• ABOUT
  • PRINT
  • PRAISE
  • SUBSCRIBE
  • OPENINGS
  • SUBMISSIONS
  • CONTACT
The Missing Slate - For the discerning reader
  • HOME
  • Magazine
  • In This Issue
  • Literature
    • Billy Luck
      Billy Luck
    • To the Depths
      To the Depths
    • Dearly Departed
      Dearly Departed
    • Fiction
    • Poetry
  • Arts AND Culture
    • Tramontane
      Tramontane
    • Blade Runner 2049
      Blade Runner 2049
    • Loving Vincent
      Loving Vincent
    • The Critics
      • FILM
      • BOOKS
      • TELEVISION
    • SPOTLIGHT
    • SPECIAL FEATURES
  • ESSAYS
    • A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
      A SHEvolution is Coming in Saudi Arabia
    • Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
      Paxi: A New Business Empowering Women in Pakistan
    • Nature and Self
      Nature and Self
    • ARTICLES
    • COMMENTARY
    • Narrative Nonfiction
  • CONTESTS
    • Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2017 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2016 Nominations
    • Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
      Pushcart Prize 2015 Nominations
    • PUSHCART 2013
    • PUSHCART 2014
Fiction, LiteratureOctober 14, 2016

Song of Silence

He stared at the lake. ‘I don’t think we can cross, Daisy,’ he said, letting go of a skein of hair which caught the piny breeze briefly before settling upon her shoulder.

‘Let’s go down to the lake. It might be thawing.’

Albert looked at his watch: it was already one o’clock.

Sensing Albert’s hesitation, Daisy smiled. ‘At worst we can’t pass, at best we might find a path along the shoreline. We might be able to follow this to the Königsbach and up to Hochbahnweg. We’d make it back to Berchtesgaden in two hours, maybe three.’

Daisy led the way, pulling Albert by the hand towards the smell of pines where the Kesselbach met the Königssee – strong and sweet even though the shingle, which stretched for perhaps fifteen feet up towards the mountains, was free of trees and shrubs.

From where they were now stood, the small settlement had disappeared behind the long arm of a ridge sloping like a sleeve into the niveous water. Albert could just make out the church in the shadow of the Watzmann massif; the adumbration bruising its bacate roof. To either side the Königssee lay flat, white, and bright as the horizon.

Daisy walked up to the lake and carefully tapped the surface with the heel of her shoe.

‘It hasn’t thawed at all,’ said Daisy incredulously. ‘Look.’

She took a step onto the frozen surface and tapped the heel of her shoe again to prove her point.

‘Daisy, you shouldn’t stand on it. It’s not safe.’

‘It’s solid.’

‘I don’t care. Come back.’

Daisy beckoned towards her husband with her left hand whilst her legs, pulled towards the church of St. Bartholomew as if by ecclesiastical magnetism, began to take another step.

‘Careful. Just be careful. Please,’ said Albert.

Daisy looked at her husband.

Though the surface was covered with a top surface of ice, Albert knew that winter had not been cold as previous years and many waterways and rivers in southern Germany continued to flow unfrozen.

Albert remembered the rivers he had passed on the train. They had seemed motionless; he knew they were not.

‘Daisy, come back. You shouldn’t be doing this.’

‘It’s frozen. It’s safe,’ said Daisy.

She took another step, but the surface shuddered like a spine caught by a shiver.

Albert heard the noise too, faint and furtive. ‘It’s not safe,’ he whispered to himself, afraid that his voice might break the ice.

Daisy took a smaller step to the side, rather than forwards, placing the tip of her shoe down first, then the flat and finally the heel. A click like a lighters’ metal grinder was followed by the water, waking, grumbling.

‘Don’t go any further. Come back. You’ll make it back. Slowly. Just keep going slowly.’

Daisy listened, turning immediately.

Daisy beckoned towards her husband with her left hand whilst her legs, pulled towards the church of St. Bartholomew as if by ecclesiastical magnetism, began to take another step.

Concentrating upon the fulmination which, loud as thunder, clapped beneath her feet, she hurried towards Albert.

When the noise suddenly stopped, Daisy looked up. A crack followed from her foot: the ice fracturing. A thin line travelled towards Albert who had stepped onto the lake.

‘Take my hand. Quickly,’ shouted Albert.

Daisy raised herself from where she had fallen. The sudden movement widened the soft, wet palate of the water and pulled her down.

Albert ran towards her, thrusting out a hand, but the cracked surface cried and collapsed.

 

*

 

Albert looked up.

The door of the pub had smacked against its frame and Barry was walking towards him.

‘Evening, Albert.’

‘Landlord,’ said Albert, wiping his eyes.

Barry stood next to Albert, reclining one arm upon the fence and looking out onto the gloaming, exhaling contentedly.

‘Beautiful night, is it not?’

‘Yes.’

The dark was dampened by a drizzle which had fallen surreptitiously from the night sky. Albert held out a hand, palm open, feeling the water run between his thumb and index finger.

‘Catherine and I are shutting up shop for the evening, Albert. Would you be leaving soon as well?’

Albert slowly closed his hand into a fist, squeezing the water onto the blackened turf below.

‘Yes, just waiting for Daisy to come out.’

‘I see,’ said Barry.

‘She’s just gone to the toilet. She’ll be out soon.’

Barry turned towards the road where a car was driving past. He watched the headlights weave across the clifftops.

‘People heading home after dinner,’ he said.

‘Yes, it’s probably that time already.’

The door of the pub opened and Albert turned his head to look. ‘Ah –’ he said, as Catherine stood in the doorframe, apron folded across her forearm.

Barry nodded and Catherine returned inside.

The lights of the pub were turned off. Darkness reclaimed the terrace and the sea shuddered within a conch shell.

‘We’re off Albert. The pub will be shut but you’re welcome to stay.’

‘Yes, that’ll be fine. Just waiting for Daisy to come out.’

Barry sighed and put his hand on top of Albert’s, feeling the skin steady from his touch.

Behind them Catherine had locked the doors to the pub, the clinking of keys unheard by the men as they watched the silver slivers of starlight striating the black breakers upon the shore. The bay had fallen into complete sleep, the waves washing day away.

Catherine gave Barry a kiss on the cheek, then Albert, and disappeared down the steps into the carpark.

‘Are you seeing family tonight?’ asked Barry.

‘Me?’ asked Albert, woken again from his reverie by the sound of a human voice. ‘Oh, not tonight. Just me and Daisy.’

‘Well, ok then, Albert. I’ll be off.’

Silence settled between them from which Barry, with a great effort, hauled himself.

‘Merry Christmas, Albert.’

‘Merry Christmas Barry, to you and your wife, from me and mine.’

Barry patted Albert on the back and left him alone.

 

Joshua Schouten de Jel is currently completing his PhD studies at Plymouth University. When he has a smidgen of time between work and research, he enjoys writing poetry and short stories and has had pieces published in Aesthetic Magazine, Octavius Magazine, and Popshot Magazine.

Continue Reading

← 1 2 View All

Tags

fictionJoshua Schouten de JelStory of the Week

Share on

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest
  • Google +
  • LinkedIn
  • Email
Previous articleHalf the Kingdom/Det halve rige
Next articleWhile Watching the Latest Clip Out of Douma, Syria,

You may also like

Billy Luck

To the Depths

Dearly Departed

Ad

In the Magazine

A Word from the Editor

Don’t cry like a girl. Be a (wo)man.

Why holding up the women in our lives can help build a nation, in place of tearing it down.

Literature

This House is an African House

"This house is an African house./ This your body is an African woman’s body..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

Shoots

"Sapling legs bend smoothly, power foot in place,/ her back, parallel to solid ground,/ makes her torso a table of support..." By Kadija Sesay.

Literature

A Dry Season Doctor in West Africa

"She presses her toes together. I will never marry, she says. Jamais dans cette vie! Where can I find a man like you?" By...

In the Issue

Property of a Sorceress

"She died under mango trees, under kola nut/ and avocado trees, her nose pressed to their roots,/ her hands buried in dead leaves, her...

Literature

What Took Us to War

"What took us to war has again begun,/ and what took us to war/ has opened its wide mouth/ again to confuse us." By...

Literature

Sometimes, I Close My Eyes

"sometimes, this is the way of the world,/ the simple, ordinary world, where things are/ sometimes too ordinary to matter. Sometimes,/ I close my...

Literature

Quarter to War

"The footfalls fading from the streets/ The trees departing from the avenues/ The sweat evaporating from the skin..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Literature

Transgendered

"Lagos is a chronicle of liquid geographies/ Swimming on every tongue..." By Jumoke Verissimo.

Fiction

Sketches of my Mother

"The mother of my memories was elegant. She would not step out of the house without her trademark red lipstick and perfect hair. She...

Fiction

The Way of Meat

"Every day—any day—any one of us could be picked out for any reason, and we would be... We’d part like hair, pushing into the...

Fiction

Between Two Worlds

"Ursula spotted the three black students immediately. Everyone did. They could not be missed because they kept to themselves and apart from the rest...."...

Essays

Talking Gender

"In fact it is often through the uninformed use of such words that language becomes a tool in perpetuating sexism and violence against women...

Essays

Unmasking Female Circumcision

"Though the origins of the practice are unknown, many medical historians believe that FGM dates back to at least 2,000 years." Gimel Samera looks...

Essays

Not Just A Phase

"...in the workplace, a person can practically be forced out of their job by discrimination, taking numerous days off for fear of their physical...

Essays

The Birth of Bigotry

"The psychology of prejudice demands that we are each our own moral police". Maria Amir on the roots of bigotry and intolerance.

Fiction

The Score

"The person on the floor was unmistakeably dead. It looked like a woman; she couldn’t be sure yet..." By Hawa Jande Golakai.

More Stories

Like Any Good Indian

Poem of the Week (May 28), by Shikha Malaviya

Back to top
One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at [email protected].

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

Read previous post:
Spotlight Site: Daf Yomi

"A model of how a blog can add value to a mainstream publication by doing something eccentric and focused, something...

Close