Rachel Nel

"I once dined with Hemingway at a café in Paris," she said. "Sure," I thought. After her death, I found a photo. Signed: "With love, Papa."

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It dates back to 1905. She imagines all it has endured: knocks; slams; elbows nudging it open as brides, then babies, were carried inside.

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My one-woman, 140-character protest against those hateful leaders.

She heard of a girl who kissed a frog and got everything she desired when he turned into a prince. When she tried it, all she got was warts.

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He finds his passion in a pair of hand-me-down Nike cleats. Coach keeps him benched. His stubbornness unmatched, he keeps showing up anyway.

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Ma was so law abiding, she never even broke the speed limit. After she died, Pa showed us posters of Ma in her youth, wanted in all states.

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"How can you afford a castle?"
"I won a lawsuit. Claimed that I was born this way due to radioactive waste in the water," the cyclops grins.

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Her husband's openly pawing a much younger woman. She sees me looking. "We have an understanding," she says, caressing her big diamond ring.

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Miss Manners lives up to her reputation. All of her suitors propose. But she only says yes to the one who asks: "Will you marry me, please?"

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"Jim and I had no secrets," I tell my mother-in-law after his funeral. The doorbell chimes. The girl standing on the threshold has his eyes.

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She looks at all the invitations and weeps. "I can't go through this rigmarole!"
"Then we'll elope," he says, swallowing his disappointment.

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They warn us that she'll be able to see us. That she lacks remorse. But later, as she's strapped to the gurney, she begs us for forgiveness.

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It’s the missing cat! I fantasise about spending the reward. But before I can say: “Here, kitty”, a Pomeranian in hot pursuit ruins my plan.

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A copse of aspen trees surrounds the cemetery. Even when it is windless, their leaves quake, whispering messages from our ancestral spirits.

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Inclusion in class will make us evil, the new rulers say. Through our burqas, we steal longing looks at the schools we can no longer attend.

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"What's your expertise?" the interviewer asks.
"Endings."
"Why do you want to be a telemarketer?"
"I'm stuck in a dead-end job," Death says.

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"I'm an astronomer," he says.
"Mercury's in retrograde!" she squeals. "How do you write horoscopes?"
"It's not rocket science," he deadpans.

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She plays hard to get, making me ravenous for her. Certain that l'll soon receive her winning smile, I mortgage my home to chase Lady Luck.

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They called me a coward, until I dove headfirst off the cliff. Now I'm being hailed as a miracle as I swim for gold at the Paralympic Games.

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"You'll turn into a raisin!" I'm submerged in the bathtub, so Mom sounds muffled. My limbs are fins that'll propel me across oceans one day.

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He embraces technology. Yet each oak barrel is infused with memories of her in a hiked up dress, crushing the harvest in a graceful ballet.

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“They’re ‘different’. You know...”
“There goes our gentrified neighbourhood!”
Many residents were nervous when a straight couple moved in.

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He picks girls without make-up. Because he's learned that removing lipstick stains from a shirt collar is far harder than washing out blood.

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Her pacing seems mindless. But in her head, she's composing symphonies, writing, conquering. Until they take her arm and push the needle in.

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"Done. All the staples are out,” he says.
“Do I look normal?” I ask anxiously.
“As normal as you’ll ever be,” Doctor Frankenstein replies.

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With flushed cheeks, dawn untangles itself from the night's embrace. In this blush of light, I limp home, exhausted after dancing all night.

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Dad was a respected bean counter. When our belongings were repossessed, a dropped desk drawer spilled out envelopes stamped with: "Overdue!"

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