African Adventure by Ryan Kane McGuire

“Anyway, chap, could you, uh...?” The large waiter said nothing, but a sad sigh slipped through his lips. “Dreadfully sorry old boy, but I seem to have forgotten your name.”

“Again,” replied the waiter, barely maintaining professionalism.

“Again? I know you coloured people have some exotic names but 'Again' just doesn't sound right...”

“My name is not 'Again.' My name is Jamie, sir.”

The hunched old man sneered and looked over his thin, golden-rimmed glasses. “You shouldn't have bloody said it was then. Jamie, eh?” He furrowed his brow and looked at Jamie quizzically. “No. That can't be right.” The old man turned back to the sea and stared out absently.

That was the last straw for Jamie. He had stopped and chatted with the old man as a courtesy as he made his way across the deck of the ship, and he seemed nice enough at first, but it was clear after those short three minutes that he was either massively racist or criminally insane. Jamie needed an out. One that wouldn't lose him his job. It was only a part-time thing serving old white people martinis on a cruise ship, but he was seeing the world and getting paid for it.

“Can I offer you a drink, sir? Another Bloody Mary, perhaps?” The words trickled out through gritted teeth.

The old fellow thrust his glass out towards Jamie without turning away from the sea. “Try not to drown it.”



When Jamie returned with a fresh tray of various up-market alcoholic beverages, the old man was in the exact same spot, still staring out at the ocean. Jamie, having calmed down significantly thanks to a sneaky swig of vodka in the kitchens, tapped the old fellow on the shoulder. His head snapped back in surprise, snapped out of his thoughts, and he took the drink.

“Ah, Jamie, my boy! I thought you'd forgotten about me.”

“No, sir.” Jamie felt a pang of sympathy for the old fool. He had been alone every time Jamie had seen him. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

“No, no, that's fine, lad, you've done plenty. I like you, Jamie, I do. You're a nice young man.” The old man's mouth sagged into a sad smile.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Yes, yes... glad to meet you, indeed.” The sadness left the old man's smile. “It's nice, getting out here, meeting new people, on this little African cruise adventure, eh? Must be a wonderful job.”

Jamie closed his eyes and sighed again. “This is the Caribbean, sir.”

The old man paused, and slurped his drink. After a moment he looked at Jamie and frowned. “Which is in Africa, yes?”

Flamingo Fun by Ryan Kane McGuire

This flamingo was my favourite, but it is broken now. I had seven flamingos. This one was my favourite.

They all stood in their formation in the front garden, coyly propping themselves up on one leg. Sometimes they looked like they were shielding their beautiful pink plastic feathers from the muck, and sometimes they looked playful. Teasing me.

Yes, yes... Last Friday. What happened? Well, I was playing with Svetlana... this one. My favourite one. Mr Dewberry came walking past my garden, that rotter, that horrible man, and he started talking to me.

“Oh, Kevin, Kevin, when are you going to grow up and stop playing with those stupid plastic birds, eh?” What a bugger. No, he didn't actually sound like that. I apologise. My impression was tarnished by anger and for that I am very sorry, mister policeman. What? No, I didn't say anything else to him that day. He walked off with his pointy-faced wife.

Well, then I went in and had lunch, then I took Svetlana for a walk, then... oh. Right. Well, in the evening, once Mr Dewberry had gotten home – I could tell, I watched out the window for two hours until he came back – and then I got the spare key Mr Dewberry always left under his flower pot, and let myself in.

What next? I told you. We killed Mr Dewberry. We bashed his silly, mean brains in. 'We' as in me and Svetlana. I told you that already. That's why she's all broken. Look at her, poor thing... this one was my favourite.

Sorry? Why do the others have blood on them? Well, we let them watch.

High Society by Ryan Kane McGuire

“Ponsonby!”

“Yes, sir?” His pathetic voice wobbles from down the corridor.

“Fetch my masque.” I admire my buttocks in the standing mirror. Rarely do I have the chance to see it in such fine garments, but tonight is a special occasion. There is a party to attend, on the pretense of business.

Ponsonby pokes his shrivelled little head around the door of my chamber. “I wasn't aware you had a masque, sir.”

“It was recently... procured. A business gift. It should be on the mantle.”

“Very good, sir.” Ponsonby shambles off. The old dogs brain shrinks hourly, it seems. Perhaps a sharper manservant would have noticed something by now.



I give myself a little twirl, green coat-tails flapping, and I approve. I've had my harder days, and my hair is still thick and dark, my features strong, my eyes deceiving. From the box sitting under my bed I find my valuables. Gold, silver, diamonds. Valuable to certain people, but not to me. They were just a thrill for me. A rush.

“Your masque, sir.” I kick the box shut before the old hobbling prune has a chance to see its contents. “It's lovely, if I may say so, sir.”

“Yes. The prior owner was loathe to part, but they found me rather charming, I think.” Even I think my uncontrollable grin looks smug.

“You do seem to have a way with people, sir.” Ponsonby slides the mask over my head, and I give my form one last admiring scan. Other peoples' trinkets, the baubles of my trade, dangle from my neck and wirsts, and I feel the flintlocks hammer bite into my thigh. I love high society.

“Ready my horses, Ponsonby.”