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- Herausgeber: tredition
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
If eyes are windows to the soul, then books are gateways. Behind the cover of growing pains lie dozens of them. Across their threshold, waiting: A new star appears in the sky and bewitches a blind girl; time stretches out endlessly in the minutes before a proposal; a psychic predicts not one, but countless of her futures; a book thief steals the heart of a librarian; a lifetime passes between fried cauliflower and roasted duck; and caramel cake leads to an identity crisis. Inside the pages of growing pains reside the twenty-eight works of three authors, exploring themes of self-discovery, coming of age, family trauma, and more.
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Seitenzahl: 107
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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wortpalast.com
© 2024, 1st Edition
Authors: Mariana M. B. Borges • G.S. Quinn • Rebecca Wayth
Cover, illustration & layout: Thomas Stefflbauer
Proofreading: Angela Rieger
Printing and distribution on behalf of the authors:
WORTPALAST Publishing Berlin
ISBN
Paperback
9783982518701
e-Book
9783982518718
The work, including its parts, is protected by copyright. The author is responsible for the content. Any use is not permitted without the author‘s consent. Publication and distribution are carried out on behalf of the author, who can be contacted at
WORTPALAST Verlag Berlin,
c/o IMAGINE stories s.r.o.
Mánesvoa 1602/56, 120 00 Prague
Czech Republic
Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
About the Authors
Slipping
Tram Blues
The Case of the Missing Feeling
A Crime of Passion
Librarian‘S Hoard
Can Psychics Only See the Future?
Fever Dream
Doomsday
Cityfull
Bug Collection
The Lover
Open Shut Case
Cake or Love?
Crowning Moment
Around the Corner from Charles Bridge
If I Die Tonight
Hazel Eyes
The Alien and the Angel
Breaking News
Pax Vobis
Confess Your Feelings Old Man!
Hot Summer Nights
A Queer Encounter
Beyond the Reef
M F D
The Neverending Minute
Rising Tide
Ranidaphobia
growing pains
Cover
Copyright
About the Authors
Ranidaphobia
growing pains
Cover
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About the authors
Mariana M.B. Borges
Borges left her hometown in warm and sunny Brazil to pursue her dreams of being a writer, which led her all the way to the cold and gray city of Prague. A 24-year-old on the run, she longs to see as much of the world as she can whilst keeping true to her roots and her culture.
Although she also has an interest in novels and scriptwriting, she is especially passionate about poetry. Borges’ writing is a field with no fences. Limits don’t exist—or if they do, then she’s more than happy to cross them. She does not take her readers by the hand so much as she yanks them forward, out of their comfort zone and head-over-heels into the unknown.
G.S. Quinn
Head trapped in the clouds and with only one foot standing in the real world, Quinn is on a constant quest of exploration. Currently a Creative Writing student in Prague, she’s been starving for new impressions her entire life—a hunger that has driven her across half the world already. New countries, new people, new stories, new writing styles—all of this is the fuel that fires the engines of her writing, leading her into ever new directions.
Quinn has a passion for languages and traveling, and is planning to complete her Master’s degree in Ireland after her time in Prague is up. Her restlessness is visible in growing pains: none of her narrators is like the other, plunging the reader into ever new experiences.
Rebecca Wayth
A poet and short story writer in everything she does, Rebecca Wayth is a 22 year old girl from Bratislava, Slovakia. “Writing about positive stuff is kind of boring,” she says. “I love when shit gets dark and weird.” Stability, normalcy, predictability are all things she can gladly go without. She couldn’t imagine life without chaos and excitement—and the same goes for her writing.
Self-discovery is at its core. Self-discovery not only through channeling her emotions, but by exploring the deepest corners of her mind, by getting to know herself through the words she puts to her pages. Writing is a way for her to empty her brain and to immortalize her thoughts like a sculptor forming a block of marble. There’s no way for Rebecca not to write. It’s such an integral part of her, she might as well try to stop breathing.
Slipping
G.S. Quinn
“It just doesn’t snow the way it used to, does it?”
Snow. It used to. Cold. Yes, ever so cold. They’d had long winters when she was a child. It would snow and snow for days on end, until the doors had to be cleared every few hours so they wouldn’t freeze shut, and the snow reached up to their thighs. She’d still needed to go to school. They’d strapped skis to their feet and headed to the next town, where the school sat cushioned in a duvet of snow.
“Really? I can’t imagine that. How far did you have to go? To your school, how far did you have to go?”
She’d gone to school, yes. Six days every week. She’d learned her sums and to read and write. Mrs. Gutenberg, no, not Berg, Wald, Gutenwald, good forest, Mrs. Guten-wald, not good, she hadn’t liked her, no. She hadn’t liked Mrs. Gutenwald. She’d filled her worksheets like all the other girls, but Mrs. Gutenwald hadn’t liked her handwriting. She took the ruler, now what do you call that mess, hmm, she took the ruler, how do you expect anybody to be able to read it, she took the ruler and she slammed it once, twice, on her fingers and they hurt, oh, they hurt, she took the ruler and she slammed her fingers, and no, she hadn’t liked Mrs. Gutenwald at all—
“How far did you have to go to school? Was it very far?”
She’d gone to school, yes. Six days a week—
“Was the school in your hometown?”
She’d gone to school in another town. There was no school where she lived. She’d walked an hour to school and back, an hour every day, except for in the winter, when they’d strapped skis to their feet and headed to the next town, where the school sat cushioned in a duvet of snow.
“That sounds like fun!”
Fun? Fun. Yes, she liked to have fun.
“What else did you do in the winters?”
They’d had long winters when she was a child. It would snow and snow for days on end—
“Yes, it just isn’t the same these days, is it?”
No, not the same. They used to have real winters when she was a child. It would snow and snow for days on end—
“Say, did you go sledding, too? Or ice skating? Did you have ice skates?”
Skating, skates, ice skates, sledding, ice sled, skedding, sledding, sleking…
“Did you ever skate on the ice?”
They had a pond in the village. Mina and Albert and all her siblings and cousins and she would come together, sliding over the pond with Mina and her siblings and… and Mina, and they would slide over the pond and drink hot lemon tea. They’d stomp through the snow on their way back home, leave their clothes in the hallway to dry out, and settle down in front of the fireplace, their fingers and toes tingling with numbness, cheeks flushed and warm.
“Is that something you used to do with your kids? Go skating on the pond?”
They used to skate on the pond they had in the village. Mina and Albert and all her siblings and cousins—
“And your kids? Later on?”
All the kids in the village would gather by the pond, and they’d slide over the ice and drink hot lemon tea. They’d stomp through the snow on their way back home—
“And what about Josef? Did you use to go there with him?”
She had a neighbor called Josef, a scrawny little thing. Used to throw rocks at the deer that would come over the hill into their gardens.
“Josef, your husband. Do you remember Josef?”
Got a good thrashing from his father. Left the deers alone after that.
“Your husband, Josef? Do you remember him?”
Josef. Her neighbor Josef. Stones at the deer. Hills on the garden. Thrashed the neighbor. Scrawny. Rocks at the hills. Into their gardens. She’d had a neighbor called Josef. Josef, her neighbor. Her neighbor, throwing rocks at the deer, in their gardens, her neighbor Josef who threw rocks at the deer in the garden—
“What weather we’re having. Don’t you wish there was some snow like there used to be?”
Weather, yes. Snow. They’d had a lot of snow when she was a child. It would snow and snow for days on end, and they’d strap skis to their feet and head for the next town, where the school sat cushioned in a duvet of snow …
Tram blues
Rebecca Wayth
Our lips touch while the midnight clock strikes
and the white dust falls to the ground sparkling in the glass windows
winter wonderland all around us
as we keep warm in the moving vehicle
while the driver plays Kávu si Osladim
and you hold my face
and look into my eyes
while my head tilts upwards to catch the spark,
our lips unite
while the tram shakes and the doors open
to reveal the cold breeze that awaits us,
we expected the cold
but tried to imagine how it would go if this moment would last a little longer,
a little longer please I beg,
singing to the words as our eyes met with the smiling man
“Kávu si Osladim” - Slovakian for “I sweeten my coffee”
The Case of the Missing Feeling
Mariana M.B. Borges
It had been at least a couple of months since we last talked. So, when I heard my phone buzzing, I was surprised to find a text message from her. It wasn’t like the texts she usually sends me, either. No “hey” or even a “are you free today?” Just the following phrase: “Come to my place. Need your help with a case.” It wasn’t really an invitation as much as it was an instruction. And I did not hesitate.
When I got to her apartment the door was already open. She knew I was coming, even though I hadn’t answered her text. She had her back to the entrance as she stared quietly out her window, at the monotonous view of the city we had both grown up in. I took a quick look around the small living room. Everything seemed to be the exact same as it had been the last time I had been there. And yet, something was different. The air… was different.
“That was fast,” she said, without turning around.
“I wasn’t busy.” A lie. But how could she possibly think I wouldn’t drop everything I was doing to come to her encounter?
I could tell she smiled at my response. She held her hands together, the tip of her fingers touching her lips, thinking.
“What’s going on?” I asked. She took a deep breath.
“My dear Watson…” She finally turned around to face me, a big smile on her face. “We have a case.”
