The Quasar Review

Gertrude had had it. She had put up with the newcomers for as long as she could. Yes, it had been her ancestors’ land forever before the squatters had come, and they were all trespassers by all the rules of natural law. And yes, she could have done things, all sorts of things, unpleasant things to make them want to leave. But she hadn’t, had she? No, she was open-minded and aware that times change and that sooner or later, she would have to share her home with them. Hadn’t she heard from her relatives across the prairie that new constructions were going up all over? Giant machines ripping deep into the earth, erecting all kinds of hideous monstrosities for the interlopers. She had always realized it would be just a matter of time before they invaded her family’s spot by the stream.

They had the loveliest spot. How she loved climbing onto the tallest rock, standing very tall and surveying her property: rolling hills and verdant trees and shrubs as far as the eye could see. She got such pleasure from watching her own kids or those of her neighbors jumping and frolicking across the land in front of her. She loved listening to their cheerful banter and chatter. She felt like the queen of the realm. But that was all before.

Now all their homes had been destroyed and replaced by giant ugly boxes. And that’s not all. The strangers had sprayed all the berries and flowers with poison. Can you imagine? You go to your favorite wild raspberry or blackberry bush to pick delicious berries for breakfast only to find that they have an acrid, obnoxious odor which prevents you from even touching them. The same berry bushes that you fertilized and watched grow to maturity! How would they feel if that happened to their precious petunias? The ones they have been watering and deadheading so carefully for so long, marking the birth of each new bud like a proud new mother watching her babies grow.

Ever since the invaders came with their ugly boxes, everything had been a struggle around here. Now it’s like every time you create anything beautiful, they always serve as an opposing force whose goal it seems to be is to destroy all the beauty you took such pride nurturing.

But that’s not even the worst of it. They are reckless murderers! And they are lazy, never walking anywhere, climbing into their ugly rectangular boxes on wheels and speeding out, not giving a care in the world about who might be walking along the road. And yesterday, yesterday, they went too far. Yesterday, one of them killed Simon. While Simon wasn’t her favorite, he was one of her own. He was family. And you stand up for your family. Gertrude had been brought up right. And now, finally, she had had enough. When they had destroyed her home and planted their box right over it, she had moved. When they had poisoned her beautiful berry bushes, she had found new ones, but this was too much. They had gone too far. What if they had killed one of her babies!?

And so, Gertrude was done playing nice. She climbed up on the old rock, one of the few still standing. She surveyed their acres and acres of vegetable gardens, and she knew exactly what she needed to do. She had never been vengeful before, but this sight of an endless supply of vegetables with their deep roots and underground bulbs made her salivate and turned her into something new entirely. Why, she wouldn’t even need that many others to help her. Just a small group that would be willing to relocate, and honestly who wouldn’t want to sign up for such abundance? Why, she would be doing an entirely new population a favor.

Say goodbye to your vegetables, intruders!

Maria’s poems, short stories, and essays have appeared in newspapers and magazines, including the Beyond Words Anthology. She has received writing awards, including the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest and the 24-Hour Writing Contest, along with a competitive mentorship in the Gordon Square Review.

Iwas driving down the forgotten highway that bright December day like so many others. I stopped in the vast and consuming landscape for what I thought would be no more than a brief moment to stretch my legs. It was too far south for snow, but when I breathed in a few mouthfuls of fresh air, the chill worked its way through my coat, and I found myself shivering on the side of the road. At least I told myself it was the cold air and not the knowledge of the city I had fled. I had always been the problem child, and was always best at fleeing when everything inevitably fell apart. Running away was always my favorite hobby.

As I scanned the horizon, I found myself squinting at a spec in the distance, the only thing to break the uninterrupted sand. I saw the faint outline of a cluster of dark buildings against the blue sky. I couldn’t remember how long I had been driving, and my legs longed for something other than the car and the gas pedal, so I decided to walk there and see what I found. I didn’t know where I was going, so I was in no hurry.

I made my way unafraid toward the structures looming in the distance. My feet dug deep into the sand with every step I took, but hard going had never stopped me before, and the movement warmed me. The sun was bright and hot above my head.

As I drew closer, I saw that my destination was a shopping mall like the one I had worked in as a teenager in the food court, where I had first learned that I didn’t do well with uniforms or taking orders. Weeds had broken through the concrete parking lot, and dead and dry plants had been piled against the east wall by the same wind that tugged on my hair.

When I turned back, my car was nothing but a spec of a shadow in the distance, and I had already come this far. The place was completely deserted, but I wanted to find out if the doors would still open, so I walked toward the entrance, my footsteps echoing over the concrete. The electricity was long gone, but there was enough of a crack that I could grab the edge and pull, and soon enough, I was inside the empty shell.

Everything was exactly as I remembered, even though that first food court was a universe away. All the same stores were still there, and if it wasn’t for the cracked signs and naked manikins, I would have thought I was walking into a memory. There was Claire’s, where I had drooled over nose piercings, and Abercrombie and Fitch, where I had spent hours wandering around, submerging myself in the perfumes and peppy advertisements.

Now, the doors were all closed, just like all the doors to the bright future that had once awaited me. All that was left was the smell of dust and emptiness. The animals had made their way into all of the leftover boxes and scrapes of food, and the remnants of cardboard littered the floor, torn to pieces long ago. The pretzel cart was overturned, and the compartments were opened and ransacked. The wind shrieked outside, and I wondered how long I could make it if I stayed there with all the ghosts of what I could have been.

The road and wherever it was that I had been going all seemed so far away that I wasn’t even sure that I make it back. Maybe there was nothing left to run from, and no reason to put myself through the agony of trying. Out there in the desert, there would be no more bridges left to burn, no more jobs to be fired from, no more friends to disappoint. I could stay in that shelter against all the odds, build my own world, even if that meant that I would be left alone for the rest of my days. Eventually I would be buried under the burden of the memories that haunted every inch of the building and every patch of tired skin. Maybe here I could finally have a space to call my home, where no escape would be necessary.

Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She enjoys continuing to discover all the forgotten corners of the city she has come to call home. She has published a collection of flash fiction “What Doesn’t Kill You”, and her work can also be found in several literary journals .

She was a good girl, ask anyone and they’d tell you so. She went to church every Sunday and volunteered weekly at her local soup kitchen. She ran the winter coat drive for the homeless for the past three and sponsored her youngest cousin at his Confirmation last spring. She never got drunk on the weekends or slept around with different guys. She was a good person, she lived a good life.

She was only 25 years old the night she was driving home from work in the pouring rain. She wasn’t texting, she wasn’t speeding; she didn’t even have the radio on so that she could concentrate on the road amidst the deluge. Her car started hydroplaning and she lost control. She saw the headlights of the oncoming pick-up truck like a bad cliché and felt every inch of the impact as it collided with the driver’s side door. She felt like a tea cup on the Mad Hatter ride at Disney World that had spun loose and gone wild until everything stopped in a moment that simultaneously felt like seconds and years later. The street lamp, beneath which her car had come to an abrupt halt, cast an almost angelic glow when combined with the rain on the twisted gruesome wreckage of metal and glass.

She had been wearing her seatbelt, but that hadn’t stopped the steering column from crushing her sternum. The chill of the night began creeping in like a phantasm through the places where once had been glass, but the side of her face felt warm. She didn’t understand why until the slowing of her heart started to match the pounding in her head. She became aware that it was getting harder and harder to breathe and with every inhalation she felt like she was drowning.

Then she saw Him. He was there in front of her brighter than the sun despite the dark and stormy night. He smiled and she felt all of her pain dissolve. He emanated peace and love, and she did not feel panicked by the thought of what she was leaving behind. All she wanted was Him; all she needed was to be in His presence and feel His warmth for the rest of eternity. He reached out His hand to her and she couldn’t begin to understand the ecstasy she was feeling – He was inviting her home. She didn’t need to think or consider his offer; it was by pure instinct that she made to reach in kind to Him.

But she couldn’t. She watched in horror as nightmare chains like those of ghoulish Dickens novel wrapped themselves around her torso and held her arms fast. The links were indestructible and forged without flaw. They burned and crushed her far worse than the smashed bones and fluid-filled lungs she suffered from the car crash. She could not turn round but her eyes found the rearview mirror. She saw him leering at her, his eyes once the crystal blue of creation, now the black of the tar dripping from his once golden wings. His smile revealed the razor-sharp teeth of a predator who has won his kill and she saw her bindings in his taloned grip.

“Oh, my child,” came a soft, sad voice. She turned to gaze upon the mortal witness to her earthly demise and beheld a man outside her window. He reminded her of her father, gentle yet his very presence commanded authority. She noted the clerical collar and the well-worn leather-bound book in his hand, which she did not need to read the gold-leaf lettering to know it said “Holy Bible.” He did not ask her if she was okay and he did not tell her she would be, for they both knew such banter was pointless. Instead he wondered, “Would you like to make a last confession?”

The tears that streamed from her eyes in rivulets faster than blood dripping down her face was all the answer he needed. He sat there in silence as she poured out her soul to him in the silence of her heart. She could not speak but her spirit cried out for forgiveness for missing Mass on those Sundays when her girlfriends wanted to get together for brunch instead, for sleeping with her boyfriend of two years and using contraception because she allowed herself to justify it because she loved him and they just weren’t ready to be parents, for every time she uttered the Lord’s name as a curse. Her confession went on and on until at last she had named every link on the chain pulled tight by Satan’s grip.

She bowed her head and the priest knew that she had finished and he gave her absolution. In that instant, she felt as the feather loosed from a bird must feel. The chains were gone and angel from hell was sent screaming back to his domain. She turned her gaze once and forevermore on Him and felt her arms reach toward Him in wild abandon. He welcomed her and she always knew He would, a lost sheep who has finally found her Shepherd.

The priest saw the breath leave her body, but the light never left her eyes. From the moment of her absolution to the end of her life, she was smiling as if she had found a joy that no one could take away. He made the sign of the cross and prayed, “Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,” as the red and blue lights of the approaching emergency vehicles danced on his face.

Amelia is a mom of six with her Master's in marine biology. She has been published as a scientific writer in research journals and as a fiction writer in Starward Shadows Quarterly ezine, Black Hare Press Anthology Year Four, and SpecPoVerse.

"Did you have lunch?"Irfan asked the fellow passenger sitting in front of him, a lanky, shabby man with bare feet. It was twenty past three already. The stranger ignored Irfan and fixed his eyes on an estuary far away through the train’s open window. The horizon looked grey. The vendor impatiently looked at Irfan for an answer, carrying the blue plastic crate with the remaining few biriyani packets yet to be sold.

“One, please.”

The vendor gave Irfan a packet of biriyani. He ate quietly. Irfan had been observing his co-passenger since the time he boarded the train. Irfan saw him visibly upset, and his eyes filled with tears, which kept wiping away.

The vendor gave Irfan a packet of biriyani. He ate quietly. Irfan had been observing his co-passenger since the time he boarded the train. Irfan saw him visibly upset, and his eyes filled with tears, which kept wiping away.

As the train trundled on the rail bridge over the raging, muddy river towards the coastal town, the fishy stench intensified.

Irfan walked towards the end of the coach to use the toilet. When he came out, Irfan saw the stranger standing by the open door. “Please be careful. It is often dangerous to stand there.” The stranger was startled. But he didn’t turn. Irfan washed his hands in the washbasin outside the toilet.

“The wind is too strong. Please come inside.” Irfan wasn’t sure if the stranger could hear him in the loud noise of the moving train and the gushing wind.

“Oh, hello, boss! The door will slam on you in this kind of wind, throwing you out.”

The traveling ticket regulator (TTR), who had just walked into the compartment, asked the stranger, annoyed.

“Come inside. Come on.”

The stranger walked towards his seat. The TTR shut and latched the heavy blue door on the unreserved compartment, and then he grumbled under his nose about the humidity. He sanitized his hands.

The giant man took a cotton handkerchief from the black polyester blazer pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Irfan walked behind the TTR to his seat. TTR walked to the next compartment with his iPad full of passengers’ names and seat numbers. The stranger was sitting in his seat, his eyes resting again on a vague, distant point.

Irfan opened the book he was trying to read for a long time, a Malayalam novel, ‘Smarakashilakal’. After an hour of reading, Irfan slept, resting his head on the rusted window bars. The train traversed hundreds of kilometers, passing through towns, slums, rivers, and villages. He woke up when the raindrops hit his face like pins. Mildly painful. The train was speeding fast. Irfan looked for the stranger, who was fast asleep. Irfan shut both windows. All the seats beside him were occupied by passengers who boarded the train from different stations while he was sleeping. The lights were too dim to read comfortably, but he had nothing else to occupy him, so he carried on reading.

The train slowly came to a halt at a railway junction. Many of the passengers got up and stepped onto the platform to stretch their legs after sitting for so long.

“Are you alright?” Irfan asked the man kindly.

Irfan kept the book in his bag. He stood up to stretch.

“Let me go around and see if there’s a tea shop around. Would you like some tea?” The stranger nodded. ‘No.’ The tea shop was on the platform near where the last compartment of the train stopped. Farther than he had imagined.

“Two cups of tea.”

The shopkeeper poured hot tea from the boiler into small paper cups. The train chugged, and Irfan jumped onto the last compartment in time with the hot tea cups in both hands. He walked towards his coach.

Walking through the gangway had always been scary for Irfan since boyhood. The two iron plates kept sliding over as the train moved. His heart always skipped a beat while crossing them. And finally, crossing seven gangways, he reached his coach. There were blood marks on the floor. Irfan kept two cups of tea on his seat and searched for the stranger inside the coach. He saw the TTR on the way.

“Where did you go, leaving your bag behind? Bloody immigrant! He was found opening your bag. Passengers handled him! Thieves, I tell you!”

Irfan was stunned. He sat silently through the night. He did not even open his bag once. He opened his window. The silhouettes of trees looked like their own upright shadows; they flashed past the window too quickly for him to take them in. The scent of impending rain lingered in the air.

—

“I am taking your bag to work today. My bag’s zipper is damaged,” Leela said.

“What’s that? I didn’t hear you.” Irfan turned off the kitchen sink tap.

“For God’s sake, don’t take this bag while traveling by train or bus with open windows, Irfan! I waited two months to purchase this immaculate white shade, which has now turned beige! At least don’t take this bag on your ground-level ‘journalistic expeditions’. You don’t have any regard for my gifts, do you?!” Leela mumbled with disappointment.

Irfan lathered the hand dishwashing liquid in his hands. “I didn't quite catch what you said, but yes to whatever it was,” he said with a gentle tease.

“I have an assignment. Gotta run!”

Leela emptied the bag on the table hurriedly. Notebooks, ‘Smarakashilakal’, pens, old train tickets, a tangled earphone, a strip of chewing gum, Leela’s blue stole, a laptop, a charging cable, powerbank, microphones, a few cables, and a purse fell on the floor. A chit came off between the pages of ‘Smarakashilakal.’

Leela walked into the kitchen and slipped her arms around him from behind and planted a peck on his cheek. Smiling, he dabbed a little soap lather on the tip of her nose.

"Ah!" she giggled, rubbing it away.

“Bye. Try not to write anything too controversial today, alright?”

“Make sure you finish the almonds and walnuts I've packed for you.”

Leela shut the door behind her. Irfan washed his hands and read the message.

Irfan took a few minutes to repair the zip on Leela's bag. As he transferred his laptop and microphones into the repaired bag, he came across a small chit.

“Thank you for asking me if I had lunch, and for not standing by the door.”

The Gangway, authored by Tara Rajendran, is featured in The Quasar Review’s Twelfth Edition (August 2026). Tara Rajendran is a doctor, classical Indian ‘Saraswati Veena’ musician, and three-time TEDx speaker from India. Her short stories have found a home in Indian Literature, Blood and Thunder, Active Muse, and Nymphs Publications, among others.

Heremembered the night first by its air. Not its warmth exactly, but its refusal to move, a suspended heat that clung to the walls and made the rooms feel slightly out of step with themselves. It was too warm for the season, too still to be natural, as if the world were holding its breath and waiting for something it didn’t want to name. He opened the window to let the room breathe, but the air that drifted in was thick and unmoving, a breath that had nowhere to go.

He felt the wrongness before he understood it. A subtle tilt, the same kind he had felt on the street corner months earlier, the same quiet misalignment that had crept into his memories and blurred their edges. Nothing dramatic, nothing he could point to, just a sense that the night was leaning toward something.

He sat at the small kitchen table, the same one where Brian’s laughter had once echoed and then slipped away and tried to read. The words refused to settle. They shifted under his eyes, rearranging themselves into shapes he couldn’t quite hold. He closed the book and listened to the silence.

It wasn’t an empty silence. It was a waiting one.

He made tea he didn’t want. He walked from room to room without purpose. He kept glancing at his phone, though he wasn’t expecting a call. The night felt like a hallway with all the doors closed, and he could feel the weight of one of them about to open, though he didn’t know which or why.

The air pressed against him. The stillness deepened. The tilt sharpened.

He didn’t know yet. Not then. But the night already did.

He tried to steady himself by washing dishes. The warm water grounded him for a moment, but then he heard it; not laughter this time, but a faint exhale, a breath that didn’t belong to the room. He turned, expecting to see someone behind him.

No one was there, of course.

He dried his hands and sat back down at the table. A pressure gathered in his chest, not pain exactly, but a tightening, as if his body understood something his mind refused to name. He tried to breathe through it. He tried to tell himself it was nothing. He tried to believe the night was just a night.

He listened. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

The words came slowly, as if the speaker were trying to soften them, but there was no softening. There was only the truth, and the truth was a blow.

“Sorry, just thought you would want to know.”

He closed his eyes. The room felt suddenly colder, though the air hadn’t changed. The silence that had been waiting all evening finally settled around him, heavy and absolute, the same silence that had followed him from the balcony, to the little ring box, to the shifting colors of a sweater he could no longer trust himself to remember.

He didn’t cry. Not then. Not for a long time.

He sat at the table with the receiver still in his hand and stared at the open window. The night outside was dark and unmoving. The street was empty and the lamplight was fixed in place. He thought of the hallway from his dreams, the one where laughter drifted just out of reach. He thought of the woman on the corner whose outline kept changing. He thought of the ring in the box, the unfinished melody on the balcony, the shadows that had followed him from room to room.

Everything felt connected now, though he couldn’t say how. Everything felt like a warning he had failed to understand.

He stood, finally, and closed the window. The air inside the room felt different, as if something had left it. He leaned his forehead against the glass and whispered Brian’s name, not expecting an answer, not expecting anything at all.

The silence held him.

He stayed there a long time, listening to the quiet, trying to understand how a life could end on a night that felt so ordinary; how grief could enter a room without making a sound; how the world could tilt and never tilt back. The air around him felt thinner now, as if something essential had slipped out through the open window before he closed it, leaving the room slightly off balance.

He let his hand rest against the glass. It was cool beneath his palm; cooler than the night had any right to be. The warmth that had unsettled him earlier was gone, replaced by a stillness that felt final, a stillness that seemed to know more than he did.

He whispered Brian’s name once more, not to summon anything, not to hold on, but simply to mark the moment. The sound barely left his throat. It dissolved into the quiet almost immediately, as if the room had been waiting to take it.

He stayed there until the streetlights flickered, until the night settled into its own shape, until he could no longer tell whether the heaviness in his chest belonged to the present or to the memory of a warmth already fading.

And somewhere, faint, almost imagined, he felt the outline of the laugh he could no longer hear. Not the sound itself, but the space it used to fill; a hollow that would follow him into every room he entered after this one.

A hollow that had already begun to deepen before the phone rang.

— Before the phone rang, authored by Andrew Allan Chibi, is featured in The Quasar Review’s Tenth Edition (One Year Anniversary). Andrew A. Chibi is a British historian, author, and educator whose work explores the complex religious and political dynamics of Tudor England and the European Reformation. As an historian, his work includes Henry VIII’s Conservative Scholar and Fear God, Honor the King. Under the pen name A. Allan Chibi, his works include novels such as The Unprofitable Servant, and The Saga of the Stolen One series. He currently lives in Windsor, Ontario.