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Maha dug her fingers into the sand. She did grabble-motions with her fingers, and her whole hand and most of her lower arm disappeared down under the grains, her watchful blue eyes intently on her handiwork. Under the sand, her palm found something round and smooth, and her eyes brightened as she closed her hand around the hard object. Withdrawing her hand Maha shook most of the sand that clung to her skin off, and let the little rock drop into her lap on her dress. She sat cross-legged, in the middle of the sand box, her shoes sat down gently on the edge beside her socks and the blue cardigan she had gotten from daddy’s friend just days ago. She wasn’t cold, not yet, because she hadn’t been outside for very long. Daddy had gone upstairs to get his telephone so he could call his friend who was at work.

A voice suddenly spoke beside her. Maha looked up. A lady was standing above her, hands on her knees, bend forward so she seemed a little closer to Maha’s own level, even though she was still much taller, Maha could tell. Maha blinked, cocking her head to the side and covering the stone with her little palm. The woman spoke again. Maha didn’t understand what she was saying, and that was weird, because usually she understood when people talked. She didn’t understand it when dogs talked, because she didn’t speak dog or cat or bird language, but as far as she knew, she spoke people language.

“Do you speak English?” the lady then said, and suddenly the words made sense to Maha. She nodded, slowly. The lady smiled. “Aren’t you cold?” Maha shook her head, curling both hands around the stone. “Are you alone? Where are your parents?” the lady asked, squatting down beside the sand box. Maha pursed her lips and whispered; “My daddy is upstairs, he will be back soon.” She cast her gaze down into her lap, away from the curious lady. The lady had long hair, much like daddy’s friend, but her hair was very light, and not pretty pink like that of daddy’s friend.

“That’s good to hear. I will be just over here with my children, okay? So if anything happens before your father comes back, you can just call for me, okay?” the lady said. She spoke flatly in the language that Maha understood, and it sounded weird. Maha nodded again, not looking up.

When the lady left, Maha proceeded with her task. She brushed all the sand off her stone, each little grain, rubbing it with the hem of her dress so it would look pretty. She had hid it in the sand box last time daddy took her downstairs to the playground. Maha knew that she could find it, even in the big sand box. She just could.

A shadow fell over her, and Maha looked up again, irritated at being disturbed. A boy also with light hair was looking down at her, and he seemed some older than Maha. He had freckles, just like the smaller boy around Maha’s size that stood by his side.

“Are you English?” the biggest boy spoke blatantly. His mouth was wide, and he was missing two teeth, one in his lower mouth and one in the upper. Maha shook her head. She didn’t know what it meant to be “English”.

“But you understands English, right?” the boy asked. The little boy beside him was peering at Maha curiously. Maha nodded this time. That was right; daddy’s boyfriend had told her that the people language was named “English” whatever that meant.

“You not speak?” the boy asked. Maha pouted. “Yes I do.” She replied in a small voice. The boy looked triumphal. The little boy pulled at the bigger boy’s sleeve and whispered something into his ear when the other leaned down.

“Where is your dad?” the big boy asked when straightening up. Maha pointed up towards the window. Third floor, window number four from the side facing the street. That was their kitchen.

“Do you live there?” the big boy asked, leaning over to pat her head. Maha just managed not to grimace and move away. She nodded.

“Where is your mommy?” the boy then asked. Maha grew silent for a moment, looking at him in confusion. “I don’t have a mommy.” She answered, blinking. Was he stupid? The boy frowned.

“All kids have mommies.” He said, as if that was matter-of-fact. Maha shook her head. “I don’t.” The boy furrowed his brows. “Yes you do.” He said, and Maha blinked twice quickly. “I have daddy and daddy’s friend with the pink hair.” Maha thought for a moment. Was daddy’s friend her mommy? She looked past the boys to the lady who was playing with a very small boy on a swing. Daddy’s friend had long hair like that after all. She pointed at the lady.

“Is that your mommy?” the boy looked behind him, and the little boy quickly mimicked his action, even though he looked oblivious to the reason of the head-turning. The boy – and the smaller boy – turned back to Maha.

“Yes.” He answered, looking proud. Maha smiled. “I have a mommy too then. His name is Jamie, he sleeps in daddy’s bed.” Her tone had risen just the slightest in volume. She didn’t use her voice so much. The boy pulled a face. “Mommies are women.” He said, though he sounded slightly hesitating. Maybe he didn’t understand her? Maha shook her head. “Jamie is a man like daddy. He kisses daddy too.” Maha had seen a mommy and a daddy kiss near the playground once, before an old lady had yelled something at them that had started with an h, but Maha didn’t remember the word. The two boys had hurried away, so it couldn’t have been nice. Perhaps the old lady didn’t have her own colleague daddy or mommy anymore?

She looked up at the boy. His face looked funny, and then he muttered something in that other people language she didn’t understand and turned around. The little boy looked at Maha shyly and then hurried after the other one back to their mother.

With a small smile, Maha went back to polishing her stone just as Jamie appeared around the corner of the building where he had parked his bike.

“Hey babygirl, where’s your dad?” he asked and leaned down to kiss the top of her head. Maha beamed.

“Hi mommy. Daddy is getting his telephone so he can call you.” Maha picked up her shoes and socks and cardigan, put the rock into the little pocket on her dress and sprinted over the grass, leaving behind a very baffled Jamie.

This was written for last week’s challenge at Writer’s club; "Halloween". Raijin is 18 years old in this piece.

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 31^st of October, 2006 

   The pumpkins in the entrance to the bar have carved faces and lit candles in them. The eyes shine eerily, which is most likely the point, but I can’t seem to even find it amusing. Jenny likes Halloween. She suggested we hosted a party for some of her friends, but I politely declined; I don’t care much for those of her fellow junkies she might invite. A man she knows hit on me once, and I found that quite the annoyance. I only like Jenny, not her friends.
The man in the door stops me with a hand on my shoulder, asking me something which I don’t understand.
    “Pardon?” I say with just the shadow of a smile. He asks for my ID in English, and I keep as straight face as I reach into the pocket of my pants and pull out the tiny card. I make sure to cover at least my whole last name with my thumb as I show it to him, and he nods gruffly and lets me pass. I swiftly slide the card back into my pocket and stride towards the bar where I plop down on one of the bar stools. My eyes scan the scene displayed before me as I order a glass of black Russian and sit back. It’s a Tuesday night, and yet it’s so crowded already. I don’t understand why they celebrate Halloween here, but in this case I think it’s mostly to have an excuse to go out on a weekday; all the office robots, the bored house wives. The Suits with their ties loosened and hair fallen from behind their Danish-pink ears. A man sways past with his arm around the waist of a young woman that most certainly isn’t his wife. A mere glance tells me everything, I read people well. 
 
    I remain passively in my seat, blending in with the setting. For now. I haven’t found anyone yet; I’m patient when I want to, but tonight is making me icky, and I want to get it over with and go home as soon as possible. I hope Jenny didn’t invite her friends over after all, or I’ll just go to my own place. My girl should be sleeping by now. I barely smile to myself. If Jenny only knew I have my own place. She’d be in awe, suggest we both moved in there. I don’t understand why she’s so fond of me, and sometimes I even wonder why I’m so fond of her. I don’t really understand feelings like that but I guess it’s alright.
  
    Almost as if on cue, a man enters my vision, coming from the direction of the door. Rather tall, rather young, rather handsome of the kind. I haven’t seen a Suit this confident in a while, mostly they’re middle aged, worn out and tired. I prefer those, because they’re easiest. I glance around, but each other Suit in the bar is already occupied, and I haven’t got the spare energy to charm one of them from their lady friends. I don’t want too much attention after all, and women get so incredibly bitchy if you take their toys. Sighing softly to myself, I tip my glass back for the last bit of my drink and let my feet return to the floor as I slither from the stool. He must’ve been somewhere else than here, because even from a distance in the dim room, his hair looks tussled, and his steps aren’t as steady as those of a sober man. The more intoxicated the better. He’s heading for the tables on the other side of the dance floor, but I’m not going to let him get that far. I clench my hands briefly to relieve tension before I start to follow him. I manoeuvre between bodies, quietly, eyes on my target. A bypassing hand slides across my hip, not by accident, but I ignore it. Just then, I reach him. Cautiously, I poke him on the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. So far so good, he’s not even halfway. He turns, looking down at me with slightly annoyed blue eyes. I blink up at him, and his look softens.
   “Care for a dance?” I ask, looking at him through my lashes. I mimic the way it feels when Jenny makes me smile for real, and I believe it works. He looks at me with slight surprise. Then he nods. Idiot.

    I lace my arms around the back of his neck and press back against him. His chest feels oversized and out of proportions against my back, and I shift in spite of myself just a bit. The eerie feeling from earlier hasn’t passed, I’m still feeling nauseous, and this one has appeared to not be easy at all. We’ve been dancing for more than an hour, my feet are absolutely sore; these boots weren’t meant for dancing about. He’s too confident that he can get me whenever he wants, not like the older generation of Suits that desperately take a nod of my head towards the back door as their only chance to get any in the next many months. I really do prefer those. 
 
    I think he told me his name at some point, but I forgot it. I don’t honestly care, and when he asked me for mine, I told him someone else’s, of course. I’m not stupid. His hands bluntly caress my stomach, and I let my head fall back against his shoulder and look up into the ceiling. They hung little plastic bats and silly, fake spider webs there, but again the decorations are making me uncomfortable. Or perhaps it’s something else. Out of the corner of my eye, a movement in the shadows draws my attention, but as I turn my head, it’s gone. He turns me in his arms, his alcoholic breath right in my face. The kiss isn’t that bad really, he isn’t unnecessarily brutal, which is something that makes it hard to concentrate on other things, but his hands squeeze me a tad too hard. I’m not going anywhere for heaven’s sake, don’t rip out my guts. The youngest are usually the most possessive, it’s rather bothersome.

    I close my eyes for a moment, but the second before my eyelids fall down, the shadow from before appears behind his head. A flicker of something I barely know what to call. During the part of a millisecond it takes me to get my eyes to fly open again, it has disappeared. A shudder rips through my body, and I bite on his bottom lip, impatient, tense. I want to go home, now. He groans, finally betraying proper emotion, and I see that as my chance. I release his mouth and wiggle out of his arms with ease from years of practice. I walk towards the back door with quick but controlled steps, casting back at him the dirtiest look I can muster with my heart rate this frenzied. I turn my eyes back on my path. I’m not sure I even care if he’s actually following me. 
   
    I reach the door first, slide outside without the bartender noticing, and the door closes behind me. Three steps of stairs down, round a corner, into the tiny space between the building and the one next door. No street lamps, no people watching. I close my eyes. I can’t see him approaching, but I can hear him. His feet crunching against the asphalt, almost stumbling, his breath, ragged with excitement; and I hear both of his hands planting on each side of my head, and his mouth searching hurriedly for mine again. His lips leave a desperate trail across my cheek before he actually finds my mouth, applying too much pressure. He shoves himself closer to me, unpleasantly so. I hear the sound of a belt buckle being opened, a zipper being pulled down. His breathing grows shallower as he laughs airily, out of breath and with fingers that tremble with need using a hand to search for mine to lead it where he will think it does most good at the given moment. He doesn’t find a warm palm though.
    
    He stiffens against me, his fingers resting against the cold metal he found clenched in my hand. I crack my eyes open. The hints of unfamiliar shadows creeping around among the normal shadows have multiplied, and I feel sick to my stomach because of it, but I have to look. It’s all part of the satisfaction; that fear in their eyes, or else it won’t work. I lift my hand, away from his, as I pull away my head and tilt it back so I can look up him. His eyes are stiff with fear as the barrel presses to the underside of his chin. The shadows are creeping closer. I smile, catch his gaze just before closing them again to the ghosts, and shoot.

Decided to post something I wrote for Writer's club a while ago. Sorry English-speaking peeps, but this is in Danish.
Teksten er skrevet ud fra udfordringen; "the seaven deeds". Jeg trak "temperance", eller på dansk, "mådehold". Jeg er ikke vant til at skrive tekster i mit modersmål; dansk er efterhånden kun et verbalt sprog for mig, men jeg er relativt tilfreds med denne her. Feedback modtages med kyshånd.

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“Han er godt nok speciel.” Kommenterer en af mine klassekammerater og tager en tår af sin dåseøl. Jeg drejer hovedet og følger hans blik over min skulder. Izumi er trykket mod den allerbagerste væg i den lille lejlighed, og der er en summende mur af mennesker mellem os. Jeg kan vel egentlig godt se, hvor malplaceret han ser ud i omgivelserne, men jeg er allerede behageligt småfuld og skænker det kun en tanke for en kort bemærkning. Den lille lejlighed kan knap rumme antallet af gæster – inviterede og egentlig ikke inviterede – der er dukket op i aftenens løb. Jeg trækker på skuldrene og vender mig mod mine venner igen med et: ”Det er han vel.”

Vores værtinde er en pige fra 2. K. Hun er meget sød, og så er hun fandens interesseret i mig, og det er faktisk lidt anstrengende, men jeg skal jo være sød. Det var måske derfor, jeg overtalte Izumi til at komme med mig, selvom han virkede modvillig; jeg er god til at overtale folk. 

”Han taler ikke dansk, gør han?” spørger en anden. Jeg ryster på hovedet. ”Hvor gammel er han egentlig? Han ser ikke særlig gammel ud.” ”Han er 16.” svarer jeg og får et mistroisk grynt til svar.

Mit blik kravler mod højre, mens jeg drikker videre, mod bagvæggen. Hans tynde arme er korslagte, og hans skuldre luder. Han ser sig omkring, næsten frygtsomt, og det får mig til at rynke brynene. Gad vide, om nogen har sagt noget forkert til ham. De andre spørger videre, og jeg lader min stemme gå på autopilot.

”Er han kineser? Aha, japser altså, har I hørt det drenge! Hvad er det for en underlig hårfarve, han har? Nåh ja, farve det kan man vel altid, men hvorfor gråt? Sølvgråt så, hvad fanden er forskellen?”

Izumi har kantet sig hen på en stol og sidder med foldede hænder. Han går næsten i et med tapetet – hun må virkelig finde en anden farve en den kedelige grå – men det virker nu også mest som om, det er det, han ønsker. Jeg tager pludselig mig selv i at tænke, hvor køn han er.

Jeg sætter mit glas fra mig og bevæger mig fremad gennem mængden af mennesker. Folk taler højt for at overdøve hinanden, mange er plørefulde, og gulvene er ikke længere så rene, som da vi ankom. Jeg finder mig selv foran ham overraskende hurtigt. Mit hoved svømmer behageligt, og så ser han op på mig med de pokkers store øjne.

”Wanna go home?” spørger jeg. Mit engelske lyder latterligt, når jeg er fuld. Hans øjne lyser af taknemmelighed, og det er først der, jeg egentlig ser rigtigt på ham. Hans hænder der ryster, det blanke i hans øjne. Selv gennem alkoholrusen sparker jeg min hjerne til en konklusion; han ser ud som om, han er ved at græde, af skræk måske? På vej ud af den stopfulde lejlighed skynder han sig så meget efter mig, at hans spinkle krop trykker kortvarigt mod min i døråbningen, hvor der stadig er en lind strøm af mennesker, der kommer og går. Jeg er godt klar over, at han har en eller anden slags fobi for mennesker eller menneskemængder, eller hvordan det nu var, men jeg ved egentlig ikke helt, hvor slemt det er. Slemt nok, lader det til. Udenfor regner det, og vi løber til busstoppestedet for at prøve at undgå at blive for våde, men selvfølgelig er vi gennemblødte, da vi endelig når ind under det lille afdække. Jeg tjekker busplanen og erfarer lettet, at der kun er et kvarter til, at natbussen kommer. Jeg sætter mig på bænken, hvor Izumi sidder og vrider vand ud af håret. Det ligner kviksølv, når det er så vådt, tænker jeg og ser til, mens han rutineret sætter en elastik fra sit håndled i det, så det ikke rører hans skuldre. Igen strejfer det mig, at han er virkelig køn. Jeg ser væk. Vi sidder i stilhed lidt, og jeg tvinger mig selv til slet ikke at se på ham. Lad være med at se på ham, det er en elendig idé når du er fuld, David, fortæller jeg mig selv.

”I’m sorry I took you there, you didn’t like it.” Siger jeg. Jeg tillader mig at skæve til ham, jeg må godt, når vi taler sammen. Han vrider sine hænder nervøst, men han har fået en anelse farve tilbage i kinderne.

”It’s okay…” mumler han med et lille smil, men jeg ryster på hovedet.

”No it’s not. You should’ve told me that your phobia was that bad.” Han løfter hovedet, og han ser undskyldende ud, så jeg ryster på hovedet af ham igen, men ikke helt vredt. Det ville klæde ham at være lidt mere selvisk og måske knap så forsigtig, men det kan der vel arbejdes på. Gad vide, om han havde nogen venner, der hvor han boede før. Han har ikke talt meget om sig selv, når vi af og til spiser morgenmad sammen før skole, er han altid meget stille og vil helst lytte til mig tale. Det i sig selv er faktisk meget behageligt, for han lytter rent faktisk ordentligt efter. Jeg burde se væk nu, det ved jeg, men jeg kan ikke få mig selv til det. Han bliver ved med at se på mig, og mit eget blik flakker mellem ham og vandet, der laver pytter ved vores fødder. Jeg tager den ene af hans hænder; den ryster stadig meget lidt, men slet ikke så meget som før. Dumt. Virkelig dumt. Jeg er ligeglad, ting som selvkontrol og fornuft kan vente til en anden dag.

Hans mund står let åben, og han ser spørgende, vidende, spændt og en lille smule skræmt ud. Det er godt, er det ikke? Jeg holder hans hånd bare lidt fastere og læner mig tættere på, tættere på, endnu tættere på, indtil jeg kan tælle hans øjenvipper og de små vanddråber, der hænger i dem. Hans øjne svømmer med vandet bag mig hoved, lige før han lukker dem. Jeg kan mærke fraværet af hans åndedræt mod min mund.

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