocated. I’ve always loved you, Alice, but in that moment it grew into being in love with you, the way you love your books.”

My whole body felt warm, like August sunshine glowing from within. For a few wonderful seconds I forgot there was a panicking world outside and melted joyfully into our newfound love. Reluctantly, I broke the spell .

“You’ve made me so happy, saying that. But, why tell me now when all this is going on?”

“Two reasons. Firstly, I was going to tell you tonight anyway. I admit a softly-lit restaurant table would have been a more romantic setting.”

“No, not at all. I just wish I could look into your eyes right now.” We both sighed; he continued.

“Anyway, since this has sort of become our date, I had to say it. And, the second reason is even more important. Alice, this Ficton stuff, could change the world forever.”

“Or turn out to be a big hoax and change nothing.” I interrupted. “We’ve got no proof it’s anything to do with Professor Crackpot.”

“True, but the authorities are fired up about something. Maybe it’s a new disease, or someone’s used germ warfare to attack us? Whatever it is, our lives may never be the same. These words down the phone might be the last we ever speak to each other.”

“Don’t say that!”

“I have to. When I went to find the newspaper I discovered I’d forgotten to seal off the cat-flap. Dinah had come in, or gone out. Either way, the flap was ajar and I might already be infected by whatever it is.”

“That bloody cat…” I began to say before an awful beeping cut me off. “Oh shit! Reg, my phone is almost out of battery. I can’t recharge it and talk at the same time so I’m going to have to put it back in the cradle.”

“I’ll call your mobile.”

“I left it at work again. Listen, it’ll charge up quite quickly. Go and seal the cat-flap and I’ll call you back when I can.”

Once we’d said goodbye my anxiety rose. All I could think of was what he’d said about these words maybe being our last. Some date it had turned out to be. I was still wrapped in a towel and my hair was ridiculously frizzy. Good job he loved me for my mind.

I threw some clothes on and, for want of anything better to do, I stared through a downstairs window. What little I could see of the street didn’t tell me much. Several cars looked like they’d been parked hastily. One or two had clearly knocked into one another, but the drivers must have been in too much of a hurry to get indoors to worry about any damage. I could only see one person, a young girl standing under the lamppost in front of my house, apparently oblivious to the danger.

Seeing the girl pushed me into action. Pulling out the rug I’d stuffed into the crack under my door, I took a deep breath and marched out into the street. As I drew closer, the girl looked towards me, smiling at first before confusion and concern crept across her face.

“You’re not Mister Tumnus. You’ve come to take me to the White Witch so she can turn me to stone, haven’t you?”

I gaped at her for a moment before catching on. “Don’t worry. You’re not in Narnia; look around you.”

“Snow, the lamppost, the trees: it certainly looks like I’m back in Narnia to me,” she reasoned.

A glance down showed that I was ankle deep in crunchy, white snow. Behind me footprints traced back not to my house, which had disappeared along with the rest of the buildings, but into an eerie forest. But, we were on Blackall Road, ten minutes from the train station and I certainly had not stepped through a wardrobe.

The Fictons. I must have already been infected. And yet, if I was aware that this scene was just an illusion then this was probably a “relatively mild infestation,” as Professor Carpenter had put it. I shook my head in an effort to clear it and found that the girl, the snow, and everything Narnian had gone. I was outside my house. I touched the nearest wall to prove to myself that it was solid. The brick crumbled slightly under my hand.

“Yes!” I shouted, convinced that my victory over the hallucination was a sign that things were going to work out okay. One of the abandoned cars still had the keys in its ignition; so, without really thinking about it, I jumped in and started it up. A few minutes later I was emerging from an underpass and imagining Reg’s surprised face when I showed up on his doorstep.

I was quite enjoying driving like a TV cop, squealing round corners and breaking the speed limit. As I swung around a sharp left-hand bend I was confronted by a foreboding figure in the middle of the road. Well over six feet tall, his skin was a horrible yellow colour, his lips as black as death. It was Frankenstein’s creation; not the film aberration with a bolt through his neck and stitches across his forehead, but the evenly proportioned creature of Mary Shelley’s book.

I rammed him, expecting to hear a sickening crunch of bones where instead there was a faint flapping sound and the monster was nowhere to be seen. Just when I was ready to put it down to a hallucination, the rear-view mirror revealed that I had run over a prop; nothing more than a plywood promotional figure from the independent bookstore, which some joker had thought it hilarious to place in the road.

And then I crashed. One moment I was laughing about the Frankenstein scare, next thing I knew I was coming to, blood dribbling from a cut above my eye. On exiting the car I was nearly sick; the crumpled body of a woman lay beneath the front tires. She was a mess, and fading fast. The single word she uttered before dying confirmed that I was hallucinating yet again: “Vronsky!” I’d just killed Anna Karenina. I guess she was too impatient to find a train station.

The car refused to start and I’d have been reluctant to reverse it back over what used to be Miss Karenina anyway, so I continued on foot. Once more I congratulated myself on being able to tell reality from illusion fairly swiftly. If this was all the Fictons could throw at me, I didn’t need to be afraid. Reg and I would be fine once it all died down. He’d probably be less affected than me, if at all, thanks to that methodical brain of his. I’d find out soon enough as I was no more than ten minutes walk away from him now.

I sped up as I passed a group of schoolchildren waving gnarled pieces of wood in the air. Strange sparks shot from the end of several of the wands and the boy with the spectacles and a funny scar on his forehead was muttering in cod-Latin. One of his friends was a girl with hair frizzier than my own. She glanced at me and for a moment I thought she was going to speak, but I put my head down and ploughed on around the corner.

At the end of Sidwell Street I noticed a well-dressed adolescent talking to himself in the doorway of Matalan.

“Stick around, or top myself, that’s what I need to work out. Have I got it in me to, like, ride this shit, or the balls to face up to it? If I string myself up…”

“Hey,” I called to him, “You’re Hamlet, aren’t you? But where’s all the fire and poetry.”

“What do you know?” he answered. “I’m bang up to date, baby. Twenty-first century angst.” I gave up and carried on my way as he began to ponder whether an “eternal kip would bring bad dreams, ‘n’ that.”

All in all I was finding the Ficton experience more irritating than frightening. As I turned into Reg’s street everything seemed normal. The smell of roast chicken came from one of the houses and Dinah was perched in her favourite spot on Reg’s lawn. A huge smile came over my face as I approached the door and reached for the knocker. The door opened and I flung my arms around my man.

“Oh Reg, I’m so glad you’re ok, and I’m ok, I thought I wasn’t but I am.” I knew I was babbling but I didn’t care.

“Miss Liddell, as I have told you many times before, my name is Dodgson, Doctor Charles Dodgson. And would you please let go of me, I can hardly breathe.”

“But, but, the Fictons? Where’s Reg? He lives here…That’s his cat” I turned to point out Dinah; but she’d gone.

He turned to the young woman standing next to him. “Miss Liddell is my most frustrating patient. For years she’s been convinced that her psychotic hallucinations are reality. Recently I’d begun to think we were making some progress with her problems, but apparently not.”

Addressing me again he spoke in an admonishing tone. “You are, as ever, late for your appointment. I warn you, Miss Liddell, if this is going to turn into another tale of white rabbits and talking playing cards I am going to recommend you be sectioned again.”

I followed him into the clinic and the world faded to black.

-Steven Harris writes in varying styles and different media. From short fiction to academic work; from poetry to the novel he is currently working on; from song-writing to journalism: words are the thing.

He has published two books – And Other Stories; Flotsam & Jetsam – with a collection of poetry due in October 2009.

One of his stories has been shortlisted for the Happenstance International Story prize 2009.

Steven lives in Somerset with his wife, an assortment of young people, a menagerie of chickens, ducks and geese, and a very noisy cat.

-Photographs by Christopher Barrio

Violeta - William Falo

Tomi clenched the wheel with both hands when he drove over the railroad tracks into the Roma settlement on the outskirts of Ozd. The truck splashed through a puddle of brown putrid water that splashed onto him through the open door.

“Damn those Gypsies,” he said.

The nearest house looked about to fall down, and a shredded shade fluttered in a glassless window. A lady ran out of the door toward him; he tried to drive away, but she grabbed his arm.

“What are you doing?” He asked, and tried to push her away.

“Violeta is missing.”

“Who is Violeta? He asked, and noticed that the dark eyes of the lady glistened with tears.

“My daughter. She was playing out front. Right here,” the lady pointed at the front of the house. She still clung to his arm.

He shook his arm free, and unconsciously wiped it away. The lady stepped back repulsed by his action. “I have to deliver this mail, but I’ll look out for her.”

“She has long black hair, and is only six years old.”

“Did you call the police?”

“They say that I’m crazy. It’s because I’m Roma, they don’t like to come out here.”

The silence lingered. Tomi understood crazy. The counselors called him many names when he retreated from society. They diagnosed him with bi-polar mania, depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, and as suicidal after his father lost his job and left for the Ukraine never to return. No one understood the pain he felt, except for his friend’s family took him under their wing.

The lady leaned against the truck, and he noticed her Roma features more clearly. The cell phone rang, and he saw Janos’s number on the display.

“Hello,” he said.

“Tonight? I’ll try to make it.”

“You have to be there. We’re going into the Roma neighborhood.”

“Okay,” he hung up, and the lady coughed.

He realized that his friend meant this neighborhood. The Jobbik didn’t come into a neighborhood unless they were going to do something violent.

“Oh Shit. I have to go.” He slammed the truck into gear knocking the lady to the ground. He looked back, and saw her on her knees. It reminded him of his mother after she discovered the note his father left.

The smells and litter made him wince when he delivered the route. Groups of children danced barefoot, despite the oncoming winter. Old people used crooked canes to navigate down litter filled streets. He dodged them bouncing over rut filled paths until he reached the last house. His mind filled with the Jobbik; his friend wanted him to officially join tonight. How could he say no, since his family helped raise him? He would do anything to help them, and they hated the Roma. Their father died in a bakery during a robbery, and the police charged a Roma man with the murder, despite the fact they had no witness.

A small voice startled him; it came from the empty house. He stopped the truck, and crunched over broken glass until he could see into the window. A small girl spun in circles trailing wavy black hair behind her.

She stopped when she saw him, and retreated into a corner where she rolled up into a ball. Tomi entered the house and noticed the charred wood, and the bullet holes in the walls. A Jobbik attack.

“It’s okay. Are you Violeta?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“I saw your mother. She’s worried about you.”

“Oh, I just wanted to see where my father died.”

Tomi looked around. “Here?” He asked, and crouched down near the girl.

“Yes,” she said.

“Let me take you home.”

“Okay,” she said. Violeta stood up clutching a small doll. The truck made her laugh. The Magyar Posta painted everything green. “It matches your shirt,” she said.

“It is funny,” he said, but really thought it was stupid.

“What’s your mother’s name?”

“Zita,” she said. They drove toward the house with the windows open. The girl shrieked in delight never having ridden in a vehicle before. She held her head out the window while the wind blew her hair behind her like a tail, and she couldn’t stop laughing. Zita gathered her daughter up, and thanked him. He looked around dreading that a Jobbik member might be scouting the area. The thought of the upcoming night made him shiver.

“I want to warn,” he stopped.

“What?”

“Never mind,” he said, and drove away. The girl waved while still clutching the doll. The Jobbik made her fatherless. The Roma made his friend fatherless. When would it end? He knew that things would become worse after tonight.

Janos met him at the Posta office, with his small black car. They drove pass the metro station, and he stopped the car.

“Look,” he said, and pointed at the children gathered by the entrance. “Roma.”

They watched while the children approached disembarking passengers. The station overflowed with people that came from all over Hungary to attend a folk festival. The travelers avoided any contact with the Gypsies. Janos got out of the car.

“Where are you going?” Tomi asked, and followed him.

“This makes me mad,” he stormed toward the station.

“Wait,” Tomi chased him.

A small girl serenaded the passengers, while a few people dropped coins in a brightly decorated basket. Janos kicked the basket over, and stood in front of the girl.

“Go home. Tell your parents to leave this country.”

The girl looked up with wide eyes, while her hands shook. Tomi reached Jonas’s side and started to pick up the coins.

“Leave them; let her pick them up like a little animal.”

The small girl scrambled on all fours picking up the coins while people shuffled by her making sounds of disgust. Tomi took out his camera but Jonas grabbed his hand.

“No,” he yelled. “You do need to come tonight.” Janos pushed him to the car. He looked back, and saw the little girl on the ground while people looked down on her. One man spat on her, and she wiped it away while looking in his direction.

“You have to prove you really believe in Jobbik. I won’t tell them how you tried to help that girl.”

Tomi wanted to look back again, but Janos kept an eye on him. He dropped him off at his home without saying another word. The house felt void of joy ever since his father left for Ukraine. Every picture he took of his family was removed, and the walls were bare. His mother left a note saying she wouldn’t be home until late at night. Although, she didn’t tell him where she went every night; he already knew. A man in the village showed him a picture of her dancing in a men’s club in Eger.

He tried to take his mind off of the Jobbik, but he couldn’t relax. What if they burned the house of the little girl he met? Why did he have to get the delivery route in the Roma area? He tried to listen to music, but it made him sad. He searched the mail for the letter his father would never send. The local pack of stray dogs prowled the front yard; most mailmen hated them, but he felt a connection to the strays since he never felt at home himself. Although his mother yelled at him; he often snuck food to them.

He threw his sausage dinner out, and watched them feast on it. The dogs growled, and fought until a pecking order was established. They reminded him of the Jobbik, and their ranks, and rules that came from the leaders. Other leftovers followed out the door, until there was nothing left. He snapped their pictures while they fought over the final pieces of food. If his mother cared so much she should stay home, instead of dancing for strange men. He couldn’t think about it because of the ugly picture it created in his mind, and he walked out of the door.

The bookstore kept him supplied with reading material when he finished delivering the mail. A girl he never saw before sat behind the counter reading a book. When she looked at him; he put down the book with the sexy girl on the cover, and drifted to where the thick literature books were located; the ones he would never read. The girl peeked over the top of her book, and he knew she caught him staring. The thick novel cost a lot, but he plunked it down on the counter.

“Do you know that book is written in Russian?”

“Of course,” he said, and looked away.

“You can read it?”

“Sure,” he said. “Are you new here?” He asked before he realized how stupid it sounded.

“Yes, I’m Erzabet. Erza, for short. My uncle owns the store.”

“How come I never saw you before?”

“I live in Budapest. I came to live with him awhile. He has cancer, and may need my help.”

“I’m sorry about your uncle. I’m Tomi, maybe we can hang out sometime.”

“Sure, that sounds like fun,” she said, while twirling a colorful necklace around her fingers.

“I like that necklace.”

“My mother made it.”

“She must be very talented.”

“Yes, she is. She’s Roma, and makes a lot of jewelry that she sells throughout Europe. That’s why I’m here. She’s traveling now, and I decided to stay with my uncle this time.”

“You’re Roma?”

“Half Roma. Why?

“No reason,” he said. But the word Roma stuck in his head. He looked around hoping Janos wasn’t in the area.

“I got to go,” he said, and stumbled backwards.

“What about your book?”

“I’ll get it later,” he said, and shut the door behind him.

The night came fast, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Erza. Janos appeared at his door exactly on time. They drove to the empty warehouse, passing vacant buildings; the economic downturn caused many to close their doors. It fueled the anger of the unemployed; many blamed the Roma.

“Tomi, my family helped you when you were hurting.”

“I’m thankful for that.”

“Good, always remember a Roma man killed my father.”

“I won’t forget.” Tomi knew that there was a fight, and a gun went off. The police locked up a Roma man who committed crimes before.

The sound of yelling came from the building when they got out of the car. The ground vibrated from their stomping, and the walls shook. Inside, men in black vest and white sleeves stood in formation. They all wore black berets, and Janos put one on. He handed one to Tomi. The men started out of the door before they even had a chance to enter the building. A line of cars waited, and they filled them up. Janos dragged him along, and they piled into the back of a pickup truck. A red can shook in the corner when they got in, and he smelled gas. A man walked along checking each vehicle, making sure everyone saw the gun that he wore in a holder on his waist.

Tomi wanted to leave, but the truck started. They followed the others through the village toward the Roma neighborhood. Janos tried to stand up, but the truck jolted, knocking him down. It was then that Tomi saw the gun in a holder on his side. He looked over the side at the ground going by in a blur, and hoped that the police would stop them. He took his camera out, but Janos grabbed it.

“Why did you do that?”

“I’ll give it back when this is over. You have been acting funny.”

“Damn, Janos. What’s going on?”

“We’re trying to save this country?”

“Nobody is going to get hurt, are they?” Tomi said. The silence answered him. “Are they?” He looked at the other men.

The streets became bumpier, and he knew they entered the Roma section. A streetlight flickered over head when they stopped. A distant drum beat a haunting rhythm in the distance. The men leaped out of the truck; all except Tomi.

“Get out,” Janos said.

“No, this is bad. Somebody will get hurt.”

“They’re Roma. They’re not real Hungarians.”

“They are human beings.”

“If you don’t get out, our friendship is over.”

“I can’t do this.”

Janos turned his back on him. A man lit a piece of wood. Someone grabbed the can out of the truck. Tomi crawled into a ball, trying not to see what was happening. The smell of gas filled the air, and men started laughing. A flame sparked to life on one of the houses.

“Stop that,” a man yelled.

“Get back in your house,” a man with the Jobbik pointed a gun at him.

The fire on the house flared up, and illuminated the area. Tomi looked up, and gasped at what was happening. A Roma man ran toward the house, and a shot rang out. The man collapsed on the ground. In the flickering light of the fire; Tomi saw a small doll. Violeta. This was her house. He jumped out of the truck when he saw a woman on the ground by the front of a house, and knew it was Zita. He ran to her, and lifted her head, but she blacked out.

“Get help,” he yelled. The Jobbik already were driving away except for one man.

“Let’s go,” Tomi looked up, and saw Janos standing there.

Janos turned away, and jumped into the back of the last truck. It spun around, and someone threw his camera out before they drove away.

Zita opened her eyes. “Where’s Violeta?” He asked.

Her eyes blinked, “She’s with a friend. Is she okay?”

“I’ll check on her later.”

“We’re you with the men who did this.”

“No,” he said, and looked away.

The fire continued to burn, and a siren shrieked in the distance while people gathered in the street. Someone leaned over the shot man, and shook his head. They took Zita away in an ambulance; he walked home covered with soot and shame.

The police took his statement, and mumbled to each other when he left. When he looked back they crumpled the paper up. He returned home, and discovered that someone wrote Roma lover on his car window.

He cleaned it off, and found a large book sticking out of his mailbox with a note. The Russian novel included a note from Erza. She wanted to meet him tonight at the bookstore. Before he did that he crossed the railroad tracks again into the outskirts of Ozd; The smell of smoke lingered, and he drove away from the house where Zita lived and died. He followed the sound of music until he found the house where Violeta stayed. She waved to him, and danced around the room when the lady turned on music. He looked at pictures of the family on a shelf, and saw that some of them showed stick like people in front of concentration camps. Violeta watched him.

“Do you have any pictures?”

"My family did in the past, but no one wanted to remember them anymore. My mother got rid of them,” he said.

“Will people remember my mother? I don’t have any pictures.” She stopped dancing.

“We will always remember her,” he said. “I won’t let anyone forget her.” He put flowers on her grave in the morning.

“Maybe in the future you could take some new pictures,” she said.

“I think that we should start now,” he said, and pulled out the camera he started to carry with him. The flash of the camera illuminated Violeta’s eyes, and they pierced the darkness in his heart causing him to imagine the house filled with pictures.

“Can I see it?” She stood on her tiptoes trying to see the display. The image of her disappeared when he pushed the menu button, and became replaced by a group of men in black and white marching in formation. They were the pictures he secretly took, that he wanted to post on the internet to show the world the dangers here.

“Who are they? They scare me,” Violeta said.

“Don’t worry, I will never let them hurt you,” he said, and shut the camera not wanting to expose Violeta to the darkness growing in Hungary.

-William Falo has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and his stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Skive Magazine, Delinquent, Delivered, Mississippi Crow, Bottom of the World, Cantaraville, 34^th Parallel, Skyline Review, First Edition, Foliate Oak Review, Oak Bend Review, and many others.

-Photograph by Christopher Barrio

-Model in Photograph: Nicole Pitoscia