Carin is the winner of Vol 2 – 49 and Vol 3 – 40. She is a South African living in what have been called the largest man-made urban forest and the City of Gold. She is a language practitioner by trade and writes fiction (mostly speculative fiction) and non-fiction in her spare time. Carin’s published articles cover diverse topics and a number of her short stories have also been published, including “A Fair Trade”, “Shared Memories in High Definition”, and a flash story for Geo-Writing. Read her blog Hersenskim or follow her on Twitter.
Vol 3-40: Bones Beneath the Juniper Tree
“And then suddenly my brother was standing there again and he was alive. And the body of my stepmother had disappeared into thin air. And we danced and sang and were glad to have each other once more,” Marleen said as she knitted.
No-one in the common room of the Twilight House looked up. They’d heard too many variations of the story.
“And you believed this really happened?” the social worker asked, making a note of getting Marleen to a psychiatrist.
“Of course,” Marleen said. “We lived happily ever after and father married for the third time and was happy until the end of his days.” She knitted faster, not caring that she’d dropped nearly half of the stitches in the short time the woman had spoken to her.
At last the woman left and Marleen returned to her room. She took out the bundled handkerchief from its hiding place in the corner of the locked trunk at the foot of the bed. Making sure no-one could see her, she unfolded it and stared at the small bones hidden inside the cloth. What was she supposed to have told the young woman who came to see her every week, she thought. No-one really wanted to know the truth. Hear the details of how your stepmother killed and cooked your brother. How your father shot her when he found out. How he drank himself to death. How you still saw the blood and the bodies each night in your nightmares. No, she thought as she hid her brother’s bones again. Better to tell of beautiful birds and millstones crushing her head. Better to say we lived happily ever after. Better to forget all of the bones buried beneath the juniper tree.
Vol 2 – 49: “Merely This and Nothing More”
If on a summer’s day a Story Teller was to exit Hotel L–, she would find herself on the road leading to the harbour. If she walked, her mind would drift through centuries of memories. If she remembered, she would colour memories to adventures, hovels to palaces, obstacles to giants. If she stood on the shore she would recall all the memories of all the ages. Cities. Armies. Voyages. Adventures. Sorrow. Love. Fear. Beasts growing listless in ancient temples beneath the waves.
If she was to tell all these memories to the ocean, she would slowly sink into a story herself: her voice caught in sea foam, her secrets bound in a chest on the ocean floor where fifteen dead men danced, her stories travelling through countries, years, and centuries before being caught by ink.
She asked if her own words, those grains of sand, would be remembered.
She did not wait for an answer, lest it was “nevermore”.