contemporary – Tulpa Magazine

Cold War

As you walk in, you’re handed an ice-cube from someone wearing a vaguely Day of the Dead-style suit, and no further instructions. There’s a low, bass-y, static-y rumble, and almost as soon as you’re in your seat – still holding the ice-cube – it’s demanded that the audience gets out of the stalls and assembles on the dance floor, where the two cast members launch into some heavy punk-rock. This is not a drill, one of them repeats. You’re still holding what’s left of the ice-cube. Yep, welcome to Fringe.

For me, this is the heart of Fringe; big-money stand-up acts in 200-plus seat arenas might pay the bills and keep the wine flowing, but for a festival initially started as a rebellious response to the original Adelaide Arts Festival becoming elitist and exclusionary, Fringe needs these sorts of shows to remain the Fringe. Avant-garde, highly experimental, stuff like Cold War gives street cred to the event. MKA, with Doppelgangster, have created a boldly unconventional production that discusses the current inaction on climate change. The two performers talk at each other in rapid-fire, touching on a million topics but always coming back to the same theme. Seemingly all absurdist and random, and with that constant white noise in the background, it all pivots back to an underlying question – can you win your innocence back? Can you right the ongoing wrongs? Each ‘act’ is punctuated by some original punk songs – one notable one claims Titanic was an inside job – and these effectively set up each act’s scenario.

Unfortunately though, there just seems like there’s a bit too much going on at any one time. The conversations between the two actors are peppered with off-hand references and sharp wit, but because they’re also tending to a drone or shaving ice & walking around the audience, you miss specifics and have to rely on just getting the gist of it. Key parts are usually slowed down a bit, but the sound mixing was clearly off, and as a result some of the song lyrics were hard to pick up as well. Whether it was intentional or not, it detracted from an otherwise interesting and engaging show.

Inasmuch as Cold War is clearly designed to be a confronting attempt to experiment with how a play ought to be staged, the lack of narrative and chaotic nature will rankle some people, which is a pity as the spectacle is well worth the effort required.

3.5/ 5 stars

Words by Mikey Della Porta

Cold War is showing until March 15

For more information please click here.

‘Greenwood’- By Paul J. Laverty

She parked in the driveway. She didn’t open the car door, just sat there. The house looked different. Bright red gutters replaced the old, peeling green ones. There was a new beige garage door. Yet the garden, the street and the suburb surrounding it was much the same.

She tried to think of the last time she’d been here. Boxing Day. Four years ago. After that Danny didn’t want to. Especially when his real habit crept in.

She remembered their last year of high school. She used to spend most nights here. In his room, drinking homebrew, smoking cones, watching Wes Craven movies, listening to Queens of the Stone Age. Making love. That was fifteen years ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

“Mummy, when are we going in?” her six-year-old, Hunter, asked from the backseat.

Mikhaila lit a cigarette. She immediately regretted it as Val would smell it on her and add that to her shit list. She was already wearing a black sleeveless top that couldn’t hide the love heart tattoo which Val had never disguised her disdain for. The one her son had designed.

“In a minute, hon.”

She reclined the seat slightly and took a drag. She might as well finish it now it was lit.

Back in high school she was seen as a good influence. Their Daniel had never got anything but D-grades. All he wanted to do was skate. And then she came along. Pianist. President of the student council. Plans to study medicine. Singer in an up-and-coming local band. Danny’s marks moved up to a C. His parents liked her. For a little while, she felt, anyway.

“Mummy, I’m thirsty,” her four-year-old, Courtney, whined.

Her band got signed. Got on the U.S. festival circuit. She didn’t want him to come. It was work, after all. But he did. And with a lot of time and a little money on his hands, the soft drugs became hard.

Then quick as it began the band ended. Artistic differences, youthful arrogance. Their visas expired. She and Danny returned home. Settled down. Somehow their relationship rolled on. They had one kid, then another.

She wanted to get married, she wanted to take his name. She knew this would make them happy. She saw how they treated Lauren, Danny’s older brother’s wife, once they’d married. She couldn’t even have kids. But Lauren was a respectable primary school teacher, not a former frontwoman of a failed synth-pop band who flashed her legs (and occasionally her tits).

Danny always had an excuse ready and loaded about not conforming. She even got the blame for not baptising the kids Catholic even though Danny said he’d take care of it. She wasn’t even Catholic but she wanted to. She knew how it would make his parents happy and her life easier.

“I’m hungry,” said Hunter.

“I’m bored,” said Courtney.

They moved down south. She got a job in a clothes shop. His tattoo venture didn’t get off the ground, and he couldn’t cope with the normality of just existing. Of being a partner. A husband. A son. His addiction took hold and knowing he was failing at all that mattered he chose to take his own life on the one night she’d come back up to the city to have dinner with her remaining friends.

“Mummy, can you hear us?”

Last month in the Family Court it all came out. Val claimed it was Mikhaila who had turned her son onto the pipe. That she was unstable, she was an unfit mother. Val even alluded to how it was Mikhaila’s fault that her son had ended it all with a leather belt tied around his neck.

Val didn’t mention how Mikhaila had never touched serious drugs. How Danny had lost them the home she paid for, her car, her job. And left her a bereaved single mother at age 31.

The judge gave the grandparents one weekend of visiting rights a month.

The front door opened. Mikhaila stiffened, quickly put out her cigarette and opened the window. But it wasn’t Val. She saw the dark greying features. The strong jaw. The dignified gait. It was Brian, Danny’s dad. Almost exactly how Danny would have looked if he made it to 60.

“Hello, love.”

“Grandad!” the children squealed racing out the car to throw themselves at him.

“Hello, Brian.”

She’d always liked Danny’s dad. He wasn’t a strong man, but he was a nice, quiet man who, in his own way, and faced with great adversity, had tried to stick up for her. Mikhaila saw the curtains twitch and spotted Val’s stern features gazing through the glass. Her eyes bore right through Mikhaila and then softened when they settled on her grandchildren.

“You doing okay?” Brian asked.

“We’re getting there.”

He reached into the back and lifted Hunter and Courtney’s backpacks. “We’ll drop them back Sunday night.”

“Thanks.”

“I know it’s hard, but it’s important we do this. For the children.”

The kids waved and disappeared through the door. Mikhaila reversed down the driveway. Drove down the quiet street, parallel to the street she grew up on, and made it out of the suburb. The narrow-minded suburb where nothing ever happened, which she’d tried her whole life to escape, but never could.

It wasn’t until she hit the freeway that she realised she had nowhere to go.

Photo by Ryan Graybill on Unsplash

Words by Paul J. Laverty

Paul J. Laverty is a Scottish-Australian writer. Emerging from University of Melbourne with a Graduate of Diploma of Arts, he was shortlisted for Overland’s 2018 ‘Fair Australia Prize’, and his work has been featured in publications such as Underground Writers and Better Read Than Dead.

‘Harold Can’t Sleep’ – By Louis Dickins

Harold, thirty-five years old, lies awake in his one-bedroom St. Kilda apartment with messy hair, wearing a defeated expression. His cheap alarm clock reads 4:31AM in red numbers. Tomorrow, he has an eight-hour shift at his mind-numbing post office job, but he hasn’t had any sleep. His mind is turning, overwhelmed by too many thoughts.

At its best Harold finds sleep beautiful; a welcome relief from work and family, deadlines and pressure. As a kid he was a brilliant sleeper. He had wonderful, action–packed dreams where he fought off prison guards and drove sport cars. But not anymore. He sighs and turns his pillow over. Harold isn’t even tired. It’s his relationships that are keeping him awake; regrets and mistakes playing over in his mind.

His ex-girlfriend, Julia. The memory of the initial thrill and then the ultimate demise of their six-year relationship. Truthfully, they just didn’t understand each other. An abstract artist with talent, her paintings were compelling in their passion and complexity. But they could also be demanding and confronting. She’d show Harold her completed canvases expecting a detailed analysis of their meaning and aesthetic quality. Instead, he would get confused and tongue-tied trying to explain what he thought and she would interpret it as indifference. But really, Harold had cared about her more than anything.

Why were they together? Did she ever love him? They had terrible fights which Harold always lost. She had a habit of throwing lamps when she was upset, usually at him. His passivity annoyed her, she thought he was capable of so much more, not only in his career, but to be more outgoing socially. She’d drag him to sophisticated, art-crowd dinner parties which he despised. Sitting there silently, he’d get quietly and terribly drunk, then pass out under the table. Harold embarrassed her and his unassuming nature lost its charm.

Harold’s mind wanders further. He remembers the last time he saw his old friend Rachel. When they were at school together, they shared everything. They could talk for hours. They’d skip school and smoke darts and play street fighter in the city. She was his best friend. They would look into each other’s eyes and feel completely comfortable and understood. Now, something has changed. She had stood before him despondently, with vacant eyes, asking him why he hadn’t called her back. It just wasn’t the same anymore. Once she got married and started having kids they started to drift into separate worlds.

Harold’s thoughts turn to his postal supervisor at work, like all serious pedantic assholes his name is Terry. He talks time management, enthusiasm indicators and routine entrustment diagrams with such condescending intensity, it often makes Harold want to scream. He knows exactly how much Harold despises him. He was terrible at hiding it. Harold had had it there, surrounded by mail, sometimes left to feel like he was turning into a living, breathing envelope.

All this thinking has given Harold a headache. He falls out of bed and stumbles in the dark toward the medicine cabinet. He pushes two heavy-duty painkillers out of their packet and downs them both with a glass of tap water. He looks at his reflection in the mirror. A flash catches his attention; he turns quickly to look out his window and sees a bolt of lightning, followed by a tremendous crash of thunder. And then a drenching, heavy rain begins to fall from the night sky. He opens his window to see the gutters already overflowing.

Something about this sudden downpour has energised and thrilled Harold in a way he can’t quite explain. He puts on his jeans and runs out the door, down the steps of his apartment and out into the street. It’s still dark, the streetlights guide him down the road and onto the esplanade. He’s never run this fast in his life. Almost slipping on the wet concrete, he continues, undeterred. Through parks and puddles, his heart beating, not sure where he’s going but in love with movement. His pent-up frustration and sadness is being exorcised with every step. He crosses the street, dodging early morning motorists. Trams and buses whizz by, the passengers watching a man running at full tilt.

As the sun rises, the most fantastic epiphany dawns on Harold: today, he’s going to quit the post office. He’s going to find something better.

Suitably soaked and out of breath, Harold finds himself in Fitzroy. In the distance he sees a bakery, just opening for the day. He goes inside to catch his breath and gazes at the freshly baked loaves and croissants on display. A friendly voice greets him.

Harold looks up to see the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen smiling back at him. Her brown eyes make his knees buckle. He stands there completely shocked and in awe of the chain of events that have led him out of his bed and to this moment. It seems as if an eternity has passed before he opens his mouth in order to speak but when he does, he starts coughing uncontrollably. She laughs. Eventually, he composes himself and says:

‘Hi, I’m Harold’.

Words by Louis Dickins

Louis Dickins is a 23-year-old writer who has had short stories published in both X-Ray literary magazine and Sleaze Mag.

Photo by pan xiaozhen on Unsplash

‘The Day I Stopped Looking at the Stars’- By Cameron Lowe

The day I stopped looking at the stars was the day I stopped imagining. I used to spend many nights watching Alpha Centauri sparkle, spy onto the surface of Venus through my telescope, and imagine UFOs flying through the cosmos. Most of all, I would wonder what planets were circling around those distant stars. Were they ones full of life like our own planet? Were they barren wastelands like Mars? Gas giants like Saturn? This mystery fuelled my imagination. I found myself telling stories of new worlds and alien life to everyone I knew.

So why did I stop looking at the stars and imagining extraterrestrial worlds? One simple word: reality. Becoming a teenager, they started telling me to stop living in a fantasy land and start living in reality. Their vision of reality was simple: study hard, get a job, buy a house, get married, have children. To me, their version of reality was a living nightmare. It was primarily based on luck and left little time for imagination. I ignored their lectures and continued to go out and look at the stars, allowing their red, yellow, and blue surfaces to inspire and comfort me.

One day, they told me I was no longer allowed to look at the stars. They deadlocked the doors, gave away my telescope, and kept me from going out. They said it was time for me to grow up and face reality. I put up a fight to keep my imagination, but they fought harder to destroy it. They drained my imagination of its many weird and wonderful worlds through lectures of how important a good job was and keeping the door locked.

The last few strands of my imagination were torn up the day they got me a job at a local shop. The wage was bad and couldn’t even cover my weekly expenses, but they said it was a start and would one day get me a house. I did all I could to get out of there. I applied for countless better paying jobs, but got none of them. That local shop closed down not long after my fortieth unsuccessful job application, leaving me jobless. Their version of reality had backfired, leaving me worse off than I had been when my imagination ran wild.

I went out to look at the stars again. Tears formed in my eyes as I looked up at Venus. Seeing it again brought me back to, a time before reality had set in. I remembered all the nights I spent with my telescope, exploring the surface of other planets, looking for UFOs, wondering what else could be out there. Looking at the stars again, all those dreams and possibilities of life beyond our own planet returned. As they did, my imagination reignited. Stories of first encounters and journeys to the stars ran rampant in my mind.

The day I stopped looking at the stars was the day I stopped imagining. Now, looking at them again, my imagination has returned. Now I write down what other these alien worlds look like, weaving them into stories that make them real. They continue to try and crush my imagination but now use them as motivation to keep me going. For as long as I continue to look at the stars I will continue to imagine, something reality doesn’t offer.

Words by Cameron Lowe.

Photo by Joshua Earle on Unsplash

Cameron Lowe is a horror and sci-fi writer, editor and student. He’s had fiction and articles featured in Speakeasy Zine and Empire Times. He loves to read, play video games, and drink green tea. He’s one of the 2018 editors at Empire Times. He tweets at @cloweshadowking.

‘Warm Skin, Cold Skin’- By Sarah Ingham

In that moment, the memory of when she discovered she was pregnant pushed itself into her mind. She had been in awe, amazed that her body could incubate and bring forth another human being. Underneath her warm skin was another, smaller heartbeat. This new life was her responsibility now: a big responsibility and hers alone.

He had grown up as a happy child, full of life’s zest. A sprinkling of stubbornness and his temptation towards the unknown had always kept her on her toes, but he was forever her boy. Scraped knees were healed with a kiss, hungry tummies always fed, and that’s as complicated as life got. She would wake up to his warm skin beside hers on cold nights. His cheeky grin and dirty face underneath all that bouncy, curly hair was the reason she got up every morning to face the day. It was just the two of them, and that was all she needed.

As he grew older, he started distancing himself and seeing her less and less. The two bedroom apartment was small enough that it was hard to hide, but he did. He began communicating purely in short grunts, like some kind of cave-man. She told herself that this was just a phase, that all teenagers did it. She herself had stopped being a daughter many years ago. She convinced herself that she could be there for him, for the moment he decided to return to her.

She let him have his privacy; she knew that was important to him. She began smelling the distinct smell of marijuana smoke around the house, seeping in from underneath doors and out windows. She closed her eyes, gathering strength. What should she do? Would this continue? Should she act now or let her boy figure it out himself? She had no-one to ask. She felt helpless.

He began becoming more aggressive, refusing to help out around the house and yelling at her about the smallest things. He would play loud, angry-sounding music late at night and she cringed, knowing that the entire building could hear it, thanks to the paper-thin walls. She grew afraid of him, this life she had created. He had grown in her womb, small and happy, but now he towered over her, shouting and smelling acridly of cigarettes.

He continued growing, physically up and mentally down. He locked himself in his room and refused to come out for anything but food or more mind-numbing drugs. Existing with him made her anxious and confused. He was far from her little boy now. She tried to love him unconditionally, but loving him became harder and harder each day.

Desperate to get away from her, he moved out at the first possible opportunity. She cried for days, her heart aching. Not for the monstrous Neanderthal that had left her, but for the small boy whose tiny body had snuggled close to hers when he felt frightened. Now she was alone.

Years went by, and she missed her boy every day. Every day she prayed to God to protect and shelter him. Her small child was out in the world with no-one there to help him. He was lost and she couldn’t find the bright little boy he used to be. Grey crept into her hair and her eyes grew dull. Worry aged her.

She received a short message from her son in the early hours one morning, containing an address and a few words about wanting to meet. Her heart leapt into her throat. Was this true? Was her son returning to her? She rejoiced!

She pushed the door open with great difficulty. Beer cans and empty spirit bottles littered the floor, and the rancid stench of alcohol wafted from them. The posters on the wall were torn and slowly beginning their descent to the grubby floor. Chip packets crunched under her feet and tin cans clattered as she moved slowly across the room. The mattress haphazardly thrown in the corner of the room was stained and the small, thin blanket barely covered the corner. He sat, slumped in the darkest corner of the dingy room with his chin on his chest. His soiled, oversized clothes hung limply on his skeletal frame. He looked like a child sitting there. Like the lost child he was. This was her boy. She had found him, and he hadn’t aged a day.

His matted hair still showed small signs of curl around the edges but most was stuck to his face and scalp – with blood or sweat she didn’t know. His limp arm was dotted with his needle-marks, more than she could count. As she drew closer she could see that his mouth was slightly open and his face was pale. She knelt next to him in shock. His once baby-blue eyes were bloodshot and glazed. Rips in the knees of his faded jeans revealed scrapes with dried blood crusted over them. No kiss could fix this. She reached and clutched his bony arm. His skin was as cold as ice. This was no Prodigal Son. He was dead.

As she sat amongst the filth, she began to shake. Her eyes filled with tears at the loss of this part of herself. She struggled to lift her arm up to rub her face, her arm was heavy. As she pulled her arm away, now caked with the makeup she had so excitedly applied only a few hours before, she spied something lying underneath his foot. It was a picture of her, smiling and holding him tight. Her heart broke into a million pieces, and she let out a guttural cry. Her small boy, she had failed him. In that moment, the memory of when she found out she was pregnant pushed itself into her mind.

Words by Sarah Ingham

I’m Sarah Ingham, and I’m completing my first year of a Bachelor of Professional Writing and Communication. I have folders of unfinished writing, and I am so glad that I can put my ramblings to use! Being a part of Tulpa Magazine has made me feel like I can release my full artistic voice, and I love it dearly. I hope that I can continue to write my way into a writer, editor or publisher position after finishing my degree. Until then, I hope that you enjoy my imaginings.

‘Loose Change’- by Callum J. Jones

“The universe is always speaking to us… sending us little messages, causing coincidences and serendipities, reminding us to stop, to look around, to believe in something else, something more.”

– Nancy Thayer.

___

Megan (I)

Eighteen-year-old Megan keeps a coin jar in her room, full of loose change. On top of the pile of coins is a two-dollar coin that has a unique design on its tails side. Seagulls fly around a sun, which sits at the coin’s centre. At the bottom, in plain, bold lettering, are the words Two Dollars.

It’s a warm and sunny day outside. Megan’s supposed to be practicing for her music exam in a few days, but she can’t bring herself to do it. All she wants to do is go out and enjoy the nice weather. But she can’t think of what she could do outside. Go for a walk, maybe? Lay on the grass in the backyard and soak up the sun?

She realises that she hasn’t been to the Salamanca Market in ages, so she decides to go and wander around there for the day.

She reaches into her coin jar and takes out a handful of coins, including the Two-Dollar Coin. She pockets the coins and leaves the house.

She catches a bus into town and down Davey Street. She turns the corner into the Salamanca Market. It’s bustling with people. Vendors are selling people a vast array of things: food, clothes, hand-crafted items, second-hand books. Megan walks through the crowd. She smiles, loving it all: the buzz of activity, the colours, the atmosphere. She can’t believe she hasn’t come here in ages.

She approaches a busker who’s playing a guitar. She stops to listen to him for a moment, admiring his skill. He looks around her age, and has a mop of black hair with a thick, brittle beard with a ginger tint – he’s obviously got Irish blood in him.

Megan reaches into her pocket and pulls out the Two-Dollar Coin. She tosses it into the busker’s guitar case, which has a fair amount of money in it already.

‘Thanks very much!’ the busker beams, grateful.

Megan smiles back. She continues to walk through the Market.

___

James

The busker, James, finishes playing his guitar. He puts the coins people have tossed into his case into a small plastic bag.

He was taught to play the guitar by his uncle when he was a kid, and he’s kept at it ever since. His family is only living off one income at the moment: his mum works as a receptionist at a doctor’s surgery, and his dad is dying of lung cancer and is permanently confined to a hospital bed. Playing his guitar has just remained a hobby. He’s never earned a fortune busking, but every dollar that people gave him went towards groceries or other things that the family needed. Every dollar helps.

He’s about to place the Two-Dollar Coin into the bag when he notices its unique design. He examines it for a moment. He hasn’t seen the design before, and he’s intrigued by it. He eventually pockets it before placing his guitar in its case and clipping it shut.

James picks up the case and starts walking through the market. He hasn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, so he decides to get some lunch.

He approaches a stall selling German sausages. They are being cooked on a barbecue behind the stall counter, along with sliced onions. James is about to step forward to buy himself something to eat when a man in his late-20s approaches him. He has shoulder-length blonde hair and is dressed in jeans and an open-necked shirt. James notices that the man’s hands are shaking, and his breathing is shallow. James is immediately concerned. Is the guy having a panic attack?

‘Excuse me, mate,’ the man says to James. ‘Can I ask a huge favour?’

‘Sure,’ James replies.

‘I’m going to propose to my partner tonight.’

That explains why he’s so nervous, James thinks.

‘Congratulations!’ James smiles.

‘Thanks,’ the man says, smiling back. But the smile quickly disappears. ‘But the thing is, I’ve got a problem. I’ve got the ring and I’ve organised a romantic dinner, but I also want to buy a rose I’ve just seen at a flower stall and I’m a couple bucks short. Any chance you’ve got some spare change?’

‘Yeah, turns out I’ve got two dollars exactly.’ James fishes the Two-Dollar Coin out of his pocket and holds it out to the man, who accepts it gratefully.

‘Thanks, mate,’ the man says, smiling once again. He looks really relieved now. ‘I owe you one.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ replies James. ‘I hope she says yes.’

‘Thanks,’ says the man, who then turns and walks away.

James then steps up to the stall to buy a sausage.

___

Dylan

The man, Dylan, walks through the market and approaches the flower stall he mentioned to James.

He’s been wanting to propose to his partner for ages, but it never seemed to be the right time. But now, now felt different. Society had become more accepting of same-sex couples.

He’d met his partner, Russell, in college. They’d been in the same home-group in Year 11, and they became quick close friends. They developed romantic feelings for each other over the course of their friendship, and they started dating half-way through Year 12.

They’ve been together ever since.

There are a lot of roses to choose from at the stall, all of them of various colours. But Dylan goes straight to the one he saw earlier: a beautiful red one.

He grabs it and approaches the florist, a young woman with long hair dyed blue.

‘Just this, please,’ he says, handing it to her.

‘Sure thing,’ the florist replies. ‘Eight dollars, please.’

James hands her a five-dollar note, a one-dollar coin, and the Two-Dollar Coin.

The florist sets about wrapping plastic and paper around the stem. ‘Do you want a ribbon with it?’ she asks.

‘Yes, please,’ Dylan replies.

‘What colour would you like?’

Dylan thinks for a moment.

‘Uh, red, please.’

‘No worries.’

The Florist finishes wrapping the paper around the stem and then ties a ribbon around it.

‘So, I’m guessing that you’re having a romantic dinner tonight?’ she asks, smiling.

‘Yep, I am,’ Dylan replies, smiling modestly. ‘I’m going to propose to my partner.’

‘Well, good for you,’ the florist beams. She finishes tying the ribbon and adds: ‘Good luck!’

She hands him the rose, and he takes it. ‘Thank you.’

Walking away, Dylan can’t help but smile. Excitement and anticipation builds up inside him.

___

Amber

After the man walks away, the florist, Amber, puts the money Dylan given her in her cash box.

She’s never really enjoyed being a florist. She’s been working part-time since starting her training to become a tattooist last year. She saw it as a necessity to get by financially. She’s wanted to be a tattooist ever since she saw her aunt use a tattoo gun on a friend. She’s been fascinated by the process ever since, and she’s even gone on to design a number of tattoos herself.

She’s about to put the Two-Dollar Coin into the box when she notices its unique design. She examines it more closely. She once saw another two-dollar coin with a unique design. It was a 2012 Commemorative Coloured Poppy coin. It had a red poppy at the centre with Remembrance – Two Dollars wrapped around the edges.

Just as she’s about to put the Two-Dollar Coin into her coin box, an unshaven man dressed in dirty clothes suddenly runs up to the stall. He quickly comes round to Amber and pushes her out of the way. She falls to the ground with a gasp, dropping the Two-Dollar Coin – it rolls away!

The unshaven man hurriedly grabs a handful of cash from Amber’s cash box and then starts running away.

‘Somebody stop him!’ Amber calls out, getting to her feet.

A plain-clothes police officer talking to someone nearby hears Amber’s cry, and sees the unshaven man getting away, and then chases him. The officer chases him, quickly catching up with him and tackling him to the ground.

___

Megan (II)

Megan, still strolling through the market, looks over and sees a man in dirty clothes being handcuffed by a plain-clothes police officer a few yards away, near a flower stall. Someone is comforting the florist, who’s visibly shaken.

Then, something on the ground catches Megan’s attention.

It’s the Two-Dollar Coin! It’s laying on its tail side, so she doesn’t notice its design.

She picks it up and pockets it without really looking at it, totally unaware that it was originally hers.

After glancing one last time over at the man being arrested, she continues to walk through the bustling market.

When she gets home later that afternoon, she walks into her room and pulls out all the coins left in her pocket, including the Two-Dollar Coin, and drops them back into the coin jar.

Words by Callum J. Jones

Creative, honest, and reliable, Callum J. Jones loves writing and also enjoys taking photographs. In his spare time, he likes to read, watch movies and TV shows, and going on walks.