What a tangled web we weave_Bangtan, a Break-in, and a Bakery_Judged for Duty: The Face of the Lost_
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What a tangled web we weave
What a tangled web we weave. Vanessa Shipway. Veronica Hadfield adjusted the uncomfortable straps of her skin-tight, amaranth-coloured dress and critically analysed herself in the full-length mirror. She groaned. This wasn’t who she was. Sexy, cool, casual, funny Veronica wasn’t her. She felt much more comfortable with her blonde hair pinned back into a tight ponytail, sleek trousers, and a blouse, whilst explaining an analysis of Romeo and Juliet to her class of year 7s. erahJust then the door of her bedroom flung open to reveal her stunning best friend, Olivia Kingsley in her sequined gold d...
Bangtan, a Break-in, and a Bakery
BANGTAN, A BREAK-IN, AND A BAKERYI woke up hearing my mother’s shrill voice over the phone, as she punctuated her exclamations of horror with gasps and incomprehensible questions. I glanced out the window. It was dark except for the yellow street lights which cast their haloes in circles of light around them. I estimated it was midnight or later. Not a soul on the road outside our flat on the 11th floor of a building which sat amid a whole bank of tall residential structures in Sanpada, a nondescript suburb of Mumbai. I wondered what had happened to make my habitually-nervous Amma teeter on th...
Judged for Duty: The Face of the Lost
If you want to kill, join the military legally.That's the thing about soldiers—it looks like they are upstanding citizens, but they are trained killers. They are veterans at stalking their prey through the blood-stained trenches. And we reward them.Whether it's a scorched desert bristling with crumbling, yellow-encrusted sand, they can slaughter anywhere. Soldiers wait months to feel the slightest movement, like a slow-growing plant, enveloped in deathly heat, even in a freckled sauna.They can fight in the thick forests with limbs stretching for miles, basking in the dirt-filled environment. T...
The Things We Lost in the Fire
I see her the moment I walk through the door. She is on her phone, face down. She hasn’t changed. Not even a little bit. My recollection and the present collide and I am seated across from her. “I hate this place,” I tell her by way of greeting. “Really?” she asks, for a mwww.onedoor.ccoment genuinely taken aback, “I used to bring you here all the time as a kid.” I say nothing in reply, neither does she. This is why I do not like people. They prefer filling every single moment with small talk and inanities to actually having a conversation. The menu itches closer to my hand and I feel a deep and abiding ...