Vaya Pseftaki

Dear Editors, I am glad to submit my novelette, “Sinkholes” (15800 words), for your consideration. I hold a creative writing MA from Kingston University, London. My first novel in the genre of New Weird, Enydria, was published in Greece by Ars Nocturna Publications, in 2011. My non-fiction work is being published on a regular basis in mystery magazine. I was a guest speaker in ?antastiCon, the first Greek fantasy convention, that took place in Athens in October 2015, as well as in October 2016. I currently live in Greece with my girlfriend where I teach English and creative writing. I have also worked as an editor and translator (English to Greek) in Archetypo Publications, Ars Nocturna Publications and Logeion Publishing. Thank you in advance for your time, Vaya Pseftaki

Fiction TCL #25 - Fall 2017

Sinkholes

By on Thursday, December 28, 2017

Us, Spawns

“I guess this is not the right day for a sponge.”

“Is there a right day?”

“Must be. A rainy day won’t let me walk past the corner, makes me feel all fat and bloated. A sunny day will turn me into a raisin, old and used up. A windy day now-”

“Got it.”

Their room does not catch the sun, constantly washed in sterile, fluorescent light. Creased sheets, stranger-stained, on two single beds nailed together. As cheap as it gets. Ten euros an hour and twenty a night. The clock is ticking Coca Cola time on the beige wall.

The Lord of Dead Ends blows a perfect circle of smoke towards the ceiling. He cracks his fingers and cautiously leans back against the headboard.

“We need to get going,” says Sponge the Bright, fishing the last crisps from the bottom of the bag.

“You’ll smell like crisps for days,” the Lord of Dead Ends says and grabs the bag from his hands. The TV burps a tulip of purple steam as he turns it off; its cogs grunt and stop.

“Fine. And you get dressed. It takes ages to wrap you up and our first shift starts in an hour.”

“Right.” The Lord of Dead Ends unfolds his long limbs and stretches throwing his head back, hair tickling his waist. His padded full-body suit hangs limp on the coat rack, black. When he wears it he feels like it’s swallowing him up, every inch of his dazzling white skin. It still leaves the face uncovered, though. When you are made of porcelain, there are only so many precautions you can take. “You know this job won’t last either, so don’t keep your hopes up.” He zips the suit up, testing it for spots where the padding has thinned, it seems fine. “There is a reason I am called the Lord of Dead Ends.”

Sponge the Bright snorts and jumps around as he tries to squeeze his fluffy arms into the sleeves of his coat. “I really need to get a cloak next time,” he says, fumbling to button up and failing. The Lord of Dead Ends stifles a chuckle and stubs his cigarette in the astray.

“Shit,” he says, leaning towards the window, looking up. “You were right. It’s this fucking poisonous rain again. I’ll get the umbrellas.”

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