The child with no name. The lost light. Buxter’s last deed. A dead man in the field. Three dead beneath glass and stone. The mayor’s dream in ruins. Silence in the town hall. Who does the town belong to? Whose is the woman’s red shoe? A grave too many. The spiralling costs of road building. No resignations, but a lot of questions. Winter is here! No summer this year! Kobielski’s celebrates its anniversary! It was murder! It was manslaughter! It was just a mistake. Attempt on the record in the town hall square. Public sector workers’ strike – this is no joke! Graffiti of shame. Goodbye, Uncle Abu! A frosty spring. An autumn of decisions. The end of the tea dance? Resignation as early as this year? Paulstadt’s big chance. The pride of Paulstadt. Paulstadt in shock! Paulstadt’s most beautiful floral decorations. The decisive night. Baby joy in retirement home! Neighbours quarrel over plum tree.

My mother is dead.

My mother is dead. The house smelled of her for a long time afterwards. Her shadow flitted across the wallpaper in the hall, and there were noises everywhere. The rustling of paper in her drawer. The chink of a coffee cup. The tapping of her footsteps in the room, soft and quiet on the rug. The shadow disappeared and the noises diminished or altered over time. The creaking of floorboards and the crockery vibrating in the kitchen cupboard had nothing to do with her any more. I sit alone, listening into the dark.

It was for you that I kept going. But it wasn’t the same. Back then, in the kitchen, I saw the letter in your lap, clasped between your hands. It was dirty with earth. You didn’t smile. Yet I so wanted you to. I didn’t want to hear anything. I wanted to fight for my childhood. I wanted to yell in your face: ‘I am a child and I want to stay a child for ever. I want to stay your child!’ I didn’t yell. I did it for you. Was it enough? I don’t know. I wish I’d looked at things more carefully. I wish I’d looked at things less carefully. I wish you could be proud of me. Don’t be angry with me. I looked behind curtains. In the end, I pulled the final curtain aside and saw that, behind it, there was nothing. I wish I had nothing to regret. And that’s the whole truth.

Martin Reynart

The rain was sudden and heavy. As if the water had been accumulating for half the summer and was now disgorging itself over the town in a single, monumental downpour. We sat in the car, drinking beer and listening to music. Tom in the back, Kath in the driver’s seat, me beside her. It was her father’s car and she’d only had her driving licence a few weeks. She said he’d kill her if she let anyone else behind the wheel. He’d tie her to the rear axle by her hair and drag her over the fields. That day she was wearing a short, knitted dress, and just two hours earlier I’d seen the fine hairs on her thighs shining in the evening sun. The sun had set some time ago and her legs had been swallowed by the darkness, and we sat there like ghosts, not yet drunk enough to feel really good, and it was Saturday evening and the road, the town, the whole world was dead, and the only thing moving was the rain, drumming on the bodywork and running in wide streaks down the windows.