The Sun Trap

by Heidi James

‘They’ll want to talk to you,’ her mother says, squinting and raising her hand to shade her eyes. Her skin is sun-dark, mottled with age. Her grey-blonde hair cut short. ‘I can’t sit here, the bloody sun is right in my face.’ She stands and switches her seat to the other side of the table. ‘I don’t see why. I’m not sure I could tell them anything.’ The daughter shifts, the plastic chair flexing and wobbling under her. The paving slabs are uneven, the patio laid by her mother’s ex-boyfriend.

Victoria and the Fragility of the Expat Dream

Around five years ago, I decided to move to Berlin after visiting the city for a weekend and instantly loving it. A sense of freedom was palpable along its wide streets and in the parks where people sat drinking massive bottles of cheap, decent beer.

Lifeline

Jessica had installed the LifeLine kit two days ago. She had been the last of her friends to do so, although living in the comparative isolation of Zermatt, she should have been one of the first. This morning, like most, she woke at 5am and swiped from alarm to email to catch any correspondence coming from PST. There was, as there had been for the past three days, nothing.

Lucky Star, Maybe

“I don’t believe in astrology; I’m a Sagittarius and we’re skeptical.” — Arthur C. Clarke.

“Palmistry and astrology are good because they make people vivid and full of possibilities. They are communism at its best. Everybody has a birthday and everybody has a palm” — Kurt Vonnegut.

Greetings from Chez Jacques

I wake up, uncertain how many people are asleep around me. Sometimes it’s just Jacques, at other times indeterminate snores ping pong over the fold-down sofa, into the shower unit and across the kitchenette. I slip into my trunks, part the patterned curtains and fall into the pool. At first, we all went over-ripe, our skin blistering tomato red.

Dubious Heritage

I am descended from a long line of liars, which is even less noble than it sounds. It’s impossible to trace my dubious heritage, though I suspect it goes as far back as the Roman Empire, or earlier still. It’s impossible to trace because depending on who you ask, my ancestors are: Italian, Indian, Jewish, Scottish, English, German, rich, poor, brilliant and ordinary.

Seeking Patriotism

I’m inclined to argue that my sham national pride is, in many instances, better than the real thing; that orthodox patriotism often masks nationalism and the odious opinions of those intolerant of others. I’m in decent company in this assessment.

The Shaman from Monaco

At the start of 2015, I met a Canadian ex-banker-turned-shamanic healer from Monaco, who was in China to close a deal on his robotic inventions. He introduced himself by coming over to my table in a hotel café and asking me what I was doing here. A straightforward question, yet it hung in the air, reluctant and vague.

Somewhere in Between Part 2. Blank Space

Fucking Åmål is a movie about lesbians. It’s probably one of the only good ones, but it’s directed by a man and so is Blue is the Warmest Color, except that’s a bit shit and absolutely not the reason me and Emma are in a car driving 376 kilometres to a nowhere town in Sweden.

How Should We Be Bored?

It’s a lazy Sunday afternoon and I’m watching Take Me Out on catch-up. It’s a cringe-y lol and the right level for my brain, ticking to a slower tock after too many gin and tonics last night. Except I’m not just watching Paddy – “let the angel see the delight”; “let the jal see the frezi” – I’m also on my phone.