Yemi

In his old age, Yemi had grown to enjoy the peace that the night had to offer. He had never taken the time over the course of his life to simply sit and marvel at god’s creations. Lately, he had begun to do so more frequently. There was something mystical about the Rwandan landscape that Yemi believed could only truly be felt once the stars were out. If people were to sit outside and look at them each night, they would live a lot differently. It was there, outside his small home, that Yemi sat, still. He did not know how much longer he had to enjoy this simple pleasure.
He was very well aware what was happening to his once beautiful country. Hundreds of thousands of men had become savages overnight, killing their friends and neighbours. These machete-wielding animals were hell bent on eliminating all of Rwanda’s Tutsis. Yemi could not understand how these men could be so cruel; he had grown to be ashamed of his heritage, ashamed to be Hutu. For the moment though, all was quiet. As he looked up at the stars that filled the sky, Yemi wondered what had become of his nation and his people. “This is not Rwanda”, he thought to himself, not altogether sure anymore.
Soon after, he began to notice a distinct smell fill his nostrils. He instantly knew that his peace had come to an end. Not too far off in the distance, blistering flames had engulfed a nearby house. The tranquil serenity of the night had been drowned out by the deathly screams resonating from what he was sure were his neighbours.” They have finally come” he thought to himself, “the monsters are here”
He made his way towards his home, knowing they would soon come for him. Within minutes Yemi heard a knock at the door. A feeling of horror took over his body. He had never felt so scared in his life. He slowly approached the door with what strength still remained in his legs, which were weakened by worry and fear. As he opened it, he was surprised by what was on the other side. A young woman stood there, a look of sheer horror on her face.
“Sir, can you please help me, I have nowhere else to run.” explained the woman, wiping her teary eyes with her blood-soaked clothing. “My husband told me I would be safe here.”
Yemi soon realized who this woman was. He had seen her many times at church with her husband and young daughter. Though he wanted to ask what had happened to her family, he already knew. The woman was barely recognizable in her current state. Her body was shaking uncontrollably and her face was badly bruised. Yemi knew what had to be done.
“Come in, quick, I will hide you.” he said as he brought the frightened woman to a seldom used room in the back of the house. “You will be well hidden here, but you must not make a sound.” The woman looked up, outstretched her trembling, bloody arm and grabbed onto him. As their eyes crossed paths, a wave of bravery rushed over Yemi; unlike any other he had ever felt before. “I must go now” he said, entranced by the woman’s beautiful hazel eyes. With that he left the room, closing the door behind him.
As Yemi stepped outside his house, he noticed three large figures walking in his direction. He thought of running, but he knew they would catch up to him. He decided he would stand his ground as the threesome approached.
They were very imposing men, with large arms and tree trunk legs. Their shirts were tattered and bloody, almost as bloody as the machetes they grasped in their hands. One man, most likely the leader, yelled out.
“Where is she? I know she is here.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about.” answered Yemi. “I live here alone”. The man stared at him for a second, his fists clenched in anger. Yemi braced himself for what was to come next. In matter of seconds, he was on the ground, clutching his stomach in pain. The man stood over him, pounding him without mercy.
“Where is she?” he screamed between blows. Though he was in tremendous pain, Yemi felt stronger with every punch thrown. He knew in his heart that he would never tell these savages the truth, no matter how hard they hit him.
“I don’t know what you are talking about”. With that the man stood up, his fists covered in blood. Though he tried to stand, Yemi knew it was impossible. His body screamed in pain with every movement he tried to make. The man stared at him, his eyes burning with rage.
Just tell me where she is and you will live, old man.” said the animal, machete now in hand. “You are one of us; you are Hutu. You have to help us kill these cockroaches.”
The thought of being even remotely similar to these barbaric militiamen infuriated the broken down old man. He was no longer listening to anything the man had to say. He simply stared up at the stars, as he had earlier that night. They looked so gentile and beautiful. As long as they kept shining over Rwanda, he knew there was still hope for redemption. Even in the darkest of times, they still shine. As the man swung his weapon toward him, Yemi felt comfort in the fact that he would soon join the stars.

One Dawn

Today’s the first time I’ve seen you with her. She’s beautiful, you know. From the park bench I sit on I notice the way you hold her hand with a certain gentleness, and you stroke her skin with a careful caress. You smile when she does. You laugh when she laughs. I’m sure you cry when she cries.
You’re standing by the oak tree, and I know you’re happier then you ever could have been with me. I want to tell you that I’m happy for you and that I can see how much you adore her by the simple way your gaze meets hers. The thing is, whenever I think I’m gathering enough strength to call to you, I hesitate and stop. I came here to tell you something. I came here so that you would know.

A year ago, in a world far from here, you fell in love with me.
I had fallen from my bike in the middle of the street, and you were the first to run over to me and take my hand to pull me up.
I had said, “Thank you—“ But I stopped when I realized that you were not from around here. Unlike the majority of people in Hong-Kong, you didn’t have the blackened hair or slanted eyes. Instead, your face was oval and when you smiled your narrow cheekbones were exposed. Your light blonde hair was wavy nearer to the top and your eyes were a brown I had never seen.
“Hey there, you alright?” you asked, as I stood up.
It took me awhile longer then it should have to reply, and when I noticed, I let out, “Yes. Thank you.”
“That’s good. I’m Jon.”
“Ying-Shen.”
You smiled, and I remember feeling the warmth from it make my cheeks burn.
You said, “That’s a really pretty name.”
I didn’t know how to say thanks again, so instead I said, “So is Jon.”
That was the first time I made you laugh.
I said, “Jon.” “Yes?” “You still have my hand.”

We watched the fireworks that night, while you told me your story. You said you had come over on behalf of the United States government to deal with some transactions that were taking place. You tried to explain it more, but my English wasn’t good enough and I’m sorry to say I didn’t quite understand everything.
You did, however, say that you were expecting a daughter, but that things weren’t going well between your wife and you. So I guess you can understand that when we fell asleep together in my bed that night and you told me you loved me, I wasn’t ready to say it back. I was still so sure two strangers could not love one another after one night.

A week later I was still waking up in the morning to find a cup of tea at my bedside and the curtains opened, because you said the way I looked when the early morning sun struck my face was like nothing you had ever seen before.
I think my favourite moments with you were the ones we spent on the hilltop when dawn was approaching. I’d sit by your side and every day you’d tell me more different and interesting things about that place you called “New York”. You made it sound so beautiful. The city drenched in snow in winter and the children singing on the street corners sounded like something out of a fairy tale to me. Sometimes, I got the impression that you missed that place, but that for some reason, you were also afraid to return to it.
You asked me about my life and how I had come to be the way I am. I told you of my many brothers and sisters, many of who had moved away. I told you how my mother had died two years previous and my dad a couple of days after her from a broken heart, or so I suspected. I ran the local library and even though the pay wasn’t nearly as good as I would have wanted, I loved my job and wouldn’t think of trading it for anything.

I loved talking with you. It was easy to tell you about things that I didn’t think anyone else wanted to know about. When you slipped your arms around my waist and held me I thought I’d fall apart, because I had never felt so strongly towards anyone before, especially a man of a different origin.
When we were together on that hilltop it was as if the two halves of the world had somehow found each other, and it just seemed right. We were so different, but at the same time, we were so alike.
I memorized the curves of your lips and the way your hands felt against mine. I studied your different expressions and how each meant something even more intriguing.
The wind would whip against our faces and make the air bitter, but we never left one another those days. The tree leaves would bristle and you could taste Autumn with every breath. You could even feel it in the soft long grass we lay in.

And then the time came, as I knew it would, when you had to leave. I woke up to find you sitting up in bed crying. I had never seen a man cry before, and I didn’t know how to react. I sat up and wrapped my arms around you from behind, trying to stop it. I rested my head on your back and it came to me that I might not get to do that again. You turned and kissed me, and when you were done you pulled away and said, “I’m so sorry.”
You took both of my hands in yours and said, “I do love you.”

The park bench is cold now though. I’m not used to New York. I’m covered by a scarf, a coat and large furry boots, but that’s still not enough to keep me warm. I suppose the only thing that ever was were your arms around me.
She walks down the path towards the both of you. You embrace her and kiss her lips, smiling. She takes your daughter from your arms and holds her against her.
I bite my lip, trying to remember how to feel. I’ve spent the last year of my life remembering something I’m not too sure ever happened. But it must have, because I wouldn’t have traveled this far just to tell you I love you.
I look at the three of you though. I see how happy you are. You give them the same smile you gave me those nights.
I came here to tell you I love you Jon, just to realize that I no longer do.

Excerpt from upcoming story (written by Jeffrey Araujo)

The sun had begun to rise over the trees and Leonard Mallory was preparing himself for an interesting day. Leonard had earned a reputation in the small town of Williamsville. He was what one might call a volunteer sheriff; always sticking his nose in places where it didn’t belong. Last month, he had proposed a deal to the mayor and together they thought up a plan that would benefit the two of them. They decided to build a mall in the outskirts of the city. Leonard had marked his calendar for June 13th and now, after months of waiting, the day had finally come. June 13th, the day mayor West was going to sign the papers to make it all official. Leonard couldn’t help but smile as he got dressed. He had worked so hard on this project and all the pieces of the puzzle were finally coming into place. Everything was going smoothly, with the exception of the old Salem house. It was proving to be a real thorn in his back. The townspeople seemed much more attached to it than Leonard could have ever imagined. He couldn’t help but wonder how such an old building could mean so much to so many people. He was aware of the story behind it but it was just an urban legend, a myth that should not be taken seriously. In his opinion, the men and women of Williamsville had to stop living in the past and start living in the present.
Leonard walked outside and stepped into his Mercedes. He decided to take the scenic route toward the mayor’s office so he could see the Salem house for himself. It was the only thing standing in the way of his plan going through. The building had to be torn down or else all he had worked for was for nothing. As he approached the house, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was still early and there were no crazed protestors tying themselves to the house yet. Not one person, not one sign. Seeing as there was no one around, Leonard decided that he might as well check out the inside of the house. As he stepped out of his car, he felt an unexplainable chill travel up his spine. Something about the house gave off an eerie sense of being watched, and Leonard Mallory, the man of few superstitions, was feeling it. He brushed it off and followed the cobbled walkway toward the house. As he reached the front door he took a deep breath; as he exhaled he could have sworn he saw vapour escape from his mouth. “That wouldn’t make sense” he thought to himself, “it’s the middle of June for God’s sake.” He gazed up at the house and couldn’t believe how such a run down place could strike such a fear in the people of this town. Were they really still frightened by it? Even after all these years? He gave the large oak doors a large push and they opened with a creak. Leonard gave a quick look around, making sure nobody was watching him and walked inside.

The Better Businessman (written by Jeffrey Araujo)

The alarm clock went off at six o’clock as usual but unlike most days I couldn’t manage to pull myself out of bed. There was a reason I didn’t want to go to work today, and it had been eating me up inside all night. Questions ran through my mind and I couldn’t get them out. How should I ask her? How will she take it? She had lived in this area her whole life and was I going to take that away from her? Her parents live 2 blocks away, the kids are settled in and happy with their friends and teachers. I forced myself to see the other side of the coin. This is going to be so beneficial to my family; we could move into a beautiful house and never have to worry about our finances ever again. This had to be the best scenario for our family.
Yesterday, I was called up to my boss’ office, and to my surprise the man asked me to sit down. I didn’t have much respect for him. He always seemed to talk down to his employees and I had been singled out many times and been publicly humiliated by the man. My wife, Joyce had always wondered why I would never consider quitting my job and I am actually quite surprised that I have lasted so long. He seemed different though; the usual sarcastic smirk that he wore so well every day of the week was non-existent. He seemed genuinely happy. I was starting to feel somewhat uneasy. I had never seen him like this, I always felt that I was one mistake away from being fired but there he was, sitting up straight in his leather chair and staring straight into my eyes, a big smile on his face. “Luke, I am very impressed with your work”. There hadn’t been a punch line yet, but I was ready for it. “You have made friends with some very important people that are essentially the grease that keeps the well-oiled machine that is our company running smoothly.” I finally knew where this was going. My boss had always been jealous of the relationship I had with Mr. Christensen. Mr. Christensen is a very wealthy investor who had started off with practically nothing and slowly made his way up the ladder. He is now one of the richest men in the country. Every time he stops by on business he, strangely would always ask for me. This infuriated all of my superiors. “I just got off the phone with your buddy Mr. Christensen.” I could finally catch the anger in my boss’ eyes. “He has asked that someone from our organisation be stationed in Manhattan so that he doesn’t have to travel over here so often. He, of course mentioned that you would fit this role perfectly.” The sarcasm was rampant by this time and he had given up on hiding it. “You will not just be doing business with your buddy; you will also be working alongside heavyweights such as Mr. Cavalucci and Senator Dawson. He wants an answer by tomorrow, but until then you’re still mine so get back to work.”
The beeping was finally getting to me. I pulled myself out of bed and began to get dressed. I turned around and looked at my wife who amazingly was still fast asleep. The loud noises of the city would definitely not bother her I thought. I started towards her very slowly. I’ve got to tell her. I couldn’t go to work and accept the offer without running it by my wife. She definitely wouldn’t have a problem with it. Or would she? I shook her gently to wake her, seeing as the loud beeps of my alarm clock didn’t do the trick. On my third go around I finally managed to wake her up. I wasted no time and immediately began to break the news to her. I had only just finished telling her the basics


when I noticed the shade of her face go from beige to white as snow. I could tell she
wanted to be happy for me but she just couldn’t. She hadn’t known anything else for her whole life. She had grown up here and never had any plans of leaving. This was the only place she had ever called home.
It felt as though we were standing there for hours staring into each others eyes. She was trying extremely hard to hold back the tears. She told me she was happy but I could tell what her true feelings were. I couldn’t go any further. I didn’t want to make her feel any worse than she already did. I walked downstairs and took a quick look at the clock, it read 6:48. On any given work day I would have been out the door at quarter to 7, but today I was going to take my time. I had a huge decision to make. My mind was racing and Joyce had still not come down from our room. There was no doubt in my mind that she was not taking the news so well. I sat down and looked out my window. My legs gave off the sensation of being made of jell-o so it felt good to sit down. Why did life have to be so hard? I missed the days when I was a young kid, living on my Uncle Henry’s farm. I remember spending hours laying on the grass, watching the clouds with my dog and not having a care in the world. Actually, after thinking about it, I realized my life had never been care-free. My uncle was a very practical man. He rarely got attached to anything enough to not let it go. That was the case with my dog, Dan. To me he was not just a dog, he was my only friend. When he began to get older and started to lose his sight, my uncle saw no use for him and planned to have him killed. I can still remember that day like it was yesterday. “Luke, would you mind going into town to buy me some cigars?” “Can I bring Dan?” “No leave him here”. My Uncle was not a mean man, he was just too logical for his own good. He took emotions completely out of the equation. He did not see the point in keeping an old dog around. He was useless in his eyes, but definitely not in mine. From that day on I swore I would never be like him.
This choice would have been much easier had Uncle Henry been the one making the decision. Taking the job was easily the most practical decision, but was it practical that I wanted? If I took the job I would be living in much better conditions than where I am at the moment. I would never have to worry about paying bills, and the kid’s could probably even go to a nice private school. Though these would all be nice things to have, I had finally decided what must be done. I stood up from the chair, my legs feeling a lot stronger now. I knew I was making the right decision. I picked up the phone and dialled my boss’ number.

Kunst und Krieg ( Written by Jeffrey Araujo)

As dawn approached and the sun began to shine over the streets of Vienna, I forced myself out of my satin sheets. There was no use in trying to sleep; it was impossible. I hadn’t slept soundly for well over a week, my dreams constantly shifting into guilt-driven nightmares.

I made my way towards the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. I don’t ever recall drinking coffee when I was younger. Even into my fifties I had never needed the extra energy, now it was a necessity. Coffee was responsible for keeping me functioning these days. The discontent over losing the war was bearable, but the news that followed was more than I could take. I had no idea of the atrocities my country was supporting. Millions of people were said to be killed in the Nazi death camps. When I first heard of it, I could not believe my ears. Even through the anti-semetic glasses that many Austrians seem to wear, one could not help but feel terrible for what was done. Adolf Hitler, once a hero and an inspiration to all, instantly became national disgrace and villain. These recent circumstances changed what was once an interesting story into an unbearable burden. Could all of this; the wars, the deaths, the genocide, have been prevented? As much as that thought scared me, I, and I alone, knew that it could very well be true.

The weather outside was very similar to that day in 1908. The skies looked cold and dreary; the wind moaned as it brushed through the trees. With a creative mix of hard work and luck I had managed to fall into an important post at the academy of fine arts in Vienna. There were many different facets to the job, one of which was to determine who was deserving of admission. A new year was mere weeks away and I had read most of the applications and viewed the majority of the artwork; only a few more potential artists were left to meet.

That day I had only one person to meet. Unlike most of the applicants, some of whom were older than me, he was young, only nineteen. He had been living in Vienna for three years and seemed like an interesting character; I was very eager to meet him in person.

Not long after, I heard a knock at the door. As I opened it I was surprised by what stood on the other side. The man looked nothing like I had expected. He was tall and skinny and reeked of fish. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in days. His hair had been slicked back; so as to hide the fact he probably hadn’t had a shower in some time. His clothing was tattered and in some places ripped. I couldn’t fathom that through all of this, he managed to look genuinely happy.
“Good morning sir,” he said, smiling from ear to ear. I invited him to take a seat in the living room.
“Tell me a little bit about yourself.” I was more focused on his stench than his answer. His father was abusive and had beaten him and his mother multiple times. Though he loved his mother, he had decided to leave his small town with a close friend and pursue his dreams in the city. “Two years ago I applied to this same school,” He said, grinning. “looking back now, I realize I wasn’t ready. Since then I have improved by leaps and bounds and now I know I am prepared for this challenge.” He put his hand into his tattered pocket and pulled out several folded pieces of paper and handed them to me. “Just take a look; I know you’ll be impressed.”
His work was truly remarkable. He paid an amazing attention to detail for such a young man. What made it all the more incredible was that it was done without the everyday tools that many of the other applicants were privileged enough to have. He was definitely on par with others who were admitted, if not a notch above. Only one question remained.
“How are you planning on paying for our services?” I asked. At this moment the young man began to tense up, his eyes directed at the mahogany floor.
“All I need is a chance, sir.” He said, trying not to show emotion. “I’m working long hours at the steel factory and eventually I will be able to pay you. That is a promise.” A great wave of sadness rushed over me. He truly was a talented artist but I knew there was nothing I could do for the young man.
“You are a great talent, there is no denying it.” I said “I wish I could help you, but this school, just like everything else, is a business.”
“I understand,” said the young man, his eyes swelling with tears.
“I hope this time next year you will come up with the funds to join us here at the academy.” I said, as the man stood up to shake my hand. “You are truly an amazing artist. I am sure this is not the last we will hear of Adolf Hitler.” With that he left, never to be seen again.
Every second I shut my eyes, it is him I see. If only I had given him a chance, perhaps the world would be different; perhaps I would get some sleep.