Lemonteaz

        The fencer's sword is an object of remarkable precision; the blade is wrought from an ugly hunchbacked lump of steel that is folded over itself hundreds of times into a single, perfectly square length of cold brilliance no longer than ninety centimeters, which at its widest point remains less than one centimeter thick. At the tip is a tiny metal plunger that must be able to support a minimum weight of exactly five hundred grams.        Though it is an object of finesse, the foil is not born from it. Unlike a delicate vase slowly and lovingly coaxed into its shape by the caress of the glassblower's ever careful breath, the foil is for

     The smooth beige interior of the car was painfully clean. Everything from the floor-mats to the seats to the windows and the little wood inlays next to the door handles was perfectly clean. Even the small plastic sheets covering the dashboard and its assorted knobs and dials  were still in place. In short, the car, the absurdly luxurious, sixty thousand dollar Mercedes Benz SUV with LED lit cupholders was as new as new could get. And it had been bought by one of my father's friends for the express purpose of ferrying us from the airport to my grandparents' apartment. I felt increasingly uncomfortable at the thought of someone spending su

 The beach, like every beach, extends all the way down to the tideline. Unlike most beaches though, its surface is made up of tiny, onyx black pebbles with just enough edges on them to make walking uncomfortable, the little fragments pecking at the soles of my bare feet. Under the waning moon I glide towards the water amidst an envoy of shadows. People, in truth, my family among them, but under the timid light of tonight's slim crescent every shirt, pair of shorts and patch of bare skin may as well be dyed black. Despite our close proximity, no one speaks. We slowly make our way down to the shore where a small fleet of kayaks awaits, swayin

Perhaps one day we'll all be able to meet again. She remembered those words, but not to whom they'd been spoken to, or who had spoken them. She still couldn't remember the people, but the words had stuck for days which had turned to weeks which turned to months which had turned to years. They'd stayed with her, filling her thoughts in the day, and her dreams at night. And that is how Mary Kozakura woke one morning to the faint presence of a memory just on the verge of recollection. This time she felt it clearly, could tell it was there, but still could not reach out and grasp it. She had dreamt of friends, nine of them. Mary shook her hair an

The cat went to sleep that night under the table. It was a rather small table: stubby legs, thick counter top, worn cherry wood. But it was comfortable and cozy. It made the cat feel safe and snug, separate from the dangers of the outside world. See, the two leggeds lived in this house. They just didn't know that he was there. Because he'd hidden under the table see?  The table was his house. The table was his safe place. Here he was safe from the other two leggeds outside, the ones that kicked him and screeched at him and threw stones his way. Of course, he was sure the two leggeds here were the same. That was why he stayed under his table m

It was raining. Outside, raindrops the size of small grapes thundered over the roof of their little house like hailstones. Inside, Marie was sleeping on the couch, head resting on a worn pillow, an oversized woolen blanket spread over her small frame like a warm white shadow. Shion glanced up from her book to look at her daughter and a smile lifted the corners of her lips. Marie looked so calm and at peace right now it was hard to believe she could be so energetic and curious at times, so, fascinated with the outside world. But all young children were like that, she supposed. The only difference was that Marie wasn't able to sate her curiosit

One  thousand metal mouths scream, Brazen brass voices blasting the air with eery melody. One thousand horse hair swords saw, Spraying splinters of sound into the darkness. One thousand painted puppets dance, Pale faces blank, Limbs swiping the air with mechanical grace, And one thousand glassy eyes stare on, Frozen to the spectacle before them, While one grand  puppeteer, Pulling on his thousand threads like a hungry spider, Leads them all, In a feverish dance, As the moon bleeds away the night.