HOW TO ESCAPE A "CHIVALROUS" LIEUTENANT

A skinny brag in a long brown coat stood by himself at the bar, looking down at an untouched drink. He was one of the youngest men here. Aster was just about to approach him when another girl reached him first, leaning easy against the counter. 
Damn it. 
Aster turned away, searching desperately for someone else she could corner. Then, she spotted him: a man hovering alone by the piano, near enough the front door that Dex was sure to come running at her distraction. The brag wore the faded gray uniform of the Arkettan forces. Glory to the Reckoning, the words beneath his stripes said—the national motto. Like lawmen, armymen were offered a reduced price at welcome houses. They were always eager to find someone to listen to their stories about the dustblood rebels they’d helped capture. 
Aster started towards him, slicing through the crowd. 
“Looks like you could use some company,” she said, slipping in at his side and trailing her fingers along his arm. Aster was never usually this forward, and for the first time she found herself wishing she had Violet’s skill in effortless flirting. 
The armyman squared up, his eyes glassy and unfocused from too much drink. “And what’s your name, miss?” he asked thickly. 
“I’m called Aster. See?” she teased, turning to show off her favour. She managed a sweeping glance of the room as she did so, but there was still no sign of Violet. She swallowed around the knot in her throat. 
“Well, Lieutenant Carney, at your service, Aster,” the armyman introduced himself, clumsily tipping his slouch hat. He eyed her up and down slowly, a half grin spreading across his face. A daybreak girl passed by with a tray of bright cocktails. He swiped two. 
“Sweet drink for a sweet girl?” he asked. 
Aster thanked him demurely, taking the glass. She looked past him to the stairs. Where was Violet? 
And then Aster spotted her, swaggering down the steps with surprising confidence. Her long hair had been tucked away underneath the brag’s hat, her feminine figure hidden by his knee-length coat. She’d wrapped his silk dustkerchief around the bottom half of her face. But it wasn’t these things that made her look the part. It was the way she carried herself, the natural authority and obvious sense of entitlement. She showed none of the fear that she surely felt. 
Aster’s blood raced. She wet her lips. 
“Wander well,” Carney said to her cheerfully, raising his glass in a toast. 
She turned to the armyman, fighting to keep her calm. “Wander well,” she replied with a forced smile, and she drained her drink in three swallows. 
The alcohol lit a fire down her throat, sticky sweetness burning on her tongue. She coughed violently. Braced herself against Carney’s shoulder as her head spun. 
Carney rubbed her back, laughing. Her skin crawled at his touch. 
“Easy!” he said with disbelief. “You dustblood girls really are tough as drygrass.” 
“Well, we aim to impress, Lieutenant,” she replied airily. “Though I’ll confess I’m feeling a bit faint now.” She straightened up but let herself sway where she stood. 
“Nothing a chaser won’t fix,” Carney said with too much eagerness. 
Aster looked past him again. Violet had made it to the foyer. She was next in line to leave. 
Carney persisted. “Here, I’ll take you to the bar—” 
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Aster said quickly. “I just need to sit for a spell.” She took a few wobbly steps, let out a dramatic wail, and collapsed to the floor. The piano music cut off. A collective gasp went up around the room. 
Aster remained on the floor, eyes closed, as chaos erupted around her. A jumble of voices filled the air: girls calling her name, a man calling for help. The floor vibrated under her cheek with the thumps of footsteps as a crowd gathered. She could hear Mother Fleur pushing through them and apologizing for the disturbance. The smell of cigar smoke in the rug turned her stomach. 
“Keep back, she’s with me,” Carney ordered. 
Aster fluttered her eyes open. A tangle of legs stood between her and the front door, but she could just make out Violet, striding outside. Dex was lumbering towards the growing crowd, forcing calm upon the guests with his mental influence. Aster’s relief, however, was her own. 
Violet had made it out. 
Then a cold realization trickled down Aster’s spine, chilling her brief rush of triumph: What if Violet simply ran away? What if she didn’t wheel the cart around for the rest of them, just used the brag’s hand to make her escape and leave them for dead? Maybe she’d only wanted to use them, maybe that had been her plan all along. 
No choice now but to see this through. 
Aster looked up at Dex, whose lip curled to reveal yellowed teeth, and Mother Fleur, whose mouth smiled but whose eyes flashed with fury. Aster’s sloppy behavior would reflect poorly on the welcome house. Normally that would mean she’d spend tomorrow having her mind pulled apart by one of the raveners. 
But by this time tomorrow, Aster would either be free or dead. 
“Are you all right, Aster?” Mother Fleur asked, her voice dripping with false concern. 
Aster took Carney’s hand and stood up slowly. “I’m fine now, ma’am. Just got a little lightheaded. Sorry for causing a stir.” She didn’t have to fake the quaver in her voice. “I think I had better retire for the night, though, with your permission.” 
“Of course,” Mother Fleur replied. “And the lieutenant here would like to come along and make sure you’re okay, and spend a little time with you.” She turned towards the brag and smiled. “The Aster Room is at the end of the hall on the right.” 
Carney stepped in closer as the rest of the crowd began to dissipate. 
Aster’s panic doubled. “Actually, I’m not sure—” she began. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you,” he promised. He draped his arm around her and guided her towards the stairs. 
Aster’s heart thudded against her ribcage. This wasn’t part of the plan. She couldn’t bring him into her room. Clementine and the others were probably climbing out of the window right now. Or, if Violet had abandoned them, they were trapped there with no escape. 
She made herself stumble on the first step. 
“Careful, now,” Carney said. “Don’t want you taking another nasty tumble.” 
“Seems I’m too weak to go upstairs just yet,” Aster demurred. She’d hoped to stall for a moment, give everyone time to get out, but Carney simply scooped her up and started up the stairs. 
“No problem at all,” he said gallantly. 
Aster mouthed a curse. Of course acting helpless would only encourage him. 
He smiled down at her as he continued to talk, and Aster began to feel ill in earnest. And then there was the usual fear, too, the one that took hold of Aster every time she climbed these stairs with a brag. Bone-cold dread rose up to drown her. It didn’t matter that Carney seemed to think himself chivalrous. The end result was always the same. 
They reached the top of the stairs. Carney set her down. Aster made a slow gallows walk to the end of the hall. She drew in a tight breath as she wrapped her hand around the knob. 
Please, by the Veil, don’t let me find anyone behind this door. Let them have escaped. Please. 
She opened the door. 
And exhaled. The room was empty, the window open. She strolled over to it, pretending to simply close the curtains. She glanced down and saw the hay cart waiting below. 
Clementine had gotten out. They’d all gotten out. 
Then Carney closed the door behind him with a thud, dropping Aster’s heart. She couldn’t jump with him standing there right behind her. 
You’ll just have to fight him. Knock him out. 
A trained soldier? She didn’t like her chances. 
“Well, then, where should we start?” Carney asked, his words slurring slightly. He stepped in behind her and circled her waist with his meaty hands. 
Aster’s throat swelled. Her eyes burned. She could already feel herself sliding into that place of numb detachment where she went every night, her mind floating farther and farther away and leaving her body to fend for itself. Her breath was overloud in her ears, and her limbs grew so heavy she might as well have swallowed a whole week’s worth of Sweet Thistle. 
“I’m sure you’ve heard us all talk about Sweet Thistle before, Clementine,” Violet continued, “but words don’t really do justice to the feeling it gives you. It’s like letting your mind sink into a warm bath. Outside the welcome house there’re people clawing at each other for just a taste, but now that you’re a sundown girl you’ll get it every night. The cap is an eyedropper, see? One drop under the tongue will do. Mother Fleur will refill it for you every week.” 
Aster had only ever used her Sweet Thistle once, on her Lucky Night. She could understand why some girls liked it, but it left her limbs sluggish and her mind foggy in a way that had only made her feel more helpless, and the crushing hollowness it left the next morning had been worse than any natural hunger. Another dose would have sated it, but Aster knew that if she gave in, she’d be lost to Sweet Thistle for good. Even girls like Violet, who had only been taking it for a year, became fatigued and forgetful from its influence, and many of the older girls’ minds had melted away completely.
Sweet Thistle.
That’s it. 
“Let’s get you out of that dress. Help you breathe a little easier,” Carney said. She spun around to face him, still in his grasp. 
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to try for a while,” she murmured into his ear. “But I’m not sure you’re up for it.”
“Oh?” 
“Let me see if I can find it.” 
Aster disentangled herself and retreated to her vanity, where her small brown bottle of Sweet Thistle sat nestled among the jewelry and hairbrushes. 
She wet her lips, a flare of anger burning through the fog filling her mind. Every week, Mother Fleur had expected her to be grateful for this Sweet Thistle. Her parents had expected her to be grateful for this home. Lieutenant Carney probably expected her to be grateful for his restraint. As if any of those things changed what this place was, what it had almost done to Clementine. What it had already done to Aster and a thousand others. 
“You’re beautiful, you know,” Carney said idly. “Most of these dustblood girls . . .” He just shook his head. “But what else can a man expect from the Scab? Glad I found some good luck here after all.” 
I should crack a mirror over his head. 
Slit his throat with a shard of the glass. 
Let him bleed out like a pig.
But no, she couldn’t. She had to control her anger just as she controlled her fear. It was the only way she would make it out of here alive.
“What’ve you got there?” Carney continued. He had snuck up behind her, surprisingly light-footed. 
She swallowed and showed him the bottle of Sweet Thistle. “Just a little pick-me-up leftover from a former guest,” she said brightly. “Interested?” 
Carney raised an eyebrow. “What exactly does this pickme-up do?” 
“It’s an extract of a rare flower from the peaks of the mountains,” Aster lied. “Said to open your mind and senses and unlock your deepest potential for pleasure.” 
“That so?” 
She nodded. “Just a drop under your tongue. And the more you use, the stronger the effect. Not every man can handle it, though. Most can’t manage more than a dose or two. But an armyman such as yourself . . .” 
“Hand it over,” Carney said roughly. Aster obliged, watching, tensed, as he unscrewed the cap and ran the bottle under his nose. If he recognized the scent of Sweet Thistle, he would know Aster was playing him. But he just filled the dropper all the way to the top, opened his mouth, and emptied the liquid under his tongue. 
“See? No problem,” Carney said, his slur growing even more pronounced, the drug beginning to work its magic. “Now you just come over here and we can—we can—” 
He sat heavily on the bed, muttered a low curse, and fell back. Aster hurried to his side. His eyes were half open but unseeing, his words faint and incomprehensible. If he wasn’t already asleep, he would be soon. 
Aster moved quickly. 
She ran back to the window. The hay cart was still there, mercifully. And the sluggishness that had taken over her limbs just moments ago had lifted completely. Aster brimmed with energy, equal parts fear and anticipation. How many nights had she imagined an escape? It was finally happening. 
But not if she didn’t hurry. Every second she wasted was a second the other girls might be discovered in the stables. 
She lifted first one leg then the next out the window, the iron sill biting into her palms. She was certain that if she lingered even a moment, someone, something would come to stop her. A heartbeat later, she sat on the window ledge, legs dangling over open air. The distance between her feet and the hay cart seemed to yawn wider, now that the moment to jump was here. Go, she told herself. Jump. 
But instead Aster turned and looked over her shoulder— at the room that had been her prison for so long, at the man who would have used her like so many others already had. Nothing short of the death of a brag had given her this chance to escape, and she knew it was a chance that would come only this once. 
Aster made a decision right then. Even if it meant her life, she would never come back to this place or any place like it. 

Charlotte Nicole Davis 
(standalone girl-power-themed cattlepunk, just translated and released in Spain)

CANCIÓN DE LA DESFLORADA

CANCIÓN DE LA DESFLORADA

(Visa från Utanmyra)

Sólo una vez le pude ver,
me sentí toda yo desvalida…
Como un céfiro marchaba su pie,
tan confiado en la victoria adquirida…
Me echó una mirada y sonrió…
Miró mi flor y sonrió…
Luego se apartó de mí…
Hoy aún pasa de mí…

Sólo una vez le pude ver,
me sentí toda yo desvalida…
Como el sol, irradiaba placer,
cambiaría toda mi vida…
Me tocó con la mano y sonrió…
Tocó mi flor y sonrió…
Luego se apartó de mí…
Hoy aún pasa de mí…

Sólo una vez le pude ver,
me sentí toda yo desvalida…
Tan viril no hay varón que pueda ser,
pues su tacto me marcó la vida…
Rompió mi resistencia y sonrió…
Cogió mi flor y sonrió…
Luego se apartó de mí…
Hoy aún pasa de mí…

(Vox populi, tradición oral sueca)

The Carnation, freely adapted

The Carnation, freely adapted after "The Pink Carnation" by the Brothers Grimm

Quecksilver_Eyes

Summary:

 

My darling, my dearest, my carnation.
Put the knife away.
Your hands are cold, see, and white knuckled around the handle of it, your hair a flood of spun sunlight, like a halo all around you. Your eyes are tired, see, and bloodshot. Don’t you want to take a break? Come on, my flower, put the knife away. Your skin is blood dotted, see, your legs are so heavy. The fabric of your dress is soaked full of water and hangs lazy and like lead from you. The foam of the bath bomb is caught in it, like cirrus in the sky of your dress, in the light of your hair. And I am lying here under you, nothing but the hot water all around me, the knife in your hands pointed at my mouth and I daren’t breathe.

 

Once upon a time -

My darling, my dearest, my carnation.
Put the knife away.
Your hands are cold, see, and white knuckled around the handle of it, your hair a flood of spun sunlight, like a halo all around you. Your eyes are tired, see, and bloodshot. Don’t you want to take a break? Come on, my flower, put the knife away. Your skin is blood dotted, see, your legs are so heavy. The fabric of your dress is soaked full of water and hangs lazy and like lead from you. The foam of the bath bomb is caught in it, like cirrus in the sky of your dress, in the light of your hair. And I am lying here under you, nothing but the hot water all around me, the knife in your hands pointed at my mouth and I daren’t breathe.
Come on, my darling. Put the knife away. Let me wipe the salt and the water off your cheeks. We just have to hide it, see – perhaps we will bury it in a jar full of plotting soil and drive to Italy in some old car that costs way too much to rent, maybe we will throw the jar into the sea and watch it drown. Perhaps I’ll melt it down and pour something new out of it – a necklace, too fragile to strangle me with, or knitting needles, too dull to stab me with.
Let me help, my carnation. Put the knife away and get out of the bathtub or you will drown in here with me or choke on all the soap. Look at the water, my darling, look at how clear and foamed white it is – wouldn’t it be a shame to sully it? How long would it take to turn the water as red as the roses I bought for you in the supermarket at the corner? They’re still blooming, see. Let me see them wilt, my carnation.
Give me the knife.



My mother wanted a child.
And, god, did my mother want a child that grows in here, a child that makes her stomach swell, a child to love, a child to feed, a child to put in her husband’s lap. And as she was lying down, her legs spread, the leather of the chair sticking to her bare skin and steel cold between her legs, trying to see shapes in the plaster of the ceiling, the gynaecologist cleared his throat. She lifted her head.
“I am very sorry, Frau König“, he said and smiled. She closed her legs. “You’re not pregnant.”
He took off the latex gloves and threw them into the paper bin that stood next to the chair. “This is the tenth attempt. We can try again, but you will have to decide for yourself if that still makes sense for you.”
And, god, did my mother want a child.
So she reached for her bag and her underwear, got dressed and left the doctor’s office, her knuckles white, her cheeks blotched red. She pressed herself into the last row of seats on the bus that took her from the surgery to the street she lived in, and her bag to her stomach.
I wish.


Here is how to make a wish, truly:
Sit in the grass, still damp from the dew and close your eyes, wait until your feet and your hands grow numb, until the dew has crept in your clothes and under your skin. Look up into the sky and watch the moon sink lazily towards the Horizon, pale and so, so heavy, watch as the sun slowly drags itself across the sky, and still dishevelled with sleep. The world is still and breathless around you, not even the busses are on the streets yet, put your head back and watch as the sun wakes, as the moon goes to sleep.
And when your eyes grow tired, when you can see the echoes of sunlight flicker behind your eyelids, when tears burn on your cheeks and you cannot feel your hands anymore – close your eyes, reach for the world and make a wish.
And, gosh, did my mother want a child.


My father wanted a boy, strong and smeared with dirt and laughing, who pulls little girls’ pigtails and watches as they skin their arms in the bark mulch under the swing set. My father wanted a boy in dungarees and with a voice that would break with a hitch, a body that would stumble towards adulthood shivering.
My mother wanted a little cherub, with curls and red cheeks, who she could hold in her arms and spoil. My mother wanted a boy to gift toy cars and the world to.
Instead, there was I.
Little blood soiled bundle of a voice loud enough to all but make the world shake, little girl with little hands and big dark eyes, my fingers curled around the midwife’s, kicking my legs. My father took me, a smile on his lips, the light of the setting sun in his eyes, and pressed me to his chest, to his heartbeat. My mother reached for me, with trembling hands and her throat raw, but my father didn’t let go of me.
“In a moment, dear”, he said and didn’t take his eyes nor his hands off me. My mother tried to pull herself up.


I wish.
It comes true

A handy guide to a kidnapping:

You need:
a chicken
a meat cleaver
a narcotic
the greed of the world on your hands and under your fingernails
patience

The man who saw my first steps and my whole life wasn’t my father.
He baked the most beautiful cakes, the most wondrous bread, cooked meat so tender that a spoon could sink through it, and for all these years, he looked at me with eyes so bright and clear, as freshly frozen ice, so blue that they looked white. He smelled of mint and iron and when I was a small girl, I curled into him and his food stained apron, and with each year, my hair grew darker. He held me close, with strong hands and laughter full of heart, full get-up-early-and-feed-the-chickens-pet-the-rabbits.
         “Wish us a home in which we needn’t hunger. Wish us animals that never fall sick, a roof that never leaks, a world that never crumbles.”
On my fifth birthday, after he’d braided my hair and tied my shoelaces, I twirled around in the dress he gave me, blue and smooth and swinging wide and I laughed with my child’s mouth full of teeth. He laughed with me, picked me up and carried me to the rabbit pen.

(My carnation, I’d never cried like that.
Do you know it? You cry until your cheeks are sore, until your eyes are swollen and your lips are chapped, until your lungs cry for air and your throat cries for water. And then you keep on crying, until your cheeks are stained red and your hands are knuckled white.

Like I do?

Yes. Like that.)

There was this rabbit. Black fluffed and big eyed, dark, with floppy ears, and each morning, it sat on my lap and looked at me as if I was the moon that hangs cool and heavy in the night sky.
We had fifteen rabbits, white and black and red and brown spotted, with fluffy scuts and twitching ears and pink noses and when I was five years old, I held them all to a block of wood as the meat cleaver hung heavy in his hands. When I was five years old, the black rabbit looked at me as if I was the mood, cool and crisp and so far away, and I cried until my clavicles were wet and salt stained.
We ate rabbit that night and he gifted me the black rabbit’s pelt on my sixth birthday.


Make a wish.


Elke König convicted of infanticide
Elke König (30) was convicted to serve life this morning at 9:35 by the Viennese regional court. On the 6^th of August, her husband Jochen König (32) found her in their shared flat, covered in blood and sleeping by the empty crib of their three month old child. She was taken into custody and has now, after a lengthy process and despite her lawyer’s strict insistence on his client’s innocence, been convicted.
Her lawyer called the lack of a corpse in this lawsuit “grossly negligent”. In front of the press, he expressed his intention to advocate for a softening of his client’s sentence. “There is no corpse”, he said this noon on a press conference, “and whatever evidence the prosecution has to indicate my mandator’s guilt, they are insufficient.”
Jochen König, who inherited a million-schilling textile empire and has now been managing it for ten years, abstained from commenting on the issue, but during the public hearing he has been quoted as threatening divorce and calling his wife a “filthy child murderer”.
More about König und Co GmbH’s expansive influence on page 7.
 
 
Elke König on hunger strike!
Elke König (30), who was transferred to the regional prison of Vienna, has reportedly refused to eat for three days. “I’m innocent”, she says, and that she wouldn’t eat until her case would be picked up for retrial.
“Of course we make sure that our prisoners eat properly”, says Achim L., the spokesperson for the judicial authority. “Frau König can make threats all she likes, but she has to eat at least once a day.”
 
 
Cook (m/f) wanted
Family König wants competent and experienced cook. 39,5 hrs/week, 2 000€ brutto per month, overpay for over qualification possible. Terminable after a year.
get in touch:
+43 183 0481916 or via email to koenig.gmbh@chello.at
(ad placed on 11/03/1998)


When I was thirteen, I was tall and thin and long legged, with a mouth full of too-big teeth, and black curls that fell almost to my chin, with holes in my trousers and grass spots on my sleeves, my eyes big enough to swallow the sky and all the world with it. My chest ached, with all the earnestness of growing and changing, and my back did as well, striped red and groaning as my bones reached for the moon.
In the mornings, I sat bent over the heavy oak table in the lobby, my hand cramped around a pencil, brows furrowed, as a woman who didn’t know and couldn’t touch me explained algebra to me through a screen. “Public schools are nonsense”, said the man who raised me. “I need you here. How am I supposed to tend to the farm alone?” I dug my teeth into my lower lip and said nothing.
I thought of a black fluffed rabbit and its moon-addicted eyes and the blood that clung to my child hands, and I jabbed the pin of my dividers so hard into my notebook that it got stuck in the wood of the table.
He interrupted the skype call. I threw the ruler on the table and the door into its hinges.


On the hill behind the farm that was my child world grew pink carnations and roses from the same soil. And I, gangly thing, no longer child and not yet woman, sat amidst it all and held my freckles into the sun, with my skin all in cuts and all the world’s wishes on my lips. Roses like bloody things, as red as their petals, so they grew big and vibrant around me and in between them, the world and the carnations stood still.
This was your home, my carnation. In between thorned roses and bloody soil, in the hands of a girl whose world ended at an old wooden fence. Your petals were as pink as your skin is today, with the white nightgown that the water makes cling to you, as red as your cheeks, wet with tears. The yellow of your hair is new. I think it’s my favourite of all your colours.


I wish.

I wish and the world turns for me. I wish that a flower makes a girl, with hair like the light of the sun at noon, and you take your first breath with lungs. I wish that you may stay with me for a life and that he may never point the cleaver at you. Do as he says, my carnation, so that you may live. I wish that your eyes never long for the moon.

österreischicher schilling

You come into my world on a hot summer day in August, when the sky was without clouds and the world was dipped in hot light. You looked at me, then, squinting, a hand held to your forehead, the green dress almost slipped from your shoulders and I could scarcely see where your hair ended and the world began, with the light of the sun behind you. And then you smiled, with pale lips and dimples in your cheeks, amidst the rose bushes and the blooming carnations.
“Hey”, you called, laughing. “Do you think you have a bed for me?”
I took you home with me, in between wood and stone and cattle and you dragged me through the stables and the pens, your hands in every fur, on every feather, laughing and dancing and I couldn’t take my eyes off you as you gave them all a name.
“Can she stay?”
The man who raised me, who killed my rabbit and stained me with blood, pulled a face. “If she doesn’t make a fuss”, he said and looked at you, new as you were, flower that you still were, and he pointed at you with a butter knife. “As long as you do your work and listen to me, you can have the empty room on the first floor. Have you ever worked on a farm before?”

(I’m sorry.

Me too.)

We carried the mattress into my room, our laughter almost a shriek, your legs in a pair of old trousers, the shirt barely buttoned, and put it next to my bed.
It would stay there for years to come.
In this first night, you got to know your legs, in the clumsy waltz that I tried to teach you, your hair in my hands, your head in my lap as we looked at each other and couldn’t keep our laughter locked behind our teeth, as big as it was, and as loud.
I braided your hair to a crown around your head and you put dandelions and daisies into mine and your skin still felt like the petals of a carnation, soft and fragile and pastel pink, so bright against my sun burnt skin.


When I turned seventeen, I kissed you for the first time. You tasted of the fresh cow milk that we stole from the milking machine, and of the raspberries that grew beyond the wooden fence. My hands were scratched raw and still bled and you had put your lips on each of my wounds, ever so softly, and smiled at me. This time it was I who tilted my head back to see the moon, to touch it even once.
Your hands were smooth and soft. You had clipped the thorns off every rose you’d plucked and twined into a wreath that lay heavy and fragrant in my curls until it withered and wilted.
In this moment, with your lips on my skin and your roses in my hair, I put a hand on your cheek, my tanned skin dark against your pallor, the red of my blood like the tips of your petals, and kissed you.


New evidence in König case
According to an anonymous source which leaked a surveillance video to die Presse, on which the Königs’ flat is clearly visible, doubts about the death of the Königs’ child have arisen. On the video, a masked person is seen exiting the flat through the main entrance. They were carrying an infant.
Elke König (50), who has been convicted of murdering her daughter twenty years ago, abstained from commenting on this. Her lawyer however, who had back then advocated strongly for his client’s innocence, denies allegations that Frau König may have been involved in her daughter’s kidnapping. “My mandate has been tricked and framed for a crime she did not commit”, he said in an interview. “I strongly advise the persecution to reopen the case due to the new evidence presented.”
Jochen König (52) reluctant in the face of the press as ever, refused to talk to our reporters.


When I turned twenty, you kneeled above me, a knife in your hands and tears on your cheeks. Your knuckles were white, your lips swollen red and your nightgown like spun fog in the half dark of my room. I looked at you and had to think of a five year old girl who pressed her favourite rabbit against a wooden block and cried for the entire world, her new dress salt crusted from it all.
Your clavicles shone wet in the moonlight and your chest moved in desperate gasps. You looked at me, the knife pointed to my mouth, and I could hear the man who raised me walk up and down the hallway just outside my door, his boots heavy on the wooden floor.
“What does he want?”, I asked and the blade fogged up with my breath.
“Your heart”, you said, your voice wet with tears. “Your tongue.”


The worst thing about slaughtering a pig to have its heart and tongue pose for one’s own and to smear its blood on one’s blanket, is to stand in the stables at five in the morning, tear blurred, and to watch the woman one loves, the woman whose lips one has kissed red and swollen just a half-hour ago, grab her own hands each time they try to reach for the knife.
The worst thing is lying under the heavy duvet as the man who braided one’s hair and tied one’s shoelaces, who baked twenty birthday cakes and created one’s entire world, walks through the room with heavy steps and cradles a pig’s heart in one hand, a pig’s tongue in the other.
The worst thing is knowing that they should be one’s own.
The worst thing are the tears of the woman one loves.


I wish.


I left my world that same evening for the first time and it was like walking through a mirror. Like reaching into an oil painting that should have never been touched, like walking into the world with big dark eyes, your hand in mine, the knife in my pocket.
(“Leave me here”, you’d said, your voice still wavering, and I tucked a strand of your light-hair behind your ear. “Please, leave me here. I will get my hands on that knife one day.”
“I love you”, I’d said and kissed your rough lips. „You are everything I know.“
“I will kill you.” The sun set behind you, as it did when I first saw you, your hair like light, your skin freckle-dotted and so pale, flower that you are, fairy tale creature that you are. “When you can’t stay alert anymore, I will kill you.”
“I know.”)
The world spun around us and with us and I didn’t let go of your hand as we walked up the stairs to the door over which big letters spelled the word police. I was stolen twenty years ago. Please, who am I?
 
 
Elke König proven innocent!
In a twist that could be from a movie script, the missing and for a long time presumed dead daughter of Elke (50) and Jochen König (52) appeared in a small police station in Mannersdorf (NÖ). The young woman (20) was immediately questioned and has confirmed under oath that her mother had nothing to do with her disappearance.
Elke König had been convicted to serve a life sentence in August of 1998. At the time of Fräulein König’s appearance, the case had already been reopened, but Frau König has only today been released from arrest. In the face of the press, she was very shy. “I want to see my child”, she said to our reporters, but refused to answer further questions.
A video of Jochen König appeared on the internet two days ago. In it, he apologizes to his daughter and his wife while crying and asked his daughter to come home. The video already has over four million clicks and has been shared across many platforms. In an interview, Herr König told us that the return of his wife and daughter has the highest priority in his life right now. He interrupted a business trip to Paris just for them, he says.
The Königs’ daughter hasn’t been seen in public yet, but she has left a comment on her father’s video from an apparently only recently created account, asking him for more time to get used to this strange new world.
 
Königs’ child home at last!
The long lost daughter (20) of Jochen and Elke König (52 and 50, see picture) appeared abruptly in front of her father’s firm on Wednesday. She was accompanied by a young woman whose hand she refused to let go of, and she spoke to her father in front of all present employees without waiting to be shown to his office.
Parts of the conversation were recorded and put online, including Fräulein König’s statement that she’d read of her kidnapping in the press archives and couldn’t understand why Herr König had immediately dropped his wife. If she will keep in contact with her father is doubtful.
 
 
Elke König found dead in shared flat!
Elke König (50) was found dead in the flat she shares with her husband (52) only a few days after her release. Apparently, she had been eating only what she was forced to during her stay in prison and had, upon her arrival at home, refused to eat or drink entirely, as a distraught Jochen König tells the Heute.
“She wouldn’t eat or drink no matter what I tried to do to force her. I am deeply ashamed of the way I’ve treated my wife these past twenty years and I wish I could make it undone somehow.”
Elke König has died of thirst on the 25^th of August, according to the police.



My darling, my dearest, my carnation.
Now I am twenty-one and you kneel wet above me, the foam of the bath bomb in your dress and in your hair, the knife pointed at me, tears heavy on your cheeks. Give me the knife, my carnation.
Don’t you want to take a break? You’ve scratched your nails bloody, see, on the plaster behind which we’ve hidden the knife. Come on, give me the knife. Your wedding band is all but ground to dust, see.
Give yourself a moment’s rest.
My parents are as dead as the pig we slaughtered together, do you remember how much blood there was? Come on. We don’t have to sully the bathtub. I’ve brought you roses from the supermarket, let me see them wilt.

I love you. Give me the knife.


You don’t give me the knife. After a year, you don’t have the strength for it.
(I can understand that, my darling. Come on, put my tongue and my heart into the jar above the stove. Put it next to the roses and wilt with them.
I love you. Scatter my ashes in the field of flowers you came from.
Promise me.

I promise.)

- and if they still live, only heaven can know.

 

MISS DERMARK'S VERDIAN OTHELLO - ACT IV

#OthElokuu
Finally, the cathartic story of Othello and Desdemona is reaching its closure. A dramatic closure indeed. Right, those among you who know the ending of the original Othello are in for no surprise, but newbies are reassured that there will be no spoilers!

ACT FOUR

TRACK LIST:

• HAS HE CALMED DOWN NOW?
• WILLOW, WILLOW, WILLOW!
• AVE MARIA (HAIL MARY)
• MY LADY, HAVE YOU SAID YOUR EVENING PRAYERS?
• PLEASE OPEN! PLEASE OPEN!!
• NO ONE DREAD ME

Desdemona's bedchamber. The door is on the right. A canopy bed, a nightstand table, a dressing table with its mirror, a pair of chairs, a wardrobe, and a prie-dieu in whose altar a candelabra illuminates an image, or icon, of the Virgin Mary. Another candelabra burns on the nightstand table. It is late evening. Desdemona, in her lacy négligée, and Emilia, in her usual maid's uniform, sitting on the chairs, both females visibly tense yet putting on brave faces.

EMILIA:
Has he calmed down now?
DESDEMONA:
So it seems. He's told me
to go to bed and wait for him. Emilia,
could you please make the bed with our wedding night sheets,
and spread my snow-white wedding gown on the covers?

(Emilia makes the bed with the wedding night sheets and, after that, takes Desdemona's wedding dress out of the wardrobe and gently places it upon the covers.)

DESDEMONA (prompting Emilia to come closer):
Listen.
If I by chance should die before you, please
use as my shroud these snow-white sheets and covers!
EMILIA:
Aside cast all these worries!
DESDEMONA (sighing):
Tonight I'm weak and weary...
(In front of the dressing table mirror, as she undresses):
My mother had at her service a maiden
with loveliness laden.
This servant's name was
Varvara. Her lover
one day suddenly left her for another;
she sang a song of a willow-tree...
Let down my hair, Emilia...
(Emilia undoes Desdemona's hairstyle, letting golden cascades fall down her upper back and shoulders.)
DESDEMONA:
This evening, I cannot forget and still remember
that tune, bleak as November...
The poor soul sat sighing
upon dire waste land,
by a sycamore tree...
Oh willow, willow, willow!
Her head in her hands plunged
and low bent the knee...
Oh willow, willow, willow!
Sing green, oh! Sing green, oh!
The weeping willow shall
soon be my wedding garland...
Fresh streams sparkling ran through banks in full bloom,
yet her young heart was broken...
Through her painful eyes, that heart streamed out in gloom;
no word was breathed or spoken...
Oh willow, willow, willow!
Sing green, oh! Sing green, oh!
The weeping willow shall
soon be my wedding garland...
The songbirds of springtime were drawn by her tone,
all of her tears and sighing
would stir the rocks and their hard hearts of stone, 
so they would soon be crying...
Oh willow, willow, willow!
Sing green, oh! Sing green, oh!
The weeping willow shall
soon be my wedding garland...

(Desdemona takes off her wedding ring from the left ring finger.)

DESDEMONA (to Emilia, as she places her wedding ring in Emilia's left ring finger, next to Emilia's own ring): Please keep my ring, I trust you...
(Standing up): Ah, poor young Varvara! The final lyrics
of such a mournful song be sung hereof:
"He was born to attain high glory;
I, born to love..."

(Clanking steel from outside.)

DESDEMONA (to Emilia):
Listen.

(Emilia takes a pair of steps closer to Desdemona.)
(Roderigo and Cassio screaming in pain outside, offstage.)
DESDEMONA (to Emilia):
Don't you hear screaming?
(Putting an index finger to her lips.) Hush. 

(The evening breeze strikes the shutters, giving the impression of knocks on the door.)

DESDEMONA (to Emilia):
Someone knocked on our door now?
EMILIA (reassuring):
You are dreaming...

DESDEMONA (sweetly):
I to love him and to die...
Sing green, oh! Sing willow!
Emilia, good evening. Oh, my eyes are so teary!
It's a sign that I'll shed tears...
Oh, Emilia, I'm so weary!

(Emilia turns around and prepares to leave. Upon hearing Desdemona say "I'm so weary," she quickly pivots back to her lady's side and embraces her, mussing Desdemona's golden head with one hand as her other arm clasps the young lady's waist, Desdemona embracing her handmaid in exchange.)

DESDEMONA (sighing, clinging to Emilia's waist):
Live well, Emilia, forever!

(Emilia finally loosens her grip on a more reassured Desdemona. Exit Emilia through the door, stage right, leaving Desdemona on her own.)

DESDEMONA (kneeling in her prie-dieu, to the Virgin on the altar):
Ave Maria, gratia plena, benedicta
eris tu semper in mulieribus...
Dominus tecum, et benedictus fructus...
benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus...
(Sweetly.) Pray for the one who upon bent knees implores you,
pray for the innocent, and for the sinner,
for the oppressed weak and th'oppressive winner,
even he suffers... mercy that adores you...
(Passionately.) Pray for those who, through outrage and misfortune,
lower their gaze, resign to fate unfair...
(Sweetly once more.) ...nunc et in hora mortis, mortis nostra...
ora pro nobis, pray and hear my prayer!
(She thrusts her elbows on the altar, her head buried in her hands, repeating her prayer sobbing and in such a low voice that only the first and last words are audible.)
Ave Maria, gratia plena, benedicta...
...
...in hora mortis nostra!
Ave... Amen!
(She finally rises, drying up her tears, and goes to bed, tucking herself under the bedcovers and drawing the bed-curtains, but still feeling tense.)

(Enter Othello through the door, stage right. After shutting the door, he places his sword on the dressing table and stands for a while before the candelabra on the nightstand table, doubting whether he shall quench the flames or not. Then he gently pushes the bed-curtains aside and, after casting but a glance on a sleeping Desdemona, he blows out the candles on the nightstand, leaving the bedchamber only lit, in twilight or penumbra, by the prie-dieu candelabra. In a jealous rage, he pivots towards the bed and approaches the sleeping Desdemona, but suddenly, when standing right above her, he freezes in place, watching his lady for a while, mournfully.) 

OTHELLO (spoken): Put out the light... and then... put out the light...
If I quench candle-flames, as I have done,
I could again their former light restore.
But once put out your light, dear, I know not
where is the heat that could warm you once more.
When I have picked this rose, I cannot bring
new sap into her vessels - she must wilt.
Yet I won't shed her blood or scar her skin,
as white and soft as newly-fallen snow.
Yet she must die, or else she'll break more hearts.
So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must shed
such cruel tears... This sorrow's heavenly...

"How wonderful the stars are," he said to her,

"and how wonderful is the power of love!"

'Tis true, indeed; love can begin a life

as well as end it... You're so sweet and fair!
Be thus when you are dead; I'll kill you now,
and love you after... 
(He kisses her once, twice, thrice. The third kiss awakens her.)

(After a while, he kisses her once, twice, thrice. The third kiss awakens her.)

DESDEMONA (in a daze, half-awake):
Who is there? Othello?

OTHELLO:
Me!!
My lady, have you said your evening prayers?

DESDEMONA (sweetly):
Of course...

OTHELLO:
Should you remember
any offence you made and left unconfessed,
confess it now, and your sins are forgiven.

DESDEMONA:
And why?

OTHELLO:
Confess now. I will not kill your soul,
no, spared be your spirit...

DESDEMONA:
You speak of murder...?

DESDEMONA:
Mercy, Mary, upon me!!

OTHELLO:
Amen.

DESDEMONA:
And mercy be upon you too!!

OTHELLO:
Think of your sins now...

DESDEMONA:
My only sin is love...

OTHELLO:
You'll die for love's sake...

DESDEMONA:
You'll kill me for I love you?

OTHELLO (ominous):
You love Cassio.

DESDEMONA:
Love? As a friend or a brother!

OTHELLO (ominous):
You've given him the handkerchief I gave you.

DESDEMONA:
That's a lie, right?!

OTHELLO:
In his young hands I saw it.

DESDEMONA:
I have ne'er been unfaithful!

OTHELLO:
Confess now!!

DESDEMONA:
I swear!!

OTHELLO:
Of oathbreaking beware...
Know that you're lying right now on your deathbed.

DESDEMONA:
Not for tonight...!

OTHELLO:
Soon you'll be dying...

DESDEMONA:
Help me!
'Twixt me and Cassio... 
Send for him here, to tell you!

OTHELLO (coldly):
He'll never answer.

DESDEMONA (sobbing):
Is he... dead, right?!

OTHELLO (coldly):
Stone dead.

DESDEMONA (breaking into tears):
He's betrayed... I am lost, too!

OTHELLO (already beginning to flare up):
And you dare to mourn him?!

DESDEMONA (breaking into tears):
Please spare me... please don't end my life...

OTHELLO:
In vain yourself defending...

DESDEMONA (breaking into tears):
Please let me live... please let me live...
please let me live...

OTHELLO (shoving Desdemona down to the mattress in a fit of rage):
Fall! Down now! Fall! Down now, harlot, strumpet!!

DESDEMONA:
Let go!!

OTHELLO (slapping Desdemona across the face):
Die, wench!!!

DESDEMONA:
Let me for tonight live...

OTHELLO:
NO!!

DESDEMONA:
An hour...

OTHELLO:
NO!!

DESDEMONA:
Just an instant...

OTHELLO:
NO!!

DESDEMONA:
Let me say a Hail Mary...

OTHELLO (clasping Desdemona in his arms):
TOO LATE, WENCH!!!

DESDEMONA:
Aaaah!!!

(He presses her tightly to his chest, as she writhes and struggles to break free in vain. About three or four minutes later, still pressed to his chest, her movements die down and she is still, her arms hanging pale and limp, like a doll's, at her sides. Then, Othello shoves the lifeless form back onto the mattress, in a fit of rage.)

(Loud, quick knocks on the door.)

OTHELLO (beholding Desdemona's lifeless form, before drawing the bed-curtains):
Still as a dead one...

(More loud knocks on the door. This time, by her voice, it's revealed that Emilia is the one knocking.)

EMILIA (offstage, outside, frantically knocking on the door):
Please open! Please open!!
(She knocks on the door, still feverishly, once more.)

OTHELLO (drawing the bed-curtains, shocked):
Who is there... a-knocking?

EMILIA (offstage, outside, frantically knocking on the door):
Please, Your Lordship, I pray, let me enter...
let me tell you... Please open!!

OTHELLO (opening the door):
Emilia! What's happened?

EMILIA (entering the room):
Such a misfortune! Cassio's stabbed one Roderigo...

OTHELLO:
And Cassio...?

EMILIA:
He lives.

OTHELLO (in shock):
Does he live still??!!

DESDEMONA (from her bed, with her last dying breath in a weak voice):
I die here guiltless... for sins I ne'er committed...

EMILIA (hastening to the bed):
Who was that?
(Pushing the bed-curtains aside, in shock.) Good Lord!!

DESDEMONA (in bed, with her last dying breath in a weak voice):
Innocent, dying...

EMILIA (in shock):
Who did it?! Good Lord, who did?!

DESDEMONA (in bed, with her last dying breath in a weak voice):
I don't know... myself, sure... please, send
my spouse my last regards, please... innocent, dying...
innocent, dying... 
fare thee well.
(She ceases to breathe.)

(Emilia thrusts her head on Desdemona's chest and recoils, feeling no heartbeat at all.)

OTHELLO:
That lying strumpet... whom I stifled!

EMILIA (in a slight rage, tinged with self-control):
Vile assassin!

OTHELLO (exhausted, coming to from his fit of rage):
She and Cassio were lovers.
Please ask Iago.

EMILIA:
Iago??!!

OTHELLO (coldly, exhausted):
Iago.

EMILIA (in a now even more blazing rage):
Moron!! Did you believe him??!!

OTHELLO (enraged once more, lunging at Emilia):
Dare you deny it??!!

EMILIA (coolly, staring Othello in the eyes):
I'm not frightened.

OTHELLO (packing Emilia by both wrists):
Stay here!!

EMILIA (breaking free from Othello's grasp):
Mayday! Bring help, bring assistance!!
(She storms out to the threshold.)
(Screaming in the doorway.) OTHELLO'S STIFLED HIS LADY WIFE!!

(Enter Ludovica, Iago, and Cassio, the young lieutenant all pale and weary, his left leg bandaged with the strawberry handkerchief and bloodstained, staggering, limping, leaning on the other two people for crutches.)

LUDOVICA, IAGO, CASSIO (in shock):
What screaming!! 
(Looking towards the bed): Alas! Alas!! Alas!!!

(The people who support Cassio lay him to rest on a chair, where he slumps unconscious.)

EMILIA (to Iago):
Are you a man? If so, confront this wife-slayer.
Did you believe Desdemona was unfaithful?

IAGO:
So I believed it.

OTHELLO:
The handkerchief which was my first love-gift
she gave, in turn, to young Cassio...

EMILIA:
By all heavenly powers!!

IAGO (to Emilia, covering his wife's mouth with his hands):
SHUT UP!!!

(Emilia bites Iago in the hand, freeing herself. He winces but slightly as she packs him by both wrists.)

(Enter a detachment of armed soldiers.)

EMILIA:
NO!!! I will reveal all!!

IAGO (freeing himself from his wife's grasp, firing his pistol at point-blank range):
SHUT UP!!!

EMILIA (struck by Iago's bullet in the left side, pale, coughing up blood, reaching out a hand to the commanding officers):
NO!!! He snatched
that berry handkerchief by force from my hands,
tearing it off me!
(She slumps unconscious into the other chair.)

CASSIO (coming to):
And in my quarters
I found it then...

LUDOVICA (pointing at Iago with Roderigo's bloodstained sword-cane, which she produces from underneath her coat):
Of stab wounds dying, Roderigo has
revealed all schemes wrought by this scoundrel!

OTHELLO (lunging at Iago):
Gasp!! Explain yourself!!!

IAGO (storming out the door):
No!

LUDOVICA:
Halt, please!

(Exit Iago, running as fast as he can.)

LUDOVICA (to the soldiers):
Pursue him! 

CASSIO, OTHELLO, EMILIA:
Seize that scoundrel now!!

(Exit the detachment of soldiers, in pursuit of Iago.)

OTHELLO (taking up his sword from the dressing table, desperate):
Has Zeus no lightning left for me??!!

LUDOVICA (snatching the sword from Othello's grasp):
Give me your sword.

OTHELLO (resisting):
How dare you??!!
No one dread me.
Any child can disarm me. My journey ends here...
There's no return... Oh, glory... Othello's gone!
(He lunges at Ludovica, so that his lunging forwards plunges the sword she is holding into his own solar plexus, then staggers towards the bed and his lady's form...)
(To the lifeless Desdemona, sobbing.) And you... how pale and cold, my dear!
Pious, noble child born under stars of sorrow...
Pale as your wedding gown, cold as the winter...
like your pure, short life...
My ladylove! My lady wife! Ah... Dead lies Desdemona!!!

(Drawing a hidden main-gauche dagger he keeps buckled to his right thigh, Othello puts it to the left side of his chest.)

OTHELLO (stabbing himself in the left side of the chest):
I am still armed!

CASSIO (standing up, staggering towards Othello, as his commanding officer stabs himself):
Halt! Stop this!

(The dying Othello looks down on Cassio and viceversa. Both officers, locking eyes, reach out, then hold right hands as a token of reconciliation: the young officer is finally forgiven. As Othello turns back to Desdemona's form, Cassio dries up a few tears, sobbing.)

LUDOVICA, EMILIA, CASSIO:
Such misfortune!!

OTHELLO (dying, coughing up blood, to Desdemona's form as he caresses her):
Right ere I killed you... dear... I kissed you thrice...
Now... plunging into darkness...
how much I miss you...
I kiss you...
(He kisses her cold lips.)
I kiss you once more...
(He gives her a second kiss...)
Ah... die on the third kiss...
(He kisses her for the third time, breathing his last into her suffocated airways, to rise up nevermore.)


CURTAIN CALL.

THE END.