around the corner, someone is
Justine Jordan
Touching Ground
My cousin asks me which would fall faster: this leaf or this helmet? He leans against the balustrade, waving both objects. Below, I am looking up at the balcony. I point at the helmet with a curved finger, but part of my attention is on the leaf. I heard somewhere that dry leaves fall faster, although only sometimes. I heard–
Scampering. My cousin is rushing downstairs, and I do not know why, but I feel light-headed. On the floor I see a helmet, a few inches away from my toes. On my toe I see a red dot. My cousin is searching for the leaf.
Taking into Account
Seen at the entrance is a man carrying a gun, walking inside. Seen on his person is a baton and a name tag sewn onto his uniform. A woman leafing through the contents of an envelope, waiting in line, is approached by this man, who shows her a small piece of paper. She calmly nods, then makes for the exit. After, the room is scanned by the man. Seen: only a few people watching. Hence: resume post outside. Outside, carrying a knife is a man, threatening this woman. She is quivering in panic. A tear streams past her shades and drops into her bag. Your money, give it to me, he tells her. No one is looking. The condition is if she shouted or signaled anyone for help, he would cut deep into her belly. She reaches for the contents of her bag, surrenders the money she had planned to deposit, and rushes to her car, sniffling. Seen a few minutes later: man nowhere to be found. Seen seconds later: women returning from outside. She deposits her car keys into her bag.
Breaking in Half
Sitting on a park bench were a boy and a girl, under yellowing foliage. An elderly person came up to them. "He isn't happy," the elderly said, pointing at the boy – then left. Both of them started. Looking at each other, they laughed. The two dismissed the incident and continued their conversation. Later that day, they checked into a hotel because – well – only because they had planned that trip after sitting on a bench in a park. The room they chose was a suite: high ceiling, yellow lights and wooden flooring. But as the girl scanned their room, she saw: an open field, barren and somehow with furniture. The boy gazed out the window. He was more interested in the scenery outside than yellow lights.
Making Way
It was summer, and a man was treading past shelves of books inside a quaint bookstore because he wanted to distance himself from familiarity. He leafed through the pages of a book, then looked up and looked for the scent that suddenly wafted through the air. The woman standing beside him was asking a toddler to identify the colors of a coloring book. He identified the voice but not quite. He also identified how the hairclip bit locks of her hair loosely. And he identified the paleness of her skin, where the scent probably originated from. He knew the toddler was her child, judging by how she addressed it. The man stared at the woman and remembered a face; though it was not quite the face he wanted to skin against asphalt at noon. And he remembered a man.
Waiting Out
A mannequin is displaying a dress in a department store. You see how the fabric hangs from the lifeless body of plastic, and wonder. Across from you is the window of a department store. At the waiting shed, you sit alone, hoping for a bus or a taxi to bring you home. But every time a vehicle passes by, it is either a sedan or a sports car. You have been sitting for almost an hour. The joints in your body begin to ache, and your leg numbs after placing it across the other for several minutes. You get up and cross the street, checking either way for oncoming vehicles. Once you step onto the pedestrian lane on the other side, you look at the mannequin from its head to its feet. You notice the fabric is silk, and you want to touch. The skin on your arm is the surface of a leaf. You move closer to the glass. A mannequin gets to wear silk more often than you, you think.
An engine roars. Turning your attention away from the window to look behind you, you see the bench from where you stand, and you see the bus driving away, leaving behind a whirl of leaves.
Justine Anjanique Jordan is a fictionist based in the Philippines. One of her short stories ("Dr. Domingo") has been published in FLESH: A Southeast Asian Urban Anthology. She envisions a future where mornings are spent writing stories.