• Dzama

Native Place

On the Thrundale train Sophia shoved earbuds into her ears. She closed her eyes and tapped her little finger against the window in time with the double bass drum. As the train rushed forward she felt as though drawn through water like a fish with a hook in its mouth.

The sugar mill looked much smaller than the last time she was here. She found Włodzimierz sitting upstairs on an old metal chair, watching the rusty chain pulleys like he was waiting for something. The setting sun blasted through a broken window as Sophia came in and she stood backlit, silently presented him with a black coffee and three jelly doughnuts.

Okay, thank you, thank you, he said. God bless you. You know, my daughter used to bring me jelly doughnuts just like this.

I know. Sofia placed her hand on his shoulder. It’s me, Dad. He turned his head and stared past her. I’m back. Read More »

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Who Else?

Honestly I have zero memory of going back to Ronnie’s walk-in freezer last night. But it’s weird- I’m the only one who has the key. It’s like when you’re taking a shower and you can’t remember if you put conditioner in your hair or not. You literally can’t remember and you have to look at the conditioner bottle for a sign you opened it. Did I have reason to freeze Ronnie to death? Well, he once yelled at this little old lady. She was like asking to use the bathroom and he said, No! It’s out of service! Or something like that.

But Marcus never comes out to Ronnie’s to hang out. How would I have got him into the freezer and left him there until his blood literally froze to ice? I have no idea. But what I’m telling you is, I HAD THE ONLY KEY! So who else could it have been? The key is right here tied to my wrist with a string. Because I lose things. We used to have another one but it like broke off or something and now I have the only one. Read More »

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Agnes and Her Lover

The book had a large hole burned right through it. It was still smoking and smelled of sulfur. Who did this? Marlus said. The concierge examined the burned pages. He tried to make sense of the destroyed cover. What did you write this one about?

What does that have to do with it?

Maybe everything, said the concierge. Maybe nothing. Was it a romance? True crime? An exposé?

Marlus glared. I don’t write exposés! It was about Agnes, a female deep sea diver from the 16th century. When she submerged she went down in a glass diving bell.

I don’t get it. A glass what? the concierge stared at Marlus.

You have to read it! There’s a scene where she makes love one hundred meters deep. But in the end I have the lovers drown inside what looks like a giant, overturned wine glass.
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