Lost In Translation

We set out for a nighttime stroll along the lake. The breeze, uncharacteristically warm for November, ruffles through the trees. "I wish we could go out on a boat tonight", I say, glancing at the empty boat docks. "I wish someone would buy us a drink", she says, glancing at all the couples walking past. 

Strolling past the massive ship housing the yacht club, we reach the bench at the edge of the dock. Looking out across the lake, with the city behind us, we talk about everything and nothing. What we want from life, what we will someday name our kids, who we will marry, where we will live.

Hours later, a cooler breeze wraps itself around the dock. Shivering, we call it a night and start the walk back towards the city.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the stillness. "Girls, hey girls!". A man looks down at us from the deck of the yacht club. "Girls, why don't you come on up for a drink?". Not the types to turn down adventure (or a free drink), we look at each other, shrug, and head towards the ship entrance.

We manoeuvre our way up to the deck, feeling like we are in a more modern and smaller budgeted re-make of the titanic, complete with a grand entrance hall and winding staircases. We are met by the gentleman (Harry) and quickly realize that he is most definitely old enough to be our grandfather. We politely decline his repeated offer for free drinks but accept his invitation to tour the boat. 

Harry asks us where we are originally from and is overly delighted when the answer is Russia. With a wistful look in his eyes and speech not slightly slurred by alcohol, he says "I met a Russian girl, Ludmila, on the internet once". Ten minutes later, we are acquainted with all the dramatic details of the online union and its sad conclusion (Ludmila is now dating a German man). Fifteen minutes after that, when he has asked us the same questions three times and begins to ramble about Ludmila again, we decide that alcohol is the only thing that will get us through another five minutes and take Harry up on his offer to buy us a drink.

An hour and two Stellas later, we walk off the ship. "Well, at least we went on a ship", I say. We walk in silence for a minute, then she says "Perhaps I should have clarified. I would like a young, handsome man to buy us a drink".

Universe, take note.

 By Anahit Gomtsian

The Watch

“A gift fro.”
“A gif.”
“A gift from heaven. Quit doing that!” Malcolm’s eyes were wide as he reached for the zipper on his back. “Crafted by God.”

Dangling the watch like a cat with a rat, Jack responded, “Heaven? So you’re talking about a cloud city, and a magic man who makes clocks? Probably a prototype developed by the CIA.”

“Yea,” I scoffed, “a billion-dollar prototype that happens to be at the bottom of the Atlantic. Hooray for homeland security! Your tax money at work.”

“Shut, the fuck, up!” he yelled back at me, muffled by his scuba mask, “maybe this is how the government is able to fool millions.”

Malcolm looked at me, rolling his eyes. “O jeez, here we go again.”

“The real question,” I asked, “is, why do we have this?”

“Luck.”
“Fate.”

Pausing for a second, the three of us started shouting.

“Maybe stop them from boarding the planes!”
“Invest in Apple!”
“Tell Dad we loved him.”

I laughed out loud, but began thinking. The things you could accomplish, the power, the possibilities…all running through my head as I looked at this little golden circle. Watching Jack and Malcolm I knew what was also flowing through their heads.

“Damnit” I whispered

Clenched in a fist, I hurled the abomination back to the ocean.

We heard a plop, the boat turned, and we went home.

By John Accarino

A Friendly Rendezvous

This post is a follow up by Mark Clarke to the popular Friendly Drinks story that he wrote for Shortfolio back in January this year...

Ok, so what now? The train is quite literally leaving the station. And so am I.

I've been thinking about this meeting for, like, the last five days now. I've been trying to decide what I want to say to him for five fucking days now and here I am, closing on these turnstiles, still as clueless as I was when...oh shit...where did I put that ticket?

Right, this is going to take a more thorough search than first thought so let's move out of this queue. Don't you sigh at me, you dick. How much of a hurry can you possibly be in that this six second delay to your day has put you out? Especially since you cruised up the escalators, you fat prick.

God I hate digging through this thing. How much of the crap in this handbag do I ever even use? Better safe than sorry I suppose. Oh, there it is. Right where I've never once put it before. That makes sense. I didn't even know it had that pocket.

Ok, take a breath, calm yourself, regain your composure. You're back on street level now and the pub's just round here - but I'll just take a seat here for a second. There's no rush. He's probably not even there yet and this is definitely not a scenario I want to approach without sufficient nicotine in my system.

Light, draw deep, exhale slowly...it's not helping even a little bit. How did I get myself into this situation? How do I always seem to get myself into this situation? I like him - that's not even the issue, of course I like him - but...but there's always that 'but'.

If only we could just go back, go back to when we just liked each other. Before...

'You got a light, sweetheart?'

'Uh, yeah, sure.'

This is as good a time as any to head on. I get my lighter back and head round the corner. There it is. Just head right in there now, suck it up.

It's not too busy, shouldn't be too hard to...there he is. And he's spotted me. No way out now. Do I want a way out? His eyes are wide and he actually gulped as he stood up to greet me. Good grief, who gulps nowadays outside of cartoons? God, he really can be adorable every now and then. I kiss him and step back, his voice cracks slightly;

'Hi' he warbles.

Ok, deep breath. Here goes.




By Mark Clarke

Sylvie (And The Night I Met Your Mother)

Not surprised I feel a bit nervous.

Already I've made a mistake. Spent too long deciding whether to start with items of topical interest or dive straight into the introduction? I eventually decided to dive in with introduction just as the tram leaves the stop I should have got off at. So I`m late, but I`m here.

The agency said she'd meet me at the hotel and if she got there first she would be at the bar and would save me a place. Do a walk past… yes there she is, sitting there with her handbag saving the seat next to her. The only lady… a gloriously lovely single, single lady at a bar stuffed with men who should already be home for tea.

I walk towards her past tables and cubicles with anonymous men and a few anonymous ladies, some in couples but odd ones by themselves pretending to read or playing with their phones.

I`m here, be confident. Say who you are and things will develop… relax.

She sees me move towards the vacant space. Lovely lady moves her handbag and smiles.

“Hello, I’m Heinrich.”

“Hello.” So confident… but with a nice touch of hesitation.

“Hello, I`m Heinrich”…relax.

“I am so pleased to meet you. I am an administrator on the railways and until recently I looked after Mother but now I live by myself”.

She smiles. I hurry on.

“I'm not just an ordinary administrator. I administer all the trains in the south west sector. In good time I have expectations of being the administrator for at least two sectors, a job that would bring a car and a very good pension.”

OK…. a little rushed, but I was nervous. She looks at me… perfect blue (or possibly grey) eyes…I'm in love.

“Perhaps you could reciprocate (relax!) by telling me a little about yourself?”

“Your tables ready” says a man in a suit with a menu in his hand.

“Don't interrupt” was what I am about to say but the words catch in my throat and never make it.

“Thanks Marcel. I'll come through straight away…say hello to Heinrich. He works on the railways.” With that she picks up her drink and is off.

I look around. No one seems to notice me as every part of my being sweats, my skin glows and my chin drops to my chest. No one, that is, apart from the anonymous woman who'd been playing with her phone. She waves. I stand. My legs move. I walk towards her table.

She comes to meet me and holds out her hand. “My name is Sylvie. Are you Heinrich? There were no places at the bar, so I sat here but I have kept you a seat.”

I try to regroup. A hand touches my sleeve. Lovely lady tugs authoritatively. “They've put another seat at my table. I just love railways. Come and tell me exactly what you do.”

Sylvie stares…“Sorry my name's Albrecht,” I whisper.

By James Kruschev

Shoes - a novel extract

The first thing I think about about are my shoes. My first pair of heels I bought when I was fifteen. Looking at my fourteen year old sister I realise that I was a little late in life in purchasing the wooden pink strappy wedge which cost all of fifteen euro in a rickety old shoe store on dun laoire's george's street, but wow was I in love with them. I'd wear them to weddings in foxrock, the disco down in donnybrook, and inappropriately the funerals down in deansgrange. Then came the glittery, shiny, patent ones from River Island or New Look, when I first started making the 'big bucks' working in the café. With these shoes I discovered my fondness for Bourjois pretty fuchsia toe polish and my hatred for those water drains which seemed to occupy most of D'Ollier Street late at night. However, when turned twenty-one, when I got my first cheque and saw four figures, I was up with the big guns. It was then when I discovered New York. New York was where I became the Tony Soprano of shoes. My target, Blahnik on 54th street, Louboutin on Madison Avenue and Jimmy Choo on fifth Avenue. These names would strike fear in the heart of any true shoe mobster. My unhealthy collection of suede boots, peep toe stilettos, floral wedges, delicately beaded kitten heels sat back in my Central Park West apartment, mourning my departure in my maple wardrobe. The thought of it brings me back down to reality. Mourning my departure? When would I return? I glance around the bright lime green room with floral curtains and a 12 inch black TV, and realise that I don't know when I'll return to ever wear those shoes again. As my mother returns, humming what sounds like a gospel song and holding two coffee cups, I voice these concerns to her.

'But darling of course you will wear shoes again.' She says with a duhhhh quality to her voice.

'Yes but mum,' I protest. 'These particular shoes, they're….' and pause to catch a breath, 'Indescribable'.

'Don't be silly Sophie who looks at shoes?' she places one cup on my overbed table, I look at it then look away.

'Exactly! Who will look at my shoes with bars of metal around me and two wheels where my ass used to be to distract them.' I sigh, heavily. 'So really, mum there is no point. I wont wear them again.'

My mother's everlasting smile starts to fade and with a pursed mouth she says firmly as if trying to convince herself, 'You will wear them again.'

'Yes but I'll never walk in them again.' I mutter but its too late the smile has returned to my mother's face and she's gone, lost in 'To God be the Glory' or something to that effect. I prop myself up on my elbows further up the bed to look out the window. God I hate being home, clouds are constantly grey over here. Grey should be the colour of Ireland, not green.

'And honey,' she interrupts her humming to look at me with wide eyes. 'Could you not say ass next time please, love, how about bum?' she suggests, with full sincerity. Ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, ass, I say repeatedly in my head which makes me remember my sister when she was younger. She would discover new curse words, when I was still living at home and would scream them from the top of her lungs. Words like 'Bitch' and 'Ass' would be screamed every odd week followed by a stern telling off. But my sister always had a swift reply like 'What? I'm talking about a female dog.' or 'Ass, that's another name for a donkey you know.' Now that I think of her I wonder where she is today. She's normally in to me everyday after school. Those curses from her have become a regular occurrence, minus the explanation.

By Jeramae Mac Mahon

Timmy the Inquisitive Gopher

There once was a young gopher named Timmy who lived in a state of constant astonishment at the world around him. His bright, eager eyes saw nothing but beauty everywhere he looked. He had an insatiable thirst for knowledge and loved nothing more than to go for long walks with his mother and discovering more and more about the forest.

One day, because Timmy had been very good and had kept his room nice and tidy, Timmy’s mother agreed to take him on a walk. Timmy was overjoyed and practically dragged his mother away as they set off from their den.

As they walked, the young gopher chattered at his mother with a seemingly endless stream of questions about the oaks and the dandelions, the butterflies and the reeds. He eventually broke away from his mother who, weary of being tugged this way and that by her excitable little boy, let him go with a quiet warning to stay where she could see him.

And so they walked deeper and deeper into the forest, Timmy scampering gleefully back and forth around the comfortable amble of his mother. He would run to the limits of his restriction but was always very careful to keep his mother in sight.

Spotting a ladybird, Timmy dashed forward but stopped suddenly as a sound caught his attention. He could hear a distant sweeping hiss unlike anything that he had ever heard before. As he stood listening his mother had caught up to him.

‘Now Tim-Tim,’ she said, ‘we should be heading back. Your father will be getting worried.’

Timmy protested and insisted that he needed to discover the source of this mesmerising sound before they could go home. His mother relented and so on they walked.

The sound grew louder and louder until, at last, Timmy saw a bright break in the trees and could restrain himself no longer. He bounded forward, oblivious to the calls of his mother as she waddled after him as quickly as she could. As Timmy broke through the tree-line he found himself standing on dirt that was soft and yellow and like nothing he had ever seen before. In front lay a great blue band of water that Timmy guessed had to be at least three, maybe four times as big as the river near their den.

He ran forward and found at his feet vast swathes of slimy green, ribbon-like leaves, which he simply had to play with. His mother finally caught up and, remaining near the tree-line, shouted for her son to come home now, dinner would be ready.

‘Just a few more minutes mummy’ Timmy pleaded as he threw the wet green leaves up into the air.

‘No Timmy,’ his mother insisted, ‘We can explore the seaside another time.’

But Timmy was having too much fun to hear his mother as he grabbed handfuls of the soggy weeds and draped then around himself gleefully.

And then a whale landed on him.

By Mark Clarke