LIving Things: The Broken Circle

By Rei Rosenquist

Unity Fest in District Three. That one special day when everyone packs the dirty streets, concrete wall to ugly concrete wall, and forgets their troubles.

Only translators knows better. Tensions rise in festival times. Fights break out. Miscommunication abounds.

Things can go sideways fast.

As Analys roams the crowded streets, a word jumps out: DADDY stitched on a baseball cap in neon green.

Well, shit. "Daddy" spells big trouble. Analys goes for cover.

A hand reaches out and grabs ahold of their arm.

Will Analys wriggle their way out of a tight spot or is this gamve over?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rei Rosenquist
• Release date: Oct 21, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201315627

Rei Rosenquist

Rei Rosenquist first remembers life as seen out the high window of a hotel balcony. Down below is a courtyard, swarms of brightly dressed tourists, the beach. The memory is nothing but a blue-green washed image. Warmth and sunlight. Here, they are three years old, and this is the beginning of a nomadic story-teller’s life. Over the years, they have traveled to many countries, engaged many peoples, picked up new habits, and learned new languages. But, some things never change. For them, these are stories, food service, and traveling. These three passions have bloomed from hobbies, studies, and jobs into a way of life. These days, Rei can be found in between Tokyo, Kailua, and Bellingham, Washington pouring beautiful latte art, baking off a batch of famous savory scones, and cozying up with a laptop to obsessively write mountains of dark speculative fiction. You can find Rei’s stories and blog at reirosenquist.com. You can also reach them via email at [e-mail] or connect via Facebook (Rei Rosenquist), Twitter (rylrosenquist) and Instagram (rylrosenquist).

Book preview

Living Things

Living Things

A Broken Circle Short Story

Rei Rosenquist

Weathered Sky Feathered Ocean Press

Copyright © 2021 by Rei Rosenquist

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Language is a living thing. We can feel it changing. Parts of it become old: they drop off and are forgotten. New pieces bud out, spread into leaves, and become big branches, proliferating.

Gilbert Highet

Contents

Daddies

Van Time

Translating

Unity

About the Author

More from the Broken Circle

Daddies

Today is Unity Fest in District Three.

That one special day when everyone packs the dirty streets of the district, concrete wall to ugly concrete wall, and forgets their troubles. Live music, laughter, and the air filled with streamers is the poster image. People eating too much, drinking too much, and drunkenly jabbing one another with loose elbows is what it's really like. A big sad mess.

But hey. It's tradition.

So, once a year, we cram together, smile at each other, and pretend like our lives are going well. It works because even a fake smile can be worth seeing when you haven't smiled in 363 days.

By seven a.m., the streets are already hopping. Of course I’m one of their company. How could I not?

Unlike the party-goers in their skimpy, glittery best, I have on my tidiest suit. Blue slightly frayed poly-blend slacks and a mostly stain-free grey button-down. No tie because I lost it in last year's party. No vest for the same reason, only two years prior. No hat because hats don't fit the shape of my head. No glitter because I'm not going out to party.

I'm going out -- like I do every Unity Fest -- to work.

There's always someone who needs a pinch of minor freelance translation during Unity Fest. With four different cultures and languages shoved hodge-podge into the district and nobody with any time to learn, I find that any gathering is a chance to pick up a few easy creds. Squabbles and cab-arrangements are my best bet. So, I head toward the bars which have all been running since last night.

There's a few green-faced stragglers who've stopped drinking. But they're leaning lackadaisy on light posts and nothing dramatic is happening.

Then, one of the nastier bar doors opens and this super tall crankshaft of a dude walks out. He's whiter than new paint and he's got a neck the size of a sewage drain. He locks onto me and glares out under his dark blue baller hat with the word DADDY printed in neon green across the wide