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  Dear Aria By Farah Amod 19/11/2022 Dear Aria, I find myself hesitant, writing this well deserved and long-awaited letter. My therapist suggested writing to my younger self in our last session and I told her it was a useless activity that would only waste my time. I guess that’s always been the problem with us, we’ve lived in fear of confronting our past. I don’t know where to start or what age I should write to you at. Now that I think about it, I’m sure you would have liked to hear from me at any age, I’m sure you would have liked to be heard and I’m sure that you would have really liked for someone to tell you ‘You’re not alone’. It's 1998 and you’re six years old. Your country is four years into democracy after having Apartheid abolished but at this age you’re only mildly familiar with the term. That’s the beauty of children, innocence. It’s not that you don’t see the different colours of skin around you, but it simply doesn’t make a difference to your friend, your neighbour.

    Fait Accompli By Reece Piper   There are many mysteries in this world, none quite so confounding, vexingly tangled and truly unfathomable as the enigma of Carter Samson, a self-proclaimed sensible man, who only drank coffee on Wednesdays. If Carter were anywhere other than a lonely cafe in the dirty browns of a French fall, then things would be broken indeed, but as it stood, he was exactly where he was supposed to be; in a chair gazing at the scurrying newspaper hatted, blue swearing, wet Parisians. This city was always a projection, a vague chaos to anyone other than a romantic, and to Carter it had become a bleak backdrop for his misery. He finally understood why the people who called Paris home, acted as they did. “Martin, I don't know what to tell you, I’m coming home. My plane lands in JFK, around 9.” “Yes, pm. And forget the lift, I’m going to use a taxi. I know you’ve got things to do.” “Well, she just left me, standing there drowning in faceless