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Original image by E.C.Traganas to accompany her story 'Bitter Melon' [see below]

 

 

Coffee, Toast And Three Paracetamols by Jill Swale

[Winnersh, Berkshire, England]

Posted December 2024

 

Coffee, toast and three paracetamols; that was what I needed for breakfast after staying up all night to complete my story. Fleur was such a hard task master, setting us story titles just before lunch which we were expected to read out before everyone at the beginning of her session the next morning.

 

My afternoon class at the summer school, training hawks for the terrified, would leave me no time, especially if I attended the evening crumhorn recital too, so I’d have to write all night.

 

She had a habit of setting us unusual topics but this was the most challenging yet, a story about borage. I knew it was a herb with blue flowers but nothing more. Thank goodness I’d brought my tablet along, despite fears that someone might steal it as the student bedrooms didn’t lock. Nobody had, perhaps because I hid it under my used underwear, so I spent three hours looking up all the properties of the obscure herb. Of course, then I had to make up a story including the information and it was a long time before an idea came.

 

I set the action in the seventeenth century. My heroine was a healer who distilled herbs such as borage to cure the poor, but was eventually hounded out of her village as a witch. It was both exciting and shocking, and the feminist element should go down well. I finished it at five a.m. and grabbed two hours sleep until the banging of the communal lavatory door jerked me awake.

 

I scarcely had the energy to drag myself to the writing class that morning, but the effort had been worth it. I felt pleased with my story and beamed at the tutor.

 

‘Jill, will you go first this time?’

 

Proudly I read out my effort.

 

‘That’s very well written,’ said Fleur, but I think you must have misheard the title. It was “The Pleasures of PORRIDGE”.’

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere Over The Rainbow by Arvilla Fee

[Dayton, Ohio, USA]

Posted December 2024

https://soulpoetry7.com/

 

Cleo lies beneath a mound of dirt that’s now covered with grass and the yellow primroses I planted. A large river rock serves as her headstone. The stone isn’t engraved, although that would’ve been nice. No matter; the inscription is engraved on my heart: Beloved Cleo, pure mix of lab, retriever, and collie with an insatiable appetite for bacon treats, lover of squeaky toys, and the constant companion to one Theodore H. Reynolds. She’d only been ten. Kidney failure. I should’ve told the veterinarian to bury me alongside her. In the three months since she’d passed, I’d barely eaten a bite.

 

     Cleo had been a present from my late wife, Maggie, taken by cancer five years earlier. Maggie had joked about the dog’s name, said she’d call the pair of us Cleo and Theo. We’d bonded instantly, and Cleo rarely let me out of her sight.

 

     I stare listlessly at Cleo’s grave until a movement to my right makes me turn, and I see a strange dog limping up my driveway. He has all the earmarks of abandonment: no collar, an outline of ribs showing through matted fur, and dirt from head-to-toe. I stomp my foot, shooing him. He flinches, stops—then inches forward again, almost at a crawl. I raise my eyes to the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of that rainbow bridge everyone blathers about. “Cleo, I swear if this is you trying to…” I trail off, unsure how to finish.

 

     The dog keeps inching forward, tail tucked, his large brown eyes wide and wary. Sighing, I squat and extend my hand. “Well, come on then. Let’s have a look.”

 

     He finally sniffs my outstretched hand. I don’t move and continue to talk in what Maggie used to call my goo-goo voice—the soft, high pitch tone one uses for children. Then he allows me to pat his head. “Where’ve you been, fella? He looks at me woefully. I go inside to retrieve Cleo’s food and water bowls I’d stored in the cupboard, rip open a bag of food she’d never used then take everything to the porch, my throat tight with unshed tears. The dog creeps forward, sniffs, devours the food in seconds, and then takes a long drink. He won’t come inside, even though I offer. Leaving him on the porch, I suspect he’ll be gone by morning.

 

     That night I dream about Cleo, as I often do, and she’s running in the field, a brown dog by her side. When I awake, I reach out my hand to stroke Cleo’s side before realizing, as always, she’s not there. Then I remember the stray. Pulling aside the front curtain, I see him asleep in the same spot I’d left him. He hadn’t gone after all. As I turn toward the kitchen, the stained glass suncatcher casts a prism of rainbow colors across the wall. I smile then busy myself making both of us breakfast.

 

 

 

 

 

Migration by Balu Swami

[Buckeye, Phoenix AZ, USA]

Posted December 2024

 

To confound his enemies

in hot pursuit

he separated himself from his shadow

That was yesterday

Today he stepped

out of his skin

and crawled under a rock

in the middle of a desert

For what?

To commune with the crustacean world

or

to transmigrate to the amphibian world

or

to teleport to some space somewhere

in some universe

in some dimension?

 

 

 

 

 

The Glittering Earwigs Of Christmas by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

Posted December 2024

 

Those who declare that “Christmas isn’t the same any more” may have cause to celebrate this year, if plans to re-introduce the seasonal earwig come to fruition. City Chambers have announced that a good old-fashioned earwig display is to replace the more recently familiar giant reindeer in the city centre square. This, of course, will not please everyone.

          “We’d love to have the reindeer and the earwigs both together,” said a council executive. “Christmas is a time for togetherness, after all. However, there is a serious health and safety issue, in that the runners of the reindeer’s sleigh could easily squash most, if not all, of the earwigs.”

          A thoughtful insight, there, from the planners of our festive fun. And while thoughts are turned to the glitter and excitement of Christmas, let’s cast ours back to the glittering earwigs of earlier, maybe brighter, Yules.

          There was a tradition years ago to put glittering earwigs in mince pies, so the pies would light up in a candle-lit Christmas dinner. (This way, the electricity money could be spent on presents.) Of course, the glittering looked so pretty that the tradition carried on even where bills had been paid. Sadly, the practice had to be outlawed when a connection with ‘bile-gum dropsy’ was suspected, but modern alternatives can be used to regain that cheery ‘glittering earwig’ effect. One good idea is to put broken glass in the pies instead, and shine a torch on them. This can produce such dazzling results that your guests won’t notice the difference. (And it can kill your granny as well.)

          Back in your granny’s day, glittering earwigs were all the rage for festive decorations. You might like to make some yourself, as a colourful way to remember her. Why not try your hand at earwig chains, dangling earwigs, earwig gift tags and so on? One we don’t advise is the earwig Chinese lantern. The smell of burning earwigs is revolting – especially when mixed with Brussels sprout emissions. Some things about your granny are better not recalled.

          One final word. If you still want to save on ‘winter fuel’, glittering earwigs in themselves can actually make good presents. They might not talk like robots or connect you to the web, but at least they don’t need batteries!

 

 

 

 

Bad Blonde [Inspired by the death of Hollywood actress Barbara Payton] by Alan Ford

[Nottingham, England]

Posted December 2024

 

Your death gave the world a front row seat. Yet no one noticed your absence. There was just a space where you had once been.

People viewed 18 rated films of your low rent life. You starred in too many bedrooms. New faces came and went, brought in with the raindrops. There were too many movie extras and too many carhops.

 

You had high times and low self-respect. You were locked under slow motion lights, an actress over exposed in fast motion nights. There was false laughter from anonymous faces. They made you an emotional void, found in empty places.

 

You were lost in tinsel town bars on empty nights. Lights flashed in your face. You were a-dime-a-dozen-drinker that no one could place.

 

You used hard liquor and gave soft flesh.

 

Your photograph showed a hard-edged façade that sharpened with the years. You had a party girl image. You were a bad blonde in a black dress.

 

You walked away from stardom, a bit player in your own life. A sugar-coated fantasy, not a Hollywood wife.

 

You had hot sex in a cold town

 

You tramped the streets under plastic palm trees, stepped under neon signs that gave false hope, for there was only the dope. You were a burned-out star on Sunset Strip. A broken relic with bright red lips.

 

You left a twisted road map of memories stranded by the roadside. You stumbled through the rain, too proud to thumb a car ride.

 

Your father left your clothes in a box on the sidewalk. Next to the junk cans, ready for the garbage man.

 

Your life ended on a Hollywood street at the bottom of the bill. A fast life and slow decline. You were dead at 39.

 

I’m drowning in memories of a life forever lost. Oh, why couldn’t you live? It’s so hard to forgive. Yes, why couldn’t you live? It’s so hard to forgive.

Queen In The Cradle by Scott and Nicole MacLeod

[Nicole is proud to have worked with her father on this piece!]

[Lake Mary, Florida and New York City, USA, respectively]

Posted November 2024

 

Sam was thrilled when he saw the latest call for submissions from his favorite lit mag. They wanted a collaboration. And he knew just whom to tango with. His favorite author, besides himself of course, his daughter Noelle away at school in New York.

 

     He called her immediately only to be met with her voicemail. She didn’t ghost him but followed up of course, not with a call but a text like always; she’s a teenage girl but not a monster. A vague but enthusiastic paragraph about being at some organic improv performance raising money for vegan puppies, the most normal event his eclectic daughter had attended in the past couple of weeks. Noelle was either grinding out papers and presentations, or out on the town rubbing shoulders with wannabe Manhattanites and Sam couldn’t be prouder. Still sometimes he fretted over the fact that his little girl was growing up so fast all the way across the country. Would Noelle even have time to collaborate with her old man? Would she even want to? Sam hesitated to send her the link before chalking his worries up to nonsense. Noelle would always be his bubbeleh, no matter how far away. The link, to no surprise, was immediately met with hieroglyphics. A smiley face, a thumbs up, a pair of glasses and a firework. Having experience in the language of emoji, Sam took this as a good sign. 

 

     But as the deadline approached, he had not heard anything from her. Which got Sam to thinking. He liked her writing, and he loved her of course. But he really loved his own writing, his own voice. Would be a shame to miss this deadline. He knew she was busy with school. So, Sam resolved to just write the damn thing on his own. He would include both of their names and emails as required of course. How would anyone know? For God’s sake she’s his kid- their writing styles couldn’t be that different.

 

     Just then his laptop pinged. An email from the publication. Maybe a reminder of the impending deadline? He read on. 

“Dear Noelle and Sam. We loved your story. It is set for publication no later than next week.”

 

     Sam knew at once his daughter had beaten him to the punch. His first thought before even jealousy or betrayal? “That’s my girl!”

 

 

 

 

The Price of Sight by Alisha Prince

[Wandsworth, England]

Posted November 2024

 

The cicadas were buzzing their monotonous song, a constant drone that matched the churn in Nonna's stomach. The heat made the pavement crack and created a mirage-like effect. Nonna sat on a rickety stool under the shade of her olive tree, fanning herself with a newspaper that had turned bone-white from the sun.

 

Her grandson, Marco, a skinny boy with stormy eyes, bounced a worn-out red ball against the crumbling stucco wall. Each bounce broke the dusty silence, but Nonna was too caught up in her thoughts to notice.

 

A shadow fell on her gnarled hands. She squinted against the sun and looked up. There stood a woman, dressed in a sombre black outfit that seemed to absorb the heat.

 

"Nonna Lucia," the woman croaked. "I've come for the boy."

 

Nonna's heart pounded in her chest, like a bird trying to escape its cage. "Who are you?”

 

A smile played on the woman's lips. "He has the Sight, Nonna”

 

Nonna tightened her grip on the newspaper. The Sight was a family curse, passed down through generations, a cruel gift that allowed one to see beyond reality. She had hidden it from Marco, shielding him from the whispers and fear that came with it.

 

"No," Nonna croaked, her voice filled with defiance. "Leave him alone. He's just a child."

 

The woman's smile widened, revealing a single chipped tooth. "He won't be a child for long, Nonna. Not with the Sight."

 

As the woman spoke, Marco's ball bounced towards her feet. She bent down, her black dress billowing around her like a shroud, and picked it up. As her hand brushed against Marco's, a gasp escaped his lips. His innocent eyes widened in terror, fixed on something only he could see, as a jolt of energy surged through him. He seemed to be looking beyond her, his face etched with a mixture of innocent trepidation and precocious courage.

 

A stream of blood poured from the woman’s dress, corresponding to the red torrent Marco saw blossoming on her body as he envisioned her being stabbed repeatedly whilst walking in the Appalachians. Marco could even smell the hemlock and sassafras which reminded him of vanilla and liquorice. The woman stared at Marco, her smile faltering for the first time. “What…what did you see?” she whispered.

 

The woman recoiled and quickly turned to leave, oblivious to the trail of crimson staining her black dress, a stark contrast against the scorching white heat of the day. She disappeared into the shimmering haze, leaving behind unanswered questions and a chilling truth: Marco's Sight wouldn't just show him things from the future, it could also tear holes through the portals of time and bring those things into the present.

 

Nonna, a weathered oak against the scorching sun, gathered Marco with trembling hands and hurried him indoors, resolving that the two of them would be long gone before the next set of prying eyes paid the price for his burgeoning sight with their own viscous, writhing blood.

 

 

 

 

 

Burning Love by Tracie Adams

[rural Virginia, USA]

Posted November 2024

 

“Burn the ships! You’re stuck with me now!” The kiss at the altar was the seal on the vows he made before God and everybody. Dan swept his bride off her feet, quite literally, and carried her away to a promised land where the heat of his passion could not be extinguished.

         

     No one was surprised when he cheated on her six years later with the new girl in their writing group - the one with flame red curls and the black miniskirt. I mean, there had been that thing with the bridesmaid after his rehearsal dinner.

“Hey look, I’m sorry, babe. What more can I say? We’ve changed, that’s all.”

         

     By fall, she barely recognized herself. Her focused determination to become everything he needed had transformed her completely. And it worked. Dan’s desire for his wife became an inferno. Her new auburn hairstyle fell around sculpted shoulders, a reward for hours spent in the gym. Every night he would come home to a woman he had never known. She would be playing soft music, smooth and sexy jazz, her hips swaying to the rising crescendo of the saxophone as she stirred a bubbling, garlicky sauce on the stove. And that apron! She gave him the same look of surprise each time he reached for her. The way she flipped her hair from one side to the other made him feel unhinged. 

         

     One night after dinner and too much wine, he followed her sultry scent to their bedroom and whispered softly how he loved her more than ever. She had become everything to him.

         

     It was the smell that led them to him. His body had been hollowed out by fire that turned his corpse into the burned hull of an abandoned ship. The singed bones that had once been strong arms, rested across his incinerated heart like oars strewn across an empty vessel.

         

     “Spontaneous Combustion,” the coroner’s words lit the headlines on fire.

         

     Dan had been right after all. They had changed.

 

 

 

 

3 Stories by A C Clarke

[Glasgow, Scotland]

Posted November 2024

 

Remembrance Sunday

 

Passes in peace, no guns in anger

or salute, skies grey as neutral zones

between red battles.

 

 

Armistice Day

 

At the eleventh hour of the eleventh day

of the eleventh month the guns fell silent,

silence loud as wreaths of white poppies.

 

 

Retreat

The sheepskin tapestry still hangs above the silent table,

the bell still sounds for prayer,

but there is something stirring, a ghost-breath,

a shift in the thinning air.

 

 

 

 

 

Parable by Bobby J Olley

[Selby, North Yorkshire, England]

Posted November 2024

 

Brother and Sister, under a bus stop, 

sheltering from hammering rain.

 

Has mum drunk enough to sleep? 

Her anger had bubbled and screamed,

like sap from a burning tree, 

Brother spilled juice on the rug. 

 

Miss told Sister 

that if they ever need safe harbour, 

they could bolt to her rundown house. 

Sister has a sense of where it is, 

she had been there for teacakes 

and warmth 

and kindness.

 

Time to brave it. Sister gives Brother her coat. 

It looks massive on him,

sleeves flip-flapping as he walks. 

 

The rain beats heavier

and the puddles grow and blossom,

developing across streets and yards, 

like the plug’s in and the bath's overflowing.

 

Sister's socks are soaked through holes, 

she does not show Brother, 

this next road is closed, 

sandbags and small boats 

and shouts and spectators. 

 

Where is the route to Miss? 

Where is the hum of a full fridge?

Over the bridge, and the leviathan river, 

is curled across human progress. 

Brother asks for an ice-cream,

Sister distracts him with a song.

 

At Water's End, there is no path, only flood.

Miss is on the other side, 

linking arms with an old man,

is it her husband, her father? 

His face, as heavy and confused as the sky.

 

Stay by the fire engine, 

I will be back. Sister wades through, 

river up to her knees,

and takes the old man by the other arm. 

He shivers but walks gingerly with them, 

across to the dry side of the street.

 

Sister panics, Brother is gone.

A fireman throws a foil blanket over her shoulder, 

but her words are swallowed by terror. 

 

An arm points up to the cab, 

Sister follows the finger,

Brother is in there, huge fire helmet on,

smiling at the sinking world.

 

 

 

 

A Disused Airfield From World War Two by Alan Ford

[Nottingham, England]

Posted November 2024

 

I left home driving only on a memory.

 

I was on an unscheduled flight into the past. A vapour trail of dislocated thoughts was trying for unity, trying to make sense of how I fought and why, of who I fought and when, of how I had joined and how I had left.

 

Not everyone understood why I had come. Memories had faded, dreams had died, rationing was long gone. Make do and mend had passed into twilight. A new generation had their own wars to fight.

 

I parked next to the control tower of forgotten days and nights. Time burst into my head. It ricocheted around the years, the vibrations fuelling my worst fears, the engines throbbing in my head, the sound of the sirens piercing my ears.

 

My mind moved back through the years of half-remembered things, a lost landmark, the death of a friend, being caught in a Nazi searchlight, the turret gunners scream, the sound of a false echo in a panic-stricken sky.

 

I can’t recall any love amongst the debris. Just dust and bones, damaged lives and weeping widows, dead children who never grew up. There was no consolation, no message from the dead, just a barren future for survivors of a just war.

 

Now I searched the ground for my crash-landing site but I couldn’t find the ditch I nearly died in. Like my life since it had become overgrown with history.

 

I walked back to my car.

 

I pulled an imaginary canopy over my head and taxied into the future.

 

 

 

 

 

Machtpolitik by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

Posted November 2024

 

Let me tell you a story that ends with a question.

 

There were two big men. Each of them had a gang that controlled their respective neighbourhoods. But wherever their areas coincided, trouble began.

 

The trouble was mainly for the poor people who lived in the disputed regions. Their lives were miserable enough without the warfare that would break out between the two sides.

 

But the men (C and D) were very different people.

  • C had led a tough life emerging from hunger, poverty and oppression to take over his gang. He controlled the biggest regions.

  • D was pampered, wealthy and boastful with a gift to presenting himself as a clever businessman. D happened to own the biggest weapons.

 

Neither wanted to fight each other hand-to-hand. So, they supported others (A and B) to fight on their behalf.

  • A was originally a comic Actor who had come to lead his country more by accident than design.

  • B, on the other hand, was a Big Bully who thought he could beat up the comic actor and win praise from his more powerful sponsor, C.

 

When the comic actor looked to D for support, he found that the man was all talk and no trousers. Despite his grandstanding, the truth was that D was not only scared of C – he was even frightened of B.

 

So, for students of machtpolitik, here is your exam question: what should A do?

 

 

 

 

 

Cheers To The Inevitable by Glenn Francis Faelnar

[Philippines]

Posted October 2024

 

Matthew was crouched below a sliding window, unhampered by the rain. He opened it, looked around and made sure that nobody was there before inviting himself in. He closed the window behind him then began walking inside the house. His boots squeaked as he took each step forward. He kept dripping all over the marble floor as he walked across the dark hallway. He passed by an archway, which was to his left, as he made his way to the stairs when he heard someone call out.

“If you’re here to kill him, I’m afraid you’re too late.”

 

Matthew stopped dead in his tracks and turned to where the voice came from. Through the archway was a dining room, from what he could tell in the dark. There was a light that came from the mini bar but it wasn’t enough to light up the whole room. He walked in, his shoes incessantly squeaking.

 

“Can you turn on the lights please?”

 

Matthew stopped and said “Where?”

 

“On the right side of the archway.”

 

Matthew turned and went back to the archway. He pawed around for a little bit then flicked the switch when he finally found it. The dining room came alive and on the table in front of him were two men seated beside each other. One of them had a glass of scotch in front of him with the bottle not far while the other one was dead.

 

“What the fuck?” Matthew said.

 

“Those were the exact words I was expecting.”

 

Matthew approached the table.

 

“Who are you?” Matthew said.

 

“You can call me Reggie.”

 

Matthew shot the man a curious look.

 

“Please, have a seat.” Reggie said.

 

Matthew took a seat opposite Reggie, with a dumbfounded look plastered on his face. He leaned back and kept his focus on Reggie.

 

“What’s your name, sir?” Reggie said.

 

“I’m not answering that,” Matthew said. “Did you kill him?”

 

“Unfortunately, no,” Reggie said.

 

“You’re lying,” Matthew said.

 

“I wouldn’t be here if I was” Reggie said.

 

“Then what are you doing here then?” Matthew said.

 

“I’m guessing, the same as you.” Reggie said.

 

“Which is?” Matthew said.

 

“This.”

 

Reggie took out a leather pouch and dropped it on the table.

 

“Are those..?” Matthew said.

 

“Yes. The diamonds.”

 

Matthew saw Reggie do air quotes when he said the word diamonds.

 

“What’s wrong with them?” Matthew said.

 

“They’re not real.” Reggie said.

 

“Glass?” Matthew said.

 

Reggie nodded then took a sip.

 

“Are you sure?” Matthew said.

 

“Very,” Reggie said.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Were you hired?” Reggie said.

 

“Yes.” Matthew said, remembering the beautiful redhead who sat across from him at the bar. “You?”

Reggie raised his glass.

 

“Can we leave?”

 

Reggie shook his head and pointed at the camera.

 

“What do we do now?” Matthew said.

 

“We drink.”

 

Reggie slid the glass and the bottle across the table.

 

Matthew heard the sirens just outside the house as he poured himself a scotch.

 

 

 

 

 

A Home Through Time by Alan Ford

[Nottingham, England]

Posted October 2024

 

I was moving into a new three-story home when I became aware of an earlier time. A time when families of strangers had lived here. They may have been single or married. They may have been co-habiting. One did not know the other.

 

As I looked into the hall, I imagined I heard children’s laughter or cries as they ran in in a new found excitement. A new house to explore. New rooms to live in. A new place for toys. From a girl’s doll or a boy’s toy soldiers to a smart phone for either.

Music would have echoed through the house to the sound of years passing. Each generation had their sounds. From the origins of Rock and Roll in the fifties. Dylan and revolution in the sixties. Punk in the seventies. Madonna in the eighties.

There would have been different pictures on the walls to hang life on. From copies of  L.S. Lowry’s stick people to Andy Warhol’s Marilyn. From Pop Art’s consumerism to Photorealism in different pictorial worlds.

 

I noticed a closed window hiding its past. Behind it there would have been love and logic, wit and wisdom, new life and old. For babies were born here and died here.

 

In the lapse of time rooms were re-arranged by people who had never met. Where have they gone? Those forgotten faces, forsaken friends, guests and gossip and missing memories. No one knows. There are no photos of people not coming back.

 

I stepped over the threshold to join the people who had trodden the path of history, travelling through obscurity. Those who had been before and those who were yet to come.

 

 

 

 

 

Tiddlywink Saint Reinstated by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

Posted October 2024

 

Good news for saint lovers this week, with the announcement that decommissioned saint, St Barnholfe, has finally been reintroduced into the sanctified fold. In the words of Cardinal Landromatic of the Official Saint Selection Panel: “It was originally felt that Barnholfe’s martyrdom by having tiddlywinks hurled at his head was not in keeping with the dignity of Holy Church. Besides which, it really wouldn’t do in stained glass windows.”

         

      However, with tiddlywinks recently raised to Olympic status, it was felt that Barnholfe’s canonisation could be safely reinstated as part of the overall modernisation at the Vatican. Stained glass windows, however, are a consideration to be left for the future. Even so, small plasticene figures of the saint with a large tiddle – or wink – lodged in the skull are already in use by his faithful followers, many having formed a cult to worship him in private in clandestine tiddlywink societies.

         

     The life of St Barnholfe is but little known. A humble tiddlywinker born in the 1600s, he competed widely with discs made of bone or horn. Praying devoutly before each game, he would win with surprising ease. This roused resentment in his fellows, the more as he gave his winnings to the poor instead of buying them drink. Then, en route to a championship match, a sudden storm of flying counters struck him on the head and killed him. Some said it was divine retribution for misusing the power of prayer, but a crossbow was found nearby.

         

     Before long, there were sightings of a ghostly Barnholfe playing tiddlywinks in the sky with angels. Then came the miracles. Lepers grew tiddlywink fingers. The blind gained tiddlywink sight. Even the totally cack-handed had their hands uncacked for the game. Barnholfe was made a saint, and tiddlywinks gained new respect.

         

     Now, with Barnholfe’s reinstatement, the upright figurines of his walk to the fatal game have miraculously altered position to a stooped playing stance, with the tiddlywinks hand outstretched. Religious art buff Narbold Klendi is delighted. “This is not just a miracle,” he enthused. “It is a fine example of the forward thrusting manually dexterous disconeurobobrical wrist flexing posture.”

         

     “Holy Mudder of Goad!” declared Landromatic. “That settles it. Stained glass windows are out of the question.”

 

 

 

 

 

Carousel by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

Posted October 2024

 

I never left the carousel for more than a few minutes as I had to keep it running smoothly. And without me, who would collect the money from the customers?        

I even met my husband on the carousel. He and his girlfriend were in the car that stopped on a dangerous bend. I was athletic enough to climb over the rotating struts and disconnect the faulty prayer wheel. The three of us were wedged together as I guided the car back to safety.

The Fair Manager was happy with how I ran the carousel but the ecclesiastical owners of the land were unhappy with my detaching the prayer wheels.

“That’s not in the lease,” the Legate pronounced when he visited.

“Why didn’t the Legate come and speak with me and see how the carousel works?” I asked the Manager.

“The Legate never addresses women and knows nothing about the carousel. He’s a lawyer who just read the lease.” The Manager was obviously uncomfortable with the pressure from the Piety Council.

“I’m not going to attach the prayer wheels. We’ll suffer accidents. If you want to throw me out, I know you can,” I challenged the Manager. I was confident that he would not want to sack me because there would be no one able to take over the carousel which, truth be told, was the star attraction of the Fair.

My husband warned me about being confrontational. He understood the world outside the Fair and knew I might find handling life out there hard. The Legate’s enforcers arrived at the same time as my notice to quit. They screwed on the prayer wheels and spent thousands on a marketing campaign to attract people to the carousel. They ignored my protestations concerning safety. Their Gang Leader said: “You don’t understand, do you? It’s the danger that attracts people. Who wants to live in an entirely safe and protected environment?”

He was right, of course. Although a dozen lives have been lost through the unreliability of the prayer wheels, the Fair Manager reported that there was no shortage of people wanting to ride the carousel. The Gang Leader, now running for President, says he and the Piety Council regard the long queues paying for a ride a sign of success.”

Fortunately, my husband was well able to keep me and our children without worrying about the Fair, the carousel and the Piety Council. His profitable real estate business involved one of his companies buying the Fairground. I didn’t complain about the company’s decision to dismantle the carousel with permission to build a luxury hotel in its place.

A couple of months later, you can imagine my surprise when I took the children to see where I had worked and how they were getting on with the hotel. But there would be no hotel. An official Piety Council noticeboard illustrated what the building would look like on completion: a rotating Church in the shape of a giant Prayer Wheel!

 

 

 

 

 

Trolley by Charles Ryder

[Wales, originally from Cheshire, England]

Posted October 2024

 

‘I’ve got a knife,’ he said, ‘Nobody knows you’re here. Or cares.’ His weight on hers hurt. Whose deadweight? She thought in panic. Trembling. All she felt, a pitiful speck of nothing beneath his monstrous hardness, his smell of bad teeth and beer. The mewling of a Buzzard high octaves above the traffic noise. It would be hovering somewhere nearby, scouring the hard-shoulders for the dead. She tried to peer around his head but he had blotted out everything. She knew this moment had been gestating for months. Years. Biding its time. She could have been somewhere else but she had chosen this spot. Why…Jesus help me but the sounds choked on themselves. He seemed in no hurry, lay there pressing on what little had become of her, strength left in another life. For a moment she thought he was sleeping but he shifted in fracturing silence. ‘Now,’ he said.

 

Only last night she had  pushed on in peace out through the corporate. Ignored the lascivious calls of those who determined. Or guessed. She followed the line of static pylons west toward a low rise of warehouses, a haphazard skyline. Now the rush-hour twilight at her back, a track worn with gravel and the long stencils of bike tyres. Rose-Bay willow herb wept at every turn. Nettles too.

In a wood, damp and joyless she announced her camp, neon blue tarp between saplings. Valance of flattened cardboard. Imagined walls. She made a fire out of a pallet. Burnt whole, the industrial staples had resisted dismemberment. She watched it until consumed to flakes and powder, and the staples glowed red like Xmas lights.

The motorway rampart hardly distant, the sky above corpse-coloured, its ceaseless lullaby giving her security, the safety of travellers carrying their seeds and breath away – or disguise the night convulsions of the woods around.

She folded her arms around herself in the thin comfort of her sleeping bag. Her awakeing  bag. Every night was a skirmish with thoughts of who she used to be. When she could wash her hair, put on make-up and sunscreen. When she was the person she didn’t want to be. And neither did she want to be this one. Ideas were exhumed in her bony sleeplessness. She remembered when she had her own door. Once, not that long ago she had written the word door on a piece of card. She had pinned it to the tarp. But it had brought her no happiness.

Then a dirty dawn. A peripheral flicker slighting up into the claws of a hawthorn bush. She knew it was a Blackbird. So much harshness. Her shopping trolley marks a boundary. She remembered. Filling her trolley at the supermarket with un-necessities. Now it was filled with her life. She lay and listened to what had been. Lay and heard steps, contusions along the path. Stopped. Lay too long.

 

 

 

 

Delay by Isabella Morrell

[UK]

Posted October 2024

The case waits for me in the dusted silence of that long-forgotten room. The soft pull of its contents seems to weigh my arm down through the floor with desperate tenacity. As it sits on the bed, I’m almost cautious of it simply sinking through the cloth; the last reminders of them falling just out of touch. Cool, silvered clasps tenderly sting my skin. I feel like a desperate wanderer, quivering on the precipice of a rich, golden discovery.

 

Except no precious coins spill out as I force open it’s squeaking maw, no triumphant music, no ‘You Win!’ flashing before my eyes.

 

Only my mother’s abandoned scrawl. My father’s indecipherable expression. Their letters, photographs and keepsakes spilling into the bottomless depths of the haunted case. My parents have grown so small, crushed into the creased frames and racing across the yellowing pages. The service can wait for a little while.

 

 

 

 

 

Keith’s Dilemma by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

Posted October 2024

 

‘Please Mama. I don’t want to go to school today.’

     ‘If you miss today, it will get harder.’

 

       Keith thinks of Uncle Brigham and why the whole parish make fun of him.

To Keith, Uncle Brigham is a bit slow, that is all. They are friends.

      

       He knows Uncle Brigham has to go to court today and hopes he won’t be too afraid. Uncle Brigham doesn’t like crowds or noise and the courthouse will be packed.

 

      ‘I will have to pass the courthouse on my way to school. Why can’t you take me Mama?’

      ‘I have to be in court to support your father.’

 

       It has been seven months since the police took his father away for questioning. Seven months since Uncle Brigham screamed and wept and pointed an accusing finger at his father. Rape. Uncle Brigham did not know the word. It was Mama Evadine, his older sister, who screamed it, as she gathered Uncle Brigham in her arms.

 

       Keith knows the word means something bad, and his father is being accused of it. He can’t believe his father would hurt Uncle Brigham and he is unsure what to think. The knots in his stomach tighten, and he pees himself.

 

       ‘Let me clean you up,’ said his mother.

       ‘Will you come for me after school?’

       ‘I will try’.

       ‘They will make fun of me’.

        Why don’t you put on your long trousers. Try to be brave.’

        Fighting tears, Keith grabs his satchel, strides off, head bent, kicking a stone.

 

 

 

 

 

Bloodlust by Tom Longmore

[Telford, England]

Posted October 2024

 

The stench of sweat and bowels filled the air with an aroma that only the start of battle had. Overbearing to men who’d never fought before but a welcome sign to me. A sign that made me feel alive again, when I was so close to death. I took note of the men stood around me and then I began to run.

My first kill was an old man. He hobbled towards me, his shield and sword bathed in rust. It felt almost too easy taking his head, but his time had come. I danced under three sword swings from different men, taking the last one’s legs. The other two were lost into the crowd before I had chance to bring them under death’s spell.

I opened my stance as I got into the thick of the fighting. Slicing through a collar bone, taking another’s arm at the shoulder and piercing a heart through the back of his ribcage. I knew that the sounds around me were littered with screams and weeping and grunts of pain. I could hear nothing though, as my world slowed, and my sword took over.

I’d describe the feeling as a calmness that washed over you. Instead of the fury and anger most men fought with, I fought with silence, peace and tranquillity. I didn’t hack and slash and thrust. I sliced and pierced and danced. Chaos was all around me but inside I was serene.

There was a break in the lines up ahead as men scattered. They feared the battle was lost and so they took flight to the trees. These weren’t men I wanted to have the pleasure of killing; these were cowards who should never have been forced on to the field to fight in the first place.

My feet trampled over corpses of men who had succumbed, guiding me to the centre of the battle that raged on. One man stood out from the rest, his head above all else, his arms swinging and connecting with whoever dared to get close. An axe gripped in one hand, a sword in the other, he was coated in the blood of the fallen.

Slicing through a man’s neck, I pushed my way through and stood opposite. I was not short, but this man towered over me. My mouth curled into a smile as he locked eyes with me across the dead. A guttural cry escaped his mouth, and he ran straight for me. I swore I could feel the earth beat below his feet and as he reached me, I twisted, span, slid and missed his cleaves that would have cut me in two. With his momentum carrying passed me, I threw out my sword, catching his ankles and sending him to the ground. A mob descended on him, his life no more.

Sweat and bowels filled the air, but they were joined with something else now. Blood. They were joined with blood and guilt.

 

 

 

 

Disloyalties by Kevin Armor Harris

[Watford, England]

Posted October 2024

Billie knew these hills well and understood their weathers. She was up on the ridge with a couple who had stopped to reflect on the view, when she saw the man in some difficulty as he started his descent. His cry, when he stumbled, was whipped away and shredded by the wind. Billie watched as he got up and struggled to put weight on his leg. Then she moved down after him at a distance, keeping an eye on his progress. On one stretch he was scree-sliding on his backside, scattering rocks, stones, dust, noise, suffering horror at the brazen environmental crime but desperate to get to the road below. Then onto a deceptive grassy rockfield and a stubbled bluff. Sure-footed, she circled and appeared in front suggesting the best line to take, he grunting in his tight box of pain. Sensing urgency, she was attentive, keeping well clear of the snarling and growling. Soon among trees she stood well back, watching, as the man groped around for a stick. Then on they went, he desperately disinterested or unaware, she totally focused on his limping painful progress. He refilled his bottle just above the sheepline, but she was happy to drink where the burn was fuller further down. She watched him onto the road and then followed some way behind as he hobbled into the village and got a lift into town. Billie waited outside while the medics patched him up. She didn’t make it into his consciousness until the pain in his leg stopped sharding right up his back. She was just there and he was absorbed inside.

                                                                               

                                                                                            *

When I got home and opened the door, fumbling first one crutch then the key then the other crutch, I sensed for sure my wife had left me. I knew when I made the trip, no, I didn’t know, but I realised that’s how we both had set it up, had let it be set up, a silent agreement, less painful that way. Perhaps. The fracture in some sense self-inflicted. Cholly was with me, I called her Cholly, she will always remind me of the Leadbelly song. You can’t lose me, she is saying. I wonder now, when we go back to the hills, Cholly and I, will she know the place, will she find her previous providers, will she respond to a different name, to a repeated whistle, will she heel to a different boot?

 

 

 

 

 

Lego by Sam Christie

[Wales]

Posted September 2024

 

You poured out the pieces from the box onto the floor and ran both hands through them, back and forth, rattling and crunching the little bricks and slates over the carpet. Your button nose dribbled and there was just a small smear of chocolate on the side of your mouth. The flat green base you purposefully placed right in front of you with a huff. I looked on from the sofa, feeling sleepy from the heat of the flickering wood-burner and watched you begin.

 

Our windows must have glowed into the valley under the roof of packed stars. Mummy was reading, curled up on her chair and all I could hear over the clicking of those plastic pieces, being placed methodically on top of one another, was the odd dulled bleat of the sheep from the field below.

 

After a while you lifted your half-built house up and squealed, “Look, Daddy!” And I smiled and stroked your head. Once you’d worked and worked, at times with your tongue sticking out, trying to make sense of the picture on the back of the box, you slid the finished cottage over to my feet.

 

“It’s like our house. Look, here’s my window, there’s you and Mummy. This house is in cat years, so it’s not the same as our real one, that’s older.”

 

I found that greying box of Lego when I was clearing out the damp storage container where my broken promises were piled up. I would, at least, keep that.

 

 

 

 

Crystalline by Beth Sherman

[New York, USA]

Posted September 2024

https://www.bethsherman.site/

 

One Thursday afternoon, I stuck my head in the freezer, closed the door, exhaled. Ice burned my face. Froze my mucous membranes. Climbed inside my eyeballs. The snow made a whooshing sound. Through the fog, I saw a lime green croc, a speckled faun, ten peacocks with trembling fans, my father sitting on a half-opened package of veggie links, still wearing his army uniform, his cheekbones dusted with frost. They all got along. The croc played Hearts with three of the peacocks. The faun nibbled snow from my father’s hand. Hey, kiddo, he said. You know any good knock-knock jokes? His breath formed a perfect circle in the air. His eyes were a crazy shade of pink. Knock knock, he said. Who’s there? I wanted to ask him about the war, if he’d killed anyone, if he missed me yet, if he was scared. Honey Bee. But when I tried to speak, my words cracked and fell onto spoiled hamburger meat. Honey Bee who? There were lots of things I needed to know. I climbed onto a bagel wrapped in freezer paper, reached for his other hand. Honey Bee a dear and make this end. The cold rippled and broke apart. I slid feet first out of the freezer down a bunny slope, arms windmilling, chin over ankles. Each flake a different pattern as I blinked and the room came back into focus. It’s cold in here, said the nurse, handing me a blanket I didn’t need. Should I turn down the a.c.? The tubes attached to his body made a whooshing sound. I leaned over the bed, pressed my lips against his forehead, his eyes as empty as shadows in the snow. 

 

 

 

 

Bitter Melon by E. C. Traganas

[New York City, USA]

Posted September 2024

https://www.elenitraganas.com 

 

 

‘In the bucket,
nodding to each other -
the melon and eggplant’

                                                                          - haiku by Yosa Buson (1716-1783)

 

 

The mangoes looked bruised and overripe so she put them back on the stand. Someone clearly had been squeezing them a little too testily. The papayas, too, were dented with sappy brown contusions. In fact, the vegetables and fruits seemed to be in disarray that afternoon. It was hot, soupy, the air smelled of rotting produce, the midday sun a sweetly fermenting musky melon blazing overhead. She moved on to the cucumber section. The season’s crop had been abysmal; Kirbys, especially - her favorite - had suffered during the last few weeks and quality was poor.

 

“You pushed me,” a sallow-faced woman barked, as if spitting out a lemon pip.

 

She stared in disbelief. Rarely, if ever, had she encountered rudeness in that grocery store. 

 

“I said, you pushed me. Stop pushing me.”

 

Stay cool, the cucumber lady thought to herself. “I’m sorry,” she replied, “my basket must have touched you by accident. I apologize on behalf of my shopping basket.”

 

“No, you pushed me.” The old woman’s eyes lit up with pent-up rancour. Her complexion was lined and leathery, creased like the prickly spines of an Indian gourd, and muddy, the oxidized flesh of stale eggplant. 

 

“M’am, I did not push you.”

 

“Yes, you did.”

 

“I said, I apologize.”

 

The purple eggplant scowled, the way it would look just before it is breaded then thrown into a pan of shimmering oil for frying. “Very bad to push people like that.”

 

“M’am, I said I apologize. You know something,” the Kirby lady added, “I think you are paranoid.” 

 

“No, you are paranoid.”

 

Sometimes you keep burying a potato to the bottom of the pot but it still keeps rising to the surface. Kirby was certain now that the eggplant couldn’t possibly know what that word—paranoid—meant. “Can’t you just smile and move on civilly with your life?” she replied.

 

Eggplant had by now turned soggy, her edges stewing into a spongy mash. “You pushed me. You’re the one who’s rude.”

 

“Now you’ve really turned everything sour,” Kirby replied in frustration putting the cucumber down. “Look at what you’ve done. These are no good. They’re off. Pale, anaemic, bloated in the center. Not a good sign. Too many seeds, too mushy in the middle, no snap and crunch.” She remembered how her mother always warned her to stay away from wrinkled, sooty old women, how they could curdle milk, turn a whole crop of vegetables and make them go sour with just one malicious look, the way one rotten apple could ruin an entire barrel. Stay away from the evil eye, she had always counselled. 

 

Kirby took a deep breath, picked up her shopping basket and moved down the aisle to the checkout counter. “Thank you,” she said, smiling at the cashier. The girl looked away pertly, pointedly ignoring her, puckered poker-face a tetchy fly landing on the surface of the day’s stewpot.

 

 

 

 

Angelo’s Room by D G Walker

[Belfast, Northern Ireland]

Posted September 2024

 

It was an unseasonably cold Thursday afternoon when Ricardo arrived at Angelo’s apartment. He’d gotten the address from one of Angelo’s friends who had attended the funeral. He explained he and Angelo knew each other from college and had kept in touch occasionally on social media. It surprised Ricardo to know Angelo had made a friend at college, given that he had rarely attended classes before ultimately dropping out. It was around that period of his life he had gotten involved in the heavier stuff. 

    

     Ricardo hadn’t realised just how bare Angelo’s room would be. He made sure to borrow Henrique’s van for the occasion, as he stared at the few items belonging to his son, he knew it wasn’t necessary. The room contained a single bed, nightstand and a set of wooden drawers. Ricardo decided to pack away the delicate items first. There was one framed photo on the nightstand and a few on the chest of drawers. The one on the nightstand was of Angelo, still a healthy weight in this. His arm rested around the shoulders of a taller, pale young man with hair so fair it looked as though he didn’t have eyebrows. Ricardo recognised the young man as Greg. Greg had been the one who found Angelo. By the time he’d dialled 999, it was too late. They'd met at the funeral and his mother had taken him out in the middle of the service. Ricardo remembered seeing his shoulders shaking violently as he was led out. He didn’t know the nature of the relationship Greg had with his son, but he supposed it didn’t matter now. Angelo was gone. 

    

     Though Greg and Angelo had been close, it didn’t appear as if Greg had left any of his belongings in the apartment. Placing the photo carefully wrapped into the box by the door, he glanced up at the walls. Ricardo thought back to Angelo’s room as a boy. When there wasn’t a spot on the wall not covered by a crudely cut-out poster of some musician. His clothes and trainers scattered on the floor. His guitar was just about the only item he treated with care then, always ensuring it and the pick were stored away properly. He had taken it with him when he moved out and Ricardo figured he must’ve sold it when they cut him off. He noticed the laptop they’d bought him for college was also long gone.

    

     Though the photos Angelo had in his room filled in a few of the gaps, Ricardo hardly knew anything of his son in the years before he’d passed. That’s when he spotted a small round object kept behind the photo. A sobriety chip Angelo had been awarded at Narcotics Anonymous. Ricardo sat down on the bed, his fingers brushing over the number 30. He wasn’t sure when Angelo had earned this, or why he never told him about it. But if he had, he would’ve told him how proud he was. Ricardo then wondered if this would have made any difference. 

 

 

 

 

Four Stories by Cheryl Snell
[Maryland, USA]

Posted September 2024

 

Scan
He was a radiologist and single. I thought I’d hit the jackpot. He’s too pale, mother said. Take him to the beach, get some color on him. Be careful of your neck, my sister said, sweeping an imaginary cape across one shoulder. He’s no vampire, but when we ride in his borrowed ambulance, until night falls and he lays me on the gurney and unbuttons me with surgical precision. Scans everything I have that holds me together. Whispers, in dark times the eye begins to see.
 

In Sickness And In Health
Even if you tried every pillow in the house
and still couldn’t get comfortable if you ever woke
half out of your wet nightshirt smelling like meds
let your husband cheat on you because he had needs
and your illness was soaking up all the air in the room
if you waited in the car while he chatted up a nurse
if you ever punished yourself for being so stupid
by walking in cold rain until your dress soaked through
even if you slept with the next man you met
and the one after the one who ran you like a stop sign
on a dark rutted road, stop for a minute─
somewhere the dawn is breaking.
 

How To Find Your Lost Dog
Give your heart to a dog to tear and he runs away with it. To get them both back, lay some of your clothing on the spot the dog was last seen, your dirty green jacket maybe. The dog and heart are far away, but also not far, just missing from you. They are together. In the case of the jacket, it’s with the dirt embedded in it. If you direct your dreams to the place where the dog has gone, imagine him catching a whiff of your scent from the jacket. It’s a compass leading him to the jacket you find him sitting on, waiting for you early in the morning, your heart unharmed in his mouth.
 

Soulmates
The girl with the hole in her spine fell in love with the boy with a hole in his heart. How could she not? They were so compatible. ‘We complete each other,’ she wrote in her diary. He could not return the sentiment, because: the hole. He knew what she did not, that the mesh patch under his ribs would someday be absorbed into the fragments of his heart; but right now, it existed more as a rhinestone moon dissolving with rain, and left him wondering─ if his heart became whole, what would happen to her wound?

 

 

 

 

Remnants Of Childhood by Julia Wilson

[Washington D.C. USA]

Posted September 2024

 

My parents, in their 80s, asked my two brothers and me to empty their house of our leftovers, boxes in the attic filled with our letters, drawings, books, toys, old issues of Mad Magazine, and record albums, long since melted in the Washington, D.C. summer. 

     “We don’t want you to be burdened with cleaning out the house after we’re dead, so let’s all do it now.”

     My parents would never use euphemisms like “after we’re gone” or “passed away.” Dead is what it is, and that’s what’s going to happen.

     I set myself up in the corner of the attic and start on my inventory with a box labeled ‘Julia’. Doll clothes (where were the dolls?) gives me a twinge -- my mother had sewn them on her Singer. She always loved my porcelain dolls, originally her dolls, more than I did. I wish she hadn’t spent so much time sewing the clothes, and I wish I’d remembered to change the dresses more often.

     I open another box. It was filled with my father’s sketchbooks. 

     Dad was a self-taught sketch artist and watercolorist with a fair bit of talent. His hobby, given up by the time we found the book because his hands were shaky, was pursued on the weekend.

     I flip through the sketches, done in pen and ink and charcoal pencil. While we three live out our childhood, Dad chronicles our days with quick, sparse drawings. In the book, I read with my hair hanging over my face; my younger brother twists his t-shirt; my older brother turns a page with a slight frown. My mother holds us on her lap. We sit side-by-side on the three-person sofa enthralled by a movie. The cat twines between my brother’s ankles as he eats breakfast, elbows resting on the table. I burrow in a leaf pile. My mother sips tea from a mug.

     The lines are made surely, with strong, thick black strokes. I can imagine my father’s ruddy hand gripping the pencil. There is very little shading or background images on the pages; each drawing probably took a matter of minutes.

     And there is one self-portrait, edged by the frame of a mirror. His face is thinner than I remember, but his full mustache is the same.

     Its twin had arrived in the mail midway through one of my dad’s long-haul overseas trips in the 1970s. Dad was a foreign affairs reporter and spent weeks at a time traveling with the Secretary-of-State-of-the-moment in the press pool. My guess is that our mother, fed up with the frequency of the trips, had complained about solo parenting, and perhaps our misbehaviors. 

     The dad in the sketch that came by mail had eyes that followed us around the kitchen from above the breakfast table where our mother had taped the drawing. He was not smiling, but not stern either. I would call his expression “attentive.” At the bottom it said, in his distinctive all capital printing, “Your daddy is watching you.”

 

 

 

 

A Night Walk by Xingmiao Ma

[Shanghai, China]

Posted September 2024

 

I was drinking with my friends in the market until the white moon scanned my face directly through the glassy roof. I limped out the door and got on my bronzy bike. It was bright black before but lost its brilliance in winds and rains. Now, it was bronzy, and clumsy.

 

"Old buddy, take me home." I patted it.

 

"Hey bro, where're you heading? Drunk men should not walk in the summer night," my friends waved to me at the pub door.

 

"I'll not walk. I ride." I turned back, pointing to my bike. Gosh, my friends seemed like ghosts standing by their red tombs! They stood under the sharp yellow lights of the pub with a red wall. Their faces were shadowed, so they appeared as headless ghosts. Was I drinking with the ghosts? A chill arose on my back.

 

"Go! Go! Go!" I shouted to my bike.

 

My bike roared as it advanced, but much slower than I expected. We climbed up a slope and reached the straight long dam. From where I approached the dam, it looked like a silver dragon sleeping in darkness, with its dust-yellow skin decorated by the white moonlight. The dark green paddies and the grey river around were its territory. We would start from its tail and end at its head.

 

The wind whistled in my ears, but I heard a distinctive air. The river was whispering a spell. Its unstoppable grey ripples tore apart the beautiful moon reflected on its surface. The ripples were following me. They stretched their hands to grab me. They murmured to each other, plotting against me. The wind echoed to the ripples - they led the rice to besiege us. Ripples over the top of hundreds of acreages of paddies. Wave after wave, they must be relaying something to hit me. I should run away.

 

Not far away, a faint orange light appeared on the opposite side of the river. Someone lived there. The dog sensed my appearance, and it started barking. Its owner, in a white robe, stood by the door. His face was blurred against the light. He stared in my direction like a demon looking into my soul. I began to turn the pedal faster. But weird, the dam was endless tonight.

 

Finally, we came to the dragon's head, the water gate. My heartbeat quickened as my bike dragged me forward. I stood up to speed. I started to turn right. "Damn it! What's that?" I was to hit it directly. A floating figure dressed in red flashed before my eyes. GOSH! I leaned back and fell to the ground. I crawled back a few steps. The horror choked me.

 

I glimpsed the ghost again - she was sneering at me with two lines of black blood tears on her pale face. She sneered! She then ran downhill along the discharge slope. And disappeared. My legs were paralyzed by fear, but now I had to run. Even without my bike.

 

 

 

 

Illustrated Investigations by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

Posted September 2024

https://raykohn.com/

 

CONTAGION – Alan Anderson’s article

 

Contagion: a contemptuous critique of careful companies currently dispensing disposable drugs. Curiously collecting catching conditions, ‘Contagion’ caused considerable consternation         

Composing counter claims caused Alan Anderson, “alliterative author”, instituting injurious invectives in Illustrated Investigations.

Citing ‘Sally Susan’s Salacious Serial’ (sixteen sensational sex stories) – as a “major masterpiece”, the man maps making moves against Alan’s “audacious authorship” as mere malice.

Alan’s article asserts alliteration as CONTAGIOUS!

 

Carol Catherine Cox, Culture Critic

 

Amble by John Brantingham

[Jamestown, New York, USA]

Posted September 2024

 

My heart has been compromised all my life though I didn’t know it until my fifties. Now that it’s catching up with me, I take these trails slow. I listen to it beat, to my breath, to the call of the chickadee saying “cheeseburger,” to the wind shushing the leaves, and to dripping water from last night’s rain.

 

I take a breath and smell a bear coming. It’s a comforting smell, a home smell. I stop and lean on a tree becoming the tree, at least to the bear rambling down hill, alone in his quiet morning search for food.

 

 

 

Never Keep Your Phone On After Midnight by Andrew Gooch

[Hull, England]

Posted September 2024

 

It was surprising how long a short high street felt when you were carrying a drunken girl in your arms. A ten-minute walk had so far managed to last almost an hour, staggering under moonlight, as Abe regretted waving away that last taxi outside the club.

 

‘Abe, am I wasted?’ slurred the girl in his arms, for what felt like the hundredth time. ‘I feel wasted.’

 

‘No,’ he lied. ‘Just a bit tipsy that’s all.’

 

They didn’t make it ten yards before she asked again. Abe sighed; this was where chivalry got him. He really needed to start turning his phone off after midnight.

 

Across the road, four darkly dressed young ladies stood smoking outside a betting shop’s graffiti-stained shutters. Aside from their hairstyles, they looked nearly identical in their makeup.

 

‘Are you alright, luv?’ the blonde one called over.

 

Aware of how things might have looked, Abe removed his arm from around Tasha’s waist.

 

‘She’s fine, just had one too many this evening.’

 

The brunette looked past him. ‘We’re asking her.’

 

‘It’s alright, he’s my brother,’ Tasha giggled; she never was a good liar when drunk.

 

As the ladies marched closer, they took off their heels. Maybe it wasn’t so gentlemanly to carry a drunken woman home by all yourself down a deserted street at three in the morning.

 

The redhead tied back her long shiny hair. ‘We just really wanna make sure that she’s alright.’

 

All four of them circled around Abe wielding their stilettos like daggers.

 

‘I’m telling you she’s fine,’ Abe pleaded to the leader of the pack. Her hair was a mixture of several shades.

 

‘She will be.’

 

The tip of the woman’s heel was pointed straight at his face. It was sharp as a knife. 

 

Abe never kept his phone on after midnight from then on.

 

 

 

 

I Looked For Summer by Fran Waddington

[Horbury, West Yorkshire]

Posted September 2024

 

I looked for summer that year in a bunch of pink and purple sweet peas, tied in a bunch with some green garden twine.

 

Each season, since Gran’s death, had been a rolling storm of firsts. Roast potatoes hadn’t tasted the same at Christmas and the daffodils in spring had been a paler shade of yellow. Now summer was here. The smell of barbeques on the breeze made me feel sick and I looked for her kneeling form, weeding the roses under the blossom tree in her green cardigan. But she wasn’t there.

 

I sat on the back door step and smoked a cigarette. In fact, I smoked quite a few. I knew I needed to stop soon, but summer was here and she wasn’t and the world just felt too empty. I could hear Dave whistling next door as he pottered about in his garden. It was only seven in the morning and already he was wearing his faded blue overalls and heavy gardening boots. Every now and then I could hear him coughing, clearing his throat. Too many cigarettes.

 

Soon I heard his wife shout, ‘Dave!’ and he made his way up the garden path, whistling, to eat his breakfast: a thick bowl of porridge and golden syrup, a full English fry up and two slices of toast smothered with jam made from his own fruit. Every single day he ate this, yet still he was thin. It would get him in the end though, that and the cigarettes, and perhaps being away from his garden, when his wife moved them somewhere up north.

 

This morning though, Dave poked his head between the trees bordering our two gardens.

 

“Rose, love? I’ve these for you.”

 

“What’s that Dave?” I put out my cigarette and slumped across, ashamed that I was still in my pyjamas and he had already been gardening since day break.

 

“These were your granny’s favourite. I picked you a bunch. Sweet peas they are, I think you’ll like them too.”

 

I reached over and took the bunch of sweet peas from Dave’s hands. His finger nails were covered in soil but when I looked up into his face, his eyes were kind and crinkled where he kept smiles in the corners.

 

“Oh Dave, thank you. They smell wonderful.” I buried my face into their soft petals and inhaled the sweet scent, pulling it deep into my lungs. When I looked up, he had gone.

 

I walked back to the house and into the kitchen to find a vase. The hard wedge of grief in my heart cracked a little as the smell of the sweet peas filled my heart: front, sides and back.

 

Every day that week, Dave passed a bunch of sweet peas over the fence with a kind smile, and every day, the wedge loosened a little more. Summer crept in, even if Granny was no longer around.

 

 

 

 

Secret Shelter by Xingmiao Ma

[Shanghai, China]

Posted September 2024

 

The river comforted me with its slow-paced flow. That distracted my dismay away with deliberate softness. In the distance were endless green rice paddies. And their end stood the Hope. I dreamed of reaching it. I assured myself it was there and I would be there. Feeling better.

 

The trees cuddled me from my back; now I was lonely but safe. The wild roses and their bee pets smiled at me on the left while the cattail on the right gifted me its pleasant scent. Even the fish waved to me with its high jump trick. So sweet. They were cheering me up. At this secret shelter. Down the slope. By the playground. Away from the rich student group.

 

Yes, I was Poor. 

 

I dug a crab hole with a thin pole. I dug and dug. Dug out the trouble from my heart. It was the fourth time the Annoying Her mocked my shabby appearance. My worn-out shoes. My pleated jeans. My faded coat. My broken schoolbag. How dare she? I planned to revenge.

 

"Who's stolen my purse?" The Annoying Her shouted.

 

"Who's stolen her purse?" The Authority Him, the headmaster, repeated.

 

"Not me." A voice came.

 

"Not me!" A voice went.

 

"Not...me..." my voice hesitated.

 

The Annoying her looked back at me. The others threw their unusual eyesight on me. The usual unusual eyesight. I had gotten used to it. "What?" I shrugged it away.

 

I dug a hole with a pole, digging and digging. I buried the purse into it. My hands were shivering. How should deal with it? Will they find the truth? Am I going to be a prisoner? I should be careful, looking around.

 

The trees were spying. The bees were detecting. The river had surrounded me. And the fish recorded my deed with a jump snap. I felt unsafe. I had lost my innocence, and my shelter was not secret anymore. They will find it. I wanted help. I had lost my innocence.

 

"Give it back..." the wave warned me, patting on the bank. The roses and cattails were muted. The rice paddies were clouded with a

heavy mist. A heavy mist over which I saw no Hope.

 

"Give it back. Give it back. It's not your fault. Don't be trapped. Don't be lost. "A voice uttered in my mind.

 

I dug and dug. Dug out the purse and trashed it to an unobvious obvious corner.

 

The Annoying Her kept crying because she feared her parents would scold her. Needless to say that, I won.

 

Someone approached the purse. And saw it. I observed and left.

 

"Hey, it's your purse!" The flying cheer broke the tensions.

 

The river was beating. The bees were humming. And I was singing.

 

 

 

 

No Stones Left by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

Posted September 2024

 

In the wake of Britain’s withdrawal from Europe, the planned return to ‘traditional’ imperial measures hit an obstacle today, when it was revealed that weights, at least, would have to stay in metric.

          “It’s simple,” said a Weights and Measures official. “We can’t go back to weighing things in stones, because there are no more stones left in the ground. You have to have a physical standard by which to validate any measurement. If there aren’t any stones... there can’t be any stone weights.”

          But where have all the stones gone? We took the problem to Eleonora Spampy, patroness of the Society for Repatriation of Native Minerals.

          “Well, of course, it’s a case of not knowing what you’ve got till it’s gone, isn’t it? For centuries, we took our native stone reserves for granted, carelessly throwing them at glass houses, skimming them across ponds, building them on quicksand and what have you, as if there was no tomorrow. But it’s more than just natural wastage. There has been a conscious and deliberate depletion of stocks by people with an axe to grind or some such personal agenda. I’m sure those Palaeolithic Re-enactment groups took plenty away, for one thing. Some people have no concern for the future. Well, now it looks as if the reckoning has come.”

          And just when the reckoning comes, we have nothing to reckon with.

          “Precisely. We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

          Going by the lack of disturbance, the stones didn’t gather any moss when they were rolled away. Which implies a certain Stone Age craftiness in rock management. That would put the Palaeolithic Re-enactment Circle in the frame. We may be casting loose aspersions here, but as the Nobel poet sang, “Everybody must get stoned.”

          I’d like to say we left no stone unturned in our quest to find the truth. But of course there aren’t any stones left, turned or otherwise. Anyone seeking information, or trying to locate missing rocks, meets an almost physical wall of silence. Granite-faced grunts of “No comment” are the norm. It would be like getting blood from a stone, but even that imagery is denied us.

          So there you have it. Next time you have some grammes of crisps with your litre down the local, or measure your porridge out in kilos, just think. You could have had it all in stones, if it wasn’t for those flint-hearted Palaeolithic Re-enactment sods.

 

 

 

 

The Apology by David Lewis Pogson

[North Lancashire, England]

Posted September 2024

 

‘I’m told that you went home mid-morning from school.’

‘Yes sir, I was ill.’

‘But then you returned to play rugby in the afternoon.’

‘Yes sir, I felt better.’

‘That’s highly unlikely.’

‘But it’s true.’

‘I only have your word for that.’

‘My word should be good enough.’

‘How can I know that?’

‘You can’t … you’ll just have to trust me.’

‘Don’t talk back to me, boy. I don’t like your attitude.’

‘And I don’t like being accused of lying, sir’ 

‘I shall be writing to your father.’

 

***

‘I’ve had a letter. Your Form Master describes you as truculent and aggressive.’

‘He didn’t accept my explanation. I was ill. I’d asked permission to leave early.  When I felt better, I returned. I never miss school without justification … you know that. My word was doubted for no good reason.’

‘You should not have argued with him.’

‘Why not? He was wrong. It’s not like when you were at Grammar School.  This is the 1960s. I should be allowed to defend myself.’

‘Nevertheless, you will apologise.’

 

***

‘Sir, my father has received your letter.’

‘Quickly boy, I’m in a hurry.’

‘He has instructed me to apologise to you…’

‘Very well. I accept your apology. Now cut along to your next class.’

‘Err…err… yes sir.’

 

***

‘Did you speak to your Form Master?’

‘I did. I told him exactly what you’d instructed me to do. He accepted it.’

‘Let’s hope that’s an end to the matter.’

‘It is so far as I’m aware. He didn’t ask for anything more.’

 

 

 

Stay Away From The Demon by Ammanda Selethia Moore

[California, USA]

Posted September 2024

 

It was a youth retreat like any other, tucked away in the snowy mountains in San Bernardino. We all attended services, mingled, and played games together in the evening. Until one night during the altar call, the preacher announced we had a demon in the room.

 

     The room hushed except for the sounds of a few young people fervently praying, babbling syllables.

     “There’s a demon here tonight, and we are going to cast it out. If you’re not prayed through and full of the Holy Ghost, stay back. This thing could jump onto you,” the youth pastor said. He was the youth pastor for the English-speaking services, a slightly balding strawberry blond middle aged white man in a full suit.

     I stayed back like most of the other young people. I couldn’t be sure that I was fully prayed through and filled with the Holy Ghost. What if there was a bit of my heart that wasn’t sold out to God? What if the demon jumped inside me? I shuddered at the thought.

 

     The youth pastors, chaperones, and older young people gathered into a circle surrounding a very slim dark-skinned Mexican teenager. I didn’t recognize her. She was from the Spanish-speaking services. She was the one with the demon.

     I wondered, why her? She looked like any other teenager in our church. Her skirt was modest, loose fitting and came to below her knees. She wore a long-sleeve t-shirt. Her hair was wound up into a bun at the nape of her neck.

     The circle closed around her, each person in the circle’s arms uplifted. I wondered how they knew so absolutely that they were safe from the demon. The youth pastor gripped her forehead, pushed back, and screamed, “In Jesus name.” Again, he pushed her head back, exclaiming in a babble of speech, “A-shonda-la-ha.”

     I prayed for the young woman. Please God, deliver her from the demon. I kept my head bent, my eyes mostly closed. I’d never been this close to a demon before. Maybe it could jump on me if I made eye contact.

     How did people get a demon anyway? Maybe she played with a demonic artifact like a ouija board? Did she associate with other people who had demons? Did she abuse heavy drugs or alcohol? Did she read stories about witchcraft? I’d read almost all of the Harry Potter books and I’d never been possessed. I nibbled on my thumbnail, trying to straighten it out. My other hand was still raised in the air in prayer.

     I figured that I should probably watch so I know how to exorcize a demon in the future. I looked up to see the young woman shaking, her arms raised in the air. Her black hair had fallen out of her bun in clumps so it was hanging limp around her face. My breath caught in my throat and a shiver electrified my spine. This was how I’d always pictured a demon-possessed person to look.

     “Careful now, it’s mocking us, trying to pretend to speak in tongues. Let’s pray harder for this young lady,” the youth pastor urged. He handed off the microphone, then folded up his sleeves with nimble fingers, like he was charging up his arms for a power move. He finally struck the young woman’s head again, his right hand gripping her forehead and he shook her. She must’ve felt the almighty power of God emanating from his hands because her knees weakened at that very moment and she fell back to land on the floor. That must’ve been it, the demon ought to be out by now, I thought.

     As soon as she was down, ladies gathered around her and covered her legs for modesty’s sake.

     “Thank you, Jesus! Hallelujah! The demon is gone and this young lady is speaking in tongues. And let this be a warning for those of you who are tempted to listen to secular music like heavy metal. That’s how the demon came into this young woman.”

And with that, the service was over except for the few people who continued praying.

     Heavy metal music did seem scary to me with all the screaming. I didn’t know it could cause demon possession though. I frowned. It didn’t seem likely that music had caused this, but just to be safe, I vowed to myself never to put my soul at risk by listening to heavy metal.

     I would never see the young woman again. As I watched her, I wondered how scary it must’ve been for her, attending an unfamiliar church group (English and Spanish speaking services were separated) and being targeted as the one with the demon. What must it feel like to be surrounded by foreigners who didn’t speak her language and have forceful hands laid on her? What was it like to be labeled “the girl who had the demon”?

 

 

 

 

Prickly Legs And Chipped Toenails by Amie Walker

[Hull, England]

Posted August 2024

 

There’s something so fragile about womanhood. At first, it’s the noticeable hairs, the unspoken urges, and those nagging pimples. They’re shaven off, swallowed down, and squeezed. And then those firsts become frequent, replaced by the blare of an alarm, the swivel of an office chair, or a drunken night spent under moonlight. Silver and gentle, watching from afar and yet always there. It’s an experiment with boys, girls, fingers, and toys and so, so many mistakes.

 

Pillows become comfort and tissues become stained. Bedroom walls shift from polka dots or posters to sharp lines and double beds. And everything is changing so fast. So fast that sometimes all that’s left is to hang on and clutch onto the yesterdays and brace from the tomorrows. Sometimes all that exhaustion and pent-up emotions of what version of you’ll become leaves you sitting on an old creaky chair by your window. Blinking because that’s all you have left.

 

The moonlight still streams in through a streaked window. Full tonight. A single silver eye staring down, igniting bare skin with its intimate glow. The clock ticks in the background as time passes but right now everything slow. Goosebumps and nightgowns. Knotted hair untouched and a trail of smoke from that cigarette. Bitter on the tongue.

 

There’s paperwork left to do. Decisions to make. Emails to answer and parents to impress. But at least for one night, it’s okay to sit and wonder. With prickly legs and chipped toenails and the forgotten promises of tomorrow. Because there’s something so fragile about womanhood. And if you hold on too tight it’ll shatter.

 

 

 

 

Wilderness by Andrew Hart

[Ellesmere Port, United Kingdom]

Posted August 2024

 

“The Subject does not belong to the world, but rather it is a limit of the world.” Wittgenstein

 

I was going to write a story about solipsism; the idea that the only thing that exists is me, now. But why bother, when deep down I know that all my readers are solely contrivances of my brain?

 

Even the chair where I sit, my fingers that type and Mahler’s music that comes out of the laptop and is so beautiful, all of which I have created for my own amusement and comfort.

 

 

 

 

Not My Dad by Fran Waddington

[Horbury, West Yorkshire, England]

Posted August 2024

 

The day she found Uncle Albert dead at the bottom of the stairs, she wondered if she should finally start calling him Dad.

 

I found my dad, dead at the bottom of the stairs.

My dad is dead.

Did you know I lost my dad?

 

No, she couldn’t do it. Even now he was dead, she couldn’t bring herself to call him that. The shame of him burst over her cheeks in a red rash even as she looked down at his dead body. What a dad to have had.

 

She had let him live alone in the house, even though it was big enough for a family with children, dogs and a couple of horses too. It would have brought in some money.

 

Margaret couldn’t stand the bones of him, but she had never kicked him out of the house. Even when the neighbours had told her that Uncle Albert was paying for prostitutes to be brought along the canal on house boats right to his front door, she let him stay. She felt sick at the thought of it, but she didn’t kick him out. Even when he was found staggering down the busy road nearby, drunk, dirty and half naked, she had arranged for someone to pick him up and take him home. She had let him stay.

 

Now he was dead. Uncle Albert was dead. Her father was dead.

 

She wondered how many people actually knew he was her father? Most likely everyone did. Nobody kept a secret these days. Nobody dared to call her his daughter to her face though.

 

Mrs Doddick.

Bitch Tits.

Nasty Cow.

Evil Bitch.

Swine.

Tight, rich bitch.

 

All these names she knew followed her around. Nobody ever called her Maggie. Little Mags. Only her dad had called her that, before life made him drunk and her mean.

 

Now he was dead. Drink had left him in a heap at the bottom of the stairs of her childhood home. And nobody would ever call her Little Mags again.

 

Mrs Doddick pulled her mobile phone out of her coat pocket and called her assistant.

 

“Paul? I need you at the house. My Uncle Albert is dead. I need you to come and take care of it. I have back-to-back meetings all day. No, I don’t need you to cancel them for me. Yes, you sort it. I trust you to take care of it. Bye.”

 

She hung up and turned to leave the house. She wouldn’t be back again. It would be put up for rent now and bring in some money. Somebody would need to clean it up first. It was filthy and she scrunched up her nose in disgust.

 

Uncle Albert was dead. She closed the front door to the house behind her and didn’t look back as she made her way out to the gate and climbed into her Audi TT Convertible.

 

Well, that was that then.

 

 

 

 

The Maze by Emma Catesby

Posted August 2024

 

I ran and I ran, and I ran. I ran until I couldn’t anymore. My lungs were burning, struggling to take in enough air. When my legs eventually gave out, I collapsed against the hard, stone wall. All I could see was stone in every direction in some sort of maze-like pattern. Vines and moss crept their way up the walls and through the cracks suggesting that this place had been undisturbed for a long time. How I got there, I had no idea. I couldn’t even remember what I’d been doing before or what my life was. All I could remember was running. I think something was chasing me, it felt like something was chasing me, yet I couldn’t see it. I could hear its feet pounding on the ground and its breaths in my ear as it got closer. Those noises stopped every once in a while, as if it was giving me time to catch my breath. Whatever it was enjoyed the chase and didn’t want me giving up too quickly. I knew I only had seconds until it started up again and I would once again be forced to run. I didn’t want to. I wanted to give up, to let it kill me, but for some reason I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop running. Caught in an endless maze of turns, it felt like there was never an end, yet I was still running towards something, for something. That’s what motivation is about, having something to lose, having to work for something you love. So why was I so motivated if I couldn’t remember what it was I had to lose, what I loved? A breath, not mine. It was back. I ran once more, hoping that this would be the last time and that I would either make it out of this nightmare or my motivation would give out and I could quit. I didn’t even need to think about which way to turn, my legs were taking me on a path of their own, as if they knew where to go when I didn’t. The pounding got closer and closer, my legs slower and slower, getting ready to give up and let the nightmare take me. One last corner. I knew this would be my last turn before I either lost or gained everything. I turned. The end. There was the end. I must have started in the middle of the maze because there was the way out. And in it stood the memories of everything I hadn’t wanted to lose. This was what I had been working towards. For years I had fought and struggled to get to this point. And here I was at last. It had all been worth it.

 

 

 

 

Blitz On The Ritz by Alan Ford

[Nottingham, England]

Posted August 2024

 

In my town, during World War Two, there existed a first run cinema that had a regular sell-out crowd. The curtains would open to reveal a trailer for a forthcoming double bill of make-believe. Advertised products would proclaim a better life costing less. Famous faces would move across the screen.

My friends, Bill and Jane, went to see an x certificate movie starring Boris Karloff.  Boris was the first to play Frankenstein’s monster. But he wasn’t as frightening as Hitler.

I heard about the V2 rocket on the radio. It carried a preview of disaster. It starred a cameo appearance of Herman Goering.

I caught the bus hoping my friends were alive. The fire brigade were already there. So were the volunteers. I joined them as they picked through the rouble trying to find life amongst death. I picked up a postcard wishing someone was here.

A moment of silence was called for. In what was left of the foyer I could hear a damaged radio playing a popular song of the war. The voice of ‘forces’ sweetheart’ Vera Lynn was singing ‘We’ll Meet Again (Some Sunny Day)’.

When the silence was over the rescuers resumed their search for hope. In the back row they found Bill and Jane clasped tightly together in non-speaking roles. The stubs of two tickets to tears were found in Jane’s hand.

In seconds years of love had been wiped out leaving only dust-choked memories. Dead dreams were lying in the ashes. Memories were crushed. Hope was now over.

I went home in tears.

But I knew one thing.

One day there will be a remake a long way from Hollywood.

 

 

 

 

She by Ciarán Corr

[Northern Ireland]

 

I cleared my throat as I looked at her for what we both knew would be the last time. The neon lights from the hotel sign outside flickered and shot spears of colour across the room through partially closed curtains. The glow did nothing but illuminate the dinginess of the suite and highlight the guilt that I tried to conceal.

 

     I owed her nothing but the best. She deserved five-stars, diamonds, and champagne. Things that I could afford but had never been brave enough to gift. I watched as she slowly pursed her lips at me. She always painted them just how I liked. Mounding at the cupid’s bow with the poisonous red seeming to leap from her ghostly skin. In the stillness of the room, she beckoned me with all the mastery of a pianist. Nails, French tipped, tapped seductively at the white rhinestone choker that bound her neck like a noose. She knew that it was my favourite sound, and I knew that it was her favourite item of jewellery. Semi-precious stones at best but cherished as much as her mother’s vintage string of pearls. An heirloom that that she knew she could never inherit. Her hair, the colour of the Grand Canyon at sunset, poured down the sides of her feline face and splashed off bare shoulders. As she batted whisker-like eyelashes, the soft movement aroused the air with her recognisable scent. She smelled of warm rhubarb crumble. Fragrant, earthy, and tart with just a note of saltiness. I devoured this flavour as my last meal and closed my eyes as I leaned forwards to softly kiss her. Sorrowfully, I recounted the times that I had kept her secret, believing that she would be my ruin yet accepting that I had no other choice but to be apart from her. I had to. I had promised my wife that she was a one-off thing and I had promised myself that tonight must be our swansong. An end to both my joy and my pain.

 

     I began to cry as I recognised that my heartbeat had changed rhythm with pulsations so delayed that they welcomed me into a dreamy languor. My legs buckled and dragged me from her hold. As my eyelids parted, I was unable to muster the dignity needed to match her gaze knowing that it would advertise nothing more than a terrified and destroyed soul. I prayed for her not to speak, fearing that I would fall victim to her siren call like so many times before. Instead, I fixated my stare on the red lipstick imprints that now marked the cold mirror that I had kissed farewell. As tears cascaded down my face, all I could whisper was an apology towards our reflection as I placed the last remaining pills onto my tongue and washed them down with the cutting taste of vodka.

 

 

 

 

 

Golf Dalmatians Pack The Aces [Advertisement] by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

Look at the dogs in this picture. One of these Dalmatians has a hole in it. Can you spot which one? If you thought the hole was hard to find, imagine the challenge of sinking a ball in it from 150 yards! You’d need to be a champion golfer.

 

                              Well, why not become one? Golf Dalmatians are holed for fun!

 

          There is no better route to outstanding skill than regular play against challenging odds. Specially bred for ‘moving target’ golf, our Golf Dalmatians will challenge the odds on any course. The puppies are ‘pierced’ at an early age (like teenagers’ ears), so by the time you first tee off they are hardened canine hole-bearers, more than fit for whatever comes their way.

 

                              Golf Dalmatians take some licking, so don’t despair if you start off in the “Ruff!”

 

          Remember that practice makes perfect, but if you’re looking for a hole in one, you’ve come to the right place. With our Golf Dalmatians there’s a hole in every one. You could call them a Pack Of Aces!

 

                         Golf Dalmatians – as much fun as you can have driving a ball at a dog!

 

 

(Club membership includes exclusive ball-firing mortar range as well as traditional golf course access.)

 

 

 

 

 

Accidents Happen, Son by Roddy Scott

[Scotland]

 

Daylight falls sharply on the boy’s dark hair and face. On him a checked blue-black lumberjack jacket hand-down. He moves carefully, as if things might break, but his face is cheered by the lady. He places his book on the table and they lean over it.

‘See, ye’re fine - she says yer achievin’ great work, Kevin. Nothing to worry about.’

Kevin nods, but avoids looking at her.

A loud clatter as cutlery drops. Turning their heads, Kevin waves - his Mum stood, lifting the knife from the canteen floor. She waves quickly, preoccupied, disappears. Miss Coulter touches his head very gently.  He looks at her chest, shoulder, then away, seems less anxious.

‘We’ll go to the Base.’

A tall dark suit with shiny black shoes appears striding. Miss Coulter says ‘Hi’ but he continues. Suddenly spinning, he swings back, strides to catch up. Miss Coulter smartens the pace, left arm swinging, right hovering over Kevin.  Suit’s hand is up, like a cop stopping traffic.

‘Young Kevin I see, Miss C?’ He rocks onto his heels stiffly.           

Mouth pursed, she frowns, finally affirms.

‘’Been searching for him forever, detention right now, if memory serves?’

Kevin is pulling away, but she holds his jacket.

‘Mr Stevedore, just heading to the Base.  Kevin needs stuff, homework I’ve been collecting from teachers.’

‘I see. Keep me informed, call in 10 minutes. Right, Kevin?’

Mr Stevedore leans over, half a man taller. Kevin nods, his eyes red, watery tennis balls, the line judge calling ‘Out!’  He cowers away and Coulter’s hold loosens.

Stevedore lowers hawk’s eyebrows to him, fires a glance at Coulter.

‘I’ll speak with you, is that understood?’

‘Totally.’ Coulter sees herself on his shoes, the hand that feeds very far from her bite.

Stevedore proceeds, striding, shaking his head.

She blasts air through nostrils, spots Kevin turning the corner. No smoke without fire, she thinks.                                        

The base is quiet with just one woman.  Kevin sits glued to the window. Miss Coulter turns as the phone rings. Answering, she tries to speak but holds the phone away abruptly. She looks slowly at Kevin.

‘Kevin, you’ll come with me to the office, please.’ Kevin looks down, slowly shaking his head.

‘Kevin, something’s happened, you must come.’ Coulter reaches towards him. 

The door opens as he rushes to the sink, lifts the knife, pointing it at the door as Stevedore arrives.  Both women stand rigid at the table’s end.

Stevedore speaks quietly: ‘Kevin, put that down. Your Dad wants you.’ No reaction. ‘Do as I say!’

Kevin rushes the man. The knife swings and makes contact, but behind: Coulter trying to hug round his arms. Screaming, falling, her face bursts blood. The knife clatters as he dives straight between Stevedore’s legs. Stevedore turns but he’s gone. The other woman rushes to help Coulter.

‘Kevin Dowd, he’s running. Catch him!’ Stevedore shouts into a phone. ‘999, he assaulted staff in Special Needs Base. Swear he’ll go down for this.’

Tears blinding her eyes, Coulter blinks, screams -

‘It’s all about you! Accidents happen, son, you said, when his brother cut himself. Stevedore, always you!’

Mr Stevedore paled, reaches down, Coulter thrusts him away.

‘You’ve done enough!’

Blue lights flash as a blue-black jacket dashes past the window, disappearing into the trees.

 

 

 

 

 

Finger by Eric Vaz

[Toronto, Canada]

 

There is this strange lingering sensation on the tip of my finger. This finger has pointed all its life in the right direction. Sometimes, wrong directions, too. Most of all, this finger, which now nudges toward a corner made of plastic, pointed my two daughters toward the constellations. "See Aries rising slowly northwest of that tree, right over there." Her eager smile juxtaposed with a yawn at 10 pm. The other rascal runs back through the cabin. Well, that very finger, stretching towards something that feels like a button, no less, once held a lock of hair with my wife's smile open and shining brightly over an Aegean sunset. In winter, it cleaned the frozen bits off my old Suzuki Samurai, anno 1987, second hand, when my house was the size of a washroom.

 

I wish my finger hadn't aged with blemishes, some of them caught by surprise, with a reverie of the unknown. With a cadence of blame and a tainting of time. I've often cut my nails and cleaned the corners of that finger with my grandfather's pocketknife. Now, it resides quietly next to me, encumbered by no movement. This finger dug potatoes in spring and scraped the corners of too many pages of things useless to memorize in college. It followed the minuscule handwriting of my advisor's notes hastily, with red curvilinear ink, only to celebrate my dissertation's defence three years later.

 

Time has surprised me, and so has my finger in its ruggedness, marking the passage of things beyond my wildest imagination when I was caught up in a tenure-track position and finally became tenured. This finger pointed nonchalantly and half-tipsy at my best friend and colleague during twenty Christmas parties, and with some hesitation, wrote notes on the sexiest beast I could muster sitting next to me in LaGuardia—flight of several hours, direction unknown, who cared.

 

It did a fairly good job of not being totally butchered by an electric saw while cutting a Christmas tree in the sticks, and it mustered its way out of a shady accident, which I swear wasn't my fault. As I look at it resting on this very red button tied to the rim of the bed, I can't help but wonder how lucky of a bastard my index finger has been. Its nail, as usual, cleverly cut. As days go softly here with a hospital gown and someone trims it just right for me, I can't help but wonder, in the last days of yearning freedom and the upset stomach that bewilders my hands, will I be so lucky as having it point towards the sun when I am gone? For now, it serves to call the nurse as I, as well as the finger, do go too gentle into that good night.

 

 

 

 

 

Pile-Up by Toby Wosk Costas

[Dallas, Texas, USA]

 

The stoplight a mile ahead is flashing red. Carla can only move up what seems like an inch at a time. “Twelve bodies were pulled from the wreckage, according to Hamas. [sound of a baby crying].” “My wife is gone,” cries the accented male voice. “I cannot live without her.” “Biden’s asking for a pause,” intervenes the brave war correspondent, shouting over the thundering BOOM. A baby wails amidst the vibrations from her Bose system - Carla hits the forward button on the display. “…Spears will be reading from her autobiography tonight at the Barnes and Noble in Bedford, talking about her decades of conservatorship. Tickets are available at...”

 

What is the hold-up ahead? Why the flashing stoplight? Her ride home usually takes fifteen minutes. It’s already been almost an hour since she left her desk. Peter will be irritated, hungry, waiting for her to fix dinner. How did this evolve, so many years ago? Or always. Her role to provide sustenance. “Potato chips can be sustenance for a while, grab some!” “No, unhealthy, salty, why fill up…?” She glances into the rear-view mirror and groans at the grey tendrils sprouting above her forehead.

 

She must tell Peter why the delay. She grabs the straps of her heavy black backpack and shoves it sideways on the passenger seat, to find her phone underneath. At 68 her grip strength is not what it once was. Hoisting up the carry-on into the airplane’s overhead bin - now so many ask if she needs help. An Oldie on now…Roberta Flack, nice. “Strumming my pain with his fingers, killing me softly with his song.” Brings back Louis, in high school. Hair down to his shoulders. Then the song so sexy, now about killing? Death. At this age, isn’t that all there is on the horizon? Carla switches back to NPR. “…widen to a regional conflict…Secretary of State warns…”

 

Carla is letting too big of a space open-up in front of her. Someone is trying to nose in from the left. No! Give me a chance! I’m just thinking about carnage and smooth music, beautiful music from the old days. No fair to cheat! We’re all going through this nightmare ride together. As she inches closer to the intersection, she can see ahead, all the turn signals. All must move over to the right. We must do so. That and the flashing red stoplight.

 

It is getting dark now. Stuck in this lane. Stuck in this world. Hungry, almost sick. But, she is getting closer to the source of the problem. That on the ground? The shape of a body on the pavement. In the intersection. Under a black tarp. And what’s down there to the left, next to the tarp’s head. An uneven circle, deep red, almost brown. Ok now, oh my God, the smashed car. The compacted metal cube revealing what…

 

“Lady. Lady!” The cop shouts at her closed window. “Keep moving! Keep moving, Lady. Don’t stop!”

 

Eyes plastered wide, Carla presses the pedal. It seems now she must accelerate forward, towards home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stories Everywhere by Fran Waddington

[Horbury, West Yorkshire, England]

 

It’s Friday and rain falls in June. Sitting at the bus stop is a short lady with cropped ginger hair, blonde at the edges. In her hands she clutches a bunch of yellow and red roses. Her glasses steam up in the rain.

 

Just around the corner, there he is again, walking past the pub. He mutters to himself, left eye cut and bruised from last night. He swigs from a can of lager, and keeps on walking.

 

Sitting in the pub a man cries into his pint of lager. He said he couldn’t marry her; he was too young to commit. Today, she married somebody else. She had been the one.

 

The doorstep at the strange white house opposite the pub is empty. He smoked his last cigarette there, two weeks ago. Heart attack, they’re saying.

 

A lady in the pub cried when she found out and dripped tears into her empty cider glass. She was the same age he had been. It reminded her of death.

 

A fox-red Labrador lies in the middle of the pavement, old and tired. Passers-by have to walk around her, but nobody minds. Her owner smiles an apology.

 

“She’s nearly thirteen. Don’t know what I’ll do without her. She keeps me company.”

Nobody stops to listen.

 

A large man in a bright green coat cycles past on a rickety bike. His helmet is too small for his head and he wears a child’s Spiderman rucksack on his back but nobody knows what he carries in it, or where he is taking it. A dirty teddy bear is tied to the handle bars and every time he looks down, it threatens to remind him what he is cycling to forget. A red-haired lady smiled at him last week in the pharmacy. He has thought about that smile all week.

 

Next to the park wall, where inside, the blossom didn’t last long this year, a woman stops and stares at the pavement. Her raincoat is pale pink and she carries nothing. For a moment, she forgets how to move one foot in front of the other.

 

Under the motor way bridge at the bottom of the hill, a girl in her late teens shakes her head as she walks. Her side ponytail swings, not quite covering the sores on her face. She talks to herself and holds a coat out to one side, as if it contains poison. She never asked for this. She never knew how to stop it.

 

A lady’s bungalow in the estate opposite the motorway bridge lies empty. Somebody is deciding what to do with her when she comes out of hospital. Her voice has been stolen by the disease, her movement too. Her memories are there though. She doesn’t want to go somewhere else to die. Outside her hospital window, she watches a lady step down from the bus with a bunch of yellow and red roses. She wonders if they are for her.

 

 

 

 

 

The Leper Bag by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

It is a well-known fact that the world hates children.

That is why P.E. staff were created.

To torment and torture children.

 

All P.E. staff have gleefully studied sadism and humiliation.

Their techniques and instruments of torture are many and varied.

But at Gallows High they pioneered the use of the Leper Bag to augment their reign of terror.

 

I always made sure I had all of my kit for school P.E.

You didn’t want to turn up with an item missing.

That would mean going into the dreaded Leper Bag to look.

 

That bag contained all the discarded kit from years past.

The bag was kept in the equipment room.

A room all feared and dreaded.

For it contained that frightful bag.

 

You didn’t want to go near that bag of horrors.

It had a funny smell. All decaying.

The items inside looked ragged and rammy.

Disease ridden, undoubtedly.

 

You had no idea who or what had worn the items before.

 

We all stayed well clear of that awful bag.

We all called it the ‘leper bag’.

We all feared it.

 

We avoided anyone who had touched an item from its bowels.

They were unclean and cursed for the rest of the year.

No good ever came of them.

Damned for sure.

 

So, I made damn sure I always had all my items for school P.E.

 

But came that fateful day.

I forgot my PE socks for P.E.

 

In mortal danger and panic, I turned up glum-faced in the changing rooms.

I knew what awaited me.

I tremulously told the teacher, Mr Leather, “I have forgotten my P.E. socks, Sir.”

The usual noise and bustle in the changing rooms of japes and banter and song had suddenly stopped.

The usual expression of indifference on Mr Leather’s face changed to show a faint impression of an unpleasant smile.

“You know what that means, boy!?” he hissed.

 

I nodded. I knew.

And all the eyes that were watching me knew it too.

 

“You will have to go into the Leper bag and look for some socks,” he said with relish.

As he uttered those words, I felt a terrible chill in my balls.

 

Silently I trudged the longest ten yards of my miserable life to touch and look into the Leper Bag.

 

Trembling, I drew out the most disgusting, repulsive, rammiest and stomach-turning socks that I had ever set eyes upon.

 

I knew what lay ahead.

I would be marked for life and never be clean again.

They would all shun me.

My life would be forever blighted.

 

I knew that a place in the happy lands would not be my kismet.

A place in Hell was being prepared for me.

 

For I had touched and worn an item from the accursed and baleful Leper Bag.

 

 

 

 

 

Kind Words And Happy Thoughts by Joel Bryant

[Dorset, England]


Miss Dented Yellow Fiat, the latest supply teacher, claps her hands loudly to attract everyone’s attention.

"Okay children, put down your craft things, and we'll see if we can finish our superpowers project today," she announces sourly.

She tippy-taps onto her computer keyboard, and over her pushed-down reading glasses, surveys the room.

"Kate, you can go first."

Always Dressed in Pink Kate stands up and primly, annoyingly tells us that her superpower is the love she has for her little brother and her guinea pigs. Pass me two sick buckets, I don’t think one will be enough.

Dim Sporty Harry is next. His power is being able to keep a football in the air for at least five minutes. Sadder than the headmaster’s comedy ties.

The superpowers of the others are possibly even worse. Boredom rapidly gathers me to its familiar embrace. I swear some monster is deliberately slowing down time to prolong the suffering.

"Last, but not least, Alex," Fiat says, gurning at me with a poorly painted on smile. I suspect she intended to accidentally on purpose forget me, but there is still too much time remaining before the lesson ends.

With quiet dignity, I rise to my feet and clear my throat.

"My latest superpower lets me invade people’s nightmares and leave them trapped in them forever, until they are mad," I state solemnly, savouring every word.

Everyone goes quiet. The sudden nervous silence is finally broken as Cheese and Onion Breath Dawn bursts into tears. Miss Dented Yellow Fiat's smile is washed away in a tsunami of disapproval.

"Let me remind you yet again, that kind words and happy thoughts, are the rules for this class, Alex," she quietly snarls.

Her eyes are flint and ice, and her screwed-up face looks like someone has shrunk her knickers by five sizes, and then turned them into concrete.

I start to reply, but she holds up her hand in a stop gesture.

"I think we will end this class, in silence, and reflect on not telling lies. Remember what happened to the boy who cried wolf," the old hag declares imperiously.

Obviously, this is reflected at me, unfairly as it happens. I mean what does she think happened to her troubled predecessor, Mr Hairy Nostrils?

I enjoy the enforced, wary hush and plan my revenge.

Arcadia Symphony by Kenny Campbell

[Coleraine, Northern Ireland]

 

‘Tell us again Mrs ..?’

‘Dailey, inspector’, she replied nonchalantly. ‘Mrs Sarah Dailey.’

‘...Mrs Dailey.’ He continued. ‘What exactly happened last night? Tell us everything you know.’

Sarah took a deep breath, explained everything that she found this morning. Naturally leaving out all her own involvement.

There were raised eyebrows from the two police officers as they tried to fit together the details. One tapped his fingers on the table they sat round in the interview room. 

              ‘So, you are telling us that last night you tidied up, set the alarms, locked the doors to your shop and the arcade, and by this morning someone had been in without breaking a thing, took all your highest value jewellery and left without leaving a trace behind them and just vanished? All the locks on the display cabinets and safes were completely undamaged. They only targeted Arcadia Symphony. You are a keyholder to the shop and the arcade entrances and were there last night. But you had no part in it. Is that not a little convenient, even absurd Mrs Dailey?’

‘That’s what happened.’ She lied.

              ‘I see.’

              ‘Can I call my lawyer?’ asked Sarah, suddenly.

              ‘Yes, I ruddy well think you should!’ snorted Detective Inspector Rothschild. ‘Who were you working with Sarah?’

This seemed like an open and closed case. If Sarah confessed and put her joint conspirators in the frame, they could be done by lunchtime.

 

 

 

 

The Bigger Picture by Bhattacharjee Sagata 

[Kolkata, India]

 

"We're making a trip to Goa. I've already booked the tickets for all of us on the 29th," I told Sister, a Matron at SNU on the phone. 

Since Ma's demise, Sister's taken over her place. I'll never forget those 5 peaceful and pleasurable months, post my cataract-operation, at our ancestral home. She did everything from cooking to cleaning to help me get on the road to recovery.

 

"I can't promise anything right now, Bappa." Sister pulled me out of the reverie. "The nursing students have their Boards starting Jan 17th, next year with the practicals on the 29th."


I swallowed hard, having heard her mention the very day we were to board the train. 

I hung up. 

 

                                                                                                      *

 

Sister visited us on December 23rd for the holidays. My daughter, Akanksha, had been nagging her to accompany us on the Goa trip. She even told her the name of the hotel already booked. So, when Sister dropped by, both of us felt a bit jolted but couldn't ask her if she'd changed her mind regarding the Goa Trip.


 

Sister left on the morning of the 27th. I'd my doubts about her chances of visiting Goa then. As a Matron of that reputed institution, she's entitled to 2 casual leaves in a month. Had I really intended on going to Goa in her place, I wouldn't have come home during Christmas for a few days. 

 

                                                                                                      *

 

Akanksha called her from the train. 

"Tell us you're on the way, Pissimoni. PLEASE."

"Not this time, Dear. The girls have their exams. Understand?"


As the train started trooping out of the station, I had a feeling that Sister was in the other coach, waiting to surprise us all. 

 

It didn't happen that way.

Goa was a dream. We spent our time boating, surfing, scuba-driving and eating out to our hearts' content. 


Due to our hectic schedule, I couldn't call Sister. She called to tell me she was just waiting for the exams to begin. 


Sister informed me later that some students were feverish - sore throat, cough, headache.  

 

On 8th January, 2022, a partial lockdown was imposed in Bengal due to the third wave of Corona.  The PG students were sent packing off. Sister sounded exhausted on the phone that night.

"I cancelled the Goa Trip thinking of the students. All of them left as the exam got postponed. Just my luck!"


I kept mum. Exactly what I wanted to tell her during her last visit to our ancestral home. Life's short. So, don't let go of an opportunity, keeping the bigger picture in mind.

 

 

 

 

 

They Don’t Make ‘em Like They Used To by Arvilla Fee

[Dayton, Ohio, USA]

                 

Eric isn’t returning my calls. In the three-months since we’ve been dating, he has sometimes forgotten to call back, especially if he’s had back-to-back meetings at work, but it’s been two days! I frown and leave another message while staring out my kitchen window. My frown deepens as I see my dad and the mower stopped beneath the maple tree.

                  I walk out the back door; Dad has his hands on his hips—never a good sign. Since my divorce, he’s been coming over once a week to mow my lawn. “What’s up, Dad?” I ask.

                  “Darn thing just quit. They don’t make ‘em like they used to,” Dad says.

                  And even though Dad says that about everything that breaks, I have to agree - especially since I’ve had to replace a hot water heater, a dishwasher, and (on a minor scale) a toaster in the past three years. It’s been mentally and financially exhausting. My waitressing job doesn’t pay much. Sometimes it’s all I can do to stay in college, take care of my son and keep my head above water. Dad helps when he can but lives on social security and a part-time auto parts store job.

                  Dad tells me not to worry; he’ll take care of it. Then he asks about Eric. I shrug. “Not sure. I left messages yesterday and today, but he hasn’t called back.” Dad starts to say something but stops. Probably just as well. After eight years of married life, the dating scene after divorce has been shockingly difficult, and Dad’s worldly wisdom won’t help.

                  On day three, I drive to Eric’s house. His truck is there, but so is another car. My stomach knots, but I try to remain calm as I park then walk to his front porch. Normally, I would go in, but I knock today - unsure of what I’ll find on the other side.

                  Eric answers the door, shirtless and in boxers. He squints as though he’s been sleeping in a dark room, even though it’s past 10 a.m. “Sara?” he mumbles - but only opens the door a crack.

                  Before I can respond, I hear a familiar voice behind Eric and freeze.

                  “Who is it, babe?”

                  “Your ex?” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

                  Eric shrugs, “Well…”

                  I don’t wait and run back to my car, peeling out of his drive, throwing gravel, tears streaming down my face.

                  Dad’s at my house when I pull in, the repaired mower in his truck. He waves but stops short of speaking when he sees my face.

                  When I can breathe again, I explain what happened. Dad waits a beat then says, “They don’t make ‘em like they used to.”

                  I expect to feel a surge of annoyance, but I start laughing instead - and laugh until I have tears rolling down my face again. Dad’s not wrong! I’ll just have to keep my eye out for someone my age with a vintage soul!

 

 

 

 

Advantages Of Being An Alien Life Reader by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

It's great being an alien, able to know everything that is coming up.

It's like being a mind reader, but better.

 

It's like you're a life reader.

 

I know everything that’s going to happen before it happens.

I know what people are going to say before they say it.

 

This is especially useful for those conversations at home.

I find conversations with humans so stressful and draining.

 

To get round this I have all the answers written down on big cards.

Before the person speaks, I show the card that has written on it what they were about to say, and then show a big card with my answer.

 

I don’t need to use any words.

 

Before they speak I just hold up a big card that says, “No words needed, know everything.”

 

Although knowing what's going to happen, I know who would agree and who was going to disagree.

 

Good job I have cards ready for that as well!

 

There are no surprises. Life is great.

 

It came in handy the other day.

They said, “Why are you running away from the table?”

And I replied, with a card of course.

“Getting out of the way before that part of the ceiling caves in!”

 

 

 

 

The Girl On The Beach by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

 

His regular watering hole was uptown. This was out of town, ska music, grilled fish on the beach. He was seated on a stool at the makeshift bar nursing a rum punch.

    All eyes including his were on her as she danced barefoot in the sand. Tight emerald green satin skirt, golden earrings that caught the moonlight. His face flushed as she swayed towards him. She sat next to him. He offered to buy her a drink. She smiled.

‘I’m Captain James Bailey of the Royal Hampshire Regiment.’

‘So?’

‘Would you be Jasmine?’

She looked at him with interest for the first time.

‘Have we met before?’

He pulled a faded photograph from his breast pocket, him aged 12, next to a girl with long black pigtails, two dimples and sparkling eyes. She leaned in close to look.

‘I remember that day, I must have been 10. I got a present for the best science project.’

‘I kept this. I wanted to marry you.’

 She threw back her head and laughed.

‘You must be the son of that English army officer. You lived in the big house on the corner, the one with the mango tree.’

‘Yes. I used to hang around my front gate just to see you pass by.’

‘But you never spoke to me.’

‘I didn’t dare. I heard your father was strict and he had your future planned. Marriage to a respectable boy from the Indian community.’

He had hoped for another smile, instead her eyes clouded over.

‘What happened?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You seem upset.’

‘My father lost his business, His reputation. Our whole family was destroyed.’

She flicked her hair and looked at him over her shoulder.

He took out a cigarette.

‘Did you come here to find me?’

‘No, I didn’t expect to find you in this type of place.’

She drained her drink and stood up.

‘In that case time is money.’

 

He pulled on his cigarette as she walked away. Exhaled. And just like his childhood dreams. Watched the smoke evaporate into the night.

 

 

 

 

Virgin Blue by Rosa Rogers

[currently residing between Huddersfield and London, England]

 

When I was six, I stole the Virgin Mary from my grandma's house in Co. Sligo. I tucked the statue in my suitcase, side-by-side with three Barbies I'd taken with me to the place where Mum grew up. Returning home to Huddersfield, my make-believe games began to change. The Barbies sat under Mary's blue cloak and unreadable pale eyes and asked if God might think they were good. They were short of breath when they said it, a prickling feeling of guilt under their plastic chests. 

 

Recently, during a visit home, my mum surprised me by saying, I've been wanting to leave him for years. We were on a walk around the local park. Above our heads, the sky was blue, and her voice was a tangible thing in between us.

 

Then why don't you?

 

At twenty-two, I left the person everybody believed I would marry. He wanted to stay still; I yearned to see more. After a while, family members asked after him. Wasn't he just lovely? they said, staring with their ultramarine eyes. They did not ask, Why the fuck did you leave? But I knew my mum heard it too.

 

We returned from the park unspeaking. Upstairs, I found the statue in a bottom drawer by her bed. The pink on her lips had faded and there was a small chip missing from one, paintless eye. I remembered once asking Mum why the Virgin Mary was so often depicted as crying.

 

Because she's grieving for the sadness of the world.

 

But why is it hers to carry?

 

Mum dropped her gaze. Sure, who else would do it?

 

Finding her in the kitchen, I held the Virgin Mary high in the space between us. Mum locked eyes with me as I threw the statue onto the hard ground; she shattered in a slow-motion blur of white and blue.

 

 

 

 

Limbo by Jonathan Newman

[currently residing in London, England]

 

I have broke me back nicking knockoff DVDs from a warehouse in Bootle; now I’m on the floor looking up at a roof covered in asbestos. The factory gate is two-thirds down (or two-thirds up; depends how you look at it). If I want to get out of here. I need to scoot on me back like one of them dancers… what’s their name?

 

I have broke me back nicking knockoff DVDs from a warehouse in Bolton. The bizzies are coming; all flashing blue lights. If I want to avoid them, I need to get under that gate like one of them dancers… what’s their name again? 

 

I have broke me back nicking knockoff DVDs from a warehouse in Blackburn. I can’t even feel me legs.

 

I have broke me back in Blackpool, or am I in Barnsley? If I want to escape, I need to shimmy under that gate with me spine to the floor like one of them Caribbean dancers… what’s its name again? Oh aye… I’ve forgotten again. 

 

I have broke me back nicking knockoff DVDs from a warehouse in the middle of bleedin’ nowhere.

 

No chance I’m dancing me way out of this one.

 

 

 

 

All Trains Are Cancelled by Fran Waddington

[Horbury, West Yorkshire, England]

 

Here’s a good one for you:

What if the reason everyone’s train was late this morning is actually all your fault?

Well,

Not your fault exactly, but kind of.

I know our English teacher was grumpy about it until she found out. About me, that is.

She stomped about and moaned the whole lesson.

And I was just sat there, wondering:

Is this because of Mum?

But then Mr Robinson walked in and whispered something in her ear.

She went white and looked at me. Gasped. She did the usual shocked thing. Hand over mouth and all that. She was crying, about what had happened to me.

But I wasn’t.

Not yet.

School didn’t know at first, you see. I just turned up like normal. I couldn’t stay at home.

I didn’t want to hear Dad wail. Hear him swear. Hear him throw things around the kitchen.

See him stare at the wall, empty of everything.

Perhaps it hadn’t sunk in yet. I think that’s why I got dressed and walked up the hill to school. It felt like a routine I needed to keep. If I didn’t, I would know it had actually happened.

He must have rung and told them. Dad. Asked them if I was there or not.

At break, everyone was looking at their phones and whispering. Turning to point at me. Stare. Local News App, I bet.

But still, it didn’t feel real.

I usually sat by myself anyway, so at least that was normal. Until they all came over.

Are you okay?

I heard what happened to your mum?

Did you see it happen?

Leave her alone, she won’t want to talk about it.

That’s when the headteacher came over and led me away from the crowd.

He took me to his office.

All I could think with each step I walked along the polished corridor was:

She’s dead.

She’s dead.

She’s dead.

She’s dead.

She’s dead.

She’s dead.

She’s dead.

She’s dead.

Are you okay Elle? I am so sorry to hear what happened.

I think you might be in shock. There is no need for you to be at school today. You need to be at home with your dad.

But I didn’t want to go home. She wouldn’t be there anymore.

And I couldn’t stop thinking about how she died.

 

 

 

 

You’re Not 21 For Long by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

I’ve been looking forward to my 21st birthday party. I am anxious about it as well.

 

It is an important point in my life, a chance to enjoy a big party. I am hoping to get a kiss off Luscious Liz. I’ve had a crush on her ever since we started high school in the same class.

 

But I have midnight on my mind.

 

You see, at midnight everything will stop. The lights will be switched on and I’ll have to go up onto the stage and pluck a ball from the big black bag.

 

Upon each ball is a number.

Whatever number I pick out will be it.

The age at which I become that very instant.

 

I’d seen it done with my mates.

Tom’s party was last week.

He picked out a ball. It said 18. He was OK with that.

 

Jim picked out a ball the month before.

His ball had 91 on it.

You should have seen his face.

Just imagine 21 to 91 in one night.

Bit of a bummer for Jim.

 

Now it's my turn.

 

I’m glad Tom has made it to my party tonight. And I’m excited Luscious Liz is here too.

 

Jim was too frail to make it. His carer said he no longer likes loud music or staying up past 7 O’clock.

 

I tremble as I tip my hand into the bag.

I bring a ball out.

 

But I can’t make out the number.

And I have shrunk.

 

I am now three years old.

 

Not too bad. It could have been worse.

I toddle over to where Luscious Liz stands, still hoping for a kiss. She might prefer younger men after all.

 

But before I can get near her I am swept up by a grizzled auntie, patting my head and saying, “It's well past your bedtime, lovely. For you the party's over.”

 

As I am led away sobbing, I can see Luscious Liz snogging Tom.

 

I am right.

 

She does fancy younger men.

 

 

 

 

Not Dead Yet by Colin Garrow

[Aberdeenshire, North-East Scotland]

https://colingarrow.co.uk/

 

Being a rational man, it occurred to him that perhaps the operation hadn't gone as planned and that, as a consequence, he had, at some point in the proceedings, died. The fact of his wife Shirley's odd behaviour at his bedside had not exactly confirmed this, but that she deigned to appear at the hospital at all seemed, Paul thought, mildly astonishing. The tears, the wounded-fawn series of expressions and the relentless moaning were character traits he'd never imagined she possessed. Moreover, it remained entirely illogical for her to act remotely distressed at his condition, given that she had endeavoured to bring an end to his life several times in order that she might delight in the abundance of his life insurance.

 

Watching her now, he wondered if she might produce a meat skewer from that hornet's nest of a hairdo and plunge it maliciously into his heart or slip some deadly cocktail into the intravenous device to finish him off.

 

But no. She simply sat there, wailing, casting surreptitious glances at the monitor by the bed, as it intermittently beeped his annoyingly continuing existence.      

 

A nurse came into the room and looked at his chart. She smiled a hello at Shirley and peered at Paul before quietly closing the door on her way out. Paul watched her through the long window as she walked down the corridor, and wondered if she would be the one to discover his lifeless body when Shirley finally got her own way.

 

 

 

 

Countdown by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

The breeze is warm and soothing. The sky is wonderfully blue. I’m not sure.

I can’t see anything.

 

Not long to go now. Call me Ron by the way.

 

It's Monday. I think it's Monday.

I’ve had a lot on my mind recently.

I think of that song, ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’ by the Boomtown Rats.

 

I can empathise with the sentiments in that song.

I’ve never liked Mondays, especially this Monday.

 

My arms and legs are aching a lot now.

It's because I'm tied to a post.

 

They are going to shoot me.

 

The voice asks me if I had any last requests.

I say, “Miss?”

They all laugh. But the voice replies, "No.”

Spoilsport.

 

So, I make do with having the usual last smoke. I push the boat out, and decide to have a cigarette, a cigar and a pipe. I know they say smoking is bad for your health, but I thought I might as well start living dangerously.

 

I am just hoping now that they will get on with it.

The suspense is killing me.

 

Suddenly I hear the voice, “Today we’re going to do things differently.”

My hopes rise. Maybe they are all going to shoot high into the clouds today or use blanks?

 

The voice continues, “Usually, I say ready, aim…but this time I want you to do a countdown from 10 and I want you all to join in.”

 

I think that's typical. I get an exhibitionist in charge of my execution by firing squad!

 

The voice continues, “And I want you to join in with the countdown, Ron!”

That person in charge is quite a character.

But he’s only trying to make it easier for me, take my mind off things. He can see I've been feeling down recently.

 

The voice is shouting, “Are we all standing comfortably? Good. Right then, all together now!”

 

“10, 9, 8…”

 

“Come on now Ron, speak up!”

 

“7, 6, 5, 4…”

 

I haven’t the heart to tell him I’ve always been shy about speaking up in public.

So, I join in with the rest.

 

“3, 2, 1…”

 

 

 

 

The Broken Nutcracker by Derek McMillan

[Durrington, West Sussex, England]

 

I used to visit Aunty Sash on Saturdays. My mother was glad to have a ten-year-old out of the house for the day. I enjoyed it because Aunt Sash fed me on cake and Corona which was a kind of lemonade in those days.

 

     She couldn't move around very much so she would sit in her chair and tell me all the scandalous things my mother used to get up to when she was younger. Then she would go on to the extraordinary behaviour of her neighbours. It was only later that I realised all this jiggery pokery came from her imagination.

 

     One day there was a broken nutcracker on the draining board. She said she had broken it trying to crack a peach stone. Aunty Sash did not particularly like peaches and I later found most of them wound up in the bin.

 

     "Why are you trying to crack peach stones?" I asked.

 

     "Can you just pop to the shop and get me another nut cracker and then of course I will tell you."

 

    I brought the new nut cracker and she got me cracking the peach stones. That nutcracker soon broke too and I heard some new language from Aunt Sash and stored it away for future use.

 

     In the end I had to get a chisel and hammer and break the peach stones in the shed. When I brought them back she started scraping out the insides and mixing it with some liquids. I was fascinated.

 

      "Dennis, do you know what a panacea is?"

 

     "An airline?"

 

     She gave a wheezy laugh and, when she recovered, she said, "It is a cure for all ills. There are medicines for coughs and for aching legs but a panacea is something which can cure anything."

 

    "However, Dennis, you must promise not to tell anybody about this because they'll all want one."

 

     "OK Aunt Sash. Is there any more cake?"

 

     "You drive a hard bargain!" She laughed again and then went into a bout of coughing. She did that a lot.

 

     The next week we arrived and Aunty Sash was in her usual chair. Mum went over to her and, at first, I thought she was trying to strangle her. She was taking her pulse.

 

     She chivvied me out of the flat and called the ambulance. Aunty Sash was pronounced dead by the paramedics who then had to call a doctor to confirm their finding.

 

     The police were called and there had to be an autopsy.

 

     I never knew that her panacea was actually cyanide.

 

     I miss her.

 

 

 

 

Queen Orking: The Mystery Remains by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

          It is nearly a year now since a group of climbers in the Highlands read the cryptic words on the wall of a mountain cave – “May your zeal absorb your essence, queen orking”. It was thought the rudely chiselled message had been put there by drunks – the cave being a favourite haunt of bottling students – but on further excavation, experts identified them as part of a longer New Year inscription dedicated to a long-forgotten monarch of pre-Roman times. The investigation was led by Dr Reginald Bluntcandle, head of Archaeocryptology at Bandriff Polytechnic.

          “I don’t remember a queen called ‘Orking’,” he admitted at the time. “Perhaps she was of the royal lineage pertaining to the Isles of Orkidney. Or perhaps she was an ordinary queen who simply liked to ‘ork’.”

          While the nation held its breath, awaiting news of this addition to our dynastic heritage, Dr Bluntcandle buried himself in research. The nation has been waiting ever since. In the interests of public awareness – and with the anniversary of the discovery coming up – I contacted Dr Bluntcandle to see if any progress had been made. Reginald did not sound pleased.

          “Research? Oh, I did research, all right. At the mention of Queen Orking, the Grand Clan Master of Orkidney simply laughed in my face. As for the putative practice of ‘orking’, my enquiries took me into some very unsavoury places. I may even have transgressed legal boundaries. Yet all I received in reply were lewd sniggers and demands for money (sometimes with menaces).”

          Shall we say, then, that the jury’s still out?

          “Don’t mention juries to me. My case has still to be heard.”

          One piece of information has come to light. Analysts from Bandriff’s rival Cryptoarchaeology department now believe the highland cave was a ritual initiation site for tribal chiefs of all degrees and qualities. ‘Queen orking’, indeed, may not even refer to a single person, but be a general indication of majesty.

          I asked Dr Bluntcandle, given the sparseness of the evidence, is it likely we shall ever know the real story of this enigmatic queen... or king, for that matter?

          “King Orking?” he replied. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

 

 

 

 

The Last Repair-Man by Hannah McIntyre

 

“It just came through!” Charlie waved a pixelated sheet of HoloPaper above his head. It announced his redundancy - the end of his contract with the company that received repair jobs for the local AI and robots. Forty years. Forty years he had worked there, every day. Soldering or tightening screws or reattaching metallic arms, that’s what his whole life had been. And now? They didn’t want him. He’d been the last human on the staff for a while, but he hadn’t hated it, he had learned to love it, over time. 

     

     “Does it say how much severance pay you’ll get?” Kirsty asked. Finally, they could take the MarsAscension to the Pan Europa colony, or any colony, like the rest of the sane population. At last, she’d be free of this wasteland. It was lonely, here on Earth, and depressing. With nothing left but extreme weather and radiation storms, she was glad that after a decade of trying to convince her husband to leave, they could now live the new life she had dreamt of. 

     

     Charlie turned to kiss his expectant wife, a short brush that meant nothing, but felt like a lie nonetheless. This was it; he knew it was. Any moment now she’d pop the question about Mars. It was all she talked about, bloody Mars! Ever since her sister had left with Kirsty’s nieces and nephews - the incessant postcards were what had done it. But Charlie didn’t want to go, at least, not with his wife. She had changed when he put his foot down and refused to leave his job until he was forced out. From then on, Kirsty had only been interested in one topic. So, when Charlie wanted to talk about something else, he spoke to his closest colleague, his partner, InYara Gen3, or Yara for short. 

     

     Yara: a fully automated robotic replica of a human woman, perfect in every single way.

     

     Yara: who often knew what he was thinking without him having to say it.

     

     Yara: who never made him feel bad for being afraid to leave this planet and move onto the next. Who assured him that he was welcome on Earth amongst the machines who now inhabited it. 

     

     “Better be something good if they’re sacking me after all these years,” Charlie tried to hide the quiver in his voice. The truth was, he had been ready to leave Earth for years, just one thing had held him back. Charlie had kept his secret inside, like a weight in his gut. He didn’t want to share it and he never planned to. But it was there, and heavier than normal. He felt sick. The termination of his contract was effective immediately, the second he had read those words, he’d lost his job. He’d lost so much more than that though, he’d lost Yara.

 

 

 

 

Pandy by Ray Khon

[Sheffield, England]

 

Pandy was brought to the United Nations after a spacecraft dumped her on a beach. She brought ‘glad tidings’ - a promise that all ‘right thinking’ would be rewarded with knowledge. ‘Evil actions’ however, would be punished by a swarm of tiny flies that flew out of the box she was holding. A delegate caught one insect in his hands and as it buzzed, he opened his hands to show others what he had trapped. But there was nothing to be seen. Pandy shouted, ‘The I-flies are not visible until they die. That only happens if they bite you.’ The delegate panted; ‘Have I been bitten?’ Pandy answered. ‘You are still alive, and the I-fly has remained invisible: so clearly you have not been bitten.’

 

PANDY LAUNCHES WEAPON: was next day’s headline. But most saw I-flies as merely an annoying addition to the insect population.  Bickering delegates could never agree where Pandy might settle, so they accepted her uncontroversial choice of Crete. There she started providing volumes of technological information unknown to Earth scientists.

 

Weeks later, Pandy raised a storm of protest when explaining that a dead politician must have been the instigator of some ‘evil action’ or the I-fly would not have bitten him. In the following months, several hundred political leaders were found dead with tiny I-fly bodies lying beside them.

 

‘World leaders demand Pandy call off the I-flies’ was the message filling the world’s media outlets, as autocrats and democrats alike felt equally threatened. Pandy explained she had no power over I-flies. ‘They are the judges: it is they who arranged for me to visit Earth.’

 

‘Will the I-fly population die out or will they procreate?’ a Cretan news reporter asked.

 

‘I-flies grow in proportion to the volume of evil action undertaken.’

 

‘Pandy, many suspect you control I-flies. If you don’t stop them, then your life will be in danger.’

 

‘Millions of ignorant men and women find it comforting to believe that the evil that they do can be erased by scapegoating someone who is different to them. Murdering the messenger would just be another evil action for I-flies to avenge.’

 

‘We don’t understand how to judge what you call ‘evil actions’. Can you help us grasp what you mean by this term?’

 

‘We share a common belief what ‘evil actions’ are. Where our planets may differ is that telling untruths seems to be acceptable here whereas lying, as far as I-flies are concerned, is unforgiveable.’

 

‘But our leaders tell stories that try to show listeners the world as they see it. Do I-flies see these as lies?’

 

‘If the story doesn’t meet the facts or if the intention is merely to mislead, then they are falsehoods.’

 

Much animation took place amongst the delegates until the original Cretan news reporter piped up.

 

‘Pandy, do you know how we can stop the I-flies killing us?’

 

 ‘I do not know,’ she cried, was bitten, and died immediately.

 

 

 

 

 

Joined-Up Writing by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

 

I took Fran’s two little hands in mine.

     ‘Go with your Uncle, Fran. Mummy will join you soon.’

     ‘Do I have to?’

     ‘Mummy isn’t well. Your Uncle Joseph and his friend, Uncle Thomas live in the country. You will like it there.’

    ‘Are you coming to live in the country too?’

     ‘I’ll come as soon as I am well again.’

      ‘Don’t take it for granted that I will be here to rescue you when you fail, Iris.  I don’t want to be involved. I have my life to live’.

      ‘When have I failed, Joseph?’

      ‘You’re unmarried, and I can’t help expecting the worst.’

      ‘You always expect the worst.’

      ‘You, yourself, said there is not a lot of work for black actresses. It’s time you gave it up and led a normal life. It’s Fran who will suffer.’

      ‘It’s just while I’m in hospital,’ I pleaded.

      ’Who ever heard of two men taking care of a girl-child, anyway.’

      ‘I’m sure it will work out,’ said Thomas.

    

     Four months later, when I was out of hospital and had recovered sufficiently to cope, I moved down to Essex, where I found decent accommodation at a price I could afford. Affordable accommodation had been a big problem in London for me and Fran for some time.

     Although I had kept in touch by phone, I was still anxious to hear how my brother and Thomas coped looking after Fran. As my brother had been wary about the idea, I asked Thomas about it.

    ‘She settled in well. Both she and I enjoyed breakfast time when the top twenty countdown was on the radio. Fran hated to leave for school until the number one ‘Two Little Boys’ had played. ‘Come Fran, we mustn’t be late’ was Joseph’s daily mantra.

   ‘Joseph has always been a stickler with making the right impression. How did she do at school?’

   ‘She made friends easily. She was assigned to the ‘green table’ which was at the bottom of the class before she arrived, but in a short time she won so many stars, they were in second place behind the ‘yellow table’.

   ‘What did Joseph say to that?’

    ‘We were both so proud. All her ‘green table’ classmates were inspired to earn stars to vie for first place.’

    ‘That must have been a big relief to Joseph.’

     ‘It was. He went to the school to talk to her teacher Miss Turner and discovered she was a joy to have in the class, but it was a challenge to bridge the gap with the other pupils. One day while she was teaching them to write the alphabet, Fran was already ahead doing it in ‘joined-up writing’.

      Satisfied, I turned to leave, when Joseph came home.

     ‘If in the future you ever need someone to assist you in anyway with Fran, just let me know Iris, I’d consider it a pleasure. She’s no trouble at all.’

     ‘I’m glad you feel that way Joseph, I’ll remember to call on you.’

 

 

 

 

Dave by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

I like it around here.

But I feel I don’t belong.

 

I feel like I’m the odd one out.

You see, my name is Eric.

And that's the problem.

You see everyone I know is called ‘Dave’.

 

They’re all called Dave round here.

Even the women.

My wife is called Dave.

My eldest son is called Dave

Our two daughters are called Dave.

 

We got a dog. And we gave it a name. Quickly, it was decided the dog should be called ‘Dave’.

The neighbours are nice and quiet. They're called Dave too.

All my friends, they’re called Dave.

 

I work in a factory. The people on my line are all called Dave.

The supervisor, the office staff and the cleaners are all called Dave.

 

Everyone I meet is called Dave. The postie, the shopkeeper, the publican, the police.

They’re all called Dave.

 

I got excited when I heard a new neighbour was moving into number 22.

You can imagine how my heart leapt when she told me her name was Wendy,

but quickly sank when she added , ‘Only kidding , my name's Dave.’

 

At least it makes voting in the local elections easy.

When the female canvasser called ‘Dave’ asks me who I’m voting for,

I’ll just reply,

“That's easy Dave, I’m voting for Dave!’

 

 

 

 

Triangle by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

 

I was asked to write about the notorious film maker, Thomas Frederickson. The editor’s invitation was a work of art in itself:

 

‘Dear Alison James,

The owner of the journal is totally against asking you to contribute to this month’s edition. He knows that your attacks on Frederickson and his political activities are, in themselves, the subject of legal action by his team. But the editor is prepared to risk his own career by inviting you to provide a critique of Frederickson’s latest film. Are you willing to accept this challenge?

J’

 

So, I sharpened my imaginary pen even before taking a seat in the theatre to watch the much-vaunted premier of his latest film. Even before it began, the film had been promoted as a kaleidoscopic portrayal of a group of artists whose fame was based less upon their productions and more upon their ways of life. The film techniques used came from the school of Leni Riefenstahl. I was not impressed by the mock hero worship heaped upon the leader of the group. Frederickson obviously identified himself with the man and the poses adopted by the actor portraying this ‘hero’ were from Sergei Eisenstein’s palette. I felt I had been tricked into watching this tedious throwback to early twentieth century totalitarian art.

 

The one truly interesting character played a comparatively minor role. She was the author, Cécile Bordeaux, who had been dismissed from the group as being too ‘bourgeois’. As a result of watching the film, which I think I tolerated until the end only because I was being paid to provide a critique, I decided to investigate Cécile Bordeaux in case she had produced anything worthwhile.

 

I discovered, to my eternal shame, that she was a celebrated biographer of whose work I was embarrassingly ignorant. The list of those whom she had encapsulated in the strange and difficult art of biography was impressive. We all live lives that are multi-dimensional, but with a book it is only possible to perceive through one dimension - the timeline of your reading page after page. Bordeaux seemed to transcend these constraints by careful attention to detail, cross-referenced to what had already appeared in earlier chapters.

 

I was brought up with a shock when I saw her latest biography, created without any contact with the subject, was entitled ‘Alison James: The Ultimate Critic.’ I began reading and was surprised by the details of my life that she described. Truth be told, I had forgotten some of them, so was intrigued to have them recalled in such excellent prose. The final chapter concluded with an astonishing critical analysis of the Frederickson article I had yet to compose.

 

 

 

 

Detritus by Samantha Ryan

[Tulsa, Oklahoma, USA]

           

The doll would never decay because it was made of layers and layers of plastic and synthetic materials. It would sit in the landfill for decades and decades until it was destroyed by some matter of force or fire. Day in and out it sat, head facing the gods above, eyes unblinking, painted pink smile wide.

         

     The rain would wash the dirt away momentarily, until the wind came and blew more on top, caking layers of debris and dust on her pretty little face. Her shiny blonde hair would dull over time, but never disintegrate, staying the same length for the rest of its time on earth.

         

     The clothes would fall apart slowly as the threads of altered cotton were somewhat organic and, as such, still appealing to the tiny microorganisms that cleaned up the discarded material left around the planet. The bright blue jumpsuit would eventually fall apart in tiny little pieces, leaving her exposed plastic skin to the derision of the elements.

         

     She would rest on this throne of detritus matter until the earth was no more, cast away by Molly McKay who caught her son playing with the doll and hoped that by throwing the little piece of plastic in the trash, he would forget about her all together and move on to his plastic cars and dinosaurs she had bought as masculine replacements.

 

 

 

 

 

Convict Colony by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

 

Criminology lectures tend to be boring. The module I was studying in my sociology degree required attendance at a lecture by the Professor of Crime Statistical Analysis – an early morning commitment to which I was not looking forward.

 

The Professor was an old man and spoke more to himself than to the disparate group of students who had wandered across the campus to claim their attendance points. No one was really listening to his words and the drone in his voice seemed to register how unimportant he knew his contribution was to our education.

 

I perked up slightly when he challenged us to say what form of punishment could be established in a society where resources were communal and shared but if there were no such thing as prison.

 

One bright spark responded that he thought that Australian aborigenes had the best idea: stabbing offenders in the leg with a spear. The more serious the offence, the more damaging the injury. The Professor smiled at this suggestion but pointed out that incarceration was still an option for aboriginal communities whereas the Jews who had fled Egypt under Moses were in the desert. Stabbing offenders in the leg there would probably render them unable to survive so would, in effect, be a death sentence.

 

Gloria, my black girlfriend, was sitting beside me and showed-off her knowledge of history when she suggested that an alternative had been tried in 18th and 19th century England where offenders were transported to Australia. The Professor looked sad as he described the likely experience of being incarcerated on a ship, then being dumped in an inhospitable land. “English convicts and African slaves at least had that in common,” Gloria commented.

 

The old man nodded and still speaking more to himself than to the class, went on: “The phrase ‘Hell on Earth’ must have come from those who sentenced me to a lifetime on this planet. At least where I come from, we don’t spend vast amounts of time systematically killing one another. Earth is our convict colony … I just wish I could go home before I die.”

 

 

 

 

 

Creatures On The Shelves by Dylan Sayers

[North-West England]


In the sleepy town of Hambledon, a charity shop holds demons of every shape and size. I believe it is a safe house for clinically insane objects! God forbid you pass through Hambledon and find yourself there. If you have the guts to open that flaky green door, it will feel painless and hollow, like a touch from death. Once inside, protect your eardrums from the blood-curdling screams. Five shelves of books cry in unison, and they sing about broken spines and torn pages. The terrible conductor of the book orchestra is an overcoat with giant, sagging arms that wave around like the limbs of Satan. I swear, I once saw someone go into the changing room with it, and when they zipped the thing up, I could hear each notch on the zipper click like the crunching of bones. The guy just disappeared, and the coat sat in a smug pile on the floor. 

 

But the worst of all, between the bric-a-brac a gang of psychotic toys without arms or legs laugh constantly about something horrendous they have seen. I have even heard the little terrors making plans with an antique pram, the one with a bum wheel and a mean slouch. I don’t know what they say, but I know I heard my child's name mentioned in their rotten whispers. It is a vile place, full of forgotten hallmarks that are angry and lost. The charity shop on Hambledon’s concrete boulevard is the final destination on my Sunday morning pilgrimage. I sift through the evil and mostly get nothing in return. But I think, one day, I’ll find my ticket out of hell tucked away in a forgotten corner. That, or a cute set of matching plates.

 

 

 

 

Maggie’s Daughter by William Kitcher

[Toronto, Canada]

 

“Excuse me,” I said to the server when she brought me my second drink. “Is your mother’s name Maggie?”

 

     “No,” she said. “Why? Do I look like someone you know?”

 

     “You sure do. A woman I went to university with. Haven’t seen her for ages, but you look a lot like her.”

 

     “I get that a lot,” she said. “I guess I have a generic face.”

 

     That encouraged me. What I’d said didn’t seem so weird now.

 

     “What was her ethnic background?” said Maggie’s not-daughter.

 

     “Polish,” I said. “Her family’s been here for a long time, on both sides, but definitely Polish.”

 

     “My family’s all Swedish and Norwegian, and a little Polish, I think. Lots of blonds. On both sides. I guess we all look alike.” She laughed.

 

      “What’s your name?”

 

     “Everlund,” she said.

 

      “No, your first name.”

 

      “Julie.”

 

     “Nice to meet you, Julie. Good talking to you.”

 

     I finished my drink, paid the bill, wandered down the street, and went into another bar. After my second drink, I said to the server, “Excuse me, but is your mother’s name Maggie?”

 

 

 

 

 

Jonesy's Bones by Samuel Smith

[Manchester, England]

You’re about to step out of the air lock one cold, brittle morning when you notice there’s a small bone on the doormat. You crouch down to get a better look. It resembles the leg bone of a small animal, but it’s been picked clean, exposing the translucent marrow at either end. You step out and punt it into the fake shrubberies that line your front drive.

A week later, you open it to see another bone, twice the size of the previous one. It looks like the ribcage of a bird, but with small hooks at the end of each rib. You once again kick it into the bushes and go about your day.

A week later, you open the door and gasp. Facing you with yawning eye sockets is a skull. This time, you pick it up, and the heft of the thing leaves you in no doubt that it’s real, not some reject from a high school science lab. The protuberances over the eyes and the twin sets of teeth make it hard to fit in an average shoebox, but you manage it after breaking off one of the jaws. Burying it in the back garden whilst your quickening breaths steam up your helmet, you pat it flat then try to forget about it.

 

Another week goes by, and you open your front door one grey and moody morning to find the entire skeleton of a mysterious, unidentifiable creature draped across the drive. Its skull is horribly distended, teeth the size of hunting knives erupting from both jaws. It has four arms, each ending in splayed claws. Its ribcage is the size of a wardrobe, and it has a great sweeping scythe of a tail that ends in huge barbs. It looks enormous next to your modest ship. Just as you’re wondering how you’re going to bury this monstrosity in the garden, you glimpse movement near the creature’s ribcage. You flinch as your cat leaps onto the thing’s elongated skull, and flicks its tail across the empty eye sockets.

 

“Good kitty,” you stutter, reaching forwards to tickle Jonesy behind the ears. “But can you please stop now?”

 

The cat purrs as if in agreement, but the steely look of determination in its eyes tells a different story. You make a mental note to ring the council and ask them to increase the anti-grav shields around the pet cemetery.

 

 

 

 

 

Angela by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

 

Angela is a well-educated scientist who sacrificed her career for her husband’s vocation. Brian knew Angela from the church: their families were regular attenders, so they were thrown together throughout their teens. When Angela finished her physics degree and returned to the town, Brian successfully wooed the only girl he had ever wanted. He became the local vicar with Angela as a devoted vicar’s wife.

 

Sometimes I think I can hear Brian’s evangelical voice when Angela speaks. I cannot quite understand how this highly qualified scientist accustomed to logical thinking can talk about Biblical miracles as ‘fact’. My puzzlement about virgin birth is answered by a strange peroration about parthenogenesis (Angela the scientist) or an assertion concerning how God can ‘break into’ our regular life as He is omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, and invisible. “Invisibility is useful in avoiding interrogation,” I counter, much to Brian’s annoyance.

 

I met Angela and Brian in the street in the afternoon. They asserted that they had experienced a miracle. “We had taken a walk through the woods and as we emerged, we saw a man approaching the woods from the adjoining field. We couldn’t see his face. But we watched him discarding his cloak and slowly floated to the ground as if completing a flight.”

 

“Yes,” Brian interjected. “He was gliding.”

 

“We know we were witnessing an angel!”

 

“How do you figure that?” I asked.

 

“Because the cloak was covering a wing!”

 

“How far away was this figure?”

 

They looked at one another and admitted that the next field was about a kilometer away. “But this was no vision. We could see him as clearly as we see you now.”

 

“You don’t think that what looked like a wing was the lining of his cloak. And as the sun was quite hot this afternoon, the air can shimmer over the field which could generate the appearance of floating.”

 

Brian was finding it hard to hide his frustration with me. “You are just an unbeliever who will always try to find an explanation that obscures the reality of divine intervention.”

 

“Science describes much,” Angela said. “But it fails to grasp how events are connected when there seems to be no rational explanation. I doubt if any miracle, however clear, would be accepted by you as anything other than a physical event whose cause was as yet uncertain.”

 

“On the other hand,” I countered, “you are only too quick to ascribe supernatural intervention as the cause of anything extraordinary that you might expect from the Biblical deity about whom you read every day in church.”

 

Angela and Brian walked off, shaking their heads at my skeptical response to what they had witnessed in the field. I waited until they had turned the corner before vowing to myself to be far more circumspect in future as I adjusted my wing.

 

 

 

The Debt by Sarah Fenwick

[residing in Germany]

https://sarahfenwickauthor.com/

 

At noon, Sorcha Campbell walked into the Trench Family Bank through polished mahogany doors. It was hushed in there, like a church congregation before Sunday service. Tellers bowed their heads as they piled money into bill counters. The mechanical leafing noise trailed after Sorcha on the way up a marble staircase.

     Paul Trench. Glasgow Branch Mortgage Director.

 

     The gold lettering on the office door snubbed her as she pushed it open. Photos of skiing trips regaled the walls. More gold lettering gloated at her from a plaque: Victor Omnia Lucrator. Winner Takes All.

 

     The man behind the sleek desk wore a tailored dark blue suit. He had slitted, hard eyes. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘You’re foreclosing on my flat tomorrow.’ Sorcha brandished a court paper. ‘You have to give me more time. My husband died six months ago. My wean will be homeless!’

 

     ‘I’m sorry to hear that but your debt to the bank has to be paid,’ he said.

 

     She ripped the summons in half. ‘You can’t do this to me! Where’s your feelings?’

 

     A vulpine smile sneaked over his face and he ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. ‘And where is your money?’

Sorcha threw the summons on the floor and left. On the underground, the cold grip of anxiety froze her bravado, and she shivered.

At home, Ian settled into her embrace with a gurgle, his powdery scent the only softness she’d experienced all day. Dan smiled at her from a photograph, and her throat tightened. The night before she’d lost him, he’d promised her a holiday in Spain because the mortgage was almost paid up. But Dan wasn't going on holiday to Spain or any other place; sudden heart failure had ended that dream.

 

     She called her childhood friend, Maureen.

 

     ‘The bank wants a huge amount of money, or I’ll lose my flat tomorrow at Sheriff County Court.’ Sorcha listened for a moment.

     

     ‘Okay. I’ll bring you the bank statements. It’s my only chance.’

 

     That night, she went to her window. Outside, the moonlight chased ripples in the river’s current. Were these the last moments of her old life? This time tomorrow, she could be on the street.

 

     At the hearing the next day, she stood a couple of feet away from Trench. Just as the judge began to speak, the courtroom door opened with a thud. It was Maureen, flanked by three officers and an elderly woman in shabby clothes.

 

     ‘I’m Inspector McCormack, Police Scotland. Trench is being charged with fraud,’ Maureen said, handing a warrant to the judge. ‘We have strong evidence of predatory interest rates.’

 

     The judge sniffed and pointed to the elderly woman. ‘Who are you?’ he said.

 

     ‘Paul Trench’s mother,’ the elderly woman replied. ‘I’m homeless. My son foreclosed on my house. He auctioned it to his crony and took a bribe for it. He’s sick.’

 

      As the officers hustled Trench out of the courtroom, his Italian shoes skidded on the carpet.

 

 

 

 

Cuckoo by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

It is now 2034.

 

The issue of plagiarism is rife within the writing community. But now most writing is copying what someone else has written. A sort of if you can’t beat them, join them mentality.

There is very little original writing.

 

I’m a writer who is one of the best plagiarists out there. You can tell that from the books I've written. Like ‘War and Peace’, ‘Far from the Madding Crowd’ and ‘Hard Times’. I’m proud of my paintings of ‘The Scream’ and ‘Sunflowers’.

 

It has come full circle from something once frowned upon. It's now the greatest skill a writer can show.

 

My fame has spread far and wide.

Who has not heard the name Alan White?

 

That’s why I’m sitting here at the big table surrounded by lots of writers.

They are all plagiarists like myself.

They’re here to recognise me as the best plagiarist at the writers ceremony.

I’ve toiled and earned my award, ‘The Cuckoo’.

I’m getting one for that book I plagiarised, ‘Tender is the night’.

 

I’m glad that my wife, Paula, is here to see me honoured.

Pride swells inside me.

I’m all dressed up. I want to be smart when they call my name out.

 

Here’s the moment I've been waiting for.

‘And The Cuckoo goes to Alan White!’

I slowly get up. This is my moment and I am going to milk it for all its worth.

 

I slowly stand up, but dozens of other writers are standing up.

I shout out, ‘I’m Alan White!’

Then come the replies that reverberated around the hall. ‘NO, I’m Alan White!’ ‘I’m the real Alan White!’

Some get mixed up and shout out ‘Alan Black’.

From the back someone roars, ‘And so is my wife!’

 

I shout out, ‘I’m the real Alan White’, as loads more writers get up to claim that they are Alan White; until nearly everyone is on their feet, claiming to be the real Alan White.

It is so infectious that even Paula has got to her feet and is screaming that she too is ‘Alan White’.

 

The judges are in a pickle. They have a decision to make. They give the Cuckoo to Alan White. They give it to someone else!

They are pleased with their ill-gotten award.

 

I shout it's the wrong person. ‘They aren’t the real Alan White. I am!’

The crowd start booing me, shouting abuse like ‘imposter!’  Someone on my table says, ‘Fancy claiming to be Alan White, it looks nothing like him!’

 

I slink away empty-handed. A poor plagiarist indeed hoisted by my own petard.

Next year I’m going back to the Cuckoos and I’m determined to be more convincing as Alan White.

 

I’m not down. I’m going home to write ‘Treasure Island’.

 

 

 

 

Making Deals, Changing Places by Andrew Wickham

[Cambridgeshire, England] 

 

Through slatted blinds like bars on an upstairs window, Paul Coleman watched grey clouds. Behind his temples, a steady throb thumped in time with thunderous drums blasting from a Bluetooth speaker.  

A piercing voice stuttered: Running up that… running up that… run… run… r… r… 

“Just play the song, please.” 

Frieda dropped the phone down beside her on the mattress and the song played on. Synth chords: Wab-wab-wab. And Kate: making deals, changing places.  

“I miss Mummy.” 

On the street below a teenage couple broke hands to allow a mother and pushchair through, then, as if pulled by magnetic force, re-connected and skipped out of sight.  

“I know. She’ll be home later.” 

“Missing Mummy.” 

“Yep. Mummy will be back soon.” 

Quiet. Just Kate making deals. If she only could. And those hammering drums.  

Eyes closed, arms folded, Paul entered a cocoon of no thought. 

“I miss Mummy.” 

“I know. She’ll be home soon.” 

The song finished with that held synth chord. A second’s silence; the pounding drums began again. 

Frieda let out a loud guttural groan. “Ughhh, missing Mummy all day.” 

Paul spoke sharply, pointing his finger: “I don’t want to hear about it anymore. You’ve said it lots of times. No more.” 

“Missing M –” 

“No. I have finished talking about Mummy.” 

“MISSING MUMMY!” 

“Don’t shout at me, please.” 

“NO ‘PLEASE’!” 

“You do not control what I say.” 

“MISSING MUMMY!” 

Paul Coleman became aware of the increase of his heartbeat and steadied himself on the windowsill.  

Drums of war marched on. Could Kate make a deal with God? Change places? 

“Getting angry about it.” 

Paul held up his hands: “Okay, Frieda, that’s enough now. You will not get angry.” 

“Angry. Angry. Missing MUMMY.” 

Frieda jumped up, shaking the floorboards. Instinctively Paul retreated into the wall. Frieda punched her head. Again. Again. 

“MUMMY! ANGRY! MUMMY!” 

Cushions and tears and chairs flew. Toiletries swept to the floor. Pictures knocked from their frames. The sheet of the bed was torn with teeth. Snot, spit, blood blowing like leaves in blustery winds. 

The synth held its final chord; the rolling drums started again. 

Powerless, Paul Coleman could only watch his daughter as she cycloned around the room, bracing himself for impact.  

But when it came, it caught him off guard.  

The phone which played the music came hurtling through the air and struck his forehead, just above the eyebrow. 

“Ouch,” he said stupidly and rubbed the spot. Dark red smeared on the tips of fingers and thumb. 

Frieda laughed. Flapped her arms. The storm had ceased, blown itself out quite suddenly. She approached to examine the damage. 

“Daddy’s bleeding.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“Sorry, Daddy.” 

“Okay.” 

Kate still sang: changing places, making deals. 

Frieda was pointing at the wreckage upon the bed. “Daddy, sheet’s broken.” 

Paul dabbed at his forehead again: “Yes, I’m coming to sort it out.” 

…running up that hill… 

“Daddy! Sheet’s broken!” 

“I know. I just told you that I’ll change it.” 

“DADDY!” 

…with no problems… 

 

 

 

 

Matriculating AI? by Xiaochen Su

[USA]

 

All…all of these could be AI…I just can’t be sure…

 

James buried his head in his hands as he tossed aside his reading glasses. The glowing screen of his desktop reflected the large beads of sweat streaming down between his thinning white hair, despite whistling winds intruding into his home office on a chilly early February night.

 

He was done with reading through his daily quota of 50 applications, but he was nowhere ready to call it a night. Tasked with sorting the 50 into neat piles of ‘rejected,’ ‘approved for further review’ and deferred’, he didn’t even know where to start.

 

Not that he didn’t know how. A 35-year veteran admissions officer at New York University, he has decided the fate of countless aspirants. Amidst the regrets of admitting some ‘flops’ and rejecting too many that went on to great things elsewhere, he has developed his own rules, buttressed by gut feelings and intuition, to find ‘real’ talent among pretty words and prettier resumes.

 

But this year was just…too different. 

 

Essay after essay spoke in carefully crafted prose about tidbits of applicants’ life stories. Yet, without fail, each story intricately tied together specific details of what happened with how the applicant thought and felt. The depth of the narrative in channelling the vulnerabilities, the sorrow, and the humbling the applicant was simply not something that he has seen among 18-year-olds of past years.

 

Figuring out who actually was writing at a maturity level beyond their age group used to be easier. When the likes of ChatGPT came out in 2023, AI detection software quickly caught on. All James had to do is to run an applicant’s essay through the software, and the machine-generated was quickly filtered out from the rest. But even without the software, James knew those the ‘tapestry of life’ and other telltale signs of AI-originated vocabulary. 

 

In the years since, the coevolution of AI generators and detectors broke down. As large language models were fed with ever-more sophisticated material, the detection software could no longer keep up. As the software marked more and more AI-generated material as human, students once again became brazen enough to prompt the chatbots for putting their stories and thoughts into words.

 

Hence James’ dilemma. He, nor any of his coworkers, can now tell whether any of the applications he is reading is machine- or human-authentic. 

 

As James slowly wiped away his sweat on this cold February night, he slowly shook his head.

 

The undergraduate admissions system…it has collapsed…

 

 

 

 

The Hand-Spun Life by David Sheldon

[Santa Rosa, California]

 

We grew up courting in the out-of-bounds regions of love, kissed in the unlit margins of a summer baseball game, and discovered the astonishing depths of intimacy in the dimly lit rooms of a moveable party. Shifting over to the seat of a dark-eyed girl on a bus bound for Tucson, Arizona, I was fifteen years old, going to visit my brother in college, where sometime after midnight, I would be funneled into an empty Greek restaurant with instruments of antiquity loud in the background.

 

And as I watched my brother painting walls into vistas, I began to take it all in, the baklava he gave out freely as if he owned the place - its thick, honeyed taste still inside my mouth. And remembering now, without the added anxiety of his nearby turbulence, that green raw fusion of passion and body odor mixing in with the acrid blue smoke of a well-rolled spliff, he liked to call them. These distillations of memory, like a doorman's arm swinging, giving way, inviting us to come inside the velvet room, where I see the hand-spun life of the artist reach over and give it all away. We give freely, do we not?

 

 

 

 

'Pavlov’s Doris’ Grounds For Divorce by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

A wife suing for divorce claimed her estranged husband used Doris Day as a weapon to ‘intimidate her and break her will’. Giving evidence at the hearing, Pandy Schitbaxter, 34, attested that her spouse (Fandorf Schitbaxter, 36) ‘trained’ her to say, “That’s just typical. You have to bring Doris Day into everything,” whenever he said the singer’s name or something related. Asked to give details of this ‘training’, Mrs Schitbaxter said it was like Pavlov’s Dog. Her husband was ‘at it’ night and day.

          “Day goes without saying,” smirked the judge. “But how did he train you at night?”

          “He would constantly whisper Doris Day things in my ear when I was trying to sleep. It was a kind of brainwashing.”

          “One could argue it was only pillow talk.”

          “That’s a cheap gibe. If you were my husband, I’d have to say... you know... all that ‘just typical’ stuff.”

          “Be that as it may, I believe there was a degree of aggression on your side. Indeed, isn’t it true that at one point you put Mr Schitbaxter’s life in question?”

          Mrs Schitbaxter disclosed that she knew the marriage was over when she threatened to kill Mr S. and he said Doris Day would never do a thing like that, to which she found herself replying automatically, “That’s just typical. You have to bring Doris Day into everything.” Her husband then responded, “That’s great! You’re really getting the hang of it now.”

          As the husband did not contest this, a divorce was granted on terms favourable to Mrs Schitbaxter.

          “Que sera,” sighed Mr Schitbaxter.

          “That’s just typical. You have to bring Doris Day into everything,” riposted his ex-wife.

          The pair hastily left the court. Handing Mrs Schitbaxter into a taxi, an unknown male companion prompted, “Move over, darling.” Mrs Schitbaxter was heard to reply, “Not you, as well! Don’t expect me to say, ‘That’s just typical. You have to bring Doris Day into everything’!” As the cab drove off, the words “Oh, my God! I’ve said it!” wafted back through the open window.

          It is believed Mrs Schitbaxter is now undergoing aversion therapy.

 

 

 

 

Grapefruit Blossoms by David Sheldon

[Santa Rosa, California]

 

The boy had been stretched out on his father’s St. Augustine lawn, deciphering the muted sweetness of the soil from the mineral tang of the thick blades of grass when he felt his body expanding into the universe. He had been listening to a dove’s song and the pleasurable reply of its lover perched in another tree, which left the impression the lilting bird song had ushered in the twisting, bellowing force bringing his young unguarded life into an awareness of a monumental existence. He got up in a spasm of excitement and ran into the house. But when he told his parents what happened, the words got jumbled up, and his cheeks and the back of his neck became feverish, for to speak about belonging to something else felt like a betrayal.

 

The boy depended on his parents for everything. If two underground tunnels failed to meet, he would look up from his position in the sandbox and hear his father’s voice answering, ‘Burrow down, son, come at it from above. Use the bottle caps I left for you in the shed, find pieces of bark, and bring back feathers for the trees.’ Eventually, the voice would flicker out altogether because anything a five-year-old boy could dream up was a tenuous idea to begin with.

 

Then the child would be alone again, listening to the creek and sigh of the bewildered trees, the chaos of a fast-approaching desert storm raining down grapefruit blossoms around him. The wind conspired to dilute his half notions of fortressed castles, sending the plastic archers back to their frozen poses on a draw bridge made of mere wood kindling. The air compressed around the child; it rubbed against his skin and lifted his hair, the fierceness exciting his stomach before it flew off the top of his head, going higher into the bowing and leaping trees. The boy raised his arms to articulate the movement of the tree limbs. He could not even say what air was, but he wished to be lifted by it. There was no distinction between himself and the world around him. Everything existed for one purpose. The trees kept council over the child. Their tangled branches possessed a wintery wisdom, and the boy shivered in recognition of how glorious life was.

 

 

 

 

The No Sound Party by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

It was quiet. Too quiet.

That could only mean one thing.

 

The party had been surreptitiously gatecrashed by the quiet squad.

 

We’d all been raving away. The music is on full blast, giving it full Miami.

We were all shouting and yelling our heads off like nobody's business. We were all singing and making one almighty racket.

 

Some fool was dancing on the speakers.

Oh, that was me.

 

I was too busy totally enjoying myself to notice the quiet squad stealthy tip toeing in.

They surrounded and smothered the place.

 

They serenely entered and filled the room like a den of slithering, sneaky, sibilant snakes.

Then the leader whispered,

“Silence, nobody moves or makes a sound.”

 

The volume was turned right down.

The party goers were speechless.

I lost my voice. No sound would come out.

 

The quiet leader purred and murmured, “That's better…” The quiet squad silently filed out and left the party vaguely humming a lullaby.

All was placid and calm.

 

We carried on as best we could but the party had descended into a bad mime.

People were walking into imaginary walls, falling out of imaginary windows, tripping over imaginary bodies.

 

I was getting nowhere silently doing rubbish robot routines. So frustrated that I was using lots of inappropriate sign language. The sort of ones that Mr Mumble would use if he was on Channel four after 10 p.m.

 

Well one sign led to another and by the end of the evening we were all facing each other furiously shushing one another.

 

Finally, we all filed out silently to ‘The Sound Of Silence’ played silently.

 

 

 

 

 

A Spirited Boy by Emma Fielder

[Chesterfield, North Derbyshire, England]

 

The classroom door burst open, inhaling a great gasp of air from the corridor. Mrs Hutchins stood, poised in the doorway, all teeth and hair and unfaltering enthusiasm. She smelled like wisteria and vanilla sponge – surely implausible for someone who had just spent six hours in the company of thirty snot-munching, hygiene-denying, mud-worshipping seven-year-olds?

 

“Mrs O’Neill!” she chimed, flashing me a crimson smile and beckoning me into the room beyond. She couldn’t have been happy to see me. This was my fourth visit in the last three months.

 

I settled on an undersized chair like a labrador on a cat bed. More commonly used to accommodating small bottoms, it groaned under the strain of a somewhat larger derriere. I squatted uneasily, clasping my knees.

 

She perched daintily on the edge of her desk, slender ankles crossed, hands palmed together in front of her ample bosom as if about to commence a sermon. There was a pause as she considered the ceiling panels. Arranging her rosy-cheeked face into an attitude of concern and sincerity, she levelled an earnest gaze at me.

 

“We’ve been having a little problem with Owen.”

 

I took a deep breath, preparing the defensive. My words tumbled out in a frenzy.

 

“Mr Winter already told me about when he flooded the toilets but he assured me that was an accident...”

 

“No, it’s-“

 

“I always tell him that a couple of sheets will do but he ends up using half the roll...”

 

“I’m not talki-“

 

“The amount of times I’ve called the plumber this year alone is frankly embarrassing. He’s started giving me advice on fibre intake..”

 

Her eyebrows disappeared into her manicured fringe. Her mouth a tiny red ‘o’. Like a cat’s arsehole.

 

“No…no. It’s just…he’s been putting Sellotape into other children’s hair and ripping it out.”

 

I blinked. Well. That was a change from atomic wedgies.

 

“Ah.”

 

The silence diffused like a fart at church.

 

“Listen.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. There was a tiny fleck of green matter lodged in between her front teeth. I found this oddly comforting. “I know he’s a spirited boy.”

 

Spirited. Code for ‘a little bollocks’.

 

“And he has a lot of energy.”

 

No shit, Sherlock.

 

“But I feel that we need to channel that into something productive, rather than destructive.”

 

I swallowed hard, examining my feet in their cracked, knock-off trainers.

 

“What do you suggest?” I mumbled, cowed.

 

She leaned back, spreading her arms with a theatrical flair. The magician who had miraculously sawn the problem in half.

 

“We have a wonderful Taekwondo club!”

 

I raised an eyebrow.

 

Smile faltering a little, her pink tongue dabbed at her lips uncertainly.

 

“For the…discipline..”

 

Jesus. As if he wasn’t ‘spirited’ enough without learning how to punch people in the trachea.

 

 

 

 

 

Honestly by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

The Honesty group always meets up on a Tuesday night.

 

We meet in the local community centre.

It's run by a councillor called Mark.

We all sit round in a circle for an hour and tell Mark and the rest how long it's been since we last told a lie.

 

Honestly, it's all false. Everyone in the group is lying through their back teeth and that dope, Mark, just sits there nodding his head and saying how well we’re all doing.

 

As usual I got there just before seven. Time to meet the other members.

We all tell one another how great our lives are and how well we’re doing.

 

It's all lies!

 

We all say how pleased we are to be here. Another lie.

Then Mark rounds us up to sit in the ‘circle of honesty’.

He’s a wet lettuce.

 

He sits there, week in and week, out listening to all our tall tales and lies.

Mark just smiles and says, “Well done Sheila” or “You’re doing great Bob” and “Keep it up Sue”.

Sometimes he shouts out “Gold star!” Usually, he tells us all to take it “one day at a time.”

I’ve never known someone to be so naive and stupid. Mark tells us every week he’s too nice to be a councillor.

 

I have to listen to all these lies every week and listen to how no one has told any lies these past seven days. He’s lying, she’s lying, they’re all lying! Hell, I'm lying!

I bet you a pound to a penny that we’ve all been lying non-stop for the past week.

I know I have.

 

You see, to a good liar lying comes easy, as easy and natural as breathing.

And that dopey councillor just sits there,  nodding, lapping it all up and praising us for all our good work.

 

Five minutes to go. Soon it will be time to get my coat and get out of the circle of honesty.

 

Oh, the lights have gone out!

And there is now something around my arms and legs. I can’t move.

Suddenly Mark’s voice breaks the darkness.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen. This is your host speaking. I’ve had to listen to your pathetic lies every week for the past six months. I know you think I’ve fallen for your fallacies and tall tales. But no, I have not been deceived.

 

I’m disappointed. Disappointed and angry that you have desecrated the circle of honesty.

As you can now realise, you're all attached securely to your chairs.

Don’t bother moving. The doors are all locked.

Don’t bother calling out. We’re all alone.

 

You see, my name is not Mark.

And I’m not a councillor.

And I’m not a nice man.

As you will all soon find out…”

 

 

 

 

An Important Note To Our Guests by Katie McCall

[Greater Manchester, England]

 

Dear guests,

 

A warm welcome to our secluded holiday cottage! With no phone signal or any other buildings for miles around, you have this little hideaway all to yourself. We hope that you’ll find everything you need in the kitchen and cupboards for your well-deserved break. A hamper of tasty local treats awaits you in the fridge.

 

While you visit our rugged end of the country on your getaway, we implore you to be mindful of your safety. We encourage you to explore the beautiful countryside during daylight hours but please do not ignore the signage warning you of the dangers on the moorland after dark.

 

For guests staying in the rooms with a view of the fells, we ask that you please close the curtains that face out onto the moors before dusk. Illuminated windows tend to attract local wildlife and other unwanted entities. After dark, please refrain from allowing children or pets outside. If you do happen to glance beyond the closed curtains, any lights, or strange figures that appear must be ignored. Do not venture out to get a closer look; unfortunately, the local mountain rescue team is only available during daylight hours, due to the treacherous nature of our local landscape.

 

In your welcome hamper, you will find an ample supply of sage. We recommend burning this on the fire once the sun starts to set. In each room, you will find a copy of the bible on the shelf, to be displayed on all windowsills facing the heath. The windows are sealed shut for a reason. Please do not try to open them.

 

In the past, some guests have reported banging and scratching on the front door and the windows during the nighttime. If you follow our instructions re: sage burning and correct placement of the bibles, you reduce the chance of this from happening, but if it does occur, we advise against answering the door. The rowan branches decorating the entrance must not be moved under any circumstances.  

 

Thanks for your understanding.

 

Good luck and enjoy your stay!

 

 

 

 

Once We Were A Team by Jane Wood

[Devon, England]

Margot wears her favourite poppy red dress, with lipstick to match, to galvanise herself through the party. All she can think about is tomorrow. Steeling herself, she feels a pang as she walks past the photograph of her boys before slamming the door of their large London townhouse and rushing down the steps into her husband Tom’s sports car.

 

‘You’re late.’ Margot says, folding herself into the small seat.

 

‘Yeah, sorry I went to the pub after work.’

 

‘Have you been drinking?’

 

‘I only had one.’ The lie drips from his lips like the others before it.

 

Outside, Margot shivers as fiery leaves tumble down the dark street. Walking past the glossy black railings, she takes a deep breath and plasters on a smile. Lights spill out on to the steps. Aretha’s smoky singing invites her in at the same time as Celia, the hostess welcomes them at the door.

 

‘You look fabulous. Glass of Champagne?’

 

‘Thank you.’

 

She enters the long room, takes a glass of fizz and knocks it back before finding herself surrounded and whirled into dancing with two of her friends. Margot heads to the kitchen for some water. At the door, she sees Tom resting his arm on the small of Celia’s back. Laughing together they seem oblivious to anyone else.

 

Upstairs, the bathroom offers relief, a moment of peace away from the throng of the party. While the bass pounds in her ears Margot stares at her reflection in the mirror, tries to ignore the lines that congregate around her hazel eyes and thinks about Tom.

 

Why does he do this?

 

‘Tomorrow.’ she tells her reflection. The mirror seems to stare accusingly at her as memories flood her mind. She sees herself, long ago, as a young bride and Tom’s proud face when she gave birth to their sons. She sees them on holiday, with Tom holding her hand and looking into her eyes. Once we were a team...

 

She thinks of Italy. It beckons her back. The wonderful forget-me-not sky, sipping icy margaritas, swimming in the azure sea and Lucy’s soft skin.

 

Downstairs, sinking into a leather armchair, she enjoys its coolness on her hot skin. Music surrounds her; the scent of vanilla candles dotted around lace the air, giving the room a soft light. Leaning back, Margot closes her eyes and thinks about her hidden suitcase.

When she opens them, the flickering flames of the candles reflecting in the faces of the people dancing, make them look deformed, as if melting. Her stomach contracts. She staggers across the floor to the open front door and vomits over the steps and shoes of those outside smoking, including Tom and Celia, who glare at her.

 

‘For God’s sake.’ Tom moves towards her. Backing away from him, she trips, toppling down the cold steps, trying to grab at the railings to no avail.

 

‘Lucy,’ whispers Margot.

 

 

 

 

The Journey by Kim Storey

[Pickering, North Yorkshire, England]

I’ve never liked railway stations. That’s not exactly true. I like the idea of travelling from one place to another, watching the world flash by, its occupants and details unsuspecting. It's the people I don’t like. The crowds, their hustle, their bustle.

    

     No one talks to each other anymore. They prefer their heads bent over screens whilst the actual world passes by, unnoticed. It's a shame. They exist, oblivious to those around them, or perhaps they’ve evolved to become disconnected and blatantly bad mannered.

   

     Like that group further down the platform, laughing and jeering. They don’t have to be drunk, but they are. They’re catching my train. I hope they’re not in the same carriage.

 

     The Tannoy announcement is hard to hear. I have to look at the board to see ‘delayed’ pop up, to understand what’s happening. My journey will now take longer than planned; typical. Though where I’m going to, and why, is nobody’s business but mine. Maybe it’s a good job society has an addiction to social media. I haven’t a willingness to talk. I want to be alone with my ponderings.

   

     That inebriated group is getting rowdier. God knows how much they’ll have consumed by the time the train arrives. The platform is over filling, the few benches crammed with bodies. Most seats were taken away, supposedly to increase standing room. Whose stupid idea was that? It’s only made things worse. And there’s no bins anymore, although they were removed to stop terrorists planting bombs in them. At least that had a valid reason. Everything can’t be blamed on cuts, more cuts and austerity. Or perhaps it can? The attention to the wrong things has destroyed society’s focus on the people and things that should matter.

    

     That brutal breeze is making my feet colder by the minute. But then York Station is just like a wind tunnel with all these tracks. Overall, I suppose it’s a small price to pay for the ability to travel from top to bottom and side to side of Great Britain. My final destination is London; to the bridge where parliament overlooks that watery expanse called The Thames. To that iconic scene captured by so many films, postcards, and tourists. The place where someone falling into the river can, somehow, go unnoticed.

   

     I hate to think of her in that cold, dark, murky water. Her reaching out for help. Alone. Helpless. Drowning. Whilst above, a flood of people walked on, distracted by views of those historic buildings, or the London Eye, or worse still, their mobile phones. Too preoccupied to hear her cries.

   

     There are questions to answer; so many things I long to know, need to know. Will I ever know? What I understand is my need to be there. Where I can think of her. Let her know she is remembered. That I love her. Loved her. That I will hold that love close when I join her later today.

   

     Why is this train delayed?

 

 

 

 

The Tattoo Challenge by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

Planning the biggest tattoo convention since the Second World War was difficult. Leading American tattooists wanted it in New York, but we had strong representation from European artists who pressed for Paris, Berlin, or Amsterdam. London was the compromise.

Central to the convention was our wish to demonstrate the vast history of tattoo practice throughout the world to visitors who may have known nothing about the art. We were proud to have Samoan artists who used wide combs and an assortment of traditional tools made from animal bones. A popular entertainer was the tattooist from Ghana whose depiction of wild animals was greatly admired. The precision of the leading artists from the east coast of the USA and the imagination of the conceptual designs by Italian and French artists attracted the attention of leading art critics who would normally have been seen patrolling national art galleries.

 

The controversy caused by the challenge thrown down by the Americans was totally unforeseen. Viewing the complexity of the designs from Africa, the Pacific islands, and Europe, they questioned whether these artists could produce the volume required by a growing market. “Precision and simplicity should be our watchwords!” one declared.

 

We decided that, rather than avoid a dispute and any bad feeling, we should issue a challenge. We asked representatives of every tradition who could demonstrate the greatest number of public recipients of their work. We would award a $5000 prize to the winner.

 

The next day, an old man, Chaim, walked into the convention and pointed out that whilst tattoos were acceptable in many cultures as well as in the aristocracy and working classes of England where the convention happened to be located, there were some cultures where this was regarded as reprehensible. “If you are a practising Jew, you would know that tattoos are explicitly prohibited in Leviticus.”

 

This was all news to us, but we could not see what relevance this had to our challenge. It was then that Chaim declared that, despite the prohibition from his religion, he had decided that it was time for him to come forward and claim the prize. He addressed the slowly growing gathering who had come to see the competition that tattoos had been used in ancient China, Persia, Greece, and Rome to mark slaves, prisoners, and criminals. He said he believed that he had been an unwilling practitioner in this tradition.

 

The Boston artist who was convinced that his record of 6,000 clients could never be exceeded blanched when he realised Chaim’s identity.

 

“When the former tattooist died in 1940, I was only nineteen but took over his job and, with one other survivor, tattooed over 600,000 Auschwitz inmates.”

 

It felt morally wrong to hand over $5,000 to the man who had been part of the Nazi killing machine. But Chaim had also been a child prisoner so, maybe, he deserved recognition for his survival record.

 

 

 

 

Uneasy Lies The Crown by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

It's not easy being a king.

 

At least not in this pack.

 

No wonder my face looks tired and worn.

 

It's all the constant worrying and looking around for the problems and challenges that face me.

 

I am surrounded by threats and plots.

 

I know the other kings wish to take away my lands and followers. And maybe my queen.

 

And my queen? I am unsure of her loyalty. We were not married for love. There are rumours her heart belongs to another. And she puts the interests of her son, the prince, first.

 

And what of the dear, sweet young prince? He daily grows stronger and more impatient with following my orders. He would like to replace me on the throne and give the orders. He is impatient to change the way things are done. The younger ones look to him for the future.

 

There is the Ace. He thinks highly of himself. Sometimes I think he puts himself above the king. Maybe it is he whom the Queen secretly loves.

 

Maybe the Ace and Prince plot together to supplant me?

 

Then there are the lower numbers, the ranks. Who spend their time at the bottom of the pile.

 

I know they grumble, groan and moan with their lot. They dream of raising to a higher number.

 

Maybe their loyalty is suspect. Maybe they will join my rivals when the time comes.

 

Then there are the jokers, the jesters.

 

They are not attached to any royal house but come along and bring with them chaos and upheaval wherever they go. They bring instability and uncomfortable questions.

 

We laugh at their jokes and antics. But they can be cruel and too close to the truth.

What is really going on behind their false smiles of mirth?

 

Could they be hiding deeper and darker thoughts of treachery and anarchy against the old order?

 

No, it's not easy being a king in this pack.

 

But the worst of it is that any second now,

someone is going to yell,

 

“SNAP!”

 

 

 

 

Grandpa’s Blessings by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

 

Victoria and Jesus approached Grandpa Will who was sitting on his veranda polishing a bronze statuette.

 

     ‘Be prepared. He doesn’t approve of much about you. Your name he finds blasphemous, your politics he doesn’t support, and your lack of religion offends him.

 

     ‘We are meant to be.’

 

     ‘How is my favourite granddaughter?’ said Grandpa.

 

     ‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Victoria. ‘This is Jesus Hernandez.’

 

     ‘Glad to meet you, young man.’

 

     ‘Same here, sir.’

 

     ‘I hear you are from Cuba, studying English here in Jamaica, and you would like to marry my granddaughter?’

 

     'Yes Sir.’

 

     ‘What did she say?’

 

     ‘She said yes.’

 

     ‘From what she tells me, you are totally unsuited.’

 

     ‘Why is that sir?’

 

     ‘She’s not a revolutionary as far as I know, and neither am I.’

 

     ‘Sometimes revolution is necessary to bring about real change, Sir.’

 

    ‘I believe in the Rule of Law.’

 

     ‘I respect your beliefs Sir, but it’s better to start over on a clean slate. Victoria supports me in that.’

 

     ’A clean slate rarely means a fair trail for the outgoing regime.’

 

     ‘They will get a fair trial, Grandpa. Jesus and I have talked a lot about that.’

      ‘Another thing, to win, you’ve got to have God on your side, and your revolution does not believe in the Almighty.’

 

     ‘That’s not entirely true sir, we also believe God is on our side’.

 

     ‘I have my own issues with America. I resent the high-handed way it treats us, its smaller neighbours, and I am pleased to see someone take on the might of the United States.’

 

      ‘We’re going to win, Sir, and when we do, we will be sure to make America respect all its neighbours, large and small.’

 

     ‘Do you think a communist is going to stand up for me? I’m a capitalist and capitalism is the best guarantee of individual freedom.

     

      The last thing I want is some dictator telling me how to live my life.’

 

      ‘Grandma Freda came out onto the veranda with lemonade. She poured a glass for Jesus.

 

     ‘Has success changed you so much Will? You don’t remember that you too were more than unsuited once’.

 

     ‘I don’t need you to remind me, Freda.’

 

     ‘You were a poor boy sitting on the sea wall, in Porto Antonio, whittling wood and telling everyone that you were going to be famous.’

 

     ‘That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t put this young man through his paces.’

 

     ‘My father put me out of the house for believing in you.’

 

     ‘Don’t exaggerate.’

 

     ‘You had a dream, and you fulfilled that dream. Today, you’re a famous sculptor, everybody knows who you are.’

 

     Grandpa turned to Jesus. ‘Young man, Victoria is like her grandmother. Once her mind is made up, she will do whatever she wants, regardless of what I might say. Do you have another name besides Jesus?’

 

     ‘Enriques Sir.’

 

     ‘Well Enriques, I suppose I better welcome you to the family.’

 

 

 

 

 

Hide And Seek by Lisa Dearlove

[Chester, England]

‘I see you,’ a small voice sang as Charlie peeked behind the curtain I was hiding behind.  

 

     ‘Now it’s your turn to find me.’ Charlie ran out of the room, presumably to hide under his bed, in the exact same place he had hidden the last three rounds.  

 

     ‘One...two...’ I called out, making my way into the kitchen and popping the kettle on. I took an orange ceramic mug out of the cupboard and dropped in a PG Tips tea bag. I swirled in the hot water and milk before eagerly taking a drink. 

 

     ‘Ready or not, here I come,’ I shouted, so Charlie could hear me. I slowly stomped my way, one by one up the stairs, listening to the giggles escaping from Charlie's bedroom. I reached his door and opened it slowly with a small creek. ‘I wonder if he is in here?’ 

 

     An eruption of giggles sounded from beneath the bed, as I made my way around the room pretending to look in the drawers and having a good rummage through Charlies toybox. ‘Nope not in there. I guess there’s only one place he could be.’ 

 

     Charlie's giggles grew louder as I got on my hands and knees and crawled closer to his bed. I yanked the overhanging duvet up,

     

     ‘There you ar…’  

 

     I jumped back, confusion weighing over me like a thick blanket. He must have snuck past me somehow. 

 

     ‘Charlie, where are you?’ I called out only to be greeted with silence. ‘This isn’t funny, now come out.’ 

 

     Panic overwhelmed me as I looked under the bed hoping that I had just missed him. ‘Charlie, please come out baby boy. I promise Mummy isn’t mad.’ 

 

     A thudding sound thundered in my ears, as I came to the realisation that under the bed, Charlie’s old teddy bear which I had not seen since he was two, was hidden amongst a thick layer of untouched dust.  

 

 

 

 

 

Crystal Blue by James Staynings

[Chippenham, Wiltshire, England]

He had been staring at her for half an hour. He knew this because fluttering, cupid-like above her head, was a wall clock. The big hand could have been the needle on a pressure gage; his levels of cortisol in his brain shrinking. Depleting the sugar in his veins. The only sugar he could consume anyway was either produced by his body or the treats hidden at work where he had some solitary peace.

 

We’re doing this together so we can live a long and happy life together!  

 

He shoved that intrusion thought away with his eyelashes. Fixated, his glance focused on the subtle red tint of her lips. It wasn’t lipstick; it was natural rouge. Her upper lip a love bow; her bottom lip creaseless and plump. A perfect pedestal to rest your ear against.

 

She wore sunglasses despite the clouds outside; the big movie-star kind that covered other parts of her face. He could imagine the radiance of her eyebrows and cheekbones. They had not made eye contact so he imagined her eyes were crystal blue pools that he could dive into. If only he could joyfully drown in the retreat of her pupil! He knew he sink with a smile on his face.

 

The waitress interfered, blocked his view of Crystal Blue’s lips. Placed a sandwich of some kind in front of her and a glass of orange juice in a smudged tumbler. Queens, by right, deserved to drink out of a champagne flute, not a grubby common glass probably bought at Wilko.  

 

He sipped his tea, which when they had sat down had kept his hands warm and the sight of Crystal made the burning of his palms pleasant. Tepid Earl Grey jumpstarted his consciousness.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You jumped.”

 

“Tea’s gone cold.” He went to wipe the dribble from his beard, but Selina got there first. Her fingertips, slathered in moisturiser, caused his retreat. 

 

Selina’s balloon-like head swooned, blocked Crystal Blue. Finally, her mouth was shut, but the beartrap was open, hidden undercover.

 

What had she asked? He blinked twice.

 

“Are you feeling okay, Boo?” That name daggered his eardrum.

 

He took control. Visualising, he took the unused knife and fork and popped her rubber skin. Deflating her quietly like a silent unscented fart, he could see Crystal Blue again.

 

“Yeah, fine.”

 

Leaning to see past her fat head, he found an empty table. Crystal Blue had gone. It was just them left in the cafe. The beartrap ground into his calf and shin bone with an unsettling familiarity. It didn’t hurt anymore. Yet mentally the image of the beartrap, Selina began to change.

 

“A June wedding it is!” She flared excitedly. Gusting out of her chair, she hugged him. Her multiple arms constricting.

 

Out of body, he saw Selina, the giant squid, contracting around him, a tiny bath-time boat in lost at sea.

 

 

 

 

 

Hidden Things by Eveline Pye

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

When everyone else is out she creeps up to the old airing cupboard, reaches behind the hot water tank to post something into the gap between the scalding-hot copper pipes. It is important she doesn’t see it again, doesn’t get jarred by the memory when she wants sheets for the spare bed.

 

But this time it doesn’t work. The pile has reached the top of the massive tank. She can still see it peeking out, a gift wrapped in scented paper, printed with pink roses, tied with a green satin bow. Why did she buy it in the first place?  She should have known it would end up here with all the rest.

 

The last thing she hid was a card. Mostly cards were OK, but she wrote a verse in this one. It seemed a good idea the night before the retirement party but somehow when the perfect moment arrived, she froze and didn’t take it out of her bag. There were too many people milling around. She only saw him once after that, in the queue at the bakery. He said she should have come to say goodbye.

 

What else was back there? A load of rubbish: left-handed scissors for her neighbour’s little boy, bootees she knitted for Anne’s new baby, navy-blue nail varnish for Marie, a second-hand book for Simon. It was out of print, and she’d visited a dozen bookshops before she found it. A complete waste of time.

 

And at the very bottom of the pile, a letter. She sent him all the angry ones. This was the one she would never send.

 

 

 

 

Yosef Levy’s Bar Mitzvah Luncheon – 1974 by Phyllis Rittner

[Watertown, MA, USA]

                                                                                                      

In the photo we’re posing at a table in a lavish seaside restaurant. Pink linen tablecloth, ginger ale in crystal goblets, bowls of real lobster bisque. A skyscraper peaks out from behind the velvet fringed curtains, an insurance company where ten years later I’ll work as a receptionist.

 

I wear a white lace dress with a blue satin sash. Mom finally agrees to buy the pattern at Woolworths instead of making me wear my brown paisley jumper. I wake that morning to the whir of her sewing machine, watch as she bites off the final thread. As I twirl in the kitchen, dad grins, pours vodka into his orange juice, a slight tremor in his hands.

 

Pink carnations are pinned to our dresses, garnished with red ribbon. The boys stand stiffly beside us in mismatched ties and red carnations tucked into their lapels. Yosef is beaming in relief having aced his Torah portion. The rabbi says that even though he’s only thirteen, he has now become a man, or at least is responsible for his own actions. David, Yosef’s little brother, is the opposite of Yosef. He smirks at his party favor, a cat figurine encased in a plastic dome. These are lame, he says aloud.

 

Joannie Goldblum sits in the center of the table like Queen Esther. In fifth grade Joannie taught me how to blow bubble gum. I can still remember flattening the gum against the roof of my mouth with my tongue, deftly pushing it through my open lips, blowing that slow stream of air to form the perfect pink globe. Now snap it apart with your teeth, she’d say. I loved to snap gum, especially when entering a tough girls’ bathroom.

 

Beneath my partial smile and over-exposed red eye, my mind is galaxies away. I’m dreading my upcoming bat mitzvah, which I will share with Stacey Katz, whose friends make fun of my pageboy haircut and flood pants. I’m terrified not just of singing the prayers but that I won’t have enough guests to fill my half of the synagogue. I’m also wondering why Molly Abrams, who rode bikes with me every Saturday for a year, won’t even glance my way. I thought maybe she heard my parents quarreling in the street or her mother thought our crappy lawn was lowering the property values. Months later I learn Molly’s older brother Billy got expelled for selling weed, OD’d on heroin, sent away to some secret rehab upstate.

 

But the luckiest part of the afternoon was when I accidentally banged my elbow on a chair and Yosef Levy, all chocolate eyes and black hair, asked me if I was okay. Yosef Levy, who twenty years later would become an orthopedic surgeon. I remember my spine tingling as he traced his fingers down my arm checking for the bruise. Here! he said, sticking my elbow in his goblet of ice-cold Coca Cola. All better!

 

 

 

 

The Misunderstanding by Sam Christie

[England]

 

Dear Miss Harris,

 

     I am, of course, writing to apologise for what can at best be described as an error of judgement, but at worst a catastrophic and shameful incident.

 

     You see, I am indeed a heating engineer and plumber, however, I am also the man that fixes the boiler. I lead a complex life negotiating euphemisms and nuanced turns of phrase that on occasion can rather tie me in knots. Largely I navigate this well, but on this occasion my compass was awry (which I suppose could equally be read euphemistically).

 

I beg you to give thought to my quandary and the reason this terrible event transpired. Your voice, you see, with its forty a day husk, coupled with that half-amused delivery, meant that I misunderstood the context behind your saying, “Make your way to the rear entrance and put some heat back into my life”. 

 

     You may be able to see that the way you put this instruction was somewhat unconventional and could hardly be considered particularly technical or even professional; so, as a result I became confused. What, I thought feverishly, is my purpose here?

 

     And I do understand how distressing it must have been to be confronted by a man in your kitchen wearing PVC overalls, especially given their see through design; but the trouble is that many of my customers like this outfit and have come to expect it.

 

     Anyway, now we have got the apology out of the way, I wondered if it would be at all possible to call round to pick up my tool bag that I dropped shortly before jumping out of the back window to avoid your rather excitable dog? I will be wearing standard plumbing attire this time around.

 

     Yours sincerely,

 

     John

 

 

 

 

Grandma's Old Biscuit Tin by Juliet Wilson

[Scotland]

 

Simon hated staying at Grandma's. It was always so boring.

 

Mum and Dad smiled as they left him. Dad ruffled Simon's hair.

 

"We'll see you tomorrow!" Mum said. "You be good now."

 

Simon watched them go to the car. They were off to some boring party, which was 'grown-ups' only. Grandma called him to the dining table. Dinner was always the same here; tinned ham with lettuce and tomato, then jelly and custard. The jelly never set properly and the custard was always lumpy. It was worse than school dinners, Simon thought.

 

After supper Grandma gave Simon a magazine. It was one he had never seen before. A magazine with photos of grinning grown-ups and headlines like, ‘I lost 8 stone in 2 weeks!’

 

"This is a stupid magazine!" Simon said.

 

"Nonsense!" Grandma said. "It's something to read, isn't it?"

 

Last time he had stayed at Grandma's, Simon had asked to put the TV on. But it had been some boring grown-up programme and he had fallen asleep. So, this time he didn't ask about the TV. Suddenly he noticed a big old biscuit tin on a shelf. His friend Andy's parents had a tin like that, full of Lego.

 

"Grandma!" he said. "What's in that tin?"

 

Grandma got up slowly. She walked over to the shelf and brought down the tin.

 

"Your cousin Vanessa likes playing with these," she said, handing the tin to Simon.

 

Vanessa was such a baby! Simon thought. He couldn't imagine her playing with Lego. He opened the tin slowly. It was full of buttons.

 

"What am I supposed to do with these?" Simon asked.

 

"Vanessa likes to thread them together to make jewellery!"

 

Vanessa would! Simon thought.

 

He pushed the buttons around in the box. The colours all mixed together and separated again. Some were pale, like faces; others were dark, like clothes. Simon started to arrange the buttons by colour. Then he threaded them to make puppets. He could make the puppets move by pulling the strings. Then he put the lid back on the tin and shook it. The rest of the buttons inside made a noise like maracas. His puppets would have music to dance to! He refused to go to bed until Grandma had agreed to shake the tin of buttons while he made the puppets dance.

 

After the button puppets had danced for a while, Grandma stood up and laughed.

 

"Time for bed, Simon!" she said, taking him up the stairs.

 

Simon cleaned his teeth and put on his winter pyjamas. He crept under the pile of blankets on the narrow bed in Grandma's freezing cold spare room. Grandma kissed him goodnight.

 

"I love you Grandma!" he said.

 

"I love you too, Simon!" 

 

Simon smiled into the darkness. He knew that tonight there would be no monsters hiding in the dusty shadows behind the wardrobe.

 

 

 

 

 

Pie-House Dweller Flees The Scene by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

Natives in the secluded village of Dreary Muttering, Hampshire, were amazed by the discovery of an elaborate two-storey dwelling made entirely from meat pies nestling in a stretch of dense local woodland. The pies were in an advanced state of decay, but were prevented from total disintegration by the transformation of the animal fat into a waxy substance known as adipocere, which resists deterioration. A sodden mat of fallen leaves, merging with the dissolving pie crusts, acted as a temporary sealant, with ivy growing over to create near-hermetic conditions.

         

     Housing officer Subdivision ‘Subdy’ Hampton takes up the tale. “It’s not just another country yarn, like the infamous Mini Decorator Invasion Scare, when miniature painters and decorators were said to hide out in gardens when folk went out at night, then brush past their legs in the dark when they came back in. Residents claimed that when they woke next day, their whole house had gone beige or pink or whatever. But that was just drink, I reckon, and the occasional cat.

         

     “No. This was real. My two sons Deeds and Full-Furnished were out in the woods the other day, chasing under-occupancy benefit shortfalls, when they came upon the... building, as it now turns out. They’d never have found it, but for the smell. The ‘odour of sanctity’, the villagers call it, but it’s just the proteins converting to sugar in the pies. When they looked inside, it was all done up in pastel colours (I don’t know how that happened) and furnished with old crates and tree stumps.”

         

     “’Twere them fairy decorators, Father.”

         

     “Shut it, Deeds!”

         

     Daughter Tenancy observes: “It’s a real shame. We think both the pies and the dweller were survivors of a big pie truck crash back in the noughties. The lorry turned up in a Gosport scrapyard, but neither the driver nor the load were seen again.”

         

     “I felt something brush past my legs as we went in,” puts in Subdy’s second son, Full-Furnished. “That might have been him running off, or it might have been...”

         

     “Them.”

         

     “I said shut it, Deeds!”

         

     As planning permission was never granted, the mysterious pie-house dweller is now being sought by the local council.

 

 

 

 

The Relief by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

Yesterday I drew the shortest straw of my life.

 

Now I’m in a truck bound for a bunker in zone F.

 

That's where the worst of the fighting is. We’ll be inside a defence structure called the ‘hedgehog’ for a month.

30 days to stay alive until we’re relieved.

 

There are six of us who yesterday all drew short straws.

There is just one question on all our minds.

 

Who's it going to be?

 

Statistics show that nearly always one gets killed.

Sometimes two. But certainly one.

My money is on the nervous kid opposite me. Or perhaps that old grizzled guy sitting next to him.

 

The truck driver is a cheery old soul. As you would be, if you knew you weren’t the one going into a hedgehog bunker for a month.

 

It doesn’t sound much but believe me it's the biggest and toughest gig in the war.

You see we’re fighting a hidden enemy. You catch glimpses. Wave after wave of these beings you can hardly see. They keep on coming.

 

The ‘hedgehog’ gets its name because it’s bristling with weapons. We just have to keep firing. And keep firing. Don’t go to sleep or doze off.

We’ve all had the shots to help keep us awake.

 

They say that if you make it that far, the final week is the worst. The anti-sleep shots start to wear off then and the effects aren’t pretty.

And then you're fighting two enemies: the unseen ones and your desire to sleep.

 

Tough. But if you survive it's worth it. They give you promotion, a medal, more pay, rations, three months leave to Pleasure City and a transfer to an elite unit that never goes near the front line.

 

All I have to do is stay alive for the next month.

 

As we get closer to the bunker we’re quieter. The kid has the shakes. Like the shakes he had when he was picking that straw. Yes he’s definitely my favourite to die  out there.

Even the truck driver has stopped whistling and singing.  He’s got his eyes peeled for any dangers ahead. They don’t normally get past the bunkers but sometimes the odd one does.

 

We make it to the bunker, the ‘hedgehog’. It’ll be our home for the next month. The old unit comes out. We count. There are five. One casualty. Their faces looked tired. As you would with no sleep for a month.

They drop into the truck.

 

We wave goodbye. Their faces relieved but unsmiling.

We watch as the truck pulls away.

 

“Lucky bleeders,” the kid says.

Then watch, as a missile from our own line strays off course and hits the truck, turning it into a fireball.

“No survivors,” the grizzled guy says.

For a moment or two I think of their weary faces.

Then a shout.

 

“Enemy massing, get to your positions!”

The Visit by Kayleigh Kitt

[West Midlands, England]

Melvin tried not to blink, unless, of course, she’d consider this as staring, and he wasn’t entirely sure if he was in a competition at this juncture. 

 

     He blinked. 

 

     One of her eyes had a defined twitch, to which he had an alarming front-row seat, the closer she honed in on his level. He noticed her lip involuntarily trembling, making the few wiry hairs sprouting from her chin pronounced. As she zoomed in, he could smell her cloying, rosy perfume, overpowered by her heavily laced minty breath and nicotine. 

 

     He licked his lips. She’d made noises since her early afternoon arrival, such as let me see the little one then, inferring he was already in heaps of trouble, especially if he didn’t make an appearance. 

 

     Aunt Agnes.

 

     She was his father’s aunt, Great Aunt, so that must make her his Great Great Great Great Aunty, or something like that. To save confusion, everyone in the household had been instructed to call her Aunt Agnes, the consensus being that even acronyms would be difficult to remember, for example, GGAA, GAA, although his preference had been AA. However, Aunt Agnes had initially growled at him when he suggested it, his voice so tiny, he had to repeat it, and the second time, after explaining it was also a popular vehicle breakdown service, he cheekily asked her if she’d seen the TV advertisements. She’d patted him playfully on the back, practically knocking him from the hallway, into the living room. He’d been pleased with that. People her age often talked about having seen adverts on the television and she looked more approachable when she laughed.

 

     Later he’d edged to the door, finally fleeing upstairs to his bedroom, although after a while the merriment downstairs seemed to become sombre. Part sentences floated upstairs, found someone else and decided to move on. And he was pretty sure there was crying. 

 

     He heard his father in the kitchen, so he crept to the top step, as placating words rippled from the living room from his mother. You just haven’t found the right one. He slithered down a couple more steps; surprised on reaching the bottom.

His father strolled past clutching several mugs of tea, his knuckles white in the hand bearing two cups. “Grab the biccie tin Mel,

     

     Aunt Agnes needs a pick me up.” 

 

     The wafting tea smelt more like his dad’s whisky.

 

     Mute, Melvin pulled a stool over to the counter, first going into a cupboard and then grabbing the barrel from the worktop.

 

     He trotted into the living room, pulling himself up on the sofa next to Aunt Agnes. The seal gave on the tin and to get her attention; he waved the lid in her direction. He pointed at one of his favourite chocolate bars he’d pushed into the top. “That’s for you.”

 

 

 

 

The Next Train by Ieuan D. Walker

[London, England]

‘The next train will arrive in…minutes. We apologise for any inconvenience to your journey.’

 

And with that, I take the stone in my hand, crouch towards the moon-soaked platform at my feet, and draw another notch which, unlike those before it, signifies the number 251,292: the amount of times the station's idle tannoy has repeated its feedback-infused mantra to an audience of solely myself.

 

Up-tilting my eyes to observe the incandescent pointlessness of the never-changing departure board once more, I then stand up. In the same breath, I look back down the platform onto the two hundred-thousandfold series of vandalizing notches that I have left in my stead. And as I do so, a thought occurs to me: I've been waiting here for a bloody long time.

 

‘The next train will arrive in…minutes. We apologise for any inconvenience to your journey.’

 

Another notch and the end of the platform draws nearer. The train will be arriving any moment now. It has to. Otherwise, I'll run out of space for future notches, and then what? Scribble over my existing tally? Start a new one along the walls? Or simply bask reluctantly in the barren embrace of the station's cold silence? I could just leave, of course. After all, there's nothing forcing me to stay. But then if I were to walk away now, then what was the point of the wait in the first place?

 

‘The next train will arrive in…’

 

Besides, my ticket's non-refundable.

 

 

 

Ring-a-Ding-Ding by Jon Groom

[Leicestershire, England]

 

George is better than me. He sits by the window and can see the tree with the squirrel. As he looks out the squirrel looks back or so he tells me, but I can’t see. He tells me about it. He tells me stories.  His eyes are large and dark. “What big brown eyes you have, Georgie-Boy,” the nurses say as they fuss on him. He talks to them like he already knew them and they talk right back.

 

     “Ring-a-ding-ding, nurse Lucy is on duty.” That’s what George says. “You can tell”, George says, “because Old Blue Eyes is singing”. I don’t know who Old Blue Eyes is, but I don’t want to tell him I don’t know. The same song plays on the little portable record player in the nurse’s station every time nurse Lucy comes on shift. 

 

     “Ring-a-ding-ding.” That’s what George says to nurse Lucy when she comes to fuss on him. She laughs every time. She has a husky voice, but when she laughs, she squeaks and laughs more, pretending she’s embarrassed. I don’t think she is; I think she likes laughing. I like nurse Lucy, but she makes me embarrassed.

 

     George is better than me. When nurse Lucy comes in, he talks to her like she’s other people. I don’t. I can’t. Her voice makes me embarrassed. Nurse Lucy is curves and smells warm and like flowers and like soap. She smiles at me but I look down because I’m embarrassed. George doesn’t get embarrassed. He says, “Talk to her like she’s other people”, but I can’t. It’s easy for George, cos George is easy on everybody.

 

     George is better than me; he doesn’t cry at night, and he doesn’t make fun of me for doing it. George says not to be scared, but I am. I am scared. I ask if he’s scared and he says ‘sure’ but I don’t think George is scared. I don’t think George ever gets scared.  George is older than me by three years. I wish I had a brother like George.

 

     George is better than me, and is eating like a horse the nurses say. Nurse Lucy brought the portable record player into the room and danced around the room to celebrate. She moves in curves and I haven’t ever seen anyone who could move that way, like smoke. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, and the smell of her filled the room. Her dark hair is pinned beneath her nurses hat, but I want to see it tumble down. She says it’s how everybody’s dancing, but I don’t think anybody else could dance like her.  

 

     George is better than me, but he looks bad. I ask him if he’s okay and he doesn’t seem to hear me. The nurses spend more time with the screen around him and the smell is bad. I’m scared for George. I ask him about the squirrel but he doesn’t seem to hear me. I want to ask him more things but the nurses tell me that he needs rest. George doesn’t need rest, George was eating like a horse, he’ll have energy for everyone, just you see. 

 

 

     “Ring-a-ding-ding, nurse Lucy is on duty”. I have to say it because George doesn’t. Nurse Lucy sits by his bedside and for the rest of the night there is no music. For the first time I meet her eyes and she looks down.

 

     I am better than George. I would give everything not to be.

 

 

 

 

Kiss Me by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

 

‘Why are you crying?’ Kay asked.

 

      ‘Because, Roy Levy kissed me.’

 

      ‘Was it on the lips?’

 

      ‘No. At the side. He missed.’

 

      ‘What did you say to him?’

 

      ‘He ran away.’

 

      ‘Stop bawling. It’s not the end of the world. If he does it again tell me.’

 

      Kay, was my teenage cousin. She could talk, she wasn’t the one who might end up pregnant.

 

      I was very bright at school. I had the highest IQ in the class and I talked funny. Everyone knew me. I was famous.

 

      Roy Levy, was new at Tichfield. Everyone talked about him. He was good at Maths and wore glasses. He was older than me. Almost ten. 

 

      Next day during recess, Roy Levy, handed me a letter. It was a love letter. It said: ‘I love you. I want to kiss you again.’ It was signed ‘guess who!’

     

      I showed the letter to Kay.

     

      ‘What can I do?’ I asked her. ‘I might have a baby if he kisses me.’ Tears sprang to my eyes.

 

      ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Kay said. ‘You’re too young to get pregnant. But don’t let him kiss you yet. Wait until he writes a letter asking you to marry him. Then you can use it as blackmail.’

 

      ‘What’s blackmail?’

 

      Kay, rolled her eyes at me. ‘Blackmail is a useful tool. Don’t look at me with your eyes full of tears. Just believe me.’ She stormed off. Then turned around:

 

      ‘Meet me under the Almond Tree after school. Roy Levy, won’t look for you there.’

 

      As I waited for Kay, under the Almond Tree, Roy Levy rushed up to me, his glasses slipped down his nose as he tried to kiss me. I hit him with my satchel and he fell over. He got back up, pushed his glasses back onto his forehead, and handed me a crumpled piece of paper. It said: ‘Let me kiss you and I will marry you!’

 

      I held out my cheek.

 

      ‘On your mouth,’ Roy Levy said.

 

      I closed my eyes and puckered my lips. Roy Levy, kissed me right on the mouth and ran away.

 

 

 

Audacious Hygiene by Adaora Ogunniyi

[Lagos, Nigeria]

Bubbly babbles are buoyed by the smell of fallen leaves trapped in wet soil. A classroom blocks-ringed playground; large enough to make me feel like a drop of water in a bucket, each time I stood on it. Of all my school days, this day - which I still see behind a frosty glass - is the only one. All the others have melted into nothingness. I was having a class. Integrated-science: science: health-science? I have no image of the teacher, only that she was female. Soon, ‘Personal Hygiene’ sprawled across the board. What is personal hygiene: How to promote personal hygiene: Opposite of personal hygiene; the blackboard bustled with chalk marks. 

An uneasiness snaked around me and, at first, I didn’t know why. Then I knew. The teacher had called my name. She had just hurled diseases associated with improper personal hygiene and wanted me to repeat three of them. I hadn’t been listening, so my mouth refused to move. I cannot remember all her rant, but ‘dull’, ‘silly’ and ‘look at me when I’m talking’ still reach from behind that frosty glass to jolt me.

‘Come out. Stand before the class.’ 

My heart took a freefall, snatching my stomach on its way to my feet. The air became thinner. Breathing was becoming a little harder. And the classroom had turned curiously darker. I am still baffled at how I reached the front of the class. I must have floated because my feet were steel-heavy. The teacher asked my classmates to say, ‘Shame’. She counted, ‘One, two, ready, go’ and ‘Shame!’ whispered across the classroom. As I felt her eyes scrape me from head to shoes, tears started to sting my eyes.

She pushed up my head. ‘Class, take a look,’ she said, tilting it to the left. She told my classmates that the skin discolouration, the slight skin discolouration, on my neck was an excellent example of diseases associated with improper hygiene. 

 Eczema. 

Only it wasn’t eczema. It was a birthmark, Mummy told me. The rest of the day lumbered along.

         I have good hygiene.

         I have good hygiene. 

         I have good hygiene. 

         At home, as I told Mummy, I cried hard enough for my heart to nearly burst out of my chest. Tears bathed my quivering lips, and the saltiness stole to my tongue in the soothing way familiar to children alone.

Mummy held me close. ‘I’ll deal with that teacher. Okay?’                                         Night came, and I slept with a smile, a knowing. My teacher will be sorry. Next day, Mummy drove to school, circled round the playground with her car.

Twice.

Parked in its middle, she palm-downed on the horn.

         Two full minutes.

The headmistress and six teachers approached her and within seconds, the erring teacher was dismissed.

But ‘Next day’ didn’t happen. At least not like that. 

It's the closure I craved. The tuning I gave this memory. For myself. For the score of ears ever to have heard it. Mummy. Sweet, soft-spoken Mummy. She hugged me, told me to never let people’s words define me.

‘It’s a birthmark. God’s special stamp on you. You have good hygiene. And even when you become a beautiful woman, your birthmark will remain,’ she had said.

My birthmark remains. And today, I carry it proudly, confidently, audaciously.   

 

 

 

The Snake by Tanya Shomova

[Svilengrad, Bulgaria]
 

‘The snake is one of the oldest and most widespread symbols. Its symbolism is both positive and negative. It is also used as a symbol of deception and as a symbol of healing. Snakes, because of their ability to shed their skins, are also associated with new beginnings and rebirth.’


I don't remember how long I've been traveling anymore. I was crawling on steep rocks so hot my skin was sizzling like a piece of bacon thrown into a pan of oil. 


I crawled through deserts whose sand scratched me and made me dream of the coolness of cold water.

 

I was crawling on ice so thin and slippery that even I, the Snake, was afraid.


I also crawled among beautiful places.


Meadows, as if from fairy tales. Forests full of birdsong and life. The sun's rays caressed me as I basked on smooth river stones.

 

In the evening, I have found infinitely comfortable and cozy holes from which I could look at the moon undisturbed. 


But there was always something in me that kept me going. I always felt the need to crawl. To keep crawling.


I have met all kinds of creatures.


Most of them were afraid of me.


Once, while I was hiding under a rock, I heard people talking about me. I heard that I am the reason they are on earth and not in heaven.


Really...of all the creatures I've met, humans are the strangest. Most cannot take responsibility even for their existence. They are always looking for something to blame outside of themselves; both for their happiness and their unhappiness.


The serpent cast them out of paradise... The serpent is to blame. They are afraid of the snake. And I'm afraid of them because I don't understand them.


Too much emotion, too little sense. As soon as they moved away, I continued on my way.


You know, whoever you are who reads the mind of a snake... I'm proud of myself! I am not like lions, tigers and foxes. I am not like wild animals. I'm not like people.


Thank God I'm not like people!


But there is something in me that no one else on this earth has.


My ability to reincarnate. Maybe only the phoenix would understand me. Maybe he's calling me and his voice keeps me crawling.


Through the difficult, through the scary, through the dark and the beautiful. Nothing can stop me. Nothing can hold me back for long.


Because I keep looking for my phoenix. Because I know it exists. Because anything less would be too little.


And you? Did you find the phoenix?


Have you changed your skin more times than you can count?


If you are not, then you are one of the people. And if you're human, your phoenix is ​​long gone.


And he had taken your soul with him.

 

 

 

‘Rumours’ by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

Are you going to “Rumours” tonight?

Surely you must give it a go.

The whole city is absolutely chattering with excitement about this place. It's the place to go and be seen.

But even more exciting are the tales that you will hear.

There’s plenty of music, but hardly anyone dances.

There are plenty of drinks sold but no one lets their lips get wet.

For no one wants to miss a second more of the juicy tit bits that are spread round this place. Salacious gossip, scandalous tales, rumours abound of the carryings on of the rich and famous. Intimate tales implied and insinuated. Nefarious and naughty stories that so and so heard from a good friend who shall remain nameless.

The whole place jangles with babble and blabber and plenty of chitty-chatter. There is much small talk around these tables.

Everyone's eyes wander upon new entrants wandering into this club. For there are many who come with a reputation and a past which quickly the tables will pass round. So by the time such a person has reached the bar their sordid secrets are known to all.

Whisperings in the secluded alcoves. Some true, some half true, some downright lies. People passing on what they’ve just heard. Beans are spilt all the time.

Careers Are made and broken here.  Under the tables spies pass round notes containing confidential information. Clandestine meetings take place. Arrangements to meet with a wink and a smile. People given jobs with a nod.

Information is bought and sold. Informers and informants circulate furtively.  Reporters hang on every word awaiting to catch the latest news. The walls really do have ears round here.

But no one who is anyone would think of avoiding coming here. They would be afraid that to not be present would excite even more gossip and rumours about themselves. And many would rather know what is being spoken of about them.

Besides, how else would they find out about the filthy, secret lives led by their friends, neighbours and family?

 

 

 

Old Ladies Prove Existence Vain, Claims Rev by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

The plight of an elderly lady was today blamed for a clergyman’s devastating loss of faith. The story was all-too commonplace to start with.

          “We’d heard it all before at the station,” said Desk Sergeant Lubcumpy of the city police. “Mrs Dorothea Uld, the old lady in question, was shopping in her local supermarket when she noticed her purse was missing. She grew somewhat flustered and couldn’t remember if she’d left it somewhere, or if a young man selling ‘street papers’ had picked her pocket while she reprimanded his allegedly foreign shoes. She knew she’d had the purse when she left home, and that was all.”

          “But Providence had already smiled on her.” The Reverend Helbert Ramtree takes up the tale. “By the time Mrs Uld reported it to the police, her purse, which she must have dropped, had been handed in by a good Samaritan. I was present at the station myself, ministering to a fallen woman, when she came. The joy on the old lady’s face was a wonder to behold.”

          But Providence giveth, and Providence taketh away, it would seem. Such was the joy of Mrs Dorothea Uld on leaving with her purse, that she failed to see an approaching taxi when she stepped out in the road, and was killed upon impact.

          “Old ladies are a danger to taxis,” claimed the driver. “I was on my way to pick up a fallen woman bailed out of custody by a vicar. Naturally, I had a lot on my mind. But that didn’t give the old baggage the right to fling herself at my vehicle.”

          “If you ask me,” Sergeant Lubcumpy opined, “the old lady was killed by kindness. The selfless act of a total stranger was more than her sense of self-preservation could bear.”

          “I was utterly devastated,” said Reverend Ramtree. “Providence seemed to be making it up as He went along. One minute I’m secure in a perfect universe with a perfect plan, the next it’s a D-I-Y construction that’s collapsed. What is the point of the Mrs Ulds of this world? It makes no sense to me. At the end of the day,” the Rev concluded sadly, “old ladies only exist to prove existence is futile.”

          It is believed the fallen woman absconded while the taxi was held up.

 

 

 

 

The Brothers Stupendos by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

At the world renowned Reneni circus there were many acts to amaze and delight the audiences. But most didn’t come for the trapeze artists or the clowns. They came to watch the talents of the Stupendos brothers.

 

They weren’t really brothers, but from a distance and under the glare of the lights you really couldn’t tell.

 

One was called Bingo and was a massive walrus who just wandered and waddled around, making honking noises and flapping his arms.

 

And then there was the other one. His name was Sammy and he was a flea.

Sammy the flea could jump very high, juggle, lift weight, do impressions, throw knives, ride a horse whilst doing somersaults, tumble, tell jokes, get fired out of a cannon, sing songs, play the guitar, dance the flamenco, tame lions , spin plates and do card tricks.

 

They each received 50-50.

 

But it bothered Bingo that Sammy was a big-headed flea who was always showing off and boasting to all how talented he was. Now Sammy was saying he should be paid more as he did the most entertaining and “getting fired out of a cannon every night is no fun. You just waddle round going honk-honk!”

 

Bingo had had enough of Sammy’s attitude and decided to do something about it. He waited until the big drum roll for Sammy Stupendos stupendous weight lifting. The weights were 100 times Sammy’s body weight.

 

The crowd all roared when Sammy lifted up the weight and locked his arms, his little flea legs shaking. Sammy looked over to Bingo and mouthed something like, “your useless as a third bicycle wheel,” over to him.

 

Then Bingo just waddled over to the flea, going “honk, honk” and then rolled over Sammy.

Three times just to be sure.

 

The flea was crushed on the spot and the partnership ended.

 

Afterwards Bingo was sad. He missed that big-headed and loud-mouthed flea greatly.

 

But not for long, for the ringmaster soon had Bingo fixed up with a slender long legged stick insect called Glenda.

 

Glenda the slender stick insect performed with Bingo on the same terms as before.

And she could do the same things as Sammy and a whole lot more.

 

 

 

 

The Day After by Itseme Akede

[London, United Kingdom]

 

I have never been in a situation like this and in all my years of reading, I have never come across a resource that adequately explained how to handle this. I was one prone to always planning to the T, not leaving anything to chance and always knowing what to do. Everyone who knew me knew that there was not a day that did not have a to-do list attached. It was why I’d been promoted twice in the span of 2 years. I had always prided myself in being able to predict things – in being able to plan and prepare for the worst. Sometimes we just needed to live, Salma would say. But life was unpredictable enough, and with the few parts we were able to control, it would be wise to take advantage of those, I’d reply. But there are certain things that one has no time, or even the bandwidth to prepare for. One of them was death. Salma had told me that there was no need to always want to be on top of things. If only she’s known.

 

One minute, we are going on a drive – one of our Sunday rituals (that I insisted upon) where we drove with no destination in mind, sunroof open - and the next  minute, we are in an accident that has her wrangled in the wreckage, and I am then being told that she is dead. Even as the doctor speaks, I am unable to comprehend what he is saying, as it was not in my plans, it was never an option.  In all the possibilities that my overthinking had conjured up, this was not one of them. I had planned that our love would be sweet and long-lived. We would spend our days living and loving and making memories, but life had other plans – its own superseding mine. I had not cried in years but in that moment where I watched her be wheeled away, it is all I could do. Her once smiling face now covered in cuts and bruises is the last thing I remember before I am consumed by a drug-induced sleep.

 

I wake the next day, and at first, it feels like any other day but shortly after, as I turn to face the other side of the bed, all at once the memories of the previous day come rushing in, and I am reminded that Salma is no longer here. It does not feel that way, because the room still has her essence – her robe is still hanging behind the door where she left it yesterday. Her scent still lingers – her dressing table still carries her perfume bottles and lotions. Her slippers still lay at the foot of the bed, and for a second, I think that if I stick my toes in, they might still be warm. For a split second, I wonder when all her things will be taken away, and then I am reminded that it is my duty to clear them up – to pack up every proof of her existence and box them, storing them away as though she was never here.

 

In this moment, I have no plan of action. I have no directive on where to even begin, whether from the closet where her clothes take up more than half the room, or the bookshelf where I only own a few notebooks hidden in between her plethora of novels. Would it be her office where her laptop is permanently on sleep mode and whose wallpaper serves as another reminder of what I’ve lost?  Or is it the living room where her pictures lay in frames of different shapes and sizes. Do I begin ripping them in half because she and I are both featured in them?

It is the day after, and I don’t know what to do.

 

 

 

 

Hell’s Full Up by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

It finally had to happen. It was just a matter of time.

 

Finally, the world was so messed up and badly behaved, breaking every rule, smashing every code. People were thoughtless and vain and so unkind to everyone else.

Everyone was out there committing sin upon sin and looking for ways to outdo one another in the wretchedness each was in.

 

Until one day the devil could take no more.

He couldn’t take any more sinning souls.

 

Hell was full up. Full to the brimstone.

He even nailed it to the gates.

“Hell’s full up - go elsewhere!”

 

But where?

Clearly not to heaven, they were too bad for such a sweet place. But there were lots of spaces in heaven as no one had been good enough since 1877.

They couldn’t go back to Earth. That would give the remaining humans a shock.

 

The devil petitioned God to build another Hell.

And call it unimaginatively ‘Hell 2’.

 

The devil wanted to call it ‘The Blazing Inferno Club” but God said, “No”, that would make it sound exciting and encourage people to sin.

So, Hell 2 it was.

 

It took a while to build it.

The planning board ummed and arred.

 

If you think the neighbours are kicking off over a new prison or reservoir just wait till this one drops through their door.

And predictably they were not very happy.

 

Everyone agreed a new hell overspill was needed.

Just not next to them.

 

Can’t you put them on a ship and have them moored out in a dock?

Oh no, you can’t do that. That would be too cruel. Even for hell.

The devil wouldn’t stoop as low as that.

 

So in the end, God , the Devil and the chief planning officer for the council put their heads together and decided to build a massive tower block and place it in a forsaken spot on Earth.

 

They kept the location secret. Nobody wanted to be known as the second home of Hell on Earth. Though many postulated on the possible location for such a place, there were many to choose from as it seems there are lots of forsaken wastelands in each country.

 

A price was agreed and paid in silver. Though they did change the name. Hell 2.0 was junked and replaced by ‘Hell on Earth’.

 

It was such a success that it was decided to build many more.

 

 

 

 

A Raven Settles On The Childhood House by Flo Fitzpatrick

[Pocklington, Yorkshire, England]

 

A dark obscurity shrouds the landing hallway; I am left to grope at the air. It is a precarious quest, indeed, but I press on with my cautious shuffle along the carpet. I think it is brown in the daytime. But such things get lost at night. I, for one, falling into my slumber however many hours ago, hoped not to find myself in this haze, feeling among the upstairs walls and furniture that are reduced to pixels dancing in a black ensemble —my body too does pulse, my heart still reeling from the fright. I hadn’t had a bad dream in a while, perhaps it was overdue.

 

I remember being trapped in an austere room, caged as though imprisoned. The walls were peeling, yet there was a thickness to them perhaps sourced from the claustrophobia-instilling low ceiling, one that seemed to lower still as I tried to withdraw into a corner, albeit a failed attempt. How contained spaces can be so endless… the mind is cruel when left to its own devices.

 

But mother is kind and knows how to comfort; a golden glimmer in an incomprehensible abyss. Many a time in my young years had she held my hand and pulled me out of the labyrinth of thoughts into which I am prone to wander when the night emerges. And as I now approach her bedroom, I am warmed by the thought of her smile and embrace: the confirmation that there is someone watching over me. I am protected.

 

My hands graze the wall I cannot see, yielding an unwelcome chill. But the fruits of every journey come at the end, and I am edging closer.

 

Under the door I see a stream of light. Is day finally breaking? Maybe I will catch a glimpse of mother’s alarm clock on her oak bedside table. Before all, I must prise open the door, exiting the world of twilight confusion.

 

The door is not heavy and brushes open, and with it whistles a soft sound akin to a gentle gale. I have taken this path before and know my route.

 

But carpets don’t crackle, do they? 

 

And yet my feet confirm the sensation; underfoot a flimsy mass tickles their soles, strokes alternating between a smooth plane and an assortment of jagged edges– and what of this dusty floor? Barren and yet laden. Laden with a sea of –yes, it felt like that– a sea of paper... and yet they mark the only decorations in this austere room.

 

An austere room with flaking walls, and windows barred. I want to shy away; I want to dissolve... I crouch down and glimpse the sheets that adorn the ground: bills, résumés... I faintly recognise my scrawl. The ordinary life I can’t disown.

 

An odd manifestation of good fortune... that my early years are still so vivid that I forget that they are passed.

 

 

 

 

Shooting At Ghosts by R. Spencer

[Derbyshire, England]

 

Grace flinched as the gunshot echoed through the air. It was not the first time, it wasn’t even the first time that evening, and she doubted it would be the last time on either score.

 

     ‘Is your fool of a father still shooting at those bloody ghosts of his?’ her mother asked, voice sharp and disapproving. Grace’s mother often disapproved of her father’s pastimes, particularly this most recent one.

 

     Grace nodded, trying to keep her focus on the lake and the way the light glinted across the water; she found it calming, particularly when her father had had a few drinks at the pub and decided to start shooting at nothing. Thankfully he was on the other side of the lake, and was a terrible shot; there was no chance of her catching a stray shot.

 

     She said absently, ‘He must have fired off half a dozen shots already. He’s only been home half an hour.’

 

     Her mother clucked her tongue. ‘Daft sod won’t be told that it’s just the lacewings flying low over the lake. He knows they nest out there this time of year; before the protection laws came in, he used to go and bust up their nests. He said they were picking at the crops. One of these days, though, he’s going to hit something, and it won’t be a bloody ghost!’

 

     Grace said nothing, though she agreed with almost every word out of her mother’s mouth. Dad was going to get in trouble, though she doubted he’d ever hit anything, not unless it was directly in front of him. Another shot shattered the still; the lacewings on the other side of the lake took off into the sky, white wings flapping rapidly as they panicked and tried to escape the drunken rifleman.

 

     Her mother roared, ‘Will you stop firing that flaming thing?’

 

     Grace’s father answered, voice slurring as it drifted through the night, ‘As soon as these bloody ghosts get off my land and stay off it.’

 

     Her mother shook her head. To Grace she said, ‘It’s days like this I find myself missing Trona; you start shooting at ghosts in the big city and they put you away in the nuthouse where you belong.’

 

     ‘Mum, you shouldn’t say things like that, especially not about Dad.’

 

     Her mother laughed. ‘As if I’d actually have him committed. He’s mad, your dad, but I love him. Don’t know what that says about me, but…’

 

     Grace just shook her head. Her father’s rifle barked again. The few lacewings that had dared to remain scattered into the night. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one drop from the sky, its white plumage stained scarlet.

 

 

 

 

A Bridge Too Far by Glen Donaldson

[Brisbane, Australia]

 

Ken Starkweather liked to think he was honest with himself; it was everyone else he lied to. No one would disagree the Manhattan dentist with the front gold tooth and salesman’s smile was good at what he did. What nobody - almost nobody - knew was that his skillset included some quite clever accounting; what the old timers would have called ‘fiddling the books’.

 

For near on the last ten years his sleight of hand had been collecting funds through a corporate Medicare scheme by falsifying records and claims. The business side of things wasn’t something they’d taught in dentistry school back in his day. He’d needed to learn that himself. By now, a year short of his fiftieth birthday, he’d had to admit to himself he’d hitched his wagon to a morally bankrupt code of business ethics.

 

Unfortunately for him, his heart-shape-faced senior dental assistant, the notably named Carmen Miranda, had stumbled upon his deception and threatened to go to the Dental Ethics Council if he didn’t mend his ways. It was around this time he’d begun thinking of ways he might end her life. The dental chair in his main surgery, he’d decided, would be the only fitting stage for such a weighty event.

 

Starkweather had always offered his staff near-free dental work for a range of procedures. After convincing her that a cavity filled the previous year might need checking, the date was set. A resealable vial of the gum-numbing agent lidocaine would be mixed with a lethal dose of adrenaline and then injected into her gums. All that was left to do after that was to stand back and watch Miranda go limp with unfocussed eyes then start to experience convulsions, leading finally to a complete and fatal respiratory broncospasm. A relief dental nurse from the agency would shoulder the blame for the tragic mix-up.

 

With his trademark saguaro cactus angled menacingly out of a plastic pot on the window sill of the sterile operating room, on the fateful morning he beckoned Miranda to the chair. The warmth in his voice was quite an achievement, considering. It was all going according to plan – including the injection itself – up until Miranda, who by this time was supposed to be in the midst of heavy sedation - suddenly looked up at him from her reclined position in the chair and said,

 

“Not working, is it?

 

“What isn’t?” replied Ken casually.

 

“Your plan to kill me with an anaesthetic hot-shot.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re…”

 

The hired replacement dental hygienist spoke into a concealed lapel microphone and in the next moment two burly detectives

with guns drawn entered the room.

 

“Hands in the air, Doc!” commanded the first, while unfastening the handcuffs attached to his belt.  The detective fixed the disgraced dentist with a well-practised dead-pan look and observed, with more than a hint of irony, “You’ve been lying through your teeth for a long time Starkweather but now you’ve finally crossed a bridge too far.”

 

 

 

 

Gone Camping by Geoff Turner

[Bolton, Greater Manchester, England]  

 

A noise wakes me. Then again, it might just be my imagination; the remnant of a receding dream dissipating to nothing like breath on a frosty night. It’s cold now, certainly colder than before. I lie still in the darkness and listen as the murmuring wind disturbs leaves and branches nearby, before fading. The silence that follows is strange, almost unnatural. It envelops me, flat and unyielding. I feel cocooned but not completely protected.   

 

     I change position in the confines of the sleeping bag and hear it again. What is that? It seems oddly familiar. Hoofbeats, perhaps? The sound of a horse trotting closer? There were no horses nearby when I pitched the tent. There was nothing around other than an old oak tree. The spot seemed so perfect in the comfort of daylight.  

 

     The snuffle of flared nostrils is suddenly too close - right outside the zippered entrance. Calm down, it’s just a fox or some other nocturnal animal sniffing, investigating. Yet still I reach for the torch, palms sweating despite the drop in temperature – why is it so cold? I shuffle down deeper struggling to stab the on switch. Bright light illuminates my canvas surroundings briefly before flickering and dying.  

 

     The curse that leaves my lips trembles through the air, hooking the fear in my voice. There’s a soft whinny and the sound of hoofbeats outside once more and my mind is dragged to a story I heard as a child. A phantom. A headless horseman. Cursed to forever search these moors, driving those he finds to madness or death. But that’s just a tale told to children. I don’t believe in phantoms. I don’t believe in ghosts.  

 

     A sudden staccato of fat raindrops beats against the canvas, louder than it ought to be. Thunder follows. A throaty rumble that shakes the ground before a flashbulb of lightning captures a freezeframe against the white on the inside of the tent. In that moment I see it. I think I see it: the profile of a figure on horseback amongst the wizened branches of the oak. Stooped, twisted, headless.  

 

     Almost before the vision has chance to burn itself onto the lens of my eye, it’s gone. I wrestle with the zip on my sleeping bag. It sticks halfway and my legs become tangled. I squirm and struggle, wet breath escaping my nose and mouth. The rain grows heavier, hammering my fragile surroundings, as more thunder follows at a gallop.   

 

     Where’s the lightning?   

 

     This is my only thought, knowing that a moment of illumination is all I’ll need to free myself. More rain. More thunder. The squall storms around my mind, bleeding in from outside until...a whipcrack interrupts.  

 

     The lightning strikes and I smell burning.  

 

     Everything is white, frozen, bright as sunlight. Through the canvas I see a shadow outside looming closer. No, not looming, falling. A shadow collapsing towards me with a wooden splinter and the creak of old oak. 

 

 

 

 

War’s Nearly Over by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

The Committee has tasked me with checking out this desolate mudscape.

 

Must be careful exploring along this way. My eyes see a partial wooden sign with the word ‘Golgotha’ scrawled into it. I jump as in the distance a bomb goes off, a loud explosion of noise, dirt flying upwards. All around defensive positions blown to smithereens several times over.

 

I take a keen look. All the decomposing bodies lying around. There is no sign of human life.

 

Nothing lives here anymore, nothing human. A rat scurries over some soil. Another opportunistic scavenger.

 

I look around at the other trenches. It's the same land churned up. Dead bodies everywhere. The committee will be delighted.

 

Nothing human has breathed or screamed here for months. All their suits and masks lying in heaps of mud on the floor. Here and there tattered flags, faded like the slogans. This was an attack that neither side saw coming.

 

Next to the trench is a system of mangled and twisted barbed wire. Upon it quiver a pair of withered boots.

 

But still the shells rain down with monotonous thuddery. Someone in a dugout with half a face is holding a phone. A final order that will never be received.

 

If you looked beyond the trench you’d see a sea of churned up charnel mud with scrawny, spindly dark twigs sticking out of the soil. Nothing living has crossed in years. Beyond there is no sign of human life on the other side. They too are all dead slumped or lying down staring at grey puddles. The Committee will be pleased.

 

Both sides have miles and miles, row upon row of mighty artillery monoliths silent now. One mighty gun still fires out a shell every 10 minutes.

 

It's done this automatically these last few years. Pulverising the same area as it was programmed to do so.

 

This last piece of artillery has five shells left. Once it's run out the firing will cease and then the silence begins. That’s when we will make our move.

 

The committee will turn into a wake.

 

Not long to go now.

 

The war will be over in just under an hour.

 

The war is nearly over, but no one will be celebrating.

 

No one will be around to ask, “Who won?”

 

Still less ask, “Why did we come to this place to suffer and die?”

 

The leaders’ claim, that they had to go to war in case the other side went to war first, now rings hollow.

 

Maybe that which survived won. Then it’s the rats, cockroaches, black shelled beetles, flies and spiders crawling around the place they called ‘Golgotha’ that won. Underneath, worms teem and squirm. They are the victors too.

 

And us, the scavenging vultures, who feed off all the dead bodies. We did well out of this war.

 

Of humanity there is none.

 

 

 

 

Midwinter Blues by Kim J Cowie

[Milton Keyes, England]

 

Robert sidled past the door of a city centre pub, its windows lined with fake snow. Laughter, warmth and a smell of beer wafted from the open doorway, followed by the tinkle of a piano, very inexpertly played, little more than a fumbling on the keys.  Attracted by the sound, he entered.  The space was filled with tables and drinkers, with a bar at the back. An upright piano stood at one side of the bar. A white man stood by the instrument, poking at the keys. Robert touched him on the shoulder.  “May I?” he gestured to the instrument.

 

     “Sure.” The man stepped aside.

     Robert found the piano stool, sat down and tried the keys with a glissando. It was out of tune, but what would one expect with a pub piano? He had played piano in Jamaica, but not in England. His fingers remembered, and he tapped out a calypso tune. Behind him, he sensed the crowd starting to listen. He followed with a blues tune, then another. He’d always liked the blues.

     People clapped at the end of each piece.

     A man placed a full pint of beer on top of the piano. “Here you go, mate.”

     Robert thanked him and drank it thirstily. He had no money to buy his own drinks.  Two more pints appeared, and he drank them. He continued to play.

     Another pint arrived. “I’d like a sandwich,” he demurred.

     A sandwich was bought, and Robert stuffed it in his jacket pocket, so he could continue to play.

     His admirers engaged him in conversation, and Robert responded. Suddenly it was last orders, then closing time.

     Robert weaved away, realising in the cooler air that he was very drunk.  His tent was in an underpass nearby. He found the underpass after a short walk, but his tent was not there. Despair clawed at him. He tried another underpass, but his tent was not there either. No tents. He tried to think. Surely those graffiti--? Had the authorities cleared all the tents while he was in the pub?

 

     He lay down on a stone bench. His eyes closed as the underpass seemed to rotate around him. The slab was cold.  Half-formed thoughts swirled like dreams. Winter in another English town, with snow. The Jamaican bush in December. Trying to unzip a tent that would not open.

     A hand was shaking him. “Sir, are you all right?”

     He opened his eyes. It was a policeman in uniform, leaning over him.

     “I’m… drunk,” Robert admitted.

     “Can you get up? You can’t sleep here.”

     Groggily, Robert got to his feet.

     “There’s a taxi rank by the shopping centre,” the policeman said.

     Robert exited the underpass. There was a bus shelter nearby on the road, and he made his way to it.  He remembered the sandwich, and began to eat it. Sensing the policeman watching him, he pretended to study the timetables. His eyes would not focus.  What was this road called? Midwinter Boulevard?

 

 

 

 

Conspiracy Theory by Terry Lowell

 

‘I know for a fact the Australian Secret Service is monitoring my social media.’

 

     ‘Seriously?’

     ‘They don’t want the truth to come out. That it was all a con, so the government could take control of our lives and steal our freedoms.’

     ‘Quite an elaborate con given Covid affected the entire world.’

     ‘Ha! That’s just what the media wants you to think.’

     Ted takes a swig of beer and sits back in his chair, a look of smug satisfaction on his face as if he’s just argued Albert Einstein out of his Theory of Relativity.  Ted’s like that. There’s no conspiracy too crazy to be embraced and no facts too inconvenient to be ignored. According to Ted and his like-minded band of internet trolls, Covid was created by Bill Gates and spread via the 5G network, Uluru is a space-port built by ancient aliens, the moon landings were faked and Russian atheists are using satellites to release poisons into space to kill the Angels in Heaven.

     ‘So what’s your conspiracy theory to explain why the fish aren’t biting?’ I ask, casting my line again into the deeper waters of the lake.

      ‘They’re biting for me, mate,’ Ted says with a chuckle as his float is suddenly tugged under the surface and his line goes taut. 

     That’s Ted. Always the lucky one.

     I’ve known Ted since Melbourne Uni’ where we laughed and boozed and shagged our way through three years of studies until they gave us a couple of marketing degrees to get rid of us. I got a 2:1, Ted got a First, which he never lets me forget. We started at Sparken Retail on the same day. His good looks and ‘winning personality’ soon saw him promoted while I stayed in the comm’s team. I even introduced him to Jenny. We weren’t exactly an item, so I couldn’t object too much when they got together. 

     ‘It’s a big one,’ Ted shouts with a laugh as he wades into the lake. ‘Barramundi, I think.’

     Focussed on the fish, he doesn’t see the long shadow moving through the water to his right. He should know better. He knows how dangerous these waters can be, but that’s Ted. Always the arrogant one.

     He glances back, grinning. I could shout a warning, but I don’t.  It’s probably too late anyway. I settle back in my chair and watch the croc’ break the surface. A giant snout snaps around Ted’s thigh. The deep wound spurts red as the ancient animal twists and Ted falls backwards. The lake roars and bubbles and is still.

     Poor Jenny. She’ll be devastated, but time, as they say, is a great healer. And I’ll be there, just like I’ve always been.

     And poor Ted too, I suppose. He was so busy with his conspiracies he couldn’t see what was right under his nose. But that’s Ted.

     He was wrong about everything. Covid’s natural, Uluru’s not a space-port, and I was never his friend. 

And men did walk on the moon.

 

 

 

 

There Be Monsters by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

There might be monsters lurking in this old house.

Lately, confusion and disorder has crept into this creaking place.

Turning everything upside down and making the familiar seem foreign. It's like stumbling through an alien forest in fading light.

The willowy walls whisper wicked conspiracies.

Pipes hiss their petrifying prophecies.

The halls echo with strange sounds and eerie wailings.

Something not of this world walks these floors.

I can hear their ghostly movements late at night and see their wraith-like forms flit fleetingly around me. They flee and fade away.

They are always just out of reach.

By dawn’s early touch they have scattered and slithered away.

They must be vampires, for all life has been drained from me.

Clearly, I'm not the man I used to be. They grow stronger as I grow weaker.

The Sun has set upon the man leaving an empty shell.

The hero so soon becomes buffoon.

I feel a coldness and sadness that wasn’t there before.

There might be monsters hiding in this house.

I’ve heard it spoken in hushed tones by hidden voices.

Last night I shone a bright light upon these strange ones.

They flinched and backed away.

I saw a marvellous sight of people with beautiful complexions.

Then I caught sight of my visage in the mirror.

The shock was intense.

I had not seen my reflection in many years.

What a sight I saw!

What was this disgusting thing facing me?

I was aghast at this ghastly ugliness set before me.

I dared not recognise what was reflected.

A hideous sight leeringly looked back at me.

I stared incredulously upon a shrunken, stooped and twisted form.

The thing had a pallid complexion. It had a face criss-crossed by crevices, with red teeth and sunken yellowed eyes. The fiend had a hair of horns.

The stranger that faced me was a grotesque mockery of a man I used to know. More beast than man.

The sight was repellent to every sense.

Recognition reached out.

Then the shuddering shock as hellish reflection and self merged.

I was sent reeling.

What had I become?

There are monsters in this house.

I know it to be true.

For the thing that makes people afraid and flee, it’s me.

In this old house, I'm the monster!

 

 

 

 

Merry Mithras by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

Greetings at this time of year.

It’s Saturnalia!

That means plenty of feasting, fooling around, singing, lots of orgies, drinking, giving gifts.

It lasts a whole week. Takes a month to recover from the partying. You get the ones who say, ‘Saturnalia has lost its magic’; there are too many repeats of ‘Moriancabris et Sapiens’. But most of us think that all the above is just fine. I think the true message of Saturnalia gets lost when you're stuffing your face with rich food, drinking lots of wine and having lots of sex, but who cares. It does however leave one feeling tired and jaded when Janus comes along.

 

The only downside is having to travel to Doncaster to get tallied as the Romans have kept up the census. And my father was unfortunately born there. Mum never lets him forget she’s always saying, ‘To think I could have married a man from Colchester.’

 

At least all the roads are very good. No potholes either.

There is no crime. The wine and water are very good.

 

We tell one another scary stories of what it would be like without the empire and the world split into lots of nation states arguing and fighting over land and resources.

The soothsayers really go wild and go round predicting things like ‘driverless chariots and mini togas’.

 

We wonder what will be in the Emperor’s speech this year.

Hope it's better than last year's ‘fiscal responsibility , prudence with the salt tax’ he delivered.

 

There are the usual moans about the senate being a talking-shop.

And worries that one day the empire will decline and fall.

But you always get people talking the empire down.

 

As long as you're not a slave, a gladiator or a eunuch your life is fine.

 

Some say that Christianity will one day overtake Mithras as the main religion, but I don't think so. Who would give up all those blood curdling initiation ceremonies to test your toughness.

Mithras was very strong and fought mythical bulls.

All those who follow Mithras must also show their strength and toughness.

Why would people choose to follow a religion that says you should love your enemy and turn the other cheek? And apparently for them it's good to be meek. And they reckon everyone is equal, even the slaves! Sheer madness if you ask me.

It’ll never catch on.

 

 

 

Dust by Anthony Ward

[Durham, England]

 

Daniel dusted the shelves, picking up mementos that had accumulated over the years. Sighing at the endeavour, he wondered why he bothered to dust every Tuesday. It took him most of the day, as often when he was picking up the ornaments, he would become possessed by a memory. He picked up the wooden pinecone and was transported back to the holiday cabin at the forest edge. There are other things I should be doing instead of dusting. Let the dust settle, he contemplated, it doesn’t harm me. He sneezed at the disturbed dust whirling in front of him, the sun revealing the storm he’d brewed. He slid his finger down the spine of Proust’s In Search of Lost Time.

 

He decided he would reread it and felt a little dismayed as he pulled out Swanns Way to find the corner of the cover had been bent. Although he romanticised the idea of borrowing dog-eared books from the library, he preferred them to be brand new, in pristine condition, as if the pages had been printed on fresh birch. He shrugged it off as he told himself that a novel shouldn’t be in pristine condition, it should looked lived in. The pages should be browned off, foxed, and marred with age. He scrutinised the back of his hands, thinking how they resembled scrunched up paper with liver spots that had grown like lichen upon his skin, as if he were a book that hadn’t been read in a long while. Life isn’t perfect, he went on to himself, you shouldn’t try to keep it pristine. Accept the imperfections as the detail of the story.

 

It had been over twenty years since he had last read the book. Before he was married, before his daughter was born. He wasn’t sure whether he was a different person in the same body, or the same person in a different body. Before he had even started to read, he put the book down and picked up a red bound photograph album that was lying on top of the books. He decided to have a look through as it had been years. As he tuned over the pages, he blew away the dust as he looked through the photographs which had become as faded as his memories. These days they would be preserved in pristine condition, stored on a digital portable memory, he pondered, as he watched the dust settle back onto the newly polished hearth.

 

 

 

 

Balancing Act by David Patten

[Denver, Colorado, USA]

 

The postponement had reached an unlikely third day, although the belligerent clouds were showing signs of shedding their pall.  Puddles held the rippling images of damp buildings, rainwater eddying on eaves before tumbling downward.  Despite optimism that the inclemency was finally petering out, the ropes would need an additional day or two before properly being rid of moisture.  Not unaccustomed to discouragement, Berlin would need to muster patience before hosting its vaunted event.

         

     As boys, the twins displayed unusual dexterity.  Supple and wiry, they would affix ropes across their bedroom and perfect traversing them.  They created challenges; balancing on one leg, handstands, juggling while on the ropes.  At fourteen they were separated.  Lukas had gone on a late summer trip with their paternal grandparents to the Baltic Sea.  Upon their return the wall had partitioned the city, stranding Lukas in the east, while Dieter remained with their father in the west.

         

     Separated by a half mile, the young men faced each other, their homeland cleft by ideology.  Lukas atop the towering Brandenburg Gate, the taut heavy ropes stretching beyond the Wall and secured to the roof of a warehouse in the west, where Dieter stretched out his calves and scanned the rooftops for snipers.  Some eighty feet below, the expectant crowds placed wagers and gazed upward.

         

     The shrill of a whistle punctured the air, signaling the start of the unofficial race, each side hoping for the moral victory.  The brothers stepped out into their element, feet anchored, brain and muscle searching for equilibrium.  A mile away, concealed among West Berlin’s mid-rise residencies, a man waited on a rooftop, its flat concrete hosting dozens of wooden crates.

         

     Dieter arrived at the Brandenburg Gate a half dozen steps behind his brother’s progress, who’d already begun the return.  Dieter gathered himself and reached back out into the void.  The man on the rooftop received word and opened the crates in quick succession, an orchestra of claw and wing as scores of racing pigeons reveled in the release.

         

     For the first time the crowd’s attention was distracted as the birds arced above the city, an arrowhead of symmetry.  Midway during the return the brothers drew level.  Remaining stationary not an option, they continued to inch forward as the birds’ turns became tighter, closer.  The phalanx sliced through the sky briefly obscuring the brothers with each pass. A complicit glance as the racing birds came again, the hum of so many beating wings.  Acrobats now, the twins sprang from the ropes, locking arms.  Several shots rang out as they plummeted toward the ascending chaos.

 

 

 

 

Hide And Seek by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

A loud noise. It makes you jump a little.

“What was that?” you ask yourself.

Could it be that the threat draws near?

I bet every little squeak or crack sends shivers down your back.

I know what you're thinking.

‘The seekers are close by.’

Yes. They’re looking for you.

I can hear you checking all the doors and windows are shut tight. You check the curtains too. I know they’ve been drawn this past week. I’ve been watching your flat a lot.

Your stocks must be running low. A lot of your neighbours left the flat to get supplies.

But they didn’t come back.

Some neighbours opened their door when I came knocking.

How foolish.

They won’t be opening their doors anymore.

Your neighbours, the Robinsons, opened their doors. I left the music on. I hope that didn’t disturb you too much.

People hide. I seek.

Seeking hiders like you.

I blame it all on humanity’s desire to be part of a crowd, to be part of a group and follow the fads.

This month the fad is playing this game, ‘hide and seek’.

 I must say it's a better game than the last one.

In the past we had people doing the Rubik's cube or streaking.

But since the internet took hold and people became more bored, the crazes have become more extreme. And more violent.

So now it's ‘hide and seek’ and you are hiding in your flat.

I bet you're hoping to hold out until a new craze comes along.

Knock-knock-knock.

Not answering it, sensible. I wouldn’t either, if I was you.

Let’s see if I can try the handle, you never know.

You are keeping very quiet and still. But I think you're in there.

“Peter? It is Peter, isn’t it? Are you in there? Are you keeping well? Are you OK? I only want to be your friend.”

Knock-knock.

“You think this is all a trap, that I'm just pretending to be your friend, that I’m just waiting for the door to be opened to rush in and shoot you.”

Knock-knock-knock-knock.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“You're very quiet in there, dead quiet. I bet you're thinking I’m lying. And you’d be right.

Oh well Peter, I can see you're not in a helpful mood.

Hopefully you’ll be more cooperative tomorrow. Ta-ta for now, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

The corridors are filled with the steps of a seeker walking towards the stairs. As he leaves, he whistles the tune to ‘Oranges and Lemons’.

 

 

 

World Traveler by K.G.Song

[Los Angeles, California, USA]

Wayne finished dolma and ordered coffee and gata, sweet bread. He checked his tablet carefully and recorded his dining experience at a mom-and-pop Armenia restaurant. The feelings of sadness and pride tumbled inside as he reviewed the list. The meal would end his quest to sample one hundred different ethnic dishes.

 

     Reading each entry of ethnic dishes - Korean, Finnish, Oaxacan, Nigerian - reminded him of the people he met along his long journey. Almost all of them were quite excited to tell Wayne about their dishes. Some even offered free dishes for Wayne to sample.

 

     Moreover, Wayne didn’t even have to leave the Los Angeles area to achieve his goal. Yet he felt as if he transversed the globe many times.

 

 

 

 

Northbound Train by David Patten

[Denver, Colorado, USA]

The two approaching men were the same ones Armando had encountered in Saltillo, as groups of migrants jockeyed for position along the tracks, the horn from the slow moving freight train rupturing the humid, dusk air.  They had demanded weed or tobacco, their accents marking them as Honduran, and became hostile when Armando shrugged and shook his head.  The arrival of the train dissolved the tension, everyone scrambling to gain some kind of purchase on the brooding hulks of steel and iron.

         

     Slowed, the train echoed through an abandoned industrial area, a ghost town of flat roofs and broken windows.  Feral and reckless, the young Hondurans strode across the cars toward Armando.  He saw a flash of something metallic as the first one lunged at him.  The wrench glanced the side of his head, the assailant’s momentum toppling him from the train, a limb snapping on impact.  The second man fell upon Armando, pores seeping days’ old sweat and cheap liquor.  They grappled as the train picked up speed into open country.  Armando raised a knee, reaching for the knife in his boot.  He plunged it through denim and into the man’s thigh.  A hard thud as brush and clay claimed another rider. 

         

     He’d heard the stories; they all had.  Riders on lawless freight trains running the length of the country to the U.S. entry points in California and Texas, taking their chances at the border.  With Venezuela imploding into chaos, Armando had trekked west through Central America to the tourist towns of Mexico’s Yucatan.

         

     Like most northern border towns, Piedras Negras retained a frontier energy; equal parts optimism and desperation, a place where people hustled and made deals, and where trust had to be earned.  It’d been a week since the train shunted into the freight yards on the edge of town, spilling weary migrants into the gossamer light of a new day.  Armando found a cheap bedroom for rent in a rundown barrio and started plotting his next move.

         

     He chose the river.  Steady rains across West Texas had risen the level and quickened the current of the Rio Grande.  Armando leaned against one of the giant, stone pillars of the international bridge trying to gauge the distance to the other side.

A hundred yards, maybe a bit more.  Hard to tell as sullen storm clouds owned the sky, making a hostage of the moon.  Downriver, voices from the darkness; hushed, urgent. Others coming from out on the river, cajoling, advising caution.

         

     Armando walked about a mile to be clear of other crossers before he entered the river.  A light rain had started to fall; a world of water.  In the middle the riverbed finally fell away and he began to swim, limbs battling against the current.  Quickly tiring, clothing heavy and dragging, he surrendered to its will and drifted.

         

     The branch was serrated in parts and tore up his palms, but he used it to haul himself up onto the bank, soggy with mud.  Exhausted, Armando slumped against the trunk, the patter of rain on Texas leaves.

 

 

 

 

Melded Crid Rate Over The Score by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

The seriousness of the current ‘melded crid’ build-up was literally brought to a head yesterday, when popular newsreader Myrmyda Threttispont was engulfed from above in a deluge of wet clay, stones and distressed topsoil while delivering a TV commentary on the very hazard she fell victim to. Apparently, her studio is located below street level. The pavement outside had been dug up for maintenance, leaving a build-up of common roadway rubble, known in the trade as ‘melded crid’, which slid through the window after a heavy-to-moderate rainfall.

          “It’s a question of aggregate,” said a labourer close to the scene. “I mean, ordinary mud is just mud. But melded crid is mud mixed with all sorts of hard, gritty substances. A degree of mineral aggregate can thicken the mix, but too much sharp gravel gathered in bunches can loosen it all up – and that’s when it’s liable to topple into basements and holes. Of course, if it falls on an ordinary workman digging a trench, nobody cares. But the minute it lands on some news-reading tart, everyone’s up in arms.”

          Already, a spate of emails and texts has come in, enquiring after Ms Threttispont’s wellbeing. (We are happy to say she is in good spirits, and her wardrobe is being refurbished.) TV garden makeover guru Terry Nupple, a close personal friend of Myrmyda’s, has gone on social media to “utterly deprecate and abhor the senseless disregard of public safety and visual decorum shown by the prevalence of melded crid.”

          We asked him if anything can be done by you, the public, to reduce the risk of further injury to much-loved media figures.

          “In a word, divots. Another sign of the current neglect of our roads and byways is the quantity of weeds left unchecked to clog the gutters. But clumps of grass, in particular, are easy to grab and pull up while walking past. Simply transplanting these sods onto the melded crid will bind the mounds together and prevent further disaster. Indeed, after a short while and sufficient rain, we can look forward to some pleasant grassy knolls where once unsightly crid dunes stood.”

          Our labourer was not impressed. “What about when I fill my holes back in? I don’t get paid extra for grassy knoll work.”

          “That’s the typical tunnel vision of today’s workforce,” says Nupple. “ ‘I’m all right, Jack, so melded crid to you.’ It’s time we took a stand.”

          The government is appealing for calm.

 

 

 

 

This Is Home by Amba-Aribisala Blessing

[UK]
 

We are stretched out on the back porch, Sal, and me. The air is chilly, but Sal still wears his shorts. Even though I am wrapped in a thick bathrobe, underneath I wear a pair of jean trousers, a woolly top, and a neck scarf. I can’t stand the weather. Many times, when I complain about all the things I don’t like about this place, Sal’s response often is, ‘It doesn’t matter, Betty. This is home.’

         

     Sal and I moved here three months ago. The unpleasant atmosphere back home was starting to affect our relationship. We’d been married three years with no kids, and our families wouldn’t let us be. The last straw was when Aunt Mariam suggested Sal take another wife. The following month we relocated.

                    

     Adjusting to the unfamiliar environment is a bit difficult for me, but not for Sal. He understands the language and isn’t experiencing as much culture shock as I am. My parents had moved too when I was a child. Their new home was the only home I knew. Mama said it was rough the first few years, but when Daddy came, it got better. I was glad Sal, and I came together.

     “I saw a cat in the library today, Sal. I forgot what his name was. A cat in the library’s got to be at the top of the list of weird things I have seen and experienced here.” Sal chortles then asks between mouthfuls,

     “Can it read?”

     “I doubt. They say it often takes a stroll through the library. You know that can never happen back home.”

     Sal sips his tea. Back home is sometimes a touchy subject for him. 

     “You know Sal, I wasn’t expecting this place to be like home, but I didn’t expect it to be so different. I mean, some things are downright weird.”

     He eats his biscuit.

     “For example, there’s a vent in every room. That way, you smell what’s cooking. When someone speaks, you can hear it through the floorboards. I mean, the house booms with voices, and virtually every tap runs in both hot and cold water. It’s all really weird. We don’t have these back home, but neither do we have Daim chocolate and blueberry muffins. And I love those.”

     Sal goes to the kitchen for a refill. I call after him.

 
 

     “Oh, I remember now, Sal. The cat’s name’s Larry.”

 

 

 

 

The Last Spark by Kat Gal

[Milwaukee, Wisconsin, USA]

katgalwriter.com

 

You were sitting there on the couch. 

 

Your blond hair looked like a haystack. You didn’t brush it after you woke up. You didn’t shave either. You decided to grow out a beard and didn’t care that I would swallow your facial hair every time you kissed me.

 

You were wearing your favorite blue shirt. You had it since seventh grade. It was ripped and worn out. But you didn’t care. You loved that shirt so much. It matched your light blue eyes. For some reason, I found that kind of sexy.

 

With a gracious movement, you put down the lighter on the table next to the candles that we were burning the night before. You glazed at me with loving eyes and handed me the joint. You didn’t smoke much anymore - just occasionally, maybe once a week. You took the last hit and looked at me. I felt loved.

 

You went to the kitchen to clean the ashtray. You did the dishes too - I heard the sound of the water.

 

When you came back, you laid down next to me and held me in your arms for a while. We were lying there, cuddling for hours, quietly. Then you - without saying a word - stood up, put on your shoes and your sweater. You kissed me softly. I remembered the day when you first kissed me - you were so scared that your lips were shaking. You caressed my cheek and said: “Shut the door when you leave and don’t let out the cat.” You kissed me again - on my forehead that time.

 

You had to go to work. I heard the door shut. I’d already missed you.

 

You never promised me anything. You never told me that it was forever. You never told me that we were for real. You never told me about your dreams or if I was a part of them. Maybe I never was. Maybe those dreams just changed quickly. 

 

We never talked about ‘us’. I felt that it was in the air and there was no need to say it. I want to believe that you felt the same way - for a while. But you probably didn’t say it because you never meant it or believed it.

 

One day you were suddenly there in my life, making everything look like spring. You were there and made me believe that life could be good.

 

Then one day, you were suddenly not there. You were distant and didn’t look at me the same loving way as you did before. I knew it was over.

 

There was no explanation for why you were with me and then why you disappeared all of a sudden. It took you a minute to fall for me and a second to fall out. It took me a while to trust you but a long time to get over you.

 

And even though I don’t love you anymore, I will never forget that morning as you were sitting on the couch…

 

 

 

 

Slow Dance by K.G.Song

[Los Angeles, USA]

A beautiful night. Perfect for dance. The strings of lights illumined the backyard quietly under the blanket of countless stars above. The ground exuded its warmth from desert sandy soil after a scorching afternoon. A small portable speaker threw just enough sounds to gently rise above the cacophony of desert wind and night animals – hunting, fleeing, hiding, and fighting.

 

Sam drew Maria close to his chest as they danced slowly on the baked desert ground, kicking up small puffs of dust with each step. Their eyes locked as they listened to the pounding of their hearts, ignoring the slow dance music that sought their attention with little success.

 

When the song was over, they danced to the desert night noises for a while, reluctant to part.

 

Maria whispered into Sam’s ears, her breath hot and sticky.

 

“You are the only person who stepped on my toes more than ten times in a slow dance.” She left and pinched him on the cheek before giving him a small peck on his lips with a knowing wink.

 

Sam bowed slowly and reached out for another dance from Maria with a beguiling smile. “I will carry you home if your feet hurt too much after the dance party.”

 

Maria shook her head, pointing her chin to her father who stood in the shadow of the house, with his hand tucked in the gun belt.

 

A sudden chill seized Sam, making him stumble and step on Maria’s dainty shoes once again. He danced faster as if he couldn’t wait for the song to end.

 

 

 

 

Mr Gatsby’s Suicide by Andrew Gooch

[Hull, East Yorkshire, England]

 

‘Why do you have to always treat me like I’m the Great Gatsby?’ I said, as I drove her home one evening.  ‘What would you do if I took a leaf out of that book? Eh? Just went home and ended it all?’

‘Don’t joke about things like that, Rik, it’s not impressing anyone,’ She tutted. ‘Anyway, Gatsby doesn’t kill himself, he gets murdered.’

‘Does he? That can’t be right. He’s in love with the girl, she rejects him, he realises that he’ll never have her then he commits suicide in the swimming pool.’

‘He gets shot in the swimming pool.’

‘I think you’re mixing it up with a different novel. I did English literature at college, alright, I’m an authority on these things.’

‘You could have studied under Noel Coward himself; it doesn’t change the fact Gatsby was murdered.’

‘Murdered himself more like!’ It was only at this point that I realised that I was shouting. ‘All because he was unhappy and unfulfilled.’

A severe voice suddenly spoke up in the back seat, ‘The lady’s right. He gets shot. By the jealous husband if I remember correctly.’

‘Well, I only read it the once.’ We drove on for another mile before I smirked and added, ‘There’s a car crash in it too if I recall.’

 

 

 

 

Two Stories by Cheryl Snell

[Maryland, USA]

 

Net

 

His wife has run out of butterflies. They are nowhere to be found, not in her stomach, or her glass case, not in her kisses. Not even the ones reserved for his eyelids.  Since his stroke, it’s harder for the man to jitter the handle-strap of his butterfly net onto his good wrist and steer his shadow through a field of bright wildflowers, but he does it for her. As a lure, he rubs the butterflies’ favorite leaf onto fingers that can still pinch a wing, and some butterflies fall for it. They come close, but lift away again before he can scoop them up. What will his wife do without her butterflies? Her spreading board and insect pins bare and wasted. Butterflies have always been her most reliable source of torment, much like the angels. He realizes he cannot contain either. One moment, petals trembling with wings accompany a bass-line of bees; the next, overridden by a ringing in the ears he would ordinarily recognize as a symptom, he simply crumples, his body folding like laundry onto the soft dirt floor.

 

 

 

Keys

I open the door for him, but he’s gone off with other guests. Calling for him to come back, I think I should whistle the way people do for their children or their dogs. I look around the room with the tablecloths all askew, breathe in the odor of dying flowers. The reason I misplace my man so often must be around here somewhere, but not necessarily in this hall embalmed in gold, shimmering with light that will whiten in a minute. Where are the keys? He has taken them with him. I slide down a wall to stare out the window where I witnessed the moon riding to the high point in tonight’s sky. Its fall earthward on a path of extinguished stars is as much a metaphor as the ruins of this room bathed in a weeping of sapphire light. Someday I won’t care where he is or what he’s doing. There is always some emergency but I will never be it. The echoes of the day wrap around me ─ I’d never have heard the metallic jangle if I wasn’t already locked away.

 

 

 

The Fishing Variation by Thomas M. McDade

[Fredericksburg, VA, USA]

 

“Do what, Son?” says Mark, placing a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue face down on the side table.

 “Greg, get off the bed,” orders Elaine. “Go to your room and get out of those dirty clothes, shower too.” He springs to the floor.

 “What do I have to do?” asks Mark reaching for the lighter and Camels under the magazine. He blows a billow of smoke.

“When’s my A/C going to be fixed?” Greg asks.

“Repair guys are busy with this God-awful heat,” answers Mark.

 “I’m plop my sleeping bag right here,” vows Greg.

 “Great,” says Elaine, happy to have him sleeping in their room.

“Greg, that thing I have to do?”

“You’ve got to take me and Davy fishing.”

 “I can’t guarantee it.”

“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Cox took us five times!”

“Get moving” says Elaine.

 

 “I wish you’d set up a firm date to take them fishing. Davy must have dropped a hint. I think Greg’s embarrassed.”

 “I will. Better if he’d stuck with baseball.”

“What does it matter, fishing or baseball, as long as it’s quality time together?”

“Ease up Elaine. When he’s older, I’ll take him out to Montauk, charter a boat.”

 “Maybe I’ll take him fishing,” says Elaine.

 “That’s rich. I’d love to see worm a hook. Maybe you can ‘tackle’ the dead light over the stairs and paint the walls white.”

“How about buying a new house?”

“Next Year, I swear.”

 

The following day after Greg cuts the grass; he runs upstairs and rests on his father’s side of the bed sneaking a peek at the Sports Illustrated. After Elaine finishes dusting, she suggests they pull a gag on Mark. She reaches high into the closet, gets down a hollowed copy of Gone with the Wind. She gives Greg eighty dollars. “Go to Gorman’s Tropical Shop; buy a five-gallon tank and whatever goes with it. Pick out colorful fish. We’ll tell dad you went fishing alone and that will be true! Ha!” Greg fans out the four twenties! “Great . . . holy crap – do they deliver?”

 “Take a taxi, stick your bike in the trunk, tip the driver like the rock star you are. The change is yours, sport. Hush, hush! Mother and son do high fives. She’ll gift Greg with an A/C fix too. She rings up Cool-All Associates; requests Ted who’s surfed at Laguna Beach. They’d done serious flirting at Gold’s Gym. “Have him come right upstairs.”

 

She pulls open a drawer of the dresser to take out a bikini she slowly puts on and models before the mirror. She switches on the radio, chooses an oldies station. She hopes for The Doors, “Touch Me.” She stands tall, one foot over the other, arms in the air and tosses her head back. She paces until she hears she hears the heavy footsteps on the stairs then a couple of thuds courtesy of the Sports Illustrated that fell from under Greg’s shirt when lost in the adrenalin rush of the fishing trip.

 

 

 

 

Scafell Pike by Sam Szanto

[Durham, England]

Website: samszanto.com


As the sun tinted the clouds school-bus yellow, I scrambled up to reach the summit. Although Scafell Pike is one of the most heavily trod paths of its kind, on that February day, snow dusting the ground, there was no one else in sight.


Except, I realised, for a man in a grey woolly hat staring down the mountain. I said hello; he nodded without looking up.


Panting slightly, my boyfriend was beside me. ‘You could have waited,’ he grumbled.


And you could have walked faster.


I passed him the bag of fizzy sweets and we sucked them in silence, gazing at the view as the wind whipped our skin. I wanted to quote Wordsworth, but could only remember the one about the daffodils.


When the sweets were finished, I saw the man had gone.


‘Let’s go back,’ my boyfriend said, tightening his rucksack straps. ‘Don’t want to be walking in the dark.’


Slipping over the loose brown stones, we descended. Rain came down like pins, and the cold made my hands hurt so much I cried out. My boyfriend put my fingers in his mouth and blew on them. I remember these small acts, fifteen years after he left me.
 

                                                                                             *

 

On the drive back to London, we sat in a silence the colour of stone. There was a news story on the radio about a man dying on Scafell Pike the day before. I wondered if that was the man I’d said hello to at the summit. My boyfriend didn’t remember seeing anyone.


I tried to describe the man, but he was indistinct as a dimming star in the night sky. I changed the radio station.

 

 

 

 

The Fighter by William Kitcher

[Toronto, Canada]

 

Crazy world. I was standing outside a bar having a smoke and some wasted street kid took a swing at me. Seems like that’s happening more and more these days. Good thing he didn’t have a knife or a gun. I was sober enough to still have normal reactions and I avoided the punch.

     

     I’ve never been a fighter – my last fight was Grade 5 – but I understand something about the concept.

Buddy had staggered forward when he missed me, and I moved my smoke to my left hand, then hit Buddy with an uppercut with my right, and it luckily hit him in the head as he passed by me.

 

     He hit the ground and rolled onto his back. I remembered a movie, and stood over him. “What are you gonna do now, punk?”

 

     He looked up at me with glassy eyes.

 

      I had a smile on my face, and I could tell he had no idea what my smile meant. I thought it meant this was a really weird situation.

 

     He got to his knees. I punched him again. I don’t know why I did that. It was probably because I’d never done that since I was a kid, and I had the opportunity. I felt a tingle on my back.

 

      Someone said to me, “What are you doing?”

 

     “Protecting myself. The guy attacked me.”

 

     “Sounds right,” the passerby said. He’d probably understood that I’m an old guy and the guy on the ground was young, so chances were I was telling the truth.

 

     People dispersed. The idiot got to his feet and wandered away.

 

     My face was warm. I followed him up the street. He turned a corner, and so did I. When he was past the first building on the street, I got closer to him, then punched him in the back of the head.

 

     Cheap shot, I know. I don’t care. It felt good.

 

     He hit the ground.

 

     Someone said, “Stop hitting that guy.”

 

     “He started it,” I said.

 

      “I don’t believe you,” he said.

 

     I turned to the guy. He was about my age and my size. I kicked him in the stones. That’s one of the places you hit people when you feel threatened. Eyes. Nose. Throat. But especially in the groin.

 

     An adrenaline rush washed over me and I itched. I went back to the bar, had two more beers and a shot, and told the bigmouths at the bar what I thought of them. Someone took a swing at me and I reacted more quickly than I thought I would.

 

     I think I have a new hobby.

 

 

 

 

In The Dark by Anthony Ward

[Durham, England]

 

He could feel his heart beat as he sat in the movie theatre watching the horror unfold on the screen. He had remained indifferent to many horror films but this one made him feel as if he were in actually in it. He hunched forward in his seat as he watched the hooded killer enter the foyer of a cinema that looked just like the one he was in. He felt the blood rush from his head as he watched the killer coldly slit the ticket collectors throat, overcome with nausea, not at the sight of the gushing blood, but at the fact that the victim looked like the same man who had torn his ticket when he came in. The hooded figure was now making his way through the lobby and was entering screen 6. The camera panned down to reveal the title of the movie to be the same as the one that he was watching. He tried to remember what screen he was in.  He searched anxiously for his ticket in his coat pocket and pulled it out. He turned it towards the screen, but it was dark, then the screen lit up with a flash and he read Seat 15, Row B, Screen 6. He looked back up to the screen and watched the killer walking down towards the front of the theatre where he was seated. He felt as if the killer was coming for him and pulled the hood of his coat over his head and stared anxiously towards the screen. He could feel the killer as if he were behind him. He wanted to turn around, but he couldn’t, and remained transfixed as he watched the killer raise the knife above his head. Then he shrieked out in terror at the thought that he was about to be stabbed and scrunched his eyes in anticipation just as another flash on the screen highlighted the killers face. His eyes opened wide as he gasped, exasperated. It was his own face. He was the killer. He stood up feeling a warm rush seethe through his body. He swung his head around but there was nobody behind him except a crowd of silhouetted heads looking straight ahead. He turned back to the screen to see who was sitting in front of him, but his face was not shown. ‘Who is it?’ he screamed at the screen. ‘Who is it?’ he screamed again. Then he grabbed the person in front of him who spun around and looked up at him in horror.

 

 

 

 

Top Deck Blues by Mike Taylor

[Plymouth, England]

 

The man three rows in front of me is swearing again. He’s quiet but insistent. I don’t think the woman sitting next to him is comfortable. Not at all. She’s got the window seat, probably got on first, and almost certainly feels stuck with him, as we all sit on the top deck of this bus going into town.

 

Although early evening, it’s still light outside. Of course, there are street lamps, anyway; but the road we’re on has a few trees and it’s actually quite a pretty part of the journey. But I can’t help feeling badly for the woman up ahead. I’m only guessing that she’s unhappy there but the couple sitting on the other side of the aisle have moved back to my row. It’s obvious that they didn’t want to stay next to the man who’s grumbling away.

 

Personally, I’m straining to hear him. I thought I caught him mentioning the government and wondered what he would be saying about it. Maybe some wild conspiracy theory. Or, these days, maybe that wouldn’t be wild. But now he’s talking about football. Something about the players; and then he clearly says ‘off-side’ but I can’t hear anything else.

 

As he said it, though, he physically jerked in his seat. That was too much for the woman. She stands up, looking worried and trying to avoid his gaze as she shuffles past him and down the stairs whilst the bus is still moving. I wonder if she will get off at the next stop or just hide at the back on the lower floor. I’ve seen that happen more than once.

 

Because I know this man. Well, he’s familiar. We’ve often been on the same bus and I know he’s no trouble. That’s why I’m moving forwards, standing beside him, waiting for him to shuffle over to be by the window. 

 

Now I’m sitting next to him. I’m fine with it, used to his narration as we travel, him quietly airing his thoughts and worries as we head towards the centre. I quite like his rhythm, the way he mumbles. I wouldn’t say it’s musical but it’s got something about it. And I don’t mind the odd expletive. It shows he cares, even if I’ve no idea what about.

 

I used to think that maybe he was the elder brother of someone I used to go to school with. That may well be wrong, though, and doesn’t really matter. Now he’s just my sometime bus companion, someone I feel a strange kinship with, even as everyone else moves away from him and now both of us.

 

But we’re all right together. It saves other people sitting here and maybe it suits me, too. In some strange way, we’re comfortable with each other. I’m sure of that. And that’s not something you get with everyone.

 

 

 

 

The Persephone Plan by Simon Collinson

[England]

 

Are you an A or a B?

That is the most important question.

At birth I was given the names I am known by and then given the letter B.

This letter follows you to your grave.

It dictates the life you lead, more precisely where you live and where you die.

I know that the world has become vastly overpopulated.

There wasn’t enough land to build flats to accommodate all.

It was decided that half the population would have to live and work underground.

Naturally, living in such a dark and hellish place was not a prospect anybody relished.

So, it was thought the fairest and most bearable solution was to have one group live above ground for a year and then swap and live underground for a year.

So, all the “A’s” would have their time in the daylight and then they would go into the dark underworld and the “B’s” would have their year in the daylight.

And so it would continue. They called it “the Persephone plan”.

I am thinking of this while I await in a crowd of lines all at one end of the stadium. Me and all the other local B’s.

Not that I’ll be getting many chances to watch any sport over the next 12 months.

Or watching anything at all.

Really trying to see things is a waste of time where we are going.

But it will be worth it to catch sight of the fair Rosalind.

We met at this exact point in this stadium last year.

You just know when you catch someone's eyes and you both connect. Like electricity.

It's like telepathy. Two minds with the same thought. Two sets of hands touching through the holes in the wire.

We whispered our names to one another.

She was amused that mine was Gaius Octavius Ceasarion.

We were Separated by an 8 foot green wire fence. For she is an A as are all the other people on her side of the wire.

My heart leaps as I catch sight of Rosalind. I wave giddy like a silly schoolboy. Her smile beams back and she waves excitedly. I blew her a kiss. She returns two from the other side of the wire.

We both jostle our way so we can face one another by the wire. Fingertips touching.

Not much is said. Some thoughts are best  left unsaid.

I know where Rosalind has come from.

And she knows where I’ll be going.

But such meetings were fleeting and the whistle of the security staff soon had us moving. Rosaland with the rest of the A’s to the gates that led out of the stadium and daylight, I and the other B’s down the seemingly never ending steps into the ground where the darkness devours the light.

The stars must be laughing at the fates dealt to the likes of me. A B who has fallen in love with an A.

But I am consoled by the thought that I’ll see Rosalind again this time , at this spot next year. Even if it's only for a few minutes.

I know this cannot be love in reality, for she is an A and I’m a B.

 

 

 

 

Two Stories by Mehreen Ahmed

[Australia]

 

Waves

 

It was a darkly day. The rain hadn’t fallen any darker in the armpit of the country—densely beautiful. The inhabitants were few but many. They had not become walled out. They had become white-washed as they stood in solidarity like a wall. They feared the land could be highjacked. They feared a culture could be lost, its language, even the country, the new-migrants had arrived. Their worst fears, even more, to come was the economic onslaught, their lives at risk. The newcomers came in waves. They were unstoppable. They had been doing so since inception. Those who were the town’s stronghold today arrived in high tide once—waves once. But they had moved away like waves too, apathetic, distanced just like the cold wall, they now represent. History was repeating and forgetting in its cycle of wheels—over and over. The past was just as unchangeable as the waves were. Still, the human wall stood stalwart stopping history on its axis, unbeknownst history would find a way around to enter—this was always a new wave of time.

 

 

 

Moonless On Moon

 

A poet heard a drone over her head which buzzed her a wake-up call, that it had been around, as the drone floated unsteadily on the bowl of the blue and humming its tune, departing readily, informing that it had been there, on the dark side of the moon, and had seen the unseen—an oxymoron, but a little truth hid in this cosmic paradox in the dark porous rocks, a priceless gem was locked—life’s building blocks of light oxygen n’ all that the earth, overtime had become tight with life, a place quite trite, rightly so, her imagination flew high, she thought, let’s rock up to the moon because it filled her up with hope and delight, if perchance, the light side of the moon was habitable, it would be a moment of bittersweet emotion crammed between the dark side of the moon, a force to reckon with and the light side, still, the poet tried to sight a moon from the surface of the moon itself, no lacquered moon on the light side to be sighted—perhaps, a black moon on the dark side, then? The poet pried in vain on earth to witness and shed light through a blue moon to jeer a grin - the dark side of the moon followed the light side like a shadow of a foot, sadly, though, no moon could ever be viewed on either of its sides, the lyrics, she wrote as she sang a moon song on the blue earth and thought the romance rang truer here rather than there.

 

 

 

 

The Missing Prime Minister by Jo Bodsworth

[Leicestershire, England]

 

 The Private Secretary was hovering at the top of the stairs. “Good morning. Would you like a drink?”

 

     “Please, coffee,” I nodded as I opened the door to the PM’s office.

 

 

     He was sitting in the armchair near the fireplace. Instead of his usual suit, a chunky-knit cardigan was pulled round him, over an open-necked shirt. He motioned for me to sit. His hair was slicked down with sweat, beads glistened on his forehead. His pale skin took on a greyish tinge with several warty lesions around his throat.

 

      “What’s going on, John?”

 

     “Are they sorting you a drink?... I’ve asked for tea,” he commented. His words came with heavy effort, his chest rattling with every breath. I nodded in response to his question but said nothing.

 

     He wheezed as he drew breath to speak and started coughing. His left hand, clutching a large white hanky, quickly covered his mouth. His right hand held me at bay, not that I was moving. The coughing subsided, splatterings of red on the cloth. He hastily folded it in on itself and dabbed his forehead.

 

     “Sorry,” he said, “I…I’m a bit of a mess.”

 

      An aide entered with the drinks.

 

      “Ah, that’s better,” he said, sipping his tea, “I have this constant taste… of copper.”

 

     “Have you seen a doctor?” I took a sip of coffee and waited for an answer.

 

     “I can’t just go off sick… at the slightest little thing… But I would like you to stand in for me… at PMQ’s… I have the questions… and answers on my desk.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the desk, as I got the documents. The top page bore a few very fine red dots. “You’ll have to hold your cool … with the third question… don’t let them rattle you… Peter’s let them know it won’t be me… he may know who… they’re going to put up… against you… I have some documents to look through… I will do those… then rest… rest and time… that’s all I need… rest and time.”

 

     “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

 

     He shook his head, the action starting him coughing again. He waved for me to go and, as I stood to leave, I could see his handkerchief was redder.

 

     Outside the door, Peter was waiting. He held out a piece of paper with the name of the opposition member I would face in a few hours.

 

     “Thank you, Peter. Get him a doctor, will you?” I moved towards the stairs.

 

     “He saw one earlier.”

 

     “What did they say? He should be in hospital. He’s coughing up blood.”

 

     “I know. Doc said all that to him, but he refused. Nothing they can do, anyway, apparently.” Peter’s eyes were moist.

 

     “Is it…?”

 

     He nodded.

 

     “How long?”

 

     “Didn’t say. Should I tell anyone?”

 

     I shook my head, “He wouldn’t even tell me.”

 

      The walk out of Downing Street felt altogether more sombre than my walk in.

 

 

 

 

Spooky Season Flash Fiction: 2 pieces by Liberty Reeves

[Bournemouth, England]

 

 

The Car Crash

 

December belongs to ravens. Poe decided it and no one has disagreed since. They perch on lamp posts as easily as pine trees. Adaptable creatures. Distracting creatures. Omens of death. As I step into the hectic road, I think: how could something so beautiful predict something so deadly?

 

 

The Uni Room

 

I've locked myself in the room with the rat. Pestforce said it's a baby, and that I should have no mercy. It's had no mercy on me. Seven days of constant scratching, of scampering over my stained rugs and tangling itself in charger cables. God forbid it chews them. Scratch, scratch. Scratch, scratch. I lean over the side of my bed. Mercy, he's right. It is a baby, and it’s caught in the trap. I sink under my duvet, head under the covers. Problems aren't there if you don't look down.

 

 

 

 

One Of The Few by Kate Holmes

[Driffield, Yorkshire, England]

You joined me on my first train journey from London to Leeds sporting your pale pink dress with white spots. Pristine white shoes and ankle socks. I was grateful you stuck around, especially when she left. You weren't particularly talkative but nor was I. 

They made a huge fuss of you when we arrived making it clear you were special and different to the others. If I got rough with you, you would disappear for a while. I knew you were still around and would show up again soon. 

We got scruffier in our teenage years. I needed glasses and you developed this odd wink. Two outsiders who stuck together and shared secrets.

 

Our separation half a century after our first meeting was not planned and was cruel. He knew how much you meant to me but would not let me see you following the split. You are made of harder stuff than me and was fine. I have learned to be. I never knew your name and the irony is that you are one of the few who knows mine. 

 

 

 

 

Night Sweat by David McVey

[Milton of Campsie, Scotland]

 

I wake up sweating. I hold my hands in front of me and feel them tingling. I’m haunted by a dream, a horrible dream. Or perhaps it’s a memory.

 

I’ve wanted to get back at him for so long. Jake, my neighbour. Not for being evil or dangerous, but for being annoying, noisy, insensitive, cocky. For playing loud music at 2am, for jet-washing his driveway at 7am, for bawling into his mobile every minute of every day. And for being a Celtic supporter. I hate the Old Firm.

 

He was always boundlessly self-confident for all that he was small and cross-eyed. He seemed to strut everywhere, as if beating his chest as he went. Whenever I saw him, I imagined creeping up behind him and smashing his skull with one swift strike of a poker; or pitching him into the back of a bin lorry as it clawed the rubbish; or shoving him into the path of a speeding 4x4.

 

And now I gasp and sweat and wonder - did I dream that I had crept into his garden before midnight as he played loud music? Had I dreamt of choking the life out of him as if he were a scrawny chicken? Or are these actual memories, memories of things I’ve really done but the details of which are hazy with sleep and guilt and dread?

 

Supposing I sleep again; supposing I wake up next morning and switch on the radio and the main story on Good Morning Scotland is the discovery of Jake’s body and, as I open my eyes fully, I see flashing blue lights making kaleidoscope patterns on the curtains?

 

Right now, however, it’s quiet; perfectly so, apart from odd gasps of distant traffic and a mild puff of a night wind against the window pane that shifts the curtain slightly. And then from next door there comes a demonic scrabbling and a demented yapping fit to wake the dead, if there are any.

 

If I have killed him, I think, I wish I’d killed his stupid dog as well.

 

 

 

 

Nonsense by Luwan Wang

[London, England]

 

It’s quiet and dark. I can still feel the white light going through the black cloth that covers my eyes and shines on my eyelids. I can smell the disinfectant. Is this what death feels like? No, death should be nothingness, but I’m still thinking.

 

     What’s the point of death - what should that day be when it comes? If I smiled and crossed my hands on my chest, I would be a person who has many lovely children and has experienced a happy life. If I drooped the corners of my mouth, made a serious expression, and put my hands to the sides of my body, I would be a rich person who forgot to make a will, and my children would hurt each other fighting over my property. Crazy thoughts. If I wrote them down, would that be stream-of-consciousness fiction? Or would it just be nonsense? I’ve read a stream-of-consciousness fiction before. The story was called The Mark on the Wall. It’s a boring but brilliant story. The boring is like, when I went to the bar with my friends, they ordered cokes. They wanted to be healthier and reduce their alcohol intake. Brilliant but boring. What did they say? ‘Don’t worry about us. Just order whatever you want!’ I looked like a weirdo with my Cuba Libre. I didn’t like The Mark on the Wall,  but it was on the compulsory reading list in middle school. Sometimes, I don’t want to do something if people force me. Like, when I think my room is messy and needs to be cleaned, and then my mom comes in and says: ‘You should clean your room!’ I don’t want to do it anymore. But I still read The Mark on the Wall. The grade was more important. Exams were torturous. How to remember all the knowledge in my textbooks? Some points, especially, are difficult to understand. I wish someone would invent edible books. Then, as long as I make sure to eat them, I would be able to remember and understand them. They would have different flavours. Harry Potter would be a chocolate flavour, and The Mark on the Wall would be a carrot flavour. But what if the calories of the chocolate-flavour books were equal to chocolate’s calories? The teachers would tell the students: ‘Eat two to three pages of your textbooks every day. Don’t eat all of them on the day before the exam, otherwise, you’ll have indigestion.’ If I was too lazy to eat books until the day before the exam, then I would gain 10kg after having 100 pages within a day. I’d have to go to the bookstore after the exam and ask the staff if they could recommend some salad-flavour books to me. If I manage to publish my diary, which is strawberry cake-flavoured, I would tell my readers: ‘Thanks for listening to my nonsense, and I hope you enjoy it.’

 

     The sound of shoes scraping on the ground in the corridor. I am not alone. But what if it’s a serial killer? If he takes my heart or my other organs? Which organ is the least valuable? I don’t know the market.

 

     ‘Are you ready? We’ll start soon.’ I recognise his voice. It’s my doctor, not a serial killer.

 

 

 

 

Independence by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

After three-hundred years of falsehood, oppression, misunderstanding, mistrust – the British Parliamentary System, the English Language, Advances in Life Skills, Beliefs; British Colonial Rule in Jamaica, was coming to a close.

 

Some elements of past life would continue, but a new era for Jamaica was in sight – Self-Rule.

 

Hurbert Williams, felt this, as he gazed at the fireworks, listened to the talk of freedom, heard the sound system pound in his ears. He watched the Union flag being lowered. The Jamaican flag take its place.

 

He had experienced twenty-three years of life in England. The war. The RAF. English girls. He was tempted to marry one. Penny, a nice middle-class girl from Wimbledon. Parental pressure from both sides, often bitter, sometimes vindictive, soured their romance and they called it off.

 

Marriage to his Jamaican wife, Bibs, of twenty- two years, proved stable and strong. She was a nurse and had become his help mate and friend. Unusual, at the time, she also became friends with Penny, and this helped to smooth the situation a great deal.

 

Cynthia, his daughter. Schooled in England. A dream come true. Shock, when she became in his eyes, a revolutionary as a result.

 

Pride. His younger son, George, being born in England, achieved the seemingly unachievable – an English man.  

 

Unrealistically high expectations of Independence. Many Jamaicans including Hubert Williams and his family returned to life in Jamaica. Hopes. Dreams. Ambitions to be fulfilled. Fears. Disappointments. Regrets.

 

Rastafari. Music. Cricket. Athletics. Everything had a new meaning. Migration. Tourism – A movement of people. Exchange of ideas. Breaking down of barriers.

 

Sugar. Rum. Bananas. Citrus. Bauxite. Few resources to build the country on.

 

The future – A simple phrase – at once glorious and filled with hope, yet so terrifying.

 

August 6th 1962, a Defining Date in Jamaican history.

 

Twilight, an In-Between Time. As the sun set, Hubert Williams pondered on what the future had in store for him, his family, and his country, on this auspicious Day of Independence.  

 

 

 

 

The Past Is Another Country by Ali Rowland

[Northumberland, England]

I was a doctor, now I gut fish.

 

The fish comes in a cold truck on a Wednesday. The man who drives the truck showed me a picture of the boat the fish come off.

It’s a big one, very sturdy, not like the dingy we came on. I see families playing on those inflatables at the beach, having fun. 

 

The weekends are busy, so I prepare extra. There are so many cuts on my fingers. The fish is so cold the knife slips. 

 

My husband fries the chips. He was an engineer. If the fryers break down, he fixes them. 

 

We had lots of friends. We ran a charity for homeless people in our spare time. Now we give the chips left over at the end of the night to those who live on the street. 

 

They come for the money on Mondays. Our rent comes out of that. They give us just enough for food. They have our passports. We live in the room upstairs which smells of frying. 

 

The shop is bright just like an operating theatre. It’s hot in the summer. One day a man falls on the shiny floor while waiting for his food. He’s having a heart attack. I do compressions before the ambulance comes. We hold our breaths but thankfully, the police don’t come. The paramedics say I did so well I could train to do their job.

 

Back home if you save a life, the person comes back to shake your hand and thank you. I am wondering if the customer will do this. That would make me smile.

 

 

 

Every Time We Fall by Caroline Grimshaw

[Islington, London, England]

 

Every word, ever spoken was now stored in a database so gigantic that it filled what used to be the iced-coated surface of Antarctica. Here, the once immeasurable ice sheet had finally melted, setting the scene for today’s Tundra, with its shrubs, sedges and lichens. The deep darkness of winter and temperatures that plunged below zero for 10 months of every year was found to be the perfect location for ‘Discourse Data Home – DDH’.

 

     Human beings no longer felt the desire for dialogue. The last word uttered was decades ago. All conversations and interactions are now performed through ‘ThoughtwaveTM’.

 

     Agatha stationary, her soul in silence. Surrounded by screens of stimulating scenarios – tantalising images of groups gathered, giggling, chattering voraciously. Words tumbling from their tongues. Hands held. Skin crushed under the weight of passion.

 

     Agatha’s eyelids gently close, blocking out all visionary and auditory stimuli. Then, her sensuous hands levitate, willowy fingers coding dialogue that is neither heard, nor seen. This conversation transmuted into digital streams which can be experienced far away, on the other side of the dead planet. Agatha is a master of the download: borrowing the best conversations from DDH and repurposing them for her own ends.

 

     Me, Agatha, TW045067: Programming commencement. Activate. Engage.

 

     Language flows from her with the same force as the gushing water cascading across the Niagara Gorge. Now, of course, all water has evaporated from the earth’s surface.

 

     Me, Agatha: I feel my falling today but know this: the greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.

 

     thought reply is instantaneous.

 

     Me, Otis, TW 076085: Welcome. Know this: it is the courage to continue that counts.

 

     Me, Agatha: I learned that courage was not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it.

 

     Me, Otis: Fear of what?

 

     The thought waves cease. First a friction and a discrete buzz. Then an escalation, turning into a cacophony of white noise. For Otis, TW 076085, communication has ceased forever. He has broken protocol. Communication may be eloquent and poetic – it must never be personal. Otis, TW 076085: seated alone. Thoughts bombard the outer layer of his brain. The cerebral cortex fires sensations of thinking and a desperate desire to share.

 

     Otis, TW 076085: forever alone.

 

 

 

 

What Happened To Dermot? by Eileen Dunne

[Ireland]

This is not a story about pigeon lung and what doctors classify as bilateral glass dust opacities and expansive honeycombing of the lungs. Dermot attributes his debilitating breathlessness to dear Deborah and her smoking, his wife of thirty years.  

Our father distilled Dermot’s peculiar character to his early association with the older men at the pigeon club. He was ten years old when he made his first pigeon loft; a Bewley’s tea chest, mounted on top of dad’s workshop at the end of the garden.  It was more of a yard than a garden and an unfitting retro to a once glamorous Georgian house. Dermot had made a runway with two wide planks, stretching from the yard up to the loft. Sputnik, the family dog, would race up the gangway and mangle unfortunate cats who ventured near the loft. It was a no-go area, known to us as the Falls Road. The limp bodies of cats were placed in a sack, weighted by bricks, and flung into the mouth of the Liffey. 

 

Through the years Mam would lament, “Where did I go wrong?” And a nine-year-old Dermot peers from a cheap plastic frame, hanging between the kitchen window and the scullery door; a cherub sporting a blue shirt with matching tie, the pale paisley design matching the peeling wallpaper on that side of the kitchen.  

 

We sisters are certain there was notable change in Dermot’s personality after that Sunday, the Sunday he was left behind in Glendalough. Mam dreaded Dad’s declarations of a family drive to the Dublin mountains. As soon as we left the city, he fragmented the trip by stopping off at every pub on the route, while Mam self-comforted in the passenger seat with snapped squares of Fry’s Chocolate Cream. Around 6pm on that Sunday, journeying home along the Grand Canal, someone shouted from the back of the car, “Mr. Dunne, where’s Dermot?” There were ten of us packed like mackerel along the rear seat and boot. The garda told Mam to take the kids home. His voice was soft. 

 

Dermot is dark like Mam with sallow skin and raisin yellow eyes. We found him sitting by the fire drinking a mug of tea.  “I met a couple from the flats, they brought me home and said, “What kind of parents have you?”  

 

I have often reconstructed that story and it seems improbable that he met a couple from the flats with a car.  Back then we knew the owners of the few cars in the area.  Pat Meagher’s peppermint green Ford Anglia and Tom O’Brien’s polished blue Vauxhall Viva, the neighbours we called on for hospital runs.  I have no recollection of Dad mentioning the incident again. The time we left Dermot in Glendalough never formed part of his pub repertoire. Nobody has ever asked Dermot what happened that day, reluctant to unsettle the settled.  

FALL_CGrimshaw_artwork (2).jpg

Original artwork by Caroline Grimshaw to accompany her story 'Every Time We Fall' [above]

The Snake by Yanwu Yuan 

[from China, living in Berlin]

I walk downstairs. In the living room, the light is on and the fan is turning in a regular rhythm. The TV is off, meaning father is in bed, joining mother in their room next to the living room, with the door ajar as always. Leftovers from dinner are carelessly scattered on the squared, red wooden dining table. A cigarette in hand, I push the worn wooden entrance door, then the ajar door screen. I sit at the narrow, long wooden bench where I smoked with my brother and father the other night; where my father usually smokes every five minutes during the long evenings when we are not around, with mother lying on her bed most of the time.

 

I'm not scared. Then, I found the switch on the outside wall and flicked it on. I won't be scared if I see it again. That obscure, lithe, nearly modellable figure had slipped out from beneath the terrace tiles where I made my smoking break last night. I first saw its shadowy, triangular head, followed by the rest of its body unfurling from the darkness, until I was aware of its full length – not particularly impressive, but ample enough to make me hold my breath. I didn't scream but stood up immediately after this unexpected encounter. It moved slowly across the concrete surface of the garden to the unilluminated patch where vegetables were blossoming. I fiddled in the living room, shut the door, and heard father humming. He can wake up at any tiny noise.

 

"A snake, I saw a snake," I controlled my voice not to wake up the rest of the family.

 

"Oh, oh." Father tried to open his sleepy eyes to figure out what I was talking about.

 

"A Snake! In the garden, close to the door!"

 

"Oh. Nothing, it's nothing," he repeated.

 

"I didn't know there were snakes in your garden." I’m just a guest here; how could I have known? My last visit was five years ago.

 

"It's not a problem. It won't harm anyone."

 

"I don't like this." I recalled my childhood in the village nearby. People used to talk about the snakes they found and how they killed one in my grandparents' garden. It felt like yesterday. The villagers had killed the snake and made it a meal. Back then, nothing surprised me. But now, it shocked me and it terrified me. Who wants to meet snakes while enjoying a peaceful summer night? Even though it was just a single snake.

 

"It can't move on to the slippery tiles. I killed one a while ago," father mumbled, dozing off.

 

I went upstairs. My husband and son were profoundly asleep. I settled into my brother's room, which he had vacated after the brief stay with us. I smoked in his room, hoping the odour would disappear before his next visit.

 

But tonight, knowing the snake's existence, I sit alone on the bench while everyone else slumbers. Yet, it doesn't show up. Instead, I see its friends, toads. A few of them camouflage in the dull, charcoal-coloured earth.

 

Don't worry. I will come back tomorrow night. Be on time to meet me again.

 

 

 

 

Epiphany by Kenny Campbell

[Coleraine, Northern Ireland]

 

Sarah awoke in blind panic. It was pitch dark. Completely silent. Her eyes and ears were overwhelmed all the same. She couldn’t move, even though she grasped for anything concrete, something certain.

 

     She had vague memories of driving home from doing some November Christmas shopping across town. Then blank.  But all that seemed distant now, alien to her. All she knew now was that something terrible had happened, and it was probably her own fault.

                                                                    *

 

Daisy Henderson, Sarah’s HR manager, looked concerned as they sat either side of the desk in the company’s main office.

‘Sarah,’ she began carefully, ‘it’s been eighteen months now. There comes a point when we all need to move on. We all carry scars but we need to keep moving forward.’

 

     Sarah’s head remained lowered, her eyes a pool of long suppressed emotion. She fought off another flashback, but not before she was transported back to    

Cold,         

     Black       

Nightmare.   

     Twisted metal,   

Broken glass.

 

     Sarah forced herself back to the present moment.

 

     ‘I need... this job... Daisy,’ she replied with a crackly voice that seemed strangely detached from her somehow.

The room seemed smaller than it used to, and the walls were distinctly closer than a few minutes ago.

 

     Tears glistened in her eyes now, her heart breaking a little more with each painful moment.                                              

 

     ‘We have made every reasonable adjustment we can Sarah. Maybe it’s just not going to work out.’

 

     Sarah hurried out of Daisy’s office, the room still shrinking behind her, as the tears came fully for the first time since the accident.

 

     ‘This isn’t fair!  I didn’t do anything wrong!’ she thought, her mind reeling. She felt physically sick, the last few minutes seemed to have lasted a lot longer. ‘Why don’t they care what I’m going through?’

 

     She ran to the toilet, closed the door and wept until the tears ran dry. As the feeling gradually passed she tried to recompose herself in front of the bathroom mirror. She thought she looked terrible, even after washing her face, taking some moments. But she could now face walking the short distance back to her own office.

 

     Sarah grabbed her coat, picked up her handbag. She thought resigning would give her a better chance of securing employment elsewhere. Perhaps that was what Daisy was pushing her towards anyway. She would email Daisy her resignation in the morning. 

 

                                                                                          *

 

Outside, the late spring rain was falling heavily. Sarah pulled her coat over her head and shoulders. Not that it would really make any difference in this weather. She felt the rain washing over her, like healing water flowing over her body and mind. A small smile, reluctantly grew on her tear stained face. She would take some time to gather her broken pieces, but a glimmer of hope was stirring in her heart.

 

     ‘Everything will be alright in the end. If it’s not alright, it’s not the end.’ Sarah remembered reading that somewhere, couldn’t place it, but that’s what she had read.

 

 

 

 

The Envelope by Caroline Grimshaw

[Islington, London, England]

It must have been crisp, unblemished, almost luxurious once. Now it seems violated: the carefully inscribed calligraphic text fractured by his aggression. The stamp is intact; the profile of the oblivious Queen untouched, unless you consider the postmark a disfigurement.

 

     That postcode. The clue to the sender of the letter.

 

     That name – her name – made unreadable when he grabs and rips the envelope, is the match that lights the flame of his fury.

 

     Liar, he screams.

 

     Let me explain, she pleads.

 

     Hell, no. Liar. Liar. Liar…

 

     Stop, she cuts him off.

 

    Over you said, over. I bloody believed you, he sobs.

 

     Face contorted, blood bursting to escape the widening vessels, he lunges at her, spittle spraying her face. The smell of dead onions and last night’s red meat suffocates her senses.

 

     Her hand, as quick as a viper’s tongue, flicks forwards, snatching the distressed envelope. She jerks backwards, avoiding the swing of his fleshy paw, claws sharpened to maim, to scar.

 

     That cocksure writing… So bloody clever, he whines.

 

     His mind oscillates between bitterness and self-pity.

 

     She relaxes a little. Mistake. A porcelain vase – a gift from the letter writer – spins through the air, coming to rest on her skull. The 14th century Chinese dragon pierces her skin with its fiery breath.

 

     She sinks, ashen. Her blood is deciding whether to stop circulating.

 

     I’m glad, he thinks.

 

     A minute passes.

 

     Call someone. Do something, he thinks some more.

 

     I’ll open the envelope, he mutters, as he reaches for the envelope now decorated with his wife’s blood. His still livid fingers withdraw a simple card, with a message of invitation.

 

     He reads: Two people (him and her) invited to the funeral of –

 

     He gasps. His rival is dead. Being a smart-ass, he wrote the invitation and envelope himself.

 

     He’s dead. Is she dead? He shudders.

     Five seconds pass.

 

     Will they be united in death? His heart pounds, he feels nauseous.

 

 

 

 

The Baboo by Alex Bennett

[Liverpool, England]

When they pulled on the rope the ship groaned. The men wheezed, shouted, spat back, determined to right a wrong that had never occurred before, and would not happen again. Jim stood on the steps of the Custom House, watching the violence with intent; in all his years he had never seen such a sight. He took out his pipe and a pinch of tobacco and began to light the bowl.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Father Graham said gravely at his side, hands clasped behind his back.

“And what’s that?” said Jim, puffing out a cloud between them.

“Why it’s capsized. The Baboo.”

“You’ve a story father, tell it.”

“That ship has made so many journeys ferrying those poor souls in from down below – those men of far-flung provenance fed nothing but gruel and lies – taken them away from home, to here, to destitution and hatred, and it’s turned itself away in shame.”

“Is that your reading, is it?”

“I speak on what I see. It’s rolled itself away from us, back towards the southern hemisphere, asking for forgiveness.”

Jim sniffed and chewed on this for a moment.

“You know they christened it the Acorn?” he said after a beat. “What a name for such a thing.” He gestured with his pipe to the hulking mass of iron filling the graving dock. There was a soft light escaping through the clouds this biting February morning, and the hull cast an angled shadow over the men on its portside heaving thick ropes between their forearms.

“From the littlest acorns,” Father Graham said.

Jim laughed dismissively, though something in him stirred. His stomach grew uneasy at the sight.

“You look disturbed, son,” said Father Graham.

“I’ve just been getting to wonder,” said Jim, “about the nature of progress.”

“How so?”

 “Here we are, staring into the mouth of industrial ingenuity, standing on these steps built with mathematical precision – yet men still make mistakes.”

Jim thought of the world to come, how much bigger these endeavours would be, in the name of progress – how much more shameful the errors would be to men like him, the men down in the graving dock, sweating, palms bleeding, to get that ship upright, lest it become a reminder. The two men stood in silence, observing, until dusk rolled in. They nodded goodnight to each other and walked in opposite directions of the wreck.

Jim sat at his table the following morning, candle waning against the early dark, reading the Mercantile Gazette. It would be nine years before he would read that the Baboo had been acquired by the Navy for military exploits – rechristened HMS Assistance. It would be another four before he was reading how it had been abandoned in arctic ice, cut from the world, left to float into no man’s land, out of sight. He closed the paper and stood to leave.

 

Pandy by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

 

Pandy was brought to the United Nations after a spacecraft dumped her on a beach. She brought ‘glad tidings’ - a promise that all ‘right thinking’ would be rewarded with knowledge. However, ‘Evil actions’ would be punished by a swarm of tiny flies that flew out of the box she was holding. A delegate caught one insect in his hands and as it buzzed, he opened his hands to show others what he had trapped. But there was nothing to be seen. Pandy shouted, ’The I-flies are not visible until they die. That only happens if they bite you.’ The delegate panted, ‘Have I been bitten?’ Pandy answered, ‘You are still alive, and the I-fly has remained invisible: so clearly you have not been bitten.’

 

‘PANDY LAUNCHES WEAPON’ was next day’s headline. But most saw I-flies as merely an annoying addition to the insect population.  Bickering delegates could never agree where Pandy might settle, so they accepted her uncontroversial choice of Crete. There she started providing volumes of technological information unknown to Earth scientists.

 

Weeks later, Pandy raised a storm of protest when explaining that a dead politician must have been the instigator of some ‘evil action” or the I-fly would not have bitten him. In the following months, several hundred political leaders were found dead with tiny I-fly bodies lying beside them.

 

‘World leaders demand Pandy call off the I-flies’ was the message filling the world’s media outlets as autocrats and democrats alike felt equally threatened. Pandy explained she had no power over I-flies. ‘They are the judges: it is they who arranged for me to visit Earth.’

 

‘Will the I-fly population die out or will they procreate?’ a Cretan news reporter asked.

 

‘I-flies grow in proportion to the volume of evil action undertaken.’

 

“Pandy, many suspect you control I-flies. If you don’t stop them, then your life will be in danger.”

 

‘Millions of ignorant men and women find it comforting to believe that the evil that they do can be erased by scapegoating someone who is different to them. Murdering the messenger would just be another evil action for I-flies to avenge.’

 

‘We don’t understand how to judge what you call ‘evil actions’. Can you help us grasp what you mean by this term?’

 

‘We share a common belief in what ‘evil actions’ are. Where our planets may differ is that telling untruths seems to be acceptable here whereas lying, as far as I-flies are concerned, is unforgiveable.’

 

‘But our leaders tell stories that try to show listeners the world as they see it. Do I-flies see these as lies?’

 

‘If the story doesn’t meet the facts or if the intention is merely to mislead, then they are falsehoods.’

 

Much animation took place amongst the delegates until the original Cretan news reporter piped up. ‘Pandy, do you know how we can stop the I-flies killing us?’

 

‘I’m ordered to say ‘I do not know,’’ she cried, was bitten, and died immediately.

Shotgun Kisses by Donna Costello

Shotgun Kisses by Donna Costello

[UK]

He waits for you in bed, a joint hanging between his lips. The sweet scent of Purple Kush swirls into the air and he watches the smoke curl from the end of the blunt. He prefers something a little less floral, something with a bit more spice, but this is your preferred brand of weed and tonight he wants to make this all about you.

 

You straddle his waist and lean in close, your nose trailing over his until your lips are barely apart. He exhales, blowing the fragrant smoke into your mouth before as he kisses you. The taste of candied berries plays across your tongue, and you drink it down, tumbling backwards into his sheets.

 

He makes love to you under an indigo haze. His calloused fingertips trailing over your skin as if he’s reading music, strumming the notes from your body until they collide into a symphony that only he gets to hear. When you fall, he falls with you, plunging through violet clouds with the taste of heaven on his lips.

 

 

 

The Wrestler by Ian Harris

[Wimborne Minster, Dorset]

From the street, the Liverpool Stadium looks more industrial unit than a sports venue. A poster by the front doors declares: ‘For one night only, the World of Wrestling presents Big Joe Mahler vs. Eddy ‘the Demon’ McDermott. Brought to you by world-class promoter Bert McCrae and sponsored by Crosswells Carpets.’ Within, the smell is potent: stale alcohol and the bitter note of Old Virginia. The pent-up hum of an abattoir.

 

     In the smaller changing room, next to the boilers, Eddy pauses by the sink. Forty fights, forty defeats. Ten of those to Big Joe, ten years and five stone his senior. Flicking a towel over his tense shoulders he puts his face on for the last time. Hair tied up; he deftly applies white foundation and streaks of eyeliner. Thick as a bingo marker, gracefully curving over his eyes and along the bridge of his nose. Some lipstick, artful enough to give his mouth a ragged red sneer. Scooping out a handful of Vaseline, he smears it over his hair until it is slick and flat against his skull. A strand curls unhelpfully above his left ear but he ignores it. He daubs mascara through his beard, twisting the hairs to a crooked point. He frowns into the mirror on the wall. A painted wrinkled devil winks, grinning in anticipation.

 

     A roar goes up around the ring. The double doors opposite us close behind a tall figure in a nylon cloak of faded gold. Big Joe surveys the crowd, nodding his bald, wrinkled head. His stage name rings out, the echoes joining the noise of stamping feet. He parades past the spectators to the ring. Gripping the ropes with both hands, heavy legs navigate their way onto the canvas. Here he is, the returning champion. 

 

     Eddy ‘The Demon’ McDermott is already half-way to the ring. He lumbers past the rows of spectators in a red and black costume that no longer fits. The crowd look away from Big Joe and notices this unwelcome opponent. Insults and jeers spit out. Playing to the gallery Eddy ascends the steps, beating his chest and roaring his contempt. He finally clambers into the ring.

 

     The bell goes and the two men collide. An elbow in the face, a stamp on the toes and Big Joe gasps in pain. Eddy continues down this grim path with a kick to the knee and a butt of his forehead into Joe’s nose. This gleeful tormentor turns to the hostile crowd to demand praise. The crowds are on their feet. We crane our necks; Big Joe looks hurt. His bewildered expression is cause for alarm. Eddy’s swinging right arm connects with Joe’s face. He keels over. Some spectators turn away, sickened. A heavy black boot swings up and round, making contact with Joe’s ribs; once, twice, a third time. The crowd are silenced, appalled. Men swarm in from all sides of the ring, a bell clangs, the demon is dragged away, smiling at his work.

 

 

 

A Home From Home by Mike Taylor

[Plymouth, England]

 

Martin wasn’t sure where his sister had gone. It was typical of Carole to have disappeared. She was always chatting to people, leaving him waiting on his own. So, he walked back down the corridor he had already been up and down at least a couple of times, stopping at the end to look out of the window into the little garden beyond.

 

He wanted to get away from the shouting and swearing. That was uncomfortable, hearing a man using those words so loudly. Martin turned just as the door to that room opened and a tall young man in an overall emerged, holding a pile of clothes. Backing against the window at the other end of the hall, Martin watched as an elderly man then appeared in pyjamas, one arm shaking as he muttered and walked off towards some open double doors.

 

It must be horrible to be so old and confused. Had the carer been rough with him? Or was the old man just impossible to get undressed? It left Jerry feeling sad and somewhat unnerved. This would be a good time for Carole to pop up. He knew he couldn’t leave on his own, as she had driven them there. Besides, he didn’t know the way out.

 

Starting walking back, he noticed a door, set back from the wall, with stairs beyond. This looked promising but there was a panel beside it. He’d need a code to open it, he realised. Stepping back, he half saw someone through the windowpane. It was a man, very old but familiar.

 

He jumped when he heard the woman’s voice behind him: “Looking at your reflection again, Martin. You like that, don't you. Come on, let's get you back to your room. It’s almost time for bed.”

 

 

 

 

After Me by Shiza Khan

[Mumbai, India]

I wait for you at breakfast, watching the slant ray of sun illuminate the broken tiles. Dust motes swirl above, refusing to settle on the debris. Your plate has two perfect eggs on a slice of toast. Mine has fruit. You walk in as I blow steam off my hot lemon water. You smile without meeting my eye, pushing my bangs aside to kiss me on the patch of unbruised and unswollen forehead.

     “I am kind,” your eyes say.

 

     You begin eating, while reading the paper. I watch as a headline in big ugly letters morphs into existence on the front page. WIFE FOUND DEAD: HUSBAND HELD SUSPECT.

 

       My fingers curl around the mug, its heat abating the shivers that have begun.

 

      “I’ll be home by five,” you say, shoveling the last of the egg. “Don’t cook dinner. We’ll go to that fancy restaurant you told me about.” You squeeze my hand. In assurance. Or warning.

 

      It is the same each time. Dinner that leads to yellow daffodils and a single night of love. A softness that expires with the daffodils. Then the pushing begins, and the screaming.

 

     I smile between sips of water. A split in the lip cracks, releasing a pearl of fresh blood. Its scent wafts to me, clearing my head. It clears more when the door clicks shut and gravel crunches in the driveway. Last night floods my memory; playing like a movie.

 

      My feet jerk under the table as muscles throb violently. The feeling snaps a cord in my brain and I stand, dizziness overtaking my senses. I leave the dishes, and the now lukewarm lemon water. I pull open drawers, looking for the knife I had stowed away. I find it in the drawer full of negative pregnancy tests. The silver gleam of the blade beckons.

 

      I press it against the green vein of my forearm. The cold bites the skin as it resists and turns white. Then the sun shifts, hitting me in the eye. The knife clatters against the ugly pink tile. I don’t pick it up. Instead, I push it with my toe, the missing toenail in full view. I look to where the tiles had broken and spot the familiar red nail paint.

 

      The wall above it is decorated with pictures: a warm tinted wedding photo, me showing my solitaire at the beach; us skydiving, you holding a black and white sonogram of our baby. I pull that down first. Remove it from its golden frame and tear it into bits. The others follow. I move from room to room, throwing and tearing; erasing every bit of me.

 

      In the bedroom, I gather my clothes – only the ones I bought myself. I pack the pair of red baby booties we bought after our first ultrasound. When you were still someone I recognized.

 

      After me, the motes do their well-synchronised dance and stand suspended as the setting sun illuminates the empty house, once again refusing to settle.

 

 

 

 

Antelope Knees Ground Down For Cream by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

Concerns were raised for some of the world’s most vulnerable creatures, when it was revealed that antelope knee poaching has reached an all-time high. It has long been known in cosmetics fields that ground-down antelope knees are a basic ingredient of the roughcast foundation makeup used by women ‘of a certain age’ to fill the potholes, cracks and crevices caused by time. The pulverised bone and cartilage impart the natural elasticity of active antelopes into the aging skin of the cream’s consumers.

          Until recently, the harvesting of knees was restricted to one knee per antelope, but large-scale poaching is now taking place. Traditional knobbly knee contests – the standard test for old-fashioned ‘ball-and-socket’ replacement joints – have been rendered obsolete by advances in technique. New ‘keyhole surgery’, whereby a poached knee is replaced with a keyhole, can only be detected using infra-red scanners. When the IR light is shone on a ‘keyhole’ knee, the beam goes right through and unlocks the door of the inspector’s jeep.

          Helicopters have now been brought into play to pinpoint Mobile Antelope Surgical Knee Harvesting (M*A*S*K*H) units, usually disguised with netting to avoid detection from the air. Tell-tale gaps in air density can be picked up by keyhole-seeking lasers, but the cost is often prohibitive. In addition, this only works where the climate produces a definite measurable heat haze, such as the African plains. In UK safari parks, the method is useless.

          The British black market in banned antelope-knee foundation cream has grown to such proportions that knees are even being shipped back to Africa to replace those confiscated after successful keyhole detection. In return, African antelopes are smuggled into the UK for ‘treatment’ in the – often literally – underground M*A*S*K*H units here.

          This is the vicious circle, ladies, you are smearing nightly on your faces when you purchase ‘knock-off knee’ foundation cream. Think of the plight of the knee-denuded antelopes, often left unable to play hopscotch due to unevenly balanced joints. Think of the cost to conservation agencies in infra-red jeep locks and laser-equipped helicopters. Think of all those knee surgeons who could be doing facelifts instead. The choice is yours.

 

 

 

 

The Wait For The End by Sreelekha Chatterjee

[New Delhi, India]

When you have more than enough time, you lose track of it, and when you don’t have it in abundance, you seldom understand its worth. I have been sitting in an examination hall for a very long time where the invigilator has asked to “stop writing,” but my answer paper is not being accepted.

 

      My existence on this Earth has been for almost a decade more than my birth centenary. Many insisted that my name should appear in the Guinness Book of World Records for my prolonged appearance, but I asked them not to, as I’ve done nothing worthwhile apart from living forever.

 

      I have seen two pandemics - one being the Spanish flu which occurred almost a century ago when I was little and hardly remember anything clearly, and then the recent Covid-1 which I don’t intend to remember.

 

     I don’t see my two sons and my daughter anymore, perhaps lost in time. My fifty-year-old granddaughter Lily, the only one of my grandchildren who visits me often, has organised a special prayer ceremony this morning to expedite the process of my death. No, it isn’t euthanasia, though it would have served the purpose, but inviting death to happen naturally, so that I may be admitted into the assembly of my forefathers.  

 

     As a victim of arthritis, I can’t sit cross-legged on the floor. I settle on a chair in silent mortification, resembling an ugly crane - a thin wrinkled frame with grey hair, missing teeth, hunchbacked - before the sacred fire in the temple premises, little away from the deities, where funerary rites are being carried out.

 

     The priest offers fire oblations with a sacrificial ladle full of clarified butter and fried grains, while chanting mantras, intermittently checking his watch. Unconnected with time, I stare at the blazing fire, spreading showers of golden sparks, as if it’s my funeral pyre, feeling nauseated by its smoke and the odour of incense sticks.

 

     “Grandma, concentrate!” He says, giving a wavering smile on observing me squirm restlessly in my seat.

 

      Averting my eyes from him, I look around. Lily is sitting under a tree at a distance, busy texting someone on her phone. A lonely crow moves near us, enticed by the food - rice, cow’s milk, sugar, honey - that has been arranged near the fire, as an offering to the ancestors, so that they bless me. Nobody else is over there. Perhaps it’s an indication that my actual funeral won’t be attended by anybody. People of my age group have left the Earth long ago. I am the only one here on an endless pause, stuck in a wait list of the train that takes spirits to the other side.

 

      The fire becomes extinguished. I feel sleepy, my limbs gradually become numb and fatigue overpowers me. Is death drawing near or am I losing consciousness as it happens sometimes? I drag myself mentally with the last bit of my strength, before indulging in homeless wandering, wishing that nobody sees me anymore.

 

 

 

 

Trans by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

It all started with that damned National Quiz Competition. The fact that one team consisted of old men and the other was all male undergraduates made it look like a battle between generations. But this only became an issue when the final, deciding question was read out.

 

‘What connects Perry Mason with Ironsides?’ was met with puzzled looks amongst the undergraduates. All four pensioners had watched the two tv series when younger and remembered that Raymond Burr was the actor who had played both parts.

 

 ‘UNFAIR’ headlined one national newspaper the following day. And soon, supporters of the defeated team began campaigning for pensioners to be banned if the questions were going to refer to what they regarded as obscure, ancient history.

‘Why should old fogeys with plenty of money in their pensions be allowed to compete when youngsters are struggling to make ends meet?’

 

‘Why should we regard these fogeys as ‘men’ at all? Perhaps they were men at birth but their biology has changed irrevocably. Fogeys are a totally different class of competitor.’

 

A campaign group was formed whom a journalist, initially with a clear touch of irony, called ‘trans-exclusionary radical males’. His article stated that trans-exclusionary radical males (or TERMS) rejected the rights of fogeys to compete in Quiz Competitions because ‘they are not really men as they have ‘transed’ into fogey with all the advantages of age and knowledge. This is very unfair to young men who cannot compete with this type of biological advantage.’

 

The furore that ensued as those who had been caught up in the dispute over people who had transitioned from one gender to another became muted when the ‘terms’ pointed out that whilst two hundred thousand people may or may not be affected by this earlier dispute (about 0.5% of the UK population), Eleven million (18%) are over 65.

 

‘Young people not only have our hopes and dreams crushed when competing for money, we find ourselves paying out billions on fogeys. £124 billion on State pensions and about half of the £176 billion we spend on health services! Not satisfied with that, they have to snatch away the national quiz competition prize. It’s not fair!’

 

In parliament, the rights of young men became a party-political issue as so-called ‘TERMS’ wanted to define men to exclude those ‘who had been born male but, once over 65, clearly could no longer be defined as the same.’ We all know how this entire dispute impacted upon the parallel debate concerning the right to euthanasia. Led by what had become a new movement (‘TERMS’ and their followers that included millions of women hoping to rid themselves of the burdens of supporting old men), their landslide victory at the polls gave the new administration all the legitimacy they needed to build the gleaming new euthanasia centres.

 

I can only apologise and wish that I had never dreamt up the questions to be asked at the quiz competition.

 

 

 

 

The Boy And His Teapot by Victor Cabinta
[Guam, USA]

The God of Tea said that our sole purpose as teapots is to heal our owner and whomever they share us with. When a teapot is made, we will be tugged from the Haven. I waited a long time. It was worth it. I was pulled. As I descended to my body, I sensed that my creator poured all the love they had into molding me. I am a marbled jade teapot. 

 

     That same day, I met my owner. His face pouted as he pulled me out of the box, not something a ten-year-old was expecting as a gift. As he held me up, I sensed his heart was mighty. He was not pleased with me, but I was determined to brew the mightiest of teas for him.

 

     For five months I would not be used, but that didn’t matter.  My time would come. And so, it did. He came home from school, soaked from the rain, and within hours, was hacking up a storm. My little boy needed me, but I knew my plea could not be heard. Luckily, his Mum was there and filled me up with brimming Jade tea. I did what I knew best and brewed all the herbs together and mixed them with my love. Just one sip was all he needed, and his heart would become mighty again.

 

     From that moment after, my little boy made it a habit to brew Jade tea every morning before he left for school. And every tea I made was boiled so delicately, he would never be sick again. I made sure of it. Several weeks passed, then months, and years. My little boy wasn’t so little anymore. He brought a young lady home, for whom his mighty heart pounded so loudly. She had kind eyes, and her laugh brightened his face. That was the day I no longer brewed just for him.

 

     He poured for her his favorite tea that I have made a hundred times. I was nervous she would not like my tea but as she sipped, her cheeks lifted, and then she gulped it down. I was relieved. That day, I was almost out of tea, but I felt full. His eighteenth birthday was the day he took it a step further and decided to share me with his family and friends. If I had a heart, it would have roared.

 

     As he poured, his finger slipped and touched my heated bottom. I feel wind inside me. I had only ever felt it once before I was made into a teapot, waiting up in the clouds to be pulled down to my body. As my tea laid on the floor, and pieces of me scattered around, I saw my little boy looking at me for the first time. He hovered over me, water poured from his eyes. I didn’t want to go... I wanted to stay...  oh, my boy... I wished I could have healed you for a very long time. 

 

 

 

Bird Day by John Kucera

[Tempe, Arizona, USA]

 

The Agway special was ten free chickens per kid, offer good while supplies last, so Gram was always one of the first through the doors, all us kids in tow. My brother, me, any cousin and a friend or two or seven if she could manage. We piled into her minivan, legs pretzeled together, seat belts shared or not worn at all as Gram flew over bumps and winter-worsened potholes that would never be filled.

     On the way back we held printer-paper boxes of baby birds and our voices grew loud and excited until Gram would turn, car scraper in hand, threatening to smack if we didn’t just shut up. But her scolding couldn’t dampen our excitement on Bird Day. Once at Gram’s house, we’d watch the chicks for hours, reaching in to cup their cotton-candy bodies whenever Gram wasn’t looking. Sometimes, they died. Gram said it’s okay, you can always count on loss.

     Then.

     The first time the weather turned Gram told us stay away, but we didn’t listen, drawn to her house by the lure of now-grown chicks, by the possibility of catching their speedy, feathered selves and hugging them or putting them on the trampoline, to see if they would bounce-or-fly. Cruelty was lost on us.

     You’ll watch then, said Gram, angry enough to show us what we didn’t know, what we were too young to understand as we huddled under her huge pine tree. Bird by bird, out to the red-stained stump. After, they ran, headless, stumbling and bumbling and not falling over, even though we willed for the end. We saw the bodies that were dead-but-alive, moving-not-breathing, and wondered: would that be Gram, someday? Us, too? We thought of what the future would bring as we plucked bird-bodies bald.

     In the end: thirty-seven chickens in two trash bags.

     When my father came, he saw our faces, saw the red that was everywhere and carted us away, his yelling at Gram muffled by the closed car door. Uncountable feathers tornadoed in the wind, dusting the yard like early snow as we pressed, pig-nosed, against the glass. One downy feather stuck in Gram’s hair and she wiped at it, smearing blood on her forehead, dampening a curl. We held our fogging breaths and heard her say with finality, that’s what death is. And we knew.

 

 

 

 

The Promise by Simon Dickerson

[Llanelli, South Wales]

 

Stood in front of the bedroom mirror, Tom Shaw checked his appearance. He’d settled on a dark blue suit – nothing too sombre – and a white shirt open at the neck. There was no dress code for an appointment like this. He opened a drawer in the dresser and reached for his watch. As he did, his fingers brushed something solid tucked beneath a handkerchief.  

 

     Shaw glanced towards the door. Victoria was still in the bathroom. The tiny velvet box seemed impossibly heavy. Inside, on a delicate white cushion, two gold bands, one nestled inside the other. 

 

      He carefully laid the rings together on his palm. Clenched his fist. 

 

      A bright day in July. Light clouds drifting across the sun. The smile that shone from Louise like summer itself. Blonde hair tumbling around the shoulders of her white dress.  

 

     He opened his eyes.  

 

     The dead of winter. Snow piled against parked cars. The patrol car outside the house. A cup of tea gone cold in his trembling hand.  

 

     Shaw pushed the memories away before they could take hold. He replaced the rings and returned the box to its hiding place. He turned to the door.  

 

     Victoria stepped into the room. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, wedge sandals, dark hair pulled up off her neck. She looked incredible.  

 

     Clasping the watch around his wrist, he moved towards her. ‘Are you all right, love?’   

 

     Concern flickered behind her eyes. She didn't say anything. 

 

      He drew her close. Breathed in her perfume and the scent of her hair, her body pressed tight, the slight swell of her belly curved against him.  

 

*** 

 

The University Hospital of Wales ran along the southern edge of Heath Park. After two circuits of the multi-storey, Shaw found a parking space on the lower level. He rounded the car to help Victoria from the passenger seat.  

     ‘I’m not disabled,’ she reminded him, taking his hand.   

 

     A late spring breeze drifted through the car park, warm with the promise of summer. They walked towards the main entrance.  

 

     A red line on the vinyl floor led them through the hospital to a sparse waiting area where a sour-faced receptionist instructed them to take a seat.  

 

      Unyielding plastic chairs, bolted to the floor. Shaw took Victoria’s hand in his. 

 

     She squeezed his fingers. ‘We’re not making a mistake, are we?’  

 

     Everything is going to be fine.’  

 

     She looked away, then back. ‘I saw you earlier, with the rings.’ 

 

     Shaw closed his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. It didn’t mean anything –’  

 

     ‘Louise was your wife. It means something.’  

 

     He didn’t respond. 

 

     ‘Tom?’ 

 

     ‘Trust me, we’re doing the right thing.’ 

 

     ‘Promise?’ 

 

     ‘Cross my heart.’ 

 

     The door to the consulting room opened and a woman peered out. She wore green scrubs, grey hair dragged up in a messy bun. A surgical mask hung from one ear.  

 

     

     ‘Victoria Masterson?’ she said.  

 

      Shaw and Victoria stood. Victoria released Shaw’s grip and laid a protective hand on her stomach. 

 

      The woman smiled easily. ‘Please come in.’ 

 

 

 

Bogbine by Justine Sweeney

[Belfast, Northern Ireland]

 

‘Too pale,’ my old aunt says, her hand cupped on my chin, as she swipes my face back and forth, inspecting. ‘Only one thing will cure you, let’s get to the bog field.’

     She knocks back the last dregs of her tea, swings a long trench coat over her pinny, and pulls on a pair of well-worn wellies. 

     ‘Déan deifir,’ she calls back, whipping out through her cottage door and up the lane.

Damson wildflower and tall grasses line the road, breaking into gorse as we near the bog. ‘That city will ruin you. That’s what I told your mother long ago, but would she listen? No! Went running toward the flashing lights and empty promises.’

     Stirring from their cosy nests in the undergrowth, hedgehogs rub sleep from their eyes. The beginnings of green shoots bud from dry bramble which separates the field from the road. Crossing the mossy carpet, my face is cooled by crisp air filled with a woody hint of heather.  I am a stranger here, visiting only once a year since I was a child. The ground toys with me, letting me press in for a moment before springing me forward, its elasticity reminding me that though the surface seems solid, I walk on ninety percent water in this sacred space.  

     Sundew sprawls across the heath, red-yellow stems reaching upward and outward.  Soon, these stalks will wave white petals and spill sweet scent into the path of passing insects.  Flies will be fooled, caught in spikey hair, ingested.

     ‘Here it is!’ She calls from the distance and I make my way towards her.  ‘At the edge of a swamp pond, in the middle of a bog – here it’ll always be.’

     Bending low, one welly-foot below water in the marsh, she pulls at sharp stick branches laden with bright oval leaves.  As the two wrestle, I am unsure who will win. Roots are deep in this place. Like the locals who have cut turf here for a thousand years, this plant will not part easily from the land.

     It is said that once Bogbine is scrubbed and rubbed and ground and stewed, drinking the resultant elixir can pull back a person who already has a foot inside death’s door.  I have been told, though, that no-one can drink an egg-cup-full, without leaping a foot into the air and letting out a scream that could only have been formed in hell itself.  

 

 

 

 

A Storm In Sandusky by J D Clapp

[San Diego, California]

 

Lake Erie, 1977

     ‘Little’ Pauly Marino yanked the Caddy’s steering wheel hard to the left to pass the slow farm truck on Route 2.

     “Easy!” said Tommy Romano, “There’s no freakin’ hurry.”

     “I want to get this shit done and do some walleye fishing. You up for that after we make the rounds?” Marino asked.

     “Always. We don’t get to use that boat of yours enough,” Tommy Romano replied.

     After they visited the local booky and numbers runner to collect the July take, they picked up beer and sandwiches, and headed for the marina.

     Martino started his boat, while Romano loaded their gear. Martino eased the 30’ cabin cruiser from their boathouse and headed for the Canadian line.

     After a forty-minute run, they began fishing.

     Romano tied on nightcrawler-tipped Erie Dearie and bounced it across the bottom.

     Martino munched a torpedo.

     “Did you ever suspect Big Al?” Martino asked.

     Romano winced. He had hoped this topic would remain unspoken.

     “No. I Didn’t suspect anything. Goddamn Al.”

     Martino nodded and said, “Yeah Goddamn Al. Son of bitch is probably staring up at us right now.”

     The bosses’ instructions were clear; everyone needed to know what happened to rats.

      Martino threw the butt of his torpedo into the drink, unzipped his jeans, and pissed over the side.

     “I’ve always wanted to piss on someone’s grave.”

     Big Al talking to the feds hurt Martino more than anyone else in the crew—they were cousins but more like brothers. Romano stood silent. He knew the boss wanted to make sure they all understood what happens to rats. He wondered about Al’s wife and kids.

      “What about Carolina? Is she gone too?”

     “She’ll tell everyone he ran off with his le mantenuta. I showed her what happens to rats…” 

     Martino handed a photo of a bloody and chain-trussed Big Al to Romano. Romano spit over the side.

     Martino threw the photo overboard. Then he pulled a revolver from his belt and tossed that over.

     Romano remained silent, glad the message had been delivered and he could focus on fishing. But, he couldn’t helping thinking about Martino. He had known him for years. He used to be kind. Over the years Martino morphed into a psychopath. Romano wondered, is this what our thing does to everybody?

     The fishing got red-hot and quickly put their limits on ice, which meant nothing to them. The walleye were the biggest fish they had caught in several seasons. They kept fishing, tossing fish after fish in the near full cooler, discussing the fish fry they would have the next day at the social club. They barely noticed the thunderheads building, and the sky slowly going blood orange.

     “Let’s head in before the weather. We got enough to feed all those fat fucks,” Romano said, noticing the worsening conditions.

     “Are you fucking kidding? This is a once in every ten-year bite!” Martino said.

     The kept fishing. Around 7:00 p.m. static filled the air, their hair began to stand on end, and Romano noticed he was getting little shocks when he touched anything metal. Then he saw St. Elmo’s fire dancing on the rails.

     Just as he was thinking, oh shit, lighting struck, followed by an instant, deafening thunderclap.

     “Shit! You okay?” Martino asked.

     “Yeah. Did it hit us?”

     “No fucking clue, but we need to get the hell out of here. Go start the boat.”

     As Romano raced to start the boat, Martino poured a sip of beer over the side then made the sign of the cross.

     “Goodbye Big Al. I’ll take care of Carolina and your kids. I’ll miss your fat ass…you fucking rat.”

     Romano put the boat in gear and headed towards Cedar Point.

 

 

 

Nipple Masking Mind Bot Jolt by Neil K. Henderson

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

When Erica Sneavel covered her husband’s nipples with masking tape one night, she didn’t know what she’d started. “The day before, Piffen filled his jacket and trouser pockets with nuts, as well as his trouser turn-ups – even shoving nuts up his sleeves. Then he went to the woods and stood there with his arms out like a scarecrow, waiting for squirrels to come down and rifle his clothing. I thought, ‘It’s the marshmallows down the underpants again, and the trip to the monkey house at the zoo.’ At least this time I could protect his nipples from squirrel bites.”

          Piffen Sneavel is a particularly heavy sleeper, so he didn’t notice the flesh-toned cosmetic tape until he went to take a shower. Then something happened in his mind.

          “At first, he just looked stunned. He muttered something about his nipples dropping off. I thought he was joking, so I simply went along with it. Then he became withdrawn and started prodding about his wrists and forearms.”

          “He was looking for a battery storage cavity,” hypnotherapist Irving Trepannic explained. “The initial shock of finding his nipples disappeared had set up a series of ‘mind jolts’. First – bam! – he thought they’d just dropped off, then – boom! – it seemed more likely that he’d never had nipples at all, then – crash! – he wondered if it was ‘natural’ not to notice something like that for so long. Suddenly – kazowie! – he decided he couldn’t be human, and must be some kind of android. At this point his mind snapped completely and he became identified with a toy robot he’d once owned as a child. Hence the battery search. He was wondering why the light-up ray gun on his arm didn’t work.”

          It was only when Piffen ran amok in a high street toy store, threatening staff with his forearm and demanding new batteries, that he had to be restrained. “The squirrel jumping out of his sleeve didn’t help,” Dr Trepannic admitted. Piffen is expected to be hospitalised until fully deprogrammed... that is, rehabilitated.

          “It’s a real shame about his roboticism,” said zoo keeper Thrusty Foretangle. “We really miss him in the monkey house. But I hope he gets those batteries soon. I bet he’d have a great time at raves.”

Commuting by Adam Wilson

[Reading, England]

 

Another end of month Friday and targets to meet. The scared sweat stink of the ‘not-quite-getting-it' and ‘not-on-target-again' minions is acrid and cloying and annoying all at once. It's an hour till time to leave and it’s time to push the numbers, if only to quieten the big boss’s bollocking. Electric-quick calculations here, a smidgen of sleight of hand there. A dollop of chutzpa, very judiciously mixed with a dash of je-ne-sais-don’t-ask. All stirred in a big bowl of knowing his job and then served, still steaming, with a healthy side of panache. The magicked numbers bail out the team, yet again, and they breathe again, and his experience and confidence means he’s out the door like a longdog, before management asks all the whys and the hows that can wait till Monday morning, next month.

 

A brisk march to the tube; nicotine, adrenaline and caffeine raddled, two smokes on a one-smoke walk on a June evening that begs to be strolled through. Horrid, foot-and-pit-stinky Underground to Paddington, staring at himself in the viewless windows, rehearsing his evening greeting and his Monday morning meeting.  A London-legged weave and shimmy to the right platform and right carriage, past pedestrian prats who can’t seem to get themselves out of his way. To a seat where he wants to be seated. 

 

First-Class quiet and air-conned with a big G&T and a book about Romans. There are the occasional glances to the always there, and perfectly besuited, blonde who always looks back with not quite a ‘no-cigar’ smirk. The train passes suburbia. 

 

A long hour later there’s a point just past Newbury that blows him away every time. It’s the moment he’s back. The carbon gives way to country. Too-hot pavement and ozone and humanity slide seamlessly to just-warmed earth and trees and grass. It’s the scent of boyhood and bicycles and best friends. Back when there were enough friends to be ranked, and bicycles were aspirational, and boyhood lasted forever.  

 

The tie goes, his smile grows, and his jacket is looped on the next seat. Top button unbuttoned and shirttails untucked. His cufflinks go into his briefcase, and he rolls his sleeves to where his country-boy tan-line used to be. His station, his stop, after memory-slowed minutes; at the station by the canal. He strolls, as slow as can be, overtaken by the last of the passengers over the bridge as he stops to just lean and look, for a bit of a bite of a minute or three. He’ll sit on the bench in a shade of a while, for a long, long while, legs stretched, ankles crossed and arms wide. Smoke rings sent into the summer sky. His face to the evening sun. Waiting for the lift he’s too early for. Unhurried, just chilled. For a change. 

 

 

 

 

Senses by Mehreen Ahmed

[Australia]

It wasn’t a dream. I knew that. I woke up at dawn when the pale light was just touching the sky. My mother stood at the foot of my bed looking at me. There she was, standing there, looking at my face. I had showered the night before and my hair was still damp. I was thinking about it when I saw her standing, looking at me without an expression. We were miles apart in physical distance. I lived in one country, she in another. How was she even here? Then I felt her hand ruffling through my hair. It was not my imagination. It was a strong ruffle. Why? She was outside her body now, wasn’t she? Then the phone rang. I knew It wasn’t glad tidings. My mother was here to bid me goodbye before she became an element. The tide had come and tide had gone. Life inside her vessel was now gone.

 

 

 

Christina and Ronnie by Cedric Wentworth

[San Francisco, USA]

Maddie sat in an oversized La-Z-Boy chair. She watched television. On the television screen a rogue chemistry teacher turned drug manufacturer was engaged in conversation with the principal of his high school. They huddled in her office. She was a very attractive woman, with long black hair and dark creamy skin and sensuous lips, and she was threatening to fire him. He unexpectedly leaned in, tried to kiss her. Maddie pointed at the TV.

 

     “I bet she reminds you of Christina.”

     “What?”

 

     “Doesn’t that actress remind you of Christina?”

 

     “Not at all.”

 

     “Oh Ronnie, I think she does.”

 

      “Wrong race. Christina’s black. She’s Spanish.”

 

     “You know what I mean.”

 

     “Bullshit.” Ronnie sprung off the sofa and walked out.

 

     Maddie heard the crack of an ice tray. She kept watching her favorite show, her feet propped up on the footrest, one flip-flop hooked to her toes, the other flip-flop on the carpet. The scene changed. It didn’t matter; she was thinking about Christina and Ronnie. Ronnie reappeared holding a glass filled with ice and rum. He sipped his drink and breathed in hard, sucking alcohol off his beard. She said: “Doesn’t she remind you of Christina?”

 

     “No. She doesn’t.” Ronnie sat down. “Why are you mentioning people we haven’t seen in five years?”

 

     “Has it been five years since you were inside her?”

 

     “Shut up.”

 

     “Simple question.”

 

      “Shut up.”

 

     “Good-for-nothing drunk.”

 

     Ronnie set his glass on an end table. His sunburned arms made Maddie laugh. “He-he!” she chuckled, her eyes returning to the television.

 

     “I ought to slap you one,” said Ronnie.

 

     “What did you say?”

 

     “Want one across the cheek?”

 

     Maddie paused the TV. She gripped a lever, lowering the footrest, and sat up. “You don’t have a right to say that sort of thing.”

 

     “I’ll say it again if you provoke me.”

 

     “Has it been five years since you were in her?”

 

     “Want one?” Ronnie took another hit of rum. He lifted his palm off his thigh and waved it slowly at Madeleine.

 

      “Are you waving hello?”

 

     “Want it across the face?”

 

     Maddie went to a dresser near the window, opened the door, fumbled amongst some folded towels. “What are you looking for?” asked Ronnie.

 

     She reached toward the back and found a snub-nose .22. “This.”

 

     Ronnie arched an eyebrow.

 

     Madeleine turned and aimed the gun and shot him twice. The drink fell from his hand to his lap. He touched his chest. The tip of his finger pushed through his shirt and picked at one of his wounds - the one closer to his belly, as if he were trying to pluck a foxtail off his skin. He could have said something but he said nothing. The gun landed on the carpet. He didn’t topple left or right, instead sagging straight back against the couch cushion. His eyes drifted away from her face toward the ceiling. The spilled drink in his lap made him look like he had wet his shorts.

 

 

 

 

The Long Grass by Kate Rigby

[Totnes, South Devon, England]

 

They’ve just kicked it into the long grass, the politician says on TV. I tune out from the others sitting around at Tree Tops. I feel it now, that long grass, cool and welcome, at the far reaches of the playing fields where I’m supposed to be fielding with Jennifer. The newest girl. We're nearer to the neighbouring houses than the game of rounders. This was where the real conversations took place. Hate those divvies, my fielding ally would say, flicking a hostile thumb yonder. I thought she would be popular. She was inoffensively pleasing in a way that wouldn’t foster jealousy. But I’d not yet learned about nuances. She’d relay some of the comments aimed at her: Missed a period again, Jennifer? (Giggles). Put on a bit of weight? In our private bubble she lifted her Aertex shirt a fraction and looked anxiously at her tummy, wondering if her gym skirt was perhaps tighter.

 

     Occasionally someone would loom from the mists to tell us the score or usually shouting at us to get the ball quick, snapping at us in mad gesticulation at a thicket. One of us would scrabble around in the longer grass and fling it back before resuming our collusive chats. Lying on our bellies, pulling up clumps of grass on the very outskirts. Trading dreams of how to escape. If only we could stay here forever, where the distant squeals and whoops from the game were remote. Nothing to do with our world here. The only thing in focus was the oak tree and the lazy dappled light. This was our island, blurring out the rest.

 

     One day, a wild ball flew high above us, before bouncing down the bank into beyond. It was Jennifer who crossed the boundary. I saw her hunting the ball under parked cars. She retrieved it, holding her trophy aloft. They can whistle for it, she laughed. She beckoned me furiously. Daring me to join her, eyes imploring me. I hesitated too long. She shrugged and flounced off with the ball, breaking heroically from our world forever. Leaving me to fend off the stinging balls alone.

 

     In the adjacent chair, Bea isn’t engaged with the politicians on TV or the other residents playing Fish. We call these our uneasy chairs. Bea lifts my spirits but lately she’s seemed restless. The other day she said, I don’t much like it here. It's suffocating. She thinks the staff don’t like her because she doesn’t play silly patronising games. She’s looking wistfully to the gardens, dreaming of the wild woods with the birds and water on the far side of our manicured lawns where the long grass grows. It’s sunny out there, she says. What’s to stop us? She’s going to leave, I know it, as she slips on her hush puppies beneath her Indian skirt, takes her tapestry bag decisively and passes through the French window. I watch her intently, willing her to turn back and beckon me.

 

 

 

Ash And Rowan by Janet Armstrong

[Campbeltown, Argyll, Scotland]

 

A bitter east wind held Rowan's fingers in an icy grip.

 

     "My hands are freezing off," he howled. "Winter's coming early this year."

 

     Another cold blast of Siberian air buffeted the trees, causing them to sway uncomfortably. Ash turned in Rowan’s direction, steadying himself with visible difficulty. "Mince. When you get to my age, you're just glad you survived another year. What’s wrong with you young ‘uns these days?”

 

     “Look at my berries,” cried Rowan, dismayed. “They’re dropping off like lice from an orphan’s comb. A few weeks ago I was the envy of the forest – juicy fruit dotted all over me. Now look – all skin and bone.”

 

     “Just be grateful you can still bear fruit,” said Ash, shivering. “I’ve had my three score years and ten. I’m living on borrowed time. In a year or two, you’ll have a new neighbour - one of those pushy young saplings with fancy silver branches. You won’t even remember me. You’ll be too busy with your new friends, showing off your glossy fruit and shiny leaves.”

 

     “What do you mean, a new neighbour? You’ve been here forever. You know every tree, every gorse bush and every fusty old mushroom in the forest. Everyone knows you, Ash.” But Rowan knew it was true. Ash was dying. Once, the pride of the forest, he was a shadow of his former self. His leaves, all crumpled and brown like stale tobacco, were thinning at the top; his once muscular limbs were reduced to tangled twigs; and he was invaded every year by parasitic lichens, extending their clutch over every inch of his once proud body.

 

      “Rowan, man up! You’ll see one winter after another on this mountain. I’ll see one more at the most. You’ll see boys turn into men and girls into women. You’ll see monarch after monarch and every full moon for the next hundred years.”

 

     “Ash…please don’t. I’m sorry…I shouldn’t have.”

 

     “Don’t be. I’m the last of a long line…time to return to the earth.” As he spoke, Ash’s battered leaves were flicked to the floor by another icy gust. His torso rasped and rattled with every breath. “See…what I take, I give back…food for the ants.” The gale bowed his creaky branches further, giving him the profile of an old man, worn by the toil of battling every day, just for another taste of mountain air.

 

     Icy teardrops dripped from Rowan’s smooth boughs as he gave Ash a baleful glance. Handfuls of plump berries fell onto the forest bed below him. “Ash… ”

 

     His words were interrupted.

 

     A green pick-up crept around the bend in the track behind them. The tyres ground to a halt, spattering chunks of gravel over Rowan’s branches. A ruddy-faced fellow leaned out of the driver’s window. His partner gazed out at Ash and Rowan. “That’s the one,” he said. He swung his stocky legs out of the cab to spray a red cross on Ash’s trunk and then jumped back in. “I’ll bring the chainsaw next time.”

 

 

 

Durham In An Afternoon by Mark Barlex

[South London, England]

 

If Durham was a city, Alan said, then he was heavyweight champion of the world. The place was tiny. He scorned its dainty university. Newcastle was the real world, he insisted: our dirty, post-industrial sulk twelve minutes up the mainline.

 

     Travelling down, we pictured the cultured girls; philosophers and goth medievalists, bored with rowers, intrigued by Geography tearaways from the red-brick up the track. Sassy lads like us, who’d escaped Chesham and Lytham St. Annes through guts and intensive home tutoring. It was 1986. England’s World Cup chances were more than decent. We could handle our ale, we thought, but were raucous before we got off the train.

 

     Jumped on the ring road by tough lads in a Granada, we roamed the streets on the hunt for revenge, hoping not to find it. The ease with which they’d pushed Alan down the embankment and left me dazed on the pavement told me there was more where that came from.

 

     In a pub by the river, a scuffle engulfed me. Sitting on the floor again, I questioned why the off-duty CID now wrestling us into the street were not out chasing burglars, speculated on what Alan had said to annoy them.

Large men, used to confrontation. When we’d stopped resisting, the biggest lead us in silence to the railway station and back onto a train. As it pulled away, I imagined him trudging back to the snug, where his beer would be flat and his newspaper missing.

 

     On Quayside that evening, we burnished our story, and I thought of him again; at home, eating his dinner, reading a different paper at the table.

 

     How was his day, his wife would ask? Had he met any interesting people?

 

     “No,” he would have said, without looking up.

 

 

 

South Liverpool by Alex Bennett

[Liverpool, England]

I saw a ghost today, staring out of my old bedroom. I found myself in South Liverpool for the first time in years, having just finished up a job interview with a local estate agent – admin position, no experience necessary. I exited the offices and felt the golden warmth of the five-thirty sun in June, which made it an easy decision to walk through Sefton Park, as soon as I remembered where I was.

 

     The kidney-shaped park is lined with buildings that work like time machines – houses raised with the industriousness of the Victorian era, weathered by the Edwardian, crumbled by the present. I can see both the second city of the Empire and the HMO playground to come. These were the homes of diplomats, politicians and policemen, now chopped up into the transient quarters of four to six strangers who could never hope to stay long enough to leave a cup ring on a coffee table.

 

     The night came in a comforting indigo blue as I reached the other side of the park. Brightly lit yellow squares popped infrequently between the jutting silhouettes of branches, windows that aired out the laughter of students and television sets. Most of these buildings held life in them still, but my old place had been too set in its roots to adapt. There were families and development groups over the years that had tried to make a new home of it, but the old world always took it back.

 

      The ghost watched me walking up the drive between the two stone pillars that once held an iron gate, reaching the steps of the front door. The red paint I remembered had faded to brown between the chips and graffiti, and some kind of chicken wire covered the bay windows. I had sat on these steps many evenings with my younger sister as we watched strangers come and go. In the winter we would wait for cars to roll away from the drive and then race between the faint imprints their tracks had left in the frost.

 

     I cased either side of the street for movement and then began slowly peeling the chicken wire away. Once the opening was large enough, I took a loose brick and tossed it underhand. The single-glazing fell through without any sign of resistance.

 

     Back in the old living room, I took stock of the entrances for the kitchen, the hall, and the dining room beyond that. The absence of doors framed each derelict room neatly, cutting snapshots of a former sense of order lost to disrepair. Only the outside world looking in sat inside a serrated casing from the cracked opening in the window. I walked into the dining room and thought about what my mother once told me. How when a person suffers an amputation they can experience a phantom limb, having lived with their appendage for so long and having now been cut from it. I wondered the same about the inanimate as I surveyed the room – the presence of the table, a plate in front of me, sitting on a chair too high for my feet to touch the ground. Although the furnishings belonged to previous residents, my mother made good use of them, repurposing other people’s sensibilities and dressing them with her own. Other squatters would come and go frequently, making use of what furniture was available – things would often break, or go missing, but my mother never faltered in her ability to build a sense of permanence for us within a world of temporary assets.

 

      A thudding began from upstairs – a shifting of weight – and I followed, footsteps echoing on the bare wood. Through a missing panel in my bedroom door I saw the figure standing rigid, facing out of the bay window onto the street. He looked over his shoulder as I entered and offered a soft nod, then turned back to face the tower-blocked horizon. There was a crack in the middle pane large enough for the wind to whistle between, and as I stepped closer it grew into a howl. The stranger and I stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the world outside. The wind was a gale now, and the flimsy glass looked just about to shatter. We put our arms around each other and braced for it to come in.

.

 

 

Swimming by Leanne Simmons

[Berkshire, England]

 

It was one of those hot days you remember; clammy skin and breathless air. We smoothed our way down the narrow road to the sea, windows open, you in the back on your little booster, legs dangling. Above us, branches of trees on either side made a leafy tunnel. Their shadows quivered on the ground as flashes of sudden light blinked through gaps in the hedgerow. Lime-coloured. Golden.

 

     We parked at the base of a broad oak, your hand splayed on the bark as you wound around it, negotiating the roots delicately while we dragged stuff from the boot – picnic bag, folding chairs – the soft smell of the sea in our throats and eyes. I insisted on the sun tent we bought on your first holiday. Said I could manage, as I swung it over my shoulder, already laden and struggling to keep my balance. I knew you were too old for a nap.

     You squealed at the wide, deep blue, kicked up sand as you sprinted to a spot by the dunes. Heeled off your jelly shoes, your toes sinking in the grains as you twisted yourself free of clothes, right down to the shark-patterned trunks you’d packed, determined.

 

     I thought there might be fear at the water’s edge, when you came face-to-face with the bare-faced swell of it; but you threw yourself in whole that day, and started swimming. Your sheer delight, your salty splashes, and me, in up to my knees, catching sparks of light crackling on the electric blue surface of the water, like tiny fireworks. Up and down the shallow, you swam until I scooped you up, shrieking, and held you close to me, wanting the world to hold you as I did. Always.

 

     A world away from me now, I still remember the perfect weight of you, dripping seawater onto the hot sand as I lugged you back up the beach. I hope you are swimming safely somewhere, as that first fearless dip echoes across the shore. And I am held. 

 

 

 

Catherine’s Body by Peter McAllister

[Cornwall, England]

“Well, that was the strangest bit, he looked perfect; like he was just unconscious.” Catherine flicks the corner of her blonde bob away from her mouth with a jerk of the head. “They said later he’d been out at sea for four days!”

 

     “Three days,” John corrects as a few ‘oohs’ die down. He wipes condensation from his pint and smooths it down his stained trousers, looking anywhere but directly at anyone.

 

     “Yes, well, however long it was.” Catherine flaps an arthritic hand at her husband and sips her wine. “We pulled him onto the beach by his arms. Tina was going wild, barking and running around, getting us all caught up in her lead. It was awful. Awful! Then she appears.”

 

      “Wendy?” asks one of the newbies by the bar; his tall, wooden stool creaks as he sits up.

 

     “Yes, Wendy.” Catherine’s sigh morphs into a groan. “Honestly, she was screaming at us. Getting everyone all worked up. Saying we shouldn’t be touching the body.”

 

     “Really?” Tall Frank’s questioning gaze flicks between the three of us who were there that day.

 

     “Really,” Catherine nods hard, her blue eyes wide.

 

     John doesn’t look up; instead he picks at the dark, wooden edge of the table with his ragged fingernails. I raise my eyebrows ambiguously at Tall Frank over my glass. This is his first time hearing the story. He’ll hear versions of it many more times over the years and will come to realise, like most of us, that it’s best to just let Catherine talk. Whole evenings can be lost to it otherwise.

 

      “He started degrading so quickly. His skin went grey and wrinkled and the smell that was coming off him!”

 

      Richard the Painter pauses mid-crunch on a handful of salt and vinegar before continuing, reluctantly. A few others put their drinks down.

 

     “So Wendy is telling John that he needs to give mouth to mouth. Isn’t that right?” Catherine elbows John.

 

      “Yep.”

 

      “And I’m saying to her, ‘He’s dead, Wendy!’ She wasn’t having it though.”

 

     Listeners share looks as if questioning whether together, they could stop this. Tall Frank is enraptured though.

 

      “So, what happened?” he asks.

 

     “Well, she just kept whipping up passers-by. Trying to get them to agree with her. Saying we were interfering with evidence.”

 

     Catherine puts air quotes around Wendy’s words. “Anyway, when the ambulance gets there, they say he’s been dead for days. I didn’t see her apologising then. She still hasn’t, four years on!”

 

      “Jeez,” Frank says.

 

     “No,” Catherine lifts a crooked finger: her nail painted bright red. She sips her wine again before saying solemnly, “Jesus wasn’t there that day, Frank. John and I were. Russell too.” She jabs a thumb in my direction.

 

      I give another eyebrow raise, which has the desired effect. Someone brings up the county fair at the end of the month and, as James the Barman surreptitiously ups the music, we all slip back to chatting and drinking again.

 

 

 

God And Me by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

‘Are you coming to church?’, my mother asked. Her voice was as sharp as a Butcher’s knife.

           ‘No,’ I replied.

           ‘You are ten years old, you do as you are told.’   

           ‘I’m not going to church with you.’       

           Kay, my cousin laughed at this exchanged as we sat under the Jew plum tree shelling peas.

‘Mama Mae is not making much progress getting you to go to St. Matthews, with her, is she? You would think she would give up. ‘

          ‘Not her. She wants to outdo Grandma Nesbitt in her relationship with God and me.’

           Granma Nesbitt was all the things my mother aspired to be – Wealthy, white, middle class, and hands on in making me a child of God.

          She had undergone a series of religious conversions, which ignored the established churches, and included The Salvation Army, The Baptists and The Jehovah’s Witness. Despite my reluctance, she made Kay take me to meetings at all these denominations.

           ‘Mama Mae is as religious as Gran, only she is more snobbish about it,’ Kay observed.’

           ‘Can you see my mother shaking a tambourine by the side of the road,’ I said.

           ‘Or being baptised, wearing a white dress, clinging to her body,’ said Kay.

           Religion did not appeal to me, however hard I tried to think of God the way Granma Nesbitt did.

           She liked to quote The First Letter of JOHN. ‘This is the message we have heard from Him and proclaim to you that God is light and in Him there is no darkness at all.’

           There was darkness in me. I disliked my mother.

           She wasn’t going to get me to church, if she lay down the law, the way she did. And on top of that, she always said that Custos Henry Hall was interested in her. If she had not made a mistake and had me, she could have made the most successful marriage in the parish with him.

            Did my mother have the right to blame me for her mistakes?

           I wanted to discuss these matters with God.

Maybe God had no time for me in His busy day. Maybe He was just tired after a long day’s work, to look into my case. Maybe God was a woman. She might see my relationship with my mother from my point of view. Maybe I should be more sympathetic about God. Maybe…

           ‘Why do you dislike going to church so much?’ Kay asked.

           ‘God has no time for me.’

          ‘If you take that attitude, you will not go to heaven when you die.’

           ‘It doesn’t matter.’

           Kay put down her bowl of peas.

            ‘Why are you crying?’

            ‘I’m not crying.’

            ‘You can’t fool me. I can see the tears.’

            ‘No, you cannot.’

            Maybe if I went to church and praised God, I’d get the chance to ask Him questions on the Day of Judgement. It was certainly worth trying. He had a lot to answer for.

 

 

 

Hanging Out At The Pub by David Silver

[Manchester, England]


It was the worst of times the other day. For we pub punters lost one of our long-standing members. I say long-standing, but Ol' Red Eyes was more likely to be found long-sitting on his bar stool or long-lying on the floor.

 

Anyway, last Monday we lost him. Ol' Red Eyes was the founder of our tavern group and although he grew more silent in his later years he was still as much a fixture of our hostelry as the watered-down beer.

 

The pub was in shocked silence as the news sank in that Ol' Red Eyes had gone.

 

Even Fag Ash Trevor who, because of the smoking ban inside United Kingdom hostelries, was usually to be found sitting on the pavement outside drawing heavily on his plentiful supply of cigarettes, had entered the inn and was standing stunned with the rest of us, the silence broken only by the sound of his occasional rasping cough.

 

Then Eric the barman spoke. 'What am I to do about Ol' Red Eyes' drinks tab? I think you should have a whip-round to pay off his account.'

 

'Never mind Ol' Red Eyes' bar bill!' I snapped at Eric. 'I think you'd do better closing your pub for an hour as a sign of respect. You are the greediest, most unfeeling barman I have ever met.'

 

'Sorry,' apologised Eric. 'Let me make amends by offering you a free drink.'

 

'Thanks, Eric,' I said, licking my lips. 'You're a very nice man.'

 

It went quiet again as we regulars remembered the man we had looked up to - or more latterly down on when he fell asleep on the floor.

 

I sighed nostalgically. 'Even now I can hear Ol' Red Eyes reminding us that he used to be a respected member of the Temperance Union until he fell in with the likes of us.'

 

'Yes,' Eric concurred. 'He was constantly saying that.'

 

'But hang on a minute!' I cried. 'I can actually hear him saying it NOW. I believe Ol' Red Eyes is still in the room!'

 

We listened to the disembodied voice floating croakily across the pub.

 

Tracking the sound, we found Ol' Red Eyes, clad in his old mac, dangling from a coat hook in the corner.

 

'How can this have happened?' Eric the barman demanded. 'Which idiot would hang up a coat with the wearer still inside it?'

 

Daft Barry tried to hide his face. 'Yes, it was me. But I thought that it was just the coat on the floor and I didn't want anyone tripping over it. I must admit though that the garment felt a bit heavy.'

 

We took Ol' Red Eyes down from the peg and with a huge sense of relief broke into a joyous singalong.

 

So, the worst of times had turned into the best of times. Even Fag Ash Trevor stayed indoors to celebrate with us until he collapsed gasping and had to be carried outside for a cigarette.

 

 

 

The Mist by Adaora Ogunniyi

[Lagos, Nigeria]

 

Nothing prepares you for Okummuo. Not the articles or accounts you have devoured. Not the grit you have secured through your life's passage. Nothing. The moment you lean into the heavy mist that exudes the smell of freesia and saffron, and you answer the call of the gentle-flowing waters from within it, you start to kick and claw at the terror that beckons. Wind. Rain. Quiet. In quick succession and riding on waves of white-hot heat, one melds into the other. For a moment, you expect your flesh to scorch and separate from your bones. It does not. You tilt your head for the rain to bathe your mouth, but hear sizzling, and your lips pull themselves shut. Pain lances through your legs, like rusted nails pricking an open sore, and you look down to find no ground. Only jellyfish. Millions of them, their translucent bodies flashing a molten red at intervals, enough for you to see them move under your feet. Other than that, there is invasive darkness. The kind you see when intense lights blind your vision, only this time, the blinding is anything but fleeting.      

 

A loud continuous sound of anguish awakens and begins to bubble in your belly. Snaking its way out, it fills your lungs, pierces into the darkness, almost startling the despondence now winding its arms around you. Soon, your cries fade into rasping sounds, then you hear the grunts; now muffled, now deafening. Indeed, there are many like you who, surrendering to the allure of this unknown place, do nothing but wait, hoping a day will, by some stroke of providence, fall through the mist to redeem them from the nemesis of their choices. But while they wait, while you all wait, you will boil in despair. Alone. For in Okummuo, your only true companions are you and every choice you made. Every choice right before the mist.      

 

 

 

The Lonely Fruit by Kit Shaw

[London, England]

 

Just an ordinary tree.

That’s what the little fruit thought of its mother. A regular fruit factory, in an orchard full of dozens like it. Not quite like them though. They all stood close enough to share each other’s shade. And seeds.

This one stood alone.

The fruit rued its ancestors. They hadn’t lent it the most favourable reputation. Expelled Adam and Eve, kicked-off the Trojan War. Even condemned sweet old Snow White. If only it could be any other fruit!

It didn’t know it was destined for greatness.

The fruit snuggled in the summer sun’s caress. A butterfly patted the sweet air with shimmering wings, settling softer than a falling petal onto the glossy red skin. All around, its younger brethren, the caterpillars, revelled in every ripened fruit and basted joyously in the tangy juice. Just one apple remained intact.

This one.

The day will come. All fruits know it. One day, they will swell to the size they’re destined, outgrowing the slender stalk binding them to their mother. If not caught by alien hands and removed from the orchard they will sink into the tree’s base and yield their bodies for future generations.

The breeze picked up, teasing the stalk’s tender bond with the branch, breaking it fibre by fibre. It wouldn’t hold much longer. The apple sighed. One fleeting moment remained before it would succumb to the beckoning wind, one last chance to wish farewell to Mother Tree.

It didn’t notice the man trudging towards the tree.

The whole trunk shuddered as the man slumped against it. That nudge was all the fragile stalk needed. The apple broke away and fell, almost bursting with exhilaration as it plummeted, straight onto the man’s head.

“Ouch!” yelped Isaac Newton.

 

 

 

 

The Promise by Kit Shaw

[London, England]

 

Their lives flickered like strobes as they raced through the clouds.

Falling thirty thousand feet. One moment, empty stares at the scrolling inertness through the plane’s window, the next thrust into a six-hundred mile-an-hour frigid blast.

He’d been enjoying the film, too. Not many in-flight movies appealed to him, certainly not the ones budget airlines seemed to buy from charity shops to inflict on their captives. This one was only six months old, with actors he actually knew. His wife had watched shrill American sitcoms for three hours before falling asleep. The remnants of their meal, a pallid pilaf that tasted only of sultanas, still lingered in his mouth.

It was her idea.

‘Three years and it’s still not safe after Covid?’ she railed. ‘Three anniversaries you’ve slunk out of. Not this year. I don't care how many masks you have to put on, how many vaccinations we’re soaked in, we’re going.’

That all seemed someone else’s lifetime now.

Falling from six miles up, without a parachute.

They hadn’t noticed the explosion. Couldn’t miss the flash, so brilliant it washed the colours off everything around them. A fraction of a second later the walls of the plane five rows ahead disintegrated, ejecting shrapnel past them and sucking the air from their lungs. Whole rows of seats slid into the growling hurricane like rainwater off a balcony.

Their row was next.

Her face was the calmest he had ever seen. Sure, the slipstream had stretched her skin as if an over-exuberant surgeon had tried to take her back to her teens. But it was the serenity in her normally darting eyes, a forlorn resignation, that grieved him. She never gave up and insisted he didn’t either. Yet here she was motionless, as if drowned already. He wanted to cry, weep at the timidity that had overtaken his once ebullient wife.

His thoughts flicked to the sofa. Snuggled together, iPad on her lap, debating candidates worthy of four anniversaries in one go. Her giggling excitement thumbing through the Maldives, Hawaii, villa on The Palm, even a Northern Lights cruise. An enthralled smile so captivating he cast aside thoughts of budget.

“Your pick.”

Eeny meeny had chosen Polynesian islands. “Better go before they sink into the ocean,” she reasoned. “Sunsets there are to die for.”

Seat fragments and mangled metal sped past them towards the ground, now palpably nearing. Curiously, they saw none of the other passengers. Then, something big in the corner of his eye. He turned his head slightly and just caught the nose section of the plane arcing downwards several hundred metres away.

It wasn’t their war. News reports a week later would confirm the plane had been hit by a surface to air missile. Several weeks of “why” theories would follow. None of that would matter to him.

He had promised her he would never leave her side.

He reached across the upward gale and clasped her hand tight.

 

 

 

 

The Betrayer by Carolyn Matthews

[Cheadle, Manchester, England]

I realised too late.

 

     Red-backed shrikes circled fields outside the city wall. Eerily quiet, save the crunch of sandal on red clay soil. I climbed to the crown of a multi-trunked tree, where weeping, pendulous branches brushed the floor. Day yet to fully break, the sun’s hidden fury choked the air with dust. Tortured by thirst, my head hovered one painful stride behind a gaping, looped hole.

 

     The shoreline of a low-lying lake; I greet friends with an air kiss. Galilee’s water is a glinting blue jewel. Its depths line with basalt black rocks. We row until limbs ache. Further out, the sea burbles, gently lapping the side of the boat. You sleep. Laying oars aside, I uncoil my long body, catching flakes of melting manna on the tongue. In trance, I too drift away. The sea suddenly stirs. Waves whip up and batter the boat, where below the surface rocks appear and submerge like decaying teeth. Stilled with your raised hand, the beryl sea is shot through with lemon coloured light.

 

     Thoughts nudge me from the still waters to a sunken garden, where flora and fauna cast no shadow. Gethsemane. Blooms with serrated edge cascade like white waterfalls. Olive trees with lance-shaped leaves release subtle scents of balm and spice. I find you standing amidst gnarled roots, wiping sweat from a bloodied forehead. Your loud wails pierce the heavens. Father, if it be your will, take this cup from me. Slithering against the wall, a hidden viper raising a head. A noxious nod, which leads them to you. Another kiss, pregnant with aftershock. They take you from the garden; I turn away. The grove crumples, shrinks, breaks up into flaky fragments. Buds and leaves tinge brown with split stems threadlike, too brittle to touch. Too late, I realise.

 

     Day struggled to break. I plummeted in a final flailing fall, where teeth within jaw rattled around like dice. Dropped from my shaking hands, thirty coins chinked and clinked to the floor until the field shimmered silver. My noose became the earth’s first snake. Eden’s fraudster, constricting, squeezing out last gasps. With one septic bite she broke, blistered and blackened the skin. Her coils garrotted the heart, slowing it to a stop. A sudden jerk. Everywhere a disorientating black. In my fading eyeline, my master; clinging on, drenching me with tears, I always loved you. Not your hand that let go.

 

     A furious, blazing sun rose to blot the edges of the field, watching red clay soils flood with gore. With a harsh ack, birds broke the silence and swept down to bathe. A voice, swollen in love, echoing, fading, disappearing in the hollows of the chamber.

 

     Oh Judas, Judas. It was never too late.

 

 

 

A Whiff Of Scandal by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

   

‘A story with photographs for Norma and me.’

    'Don't push me too far Boysie.'

    'It's that, or a juicy scandal in the 'Star'. You know what a rag the 'Star' is.'

     'I can't think what I once saw in you.'

     'Life is tough Ada. If you'd walked to school barefooted like me, you'd know that. Norma does. She brought up her two younger brothers on $5 dollars a week. We’re peas in a pod.’

     'I want both the photographs and the negatives you are holding.'

     As I drove to meet with my Aunt Bernice for lunch, my armpits prickled, and my palms were wet on the steering wheel.

     Aunt Bernice was the star of the family. She married a penniless Italian Count while she was studying art in Italy and came back home to Jamaica with him and a title. He died early.

     She then married a rich local Englishman nearly twice her age. From him she inherited a fortune in sugar. He also died.

     Her present American husband was black, suave, and much younger than her. She was a target for gossip, but she thrived on it.

    'When are you getting married?' she asked as I sat down.

    'I have a career and cricket.'

    'Cricket is a man's game, Ada. Sometimes I wonder about you. I really do.'

     I cut her off, and pulled my chair closer to hers.

    'I want to ask a favour of you Aunt Bernice. There's a photographer and his wife, Boysie and Norma Dodd, friends of mine, who are just breaking into journalism. I'd like you to invite them to one of your parties, and give them an interview after you have met them.'

    'No interviews Ada. That's how I maintain my mystique.'

    'I can't persuade you?‘

    ‘No can do.’

    ‘It's in a good cause.'

    'No one is going to persuade me, Ada. Not even you.’

    'Thanks for lunch Aunt Bernice. I've got to go.'

    'Don't stay away so long next time.'

    I came straight to the point when Boysie arrived at my apartment that evening.

    'The deal is off.'

    'I'm not a man to joke with Ada.'

    'She won't do it. Try her husband.'

    'He hasn't got two cents to rub together. It's the old bag I'm after. The pillar of society. The social snub, oozing respectability.'

    It’s him or nothing.

     He grabbed my throat.

    'She won't be so high and mighty when the whole island knows she's sharing her cocky toy boy husband with a young male lover, and I’ve got the photographs to prove it.'

    He squeezed.

    I kneed him in the groin. His grasp loosened. But he grabbed my waist, and as I stumbled, I felt the smooth surface of my cricket bat leaning against the wall.

    By the time the police arrived, I knew he was dead. He hadn't moved since I hit him. And when I felt for a pulse, there was none.

 

 

 

 

Around Midnight by Carolyn Matthews

[Cheadle, Manchester, England]

 

The sky was the colour of bone. Snow clouds rolled in with menace, folding layer on layer into the falling darkness. She had found a resting place under the viaduct and squatted there against a wall alive with damp. The water iced the nape of her neck; her face burnt red with cold, awash with angry acne. Pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, she nursed her hands in the misshapen sleeves.

 

     Overhead the boom of the trains, regular now as midnight approached. Her eyes fell on two elderly revellers as they stepped in to take shelter, the woman shaking off water from the fiberglass ribs of the umbrella.

 

     The girl flinched, clutching her knees. Don’t come any closer! A quivering cigarette butt wedged in her mouth muffled her words.

     “Got a light?”

 

     The old woman patted the girl’s exposed knees with a padded leather glove. “Does running away ever solve anything?”

 

 

      Her eyes flashed. Cash, mobile, coat, all pilfered weeks ago by the hands of the equally needy. Returning home was a nonstarter. She recalled her stepfather rubbing cold hands together on her mum’s bingo nights. Angled, twisting, rooting; him enjoying a winning streak more than her mother ever did. Outside the arch, the post-Christmas lights hung dishevelled under the weight of freshly fallen, virgin snow, which leaked and dripped slowly from the overhead wires.  

 

     “In my day we got by earning an honest wage.” The man’s voice was deep; she sensed his eye twitch as if trying to wink. “Up at five in all weathers we were.” She flinched as he fingered the tight knot in his tie. She watched him raise his trilby, turning up the collar of his overcoat before discreetly dropping a silver lighter into her lap.

 

     With a click of her thumb, the flicker revealed a diminishing couple linking arms, barely upright, an umbrella snatched by the icy wind. She thumbed it again. Now a taxi travelling too quickly, the same couple stepping back just in time before hailing it.

 

     Almost midnight. The lighter kissed her chapped lips, before a final flick in her flailing hand. Through open countryside, with shoes discarded, she begins to run, the tickly grass massaging the soles of her aching feet. In the sulphur-amber glow, a face takes shape. Her mother’s voice is like cream, hushed and calm, her eyes a soft blue. She folds her frost-bitten fingers into kind, cupped hands. Mum, I’m home.

 

     Pigeons pecked at cigarette ends before flapping wildly into the arched viaduct caskets. Their quarrel became subsumed in the twelve strikes of the clock and the deathly rattle of the overhead train. She was bolt upright, blue-white, the lighter glinting in her drooping hand. The whoosh of a zip on her black body bag and she was carried out into the biting night air to distant and muted cheers and laughter. The uniform grey of the post-midnight sky alive with the lifting charge of fireworks, igniting, exploding, splintering, falling in flakes of ash.

 

 

 

The Chain Broke by Jane Mooney

[Yorkshire, England]

 

I choose sugar paper, felt tips and yellow cotton wool from the craft table. Who knew you could get yellow cotton wool?  Nuns must have a special, secret source of art materials.  I love craft afternoons because we don’t have to do sums and reading and writing and the classroom smells of PVA glue and poster paint.  I’m making an Easter card. A fluffy yellow chick bursting out of an egg.  Mummy and Daddy will love it.   

          I jiggle in my seat.

          ‘Do you need to be excused?’ asks Sister Christopher. 

          I don’t want to wet my knickers.  If you do they give you spare ones from the office but they’re big and baggy and smell of rubber.

          I make my way downstairs to the cloakroom, running my hand along the cool, dark wood of the banister. The sun shining through the stained-glass window above the staircase makes pretty patterns on the floor.

          The cloakroom is cold.  It smells of carbolic soap and disinfectant.  As usual I chose the cubicle at the right-hand end.  Sitting on the tiny loo, I imagine Sister Christopher trying to fit her huge bottom on to one of these toilets.  I decide that nuns must have bigger loos. 

          The loo is hard to flush so I wrap the chain around my hand and give it a big tug. It breaks. 

          I stare at the broken chain in my hand feeling my eyes going puffy.  I don’t want to go and tell Sister Christopher that I’ve broken the loo.  She’ll shout at me and I don’t like it when people shout at me.

          I want to go home.  Mummy will be at home playing with my little brother.  Mummy won’t shout at me; she’ll give me a cuddle and say it'll be alright.  Maybe there’s magic which can pick me up and transport me home.

          I sit for ages on the bench underneath the coats, sniffing and wiping my eyes with my sleeve.  Why hasn’t Sister Christopher come to find me?  Maybe she hasn’t even noticed I’m missing.  Well, I’m not going back.

          It must be nearly home time by now.  I could put my outdoor shoes on and walk home by myself, but I would have to cross the by-pass and that would be scary.

          ‘What are you doing in here all on your own?’ It’s the school secretary.  I like her.  She has a jar of striped sweets on her desk and, if you’re feeling poorly, she lets you have one.

          I hold up the broken chain.

          ‘Oh they’re always breaking’ she says, ‘We’ll get Mr Willoughby to sort that out.’

          She takes me by the hand and leads me back to the classroom.

          Everyone else has finished their cards.  There are fluffy lambs and yellow daffodils, but all I have to show for my afternoon is a sugar-paper cut-out of an egg, a pile of yellow cotton wool and a broken chain.

 

 

 

Parting Gift  by Rathin Bhattacharjee 

[Kolkata, India]

 

"Shabnam," the middle-aged lady with the golden-glow on her face from the last rays of the fast dipping sun, whimpered to someone. "Look, who's here."

"Hi, Neil. Nice to see you," the stunning looker, who came to the door, exclaimed animatedly. 

I stood transfixed at the door. The fragrance from the delicate perfume she wore was making me dizzy. Two years junior to all of my twenty-eight years, in a sari that matched her translucent skin, with curly hair and large, dark eyes on a heart-shaped face; Shabnam was - how do you describe her - soft and doughy? Know what I mean? She was someone you could mould to be your life partner, man. 

"Are you going to keep him waiting at the door, or calling him in?" The elder lady asked from inside.

"Oh, sorry. Please come in," the younger chimed as I followed her inside. 

Something inside my head was telling me to relax as I had reached my destination. 

 

#


In a hurry, I nearly skidded on the eggshell white corridor on the first floor of St. Joseph's Hospital. There was not a soul to be seen. Everything was silent and still as I noticed the ICU at the turning. 


Even on a cold day, I could sense the beads of sweat breaking out on my forehead. I rushed to the door, surprisingly kept ajar. I slid myself in through the gap and noticed mom lying in the bed on the right. 

Why was no one there attending her? Why was the white cloth pulled up to cover her face? An inexpressible fear gripped me instantly as I pulled the white sheet down. 

Only then did I notice the small, rounded cotton buds in her nostrils. 


#


"You're late," the Nurse said in a voice thick as honey. "She slipped away peacefully. Just the day before, she came out of the coma and was shifted down to the General Ward, just for a few hours though." 

"Did she leave anything for me?" I found myself asking her once I had recovered from the storm razing inside. 

"Oh, yes. She dictated to a Junior Nurse to write down a few lines for you. Here it is," she crackled, taking a folded paper out of her front pocket. 

I asked her to excuse me, and having cast a quick look in the direction of the bed, came out of the room. 

I found a quiet corner, got there in no time to read mom's last letter: 


Dear Neil, 

By the time you reach here, I will be gone. I've always admired my razor-sharp hero.

I know how you still feel about your childhood friend, Shabnam. My last order is for you to go to India and meet her before getting back to NSW.  I won't be here to interfere in whatever you do afterwards. Love you, Son. 


#


Cremation over, I called an agent to book my ticket to Mumbai. 

If you believe in parting gifts, Shabnam was one from my late mom. 

 

 

 

 

From The Depths by Calvin Watts

[Hull, England]

 

Dear Sarah, 

      I should explain myself. 

     My previous owner sat me on his office table, and typed into eBay: ‘Genuine Mulberry Little Softie. Black pillow effect. Filled with thick, feathery down. Reinflates when pressed. Buy now for £120.’ 

     

     His phone pinged and I was stuffed into a grey, plastic mailing bag. With my handles wrapped around my body, and often upside down, I spent the next four days in the dark.  

     

     Do you remember our first night together, in your bedroom? You slid me into your armpit, admired yourself in the stand-up mirror, tried on four dresses, put on lipstick, asked your reflection if it wanted a drink. And after you’d poured yourself half a pint of white wine, we sat in bed watching Erin Brockovich. 

     

     The following morning, your sisters visited. You poured cups of instant coffee and they took turns holding me. The short one — Ellen? — ran the pads of her fingers over my back and said I was soft like butter. You said that I was all you ever wanted, your own Mulberry bag. And by the time your sisters handed me back to you, I realised you were being honest: you had no idea that I was a knock off. 

     

     What could I do? If you found out, I’d be for the landfill. So, I let you carry on. I was designed to deceive. And you were happy. You smiled more, spoke to strangers, flirted with men. You took me to a job interview, and you got the job. You, Sarah, with me on your lap. Together, we both began to feel authentic. 

     

     Things changed, last summer, the day we rode the train to London. You were a bit off with me that morning. Nothing major, just a little distant, I felt. But I think taking me in Harrods and looking at other bags was actively cruel of you. You sniffed one of them, a real Mulberry bag, but didn’t buy it. And afterwards we sat on a bench, in Hyde Park, a metre apart, like strangers. 

     

     When we returned home you took a lighter from the messy drawer and burnt away my frayed stitching. You carried me to your laptop, and I watched you type: ‘How to tell fake Mulberry bag’. Tears trickled down your cheeks as you inspected me. And then you threw me, in here, at the back of the cupboard under the stairs. I landed on some badminton racquets and the vacuum cleaner nozzles you never use. 

     

      Because you might not reply to this letter, Sarah, I’ll end by telling you a few things that you should know. First, you have mice. That scratching in the walls we both heard? That’s them. Second, there is half a packet of soft mints in my inner pocket, still in date, zipped safely away from the mice. And third, as I lay here alone, I’m certain that in our separate darknesses, we still hold on to one another. 

 

     Always, 

 

     Your Bag

Food For Thought by Mike Paterson-Jones

[Abbots Langley, England]

 

Ma and Pa Gleeson lived on twenty acres just outside the town of Dalton, West Virginia.  Pa Gleeson worked at the Dalton Lumber Mill and Ma Gleeson kept house. She cleaned and cooked and grew a few vegetables. She made her husband a wild meat pie every Friday in which she put what her husband had hunted the previous weekend or fresh road kill from the interstate that ran next to the farm. Most often there were possums or squirrels from the hunting Pa Gleeson did with his buddy Paddy Murphy every weekend. The Gleesons only had one child, a grown son, who they only saw occasionally when he was between incarcerations in one of the county jails.

    

     One Saturday while Pa Gleeson was away hunting, Ma Gleeson had a sudden desire to have a hamburger and fries. She got in the old Ford truck and rode to town. She parked outside the diner and was about to get out of the truck when she looked across the sidewalk and into the nearest diner window. She saw her husband sitting opposite a blonde woman some years younger than him. Ma Gleeson forgot about the hamburger and drove home. She said nothing to her husband. She continued to give him his wild meat pie every Friday but now she made a separate one for herself. His pie she spiced up a bit with an ingredient from the tin on the top shelf in the barn.

 

     Pa Gleeson’s health started to decline, but Doc. Carver could find not find out what was wrong with him. Pa Gleeson died in the early fall. Ma Gleeson spared no expense on his funeral. He had a fine casket and Ma Gleeson dressed herself in fine new clothes and a fancy hat. After the funeral there was an Irish style wake hosted by Paddy Murphy. At the wake Ma Gleeson received the heartfelt condolences of most of the town’s people including the mayor and the sheriff. She got a shock when approaching her was the blonde woman from the diner. The woman walked right up to her and said, “I am so sorry to hear about your husband. He was a good man. He helped my brother on many weekends fixing the old house I bought when I came back to Dalton last year.”

 

     Ma Gleeson said nothing. She just nodded her head and smiled sickly.

 

 

 

A New Beginning by Veronica Robinson

[London, England]

 

‘Don’t show me up Dorothy.’

 

     ‘That was not my intention.’

 

     ‘You stroke my cock when I can’t get it up, and you want me to believe you’re not making fun of me.’

 

     ‘It was a moment of tenderness. I wanted to help.’

 

     ‘I don’t see it that way. I’m thirty, for God’s sake.’

 

     ‘Thirty isn’t the end of the world.’

 

     ‘How many thirty-year-old men do you know who can’t get it up?’

 

     ‘Drink your bush tea. A lot of men swear by Mother Henny’s bush tea. Says it helps them with their sexual problems.’

 

     ‘It fills me up with wind. Every time I come, I fart like a cowboy.’

 

     ‘So, there are some side effects.’

 

     ‘I can’t see, or feel, any difference.’

 

     ‘I have something to tell you.’

 

     ‘Not now Dorothy.’

 

     Dorothy stumbles into the bathroom, and vomits into the toilet. She returns to the bedroom, and lays staring at the celling. ‘Many Rivers To Cross’ is playing softly on the bedside radio.

 

     Martin sits with his head in his hands. When he feels Dorothy lay on the bed. He looks up.

 

     ‘You okay?’

 

     ‘What do you care?’

 

     ‘I am such a fucking failure.’

 

     ‘There is no way I can talk to you.’

 

     ‘I’ll see a shrink. Happy wit dat? If that doesn’t work, feel free to leave.’

 

     ‘I thought of doing just that.’

 

     ‘What stopped you?’

 

     She guides his hands to the bottom of her belly. Martin stares at her a long time.

 

     He takes her hand.

 

 

 

The Good Old Days by Mike Paterson-Jones

[Abbots Langley, England]

 

It was a post-apocalyptic scene. There were hundreds of rusty iron poles standing in rows along curved tarred banks. The tar was crazed and in the cracks grew grass and weeds, even trees struggling to exist. The projection room and adjoining café was a pile of rubble. Across the entrance was an old chain and a padlock long since seized solid. I stepped across the chain and walked amongst the weeds and let my mind wander back in time.

 

     It used to be one of the best places to go to enjoy oneself. I can remember, way back, going there in Dad’s Rover, us three kids in the back, Mom in the front next to Dad with a picnic basket on her lap. If the film was good, then life was perfect, well almost as long as you didn’t have the seat in the middle. The sound was not good. I guess the speakers had to be cheap since a fair number must have been driven off with. If it rained then it was hard to hear the soundtrack as the raindrops drummed on the car roof. It was also a mission to get to the café if it rained. It was still always a treat. Dad was an expert in placing the Chevy just near enough to the speaker post for the speaker to reach but far enough away so he could open his car door.

 

     As a teenager the drive-in was even more of a treat. It offered amazing opportunity in the courting process. If a girl agreed to go with you on her own it was a signal that an attempt at a kiss would probably succeed. If she agreed and didn’t ask what the film was, then the kiss was guaranteed. A perfect evening would start with a clear sky to allow a visit to the café for a burger, but would progress to rain which had the advantage of forcing you to close all windows, which in turn steamed up the windows to create perfect privacy. I once saw and admired one Romeo who took his girlfriend to the drive-in in a pickup. He parked in the last row and reversed up and half over the ramp. In the back of the pickup was a mattress and cushions. Romeo and his girlfriend lay comfortably in the back, probably not watching the film!

 

     I once met a couple whose first child they had called Drive-in. I wondered whether his other children had names like Motel, Bedroom or even Cancun?

 

      I only had one bad experience at the drive-in, and that was the night we went in the girlfriend’s car. I dutifully went to the café for burgers and while I was there the heavens opened. I discovered how hard it was to find a car in the rain not knowing either the registration number of the car or even its make! To make matters worse she dumped me!

 

     I come back to the present and wonder whether TVs and computers and video games were really better than the drive-in. I think the jury is out on this one!

 

 

 

Things Aren’t Always As They Seem by Vicki Evers

[Corsham, Wiltshire, England]

 

As she fell, her whole life flashed before her eyes. Her ivory dress, like a ship’s sail, buffeted for a while, then became umbrella like as it trapped the air beneath it. Her shoes, long gone, had been the first to leave her as she motioned towards the city below. Beautiful shoes, her favourites, bought on a spending spree in ‘Kinks’ when Derek had dumped her. Kinks, established in 1960, where only the wealthy entered and left with multiple bags; crisp white paper ones with a ‘K’ discretely set in the bottom right-hand corner. That day she bought those longed for leopard print, kitten heeled shoes; the ones that were by now probably dug into the roof of someone's car below. What a waste.  

     

     Descending swiftly through a grey cloud hoping to experience the fluff and softness of its being, she was disappointed. Mr Robarts her science teacher was right. “There’s none of that, just atmosphere.” 

 

     She wondered if her curls were still in place or if they had dropped through the motion. All that time spent taking each section of hair and painstakingly winding it around the tongs and waiting for the heat to set it.  Fussing which was totally pointless now, although the silver lining was that she might look more stylish if she ended up in someone’s roof garden.  

 

     The rooftops became more focused the nearer she was drawing towards them and as the sun went down, she watched as lights were being switched on in offices, flats, and houses; an array of flashing lights, across the bridge, along the pavements, on the yacht's moored in unsteady rows. Her old stomping ground.  

 

     Derek’s view was different. His world was made of moments, of reality, of experiences.  

 

     “Get outside in the summer rain,” he used to say to her, “feel each drop on your skin, mud between your toes, drenched hair.”

 

     She had hesitated, and that was it. The final straw he said. His front door open, she walked out. They agreed to take a break.    

 

     “It’s good to get out of your comfort zone.” he called after her. “Here take this.” He handed her an envelope. She opened it.   

 

     “A paragliding experience? You know I don’t like heights.”  

 

     He shrugged his shoulders and closed the door softly behind her.  

 

     So here she was now, bare footed, pulling the strings left, right, ever closer to ‘X’ marks the spot. She just wished she’d worn trainers.

 

 

 

 

Take Me Out To The Ball Game by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

At 12

Tony’s first and last year in little league was brutal.

Not one hit.

At the end of the season his failure was legendary.

During the end of the last game, the opposite teams coach felt so sorry for Tony that he instructed his young pitcher to purposely walk Tony so at least he would know how it felt to step on a base.

 

He never played again.

Not in little league.

Not anywhere.

But became in his little head, the next best thing.

A fan.

A super fan.

 

By the time he was married with a kid on the way, he became obsessed with the career of one big baseball hitter known as “The Crack”, because of the sound his bat would make during his counted, but countless home runs.

 

“Crack” was a hero and Tony was the hero worshipper.

 

Whenever the hero switched teams for more money Tony would pack up the family and move to the city his hero was playing for.

After moving the family four times, a sports reporter heard about it and wrote a piece proclaiming Tony’s loyalty.

Tony was delighted with the story and thought of himself as “The Cracks” fellow teammate.

 

One day while being interviewed on ESPN, “The Crack” was told about this situation.

His response was, “What a nutjob”.

 

This was seen by Tony as he watched the interview wearing “The Cracks” mail order jersey with “The Cracks name and number on it.

 

Tony was, to say the least of the least, destroyed.

 

Later that night, after he replaced his 'The Crack' jersey with one of his wife’s pajama tops, he killed himself.

 

During another ESPN interview when the “The Crack” heard about this situation, his only response was.

 

“Well, what did I tell you”?

 

 The sportswriter, and who knows, perhaps some of the crew, thought for maybe for just a tick, that every clock on the wall of ESPN Sports Central had held their place.

 

That night he threw away his special autographed, 'The Crack' jersey.

 

He thought, wouldn’t it be nice, if everyone was their own hero.

 

 

 

 

Beneath The Clock by Vicki Evers

[Corsham, Wiltshire, England]

 

Peggy walked into the wide entrance of Paddington train station. Above her the Victorian glass roof was opaque and covered in pigeon droppings. Orange computer-generated numbers and letters moved around on boards, hung from the industrial ceiling. Commuters stood huddled, looking up for departures, and visitors roamed the concourse, changing direction sporadically. The muffling sounds of their words broken by the tannoy announcement.

 

     Bristol. 17:32. Delayed. Expected 18:09. She picked up her bag and headed across the concrete tiles to the waiting room. No one was waiting. Sitting on a cold metal seat she rummaged in her bag and pulled out a second hand, or third or fourth hand, book. A poetry anthology that smelled of stale tobacco; the corners bent over in odd places, with a child’s drawing of a cat on the inside cover. An antique clock hung on the stone wall opposite and the intricate ironwork that framed it was shaped with twisted branches wrapped in ivy.

 

     A weekend home with dad was a treat. When it was time to go back to London, he cried. Nothing dramatic. Silent tears. Standing upright on the platform, he would reach into his pocket and discreetly pull out a clean white handkerchief, then squash it into the palm of his hand.

 

     Last time she was home she remembered him saying.

 

     “Old tears. I get old tears waving you off, under that clock.”

 

     Sitting at the kitchen table, a stained teapot dividing them she replied.  

 

     “Old tears for the clock?”    

 

     “That clock. It’s been there ever since I can remember, and that’s a while!” he’d chuckled. “Never seen anyone repairing it. Those big old hands. Ancient.”

 

     She had listened, the tone of his words calming her.

 

     “They made things properly in those days. Everything lasted. Must’ve taken about ten men to heave that up onto the ceiling.”

 

      “It’s looks delicate,” she’d said.

 

     “Trustworthy. That’s what it is. Steady Eddie!” he’d chuckled again.

 

     Sitting back on the metal kitchen chairs Peggy had noticed the seat pads, faded and threadbare. He would never replace them. It would mean erasing a part of her. She had patiently hand sewn each cushion and when the light was getting dim, she would gently call him and ask for the magnifying glass.

 

     “Waved her off to the land army, under that clock,” he’d said. “Be there for another hundred years or more, I expect.”

 

     “The train now arriving at Platform 1 is the 18:09 to Bristol Temple Meads.” The words of the Tanoy interrupted Peggy’s memories and brought her back to the cold seat and the draught from the open door.   

 

     

     It was 18:05. She walked out of the waiting room towards her carriage and then into her reserved seat. It would be a few days before she would leave Bristol again to come back to London. He’ll drive me back to the station, she thought. I’ll climb onto the train. I’ll wave from the window and above the rumbling of the engine, shout, “Bye Dad, see you at Easter!” She smiled as her mind captured the moment. He would be standing upright, underneath the clock. His hair combed; his trousers pressed, his hand reaching into his pocket.  

 

 

 

 

The Leopard by Mike Paterson-Jones

[Abbots Langley, England]

https://www.mikepatersonjones.com/

 

William Sampson lived on his own on a farm in the Rift Valley in Kenya. One day while out riding he came across a dead female leopard, probably killed by lions or hyenas. As he rode on, he heard a crying sound and found a very young leopard cub. It was obvious that its mother was the dead leopard. Bill took the cub home and fed it on milk with an eye dropper. The cub not only survived but thrived and soon graduated onto a doll’s baby bottle. The leopard slept on his bed every night. As it got older it, being a nocturnal animal, felt the need to explore and hunt at night, so it used to jump out of the bedroom window, onto the veranda, and from there disappear into the night. It would return in the early hours and jump back through the bedroom window. As it approached adulthood its jumps back through the window became longer until it was landing on his bed. Bill got tired of being woken up in the early hours every night but didn’t want to close the bedroom window as the nights were hot and any breeze coming through the window was welcome.

 

     Eventually, Bill had had enough. So, one day he put a collar on his leopard and that night attached a chain to the collar and the other end of the chain to a pillar on the veranda. He was fast asleep when, early in the morning he was awoken by something landing on his bed. In the moonlight he could make out the shape of a leopard. He lost his temper, jumped out of bed and grabbed a rhino hide whip from the corner of his room. He beat the leopard which had turned on him, growling and snarling. Bill drove the leopard back with his whip and eventually the leopard jumped out of the bedroom window. Bill went back to sleep. In the morning he went out on to the veranda to find his leopard still chained to the pillar!     

 

 

 

 

Decisions by Vicki Evers

[Corsham, Wiltshire, England]

 

Clara stood in the cold. It was 6.30am and the train would shortly be arriving. She pulled her collar up and held it tight to stop the frosty air catching her neck. Today she would be meeting an editor at the London Book Fair. She had been a visitor to the arena for over three years, and each time she arrived in the vast building, she fantasized about becoming a published author. It was all delusion of course, escapism, hope. But the smell of books, the hedonistic atmosphere, and the hint of a dream, pulled her to its open doors once again.  

 

     The tannoy overhead startled her, the echolalia words interrupting her thoughts.  

 

     ‘We are sorry to announce that the train due to arrive on platform one, the 06:45 to London Paddington will be delayed by forty minutes. We will keep you updated if there are any further delays.’ 

 

     Clara looked across at the display board. The train would now leave at 7.20am, her arrival would be 8.50am. She had twenty-five minutes to reach those ornate glass doors, the entrance to a glint of hope in her writing career.

 

     She felt warmth rise in her body, her cheeks flushed, and she opened her collar to catch the biting air. Twenty-five minutes was just enough time, if she ran. If she dodged through the crowds, ran towards the oncoming traffic, weaved her way around bollards and bins and chained up bicycles. That’s it. She could borrow someone’s bike? She would need a helmet too. But who? Who could lend her a bike at this short notice? She could walk. She would be late, but at least she would arrive perfectly coiffed. But what was the use of missing her slot just to be poised and still smelling of this morning’s perfume. Running. It was the only way.  

 

 

 

At The Back Door by Leanne Simmons

[Berkshire, England]

 

She draws water from the tap, listens for the murmurs as heat rises. Two eggs chortle in the water, little clacks as they jostle to the boil. Outside, the ghostly flap of sheets sway on the line. She is needed. No longer for picnics, paddling, or rolling down grassy banks. These days, she can get up close to summer and listen to the sky sounds. The hum around the hibiscus. She can feel the sparks of grass between her toes as summer falls like a feather, to land as quietly as age does. As slowly. As imperceptibly. She pops the toaster. Tops the eggs. Arranges the tray and creaks it up the stairs.      

 

The rusty prop dents the lawn. At the back door now, sipping coffee, she remembers tiny vests, milk-white, like first teeth, strung the length of the garden on a line. They disappeared into the glimmer of the sun. Her palms spread on the rise of her belly while her toddlers sifted sand in a frog-shaped pit; their chubby little fingers pressed it into moulds to make starfish and seahorses. When she crouched to play, they marvelled at her swollen feet, then squealed, when their grandad, who came to cut the lawn, brought them angel cake. When he was strong enough, well enough, to scoop his grandsons up in one, his blue eyes sparkled like the tide. Upstairs, she peeks into the sleepy room. His afternoon cup of tea stone cold.

 

Red kites whistle and swirl in the early evening haze. She scrapes what he couldn’t manage into the bin, rinses the little plate and sets it to drain. Playful shrieks of children drift in through the back door, with the rhythmic thunk of a ball kicked against a wall. She remembers denim dungarees, pigtail plaits and grubby hand-tooled sandals that started out white. She’d pick at the leather crumbling at the buckle, fly out of the back door, come to land on her knees, next to her mother reaching into the warm dirt to sieve out the weeds. Her mother’s hands; the sad, dirty marks they left when she wiped them on her jeans. Rosy wallflowers gleaming with scent climbed bright against the brickwork where he’d stand, home, calling from the back door, when there were so many summers to come. 

 

 

 

Something in the Library by Callum Heitler

[Fife, Scotland]

 

There was something moving in the library. She could hear it, the creaking of floorboards and the shifting of books, the groan of old doors. Switching on her bedside light, Mary swung out of bed and, slipping on her favourite pink slippers, padded across the cold floor of her bedroom and headed down the stairs. 

 

     There were many rooms in the library, many side halls and alcoves and out-of-the-way passages, each choked full of dusty books and scrolls. Her family had boasted the largest collection on the entire island - and such a collection required constant maintenance. 

As she hurried down the rows of bookshelves, Mary silently berated herself. She knew she should have checked the new batch of books coming in - her assistant, gods bless him, was still finding his feet, and Mary suspected he needed an atlas for such a tricky navigation.

She should have been there, but there had been the restoration to look over on aisle C, and so ...

 

     With her little light in one hand, Mary emerged into a sub-hall in the west wing. There was a shifting of something large in the shadows. Raising her little light above her head, Mary saw the dragon uncurl and look down at her with eyes of flame and smoke. 

 

     Damn, she thought silently. Another batch with plot-holes.

 

 

 

An Editor’s Occupational Hazard by C. J. Anderson-Wu 吳介禎

[Taiwan]

Reading and writing intensively, an editor is prone to exhaustion, vision impairment, or back pain.

 

Open the window, please, let in some fresh air, he said.

 

An editor is also at risk of being detained, incarcerated, or forced to confess attempting to overthrow the regime.

 

Let in some fresh air, please he said again from his desk, and realized that he was by himself, in a solitary confinement cell. Having published many books banned by the dictatorial government, he was arrested during his trip home. Now he is faced with involuntary public repentance, trials without due process, and draconian punishment.

 

Unable to contact his family until he writes down his confession, he worries that they must be in great anxiety. Will they try to negotiate for his freedom in private, or will they openly demand his release? He is aware that secret negotiations not only would silence all dissident opinions, but also make all writers and editors potential victims of the relentless ruler. On the other hand, openly campaigning for his rights might further enrage the power and prolong his confinement. 

 

Unlock the window, please he murmurs in his dream.  

 

The papers and pen given to him still lay on the desk. Even if he writes down his regret of his offense, the world would understand. Among the tens of thousands of thought criminals all over the world, he is just another case.

 

An editor’s occupational hazard is unmitigable, so long as the world keeps reading. If he were completely erased by the regime, what about him would be remembered? Did he make his readers more resistant or more compliant? 

 

Open the window, please, let in some fresh air. In darkness, he is surprised by his own voice.

 

An editor’s occupational hazard is unmitigable, so long as he is still breathing.

 

Author’s Note:

In March 2023, the Editor-in-Chief of Gusa Publishing House from Taiwan, Fucha was arrested in China on his trip to visit relatives. Gusa has published many books in Taiwan that are banned in China. There are still many writers, publishers, and bookstore owners imprisoned in China. At the time this story is being written, Fucha’s whereabouts are still unknown.

 

 

 

Harry Cuts The Apron Strings by Helen Binks

[Pocklington, East Yorkshire, England]

 

Harry used his knife for the second time that morning when he neatly decapitated a rose for his buttonhole. Leaving the stem in the vase, he shouted goodbye to his mother and pulled the door behind him for what he knew would be the last time.

    

     The marketplace was already seething. Trams shuddered along Percy Street, jostling for space to offload raucous passengers, their usual stop in front of the White Swan occupied by two trestle-tables hastily carried out of the hotel and now being covered by a faded Union Jack last seen at the coronation. It flapped playfully in the wind, evading capture and raising ironic cheers in the crowd, until it was at last weighted down with a rifle, the bayonet flashing in the sun. For a moment, silence fell. People looked around nervously, as if embarrassed to be having so much fun, but then a child laughed and the spell was broken.

    

     Harry side-stepped into the butcher’s doorway to wait; his timing would have to be perfect and from here, he could either step forward and join the queue that was already forming sloppily in front of the tables, or he could turn and run. He checked his pocket-watch; say an hour to sign up and he could be on the afternoon train out of Alnwick and on the parade ground in Bisley this evening, all present and correct.

 

     “Taking the King’s shilling, lad?” The butcher stood at Harry’s shoulder, wiping his hands on a rag.

    

     “Yes, sir!” Harry grinned, jumped to mock attention and saluted smartly. “I’m just waiting for them to start.”

    

     “Your mam’ll be proud.” The butcher reached back to his counter and handed Harry a small pie, still warm, sticky with glaze. “Give her that to make up for you going.” Harry laughed, saluted again and marched smartly back into the crowd. Somewhere ahead, a bugle called and orders were barked; recruiting had begun and Harry pushed closer to the noise. He had to be in the first wave if he was to get away today.

    

     Nearly at the tables now. Clouds unrolled like fresh bandages above the castle. Harry fought the urge to look back, to shake off the feeling that someone had followed him, but he knew that even the quickest glance would bring shouts of greeting from half a dozen or more friends. Safer by far to keep eyes front until his name was on that paper. His turn next. Harry dropped the pie on the cobbles, wiped his palm on his thigh and stepped forward.

 

     “Yes, Sir! Eighteen last January. No, Sir! I’m fit as a fiddle. I’m ready to go today.”  Harry took the pen and bent at last to sign. He wondered if anyone had found Mother yet.

 

 

 

Uni by Susannah Ronn

[Essex, England]

 

Shopping, lunches, ticking off lists. It’s been lovely together, just her and me. Debating the merits of a colander over a sieve, whether a bamboo steamer is absolutely essential for student life and wondering if a toaster is provided. I’ve been bracing myself, but now the day has arrived, I feel helpless.

 

     The IKEA hoard, squirreled away in the spare room for the past two weeks, is crammed into the boot and piled onto the back seat. Single sheets, towels, cutlery, saucepans, a frying pan, plus bowls, plates, and mugs (two of each) and a holdall bulging with clothes. A cache of rice, pasta, cornflakes and eggs is secreted in the footwell.

 

     In the hall, Alice buries her face into the dog’s neck then walks out to the car, squeezing into the back. Plugged in to her phone, her thumbs dance over the screen. She is already moving on from us, shedding her baby feathers.

On the long drive north, the murmuring radio erupts into snatches of muffled laughter. I sneak a look at my husband, focused on the road ahead and wonder if, like me, he is being slowly swallowed by sadness with each grey mile. My throat aches. He squeezes my hand and I manage a watery smile.

 

     “Look at the trees, they’re magnificent,” he says.

 

     But the scarlet maples, russet birches and golden oaks slip past on the motorway in a fiery blur. Flocks of gulls rise and fall over a stretch of stubble vanishing under the plough. The road cuts like a scar through a brown landscape where summer is a fading memory.

Her room is tiny. We edge round each other, piling everything onto the bed. I offer to help unpack but she shoos us away, back past the communal kitchen loud with voices and a throbbing beat. Outside, huge oaks slough off dead leaves which gather in drifts. I hug Alice tight until she pulls away.

 

     “See you at Christmas,” she says, over her shoulder.

 

     “Text me!” I say, but my voice cracks and I don’t think she’s heard.

 

     My husband circles my waist with his arm. “Cheer up,” he says. “The dog will be pleased to see us.”

My eyes prickle.

 

     “How about we get a takeaway tonight? What do you think?” he says. “We’ll snuggle on the sofa, light the fire. Peace at last!”

 

     I give a shaky sigh. “That sounds lovely,” I say. I know he is trying his best. But I dread stepping into our silent hallway. I wonder if the house will feel as big to him as it will to me.

 

     The wind is raw on my face as we trudge back to the car over grass crackling with acorns. Some have nestled on the base of the windscreen, too. While my husband pats his coat for the keys, I pick one off, caress its plump, glossy shell and cradle it in my palm. Then

     I tuck it in my pocket.

 

     “I’ll drive us home,” I say.

 

 

 

A Passion by Ian Andrew

[Australia]

 

It got out of hand. Now, with blood seeping into my eyes and my mother’s suppressed sobs filling my ears, I think it was all my fault.

 

     I could have stayed home. Worked with my father. There’s no shame in being a carpenter. But I had to do what I thought was right. I had to protest. Our people were downtrodden and oppressed. Invaded and occupied. Our land taken; our rights denied. The world ignorant to our plight. I couldn’t stand by and let others protest for me. I couldn’t watch my friends go, while I cowered in my workshop. I couldn’t.

 

     It was our time. We were young, fit, strong and if not us, then who? The old men were too feeble, the children too young. It had to be us.

 

     I knew my voice was strong. I knew I had a way with words. I was happy to talk at the meetings, but I did not see it coming; cannot pinpoint the moment when I went from speaking to leading. It just happened. People sought me out, asked my opinion, more and more. Listened to me, believed in me, my message, my call to action. However, I can see, with sad hindsight, times when I could have turned back. Could have turned everyone back, but the momentum was undeniable. Like great conversations when bedtime is long past, yet no one wants to break the spell. The smiles and laughter, camaraderie and emotion binding all together into a new dawn. That was our journey but multiplied in intensity a thousand-fold. I really believed we would change things. Not by overthrowing the Government, it was madness to think like that, faced with an army such as they had. No, our way had to be subtle. Peaceful. The mass of the people, moving in unison. Undeniable.

 

     And then my mistake. The whole thing torn asunder by my temper. I had seen starvation throughout the countryside. Dire need that could have been assuaged by those in power with a single stroke of their pens, yet they did nothing. I thought perhaps they didn’t realise the severity of our need, but I was wrong. They understood and they dismissed me with disdain. The traders, the money changers, the tax collectors. In that holy place. Paying to Caesar his due. Paying us nothing. I could stand it no longer. That one day’s worth of taxes could have fed whole villages, yet we received not so much as a cursory glance. So, I struck out and finally my voice was heard. Heard as a trumpet blast against their economic status quo and they decided, enough was enough.

 

     It took days, not weeks. Their speed was frightening to behold. Friends scattered, all pursued. I was arrested, tried, condemned. Now, as I die, the movement will die with me. There is no reprieve, no kindness. Even their water, offered to my parched lips, is vinegar. To mock my thirst and my naivety. It is finished.

 

 

 

Honeysuckle Promises by Liz Friston

                                                                                                                                                              

"I really think you’ll like it here, Mum,” Dana says, without looking at me.

 

     “Hmm.”

 

     “The garden looks … cheerful.”

 

      “It looks like they based their landscaping on a Kandinsky painting.”

 

      “Lovely, isn’t it. But I didn’t think you liked Kandinsky. Oh. I see.” Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “Can’t you at least try to give it a chance?”

 

     Dana parks up before a large brick building. A faded sign announces Beeches Care Home. Dana turns to look at me. “Look, Mum, this really is for the best. I’ll come visit soon.” Even as she says it, her eyes dart away.

 

      At what point did I go from being a friend and confidant to becoming a burden? I nursed her through every cold, listened to her rant about all her breakups, stroked her hair when she cried. And now, when I need her, she foists me off.

 

     I listen to the indistinct voices of Dana and a nurse as they fuss around getting the wheelchair out of the car. When they open my door, they are silent.

 

     Good morning, Mrs. Ellison.” The nurse’s Barbie-smile is fixed by habit, her eyes as hollow as any doll’s. “I’m Bernadette and I’ll be your nurse.”

 

      The wheels of my chair whirr on the shiny, laminated floors. As Bernadette pushes me along sterile corridors, their cream walls occasionally populated by student art, she intones all the banal activities they have on offer: cards on Tuesday, Scrabble on Wednesday...

Suicide watch by Friday.

 

     After the institutionalised corridors, my room comes as a pleasant surprise: creams and pastel pinks, a comfortable single bed. A wall-length window floods the room with light and leads to a paved area. Bernadette pushes the chair out onto the paved area and retreats.

 

      Sweet-smelling honeysuckle wafts gently on the warm breeze, the small white flowers rising like stars on the trellis beside the window.

 

     “Remember when you were little? We spent ages chasing butterflies and cloud-watching in the garden. We had honeysuckle there, too.” A tear creeps down my cheek.

 

       Dana crouches in front of me, places her hands over mine. “Oh, Mum. I can’t care for you and Martin and Lisa. I just can’t. I don’t want this either, but I don’t know what else to do.”

 

      My heart’s being pummelled by a juggernaut. “I’m sorry Dana. I’m being selfish.”

 

      “No. Yes.”

 

      “I just don’t want to be forgotten. Be the lonely old woman no one ever visits.”

 

      “No chance! Okay, maybe I possibly lied about coming to see you soon – you know how it is with Martin’s A&E visits and hospital appointments – but I will come.”

 

     She sits on my dead legs to hug me better, wraps her arms around me. We sit in silence until the shadows lengthen.

 

      “I have to go. Lisa needs picked up from after school club. I’ll see you soon. Promise.”

 

      I sit there, even as the cold snaps at me, and watch Dana’s car pass out of sight.

 

 

 

 

Realism Of The Highest Order by Adam Wilson

[Motherwell, Scotland]

 

See him waiting in the shelter of a building, his back to the shop window. The ground is frosty and he transfers his weight from foot to foot, crunching slightly. One hand is stuffed into a jacket pocket, the other clings to a string, which, eyes following heavenwards, keeps within reach a glistening red, love-heart shaped balloon.

 

I find that I cannot sleep immediately after extinguishing the light. I check my phone. This takes two hours. I put it down when the water begins to collect in the corner of my eye. It takes another twenty or so minutes to drift off.

 

I look at the glossy page of the recipe book and back to my plate.

 

The flowers seem to wilt under the sickly, foil lighting. I try to visualise them being picked. It is easier to imagine that they have been designed on some sort of supercomputer. I decide not to buy any.

 

I have already cracked an old lady over the head with my rucksack as the bus shunted me towards the doors, which are now opening with a robotic exhale and a nod from the driver. The man in front of me says, ‘Thanks driver’. He is an older man. Cords and a shirt. One of those small backpacks that sling over a single shoulder. I just say, ‘Thanks’.

 

The skin on the tips of my fingers has violently blistered. I have the ability to control the speed of the particles which make up my body, apparently producing flames from nothing. I wince as I remind myself to do this only when necessary.

 

There is an older couple walking on the pavement in front of me. I stop and pretend to look at my phone so as to allow their lead to increase.

 

I give a man a ten-pound note. He is lying on the street and scrunched in a sleeping bag at the bottom of a cold, concrete wall. He tells me to ‘Have a good day’.  I don’t say anything in reply.

 

On the inside of my foot, just below the ankle, there is a glistening, red-purple blush of hardened skin. It looks like a misshapen love heart. I am having trouble deciding whether it is a bruise or another fungal infection.

 

 

 

Clay County Contaminants by Ian Andrew

[Australia]

 

Shirlene holstered the gas pump nozzle, took the offered dollars and threw a half-hearted salute at the driver. Despite a lack of traffic, the car hesitated slightly before turning south.

 

     She walked back to the shop, illuminated by the rhythmic blink, blink, buzz of a neon light. Its shattered plastic cover had seen better days. Like the rest of East Kentucky. Pushing the metal door open, she entered a stifling heat. Frank liked the heater up full.

 

      ‘You couldn’t convince them to buy nothing?’ He called from the back office.

 

      ‘No. I couldn’t.’ And it’s anything, you ignorant piece of … ‘Lady just wanted to be on her way.’

 

     ‘Typical. Where’s she heading?’

 

     ‘Didn’t say.’

 

      ‘She’s no lady out at this time of night. Yankee plates too, you seen that?’

 

     ‘Yeah, I saw.’ She knew Frank had watched her on the CCTV that monitored the pumps. In case of drive-offs.

 

     ‘Long ways from home. What she doin’ down here?’

 

     Shirlene opened the cash register and carefully placed the dollars into the tray. ‘She didn’t say, Frank.’

 

     ‘Now y’all come back in here again.’

 

     Closing the register, she went into the back office.

 

     Frank hadn’t moved from his position on the couch. His left hand cradled a head of thinning, grey hair. Tight eyes watched her from above a bulbous, red-veined nose and sagging jowls. A thick neck flattened into a barrel chest perched on a beer-gut belly, which in turn hung over open jeans. His right hand held his flaccid penis. In the half-light, it looked like its owner; old and wrinkled. Between his feet, the threadbare cushion’s thin padding hardly showed the two dents that Shirlene’s knees had made.

 

     She and Frank had worked the nightshift for two years. He’d taken her by force the second week. She’d been fifteen and a fast learner.

     

      Less bruises if she didn’t fight. Less violation if she gave him a blow job the way he liked it.

 

     He finished and she, as ever, made them both a cup of coffee. Him to wash down a smoke, her to wash away the taste. She poured the hot brown liquid into two cups while Frank zipped himself up.

 

     Two years. Then that week when Frank had been sick, the lady from Boston had stopped to get gas. She was visiting the old coal mine. A tourism initiative that needed her advice on cleaning chemical contaminants. Arsenic specifically. They’d talked for half an hour before she’d invited Shirlene for dinner. What a week. Shirlene smiled at the memory and slipped the small Ziploc bag from her pocket.

 

     She’d expected it to be white, but Sandy had said that the grey metal powder was more toxic and crucially, less detectable.

 

      She waited for him to sit before handing him his coffee.

       

     Ten minutes later the Yankee-plated car pulled back into the pumps.

 

      Shirlene walked to the open passenger door and climbed in.

 

     ‘We good, Shirlene?’

 

      ‘We’re good, Sandy.’

 

 

 

 

Who Dares Wins by Kit Shaw

[London, England]

 

The mouse crept back to the top.

 

His paws held the right piece tight to his chest. One scrape of fur, one errant squeak would mean a quick death. 

A tug on the wire above to check. It was still taught. He held his breath, and once more, tried for the left piece. Out went his arm. A flick past the loose end. Close. Try again. Sway on the wire, build up speed, reach out, grab. Missed. He clambered back to the wire and thought hard. He could not fail. It would be much worse for everyone if he did. He snarled and went again. Holding firm on the wire by his tail, hands out, full stretch, lunging for that piece now. This time, luck was on his side. By the tip of his claw, made it.

 

He finally held both loose pieces.

 

He kept his little body straight, feet and tail wrapped around the wire, arms holding out the left and right pieces. He brought the left under the right, a quick loop under, feed through the hole, and there, a knot. His body started to tremble. Tiny muscles strained under unfamiliar gymnastics. He felt his legs loosening their grip. He forced his claws to grip harder one last time, and with a nearly perceptible grunt pulled the knot tight.

 

It was done.

 

He heaved his body to the wire and as soon as he could, launched himself upwards faster than any scurry in his life. He allowed himself one look below as he drew up the wire. He grinned. He had succeeded where the rats hadn’t dared to try.

 

The cat let out a burbling, contented, snore.

 

It hadn’t noticed the bell around its neck.

 

 

 

 

She Left The House Full Of Fruit by David Shipley

[England]

 

She left the house full of fruit. She loved to buy fruit. Loved how it looked. Didn’t eat much of it and so each week I’d buy bowls full of fruit and toss last week’s rotted mush into the compost bin. Still, she loved the idea of a house full of fruit, and I loved her, so I kept buying the fruit.

 

The day she left the fruit bowl was full. Mangos, plums, grapes, oranges and bananas. I learned long ago that bananas left in a bowl will soon rot and take the rest of the fruit with them. But she liked how they looked and I loved her.

 

I’d hammered hooks into the beam that bisected the kitchen’s ceiling. I’d hang a bunch of bananas on one. The fingers hung heavy, splayed, like the ruined hand of some aged heavyweight boxer. I liked how they looked.

 

She’d move them back to the bowl. I smiled and didn’t really mind. She liked how they looked, and I loved her.

 

That day she left, did it seem different? No. I brought us coffee in bed, and the bagel with marmite. She’d never craved Marmite before, but now, fifteen weeks gone, she devoured it. We talked about our days, things to get for the baby, now swooping and twisting inside her, and we made plans for the weekend.

 

It didn’t seem different. We kissed goodbye, she drove off. She never came home. The call, the visitors, the funeral, the weeks that passed I can’t remember. Now the bananas she left have rotted in the bowl, turning the rest of the fruit to rum-stink and blackened decay. I should throw them away but she liked how they look and I love her.

 

 

 

 

Life On The Edge by Rosie Bamford

[Aylesbury, Buckinghamshire]

 

Chattering, always the chattering. Nothing but incessant taunts that become ever noisier and more twisted. They wind through my mind like a snake charmed from its basket, viewing the world with narrowed eyes. What do you want with me? Rational thought is allowed no entry, but I still perceive, through a veil, that it exists. I have planned this and set my alarm, but there was no need, I did not sleep. It is a clear and frosty night in the dog-end of the year. I am ready yet not ready to do this. I inhabit a dense fog, pierced by a single headlight. I hold no identity; I am only one throwaway person.

 

I climb with an agility borne of desperation onto the sloped roof, where I sit on the apex rimed with frost. I just need to let go. That is all. End. I feel a weary acceptance, I have shut out the cold, all is numb. Does it matter if I live or die? The stars above are bright shiny, but too late to offer any salvation, they instead fade into darkness. The chattering resumes, what do you want with me? The impatience of my anguish both fuels and scares me.

 

A hesitation. Is the end really going to be better than this rapid torture of my mind? Which way will the dice fall? I drag my hand repeatedly across the rough edge of the roof, the physical pain grounds me. I feel calmer as pain that is riddled within manifests itself for real. I feel nothing, but watch, fascinated, as my blood drops redly. It is but a commonplace weapon that shreds the flesh and leaves the spirit untouched.

 

You call out to me. A steely jolt of shock. I am a contradiction, relieved yet defiant. Look at me, see my pain. But, no, don’t. Please go away. I hear the clean sounding snap of reality. The spell has broken. I climb down slowly and carefully, as if I were precious. You help me with gentle hands. The possibility of some other future edges nearer as I reach the ground. I find myself cold and shiver, accepting the undeserved blanket around my shoulders.

 

Now I am wondering if I can be saved, breathing in the deprivation of my freedom to act otherwise. I did not want to return home but find myself here and in chains. The brutal cold edge of my existence lets itself in, chasing my dreams of escape around the bend and away out of reach.

 

You promised peace of mind, but all I get is weary acceptance, limping from one minute to the next. The business of being alive is so wearing. The treacherous beating of my heart. The afflicted beauty of my words is the only lasting testimony to my hopelessness. All else is out of sight except the ugly scars bearing witness to that night.  There is something enticing about that roof and it glitters in my memory even now.

 

 

 

Sweet Victory by Glen Donaldson

[Brisbane, Australia]

                                                             

Backed into a cramped and dark corner, Prince Citrus was left with no choice but to fight. This foretold dance of destruction would pit him finally against his most hated enemy - the wild, dagger-toothed beast known as Paw Paw. Ferocious and bloody, only one of them would be left standing at the end.

 

the pacing predator did not know however, was that the deadly weapon the crowned Prince would use to bring death this very day, lay on the kitchen benchtop in plain sight of both of them. The ordinary looking fruit bowl filled with a freshly-picked selection of the best nature could offer cleverly disguised an array of deadly hidden weapons.

 

Using nothing but the focussed power of his mind, young Prince Citrus commanded a banana to first slowly levitate from the bowl, then magically peel itself on three sides mid-air. Paw Paw, building menace and hatred with every panting breath, stared transfixed as the yellow fruit then hurled itself at lightning speed across the room and directly into its unblinking eyes.

Splat! Blinded by sticky, gooey banana, the quick-thinking Prince then struck his next blow. This time it was the razor-sharp spine leaves of the pineapple that found their target, embedded at his command into the body of the blinded, yelping beast, piercing its fur-covered skin like a hundred tiny knives.

 

Writhing in pain, Paw Paw fell to one knee, blood trickling from dozens of gaping puncture holes, eventually collapsing breathless and defeated on the floor.  

 

To finish him off, Prince Citrus, head titled back and walking with wide steps, approached the granite benchtop one final time. A huge watermelon lay next to the now half-emptied fruit bowl. He clutched it with both muscular hands, approaching the almost lifeless body of the once mighty and feared four-legged Paw Paw.

 

Raising the basketball-sized mega-fruit above his head and then pausing for a moment to take in what was about to happen, with all his princely strength he brought it calamitously crashing down on the skull of the defeated beast.

 

The fight was over. Conquest had come swiftly, more swiftly than he might have imagined. The now almost empty fruit bowl would need restocking to be sure, but that was a job awaiting one of the Prince’s loyal servants on their next visit to the markets.

 

 

 

 

Going by Jack Roe

[Hull, East Yorkshire, England]

 

Rose spent days trudging around her two-up two-down house, cramming stuff into tattered cases. The bump did not help. She struggled to bend down and had to waddle across the stone yard every ten minutes to wee. She cleaned the house too. Top to bottom. If a bomb hit it, those rifling through the rubble would know she was not a tramp.

     The next morning, Rose got up early. It was still dark and cold drifted through the window. Frank was in bed, snoring like a bulldog. Carefully, she curled her hair and did her makeup by the dim lamplight. Eye shadow, mascara, lipstick. She wanted to look like the star of a Hollywood film.

 

     At daybreak, the sun hid behind glum clouds. Mist swept across the terrace and hovered above the cobbles. Rose slipped into a floral dress and watched Frank wake up, slick back his hair and put on his new uniform. Khaki suited him. She went and kissed his clean-shaven face. The smell of Brylcreem lingered as he held her.

     After breakfast, Anne stepped outside and felt the morning’s nip. Frank locked up and grabbed her case. They set off, dodging flapping washing that was strung across their street like bunting. When they turned into Albion Street, a line of packed buses whizzed passed them. Rose clutched Frank’s free hand; she would not let go until she had to. In town, hordes of boys and girls, wearing their Sunday best, walked in front of them next to women who pushed large prams. Everyone headed the same way. 

 

     Paragon station was frenetic. It sounded like a rugby match. A full house at The Boulevard for derby day. Kids, mams, dads, nurses, teachers, and soldiers were everywhere. Rose and Frank shuffled around hundreds of women in headscarves saying goodbye to their bairns. Some kids cried. Some bounced around. Some followed adults like ducklings.

     Smoke billowed from the train as it pulled in. The ground shook. 

     “Write as soon as you get there,” Frank said.

     “I will. Write straight back. I need to know you’re safe,” Rose replied.

     “I’ll be fine. I won’t be the one shovelling pig shit.”

     She laughed and kissed him. He tasted sweet. He rested his hand on her bump. His fingers curled around it. Rose looked up at him.

     “I wish you could be there when the baby comes.”

     “It’ll all be over soon. Promise.”

     The yell of a whistle ripped them apart. Frank handed her the case.

     Rose nestled herself in the corner of a carriage, already filled with rowdy kids. The smell of penny sweets sickened her.

 

     As the train pulled away, young ones stuck their heads out of windows. They cheered and waved like they were going on holiday. Rose sat and cradled her bump; she watched a sea of waving hands try to drown her husband. As the train picked up speed and started chugging away, he got smaller and smaller. Then, he vanished from sight.

 

 

 

 

Mishu And Me by J D Clapp

[San Diego, California]

 

Mishu and I hurl stones at the dead seagull churning atop confused little waves. The sky pulsates blood orange. Rain drops dance on the surface among the ghosts of dead fish. Mishu wears green rubber boots and yellow rain slicker.

 

     “You need boots and coat, or you’ll catch cold,” she tells me.

 

     Even with the dead bird just bobbing we can’t hit it.

     

     Mishu doesn’t see the black fish swimming below the dead gull.

 

     We race to Mishu’s father’s boat way down the dock. Mishu says she won after I was already there.

 

     Mishu’s dad fishes when the seas are calm, and the sun is warm. I want to fish like him when I grow up, but he doesn’t talk to me.

 

     Her father smokes a cigarette. Mishu pretends to smoke; her breath makes a cloud in the cold air.

 

     Mishu says, “I need pieces of rope for my school art project.”

 

     Mishu picks up one more piece of rope from the deck of the boat. She kicks the coiled dock line and then stands on a folded black net to see if she can see the dead bird. Mishu shrugs.

 

     She ignores me.

 

     “That’s enough rope for me.”

 

     She needs to go home to do homework. She asks if I have homework. I shake my head, no.

 

     “You never have homework,” she says. 

 

     She seems mad.

 

     “What do you want to do tomorrow?" I ask.

 

     Mishu is silent and looks down. 

 

     Finally, she says, “I can’t come tomorrow. My mom is having a new baby.”

 

     “Ok. Can you come the next day?” I ask.

 

     “My mom says I can’t play with you anymore, so you can rest.”

 

     I don’t know what Mishu means.

 

     She turns and leaves me on the dock. She doesn’t wave or say goodbye.

 

     I call for her, but she ignores me. I am very sad. 

 

                                                                                                           ###

 

We met in a park. Mishu was with her mommy who was sad about Mishu’s brother. Mishu was sad too, but mostly because her mommy was sad.

 

     Birds were screaming when I met Mishu. The sky flashed red and blue. It got dark when Mishu went home. But I don’t remember nights.

                                                                                                           ###

 

I am back at the park where I first met Mishu. She is not here now. A different little girl is swinging on the swing set. She is swinging high and the chains rattle and make a little jump when her feet reach for the clouds. The clouds are sunny clouds, puffy, white, dancing. 

 

     The girl’s mommy is angry.

 

     “Can I swing too?”

 

     They ignore me.

 

     “Be Careful Emily! Not so high. You’ll fall and break your neck!”

 

     Emily laughed. 

 

     “Remember that little boy who fell off the monkey bars last year? He went too high!”

 

     “Sorry Mommy.”

 

     Emily slowed down.

 

     I felt bad for the little boy who died. It is getting dark.

 

     I hope I see Mishu soon.

Go Blow by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

He would have said how the fuck could they make a trumpet out of plastic and have come forth out of it with such beautiful sounds. Sounds like he heard his father play on his brass trumpet. But Gabriel was only four years of age when he got it and didn’t know yet what plastic was.

Gabe’s mother and father were always fighting. With her doing most of the fighting and him doing most of the ignoring. She was jealous of his trumpet, which he played all the time.

Gabe would listen to his father play in the next room and play along with him from his room.

That duo would harmonize until mom started hitting dad and if Gabe was still playing after a few smacks at dad, she would go into his room and smack on him.

By that time dad would start playing his horn again and she would leave Gabe and go back to dad and start in again on him where she left off.

Gabe kept playing too.

His horn sounds banished the bad ones.

 

Gabe’s dad died when Gabe was thirteen.

Gabe figured he died because he wanted to.

Death couldn’t be worse than living with ma and dad’s horn could no longer quiet the bad sounds like Gabe’s was still doing.

After the funeral Gabe took his fathers horn and then took a powder.

Gabe and his horn ran away together.

 

Gabe found work at a golf course as a caddy.

He always had his eye on the ball and now he was finding them.

 

He wrote his first piece around those times waiting to be called to carry golf bags in the caddy shack where he could just hold his forever horn in his lap and not play it.

Just think it.

He called it, ‘Please Accept My Love’.

It was a beautiful begging haunting yet friendly piece.

When he played it was as if he was born with a horn that would forever work and rest in his chest.

Mouthpiece pointing up to lip with the horn pointing down to his heart.

When he played, what was listened to, would stick to the ribs, and then some.

 

At days end he would pretend to be on his way to his, “Home”, that he would describe to others as a nice big house surrounded by big trees that he shared with his, “Brothers and sisters”, and it had a nice front and backyard that was as green as the golf course fairways he would carry and compose on.

He would leave a window unlocked in the caddy shack and hide in the woods until everyone left and thru the window he would go to his, ‘Home’, and sleep, eat, wash and stay there until early morn where he would slip back out the window and  into the woods and wait until they opened and go back pretending he was just was showing up at work.

A lot of his wardrobe comprised of shirts and sweaters that were left forgotten on the fairways and such and end up in the caddy shacks lost and found department.

Never found pants, but blue jeans are forever.

He knew he was lost and hoped one day to be found.

When asked why he wasn’t in school, he said he was, ‘Home’ schooled.

Well ain’t that the truth. He played his song, “Please Accept My Love”, to one of the members of the club that noticed his forever with him horn and when the music ended the club owner asked what it was called and who wrote it.

When he heard the title and the name of the author, he teared up and threw down a twenty to Gabe.

Then he asked Gabe a lot of questions.

It did not take him long to unfold the folded-up truths regarding this young man’s circumstances.

He said, “You three are coming home with me tonight.”

When Gabe asked who the other two were he was told, “Your horn and my sweater.”

 

 

The Chair by James Strother

[St Albans, England]

 

I’ll be gone soon. Not long now. Unwanted, flotsam or jetsam, though I think that’s a seafaring analogy, not really one for the parish hall. What have I done with my life? Been sat upon, I suppose, that seems to sum it up. Always playing a supporting part, drab and functional, never standing out. Just being there, performing my useful, essential even, but near as dammit invisible role.

 

Still it’s been a varied half century in its way. Monthly meetings every one of those years. In the office behind the big desk mostly, phone ringing, papers shuffling, Josie dropping in from the kitchen alternate Fridays with tea and cake when the Mothers’ Union was still a thing. Special occasions were all right, pushed up to the front row next to the seat for some local dignitary or other. The pantomime was the best one, all them excited kids, some of the parents even more so, yelling, applauding, egging on the baddies. I’ve been a bit wobbly these last few years so they moved me to the side, said they didn’t want a broken leg to sort out. Fair enough really.

 

I can feel it coming now. Legs, back, everything creaking, disintegrating inside, I shouldn’t wonder. I heard Jo Patterson just the other day, must have forgotten I was there, or like them all she assumes I can’t hear. ‘Needs replacing’, she said, ‘nowt lasts forever’. Doubt she knows the truth or she’d have been more careful with her words. She’s right though, not hard to find another one of me, and no one’ll think about me five minutes after I’ve been sent to the knacker’s yard. Plenty more identikit workhorses where I come from.

 

First Saturday in April, start of the youngsters’ football season. More excitement in one day than in all my time. A kid brought his ball inside where he had no right to be, kicked it across the hall to where the admin desk was for the first match against Greater Marston. Over I went, crash, felt something cracked, I heard it too. Everyone rushed round and for once, just for a moment, I was right at the centre of what was going on. Then they cleared the room and there was just me and Bob the caretaker, me lying on the floor waiting to be cleared away like so much rubbish.

 

The ambulance comes quickly, I suppose they told them I’m frail and in my eighties. As we leave, I see Bob from the corner of my eye, lifting up my old chair, that faithful friend since the old Queen’s coronation. One leg’s bent into an impossible position, just like mine. Funny it doesn’t really hurt, maybe the shock or something. Ah well, there’s some sort of…synchronicity here, is that the word? I won’t be back, this is it for me, for my chair as well I guess. I hope they miss us but I bet they don’t.

 

 

 

 

Crazy Driver by JD Clapp

[San Diego, California]

 

Bing bang, wang tang, tutti fruity, kiss my booty. Caught in no man’s land, the light turned yellow. Walter had only gotten to tutti fruity.

 

      The rules were clear; he could only stop once he completed the rhyme. Knuckles white, beads of perspiration on face, his blue oxford shirt rumpled, stained with the remnants of a Big Mac and pitted, Walter floored his 2009 Prius.

 

     The light went red when Walter was a few feet from the crosswalk entering the intersection. College Avenue was busy that afternoon. As the little humanoid figure on the walk signal flashed white, five college students stepped off the curb, ten eyes glued to tiny phone screens. Walter missed them by a foot as he flew through the intersection. The kid zooming on the one-wheel in the crosswalk on the backside of the intersection was not so lucky.

 

     Walter was doing about 45 mph. The impact of the collision sent the kid hurling over the Prius before landing and bouncing a few times, limbs flying in unnatural directions. Walter kept driving.

 

     Bing bang, wang tang, tutti fruity, kiss my booty. Walter timed the rhyme perfectly and stopped at the next red light.

 

     “Sorry about that. I think that kid will be fine,” Walter said.

 

     The corpse of the elderly woman in the backseat did not answer. Her sick cat, however, howled in disbelief from its carrier.

 

     The light turned green. Walter speed up to 27 miles per hour, the sweet spot. Bing bang, wang tang, tutti fruity, kiss my booty. The light went yellow. Rules were rules.

 

      The old woman in the wheelchair was hidden behind a US mailbox. It wouldn’t have mattered. Bing bang, wang tang, tutti fruity, kiss my…BAM!!

      

     “Rules are rules,” Walter said as he drove on.

           

     When Walter finally turned right on College Avenue, red and blue flashers lit the street. Several police cruisers and an ambulance blocked all but one lane. Walter took no notice. Bing bang, wang tang, tutti fruity, kiss my booty. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Traffic was dead stopped.

   

     “Say it with me Scruffy!”

 

      The cat did not reply.

           

     Eventually the police directed cars through five at a time, alternating directions of traffic.

Walter eventually got to the accident.

           

      “It’s the car!”

           

     “That’s him!”

 

     The officer, hearing the cries, and noticing blood on the hood, stepped in front of Walter’s car. Other officers approached.

           

     “Turn off the engine and place both hands out your driver’s side window!”

 

     Walter ignored the command. When he got to booty, he floored it. Rules were rules.

           

     The police officer tumbled over the Primus hood and landed hard. Ahead another police cruiser backed across the lane. Walter slammed into it, then the motor cut out.

           

      Walter laid on the ground in cuffs. He politely answered questions.

           

     Eventually, the officers helped Walter to his feet and lead him toward a waiting police van. Walking again Walter began his chant.

 

     Bing bang, wang tang, tutti fruity, kiss my booty.

 

     Rules were rules after all.

 

 

 

 

Things In Pairs by Pete Prokesch

[Watertown, Massachusetts, USA]

 

After I pushed Mom in the kitchen she slipped on the slick mopped floor and hit her head on the corner of the counter and lay still and I thought it would be a good time to climb the tree out back because it was autumn and the pears were ripe and the squirrels never scattered when I was up there and never looked at me like they knew what I was thinking because squirrels know what to do when a squirrel dies and they don’t make a big deal about it and call their dad at work who said to only call him in case of emergencies and surely this was one but what if it wasn’t and you were overreacting like the time a ripe pear fell on the dog shit under the tree and you called him and he yelled but surely this was different but how different was it so I climbed the tree and didn’t come down until the lights from the siren stopped filtering through the leaves and the sun set and it was pleasant and cool so I went inside and I like things in pairs so I grabbed the knife from the counter next to the sink and snuck into the bedroom and killed Dad too.

 

 

 

 

Chengu by Balu Swami

[Buckeye, Phoenix AZ, USA]

 

I was 22 when I published my first novel. I’ve published seventeen more since – one every two years. Whenever I was asked about my “prolific” output, I gave them my usual spiel about discipline, dedication, persistence and perseverance. I would tell them about the restless hours of night-time creativity, the daily regimen I followed, and my devotion to the task of creating good literature.

All that is a fucking lie. Ideas and even words came to me in my dreams. I used the app “Greyish” to record my dreams. I also woke up at odd hours at night and dictated a story based on whatever dream I saw. In the morning, I would print the dictated story which would turn out to be a jumble of words that made no sense. I would then watch the recorded dream. After watching the images, the jumble of words would start to make some sort of sense. Then I would start to write but would have no control over how the story took shape or what words poured out of the keyboard.  A voice in my head would dictate and I would transcribe. By the end of the morning, I would have 20 pages of ‘literary stuff’.  Other writers may claim to work like a man possessed. I am possessed; therefore, I write.

Here's how my product evolved from last night’s dream.  First, the dictated story:

“Hated boy. xxx constant stench of urine xxx. An animal walking on water xxx. singing in a loud voice xxx. Offerings and tributes xxx.”

 

Here is the final product:

 

'Chengu was a hated boy. Orphaned at a young age, he lived on the periphery of the village subsisting on whatever food the priest left for him outside the temple walls. Most people tried to avoid any contact with him. Kids his age ostracized him. He had a constant stench of urine about him. There was a swarm of flies wherever he went. He had gooey eyes and runny nose. The tuft of hair on his head was matted. Nobody had heard him say a word. It was assumed he was deaf and dumb. Thus, did he live the first twelve years of his life.

 

All that changed one early morning. Chengu was sitting on the banks of the river waiting for the sun to come up. Just as the sky was turning translucent, he saw an image rise from the water. He rubbed his eyes and peered. An animal seemed to be walking on the surface of the water carrying a majestic being on his back. The animal and the being started heading towards him. Frightened, he started to get up and run. But his legs would not move. He felt like he was no longer in control of his body. As his vision became clearer, he could see that the animal was a tiger, and the rider was the multi-armed goddess whose image he had seen carved on the temple walls. The goddess dismounted the tiger and extended one of her arms that held a trident. Chengu involuntarily opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. The goddess scratched the tongue with the trident. A shudder went through Chengu’s body, and he felt transformed into a different being. As he was becoming conscious of what was happening to him, the image of the goddess and the tiger slowly melted into the morning mist.

 

Chengu took a dip in the river. As the sun rose, he could see his image in the water: The matted hair had turned smooth and silky, the stench about him was gone, his visage was that of a learned young man, not the village dolt. He walked towards the trees that marked the shoreline. He sat under a large oak, and it was at that moment that words came to him. He started singing in a loud voice reciting stories about kings and queens, gods and goddesses, scholars and scoundrels.

 

Villagers heard his voice and came to him. They realized that the despised Chengu had become the blessed one and they honored him with gifts, offerings and tributes. They made a platform in the temple courtyard from where he regaled the old and young every evening with stories and songs from the ancient past.'

 

You may want to know how I fashion a cogent novel from disparate and disjointed dreams. That is where the magic of magical realism comes in. I am not going to give too much of my craft away. You are going to have to read my next novel to see where last night’s dream story fits in.

 

 

 

 

Four Stories by David Patten

[Denver, USA]

 

 

Golan Heights

It takes a moment for the brain to properly process that it’s hearing gunfire.  But the repeated sharp cracks and urgent shouts in Hebrew confirmed there was a situation.  Connor and Craig were waiting by the main entrance for a ride to the local store.  An Israeli, middle-aged with greying hair ran into view.  He knelt and fired off his Uzi in the direction he’d come.  The settlement came alive with the sounds of combat, Israelis responding to unseen assailants.  Craig took off running through the main gate.  Momentarily rooted, Connor followed.

         

     Some fifty yards up ahead Craig hurdled a low fence topped with barbed wire.  No time for prudence.  Connor followed suit, the wire slashing at his ankles.  The gunfire behind them was intensifying.  Then an angry flash and a loud, abrupt explosion.  Clumps of earth falling around Connor.  Craig’s heaped body, unmoving.  A landmine.  A voice.  Connor turned toward it.  The Israeli with the grey hair was standing the other side of the fence, weapon held across his body.  Come back, he said, but slow.  Go slow.  Shaking, Connor locked him with his eyes and took the first step.

 

 

 

Serengeti

The darkness was profound, impenetrable.  The disabled van cast adrift, interior lights on, headlamps launching long arrows into the engulfing night.  Chitundu was bent over the engine, wrench in hand, Matt next to him holding aloft a flashlight.

         

     The van had turned off the main road onto a bumpy dirt path that would eventually lead to the isolated lodge.  About an hour in with the dusk fast ebbing away the van slowed, stuttered, and then quit.  Almost immediately, the mood in the vehicle fell into an uneasy vigilance.

         

     Katie swiped open her phone.  No service.  She turned toward the handful of seniors in the back.  They looked distracted, worried, eyes scanning the edges of where the van’s light bled into the blackness.  One of the women caught Katie’s eye, managing a weak smile. 

         

     Shortly after the engine had died, Chitundu’s radio followed suit in a blaze of static.  Now he was getting the distress flare primed.  “Be careful,” cautioned Matt, “don’t go too far from the van.”  They all gathered at the windshield and watched as Chitundu steadied himself and tugged the cord downward, sending the flare rocketing into the night.  Its slow descent revealed what had remained unspoken: they were being stalked.

 

 

 

The Kiss

Vienna is in bloom.  Like most European cities, the Austrian capital shakes off winter in a riot of color and fragrance.  Heavy clothing discarded, people stroll the wide streets in contentment.  Sidewalk cafes bustle.  Boys, fingers blackened by newsprint, call out, caps pushed back and shirtsleeves rolled high.  A gentle breeze stirs, its breath full of warmth and optimism.

         

     A fashion designer, senses always tuned to aesthetics, Emilie stoops to admire daffodils circling the base of a young tree.  Spring is her favorite season.  She carefully plucks one of the flowers and sets it in her dark, bushy hair.  Gustav will appreciate it, she thinks. 

         

     Emilie knows she has sometimes been labeled as Klimt’s muse.  Perhaps that was once true.  But the word belongs to something more fleeting; now the two are established companions, even occasional lovers, their kinship forged in creations of beauty and sensuality.  She turns onto Josefstadte, the imposing red maple a sentinel in front of Gustav’s home.  Approaching the arched, wrought iron gate Emilie adjusts the daffodil in her hair, expectant.

         

     Klimt is standing on the garden path in back of the house facing the cottage that is his studio, windows large and clear for the light.  The garden has a canopy of tall trees, the path bordered by ferns and shrubs.  He is wearing the teal smock that he paints in.  Mid-forties now, a decade Emilie’s senior, he has a full beard, the untamed hair on his head in premature retreat.  He embraces Emilie, kissing both cheeks, touches the daffodil in her hair.  She takes his hands in hers.  “I can’t wait to see your work.” 

         

     Afternoon light bathes the studio.  Palettes, brushes, tubes of pigment, and canvasses occupy the space in no particular order.  An artist’s clutter.  In one corner an easel, a large sheet concealing the finished work.  Emilie looks at Gustav for confirmation.  He nods, gesturing for her to approach it.

         

     Revealed, Emilie steps back, a small gasp escaping her lips.  She regards the painting in silence, eyes consuming all of it.  She glances at Gustav, a look of wonder, and steps closer to the easel.  Radiant in floral golds, purples, reds, greens, a couple caught in an embrace, both loving and sensual; the man cradling her face, kissing a cheek, the woman enraptured.  Beneath their feet a meadow in a mosaic of spring hues.  Klimt stands behind Emilie, hands on her shoulders.  “Is she Athena to her Apollo?”  He smiles at her interpretation.  “No, it’s you Emilie.”  His fingers find her hair.  “It’s us.”

 

 

 

Sheer Drop

Daybreak, water the color of slate.  A lone figure stands in contemplation, close enough to the river that its current splashes over her boots.  This stretch of the Niagara resides in the commonplace, revealing nothing of the chaos up ahead.  Annie steps back up onto the grass, the October dew staining the hem of her dress and petticoats.  She adjusts her matching bonnet which, like her dress, was once the tone of ripe plums, the garments now faded and frayed.  

         

     Farther down river the water quickens, a menace in its energy.  Annie observes it coursing over rocks, dragging reluctant branches.  Then rapids, the river shapeshifting, relentless.  The air resounds, vibrates.  Ahead, the torrent launches itself into the void.  Annie is still, awed by the force of nature, her clothes absorbing the clouds of spray thrown high by the Horseshoe Falls.  Tomorrow, her birthday, she will plunge over the brink in a barrel.

         

     A small crowd has gathered at the launch point, the interest mostly morbid, as few expect Annie to survive.  But this stoic woman in her sixties, widowed since the Civil War, remains confident that prosperity will follow.  She engages with a reporter, offers a brief smile to the photographer.  The large, oak barrel has been lined with thick blankets. Annie climbs through the opening and settles, cushioned.  Resigned to being accomplices to such imprudence, two men in buttoned vests and rolled shirtsleeves toss their cigarettes to the ground and step into a rowboat. 

         

     Untethered, the barrel rolls in the calm stretch of the river.  It appears inert, laden, until the current imposes its will.  Annie’s breaths are shallow, fast, as she braces for the rapids.   They receive her with disdain, muscles of water pounding the sodden oak.  A thunder fills the barrel, invincible.  The energy fractures.  Freefall.  Annie is relaxed, expectant.

 

 

 

The Dressing Gown’s Girlfriend by Lily Annis

[Winchester, England]

 

If I prop myself up in bed, I can see the grass in our garden is painted with frost. I wrap around my girlfriend’s body to conserve heat. During the winter months, I’m more participatory in our relationship. She shivers in the cold morning air, her icy hands clutching at me. We cuddle for a bit, soft material intertwining with hard limbs, and she indulges in this until she has drained my heat. Satisfied, she moves from the bed, numb feet landing on the thin greying carpet. She slips those feet into fluffy slippers and pads out of the room. I stare at the ceiling listlessly. When she returns, she cradles me in her arms; her most precious possession. This is how I know she’s getting worse, although her awareness is clouded with denial. 

 

She paces back and forth in front of the radiator. Her chest wheezes in protest and I wonder if she can hear too. Back and forth. Her heartbeat is as slow as ever, exhausted by existing. Back and forth, back -

 

The Fall. Weakened by strenuous exercise and starvation, her legs buckle and she cannot catch herself. Her chin smacks against the radiator, shattering her front tooth and dislocating her jaw. Her left eye blackens. I fall with her, cascading around her body like blood. She’s unconscious. We lie together, sprawled on the floor, a mess of red and fabric. Please send for help. There is nothing I can do – I’m just a dressing gown.

 

 

 

 

Milk First by Petra Baillie

[West Scotland]

 

“Margaret, what are you doing that for?" asked Johnny, irritated, as he sat in his worn-out armchair with the TV blaring in the background. "Silly old woman," he muttered under his breath.

 

“Well Johnny, I thought that’s how you were meant to do it,” Margaret said back.  “You thought you were meant to put the milk in first, and then the tea? How long have you been making my tea? Fifty years? And you thought the correct way of making it was milk first? Dear, oh dear…”  
 

“Well I didn’t remember now, did I? It hardly matters, I think.” Margaret began a soft giggle. Johnny was not as amused.  
 

“Oh well, we can only do with what the good Lord has given us.” Margaret sighed, drinking her tea, milk first.  
 

“The good Lord has nothing to do with this!” Johnny didn’t lift his gaze from the TV. “Well, actually, maybe He does. What do you think God, surely even You know it’s blasphemy to put the milk in first don’t You?” 
 

“Now now, Johnny.” Margaret raised an eyebrow. 
 

“Oh, sorry. What’s that I hear?” Johnny held his hand to his ear as though to hear the faint whisperings of the good Lord himself.  “Oh, Margaret. You’re never going believe what He just told me! Putting the milk in first is in fact a cardinal sin and there’s a great chance you’re going to hell for it. Oh dear, oh dear…” Johnny sniggered a little before settling his hand back to the TV remote.  


“Hell or sin is nothing to joke about, Johnny.” Margaret was stern. Johnny was headed for hell anyway since he was never a believer the whole time Margaret had known him. “Besides, I think there are much greater things to worry about in the world. Children not even having one meal a day, people in this country being trafficked, terrorism, for God’s sake!” 
 

“Oh. Was that the Lord’s name in vain? That’s one ticket to hell.” Johnny pretended to check a piece of paper floating in the air.  
 

“Ugh, I hardly think He would be bothered by that…”  
 

“Oh, now now Margaret. You can’t pick and choose from the Bible.” Johnny changed the channel to the news.  
 

Breaking news: “It has now been declared by Pope Constantine the Second that putting the milk in tea first is in fact a sin. This will change the way we all have elevensies. Back to you in the studio.” 
 

Johnny smirked and Margaret poured out the tea, reached for her rosary beads and started reciting Hail Marys.   
 

“Silly old woman.” Johnny sipped his sinful tea.  

 

 

 

 

Whoops! by Jill Swale

[Winnersh, Berkshire, England]

 

It was probably worrying about her daughter that led to the first mistake. It was bad enough contemplating the dangers two eighteen year old girls might encounter on their round the world jaunt. It was even worse to read the email saying that Becky’s travelling companion had decided to rescue bears in Romania instead, leaving her alone in China. Then silence for ten days.

 

That was probably why Clare so readily gave her bank card details in response to the email saying she owed an extra £3 before her package could be delivered. It took half the morning cancelling the card and reporting the scam.

 

No longer able to do the planned big shop, instead she sorted out her winter clothes, one bag of best ones to store in the loft now the weather was improving, another bag of tattier garments for charity.

 

Turning her car after making the donation, she had to sound her horn as a vehicle started backing into her. It kept on coming so instinctively she reversed too.

 

Crash! For a moment Clare couldn’t work out why all she could see out of her rear window was a wall of white, then she realised she had backed into a parked Iceland van. After supplying her insurance details, she had to leave her own car at the local garage; its boot was too badly damaged to open.

 

Walking the rest of the way home, still feeling wobbly, she wondered if things could get any worse. But where was her door key? It was in a bag in the scrunched up car boot.

 

She was pleased she had hidden a spare key in a jam jar under a garden bush years ago, but found the lid had rusted on. Only by throwing it at the wall was she able to eventually break the glass. Then the key was too rusty to turn.

 

In one respect her absent mindedness paid off. Her neighbour fetched a stepladder and his skinny son was able to climb in through the kitchen window she had failed to close and let her in the front door. It was a shame that he had kicked her favourite teapot off the draining board in the process, because she needed a cup of tea after all this.

 

Stress was making her feel chilly so she went to retrieve one of the cosy winter jumpers about to be stored in the loft. I must have missed this one intended for charity, she thought, and this one. Only when she had upturned the bag on the floor did she realise her mistake. The charity shop had received all her best clothes, leaving her with the moth-eaten ones.

 

After that the cat was sick and she burned the dinner. Then the doorbell rang.

 

‘What now?’ she shouted in exasperation.

 

On the doorstep stood her daughter, Becky, with an enormous backpack.

 

‘Surprise!’ she grinned.

 

‘This is the best day of my life!’ replied Clare.

 

 

 

 

Imposter by Anna-Roisin Ullman-Smith

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

It may be one of the most well-known syndromes of the current age, ‘impostor syndrome’; all these successful people out there saying, “Oh I suffer from major impostor syndrome. I mean who can actually believe it. Little old me being this famous!”

Meanwhile no one talks about people like me. Suffering debilitating insomnia and a constant thrum of impostor syndrome. Unlike the successful impostors of the world, no one knows of my suffering. Unlike them, I am not an impostor of greatness, but one of flat, abject failure.

 

The woe of being a golden child. Friends, family, teachers, tutors, myself, all full-heartedly believing that by the age of 25 I’d be doing something great. Something world-changing. Something of worth.

 

Now, too close to 30 for comfort, I feel like I am impersonating the life of a school dropout. I’m caught in a web of disbelief. This cannot, surely, be the life of the promising young Elliot. As a teenager I knew, deep in my bones I knew, that I would be successful. What happened to those goals? To that ambition?

 

What awful fate struck the young Elliot to get me here? Wasting away, barely leaving the house, driven to panic by the thought of a mere phone call.

 

Of course, I know what befell that young Elliot because I lived it. The crippling reality of stepping out of a top academic record and into a world which didn’t care. A world where my peers who had spent their time working after school instead of studying, as I did, were seen as qualified for real jobs, whilst I was an academic, useless to the real-world stage. Any position my many qualifications could get me still required the horror of an unpaid internship to be carved into my C.V. in black ink. The fact that working full-time without pay is impossible for all of us not privileged enough to come from money was of no consideration to the big-wigs, who stood empowered to make or break my life.

 

A few bad, low end, poorly paid jobs later and the young Elliot was no longer young. No longer blazingly confident. No longer passionate. Thus began the syndrome. Creeping in through the cracks of my life. My idea of who I am put steadfast against the reality of my current position in the world.

 

In my mind I am talented, bursting with qualifications and academic experience hard won through years of painstaking work, set into the world to do something great. In the cold, grey, embrace of reality I am twice fired, unemployed, living of the dregs of social welfare funding with absolutely no opportunities and no experienced skillset. An impostor of my own making. Unseen and unheard because I am not what I always thought I was meant to be.

 

In this reality, the closest I have gotten to the success I thought I would have, is to feel as much of an impostor as the rich and famous.

 

 

 

 

Ophelia by Winifred Powell

 

She brushed past me in that narrow space at the back of the stage, heading towards the wings and her final entrance. I clenched my fists; I was Ophelia, I should have been lying in that punt, dying for love of the best lead we’d had in years. I stood there busy with my thoughts as Will’s tragedy played out in front of the usual audience of schools “doing” the play for their summer exams, and retirees having a matinee before catching the train back out of town.

 

I had a sudden thought and without stopping to consider, ran round and quietly lifted the bottom edge of the backdrop. I reached into the punt and slid the bolt. Ophelia was taking an unconscionable time to die but the moment came when she gracefully reclined, mad and passionate, but finally dead. Only she didn’t go quietly. Amongst a crack and a splintering of wood, the punt gave up the attempt to defy gravity and Ophelia disappeared in a welter of limbs and chip-board down the trap-door. The audience woke from its lunch-induced coma with a gasp, giggles and hesitant applause. This faded to a deafening silence as our leading man strode centre-stage. What cue was he going to use now?

 

 

 

 

The Machines by Stephen Page

[from Detroit USA, now splitting his time between Buenos Aires and Mandonado, Uruguay]

 

I wake up, prepare coffee, and carry a cup to my home office. I try to start working. Nothing. I open the curtains on the window. Cloudy. I turn on the computer to check the weather. Cool, but not cold. 

            

     Today my weight-resistant machine and my stationary bike should arrive. They should fill the void my black leather nap/reading couch once occupied. A Sager once came to our home and said something bad happened on that couch. I looked at the floor when she said that.

           

     I will miss my couch, but my office now feels clean of bad energy. 

 

     I listen to the birds singing outside my office.

 

 

 

 

Shelf by Muhammed Bin Ashraf

[Kerala, India]

 

Once upon a time there was a little shelf named Sally. Sally lived in a cosy room in a pretty little house. It was built of solid wood and had three floors, each slightly smaller than the one below. Sally was proud of her simple, but sturdy design and she was very proud of the items she displayed on her shelves.

Sally kept a collection of trinkets and treasures collected by the family who lived in the house. There were picture frames with family photos, a vase of fresh flowers and a collection of books. Each item had a special meaning and helped tell the story of the family that lived there.

One day a new family moved into the house. They were very busy, always in a hurry and didn't pay much attention to Sally at first. But as they settled into their new home, they began to appreciate the charm and character Sally brought to the space.

The new family added their own items to Sally's shelves. They put up a clock that chimed on the hour, a colourful lamp that gave warm light in the evening, and a collection of crystals that sparkled in the sun. Sally was thrilled to have new friends and happy to be part of their lives.

The years passed and the family grew and changed. Children were born and they added their toys and games to Sally's shelves. As the years went by, Sally's shelves became more and more crowded and she felt a little overwhelmed. But she didn't mind, because she was still the heart of the house and the family loved her just the way she was.

And so Sally remained a constant presence in the family's lives, always there to preserve their treasures and remind them of the memories they had made. She was more than a simple shelf; she was part of the family history and the family would always cherish her.

 

 

 

 

The Gardener’s Sweet Tooth by George Smith

[Worcestershire, England]

 

He has quite a record of achievement. I’m talking about Raymond, our gardener. He was in the news for a while but that all came to an abrupt end. Let me tell you about it.

It was Tessa who started it. She keeps her garden immaculately. Complained about our weeds killing her flowers and our branches pummelling her fence. Sylvia and I knew we had let things go a bit because of our new hobby, hill walking. So to keep her sweet we put the word out for a gardener.    

When he first appeared he was riding a bicycle that pulled a trailer with long garden tools poking out. It was a strange sight. Raymond was tall, stick-thin, hollow-cheeked, pallid and thirtyish. He did not look as if he had enough stamina to dig up a daisy.

Sylvia got him started on weeding and pruning. He worked steadily and we saw good results from his efforts so we asked him to come weekly on Thursdays. The garden is so large there is plenty to do and we were pleased to shed a time-consuming chore. Tessa said she was delighted as well.

It took time to get to know him for he said little about himself or anything else. Quietly spoken and polite, he wore army fatigues, a bobble hat and old army boots. But he  never smiled.

Sylvia’s offered him tea and biscuits at eleven o’clock. He drank the tea but left the digestive biscuits. The following week she offered him tea biscuits. They were ignored too. She felt he was malnourished so next offered him all butter shortbread. He scoffed the lot and it loosened his tongue.

He was orphaned as child, put in a children’s home then joined the army but soon left because of the spit and polish. He had worked in a variety of manual jobs before he settled for gardening because he enjoyed working outdoors. He was single, lived in a bed sitting room and cooked with a microwave oven. He said he struggled to live on his earnings.

Sylvia loves baking and out of concern for Raymond’s well-being she made pastries for him. He was happy to gobble them up although shortbread remained his favourite. Indeed, he learned of a shortbread eating contest in Aviemore and entered. The contestant who ate the most shortbread in three minutes was the winner. It was Raymond and he scooped several thousand pounds in prize money.    

Flushed by his success, Raymond learned about other sweetmeat eating contests. He entered competitions for marshmallows, fudge and chocolate truffles. Some were abroad, such as Portuguese custard tarts in Lisbon and apple strudel in Vienna. He won enough prize money to give up gardening. Got himself a long-term girl-friend at one contest. But before long he entered a peanut brittle eating contest in New Orleans. Four teeth were broken off and he lost the contest. Hence, he gave up competing and became our gardener again. He smiles now.         

 

 

 

 

Twelve (Surely?) by Dil Sher

[Birmingham, England]

 

Linoleum tiles. Linoleum tiles. Linoleum. Linoleum means lino. Lino. Rubber on the floor. Red lino with wood panels underneath. Lino now but tiles back then. Tiles or linoleum. Ceramic tiles. Ceramic tiles back then. Yeah, faded yellow tiles with black grout.

 

The glass fell from the counter. It just fell. It fell because it might have been me. It might have been my elbow as I turned around. It was my elbow as I turned around and stood up. I’d knocked it and it fell to the floor. It hit the tiles. Of course, it hit the tiles.

 

It fell to the floor and shattered. I’d struck the final blow. She screamed. She was hysterical. Said I’d done it on purpose. Asked what was wrong with me and if I was stupid. Called me an idiot. Idiot was what she called me. Other names apart from idiot. What were the other names apart from idiot? I don’t remember. I don’t. I was arrogant and selfish. Selfish and arrogant. This is what I always do. This is how I’d turn out and how I’d remain.

 

It was an accident. It wasn’t my fault and it had just happened. I was sorry. She shouted more. It hurt my heart when she shouted. She shouted more and said that I never accept blame. Said it wasn’t in me to accept blame.

 

I’m being punished for accidental damage. I thought I wouldn’t give her an explanation. Don’t do that. Never justify. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong, man. Don’t do that. Not with her, you don’t do that with her. Shatter. The glass will always shatter at that speed and from that height. Surely?

 

No use in justification. Not here. Not ever. Retreat. My only move was retreat. Her eyes ablaze. The demon unleashed. A frightening creature. Was I frightened? Probably. Most probably. I took solace in my room. I didn’t cry. There was no need to cry. I walked towards the window and stared at the street below. What was the use in crying? The sky was crying for me. Huh? The sky was crying. Sky was upset. Always upset where we lived. Always seemed to be upset. Don’t know why but sky was always crying.

 

Droplets on glass obscured my view of the pedestrians walking to and fro. I began to count the droplets. Maybe if I counted the droplets, I’d get an answer. The total number of droplets would give me a sign of what to do. Droplets always replaced by new ones. Fresh ones. So I had to keep starting over. Over and over. Annoying. Turned into a game for me. One of those games. I couldn’t stop counting.

 

The most I got to was twelve.

 

 

 

3 Stories by Mary Anne Mc Enery

[The Hague, The Netherlands]

 

Blood Moon

 

I am an abandoned house at the edge of the forest.

 

I was restored as the youth community centre. There was a welcome blaze from the fire where we toasted marshmallows and roasted potatoes in wedges on long two-pronged forks. There were singsongs and clapping, belly dancing, and laughing. A buttercup yellow reading room, where we drank a cup or two of poetry with each new season, and a fine snooker table, felt green with hardwood edging. The kitchen smelt of fruit scones and sparkled with rosy freckled cheeks. I watched my darlings steal kisses in shady corners. They giggled and separated when I rattled a door-nob. Promising voices filled my rooms, and echoed in the dusky glades where they played late under lush summer branches lit by fireflies and harvest moons. Those were carefree yearning years.

A policeman visited and informed us about vagrants who camped in the woods. He advised the young people to cycle home in groups. “Stay together, and be vigilant. Look out for one another” he said. But the young are invincible and took risks.

My lean coltish Naomi, on the cusp of womanhood, loved to write poetry and read it aloud, seated at my hearth. Her words were melodic and flowing, and the timbre of her voice caressed me like a lover. She dozed by my fireside and when she woke her companions had left. My walls shouted;

“Go, go safely, my love.”

The trees - like me - watched and screamed in the wind, but kept silent. Her soul ruptured from her body on that terrible night.

The youth abandoned me. My doors and windows locked out life. Brambles and bushes hid me. Opportune jackdaws nested in my chimneys. Passers-by whispered;

“Sweet child. Sweet Naomi.”

Her ghost, a skittish fawn, leaped over every blood moon.

 

 

Dying Love

 

The man Melissa met in the hospital before Christmas was in love with her.

 

His name was Vincent. When she studied him, she noticed a swarth of freckles across the bridge of his nose; the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.  He popped his head around her private room door and asked after her; asked with a twinkle in his eye if she had made her mind up yet, when he came to visit his uncle in the long-stay ward. His eyes were kind when she explained about her sickness symptoms and the nausea from the morphine pump. Her accent, a soft version of a Southern Irish brogue that sometimes slipped into her speech, sounded charming to him.

 

On a January day, as he was about to leave, he wondered aloud whether she would be interested in going to dinner on Valentine’s night.? He took her hand in both of his for a moment before letting go. She felt the most beautiful woman in the world. She imagined if you scanned her hand, you would see no blood, only streams of joy running through her veins.

She remembered her sixteenth birthday, nine years ago. Mark gave her a ribband bouquet of wildflowers and was the first man who entered her world and left with her heart, but with each encounter with Vincent, she felt a spark that could not be extinguished. The wonder of love chased itself in circles in her mind like fireflies on a summer night.

                                                                                                            *

Vincent loitered outside the restaurant and sniffed the single red rose. It’s petals glimmering in the pale moonlight. The bud was softly open, its perfume winged on the Spring air. Tonight, the heavens were ablaze. Melissa’s love, and wonderment returned to him, like a boomerang bouncing off the Milky Way.

 

 

Dead Dolphin Summer

The cottage we’d rented for the summer had a view of the ocean from the front porch. “I can’t be done with female troubles,” Father hissed at me before returning to his car magazine and drooled over the bikini-clad girl draped across the bonnet on the cover.

I was eleven that summer; and I had no sister to talk to about woman’s stuff, only a six-and-a-half-year-old brother whom I had the tiresome job of minding. Mother was still in bed. She’d been crying a lot lately. She sipped vodka from an unlabelled bottle she kept hidden under the mattress. When we’d first arrived, she’d said the pattern on the yellow-brown wallpaper in the living room resembled some terrible disease.

 

One day, we found a dead dolphin washed up on the beach. The rotting carcass, bloated with sea water and gas, lay at the edge of the waves. Its belly had burst open, revealing a haemorrhage of red and pink bloody masses that spewed onto the sands. Mother turned away, squeezed her eyes shut, and threw up where she stood. Father wrapped his arms around her waist and whispered, “Hush, hush, darling, this is part of life.” My brother clung to my mother's legs and wailed as she stumbled home.

 

Father made supper every evening and would coax Mother to take her pills. He tried to care for us, but the slightest thing would make him angry.

 

Mother often had a bruise on her face. Father said she was always walking into doors. But I knew he knew I knew. Father said Mother needed to get strong and back to her old self again. But I pretended to enjoy listening to his frayed fairy tales - if only for my little brother’s sake - his voice as dead as the dolphin on the summer sands.

 

 

 

A Malady by Mehreen Ahmed

[Australia]

 

The English roses were in full bloom. The waxing moon poured a love spell into the virgin queen. Her heart tight with pure romance, as she waited within the palace walls of the rose garden at the Hampton Court. After a few moments of delightful rumination, she saw him mounting on a white charger. The anxious queen was poised; she steadied herself for the man she had appointed the master of horses. 

 

Over the palace walls, the setting sun rouged the sky with a motley of unidentified hues—magic streaks of mixed pink, orange, and red on a canvas of blue. Who knew? Bright they surely looked. She cared less for the pecking order, he was her romance, for whom she was prepared to lead a virgin life.

 

Was this a malady in the queen’s head? Her ministers pondered. And was this just as incurable as the malady in the breast of her lover Dudley’s wife? The powerful queen fought formidable foes but she was weak when it came to consummate this relationship with whom she could have had a lifetime of pleasure beyond any measure in matters of the heart, where politics or common wisdom stooped. Her heart throbbed with mounting love aches.

 

On this date Dudley thought, he brought her majesty glad tidings that both were waiting for. The impediment had been removed. He told the queen of the sudden death of his wife. An occasion to rejoice, sadly, brought her no joy. He told her that the death was not on account of the malady of the breast but from a fall. It was an accident…an accident, but who would believe it? The queen’s clandestine affair was rumoured throughout England that Dudley was mad to be her consort. This madness of love was acceptable in poetry only. An opportunity had opened up, the time had arrived to ask the queen’s hand in marriage, Dudley thought.

 

No marriage could take place over this bloody death. The queen knew best. If they could not be made in heaven, then let there be no marriage at all. Because it would be tainted. This crime was not some kind of game that could be cast away. Dudley’s wife had a fatal fall; the queen was already a suspect. In the state’s interest, she stifled her romance instead and distanced herself from him at once. The queen’s heavy heart had not lightened up since; no offspring to tether connection to the Dudley genome. There was only one other way to stop this leaching in her heart. That she must metamorphasize - a crying werewolf to the waxing moon in the forest on the edge of a blue lagoon. For the state itself she wore a white pacifist’s mask. The world must never see her stiff scars. The mask betrayed no emotions, happy or sad. She declared, “I am England.”

 

 

 

Just A Dream by Stacey George

[North Shields, near Tynemouth, England] 

 

There were too many people on the bus for Clare's liking and everybody seemed to be chatting in loud voices which was not a good start to the afternoon for Maggie and Clare. They had both been looking forward for weeks now to their shopping trip to buy some new clothes for a holiday which they were planning to take.

 

        Clare had loved Newcastle since she was a little girl and used to gaze into the office windows along Jesmond Road and watch the girls typing away. Her mother had been a typist before her marriage and Clare knew she wanted to follow in her mother's footsteps.

 

          Maggie and Clare lived for each other. It would have been impossible to find another mother and daughter who were more devoted to each other if you had tried. All the sales were now ending and the new spring and summer clothes were now displayed on models in all the shop windows.

 

         "Now remember Clare just to buy sensible things which can be worn when we get back home," said Maggie. Her daughter had an awful habit of buying silly things and they ended up just hanging in the wardrobe for years and then eventually being put into Charity Bags.

 

          Maggie and Clare both had several garments and were en route to the fitting rooms when the loud banging of the bin could be heard. Clare was still half asleep but when she awoke she realised that it had all been a dream.

 

         Maggie had died almost 12 years ago and they would never again go shopping or walk along the sea front like they used to do. Clare went back to sleep again and hoped that she would once again see her mother's face even if only in dreams.

 

 

 

 

Magic Dirt by Glen Donaldson

[Brisbane, Australia]

Beatrice Bushworthy was a gardener of erratic brilliance. To the neighbourhood children she may have been just an old fossil but the great grandmother, who reliably collected and stored dirt under her fingernails with pride, knew how to grow perfect roses better than anyone else around.

 

     That summer she planted two dozen polyantha rose bushes, eighteen of which sprouted into exquisite blooms. What she jokingly called her ‘dinosaur droppings’ - superphosphate bone meal fertilizer – were her secret success formula. Or so she thought.

 

     When her geologist son had the soil in her garden tested and it came back as dating to the Jurassic Period, she had to revise what she told people was the reason for her green thumbs. The ‘old fossil’ moniker turned out to be closer to the bone than folk knew.

 

 

 

 

The Way To The Heart by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

I’m an ugly young man.

If there is such a thing.

I’m ugly on the outside.

Inside I’m nice and cool.

Not interesting ugly either.

In elementary school playing at friends’ houses, I was told to stay away from the windows.

Girls would not come by.

Didn’t bother me.

 

However

 

I was clever , confident, funny and I knew it.

I also had God’s gift.

Good hair.

 

We met in Hollywood at a  place I go to cash checks.

She was at the Western Union window to my right sending  money.

She was the most beautiful anything I ever saw.

 

She was not only out of my league, but out of my species as well.  

 

I fantasized that the Western Union woman helping me, who I did not know, and I know them all, would ask something they all never do, so I can reply with something funny enough that the girl next door will want to get know me.

 

And she goes from behind the window ”Got any questions?’’

 

I said yeah,” What is the meaning of life and how’s my hair.”

 

She laughed, the girl behind the other window laughed, the girl next door laughed too.

We started dating.

 

She was used to her whole life being beautifully looked at, now they were looking at us with that what the fuck look.

 

Oh, and she didn’t mind my cussing which she heard a fuck of a lot.

 

After three months it was time to meet mommy and daddy.

Hers. Not mine.

We won’t discuss mine in this story.

 

She came from a family with so much money and power that they paid a kings ransom each month to stay out of the papers.

Now that’s real power.

Her last name was not familiar, until I did some pre-meet research.

 

Her father probably had a say in the elections of half a dozen countries with no one saying or knowing  his name.

You couldn’t even find a picture of him or her mother.

 

I was not surprised.

 

We took her car to Connecticut to where one of there many houses were housed.

On the way up I was wondering if her father did any research on me but figured he would be too busy making kings and Presidents.

 

Her mother was waiting at the end of a three-mile driveway outside their home.

 

She was waving us in for a landing as excited as a football team owner that just won the Superbowl.  

 

Her mother looked better than a model. More like Snow White on a good day.

 

She walked us in.

 

Coming down the stairway, the one to his right, was daddy.

 

My jaw dropped.

He glided down the stairway ok, but his face boarded on disfigurement.

 

“What the fuck are you staring at, haven’t you seen anyone as ugly as me before?” says he.

 

Not since I fucking shaved this morning.  Said me.

 

They all laughed.

 

I was home.

 

 

 

Who Is More To Blame For The Aborted Child? by Rathin Bhattacharjee

[Kolkata, India]

 

Ratan Babu wanted nothing more than a son. He had been a good son himself, he thought if he had one, his son would carry on his legacy and family name. Unfortunately, his first two offspring were both daughters.

His mother, an aged widow, in her mid-seventies, also wanted her youngest son to have a son. So, when Chhalona Devi, Ratan Babu's wife conceived for the third time, the happiness of Ratan Babu and his mother knew no bounds.

 

"Finally, God has listened to my prayers. I couldn't have died a peaceful death without you siring a son." She squeeled delightfully sitting on her bed.

 

At his in-laws' place, Chhalona's mom was devastated when Chhalona dropped in with the bomb. Her dubla (feeble) daughter had conceived again, despite her repeated warnings against the very idea!

 

"How could you be so stupid? Didn't the doc warn you against conceiving last time? Didn't I ask you to take all necessary precautions? How come you and your gunodhar (talented) husband have done it again then?" She was fuming.

 

"It's just an accident, Ma. We'd taken all necessary precautions!" Chhalona replied feebly dreading her mother's wrath like nothing else at that moment.

 

"Didn't I ask you to go for vasectomy last time? Besides, what are you going to feed your children, keeping in mind the contractual job your sex maniac hubby has?" She was beside herself at the unpardonable offence her daughter and son-in-law had committed again.

 

The long and short of the epic encounter between mother and daughter was, Chhalona was finally prevailed upon to abort her child. As Chhalona left her parents' home, there was a smile hovering around her mom's mouth.

 

"Ma, Chhalona doesn't want our child. She told me that her body can't go through the child-bearing trauma again. Besides, there's no guarantee that we'll be third time lucky! So, I've agreed with her plan of aborting the child." Ratan Babu informed his mother, a bit hesitantly.

 

The poor lady, looking frail and distraught  god-fearing and ever so obliging, decided not to broach the subject to her son again.

 

A few months after the abortion in a private nursing home at Bagha Jatin, Ratan Babu joked with his wife, saying:

 

"When your final hour arrives, my dearest, long after I'm turned into dust and ashes, you'll, with your eyes closed, see your unborn child asking for an explanation. You'll find it extremely difficult to face him and answer his barrage of questions…"

 

You know the funny thing, dear reader? It was Ratan Babu, who was raising hell in the hospital ward some months later, when he had to be hospitalized due to a severe stomach pain.

 

All night long, he kept twisting and turning in bed, whining incoherently about the contemptuous face of an unborn child, in his delirium.

 

 

 

The Tomato by William Thornton-Brown

[Suffolk England] 

 

The rain clattered onto the roof of the greenhouse, out of rhythm. Tony waddled up to the tomato plant with a small pair of secateurs in his giant hands. Carefully, he sniped the stalk then held up the fruit to the light. His eyes darted around before he took off his hat, carefully wrapping the tomato up in it, then folded it safely under his jacket. At the door of the greenhouse he bolted, his huge feet sloshing across the wet grass, his curly hair flopping up and down like a dog ears. He reached his house and finally came to stop to catch his breath. He staggered over to the sink and washed the tomato, so gently, in the warm; brushing the water back like soap off a baby's head. He cupped the fruit with both of his hands and smiled, his dinner-plate-eyes alight.

 

 

 

Leviathan by Ian Carass

[Hornsea, East Riding of Yorkshire, England]

 

The depth is deeper, the breadth is broader.  Sea mirrors sky almost entirely.  Land is now only found as a few sparse islets, lonely as marooned mariners.  Land has become theoretical; it is lapsing into legend.

 

Far below, with the pace and magnitude of a planet, she makes her imperial progress.  Shoals of fish dart around her and in her wake: a flotilla of bridesmaids, a brilliantly decorated entourage. 

 

Is this destiny?  The thought occurs to her suddenly and rudders rapidly to the surface.  Patience was all it took and there is an ocean of that.  Go forth and multiply.

 

 

 

Compulsory Stop by Ian Carass

[Hornsea, East Riding of Yorkshire, England]

Every day except Sunday. 

 

     On those earlier, frosty mornings, and today, with the rising sun forming the tower block opposite into a silhouette, making the windows seem darker, more lonely, before there was light enough to discern the hand-drawn rainbows against the glass.

 

     Every day the bus completed its circular route.  Every day it made its compulsory stop outside her window, the engine idling, to waste time, to keep pace with the published timetable: something reliable for passengers. 

 

     But every day, no one got on and no one got off.

 

     Jenny never saw a soul on that bus except the driver, framed by Perspex, impossible to conjure any expression behind that mask. 

     He could have been a getaway driver, loitering, waiting for the villains to burst out of some bank, encumbered by loot.

 

     Sipping her brew, Jenny heard her children stirring in their beds.  The driver was almost at eye-level, but perhaps he was too professional to make eye contact or too lost in his own thoughts, to notice her, observing him. 

 

     He had to stop here, had to wait for passengers to come. 

 

     But today, on this bus, no one got on and no one got off.

 

 

 

Roadworks by Ian Carass

[Hornsea, East Riding of Yorkshire, England]

 

How long had it been now?  Was it minutes or hours?  George half imagined it was days that he had sat here, staring at that red light, waiting for traffic to flow past him from the other direction (not a single car so far), fearing the light would never change.  Where were the roadworks, anyway?  There was no sign of excavated tarmac, no sound of diggers delving, no intimation of workers up ahead or nearby, chatting, smoking, leaning on shovels, hard-hatted, hard-hearted.

           

     For George, time had begun to lose its familiar demarcations, its concrete boundaries and divisions.  It had begun to feel like a medium for swimming in or drowning in not for travelling through, linear, orderly.  That light had stalled at red so long that George had begun to forget the expected sequence of traffic lights.  To bolster his recollection, George had resorted to re-saying the anticipated colours of the lights in his head. 

But that red light.  The more you gazed into its crimson heart, the more complex the shade became, as if the light contained all the colours, but was wilfully withholding some elements of the spectrum.

 

            In his rear-view mirror George could see the row of cars behind him, stretching, it seemed, almost to infinity.  It was hard to get an angle to view the full length.  The car immediately behind George felt too close for comfort and the sun’s angle this morning meant that George could not see the driver’s face.  This same effect of sunlight must be making all the other cars in the queue appear black in colour and uniform in style.  There were only cars also, no lumbering tractors or looming lorries, just cars, black cars, neatly lined up, bumper to bumper, patient and quiet.

           

            George suddenly felt the need for action.  His frustration and pent rage had reached a tipping point.  Doing something was better than doing nothing.  George climbed out of his car and strolled casually up to the traffic light.  Perhaps some mechanism had become stuck.  A strategic kick might bring it back to life.  Checking that he was not being closely observed (only by the hundred eyes of the queuing motorists), George tapped the toe of his shoe against the traffic light mechanism.  Nothing happened.  Nothing at first, but then the blasting horns of the queued cars, full-throated and desperate, sounded at him.  George looked up.  Headlights were flashing at him, hazard lights menacing him.

           

     George raced back to his car.  Out of the corner of his eye George caught the sight he had been waiting for.  The traffic light had changed to the colour of green pastures.  This was solace, this was hope.  But just for a moment.  Before George even managed to get his car door open, the traffic light fixed its red eye back on him. 

           

     It was too late.  George stood in the road, lost and afraid, as a herd of cars thundered down the road towards him.

rom My Father: Be A Squeaky Wheel by Jude Potts

Adding To The Collection by Pam Plumb

[County Durham, England]

 

This evening there are twenty-three friend suggestions, friends of friends of friends. She chooses Sonje in Catalonia. The top post is a video of Sonje hula hooping on the beach, the light from a fire pit glancing off her brown skin, skimming into the shadows like kisses into a crowd, turning so fast. Off camera a man claps and whoops, perhaps her boyfriend, perhaps not, but it’s just those two and maybe someone else behind the camera. It’s only thirty seconds long but it’s set on a loop so hula hooping Sonje twirls and twirls and twirls for infinity. This is just the sort of friend she’s looking for: exciting and dynamic, Marilyn’s kind of person.

         

     Marilyn collects friends like a philatelist, selecting only the most interesting specimens from as far afield as Reykjavik, Dar El Salam, Singapore. In 3rd grade she’d completed a project on time zones, at least the six her teacher had asked them to research. Now she skips between Mountain and Greenwich, shimmies under the lines of Capricorn or Cancer, splicing her time between all her friends. Much more exciting even than stepping out of Freedom into Idaho. It’s a full-time job to keep up, but she does and her Momma would be proud.

 

     Marilyn licks salt from her fingers before clicking the confirm button and jumping up to place a red push pin right on the ‘e’ of Barcelona.

 

 

 

'Tombstoning' by Adam Kelly

[Devon, England]

 

We watched Felix climb and waited for him to reach the top. We’d started a few years before, just in the harbour, to impress the girls. I wasn’t trying to impress the girls; I was trying to impress Amelia. But she liked Felix. 

 

The jumps had been fairly small then. When school started again, we never seemed to talk to the girls like we did in the summer. But eventually it would come round again. As the jumps got bigger most of us had gradually retired. Felix had continued to develop into a professional. He wore jelly shoes when he jumped. They looked stupid on everyone else but he pulled it off.

 

The only other one who’d attempted Southpoint, up on the cliff, was Chris. He liked it when he misjudged the rocks a little and came up with blood. Felix never came up with blood. There was no art to what he did but he made it look like there could be. In the last few weeks of school, he’d talked about taking up diving, as the more respectable side of jumping into water.

 

‘It’s not really the same thing,’ I said.

 

‘Same basics.’

 

Felix had done the Southpoint jump twice before that day. We were all there as usual, Amelia included. As much as I wished he hadn’t, Felix liked Amelia too. Everyone knew they were on the cusp of something. It would probably take the summer to cement but they were close. 

 

I climbed round a rock and stood next to Amelia.

 

‘Billy boy, what’s up?’ she asked.

 

‘Nothing really,’ I said.

 

‘You look glum.’

 

‘No, just tired.’

 

‘Me too. Haven’t recovered from school yet.’

 

Felix stood at the top of the cliff and faked a fall. Most of us grinned. Amelia sighed to herself. He took his usual run up and kicked his legs as he left the edge. He seemed to hover for a moment then dropped, arms strapped to his side. He plunged into the sea. We all clapped and waited for Felix to come up from under the waves.

 

‘Makes me worry every time,’ she said.

 

‘Yeah.’

 

‘You’re cleverer than him, you don’t do it anymore.’

 

I blushed and scratched my cheeks. A little part of me hoped Amelia would disapprove enough that she’d decide she didn’t like Felix anymore. I knew that wouldn’t happen but I pretended it would.

 

‘I’m just scared.’

 

‘No, that’s called being clever,’ Amelia said.

 

‘I guess it got less fun after a while.’

 

‘I just liked it better when it was the harbour.’

 

‘D’you remember when we got told off by that guy?’ I asked.

 

Amelia giggled and snorted a little.

 

‘He was so red. I mean in his face,’ I said.

 

Amelia sighed and snorted once more.

 

‘Yeah,’ I mumbled to myself.

 

Amelia watched the water and bit her lip. We waited for Felix to come up.

 

 

 

 

The Doctor Is An Animal by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

A vet was Doctor Smith.

Practicing and perfecting in Beverly Hills, Thank you very much.

His kid killed himself once.

This was a quiet man.

A sign above the reception area read

 

                                                                     BE ADVISED.

                                                                     You allowed in the exam room

                                                                     With your precious for half a minute

                                                                     You will tell Dr. Smith what you think is wrong

                                                                     Then you go to the waiting room

                                                              

If he didn’t know what he was doing spectacularly, miraculously, he would be out of business faster than a wag of a tail.

Or any any business.

 

Dr. Smith’s still waters ran very deep.

 

Also, Dr. Smith, was a degenerate gambler since elementary school.

There he would bet against The Otters. Against The Beavers. 

 

He would bet on lions and tigers or what ever animal was stronger in the games.

He had his system and his system worked. Only three three people know about this system.

Him, Him, and Him.

 

One day a real Hollywood heavyweight wanted to know what would happen when he goes over his time limit in the exam room, because he will.

The reply from the back per Dr. Smith was, I feel fucking sorry for you pet already.

That was that that. The heavyweight was stunned, but well behaved, real quick. He only took 25 seconds.

As the good, bad Doctor would say, no matter how much money or time they got, ask, and receive not.

 

There was one customer I really liked.

This customer was an above the title action star.

Another gambler like him.

He always came with his pet although plenty of others of lower stature sent their assistants.

He always came and was cool.

 

At the morning paper was he when he saw a story of his action star client in trouble. Money trouble. He was too old for this part or too young for that one and running out of dough.

That would not be a problem.

 

Next time the action star without any currant action came in

Doctor Smith told him he needed a favor.

Sure, anything, said the star!

Doctor Smith told he need to bet on a game. A football game.

The Detroit Tigers were playing The Seattle Seahawks.

 

The Seahawks were favored 10 to one.

 

He said he had 200,000 in cash to bet but could not go his usual source for reasons that were his alone.

He gave the star the money and said he wanted him to bet on the Tigers.

He told the star if the Tigers win, he only wanted double the 200,000 back. The star could keep the rest.

If he loses, the star will not owe him a thing.

 

The star took the money and The Lions won.

 

The star asked him how he knew.

 

Doctor Smith said, it does not take a rocket scientist to know the weakest lion could always beat the shit out of the strongest Seahawk.

 

 

 

 

The Breakfast  by Martin Andrew

[Holmfirth, West Yorkshire, England]

 

The fridge, microwave and oven are no longer featured in our kitchen. Food is no longer available as a source to sustain life. I opened the door to the small cooling-hatch, the door had the same wooden finish as all the cupboards. Inside was clinical white, pristine and every alternate day, the cooling-hatch had to be cleaned. There was only enough space for the syringes that had to be transferred to sterile airtight bags while it was cleaned.

 

Greed corrupted the food producers who took extremes to fatten-up meat, to make vegetables look bigger, juicier and fuller than they ought to be. It had been an era of unnatural living; no organic food was available. People started dying as their bodies shut down due to a lack of nutrients. It was then governments declared that food was to be destroyed and it was forbidden for people to consume anything.

 

“Claire!” I shouted. “Are you nearly ready? It’s time to take your nutrient injection.”

 

“Coming, just combing my hair.”

 

The injections had to be taken at specific times to enable the nutrients to be circulated around the body. Any earlier or later and our bodies would encounter a nutrient imbalance.

 

“God, I miss food,” Claire stated, as she descended the stairs.

 

“Tell me about it, I try not to dwell. It only makes matters worse.”

 

Claire entered the kitchen. Her golden blonde hair, which had been cut to a bob, accentuated the profile of her face and her blue eyes radiated a fresh innocence that made you feel alive and uplifted.

 

“Have you had yours yet?”

 

“No, I was waiting for you.”

 

Taking two syringes from the cooling hatch, I passed one to Claire. We took them at the same time so one of us wouldn’t forget.

 

“One… two… three,” I counted. Simultaneously, we jabbed our syringes into our arms and pressed. The solution containing the nutrients entered our veins. A spike coursed through our bodies causing a momentary surge in energy. This lasted a few minutes, and then it subsided.

 

The only conciliation was the potency of the nutrients as we only had to inject ourselves twice a day, in the morning and in the evening.

 

Claire came closer and her lips touched me, locked in a kiss she embraced me. “I’m setting off for work, have a good day.”

 

I watched as she walked away with car keys in one hand and her bag in the other.

 

“Bye, you have a good day too.”

 

I placed both syringes in the bin and turned to watch the droplets of rain roll down the window. Two of them started at the same time, I stared and wondered which one would win the race. I was aware that I too would have to set off for work soon.

 

 

 

Predictions by Sharon Berg

[Charlottetown, Newfoundland]

 

Sitting at her writing desk, Elke heard the sparrows. They occupied a bush in front of the porch. Through the month of November, long into winter, she’s thought of them as embodiment of her creativity. They reminded her of a teaching she'd received from a First Nations Elder. She couldn't ignore the fact that each day began with the noise of their ceremony for sunrise and ended with a ritual for the departing sun.

          She had company when she wrote, glancing out the window to notice them hopping between the naked branches. She thought of them as manifestations of the ideas she crafted into stories. Several would fly out while the majority remained, moments later a larger group returning. There was a constant interchange of places and ideas.

          In March, a hawk landed on the porch railing, sending the minions into distress. Their alarm calls were loud as they hunkered down, deep among naked branches, but the hawk managed to grab one. It flew off, the tiny sparrow grasped in its talons. The next time it showed up, Elke opened the door slowly, the hawk still perched on the railing. It cocked its head to observe her.

          “Even if you take one a day, that group will soon be gone. Please leave them alone,” she pleaded.

          The hawk ignored her, returning every day. Several times that winter she saw evidence, the imprint of wing tips and drag marks in the snow across her yard. By springtime, the bush was deathly quiet, the birds no longer there. She struggled to write without the familiar cacophony in the branches of the lilac bush. She thought her prediction had come true as the bush developed its glorious green leaves.

          Then winter returned, and the sparrows hopped among naked branches again. She wrote a haiku featuring their ceremonies and smiled. She predicted a winter with many ideas to be captured in print.

 

 

 

Life After Death by Balu Swami

[Buckeye, Phoenix, Arizona, USA]

 

I am Molecule Zwu. My origin dates back several billion years. Would you believe it, I was just a rocky grain when I was born? As if by magic, one day I turned into a living, breathing cell along with millions of my fellow rocky grains. From that day on, I set off on an incredible journey finding a host in all sorts of micro and macro-organisms: single cell amoeba, invertebrate, vertebrate, crustacean, amphibian, you name it. Been there, done that. I still remember the day my host transformed from homo erectus (HE) to homo sapien (HS).  HE was walking through a forest, came to a dead stop under a tree and wondered, ‘Why did I come here?’ Prior to that day, HE would have walked and walked until he dropped dead. That day forward, HS became a totally different species altogether. The ‘why’ led to ‘what’ (‘What the fuck?’); ‘what” led to ‘where’ (‘Your place or mine?’); and ‘when’ (‘Is there ever a bad time?’). So, before you knew it, there were legions of HS spawns splintered into a million tribes, each vying for the vaunted ‘We’re No.1’ bragging rights.

 

These HS tribes vied with each other to build more and more roads and bridges, rockets and submarines, diet water and blowup dolls. They should have stopped when the going was good. Instead, they kept building and building stuff and more stuff that built up carbon in the atmosphere to a level where air became unbreathable and water undrinkable. Also, in a moment of genius, the best and the brightest amongst them invented atomic weapons. When breathable air and drinkable water became scarce, the tribes started invading each other’s space and, when that failed, unleashed mutual assured destruction (MAD).

 

When the third rock from the Sun was blown to smithereens, I was violently thrust into the deep void - far into a different galaxy. I went looking for another habitable planet. I had heard about a star system called 149. After light years of search, I entered the cold outer reaches of 149. The first three planets farthest from the star were frozen rocks. As I entered the orbit of the fourth, the atmospheric pressure felt different. The polar ice caps appeared wetter. Could this be my new home? As I got closer, my heart raced fast. What are those bulbous laminations? Could they be…? I didn’t have to wait too long to find out. They were STROMATOLITES! I knew I was going to be reborn.  For another life lasting billions of years? Time will tell.

 

 

 

Flights by Iwona Luszowicz

[Sheffield, England]

 

The coach had left the town when Anna made the discovery. She always checked for her passport on the airport ride, ever since she started travelling solo, digging her fingers into its hiding place down the back of her rucksack. 

She thumbed to the photo page, peered at it under the reading light. 

It still came as a surprise, grown-up passports lasting a decade. When so much can change in that time. By twenty-eight her mother was living in a foreign country with a husband and baby, even if Anna’s life was quite similar to whenever this photo was - 

Shit, the expiry date was three weeks ago.

The coach trundled on, the same journey as when they were kids.

Shit.

If only she’d taken her German passport. It had to be valid for another five years at least. 

Less shit?

She could call her sister, beg her to bring the other passport to the airport. Beg the airline for a later flight. 

… 

Her phone said the next plane landed at two. 

… 

They’d be half-way through coffee and cake when she arrived, she could see herself sidling into the room laid out for the wake, trying to explain to her aunt why she’d missed the service. Ich habe mein – or was it meinen? – Pass vergessen. 

Opa Walther had really been her cousin’s grandpa. Anna feared him as a child. He wasn’t like her own Opa, who read them comics and only had one leg after the war. Opa Walther said very little and, despite having two legs, was always sitting at the dining table in his small flat, not joining in with their games. 

Anna’s cousin had loved the old man, though. She thought her mother had liked him too. 

And so.

Anna turned in her seat, pretended to fiddle with the headrest, checked the other passengers hadn’t noticed her discovery. 

She turned back round, inspected the expiry date.

If it wasn’t for the plastic covering, that number one could become a seven. Draw a line through the middle, like the Germans do, and turn January into July. With a sharp enough object she could gouge a strip in the plastic. Pepper it with black ink.

Or maybe if she strode to the check-in and offered the passport like nothing was wrong, nobody would notice the expiry date. They’d see she was the girl in the photo and she’d arrive in time for a pew near her cousin, no explanations needed.

She looked at the photo.

The photo looked back.

It could be her, yesterday. Her face hadn’t altered like her sister’s over the past decade, growing narrower, more exact, even if it was Anna who people said most resembled their mother. 

It was actually quite striking.

She’d hardly changed at all.

 

 

 

extract from the novel ‘Sisters At the Edge Of The World’ by Ailish Sinclair

[Scotland]

https://ailishsinclair.com 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0BBH5QS1Y/

 

The God stands before me. Me. Morragh, who never speaks.

 

And I speak.

 

Who would have thought that my silence would ever come to an end, let alone in such a glorious and loud way.

 

At first I sing. I sing to Him. It is so easy. It just flows out of me. The tales of my life become music. The wonderment of the world is song. The delight in the curve of a leaf and the swoop of a bird in flight make bright notes in my throat. I have sung here before of course. Within the sacred Circle. But it has never sounded like this. I have always been alone. Unheard. Tonight the song seems to dance round the space, to bounce in excitement, and then slow as if for a caress. Each tall stone, and the large recumbent, are topped with wee piles of snow and these reverberate with music. I see the snow shake. I feel the vibration of the stones too. They make the sound rich and sonorous, as if my voice were more than one.

 

It is my wonderment and delight in Him that is expressed. That is the cause of the change in sound, the real difference here. The God is not as depicted and described in the stories of my people. He is come as he has appeared to others from far away, so he looks like them. There is the scent of far-off places on him. Strange foods and oils and smoke. He is like a traveller. An adventurer.

 

The feet of a bear lie between Him and me. Two prints in the snow, huge and clawed, like their maker. I knew she had been here when I arrived earlier; I sensed her musk in the cold air. My great friend, my Mother Bear. She did not wait to meet me today as she sometimes does in the forest, though this meeting is no less portentous because we did not encounter one another face to face. At first I thought her presence here was what was different, what was to be special about this night.

 

But no.

 

It is this.

 

It is Him

 

 

 

Nightmare In The Jungle by Ben Brown

[Cornwall, England]

It was midnight.

A group of three dozen workers were standing outside a fortress-like animal enclosure.

The enclosure was in a jungle clearing lit by floodlights.

One of the workers wore white shorts, a white t-shirt and a white fedora.

The other workers were wearing overalls and torch-mounted helmets.

Most of them had tasers and shock prods.

A forklift vehicle was lowering a huge metal cage before the enclosure entrance.

When the cage was on the ground, the man dressed in white, took over.

At his command, six workers approached the cage, ready to wheel it towards the entrance.

Three of them went round to the other side of the cage.

Menacing growls and snarls sounded from within the box.

At one point, there came a thunderous, spine-chilling roar.

In fear, the six workers backed away from the box, which vibrated.

Unimpressed, the man in white ordered the six workers to repeat the process. He then commanded them to roll the cage towards the entrance, which they did.

The gatekeeper then came into action.

He climbed onto the cage and awaited orders.

At the man in white’s command, the gatekeeper began to raise the gate.

Then it happened.

There sounded a loud, blood-curdling roar.

A dark, shadow like form with a mouth full of ferocious teeth darted forwards.

The gate vibrated and the gatekeeper tumbled off the cage, which rolled back two metres.

When the cage halted, the workers expected whatever was inside it to escape.

It didn’t.

The gatekeeper, who was in shock after the fall, tried to get up.

Too late.

There sounded another hideous roar.

The animal grabbed him and yanked him screaming into the cage.

The man in white seized the gatekeeper, who was clinging onto cage’s entrance frame for his life.

At the same time, he ordered the other workers to take action.

The armed workers worked their weapons with full force.

But it was to no avail.

The animal yanked the gatekeeper from the man in white’s clutches.

Game over.

 

 

 

Yard for Rent by Wayne Dean-Richards

[Sandwell, West Midlands, England]

 

My brother saw the sign in the first place because he was working at Select & Save on the Tipton Road. Told me the husband and wife who ran it had him unloading deliveries, stacking shelves, sweeping up.

     “I’m a bloody dogsbody, but hey,” he said, and shrugged.

     Was only two years older than me though it seemed more on account of how after the old man took off it was Dan who looked out for me.

     Like the time in school when Hodgetts set against me. Hodgetts three years older and a head taller than me.

     “What’s your name?” Hodgetts said.

     It was lunchtime and we were at the back of the gym. Away from the main school building.

     “Joe,” I told him.

     Hodgetts gave that some serious thought.

     “Your name’s alright, but I don’t like your face,” he said - and started beating me.

     Mom had too much on her plate to notice the bruises, but Dan asked me who’d done it.

     When I told him, said I was to wait by the school gate at the end of the day. Was to nod when Hodgetts walked past me.

     Dan followed him and I went straight home so I don’t know what happened. All I know is I didn’t have any more trouble with Hodgetts.

     My older brother was somebody who could sort things out.

     But he could never hold onto a job for long and when – in The Two Brewers - I asked him why he frowned and sipped his Carling. Swallowed and said he didn’t know why, but maybe it was a thing of the past because working in Select & Save wasn’t the worst job he’d had by a long shot. If packets of biscuits had been damaged, they let him take them. And if - even at reduced prices - they couldn’t shift stuff that was past its sell by date he got to take it home for free.

     “Ron and Jaspreet are okay,” he said.

     Yet a week later he asked me to come and look at a yard for rent on the Tipton Road.

 

     Macy didn’t say why she left me.

     “Figure it out for yourself,” was as much as I ever got from her.

     And having worked in the bakery for so long my mind was free, I tried to. Sometimes imagined she said what she said because she didn’t have a real reason. Other times told myself she left me because of something I’d done.

     Though more likely it was something I hadn’t done.

     “You don’t talk much, do you?” she said not long after we met.

     At first, she liked that I was quiet, though later it bugged her.

     With bloodshot eyes she once snapped, “What’re you hiding?”

     I wasn’t hiding anything. Told her not saying much was how it’d always been with me.

     “You talk to Dan,” Macy countered.

     And since it sounded like an accusation, maybe I tried to explain why that was. Can’t say for sure because this was around the time the shit hit the fan at work.

 

     I hadn’t seen redundancy coming. When the announcement was made stood in my whites with the rest. The post-announcement silence unbroken until - recently returned after a run in with cancer - Rakesh piped up.

     “Mr Kendal? I don’t get it. We make great bread here.”

     We waited while - not used to the bakery heat - Mr Kendall loosened his tie; his work suit way nicer than the one I was married in.

     “It’s just the way it is,” all he finally managed.

 

     When Dan pointed up at the sign, I took in that the yard was next to a tyre and exhaust place and recalled how the last time we were out drinking I’d told him about my redundancy.

     “What do you think?” he said.

 

 

 

The Last Kiss by Rathin Bhattacharjee

[Kolkata, India]

 

He stopped now, sure of the searchers having lost them for the time being. But they would be on their track soon. For a brief second, Neil imagined the menacing look on her father's face. He had warned him (Neil) of dire consequences last time they were caught and brought home. No matter whether Tri was with him or not, his henchmen would tear the youth to pieces when the chase ended. 


He turned his head backwards down the track, they would be on the love-lorns in a matter of minutes. Tri, looking as serene as ever, tried to re-energise herself holding on to his sides. 

 

A few feet ahead of them lay what looked like a small plateau. Tri kept looking at him with those large, doe-like eyes of hers, seemingly wanting to know about their next step. 

 

He had already made up his mind. Their buddies would call him a coward. He being the only child, his parents would be devastated. But Tri was the reason why Neil wanted to live. If they couldn't live together, let them stay united in death. 


Slowly, he pulled her to him for one last time. He could smell that familiar perfume. Far from being scared, she looked him in the eye and kissed him on the lips. That's when he realised that she knew. She had known the end all along. They held tightly for one last time before SHE led him to the edge of the cliff.


Neil's heart skipped a beat as he looked down at the Trisha River flowing thousand meters below, zigzagging its way to some distant land of hope, dream and love. 


"Where does this lead to?" She asked him as the clasp of their sweaty fingers, still intertwined, tightened. 


"Somewhere good," she replied, with a Mona Lisa-like smile.

"Let's kiss for the final leap then..." His sentence remained unfinished as Tri pulled him down to immortality.

 

 

 

Fears of a Clown by Terry Lowell

[Barnsley, South Yorkshire, England]

The clown’s smile spread across half his face. It was blood red, and tapered to a point on each cheek. It was the biggest, brightest smile I’d ever seen. Bigger than Mum’s or Dad’s. Bigger even than Uncle Tommy’s, and he could put a snooker ball in his mouth.

 

     It should’ve made me happy. People are meant to feel good when they see a smile, but the clown’s smile was different. It was painted on, a mask to disguise his (hers? Its?) true face. If I looked really closely, I could see Its (yes, definitely Its) red mouth, small, like a baby’s, and pursed in disapproval. But that was good. I didn’t want it to open Its mouth, because I knew that inside was a conveyor belt of razor-pointed teeth, which could rip and tear and shred.

 

     ‘Hello, little boy,’ the clown shape said. Its voice was high, like it had sucked on a helium balloon, but behind it was a low, animal growl.

 

     ‘Say hello,’ Mum said. Her hand gently pushed into the small of my back.

 

     ‘Hello,’ I mumbled.

     'And what’s your name?’

 

     I didn’t want to tell him. If It knew my name, it would know where I lived, and if It knew where I lived it would come. One night, when the lights were out, and everyone was asleep, it would slink from the closet and crawl to my bed. I’d hide beneath the covers, but a duvet is no protection against the horrors of the night. A cold hand would slip beneath the cover and grab my leg, and I would scream, but no one would come.

 

     I burst into tears. The creature’s mouth twitched. It waggled Its head, and danced a couple of steps, Its red and white striped legs thin like a spider’s.

 

     ‘Sorry about this,’ Mum said. ‘He’s normally good with strangers.’

 

     ‘That’s OK, buddy.’ It crouched, bringing Its face close to mine. It’s breath was hot and smoky, like I was sitting too close to a camp fire. Its eyes were black as coal. ‘I’ll be sure to see you again. Maybe next time, we could be friends.’

 

     It skipped away to another table, where children squealed with delight. They couldn’t see what I saw. They didn’t know what I knew.

 

     I watched its every move, until finally our food was finished and we stood up to leave. As we reached the door, an army of ants crawled across my shoulders. I turned my head. The clown thing raised a white-gloved hand, and wriggled fingers.

 

     ‘See you later, Stevie,’ it said.

     And I knew It would.

 

 

 

 

Eaten by Selene Grasby

[London, Ontario, Canada]

 

Crow was just a fledgling when he first met Sparrow. A timid Crow was pushed from the nest and cowered under the safety of thorny branches of a nearby shrub, where he discovered Sparrow, a small fledgling himself. As their wings grew, Crow revered Sparrow for his elegance and felt ashamed of his own large, awkward shape and harsh call. One day, Sparrow hopped up to the tallest branch of the shrub and took flight for several minutes before landing with a light thud. Crow hopped between branches and flopped down onto the grass before even opening his wings. Sparrow had a good chuckle until Sister Crow dove at him, forcing Sparrow to flee under cover. 

              “Please don’t hurt my friend,” Crow begged his sister.

              “I will spare him little brother, but know this, birds like him always get eaten.”

              Two weeks later both Crow and Sparrow were in the sky. They flew apart, but reconnected at the local farmhouse. The perches were small and Crow’s beak much too large for the feeder, forcing Crow to peck the leftover seed on the ground and eventually joining his brother who was poking through the trash. Sparrow cajoled the rest of the birds to join in on a chorus of insults and jokes at the dirty crows.

              “Do not listen to his insults little brother,” said Brother Crow. “Birds like him always get eaten.”

              A few months passed, Sparrow growing bolder and forming an alliance with the finches and cardinals against the Crow family. At one time, the Crows were revered for their assistance in mobbing the hawks and eagles, but it had been quite some time since the predator birds encircled the farmhouse. The songbirds turned on the Crows with guidance from Sparrow, diving at them and forcing them away from the nesting grounds.

              Crow began avoiding the farm altogether, taking to the fields and nearby city. In Crow’s journeys, he became an adept flyer, crossing vast distances and encountering strong winds and heavy rains. He grew brave, forced to fly through hawk territory and battle for his life using his sharp claws and quick manoeuvres. He was weathered, he had been injured but he was a survivor. After a year of travels, battles and scavenging, Crow returned to his family’s roost. His parents and siblings cheered upon his return and shouted about a special feast, a feast to honor their beloved Crow. Crow explained in fact he was not yet hungry, as he had just stopped in at the farmhouse on his way to the roost.

              “Did you see that pesky old friend of yours?” Sister Crow asked.

              “Never mind Sparrow,” said Brother Crow. “Look at you now little brother, you are strong and wise and he is nothing but a menace.”

              “Let us not waste another breath on Sparrow,” Crow said with a crimson stained beak. “I believe that you were right all along Brother and Sister, birds like him always get eaten.”

 

 

 

 

My Happy Clown by Eamon Carroll

[Dublin, Ireland]

 

It all started with two clowns. They came two days after the baby was born. They arrived in the morning, just after my husband had left. One of them, the nice one, would sit with me at the kitchen table. He would drink cups of tea and devour whatever cakes or treats I put out. The other one, the angry one, would stay outside. He would stand at the back window and just stare in at us. Sometimes, to get our attention, he would run a large kitchen knife along the pane of glass. The screeching sound made me cover my ears.

 

The nice one brought me balloons. He would pick out the pink ones and give them to me. I tied them to the buggy in the hall. I wanted balloons in the room after the birth, but people only gave us cards. I liked talking to the nice one. I would tell him about my favourite childhood memories. The ones I remembered anyway. He would get excited when I told him stories. His gummy toothless smile was infectious and always made me happy. He loved to hear stories about my time spent with my granddad, especially when I spoke about our trips to the circus. I always felt safe there. I never told him the other stories. The sad ones.

 

The angry one would pull at the door handle. I knew he would do bad things if I let him in. Sometimes I kept the curtains closed, just so I didn’t have to see him. But the nice one didn’t like the dark. He would bang pots and pans together. I would run over and pull the curtains open, terrified he would wake up the baby. Luckily, the baby’s door is always closed. The angry one would just snarl back at me and show me his sharp triangular teeth. Sometimes there was blood on them.

 

When the doorbell rang. I would spy through the little peep hole. I knew it was him, the angry one, trying to get in. The nice one said he could shapeshift, and he would try to trick me. I always locked the main bolt on the door, just in case. Sometimes when Michael came home, he would knock furiously on the door. I would look through the slit in the curtains, never sure if it was really him. I made a list of questions that I would ask him through the letterbox, if he answered correctly, I would reluctantly open the door. But I never fully trusted it was him. One day he came home wearing a suit. He never wore suits.

It’s been a week since the baby arrived. I wonder how mothers find this so hard. My baby just stays up in her room.

 

At night, I can hear circus music coming from the back garden. Michael says it’s just the television. But I am drawn to it. When I peek through the curtains. The angry eyes stare back at me.

 

 

 

 

Untouched by Lizzie Eldridge

[Glasgow, Scotland]

Twitter: @lizzie eldridge 

 

I preferred to use my fingers. The ones that dug into the dark earth. The ones that formed strange shapes out of clay. That sometimes held your hand.

 

My fingers leafed their way through a book that never breathed a word about rules. Etiquette sounded sharp, staccato, brittle, like the prongs of a fork pecking away at a plate in the hunt for leftover food.

 

Scavenging for me was covering my whole body up to the waist in every substance I could find. Immersing myself full and free and in the moment. Dirt is easy to wash off while godliness sounds as dull and drab as that rainy day you’ve been saving up for. And then you have to leave it in that cupboard in case it gets spoilt.

 

‘Don’t touch,’ the voices said. ‘It might break.’

 

I liked to unravel knots, pull at a ball of string until it wraps its way around a maze of mismatched cities with streets that weave any which way and houses crouching beside towers that lean over backwards and sway in the wind. Sometimes my ball of string uncoiled itself all the way into the sea.

 

My fingers reached out to poke and prod at the unknown. My fingers squeezed whatever they came across and weighed things in the balance. My fingernails scraped at the lid of every pot and tin until, when desperate, my teeth joined in. Occasionally, I nibbled the top of your left arm when I managed to open a particularly tricky jar designed to be sealed forever. I couldn’t contain my delight.

 

Mine were the fingers that fumbled their way through wardrobes in the hope of finding fauns. Mine were the fingers that felt their way into a velvet glove. Mine were the fingers that rippled across a piano keyboard in an ecstasy of dissonance.

I didn’t stand on ceremony. Nothing was designed to be handled with care.

 

‘God put us on this earth for a purpose,’ the voices said, and I wanted to know exactly what this reason was.

In the bottom drawer, past the pencils and the corkscrew and the Christmas tree angel, was a pile of letters, still in their envelopes. My index finger winced as it caught a sharp edge. My fingertips flicked through the pile, getting a feel for the volume, then pulled the whole lot out and dumped everything down on the floor.

 

The same address was written in the same handwriting across each fluttering item. You lived there when we first met and the woman’s kisses came tumbling into our letter box. Her fingers folded each letter, neatly, perfectly precise, as smooth as her manicured hands.

 

 

 

 

Ghosts Come Out To Play by Ben Brown

[Cornwall, England]

One dimly lit night, a pair of twelve-year-old twins entered a cemetery. Their names were Jack and Jill Carpenter.

“I still don’t think we should have come here,” said Jack, who was holding a flash light.

“Why, are you afraid the dead will come out to play?”

“Of course not.”

“Stop moaning then. Enjoy the adventure.”

“Oh, very well.”

The twins went from grave to grave, examining the headstones.

“You see Jack, there’s nothing to fear.”

Jill had spoken too soon, for she and her brother came across two empty graves at the end of a row. The shocking thing was the fact that their own names were on the headstones.

“Hey I don’t get it,” Jack said.

“This has to be some kind of practical joke.”

“Well, if it is, then the joker has gone to a great length to scare us.”

Jill had a sudden thought.

“We may not be the only people around here called Jack and Jill Carpenter,” she said.

“In such a small town as this? I don’t think so.”

The flash light went out.

“Oh no,” said Jack.

“Now the ghosts will come out to play,” Jill said.

What came next, totally changed her attitude.

Ghosts of all ages rose up out of every grave in the cemetery. Hundreds of them there were, hundreds of silvery white ghosts.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jack said.

“You don’t have to tell me.”

Jack and Jill made a break for the cemetery entrance, but it was too late.

The ghosts swarmed around them and closed in for the kill. All at once, their eyes lit up bright red.

The truth dawned on Jack and Jill.

Those empty graves were for them.

 

 

 

 

The Appalling Fate of Henry Fluffstock by James Burt

[Hebden Bridge, England]

 

If you want to know what sort of person Melanie Grace actually was, well: she once cooked her boyfriend’s dog.

Paul spent a week or so walking around the town putting up posters. He paced through the parks with a lead and no dog, sometimes standing by the bushes and calling its name. “Henry? Henry Fluffstock?”

     

     The other dog owners felt sorry for him but weren’t eager to talk too long in case his bad luck was catching. What Paul didn’t know was that Henry Fluffstock was already dead, and had been fed to Paul the night after going missing.

 

     It was a rare treat for Melanie to cook. She was an excellent chef, but at home she preferred microwave dinners or takeaways. Paul would do most of the cooking even though she was better at it – legendary in some circles.

 

     And I remember him telling me about the mutton curry she’d made after the dog went missing. Back then, I had no idea that Henry Fluffstock had anything to do with the curry, let alone being the main ingredient. Paul had enthused about the meat, how it seemed fragrant, and more tender than most mutton he’d had, the meat slipping off the bone. I know he asked Melanie a few times if she would cook it again.

 

    Paul never threw out the lead, and it hung sadly from his coat-hooks. He didn’t get another dog, because he knew Melanie didn’t really like them. She’d never been the biggest fan of Henry Fluffstock, and that dog never took to Melanie, no matter how many treats she offered. It was so bad that he would jump off the sofa if she sat down beside him.

 

     Paul and Melanie broke up a year or two later, but by then I was seeing less of them anyway. I’d known Paul through work and we’d moved on to different jobs. I heard a few rumours about Melanie and dismissed them - she didn’t seem the sort of person to be violent to her partner and besides she’d moved away.

 

     I met Melanie only one more time, in a pub near the pier, and we were both drunk. I was pissed enough to say how sad I was that her and Paul had broken up, and she blurted it out: “I cooked Henry Fluffstock and fed him to Paul.”

 

     She put her hand over her mouth, but too late to stop the words.

 

     I was never going to tell Paul about Henry Fluffstock’s fate but, at that moment, I realised how much I must have missed about their relationship. The next day I considered telling the Internet what Melanie had done, but I had no real proof. I texted Paul, suggested we hang out, feeling like I owed him something, even if it wasn’t the truth.

Subject: Early Retirement Proposals by Ray Kohn

 

 

 

The Quiz by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

raykohn.com

 

Wilson hated it when he was pushed into doing something he instinctively disliked. But his wife had become a keen quizzer, often in demand by others to join their team with all-round knowledge of things Wilson regarded as irrelevant.

 

The evening began. They sat awaiting the questions to which they had to give immediate verbal replies. The other teams did not seem to be doing very well so when it came to their turn, his wife was excited with the prospect of an easy win.

 

“Please complete the following saying.

“A bird in the hand is worth …”

Wilson answered instantly … “very little.”

His wife glared at him, but the invited audience clapped enthusiastically and laughed at Wilson’s joke.

The compere listened to instructions passed to him through his earpiece and, to the obvious annoyance of the other teams, announced: “That was not the reply I have written here: but it has been judged as better than the one we hold.

 

The other teams were provided with further easy questions until it came to Wilson’s turn again.

“Too many cooks spoil …”

“…weight watchers!”

Audience applause exasperated the competitive teams although some had begun to participate in Wilson’s quiet derision of the exercise.

 

His wife just sat back and said: “I think you had better answer all the quotations this evening.”

 

Some replies seemed to reflect Wilson’s background as a scientist which his wife suspected would not be appreciated by the audience. But as they were seated in a university lecture theatre, she was wrong because most of those watching them were undergraduates.

 

“A stitch in time …”

“.. is a superstring” brought the house down although neither his wife nor the compere understood the joke.

 

“Every cloud has a silver …    

“…iodide lining for rainmaking” drew applause from the meteorologists.

“A rolling stone…”

“… accelerates downhill.”

 

The lights dimmed and the compere became very serious. “I am going to give you famous sayings to which you need to provide an explanation. Do you understand?” Wilson’s wife nodded although he was unsure what was meant to happen.

 

“OK. Here is your first one. Your days are numbered…”

“… but less so in February,” Wilson responded instantly.

 

“I’m afraid that that does not explain the saying,” the compere intoned. “I’ll throw it open to the other teams.” But much to the compere’s annoyance, the other teams said they liked Wilson’s take on the saying and thought it illustrated the meaning perfectly.

 

One of the other team captains shouted out to Wilson, “Curiosity killed the cat…”

Wilson called back: “I think the verdict is expected today!”

The audience were in fits and the compere was becoming irate at his inability to control proceedings.

 

“Cloak and dagger” one of the other team captains cried out.

“… to cut a rough buttonhole” Wilson shouted back.

 

“That’s enough!” the compere insisted. “Let’s get back to the game…”

to which Wilson replied, “I don’t think that is an appropriate saying for family entertainment.”

 

The audience was in stitches of laughter, and even his wife had tears running down her cheeks at her husband’s unexpected wit.

 

“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a …”

“… car hire?”

 

“A man after my own heart …”

“… that’s my cardiac surgeon!”

 

The compere just gave up at this point and let the opposition captains set Wilson the questions.

 

“A picture is worth a thousand …”

“… dollars if it’s an original.”

 

“Absence makes the heart grow…

“… forgetful?”

 

“Beauty is only skin…”

“… shaped?”

 

“Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth…”

“..because he’d died yesterday.”

 

--

 

But Wilson was getting bored and clearly wanted to finish the evening. He looked to his wife for a lead, and she said:

 

“A fate worse than…”

“…a quiz night.”

 

And they all went home.

 

A Retirement Apartment by George Smith

[Worcestershire, England]

 

Arthur was greeted by a moustachioed young man in a three piece suit.

 

     ‘I’m Rupert. A pleasure to show you around.’    

 

     ‘Lead on, Macduff,’ said Arthur.

 

     Rupert looked at his visitor’s baggy sweater and creased trousers and pressed his lips into a fine line. He beckoned Arthur to follow.

 

     They walked through the hall, up the stairs and into an apartment.

 

     ‘The lounge, sir.’ 

 

     To Arthur, it was an oblong box devoid of furniture, with colourless walls, and drowned in artificial lighting. There was none of the character or homeliness of his lounge. Must take this seriously. Better for my arthritis and bronchitis. So said Susie and John. Don’t want to nettle them.

 

     ‘The windows are too small to let in natural light.’

 

     ‘The window size reduces heat loss and will save you money, sir.’

 

     ‘I could make this room a place for painting.’

 

     ‘Painting, sir! The apartment’s newly decorated.’

 

     Arthur smiled. ‘My big hobby’s art. Need natural light for that. This could be my studio.’

 

     ‘Your studio?’ said Rupert and his eyes bulged at the diminutive figure with straggling white hair and beard.

 

     ‘It will need a table, and space for storing all my art materials -canvasses and all that. Bigger windows would help. Could partition it off too.’

 

     ‘Leaseholders who propose significant changes require permission from the landlord,’ said Rupert rubbing an eyelid. 

     ‘However, I think you’ll like the bedroom. This way.’

 

     Arthur gasped. Eyeing up the room he guessed it would not take his king-size bed. Damn! He and Mary would have to re-arrange their occasional sleeping arrangements if he was to buy. He walked over to the window and stared out. ‘I see there’s a large car park but no greenery.’ He stamped the floor with his rolled up golfing umbrella.

 

     ‘There’s a stunning garden to your right,’ said Rupert, standing clear of the umbrella.

 

     Arthur looked again. This view did not compare with the luxuriant view from his own bedroom. Admittedly, it was now hard for him to keep his rambling garden under control.

 

     ‘And now the en-suite.’ Rupert pushed the door open.

 

     ‘There’s no bath! How can you get a real clean in a shower?’

 

     ‘Most of our residents lack the agility to use baths. Showers reduce accidents, sir.’

 

     ‘Hmm,’ said Arthur, thinking of what the future might have in store. But he enjoyed a long soak so why should he have to give it up? 

 

      ‘Finally, sir, the kitchen.’ Rupert stretched an arm out. ‘As you see, it’s fitted with all the essential white goods.’

 

      Arthur rubbed his chin. ‘But where’s the washing machine. Or does everyone here go around a bit whiffy.’ He gave a roar of laughter.

 

     ‘No, sir.’ Rupert feigned a smile ‘We have a laundry service on site.’

 

     Arthur’s eyes sparkled. ‘A live-in scrubber. I like it’. He elbowed Rupert in the ribs. ’I’m warming to this place. Can I see a two bedroom apartment now?’ 

 

 

 

 

Subject: Early Retirement Proposals by Ray Kohn

[Sheffield, England]

raykohn.com

 

Notice To All Employees

 

As a result of the drop in company profits, we are forced to cut down on our number of personnel. Under this plan, older employees will be asked to take early retirement, thus permitting the retention of younger people who represent our future. Therefore, a programme to phase out older personnel by the end of the current year, via retirement, will be placed into effect immediately.

 

This programme will be known as SLAP (Sever Late-Aged Personnel). Employees who are SLAPPED will be given the opportunity to look for jobs outside the company. SLAPPED employees can request a review of their employment records before actual retirement takes place. This review phase is called SCREW (Survey of Capabilities of Retired Early Workers). All employees who have been SLAPPED and SCREWED may file an appeal with higher management.

 

This appeal is called SHAFT (Study by Higher Authority Following Termination). Under the terms of the new policy, an employee may be SLAPPED once, SCREWED twice, but may be SHAFTED as many times as the company deems appropriate. If an employee follows the above procedure, he/she will be entitled to get HERPES (Half Earnings for Retired Personnel's Early Severance) unless already in receipt of CLAP (Combined Lump-sum Assistance Payment).

 

As HERPES and CLAP are considered benefit plans, any employee who has received HERPES or CLAP will no longer be SLAPPED or SCREWED by the company.

 

Management wishes to assure the younger employees who remain will continue participation in our policy of training employees through our Special High Intensity Training (SHIT). We take pride in the amount of SHIT our employees receive. We have given our employees more SHIT than any company in Europe. If any employee feels they do not receive enough SHIT on the job, see your immediate line manager. All managers are specially trained to make sure you receive all the SHIT you can stand.

 

And, once again, thanks for all your years of service with us.

 

 

 

 

Climb Beyond The Limit by Ben Brown

[Cornwall, England]

 

That final stage of the climb was most daring and overwhelming.

 

After leaving the final camp, Hillary and Tenzing made for the South Summit of Everest.

 

When they reached the South Summit, they examined the final ridge leading to the main Summit. It was monstrous.

 

To the left, were the upper slopes of the South West face, which towered above the Western Cwm. To the right, were cornices overhanging the East Kangshung face. One step on a cornice, would send a climber plunging to the rising Kangshung glacier.

 

Some way along the ridge, there was a step, some forty feet high, right by a cornice.

 

There was only one thing for it.

 

Hillary and Tenzing had no choice, but to make their way up the ridge. It was the only route from the South Summit to the main Summit.

 

So, they began to make their way up the ridge, which turned out to be very challenging.

There came a point when the ridge was so narrow, that the climbers had to inch their way along at a snail’s pace.

 

Furthermore, they were roped together, so if one of them fell, the other would too.

 

They reached the step, which had a shaft leading up the middle. On one side of the shaft was the South West face and on the other, the cornice.

 

So, Hillary made his way up the shaft, hoping that the cornice wouldn’t fall away. He could sense the Kangshung glacier beneath his feet.

 

Both Hillary and Tenzing reached the top of the step.

 

From that point the ridge was less difficult and they reached the top of Everest.

 

 

Advice From My Father: Be A Squeaky Wheel by Jude Potts

[Hampshire, England]

 

My father taught me that if you want to disappear without a trace after pulling a con on some unsuspecting schmuck you don’t dress in beige, don’t offer up an oatmeal personality, don’t try and fade into the wallpaper. Be a squeaky wheel, be memorable, be flamboyant and fabulous.

 

My father taught me to wear a bright purple hat that clashes with your lime green suit, wear a patch over one eye, have a stutter, a lisp, an accent that is ‘foreign’ but strangely difficult to place - was it Dutch? Could have been Belgian, or German? Maybe South African? Have a limp or use a stick.

 

My father taught me that if people remember something, better they give a detailed description of your wig, your fake limp, your enormous, gaudy broach shaped like a parrot and your pretend stammer. They’ll ignore anything of any use in tracing you in the future, like your height, eye colour, your age.

 

My father taught me the ‘watermelon drop’, the ‘pig in a poke’ and ‘Three Card Monte’. I don’t know how much is nature, what’s nurture, but I know we both cheat at cards, even Patience. I would no more play with a straight deck than I would get a real job.

 

My father taught me it’s an addiction, it's in the blood. A visceral thing. A tingle in your top lip when you sense the approach of a perfect Mark, a pounding of your heart in the build-up, the ecstasy as you push, push, push until you find the sweet spot, the convincer that finally wins them over so perfectly you know they are hooked and you play your hurrah, the crisis, the moment of now or never. You win or you lose. I’m good, so I mostly win.

 

And then you’re gone, with their wad in your back pocket. Slip out the back door, whistling and throwing your hat and your wig in the bin as you leave. That’s what my father taught me.

 

It was what his father taught him and his grandfather before that. And it was all there in the book. Old, tatty leather, dog-eared pages, bruised spine, water marks and paperclips. Every grift, every swindle that any sucker, any stooge ever fell for. A multi-generational diary of scams, a hucksters’ how-to of hustling gulls and rubes.

 

It was my father’s prize possession. It had been his father’s before that until Dad had played a distraction game on him and slipped out with it in his battered old case one thunder-hot day. Grandpa won it from his father in a hand of poker where father and son were both cheating, but son cheated better.

 

My father must have been so proud the day I lifted it from his room, shimmied down a drain pipe and disappeared into the offing to earn my fortune running pigeon drops and rainmaking, nostrils full of the sweet smell of gasoline and lighter fluid from the bridges I burnt, whistling as I went.

 

 

 

Palimpsest by Steve Hartley

[Lancashire, England]

 

Tom checks his watch. Time’s up. She didn’t come. The message he left couldn’t have been clearer.

     He climbs up and sits on the railing at the end of the pier. The weight of the backpack, full of rocks, seems to pull him back, but he resists and leans into the void. When they were happy, they used to stand here, stare at the horizon and talk of the future; now he stares into the night, and sees nothing. The lonely, despairing cry of a herring gull fills his head. The lamp above throws a spotlight on this, his final scene. He pauses, settles, listens to the growl and slap of the sea far below, then closes his eyes and inhales a last lungful of salt air.

           

     A hand grips his; another seizes his shoulder. The scent of French cigarettes wraps around his face, as the voice he had lost and almost forgotten cries in his ear, ‘Tom, stop!’

     

     ‘You came back.’ 

 

     ‘You won’t let me go.’ 

 

     ‘Where’ve you been?’  

 

     ‘Remembering how to be happy. Tom, get down. Please.’

 

     He climbs back onto the pier and turns to her. Olivia cries out. ‘Jesus, what have you done to your face?’

 

     Tom smiles. ‘Not just my face.’ He heaves the rucksack from his back and takes off his tee-shirt and jeans. He turns to show her the indelible, needle-sharp words tattooed across the contours of his body, overwritten so much they have turned his skin blue. ‘I wrote you on my body.’ He raises his arms, offering himself as a benediction. ‘Every inch of me is you. It always was.’

Olivia stares, speechless.

     ‘After you left, I started to forget things. It was like losing you all over again. So I turned myself into this: a palimpsest of memories.’ He grins. ‘Palimpsest: one of your favourite words.’ He points to his stomach. ‘There it is, along with plump, pusillanimous, and nincompoop.’

     The spell is cast. Tom’s finger becomes a wand, guiding Olivia’s mesmerised gaze over his body. He points out stories that tell of her love of thunderstorms, crazy golf, French cigarettes and Radiohead; her fear of spiders and mistrust of cats. These are woven and intertwined with cherished moments of their life together. He touches a cross on his cheek. ‘Here’s your first kiss. X marks the spot.’ He draws her eyes to his heart. ‘And here’s your parting shot: “I’m drowning. I need air.” A tad melodramatic, but it’s so you. Look, I even got the guy to copy your handwriting.’

 

     Olivia is crying. She traces the sentences with her fingertips, reading them like Braille. As her fingers brush his skin, Tom gasps. His need for her jolts his body. ‘I can’t live without you.’

 

     ‘Tom, I can’t live with you.’

 

     ‘Stalemate.’

 

     ‘This isn’t a game.’

 

     ‘No. It’s not. It’s life or death.’

 

     The night closes in. The wind baits its breath. The sea waits.

 

 

 

 

All About George by Jane Mooney

[West Yorkshire, England]

 

Dad

I don’t want to worry George, I know he’s got a lot on his plate at the moment, but I’m feeling really scared.  The doc says I need more tests…they’re worried about this cough I’ve got which won’t go away.  They’re not saying it but I know they think it’s the Big C. 

 

George and Sally invited me round for supper this evening, but I didn’t really feel up to going after a day at the hospital.  Is it bad that I felt relieved when George texted me to cancel? Apparently, they’ve had some sort of plumbing disaster and the kitchen’s flooded.

 

Sally

3 weeks we’ve been without a working shower! 3 weeks!  And what’s he doing about it?  Sod all as far as I can see.  Well, if it means I have to go to the gym every night just to get a shower, so be it.  At least I’m keeping fit.

 

I keep bumping into Mick at the gym.  Haven’t seen him for ages, not since he and Trish split up. I’d forgotten what good fun he is.  We were leaving at the same time last night and he offered to buy me a drink. Well, there was nothing to rush home for.  I knew George was working late (again!) so why not!  Haven’t laughed so much in ages.

 

A Hospice Nurse

We’ve got an old boy just admitted with terminal lung cancer.  He’s scared.  They often are when they first arrive.  I’m doing everything I can to make it easier for him.  Fortunately, he’s got a supportive son, George I think his name is.  He’s here every day.  Not sure what he does for a living that means he has so much free time.  Maybe he doesn’t work.  Anyway – it makes it easier for the old boy having his son so close.

 

Katy

Got sat next to a guy called George at the wedding.  Clearly, we had been put together because we're both newly single.  Nice guy but rather sad.  He's lost his wife, his job and his dad all in the space of a year.  We talked, and we danced.  He took my number but I don’t think he’ll get in touch.

 

George

I’ve just got a new phone.  New job, new phone, new start.  But for some reason I felt I had to put Dad’s number into it.  Why is that?  He’s been dead two years.

 

 

 

 

Death Of A Pikeman, 1645 by Steve Hartley

[Lancashire, England]

 

Death came with the rout. An English blade stopped his loyal English heart. It wasn’t clean, but it was quick.

As he bled into the earth, he heard the laughter of his children, and felt his wife’s last kiss. He drew a final faltering breath, then sank into silence and soft shadows, and felt nothing.

A Roundhead took his boots. A scavenger took his keep-safe charm. Crows took his eyes and worms took his flesh. He passed into memory. Time took everything.

 

 

 

 

Del Briggs’ Midlife Crisis by William Kitcher

[Toronto, Ontario, Canada]

 

Del Briggs loved his wife, respected her, admired her for her intelligence and common sense, and thought she was still the funniest person he had ever known.

     But they hadn’t had sex for fifteen years. The inactivity had begun when their daughters were in their teens and they didn’t want to make noise that would alarm the children, but the daughters had left home many years ago, and Briggs and his wife had never resumed a regular routine. From once or twice a year, it had dwindled to nothing and, as they careened through middle age, had never come back.

     Part of it, Briggs was sure, was that they weren’t attracted to each other anymore. They’d seen each other age, and go to flab and wrinkles and hair emerging from the most unlikely body parts. And, after all, how many people in their fifties were still attractive? Sure, there was Diane Lane and there was Julie in Accounting, but that was about it.

     At least, that’s what Briggs thought, and he was fairly certain his wife felt the same way, as she had never broached the subject or his body.

     It had never bothered Briggs very much as he was a fairly low-sexual person but it was a constant thought, and he began to become concerned that perhaps he was no longer even capable.

     One night after work, he went to the bar that the Sales team regularly commandeered, and took aside Teddy Wall, a young sales whiz who was known to indulge in sex of the paid variety.

     “Yeah, I think I can help you out,” said Wall, looking at the contact list on his phone. “OK, this is what you’re looking for. Two twenty-one-year-old sisters, Inga and Ilsa, exchange students who...”

     “No,” interrupted Briggs. “Young women would just make me feel... uh... sordid. Do you have anyone a little older?”

     “I know exactly who you need. Madam La Rosa is the one. She lives just around the corner from here. Daytime is best for her.”

 

     Briggs took the information and thought about it for a few days. He wondered if he could go through with it. Would this cause him anguish? Would he feel guilty? What the hell, he thought.

     The following Thursday, he decided he could. He left work early, and went to the address. He climbed three flights of stairs, found the right apartment, and knocked on the door. The door opened and he looked into the face of his wife.

 

 

 

A Sleepless Night by Anna-Roisin Ullman-Smith

[Glasgow, Scotland]

 

From the deep dark depths of a dreamless sleep, she was suddenly yanked back into the gloom of her bedroom, her mind still clinging onto the sweetness of oblivion even as her eyes opened and settled upon the scrunched up, screaming face of her child.  

 

Perfectly at eye level to her pillow’s mounted head, the small monsters’ cries shook the empty mindless space of her brain in painful throbs. Her body took over, emitting cooing sounds of comfort as her arms untangled from the duvet and reached across the minimal space separating them, to lift and drag the small, angry creature she loved into the warm embrace of the parental bed.  

 

Hair frizzed by sleep and face sticky with snot and tears, the small human immediately hushed on contact with its mothers warmth and burrowed into her chest, thumb popping into mouth and hand clenching around a stray lock of her hair.  

 

Small sticky load acquired, she turns gently onto her back, looping the already drifting toddler’s legs over her arm and placing a hand firmly and comfortingly against its back. A sharp look through the dark to her right confirms her husband’s unbroken slumber. Rage momentarily ignites and then is quenched by the soft sleepy moan of her tiny load. She turns her eyes back down onto her sleeping monster, now turned cherub in resting, watching the soft rise and fall of its tiny chest and the rhythmic clench and unclench of its cherry pink lips around its miniscule thumb.  

 

Eyes turning up to the ceiling she reaches out for the depthless sleep she was torn from. She closes her eyes, settles her breathing, attempts to stop the cogs which have woken and begun to turn in her mind.  

 

It is, of course, at this exact moment that her husband begins to snore. Loud, bed- shaking snores which echo through her. Her eyes snap open, the cogs in her mind released to run into overdrive as the long list of chores that await her with morning light begin to flood her consciousness.  

 

Stuck, unable to move should she wake the beast now settled against her chest, she stares into the darkness, tracing the lines of the ceiling tiles, both content and furious all at once.  

 

 

 

 

To Accept The Challenge, You Must Pay The Fare by Kayleigh Kitt

[South Shropshire, England]

 

It is a Tuesday afternoon and Pete’s life is about to change.

 

He’s only agreed to go on the trip to Boraston Hall because Angela is going but , dismally when he arrives, she’s already cried off. So grumpily resigned to the back of the group visiting the stately home, he becomes his worst fear - a straggler.

 

Slowly going through the rooms, he further detaches himself from the rest of the party, mostly to avoid the scrutinising questions from Deidre. You know Deidre? Of course you do, loud, pushy with an insatiable appetite for gossip. We’ve all met Deidre.

 

I digress.

 

So Pete, now forlorn and melancholy stumbles in a corridor of our historic house, and as his forearm connects with a wooden panel to steady himself, there’s a very soft click, followed by a hiss and an animatronic voice that softly announces,

 

Main power has been restored.

 

Our wilting hero thinks he’s hearing things, but as he straightens up, doors begin to gracefully glide shut.  Tapestries on the wall recede into ceilings, panels rotate revealing a selection of brass chargers, spears and swords.

 

Carpets and rugs roll up, as if they are on hidden pulleys, disappearing into letter box slots in the floor, snapping shut, while bases of spears held by flanking suits of armour ring out on the stone floors, as their mufflers are dislodged.

 

A black walnut sideboard shivers, swallowing half a dozen goblets, although it’s not quite as successful, with the dish of apples, one landing and skimming across the tiles, hitting Pete’s boot. He hitches his rucksack, nervously pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

 

But then…. the helmet of the nearest mirrored suit of armour begins to grate in his direction.  Pete licks his lips, taking several alarmed steps backwards, nudging a table and dislodging a pewter vase, which crashes loudly to the floor, with hollow, echoing chimes.

 

The visor on the helmet begins to open, synchronised with a rising gauntlet.

 

Pete stands gawping, now frozen in fear.

 

A tatty, brown edged piece of card, ejects from the visor, landing in the upturned polished hand, followed by a shiny golden sovereign.

 

Nothing stirs, no traces of human voices, nor animal, well living at least, because the glassy eyes of the stuffed heads seem to be focused intently on any minutiae movement.

 

With a thumb and forefinger, Pete carefully extracts the card from the palm of armour.

 

It reads, “To accept the challenge, you must pay the fare.”

 

He measures the weighty coin in his upturned hand, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead.

 

Peering to inspect the glinting intricate pattern on the breastplate of the metal skin, he posts the coin into a slot in the chest.

 

 

 

Like A Million Butterflies by John Brantingham

[Jamestown, NY, USA]

           

Travis jumps off the school bus to find what looks like a million butterflies in his mother’s milkweed bush out in front of his house, but he’s quick to sneer at it because that’s what you do when you see butterflies and a busload of kids are watching you, even if your back is to them and they can’t see your face.

 

     Still, his grandmother told him about the way magic wands come from milkweed bushes covered with butterflies, so he waits until the bus moves on and then makes his face as neutral as he can make it. When it feels right, he steps up to the bush and snaps off a branch as naturally as he can, as though this is not special, but just what someone does in the course of the day.

 

     He’s too old to believe in magic wands, he thinks as he stuffs the branch in his pocket.

 

     Still.

 

     Upstairs in his bedroom, he can think about what he might want the wand to do. He supposes that the only thing he really wants is to be able to play with butterflies without anyone laughing at him, so he takes the wand and closes his eyes and circles it around his forehead.

 

     Next week, when he sees some more butterflies out of the baseball diamond, he’s too smart to go chasing after them. The wand, he knows, has no power. The other kids would laugh and talk about him for a month. He knows that when the monarch comes close to him, actually lands on his mitt, and when the ball is hit to left field while he is right so he doesn’t have to disturb the little creature, that it has nothing to do with the magic his grandmother gave him. He’s too old and too smart to believe any of that.

 

Still.

 

 

 

Three Stories by John Sheirer

[Northampton, Massachusetts, USA]

 

Planning

 

Julia had heard stories about her grandfather. He had been something of an athlete long ago. Nothing professional, but people noticed. Now eighty, he still got around well, took long walks at his senior complex, maybe with a limp on rainy days.

            So, she was surprised when she visited and saw him in a wheelchair.

            “What happened, Gramps?” Julia asked.

            “Nothing yet,” he replied.

            “So, what’s with…” Julia said, nodding in the general direction of the wheelchair.

            “You know, gotta plan,” Gramps said, gripping the chair’s arms and shaking them with his still-strong hands, rattling the frame. “The inevitable.”

 

 

Civilization

 

The homeowner woke early each weekday to dress well and tap computer keys in exchange for money. On weekends, he wore sloppy clothes and traded large portions of that money for supplies that he hauled from a big-box hardware store to his home. He sweated and swore and transformed those supplies into new porch steps and repaired deck boards and rescreened screen doors and layers of paint atop fading surfaces of his house. The homeowner could have exchanged his money for other people to come to his home and do this work for him, but what fun would that be?

 

 

Revenge Of The Lawn Service

 

Henderson Landscaping’s workers lifted sweat-lidded eyes from their tasks at 84 Maple Street to witness a Doobie’s Mow and Blow truck rumble to a stop at 97 Maple. Last month, Doobie’s site supervisor, slathered in a film of sunscreen and disguised by opaque mosquito netting, crept in at lunch break to shove a potato deep inside the tailpipe of Henderson’s best tractor, disabling it for an important job. Since then, Buddy Henderson, youngest son of the company founder, had anticipated today’s arrival. He distributed buckets of fist-sized throwing rocks to all seven employees present. They each knew what honor demanded.

 

 

 

 

The High And Mighty by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

I was wondering why there were so many cars double and triple parked in my driveway when I

got home.

 

My neighbor Richard was smoking a Marlboro by the side of my house, and when he saw me pull

up he came towards me as I got out of the car.

 

He pulled me by the cuff as he watched the windows while he led me to the side, so, “We wouldn’t be

Seen”!

 

“Got any coke”? He requested.

 

I gave him some.

 

“I’m here for your intervention”

 

“My what”? I asked.

 

“Yeah, don’t tell on me. I don’t want one.”

 

I started to walk to the front of my home.

 

“Hey fuckhead, you coming in”? I inquired.

 

“Yeah, you go in first. Got any weed”? He didn’t wonder.

 

I gave him some.

 

 

 

I met my wife, one early rainy morning waiting for the doors to open at an A.A. meeting.

 

 It was my first time, and I guess it showed.

 

It was her millionth time, and I guess it showed.

 

After the A.A. meeting I kissed my future sponsor wife on the neck in the parking lot and she

looked, and felt, like she was tingling all over, and then I started tingling all over too.

 

I thought at best we would be just a fleeting fantasy in an after A.A. meeting parking lot.

 

It happens every day, and night, however, this one stuck to the ribs.

 

It was love at first blurry vision.

 

Now, my significant whatever, is now a reformer.

 

A couple of her friends’ husbands were there too.

I saw them earlier in the week.

 

We all went in on an ounce of blow with a side of some ecstasy. They probably wanted to re-up and figured they might as well stay for the show.

 

I noticed one of the attendee neighbors coming out of my bathroom and making a mental

note to myself to check and see how many pills of mine they stole.

 

I looked over the audience and thought to myself that half were drunk, half were pilled, half were

coked, and half, were all the above and below.

 

I know that doesn’t add up correctly, but what does?

 

I also knew I wasn’t as whacked out as most of them but what can you do?

 

I don’t want to be known as an intervention party pooper.

 

I simply said, “Let’s not say what goes without saying."

 

Until I said,

 

“Why don’t we all empty our pockets and purses and we’ll see what we can see and what is what”?

 

 

So here we are, and nobody has made the slightest motion to empty their pockets and purses.

 

They must have thought I was kidding.

 

I was not kidding.

 

The haul was enormous, and I suggested we sell it all and donate it to charity.

 

I was voted down, so I said, “Why not live and let live?"

 

That bill was voted and passed.

 

 

 

 

Tinnitus by Alisha J Prince

[Wandsworth, London, England]

 

Raymond cut pieces of moss using nail scissors and fitted them into an ice-cream box. A pond was the small round mirror his wife had prised from a compact, it smelled of stale, perfumed powder.

 

Twigs and lollipop sticks formed the first fence. They have to be the right kinds of twigs; too supple and you have willowy vines, too frail and they risk snapping.

The next bit was controversial - cat litter for a path. Some say this is cheating because a path should be made from stones, painstakingly picked for their uniformity. But the litter was already in the cupboard under the sink. He was utilising his resources, anyway, it was redundant since the cat died. His wife had always bought fine grain which made an elegant esplanade.

Boxwood, lamb’s ear and false cypress were favourites and his signature piece was a washing line. Swings could over-egg the pudding. Not that he wasn’t experimental. He’d once made a miniature garden within a miniature garden deliberately breaking one of the four reproduction antique ceramic tile walls. He suspected foul play when only awarded third place but avenged himself the following year with a reconstruction of The Potters Field - Judas Tree and noose included. Perhaps they’re just not ready for Penjing veritas in New Malden? His wife had suggested.

He hummed and tapped his skull, a trick an ENT specialist taught him. His wife had said he was lucky; most people don’t know what they’re distracting themselves from.

Later, standing on a motorway bridge, traffic competed with the dreadful echo of inner-ear interference, he wondered: if he was distracting himself from tinnitus, what was the tinnitus distracting him from?

It was still rush hour. His head was still louder than the cars. Stale perfumed powder still lined his nostrils.

 

 

 

Mongolian Sunflowers by Karen Arnold

[Worcestershire, England]

Giant Mongolian sunflower seeds. Ten for five pounds.

Do they have sunflowers in Mongolia? Surely, it’s too cold she thought.

 

She shrugged, scrolled to another page. Scrolled back again and stared at the image. The enormous flowers were mesmerising, big as dustbin lids, radiating hot golden petals.  She looked out at the grey sky and leaned back into the faded green velour sofa. Becalmed in a sea of other tenant’s threadbare furniture, she laced her cold fingers over the soft round of her stomach for a moment, then clicked “buy now”.

 

She planted them in a motley assortment of rescued yoghurt pots and margarine tubs, in soil grubbed up from the side of the road and carried home in a bag for life. Watched as if bewitched when tiny tendrils started to unfurl. They grew so fast. She would sit at the scuffed Formica kitchen table and feel she could hear them growing, a creaking, eager noise that cut through the dull roar of traffic.

 

One evening they were too big for the pots. Roots and shoots reached out into the air, desperate for more space. She crept down the fire escape, cleared away broken glass and cigarette butts and planted them in the patch of earth by the light of a curious full moon. They carried on growing, stems as thick as her finger, then as thick as her forearm. She watered them every day of that long desperate summer, cried like a toddler when the strongest of them was kicked over by a careless bin man.

 

The next three grew sickly and jaundiced. They withered, and died, poisoned by cat piss. After that she spent hours at the window ready to defend them with bowls of water and creative expletives. Two of them reached the height of the first landing before being used as goal posts by bored teenagers and reduced to tattered stumps. The dead eyed boys ignored her pleas to just fuck off. They threw the empty beer can that had been the football at her windows, and she did not shout again. They prowled away into the dusk as the sun set.

 

The sunflowers grew. She worked out how to measure them from her window as she grew larger, too tired to climb down. She lowered down a knotted piece of string, a rental Rapunzel. She counted the climbing numbers. Seven months. Eight months. Nine months

 

The buds had reached the kitchen window when the pains started. They opened slowly along with her. The midwives commented on them as they entered the flat, and then there was no more time to talk, no time to get to the hospital.

 

They put the baby into her arms at the end of that long hot day, and both of them turned towards the window, where the giant Mongolian sunflowers, big as dustbin lids, nodded in approval.

 

 

 

 

Life’s Dreams by Mark Anthony

[Kent, England]

“You gonna eat that?” Mary asked her sister. Sue-Ellen shook her head. “No, I’m done.”

Mary stabbed the piece of pancake with her fork and folded it into her mouth having wiped all traces of maple syrup from the plate. Their mother Connie wore the well- worn mask of normality while a knot of worries tumbled in her head, careful words of advice for their first day at a new high school were delivered.

 

“Now girls, you are growing up now and some folk, especially those boys, will be paying you mighty close attention, so just you act normal, you know like always. Be polite even if they’re being mean.”

 

“We will Mom,” they said in unison.

 

Mary and Sue-Ellen sat in the back of the car, lime trees marched by as they cruised along the Maryland suburbs, Connie hummed a country and western classic, her nerves added extra vibrato to her tones. Of course, had Hank stuck around it would have a damn sight easier, but he soon pushed through the back door fly screen once he’d realised. A glance in the rear-view mirror, two faces stealing glimpses of people like birds pecking seeds from the ground, before sinking back into soft leather. At the lights near the school, Connie drew a deep breath, pulled down the sun visor mirror, a face much older that it should, but she would fight on, for her and her girls.

 

She figured that Maryland high school was large enough for the girls to fit in, yes it would be daunting but if they were to succeed in life, they need to face crowds and attention. No longer could they hide in small town life.

 

The main car park resembled a disturbed ants’ nest, encumbered masses emerging from boxes and corners marched towards a frenzied bottle neck. Mary and Sue-Ellen tentatively alighted from the car, their mother held the door and took them in her arms and whispered encouraging words before she ushered them forward.

 

“I.. I’m not sure I can do this,” Sue- Ellen said to her twin.

 

“Just focus on those dreams we have Sue-Ellen. You have yours and I have mine, we just have work together to achieve them, that’s all.”

 

“You’re right Mary. We can do this.”

 

Determined not flee the scene, Connie watched as the girls took deliberate co-ordinated strides to the knot of bodies at the entrance. An electric buzz connected all the heads except those of Mary and Sue-Ellen, it was if they were the reverse polarity, repelling them from the crowd's magnet. The girls’ awareness of the stir at first quickened their pace until forced to stop at a thronged pocket, hundreds of eyes on stalks, wide and examining, the two fair faces that shared a single body.

 

 

 

The Inside Cover  by Laura Stamps

[USA]

www.laurastampsfiction.blogspot.com      

Twitter: @LauraStamps16  

 

There it is. In my post office box. The current issue. One of the dog magazines I subscribe to. Just seeing it makes me happy. So enjoyable. This. This addiction to dog magazines. Mine. I open it to the inside cover. The first ad. Love the ads! Have I mentioned that before? It’s true. Love them. They’re as entertaining as the articles. Really. They are. And informative. Always. The ads. All of them. Really. Like this one. The ad in this issue. On the inside cover. Usually, it’s for pet insurance. But not this time. Now it’s anxiety meds. For dogs. What? What? Dogs have anxiety? How fascinating! I wonder, wonder. Could these work for humans too? These dog meds. I wonder. If they could. If that’s possible. Then I know who needs them. Him. My ex. That ex-husband of mine. Mad all the time. Him. Mad at the world. At people. At strangers. At drivers. At life. At everyone. And everything. Is it any surprise he has a heart condition? Too much anger. Too much stress. For him. For me. Is it any surprise what happened to me? That day. When I’d had enough. When I was tired. So tired. Me. Tired of his temper tantrums. His anger. The tantrums that put him in the hospital. Again, and again, and again. Tired. Me. Of going to the hospital to pick him up. Again, and again, and again. Tired of his refusal to take an anger management class. To learn coping skills. To learn. Just. Tired. On that day. Like any day. Me. Driving home from work. Like I always did. Every day. After work. But then, but then. That day. I didn’t get off at my exit. Couldn’t. Couldn’t go home. To him. Couldn’t make myself. Just. Couldn’t. Do it. Kept driving. Driving, driving, driving. Across one state. And then another. And then another. Driving. To be free. From husband-stress. From anger. Free. To build a new life. Here. In this city. Far away. Me. Free. Finally. Best ten years of my life. And counting. 

 

 

 

The Blind Leading The Dog by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

The last thing Amber remembered was a beam of light speeding towards her face.

 

A stubborn light.

 

Like her.

 

Now another one.

 

This time it was a flashlight lighting up her face.

 

She felt the warmth but couldn’t see a fucking thing.

 

Blinder than a bat.

 

She already had a dog that did not know he would have to be retooled which is better than being fired.

 

He already could not find his own leash, bless his heart.

 

She sure was pretty, but what blind person isn’t?

 

It was not his fault that his wife upset him so that he could not see her, and out of hurt and anger, after being left alone for

another, he attacked the night with his Harley machine until his blind rage blinded her.

 

She wore a football helmet she got from her before blind boyfriend, to wear around the house, so she wouldn’t hurt her head any further on all those big bumpy things surrounding her new life.

 

She got a call to see if she wanted a seeing-eye dog but she said she already had a dog that could see fine, and his name is Bo, then she hung up.

 

Her before blind boyfriend looked after Bo at his place while she was in the hospital.

 

Her boyfriend had women come over that he pretended to like them, until he threw them out.

 

After she got back home, he brought Bo over and she was more excited to be with Bo then with her future ex-boyfriend, whom she told it would not be fair to him to have a life with her, with her being this way. “Don’t you agree?” she frozenly asked.

 

Of course, she did not want him to agree, she just wanted to give him an out.

 

But agree he did.

 

She might have never known what she wanted out of life, but sure knew when she was not wanted.

 

She laughed when she told Bo that she had a feeling her job as an air-traffic controller career was in jeopardy, and even Bo thought it was funny.

 

If she could just stumble upon a man was like her Bo, her world of darkness would be brighter.

 

One day she got yet another call from that organization about training Bo asking how she was doing adjusting and how was this, and how was that, and just before she was going to adjust the phone to go silent, the person on the other end said they were born blind and how lucky she was to have had sight for a while at least.

They talked for hours, and when it was time to hang up, the born blind person said, “Bye bye, see you with my third eye.”

 

Then Amber lied down with her arms around Bo and cried a bit and was happy that her eyes could still produce tears that Bo would lick away.

 

 

 

To Greet or Not to Meet? By Naga Vydyanathan

[Bangalore, India]

Raju donned his Covid protection gear, the supposedly omnipotent N95 mask, as he prepared to step out for his morning walk. The current times necessitated one to fortify the body and mind before venturing out of one’s haven! Armed with a tiny bottle of sanitizer, he stood outside his door, wondering whether to take the elevator or the stairs, finally opting for the latter – at least Covid urged the weak-hearted to exercise their hearts! The air outside was cool and fresh. Raju took long, deep breaths, trying to somehow suck in the air through the numerous layers of his mask. He diligently wore only masks with five or more layers – wasn’t more the safer? Walking briskly, he noticed that most of his fellow walkers had theirs precariously hanging from their ears, safely protecting their chins. “Covid has definitely retired, not from existence, but from people’s minds!” thought Raju disapprovingly, as he turned around the corner.

 

          Raju had his eyes intensely focussed on the ground before him, for two reasons. One – he did not want to accidently step on one of the many snakes that had started venturing out bravely, boldened by the lack of human intrusion over the last few months. Two – he was scared of meeting eyes with someone he knew. Meeting eyes was OK, but meeting without a mask? “Raju bhai! Arrey Raju Bhai!” boomed a persistent voice from behind. Raju froze in his tracks – he hadn’t anticipated being recognized from the back – an impressive feat by whoever it was, considering the jagged locks of hair he sported, thanks to the Covid-confine! Turning around, he peered at the waving figure, the neurons in his brain frantically trying to find a match for the blurry masked face with images from the past.  Raju took some steps towards the still-waving figure, hoping that the increased clarity would eventually lead to a hit! With the relief of sighting a masked face coursing through his veins, he actually looked forward to physically meeting someone after all these months. Masked meetups, that too, outdoors, should be safe, no?

 

          “Aaah! Alok da! How are you doing?”, greeted Raju, giving himself a silent pat for the just-in-time identification. “Raju Bhai! So nice to see you after ages! Kya haal chaal hai?” Once the Covid-induced-ice had been broken, there was no stopping Raju. Alok da and Raju walked together, catching up on lost times. A few others joined them along the way, some meeting Raju’s stringent masking standards, some not. But these deficiencies were not strong enough to interrupt the momentum of socializing, once the initial inertia was broken.

 

          Raju hummed a cheery tune as he stepped back into his haven, elated by his mini social excursion. As he removed his mask, a tiny tickle made his nose twitch, slowly crawling its way up to a crescendo, an explosion of air pushing his lips open.

 

          ATTTTCCHHHOOOOO!  A pair of fearful eyes looked at the mirror. OMG, what have I done?  

 

 

 

The Dive by Karen Tobias-Green

[Leeds, England]

 

Kitty pulls her costume down at the legs. She hates that involuntary ride-up, like an unscheduled curtain raiser. She shuffles her tanned toes into line with the edge of the board. There’s a thrilling ripple in her legs that travels up her spine. She shivers slightly, wets her lips, blinks slowly and breathes in.  Below the bodies splash and stutter on the water. The swimmers are roped off from the divers but she can see them, sense them, hear them in tinny echoing bursts. A bunch of boys flounder and flap about in the middle of a swimming lane, tugging at each other’s limbs ever more wildly. A scream cuts through the chaos.

                                                                                       ***

Levi swallows so much water he feels he will drown from the inside. He goes under then pops up again and this time he lets go a second scream which is gurglier than the first, full of bubbles and comes pouring out of his nose and his eyes.

‘Levi what the fuck!’ Eddie is laughing at him. He has him in his sights, his eyes red from the chlorine.

‘Levi is drowning, Levi is going down!’ Eddie is yelling at the top of his voice and all eyes are on Levi now. ‘Levi’s just out the shallow and he’s drowning.’

Eddie leans all his weight on Levi’s shoulders and sends him under one more time. Levi fights to locate the bottom of the pool with his toes but he can’t. He’s not far out of his depth but far enough. The water churns around him, the air in his lungs is wet, his vision is blurred. If Eddie does that to him one more time he will die. From suffocation, or shame, or both.

Kitty wriggles her toes again. She breathes out and then slowly raises her arms high.

                                                                                      ***

Flying through the air is a gift as much as a talent. Kitty has never struggled to fly; it’s the landings that have caught her out. Not today though. Out the corner of her eye there is a flurry. A scattering. One of the lifeguards has dived in and is slowly, calmly bringing a panicking boy to the edge of the pool.  He is visibly shaking. His friends hang back in the water, alarmed, quietened.

Levi watches Eddie being lifted onto the pool side. He feels the strength return to his arms. He feels the bottom of the pool with his toes.

 

 

A Simple House Call by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

“Did you see that kid throw”?

 

If Packer heard that once, he heard it a million times. One hundred bucks, times a million, he thought in

his financial research wheelhouse first rate mind.

 

With that kind of money, he could cure cancer.

 

But Packer was not wanted to cure cancer, Packer was only wanted on the football field, and not in lab class. That would be a distraction from, “Keeping his eye on the ball”.

 

During his last football game for his school, Packers arm put the team so far ahead that he asked to be taking out of the game. He said his arm hurt but it was really was because he wanted to add some things he thought of

during the game that he wanted to add to his science paper homework assignment instead of playing more, “Stupid ass football”.

 

While he was on the bench, working on his papers with his helmet off and way off to the side,

coach, as usual charged over and grabbed his papers, ripped them up and threw Packer and his

helmet back on the field.

 

“Tell your teachers coach ate your homework”, was the play the fuckhead coach put on Packer’s playing field.

 

Packer got on the field.

He would remember what was ripped from him.    

 

He would lie in bed, and think about why we can’t we cure this, or replace that but, “Don’t worry

world of disease, I’m coming”.

 

He would begin the next morning like all the other mornings during stupid ass High School football

practice by heading into the science lab class first.

 

This was the first class of the day.  He would go to the teacher and tell him of his latest ideas.

 

The teacher thought it should be the other way around. Packer should be the teacher and he the

student.

He would be a student that Packer might not even give a B to.

 

One day after school, a recruiter was waiting for him in the living room with his

father.

 

That did it.

 

They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree but this one rolled light years away.

 

His father introduced the diabetic looking recruiter to Packer by pointing out to his son how many players got to the N.F.L. thru this guy.

Packer’s father would punctuate his every point with the football he always carried around like the

fucking Holy Grail.

 

After the recruiter completed his pitch, Packer told his father and the recruiter he was not going

to play football at his college or any college unless Harvard Medical has one. 

 

The recruiter shook his head and got up left without a word.

 

Packer’s father hit the roof, the basement, the walls, all the time not letting go of his precious

football.

 

The football he threw good but not good enough to have his own fucking football career.

 

He yelled and shouted so loud that he started to choke and choke bad. He even dropped his

football. Fumble? 

 

 He wound up on his back, flopping like a fish on a pier. Packer started CPR, but his father kept

choking and was turning blue from the red his face was a minute ago.

 

Packer took out his silver surfer pen and performed a beautiful tracheotomy on his father’s

throat.

 

The doctors congratulated Packer as his father looked on from the wheelchair he was in as they

rolled him towards the exit of the emergency room.

 

One or two doctors wanted to mentor Packer.

 

They did not speak all the way home but when they got there and walked in the living room. Dad

saw his football and picked it up and threw it in the gas burning fireplace and turned it on.

 

He looked at his puzzled kid and said, “What’s up Doc”?

 

 

 

Teeth With Rotten Skin by Lauren Carter

[Cambridge, England]

Twitter: @writerlcarter

Instagram: @writerlcarter

 

When I was young, I only had one friend and she was imaginary.

              I knew it even then that she wasn’t real but, when I lost my parents, she’s all I had. I named her Ecca, and she called me sister.

              So, imagine my surprise when I received a call from her.

              I turn up to the cafe and there she is, the exact same after all these years, not a wrinkle on her. I almost leave but curiosity takes over.

              ‘Hello sister,’ she says when I take the opposite seat. The waiter comes over before I reply and only addresses me when taking the order. Doesn’t ask Ecca what she wants. ‘It’s been a while, you’ve grown up.’ Her voice is lower and not as cheerful as it once was.

              I stumble for the words, the questions I want to ask her. I haven’t thought of her in so long, how could I have imagined her here?

              ‘I wanted to reach out sooner, but I’ve been busy.’ She smiles at me. The waiter brings my drink over and Ecca snatches it before I get a chance and downs it.

              She never used to be able to hold things.

              ‘Things have changed,’ she says, wiping her mouth. ‘But we’re still sisters, right?’ Her tone is different now, more serious. I nod as I don’t know what else to do. Every single piece of my body is telling me to leave. ‘Good.’

              My food arrives but I don’t bother to reach for it. Ecca wolfs it down and, as she’s distracted, I look around at the quiet café. No one is paying attention to us though, I’m on my own. ‘It’s so nice to taste food again.’

              I look back at her, not only is the food gone but the plate and cutlery are no longer there. I look up to see she has cut the side of her mouth so far; it’s ripped into her cheek. Her teeth at the front are normal but the back ones get sharper the deeper you look into her mouth.

              The waiter comes back over to clean the table and looks at me confused. ‘Honey, where’s your plate?’

              I don’t get a chance to explain as Ecca jumps out of her seat and attacks the waiter, biting into his neck. The rest of the café finally pays attention to us as I hear screams and scuffles from behind me, the bell on the door constantly ringing.

              Ecca finally releases the waiter, and he drops with a loud thud, his throat slashed apart so much I can see his spine.

              ‘He was delicious,’ Ecca says, cleaning her mouth and sitting back down. ‘Not as tasty as your parents though.’

              No words come out, but I feel my hands shake. 

              She notices. ‘What?’ She smirks. ‘Don’t you want us to be together?’

              I let out a choke and grasp my mouth.

‘I’m close to a hundred souls. Then we can really be sisters,’ Ecca says, smiling.

 

 

 

On The Beach by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

“I’m going to kill myself.”  Roby stood by the railroad tracks, waiting for the next train to send him to paradise, or Hell, or wherever you go when you kill yourself. Maybe a reward for getting thru all these years on earth, he wished. He heard one coming down the mountain. He closed his eyes, got ready, and waited for the nerve. He jumped eyes closed over the rails. But the train had passed. Like all the boats he missed, he missed his train too. “I’m going to kill myself” He said, as he dusted himself off. This time it was the kind of saying we all say when the best laid plans, come out, the worst laid plans. Oh well. There is always tomorrow.

 

 Maybe it was just his paranoia. He thought about the drama he brought to their marriage, Like, The F.B.I. for one. Think that hurt the marriage?

 

He rode the subway and this time, instead of jumping in front of a train, he sat in one and started popping pills as he became one with the vibe of the clicks and clacks, of the tracks.  He figured to get off at the last stop and hit the beached so pilled up that the beach would forever hit back

 

It was late, but a woman sat at the other end. It was two empty people in one empty subway car with one last stop.’’ Coney Island”.

 

He said when they got to the end of the line, and the train stopped, and the doors opened, him and the woman, sat still.

 

Roby said, all of a sudden, the pills asked the woman “So, what are we dinking”?

 

He said that she had a laugh that made him laugh too.

           

When I asked him what happened after that, he said he didn’t kill himself, and she didn’t either.

 

Then, he showed me the ring he was going to give her. It was in the paper prescription bag he was holding so dearly.

 

We parted, and he said over his shoulder, “Remember, my son, no man, is a Coney Island”.  I have not forgotten.

 

 

 

Missing Person by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

 

"Hey, look who’s here”? The cop at the front desk said to the other cop at the front desk.

 

“Let’s let Irene take his statement”

 

They called on the inter-com for Officer Sanchez to come to the front desk, and when she got there, they explained that they were helping homicide, and even thou this was her first week here, and still getting her panties wet, would she mind taking a statement?

 

She was pretty and from a military family. She was the first one who left the service to become a cop. All the rest stayed in forever and then some. They laughed when they saw out of shape cops. Donut dopes they called them.

 

Army girl Sanchez was just as pretty as cop Sanchez, and she was nice.

 

The guy she was going to marry who was with her and met her in the Army died in a mid-east engagement and was never found.

 

This was going to her first statement solo experience even thou being watched, and taped, and listened to, especially by those two at the front desk, it was exciting, and she was excited.

 

Their coffee tasted a lot better and their donuts sweeter, watching Officer Sanchez play policeman.

 

Officer Irene Sanchez found that there was something touching about her subject but, she wasn’t sure she wanted to touch him, or him touch her, but oh of course she did. It has been a long season without any rain, Irene was thinking.

 

The subject told his side of his story.

 

That’s where the word history comes from you know?

 

“I’m a vet. I don’t get around much and a while ago I met a girl on the inter-net. It was like we knew each other all our lives and we talked and talked for days and days and nights and nights and we met and had coffee and she was as wonderful there as she was in my ear all those times on the phone and we made plans to see each other again and she never showed up and her phone sounds funny and she isn’t returning my calls or my E mails or anything and things just went too good to turn out this bad. I want to file a missing person report. She must be in danger”!

 

Officer Sanchez heard the boys laughing thru the door.

 

Is this your first missing person report? She asked.

No, it isn’t, unfortunately. He reported back.

 

I see said Irene.

 

Would you like to go for coffee some time? she said to him.

 

Are you going to show up? He asked.

 

We can go right now. She said.

 

Can we take your police car and put on the siren? He asked.

 

Officer Sanchez laughed.

 

He said, I’m glad you’re laughing because I was kidding. I may be nuts but I’m not crazy.

 

I know you’re not, she said to him as they walked out of the station after crossing the front desk.

 

 

 

Banking by Alan Berger

[West Hollywood, California]

Earl and Ray walked, no, strolled, into their first bank together in 1967 and a half and acted like

they owned the joint, and they did. They robbed it with the piped in music playing “I want to

Hold Your Hand”, a wonderful version by the Ray Conniff Singers.

It was so exciting that they took their sweet time getting to the empty running getaway car. A

stolen 65, and a half, red as Hell Mustang, with the top down.  Ray wanted to keep the car and

not ditch it for another as planned.

But Earl, it feels like it was made for me. Well, it is a lucky car said Earl. They kept it while

inventing a new breed. Stupid hipster bank robbers who in those days just had to stroll in, stroll

out, and hit the highway. On the highway Earl and Ray sang their own song and it was called

“We Wanna Hold Up Your Bank”.

 

Was it a day that changed their lives forever? No, it wasn’t. They were always up to something

and good for nothing. But, they sure both had charm by the buckets full.  

And that’s the rub and that’s the hook boys. It feels like it was made for you, but, alas, it wasn’t.

 

Before they spoke to each other, they did their first job together. They both really met on the

same night they broke into the school’s cafeteria from different windows, at the same time, going

after the same thing. Entitlement. In this materialistic form, it was the cafeteria’s candy and

doughnuts. They weren’t interested in the fruit. A coincidence and a career in crime, was put in

place that night.  They with the goods went to the railroad tracks and feasted, and introduced

themselves to each other. They burned the wrappers of the candy so they wouldn’t leave

fingerprints, like on T.V.

 

This was in elementary school, very elementary. Every day after that, there was something

missing from school, other than the kids that were cutting class.

Earl and Ray went to school every day. The more time they spent in school, the more they could

steal, and then pawn.  At the pawn place was a guy who knew Ray’s father before he disappeared

for who knows what reason other than he just did ” Happens all the time” was what Ray heard

about it, all the time. Ray did look back, which was not his style, he would say his father left a

good story to tell girls that wanted to mother, and father him, and a wonderful excuse, for being

such a wonderful excuse for not being a solid citizen, a square. He would hear his father say back,

“You're welcome boy”.

 

 

 

A.J. Delecta by Raymond Abbott

[Louisville, Kentucky, USA]

         

I have been a social worker most of my adult life.  One of my first supervisors was A.J. Delecta, in the welfare office serving the South End of Boston.  A.J. was easy to work for, and as pleasant a man as anyone you could wish to know.  I believe he was Polish by ancestry.  He was short, stout, with lots of dark hair he kept clipped close to his scalp, with hardly any gray in evidence.  He was too heavy for his frame, but he carried his weight well.  He usually dressed in a dark-colored suit with a bright, colorful tie.  He must have been close to sixty years of age when we met.

            We all were employed in the old civil service system of Massachusetts, and A.J.'s advice to new employees, myself included, was to take every test offered by the civil service system. 

          "You could never tell what will come of it," he said often.  Of course, he was a practitioner of his own advice.

          With A.J. there was only one rule I remember, and while he was not heavy-handed in enforcing it, he did get his way.  The rule was this: You must NEVER ever put his name in a write up.  He didn't care what you had to say.  You could quote at length from the Bible, if that were your purpose, or from Alice in Wonderland, if that floated your boat, and he would dutifully read all you had to say, usually without comment, so long as you did not insert his name any place.  If you did, he would find his white-out and remove any and all evidence that he existed whatsoever and was thereby involved even remotely with what was being recorded. Even his signature was difficult to read (or even find).

            If, for example, you said in your write up that your social work plan for a particular client was discussed and agreed to by AJ Delecta, his name was immediately removed.  Or if you wrote, totally innocently again, that you and Mr. Delecta discussed a particular subject and agreed as to how we needed to proceed thereafter, bingo!  Out came his name and the sentence connected to it.  So you learned quickly how to do your case recordings, histories, and at the same time get along well with AJ.  You were made to understand that each and every word would be read and scrutinized by A.J., sure enough, but only in search for the mention of his name. Nothing more!

      I never had a discussion with A.J. as to why he did this.  It was to avoid any and all responsibility, for good or for bad, is my guess.  If he wasn’t named in the write-up he could not creditably be held responsible for what followed, what was written.  Pretty simple rule. Not that I am an advocate of such practices. Quite imaginative, too, when you think about it.  And surely original.

 

 

 

Art Gallery by David Patten

[Denver, Colorado, USA]

 

Amaya can’t suppress a wry smile.  An item of gossip has reached her.  It seems there are those intent on labelling her a witch.  Such an archaic term, unused for centuries, its connotation pejorative.  Amaya ponders that maybe it’s because she’s an outlier.  During that unenlightened age, it was a convenient term for nonconformist women, especially those who, like Amaya, preferred to live alone.

          She’s a curator; a purveyor of aesthetics.  Her specialty is The Renaissance.  For a modest fee patrons can roam her gallery of Caravaggios, da Vincis, and Raphaels.  Bold work from over a millennium ago, the world still searching for an identity.  Crossing Amaya’s palm with an elusive gold coin, however, will favor you with an altogether more unique experience in her gallery.

          A gentle knock at the after-hours door in the rear.  Amaya opens it partway, the orb in her palm chasing away the shadow from her cat’s eyes and long, greying hair.  Cassian steps inside.  The darkness is heavy, the air cool.  Raising the orb, Amaya sees a man younger than her usual patrons, hair and eyes raven, brooding.  There is an audacity about him as he presses the gold coin into her hand.

          They stand before Cassian’s chosen piece: Botticelli’s iconic Birth of Venus.  Amaya places a hand on its center and it expands to fill the whole wall.  She regards Cassian expectantly.  Previously bold, there’s a hesitation.  He appears about to turn away, but then takes three confident steps and leaps into the painting.

          Venus is before him, an alabaster statue, hair to the waist.  Zephyrus, clutching his nymph, propels her ashore, the ocean rising with his breath.  On the sand the guardian Pomona waits, mantle ready to clothe the goddess.  Materials in hand, Cassian sits and begins to sketch.

 

 

 

Sheer Drop by David Patten

[Denver, Colorado, USA]

 

Daybreak, water the color of slate.  A lone figure stands in contemplation, close enough to the river that its current splashes over her boots.  This stretch of the Niagara resides in the commonplace, revealing nothing of the chaos up ahead.  Annie steps back up onto the grass, the October dew staining the hem of her dress and petticoats.  She adjusts her matching bonnet which, like her dress, was once the tone of ripe plums, the garments now faded and frayed.  

           

          Farther down river the water quickens, a menace in its energy.  Annie observes it coursing over rocks, dragging reluctant branches.  Then rapids, the river shapeshifting, relentless.  The air resounds, vibrates.  Ahead, the torrent launches itself into the void.  Annie is still, awed by the force of nature, her clothes absorbing the clouds of spray thrown high by the Horseshoe Falls.  Tomorrow, her birthday, she will plunge over the brink in a barrel.

           

          A small crowd has gathered at the launch point, the interest mostly morbid, as few expect Annie to survive.  But this stoic woman in her sixties, widowed since the Civil War, remains confident that prosperity will follow.  She engages with a reporter, offers a brief smile to the photographer.  The large, oak barrel has been lined with thick blankets.  Unassisted, Annie climbs through the opening and settles, cushioned.  Resigned to being accomplices to such imprudence, two men in buttoned vests and rolled shirtsleeves toss their cigarettes to the ground and step into a rowboat. 

           

          Untethered, the barrel rolls in the calm stretch of the river.  It appears inert, laden, until the current imposes its will.  Annie’s breaths are shallow, fast, as she braces for the rapids.  She hears them first.  They receive her with disdain, muscles of water pounding the sodden oak.  A thunder fills the barrel, invincible.  The energy fractures.  Freefall.  Annie is relaxed, expectant.

Sing A New Song by Fiona M Campbell

[Aberdeen, Scotland]

 

Charisma radiated from Maria Luciano, as she gave an astonishing virtuoso performance. Her passion for the music was evident.

 

Maria let her pastel pink fingernails dance over the piano keys, allowing the music to flow in a rainbow of sound. Her delicate fingers caressed the ebony and ivory, giving life to Chopin and Rachmaninov. Joyous applause echoed around her, as she took a bow. The sea of people was cloudy; the lights dazzling. A tingling sensation flowed through her, followed by a gasp from the audience and darkness.

 

The smell of disinfectant roused her. A lady in blue placed a beeping thermometer in her ear and an inflating cuff around her arm. The man in the white coat shuffled papers and shone a bright light in her eyes. 

 

          ‘You have Optic Neuritis, Mrs Luciano. There’s no treatment, but if you rest, your sight should return in four to six weeks.’

 

           Impossible! Her first European tour playing Greig’s piano concerto in A began the following week. 

 

           ‘There will be other tours,’ Nico said, kissing her hand. She was blessed to have him as her rock. Her constant in her changing world.

 

Maria lay on her purple chaise longue. Bach fugues and Scarlatti sonatas played in her head. Her fingers itched to play. Using the wall as her guide, she tentatively made her way towards her piano. Taking a deep breath, she stroked the keys and performed the elaborate melodies as if nothing had changed.

 

Three weeks passed; her vision cleared little by little, but her fingers tingled. Pins and needles. Then they were numb, refusing to co-operate. Who could play Mozart without trills and acciaccaturas? Maria sank to her knees and sobbed inconsolably. Music was her world. Without it, she was nothing.

 

With headphones over her ears, she lay completely still, gripping the panic button tightly, as she entered the MRI tunnel. So loud! A cacophony of industrial noise. Trapped, she wonders if they have found something sinister. Was this the end of her journey?

 

Sixteen days of wondering. Her legs had joined her arms; no longer following her directions. Nico wheeled her into the neurologist’s office. With a picture of Maria’s brain illuminated on the screen, the doctor pointed to the scattered white lesions.

           ‘You have multiple sclerosis, Maria.’

 

           Tears trickled down her cheeks. Relief that she was not dying from a tumour, regret for things she had not done, and recognition that her life was changing.

 

Infusions of magic medicine offered hope for the future. There was no cure. DMD’s they called them- disease modifying drugs. Maria’s sight returned. Her wheelchair resided in the attic, replaced by a pretty, purple cane. Her fingers no longer had the dexterity for the piano, but she found her voice. In stunning evening gowns, she performed passionate soprano arias.

 

Life had changed.

 

Maria rested her head on Nico’s lap, as he ran his fingers through her curls. She stroked her swollen belly. Tiny feet dancing inside her. Perhaps her new life was only just beginning.

 

 

 

For Sale by Louise Johnson

[London, England]

 

I barely recognised it.  

 

          Our frothy pink cherry trees were no longer there and father’s squirrel nest was now a living room, with white leather sofas and a supersized TV. Walls were demolished; a conservatory built. Cool greys and taupe replaced a livid turquoise and avocado palette.  

 

           I clicked on another photo, eager to discover what had become of the old-style kitchen, where mother stashed gin bottles behind packets of butterscotch Angel Delight. Here, she swayed, while singing tunelessly to herself. Potatoes burnt. Broccoli turned limp. In contrast, granite worktops and stainless-steel units looked rock-solid. 

            

          The house was reborn. It could breathe again.  

 

 

 

Jennifer Rose by Sandra Hurtes

[New York City, USA]

 

We sit in the waiting room of a doctor’s office

and pray for a baby.

Maybe you’ve been here.

Three years and five months of laboratory sex,

injections, invitro, blasts to your fallopian tubes.

The doctor’s cold speculum no longer makes you flinch.

You’re married to the love of your life

but you can’t make a baby.

And then, one glorious day your doctor smiles and says,

“Yes, you’re pregnant.”

You’re giddy; you and your husband go straight to Buy Buy Baby

where he falls for the stuffed giraffes

and yellow onesies.

You go to dinner at a fancy restaurant

and smugly decline wine.

And then, not long after, you have a miscarriage—make that four.

Just like that.

 

You can’t go through this again, but your husband wants a baby.

He bought the yellow onesies, the stuffed giraffe,

and he wants a girl to name after his sister, Jennifer Rose.

He agrees to the gender-neutral gray wallpaper.

You have one last embryo.

You’ll do anything for your husband.

You’ve loved him since the first grade

when he gave you a peppermint heart for Valentine’s Day.

You didn’t know he’d given one to every girl in the class

until your best friend Susie told you at your wedding.

Funny. Susie looks like the petite brunette across the room.

The way she twirls her hair around her finger

Crosses and uncrosses her ankles under her seat.

But it can’t be Susie.

She moved to Paris or Milan or some city you promised you’d visit

but never got around to.

Susie would understand what you’re going through.

She had an abortion in college,

and you stroked her hair when she cried and whispered,

“I wanted to keep it.” She was scared.

You’re scared now.

So is your husband.

You thread your fingers through his. He squeezes them.

You’ll treasure a boy, too. So will he.

Ten fingers, ten toes.

That’s all you pray for.

one last time.

 

 

 

The Abandoned Schoolhouse by Alex Baines

[Chicago, USA]

 

Penny eased up on her bike and braked hard, stopping by the edge of the road. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun, her left foot still resting on the pedal.

     She’d decided to follow a different route home from the grocery store and gotten a bit carried away. She’d hardly expected to see an old building like this, though. The cracked sign said it was a schoolhouse, but it didn’t look much like one now. She didn’t remember ever seeing it before – how was that possible? Where she lived wasn’t exactly big.

     Penny had loved school, but school had never done much for her family. Her mom had enjoyed it, too, she found out later, although getting pregnant at seventeen meant she didn’t have much time for books after that. Penny’s older brother Tom had dropped out in tenth grade and gone to Chicago looking for work. He’d always said that families like theirs had no business going to college. Publicly, she’d agreed and found a job the first opportunity she had, bussing tables at the diner around the corner from home. Privately, though, she wished she could’ve had the opportunity. She’d always loved reading: Jane Austen and Daphne du Maurier, taken from the shelves of her senile grandmother who seemed decades older than the fifty-seven Penny knew her to be. Sitting in libraries and reading novels all day seemed like a dream come true. Her teachers thought it was a good idea, as well. She would never forget the disappointment in Mr. Langton’s face when she told him she wasn’t interested in looking at the scholarship literature he’d prepared for her. 

     Penny thought that there was something profoundly sad about seeing an abandoned schoolhouse, sadder maybe than seeing anything else abandoned, and there was a lot of abandoned stuff around here. After several moments of stillness, she realized that she wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d investigated the rooms. Leaving her bike but carrying the grocery bags with her, she felt like was creeping into something forbidden, moving to examine a trunk that might reveal dark gothic secrets.

     She found nothing. No sense, even, of anything. Her wavy blonde hair and bright blue eyes were pale ghostly reflections in the dust-thick windows. Cobwebs coated the walls and ceiling like a layer of thick dark frost. Who owned this place? Why was it still here?

     Even then, it stirred something. What was it? She looked towards the front of the single deserted room, imagining Mr. Langton’s kind brown eyes twinkling as she answered another question about metaphor in Thomas Hardy’s poetry. She stood very still, thinking. Maybe she would try to find those things he had mailed her, despite her stubbornness, about scholarships for Bradley and Southern Illinois.

     The sun seemed a little brighter when she stepped back outside.

 

 

 

Fragments Of Jenny by Jim Aitken

[South Queensferry, Scotland]

 

Like a snake winding its way, the queue in the bank weaved like the rhythm of a rattler and seemed to constantly unfurl its skin as customers left and instantly replaced old skin for new as other customers then joined the queue.

 

At the head of the queue there was someone I recognised from many years – and much younger skin – ago. She looked agitated as the teller told her that there was something wrong with her cheque. She turned, still agitated, until I spoke to her as she made her way back beside the queue.

 

‘Jenny?’ I calmly asked her. She looked at me with deep confusion in her eyes.

 

‘Yes, that’s me. I don’t think I know you,’ she replied with some hesitation.

 

‘It’s Tom,’ I said. ‘We once did Spanish lessons together many years ago now?’

 

‘I know a Tom. We have a Tom who comes round our house but he’s not you. I can’t remember things nowadays and the family only allow me out if they know I will be near the bus station so that I can get back home safely,’ she retorted with a kind of precision that had been well learned.

 

I started to retreat from the conversation I had initiated and our Spanish lessons of years ago returned to me. We went out together for the last two terms of the course and then I realised, that less than 100 metres from where we were standing, we once ran through the Autumn leaves of St. Andrew’s Square and even climbed over the railings to kick up the large clumps that lay on the other side.

 

Like being bombarded by a series of distant memories, it hit me with the sudden flashback of the first time she took me to her house. She was making tea when a kind of wailing from upstairs filled all the rooms.

 

‘It’s my mother,’ she had informed me.’ She’s got dementia. She drives me mad. I’ll go and see her  and be back soon.’

 

The double helix of damaged mind and fragmented information stood reincarnate before me. I could see she was struggling and, alarmed at the enormity of my realisation, I decided to release her from this awkward moment.

 

‘Well, Jenny, it has been good talking to you. The bus station is on the right once you leave here, remember. Look after yourself,’ I said with concern in my voice.

 

‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘it’s been good talking to you too.’

 

Then she left abruptly with a dazed kind of look and headed for the exit. I saw her long brown hair hang around her coat collar like fallen leaves as she left in a swirl of sad forgetfulness.

 

 

 

A Culinary Journey by Callum McGuigan

[Leeds, England]

With my first million I bought a perfect set of cooking spices. Because, you know. They’ve served me well, served us all well over the years, let me tell you that – the compliments I’ve had on these and every aspect of my kitchen are more varied than my vanilla collection.

 

Erm, yes, just water please. Clean palette, clean conscience and all that.

 

You know, I’ve so many truths to share if they’d only listen, only give me the voice I spent years curating. How else would they expect to learn, for example, that drinking is as much of an accessory as a scarf, and just as dangerous? I don’t drink anymore, of course. It became a distraction, like the business, so that had to go too, sometime after the second or third project.

 

I just want to be appreciated for what I do. When it comes down to it, it’s the people’s neglect of appreciation that frustrates me, makes me want to, you know, sever their Achilles tendons so they have to crawl around the room or something.

 

Don’t worry, I’m very familiar with the content of these safety briefings, but thank you.

 

Sorry. I wonder what brings you, on this, you know, ‘trip’. Not the same as me, I imagine!

 

For my industry, it’s the labelling, the marketing of it that’s the real problem; it could do with a rebranding from some literary delicacy like Atwood or Munro. I always read when cooking. Oh, oh, a joke: Did you hear what Hemingway said when he lost a limb? He had to say A Farewell to his Arms! I love American fiction, Fitzgerald too. Have you read his lesser-known novel about a king who ate his soldiers? It’s called ‘Tender is the…Knight’.

 

Are we taking off soon? No?

 

Even if you set aside how ridiculously reductive it is to label me - and my years of dedication - together with some amateur fast-food wannabe, it’s just such a boring word, phonetically. Why can’t it require acrobatics of the tongue like ‘ayuntamiento’ or ‘malleable’? I think that would give people pause, make them consider the artistry in these projects. How the selection and shopping and preparation and timing and room decoration and waste disposal are, even alone, gargantuan tasks. But no, instead they just say ‘cannibal’ and see that as enough of a label. Idiots, ignoring what really is the next step in social (and socialist) evolution.

 

Oxygen from here, life vest under here, yep got it.

 

Do you think they’ll have Jenga where we’re going? Jenga, after all, is a rite of passage and an excellent indicator of psychological fortitude.

 

I’ve heard it has rain as warm as blood, grass as thick as fingers. It’s winter there now, I think. By summer I’ll be set up with the local wildlife. I’m thinking a dish involving oranges in some way, like a, you know, twist on orange peel beef. I’ve always wanted to pick them after something, one of the only things, my father said: “If you don’t pick up your oranges with conviction, don’t grip them with inevitability, how can you ever expect to raise a family?” No family in these pockets though! Sorry, I can’t quite reach to show you with these on my wrists.

 

Oh, look! We’re moving, bon appetit!

 

 

 

 

Lady Die by Abbi Parcell

[Manchester, England]

 

Lady Die died with a needle in his arm.

 

We had jokes that it was a silver tiara. You know the kind you'd get from a 70s magazine. He loved the pomp, any excuse to wear sashes the tackiest jewels.

 

"Fuck Knows what's next..."

 

When he woke in the hospital, watching a Joan Crawford film on Channel 57 when -

 

At the wake, the tension broke when someone guessed the casket was closed because he was in there in a big wig and heels, someone said, "You know he's always late, he probably isn't here yet—he's still fixing his makeup."

 

 

 

Common Place by Matt Smikle

 

What was coincidence? He found himself wondering as he crossed the street. He couldn't quite figure, but he guessed it was something to do with timing, the clash of movements that revel in each other’s wake. The second summoning of that memory thought forgotten. Jon wasn't sure, the very concept baffled him. The man donning the same coloured shirt as him across the street, should that be odd? Perhaps this wasn't the time to wonder. He wasn't in the mood for trivia, not today, he had somewhere to be.

 

Max realised it probably wasn't the wisest decision to head out in the same shirt as the man he followed, but he couldn't change that now, all he could do was watch. He felt relief upon finally seeing his nemesis in the flesh. It almost sickened him how Jon walked among others, as if he belonged. As charming as he was, Jon was no trustworthy person, and Max was ready to put an end to it. He placed a hand in his pocket, clamping a firm grip on his fully loaded firearm; eyeing Jon crossing the street.

 

Nathan always hated this drive, this road in particular was rife with blind spots and inconsistencies. Crashes were common place here. Though no number of accidents could have prepared him for what happened next. He couldn't see the man at first, he and another man across the street were wearing the same coloured shirt. Just the clash of colours left him confused but for the first time in years... the blind spot returned to wreak its havoc once more. The man only managed a sideways glance at Nathan before he was mowed down in his bloody demise.

 

 

 

Forever Dancing on Ice by Andrew Newall

[Falkirk, Scotland]

He adjusts her seat so she can gaze out at the loch while he orders their usual meal. During winter, the loch is always frozen. Young skate on the thick ice, warmly wrapped up. He watches her, remembering when she wore skates and glided on the same loch. She also remembers. He sees her eyes follow the skaters. In a weak voice, she tells him they are good. He reassures her she was better.

                                                                                          *

     She wore skates the first time he ever saw her at their local ice rink, both in their late teens. She was good even then. It was her favourite pastime. He spoke to her when he could catch up with her, which wasn’t often. He asked her out. They dated. She competed. She won, he cheered. She lost, he still cheered. They married within a few years and on one of their weekend breaks, tried out a hotel in the Scottish Highlands, a two-hour drive from their hometown.

On a winter’s night, a log fire burned inside. Strangers met and talked with them until they were strangers no more. They were told the loch was safe to skate on when it froze over each year. When he saw her smile on hearing this news, it was no surprise that one weekend turned into an annual holiday.

                                                                                          *

     The hotel has gone downhill since that first visit fifty years ago. Rooms require upgrading, strangers remain strangers, preferring to look at phones and talk less. It saddens him because he knows this will more than likely be their last stay together. She is no longer well enough, but still insisted on coming. She told him that when she dies, she would like her ashes to be scattered in the loch.

     A few months later, he drives into the hotel grounds. When he gets out, he carries a small urn close to him and walks to the loch. Standing at the edge, he comments to his wife that this is the first time they have seen the lake in the summer when it is not frozen. After a few more private words, he tips the urn, allowing the ashes to slowly empty, a light summer breeze guiding them gently to the welcoming water.

     A year has passed since he gave her ashes to the loch. He drives to the hotel on a beautiful day. Rooms were all booked out when he phoned but he doesn’t care. On arriving, he struggles to find a parking space. When he finally does, he immediately heads for the loch, an overwhelming excitement powering him on. He can’t see for the crowds. He heard that people had come from all over to see. Excusing his way through, he reaches the lake’s edge to see for himself. Under a cloudless sky, in the blistering heat, young and old skate on thick ice which appeared at winter and shows no signs of melting.

 

 

 

Marching Season by David Patten

[Denver, Colorado, USA]

 

I’m Liam.  I’m fifteen.  I live on Berwick Road in a council house.  That’s in the big Ardoyne estate in the north of Belfast.  It’s tough, you’d better know how to scrap.  My da works down in the shipyards, stops in at the pub on the way home.  Sometimes ma has me fetch him for dinner.  He smokes a pack a day, my da.  One time I heard him and his brothers planning something bad.  I think they’re Fenians.  The Prods call us that all the time.  My da says Fenians are just proud to be Irish, that’s all.  I’ve got an older brother, Rory.  He’s twenty-three.  He hates Protestants, says he’s going to join the IRA.  Ma would kill him if she knew.  Today is the twelfth of July, the biggest day in the marching season.  The Orangemen are going to be marching through the Ardoyne.  Why do the police let them?  Because they’re all Prods too, I suppose.  Rory says the Orangemen march to celebrate some battle they won centuries ago.  Dad says they march coz they have all the power and want us to feel inferior.  Why don’t we just move to Dublin, I asked him.  He spat on the ground and said because this is our home and Ulster needs to be part of the rest of Ireland.  Ma wouldn’t leave all her sisters anyway.  I’m out on the street now, we all are.  I can hear them.  Pipes, drums.  Getting louder.  People are already shouting at the police, pushing against them.  Everybody wants to get at the Prods when they arrive.  I can see some soldiers on rooftops.  Jesus, they’re not going to start shooting, are they?  The crowd is surging.  I can see Union Jack flags and bowler hats of some of the Orangemen.  Why do they wear those anyway?  On our side people are waving Irish flags and someone’s standing on a wall with a sign written in Gaelic.  They’re right here now, the Prods, those Orangemen with their drums and flags.  Here, off the Crumlin Road into our Ardoyne.  The bastards are taunting us.  A big surge from our side, swearing, fighting the police.  Somebody throws a brick into the marchers.  The soldiers, they’re going to start shooting like they did in Derry, aren’t they?  A hand grabs my shoulder and turns me around.  Rory.  Come on, he yells and I follow him down the alley at the side of our house.  We stop in front of a dirty canvas sheet.  Rory kneels and throws it off to the side.  I can see four bottles, each one with a rag stuffed into the neck.  They stink of petrol.  Rory puts two of them in my hands, then picks up the other two.  He asks me if I’m with him.  Are you with me, Liam?  His eyes are madness.  There’s a faint whiff of whisky.  Liam, are you with me?  I look at the bottles in my hands.  They’re shaking a little bit.  I meet my brother’s stare.  I am.

 

 

 

 

Mysteries Of The Universe by Mark Barlex

[London, England]

 

That week was the project in microcosm, forty years of expenditure and almost imperceptible development, compacted metamorphically into a handful of hours and days. The thrill of purpose. The grind of preparation. The throw of a switch.

 

     The subsequent scrambling scree of data and unanswered questions.

 

     On Tuesday, in the blond-wood media centre twenty miles from the facility itself, the Director of Operations tried to describe what was about to take place.

     

     “We’re sand-blasting a mountain, looking for the Michelangelo underneath,” she said.

 

     She tried again.

 

      “We’re dropping a pebble into a well and waiting for the splash.”

 

     Sitting next to her on the low podium, the Head of Research intervened.

 

     “The well is horizontal and we don’t know how deep it is,” he offered. “We’re throwing the pebble in sideways and gravity no longer exists.”

 

     “We’re in uncharted territory here,” added the Director of Operations. “Anything could happen.”

 

     “But probably won’t,” added the Head of Research.

 

     “But could,” countered the Director of Operations.

 

     “But probably won’t,” returned the Head of Research.

     

     They made their way to the test site in silence. 

 

     Two miles below the twin banded-granite summits of Gulvain, on the geologically optimum north-west side of Scotland’s Great Glen Fault, they settled themselves in the control room.

 

     “Does this feel anti-climactic?” the Director of Operations asked.

     

     “Maybe if there actually was some kind of lever or button,” the Head of Research replied.

 

     A man at a nearby bank of monitors and controls turned in his chair.

 

     “Ready when you are,” he said.

 

     The Director of Operations replied. “Thank you, Craig. Take it away.”

 

     The lights flickered. A low thrum pulsed around then through the room.

 

     “Essentially,” the Head of Research began, “Something doesn’t add up, so we’re spinning particles into one another at staggering speeds in order to work out what.”

 

     “Better,” said the Director of Operations. “But still not quite it.”

 

     “We know lots,” the Head of Research announced, “But not everything. And while this won’t tell us everything straight away, it will give us some important clues.”

 

     “Basically, we’re throwing a quarter-of-a-trillion pound kitchen sink at it,” the Director of Operations said. “Although when you say it out loud, that sounds pretty desperate.”

 

     The lights went out.

 

     From the other side of the room, they heard Craig say, “Oops.”

 

     On Thursday, after careful deconstruction of the damaged dipole magnet assembly, the problem was revealed.

 

     “A spoon?” asked the Head of Research.

 

     “Looks like it,” replied Craig.

 

     “But is it?” asked the Director of Operations.

 

     “A spoon?” said Craig.

 

     “Yes.”

 

     “I think so.”

 

     “Or the breakthrough we’ve been searching for?” asked the Head of Research.

 

     “Which looks like a spoon,” opined the Director of Operations.

 

     Craig said, “I think it’s just a spoon.”

 

     “Maybe that’s what it wants us to think.”

 

     “It?”

     “We’re in uncharted territory here.”

 

     “I see. Should we run some tests?”

 

     “How long will they take?”

 

     “Years, probably.”

 

     “Do it,” said the Director of Operations. “What choice do we have?”

 

 

 

The Kiss by David Patten

[Denver, Colorado, USA]

Vienna is in bloom.  Like most European cities, the Austrian capital shakes off winter in a riot of color and fragrance.  Heavy clothing discarded, people stroll the wide streets in contentment.  Sidewalk cafes bustle.  Boys, fingers blackened by newsprint, call out, caps pushed back and shirtsleeves rolled high.  A gentle wind stirs, its breath full of warmth and optimism.

         

          A fashion designer, senses always tuned to aesthetics, Emilie stoops to admire daffodils circling the base of a young tree.  Spring is her favorite season.  She carefully plucks one of the flowers and sets it in her dark, bushy hair.  Gustav will appreciate it, she thinks.  As she continues on to his house for the reveal. she draws stares, some out of recognition, others due to her height and Bohemian appearance.

         

          Emilie knows she has sometimes been labelled as Klimt’s muse.  Perhaps that was once true.  But the word belongs to something more fleeting; now the two are established companions, even occasional lovers, their kinship forged in creations of beauty and sensuality.  She turns onto Josefstadte, the imposing red maple a sentinel in front of Gustav’s home.  Approaching the arched, wrought iron gate Emilie adjusts the daffodil in her hair, expectant.

         

          Klimt is standing on the garden path in back of the house facing the cottage that is his studio, windows large and clear for the light.  The garden has a canopy of tall trees, the path bordered by ferns and shrubs.  He is wearing the teal smock that he paints in.  Mid-forties now, a decade Emilie’s senior, he has a full beard, the untamed hair on his head in premature retreat.  He embraces Emilie, kissing both cheeks, touches the daffodil in her hair.  She takes his hands in hers.  “I can’t wait to see your work.” 

         

          Afternoon light bathes the studio.  Palettes, brushes, tubes of pigment and canvasses occupy the space in no particular order.  An artist’s clutter.  In one corner an easel, a large sheet concealing the finished work.  Emilie looks at Gustav for confirmation.  He nods, gesturing for her to approach it.

         

          Revealed, Emilie steps back, a small gasp escaping her lips.  She regards the painting in silence, eyes consuming all of it.  She glances at Gustav, a look of wonder, and steps closer to the easel.  Radiant in floral golds, purples, reds, greens, a couple caught in an embrace, both loving and sensual; the man cradling her face, kissing a cheek, the woman enraptured.  Beneath their feet a meadow in a mosaic of spring hues.  Klimt stands behind Emilie, hands on her shoulders.  “Is she Athena to her Apollo?”  He smiles at her interpretation.  “No, it’s you Emilie.”  His fingers find her hair.  “It’s us.”

 

 

 

After by Stephen Page

[Beunos Aires, Argentina]

 

Sunday. I wake early and prepare our breakfast. I turn on the coffee machine, the water boiler for Teresa’s tea, lay out the plates, silverware, and glasses. I open the living room windows. It is hot again today. At least 80 degrees already and it is only 7 a.m. After I squeeze Teresa’s lemon juice, cover the glass with a napkin, and put her bread in the oven to make toast, I pull the bacon and eggs out of the fridge and put a skillet on the stove. I sit and wait for her to wake to start our regular Sunday grease breakfast.

       As we finish our food and beverages, I clean the dishes.

      “Thank you, love,” Teresa says as she hugs me.

       By now it is already 90 degrees outside. I close the windows and turn on the air conditioner.

      “Too hot to go outside,” she mentions.

      “Yes, probably.”

      “Not much to do anyway, now, during this pandemic, the beaches will be full. Idiots. Too dangerous.”

      “Yes.”

      “And I don’t feel like running errands.”

      “Me either.”

      “I’m tired.”

      “I’m lazy. Out of energy. This has been going on too long.”

       I lie on the couch and read books. Teresa sits on the bed and plays ‘talk on the cellphone to friends’ for hours.

       We lunch on low-salt turkey sandwiches, then nap in separate rooms.

       By 6 p.m. it has cooled down a bit. We go for a walk around the tree-lined hilly neighborhood. We admire the spring flowers, the bees buzzing about them, the butterflies flapping, and we listen to the birds singing.

 

 

 

The Numpty Jumped Me by Melissa Molina

[Scotland]

 

(Monologue)

“I never fell off a wall. That’s not true, absolute nonsense. It was around 6 pm and it was starting to get dark. I required hard cash because I planned to go to the town centre in the morning and I didn’t want to take my bank card. Cash meant I was in control; I could easily track my spending and I would only buy what I needed. Anyway, I walked round to the cash machine and there was no one waiting. I decided I would withdraw £100.00, so I reached into my pocket for my card. I pressed 3244, but that wasn’t it. Was it 2344 or 4432? I stopped trying; the last thing I wanted was for the ATM to swallow my card. I couldn’t remember the number. This had never happened to me before, I was confused, and my head went completely blank. It was like the digits had been wiped clean from my memory. I walked over to the red brick wall and sat down; my head was spinning. I held the bank card in my hand and stared at it hoping I would remember the four-digit pin number, but I just couldn’t. Then, a tall, thin, thirty-odd-year-old looking guy sat beside me. He smelt. I inhaled a strong whiff of body odour. I know we all sweat and we all smell to varying degrees but this guy stank! He was wearing a dirty blue jacket that was torn at the collar. He looked straight at me and demanded money. I explained that I didn’t have any money; I couldn’t remember my pin number. It was freezing and I was chittering. I was cold but I was also scared. I stood up and quickly walked away and that’s when the numpty jumped me. Then, all I remember is hearing a lot of voices and when I opened my eyes I was surrounded by a crowd of people, staring at me, asking me what happened. They looked concerned as if they were trying to help me. I know there was a pool of blood on the wall but I repeat I did not fall off it. Then, the same folk strapped me to a stretcher and now I’m here, in this ward. If you genuinely want to know what happened then please listen to me. I can’t explain why there is £100.00 in my pocket and I don’t know why this slip, in my hand, is showing a £100.00 withdrawal. I did not take out that cash. I could not remember my pin number. I still can’t remember it. For the last time, I’m telling you, I never fell off a wall, the numpty jumped me”.

 

 

My Head Bumps by Stephen Page

[Beunos Aires, Argentina]

 

Teresa and I have only one evening recreation left to participate in together ever since the coronavirus spread over the world like foamy sea-water over a pebbly shore—watching TV. We can’t go to the cinema, eat inside restaurants, go the ballet, opera, or theatre, so we watch movies, TV series, news, and sports. I watch, alongside her, and I wonder, why don’t all the characters in the new movies and series wear medical masks? Why do they eat inside restaurants? Why don’t the cardboard cut-out fans in the otherwise empty baseball stadiums have medical masks painted on them?

            My head bumps, which started a month or two after COVID-19 became a pandemic, have suddenly cleared up. Two pharmacists and our hair-cutter, who comes to our apartment wearing a medical mask and rubber gloves, told me, “They are grease eruptions, a result of nerves, fear, worry, and anger all together over a long period of time.” I thought, I am not a nervous person, I fear very little, but yes, I worry for my family and friends, but I am hardly ever angry.

            The bumps used to itch, and when I scratched them, they just spread. I thought that it was because I lent my hat to a friend who came visiting on a cruise ship just before the outbreak, like he had lice or something. I felt things crawling around on my scalp. Teresa and Cati scoured my scalp sever times and told me, “No lice.”

            Grey clouds and black sea outside. The wind is whipping the trees around

Our souls at night.

            Yesterday, I woke just after sunrise and prepared Teresa’s breakfast while she slept. Then I sipped a coffee on the balcony. The sky was blue and the sea also.

            When Teresa woke, and ate with me on the balcony, I drove her to Punta del Oeste. We picked up a few things at the pharmacy, then lunched on duck breast and whipped potatoes at La Chaise.

            The sleeping pills Teresa gave me have helped me sleep again, which I have not since my dad died. I had stopped sleeping pills for six months and was just starting to feel normal again, withdrawal symptoms over, nightmares over, writing flowing smoothly, my short-term memory back, my speaking vocabulary returned—both in Spanish and English. But the news that my dad died of a heart attack while waiting in a jammed hospital admissions room,  while a line of twenty-some ambulances were lined up outside with COVID-19 affected patients inside each, was a little devastating.

            Today, oh, I mean the other today, or maybe it was yesterday, Tuesday, no I mean Thursday, Lidia slipped into my office while I was writing, and poured herself a cup of coffee from my thermos. I thought I left her some in the carafe in the kitchen. We kissed, she flashed me a peach breast, my blood rushed, and we smiled at each other.

When she left my office, I took my hands off the keyboard and I scratched my scalp.

 

 

 

Yet Another Groundhog Duvet Day by Paula Nicolson

[Lockerbie, Scotland]

 

Dear you,

     

     I don’t want a new beginning, because that would mean the death of me.

 

     A sore throat is my signature piece but rarely lasts, fading away as the nose honey takes over. But I also like creating a cough that makes people take two steps back, for I just want to isolate with you for ever; cosy in between the warm skin folds and mucous blanket of your nasal passages. Then I’ll force you to breath entirely through your mouth, littering dried saliva and chapped skin on your lips as you sleep (or not); even give you sore eyes if you want a few more days off work. Just think of all those tissues you’ll trumpet into, the money squandered on foul tasting throat pastilles and drugs that’ll keep you propped up as a cardboard cut-out of your original self.

 

     On the plus side, you can avoid all the friends you don’t want to see because of me, and watch all the crap on TV that you never thought you wanted to see. And if like turns into love, I can summon an ear or a chest infection to send you into a post viral depression as you languish at home with a cup of lemon and honey tea, in yet another Groundhog Duvet Day.

But I promise you’ll always have enough energy to update your Facebook post with, ‘I wish this cold would do one,’ and to read your responses such as, ‘You OK Hun?’ to revalidate your existence that you do have friends; albeit for four seconds.

 

     I don’t want a new beginning, because I am your beginning.

     

     Love,

 

     The Cold

 

 

 

Courier by David Patten

[Denver, Colorado, USA]

Griffith Park in the early morning.  Mateo cycles past joggers and dog walkers.  A group of elderly Koreans in wide brimmed hats doing Tai chi.  Off to the west peacocks in full voice at the zoo.  He enjoys this start to the day, cutting through the park down into Franklin Hills and then across to Sunset, which he rides all the way to downtown.  At Angelino Heights he stops at a coffee shop and checks the app for the day’s first pick up.

          Mateo can make his own hours, but the best times to ride are from around eight to three.  With UCLA out for the summer he can make good money on his bike for a couple months, and then go meet up with his mom and all her spirited siblings down in Guadalajara.  The first package is at a realtor on Wilshire.  Mateo drains his second cup, adjusts his helmet, and pushes off into traffic.

          Early afternoon.  It’s hot, July letting LA simmer.  Mateo has been staying hydrated, avoiding hills.  He’s in line at a Jamba Juice, taking a breather.  Ordinarily, he’d go another hour or two but he’s baked and wants to head down to the ocean.  He takes out his phone to shut off the app but another job lights up the screen.  A lawyer’s office just a couple blocks away, a package going to the Federal Courthouse over by the Civic Center.  Just one more job.  Mateo hits the accept button.

          The package is bulky and digs into him through his backpack as he navigates standstill traffic.  He lifts the bike up steps and walks it across the wide plaza to the courthouse.  Two uniformed officers check his progress at the entrance.  They are surly, uncomfortable in the heat.  Mateo hands one of them the package, has him sign for it on the app.

         He is a block away when the blast sends him sprawling, hauling all the breath out of him.  His ears are muffled as if underwater.  Blood trickles from his nose.  The bike is on its side, wheels spinning.  Car alarms, dozens of them.  Then sirens.  So many sirens.  Another sound, harsher, urgent.  Officers are barking at him to remain on the ground.  He feels a sharp pain in his arms as his wrists are cuffed.  A realization comes to Mateo like a slap in the face, his brain joining the dots.  The package.

 

 

Mother by Martin Hone

[London, England and also Ireland]

Up until the moment the Finance Director ran out of the office holding a hankie to her face and bawling like a baby Jackie had felt that her interview was going quite well.

     Just as the interview was wrapping up (‘Where will you be in five years?’) the FD leapt up, shouted: ‘Stop right now!’         Reaching the door she looked back at Jackie. ‘It’s not your fault but I’m really upset.’

      ‘We’ll keep your CV on file and let you know if another position comes up. In another department,’ said the HR lady.

     As Jackie crossed the car-park a voice called to her:

     ‘Jackie, please wait.’

     It was the FD, Tina, trotting after her.

     ‘I wanted to explain. About my behaviour just now.’

     ‘I somehow offended you,’ Jackie said.

     ‘Not you, me.’ She was slightly out of breath. ‘Me. My mother passed last year. Terrible shock. Stroke. In the street.           Doctor said death was instantaneous. She wouldn’t have suffered.’

     ‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ said Jackie.

     ‘Thing is.’ Tina bit her lip. ‘You look just like Mum. You’re the spitting image. At your interview it was like I was sitting in the same room as Mum.’

     Jackie’s heart went out to her.

     ‘Seeing me everyday would have brought back too many sad memories.’

      Tina snorted loudly.

     ‘Sad?’ she said. ‘Oh no. I hated my mother. Really hated her. I just couldn’t stand the thought of coming into work every morning and being reminded of that ugly fat bitch.’

 

 

 

Hydrogen by Emma J Myatt

[Scotland - originally from Yorkshire, England]

Sue’s at a weekend camping celebration for a unique friend’s birthday, one that includes mini-lectures about the universe and elements, when in her pocket there’s a phone call. She checks it – her mother who never calls her. She lets it ring out. She listens to a last quote about leaving hydrogen alone for ages and it becoming animals and petals and people then goes to her tiny tent so nobody will see her cry – not because she’s embarrassed but because she doesn’t want to spoil the party. She knows before she listens to the message what it is so the tears start before the words.

 

The following morning there’s hurried packing whilst friends check train times, a ride to the station and hugs, tears, late trains and a sense of her falling backwards into her life as she crosses past-versions of herself in place names. The stations have their own stories and she’s in many of them, standing with a backpack on the way to or from a random adventure. Heading North she hears accents change and she cries more. She thinks about how her mother and aunt mafiaed up against her as they do with anyone who fights the family line and wonders if her aunt will hear her say sorry.

 

Back in Leeds, lightyears and lifetimes away from her past self who stood on exactly this spot, once, she looks for familiarity and only hears it, in the music of Yorkshire vowels and the rainfall.

 

In the café she sees her mother with the Godfather – the man who married her – and she runs past, unseen.

 

In the ward she says my aunt, and stroke, and is led to a tiny figure lost in sheets. Amongst the wires and bleeps and liquids going in and out she’s unconscious, breathing softly the tubed air. Machines make mountain ranges out of her heartbeats. Sue wants to climb them and reach her but she sits and takes the feathery hand that has done so much, too much to lie here on a sheet. It’s dry and has no grip.

 

‘I’m so sorry,’ she begins, and tells her everything she should have told her anytime in the previous two years.  She cries more and is amazed there are tears left. Now that it’s too late she blurts everything out through gulps and tears.

 

When she’s run out of words she sits back and holds the hand and waits for some kind of response, but of course there’s nothing. She’s much too late.

 

She knows the rest of the family will arrive soon and she’s no spirit for the fight so she kisses her aunt and creeps away, her hood pulled low. Out in the street she heads through the wet back to the crappy hotel where she dumped her bag. On the way she thinks about that quote again and knows the guy was wrong.

 

Leave hydrogen alone for a really long time and it becomes aunts and tears and love.

 

 

 

The Crichton by Ian S Goudie

[Strathbungo Village, Glasgow, Scotland]

The Crichton still has an odour, you know, the one that all old hospitals have. The chemical smell of blood lingers on these walls. I cough, choking on the stench of blood and mud and rotting corpses. I hear the deafening sound of blasting bombs, of bullets firing and the screams of soldiers crying. Wounded men, the dying, waiting for my dad to cart them back to base. Oh, yes, the Crichton has a past - and one connected to my family. 

           

     This building is like a butterfly, its wings radiating from its beating heart, a Greek Cross. Those wings, its equal arms, I know they’re meant to symbolise the four elements of nature: earth, water, air, and fire, but I only think of death.

I creep up the octagonal stair tower towards the source of light, sickened that the decorative iron trellis, so cold to my touch, is there to stop sick patients from jumping to their early graves. 

 

     There's a ballroom up here, and wrapping my arms around my body, as if in a straitjacket, I swivel around 360 degrees, standing on one foot, a ballerina doing a pirouette: Madam Butterfly. I stop and think. Did my dad really believe that his war would end wars? 

           

     I feel the tears run down my face and run downstairs and out the door. Deep breaths. Calm down. Walk and breathe.

I stop under the dark shadows of a towering Nobler Fir and rest beside a smaller tree. I’ve never seen a tree like this before. Its bracts look like the handkerchiefs of mourning widows. The name plaque reads ‘Davidia Involucrata–the Ghost Tree. Planted in 1963.’ The year he died. 

 

     A shiver runs down my spine. I scatter off. Run towards the safety of the business park, and then stop dead. 

           

     I know that name. Galloway House. The paupers’ villa, in which my father died. I read it on his death certificate, where it said the cause of death was Bronchopneumonia, but I know that’s a lie. It was the war that killed him. 

           

     He was only seventeen when he signed up in 1914. An army ambulance driver in the Machine Gun Corps, the Suicide Squad. They said that he was one of the lucky ones because he hadn’t died and had no scars to show. But the bombs, that killed his comrades, blew his mind away.

           

     Men like him, they didn’t talk. They took on their demons all alone. Fought daily battles in their brains, but never won. 

In later years, he took up gardening. My mother said it helped, but the illness still took its toll. It was plain he couldn’t cope. 

 

     On Christmas Day in 1955, the men from the Crichton came. They strapped him in a straitjacket and carted him away in a St Andrew’s ambulance. A modern, clean, white, sanitised version of the type he used to drive.

 

     They wouldn’t let me visit him. Well, now I am. 

 

The Honeymoon by Mary Rothwell

[York, England]

 

“Everything still feels so surreal!” Sarah said smiling, watching the trees and hedges of the countryside whiz past in a blur of green. “I keep thinking that I shall wake tomorrow and be back at home, as though nothing has happened.”

“My dear wife,” John replied, laughing. “I promise you that not only tomorrow, but every day after, you shall wake as a married woman.” 

He did not look up from his paper as he spoke.

“Can you believe the girls at work? The teapot must have been so expensive but it was just the one I wanted.” 

“Ah, well, I guess you could count it as a leaving present as well, perhaps that’s why they splurged.”

“What?” Sarah's smile faltered.

“Well, what will happen to the house and children if you’re at work?”

“But what about the promotion?”

“Yes, it was all very exciting," John replied, only now turning to face her, "but that was before the wedding.”

“But we are only just wed, you have never mentioned children before.”

“My love, that goes without saying,” he said, oblivious to the shocked expression on his wife’s face. “We are going to be just like my parents.”

 

“To Live is To Travel” by Stan Niezgoda

[London, England]

I hate commuting. But here we go again, the mindlessness of the same landscapes floating by, disappearing. I enter the red bus, tap my card on the reader, and to the upper deck I go. I choose the seat above the stairs, always the same one. From here, I can watch not only the people outside, but the ones going with me too, the ones who much like me go about their lives on the same bus, travelling somewhere near or far.

See this lady over here? No bag, only a translucent document sleeve – inside, some papers and a passport, a foreign one. She might be going to the Job Centre, just like I did when I moved here. She’ll be asked the same mundane questions, asked to fill the same forms, maybe the same clerk will serve her. I like parallels. They make me feel as if all of our lives are somehow connected, and we are in fact, one brainless mass of people who just go places, A to B, or B to A.

 

But maybe she is going somewhere completely different. She might have lived here for years, and now, her heart pounding with as much excitement as stress, she is going to get her citizenship. Or else, she’s going to the embassy of some far-away land, to get out of here. Her life here was a stream of disappointments, and she’s finally ready to leave it behind. In the passport she’s holding, some clerk will put a giant, colourful visa and off she goes, and I’ll never see her again.

I guess I will never know. As the stops skid by in a turtle-like speed, I find myself window shopping. I like that dress, you know, the one I saw in the window of the charity shop in the rich district. I always pass this place, and yet somehow, I’d never set foot here, I see it only from the seat of the bus. I might exit here one day, just to try. I won’t buy anything because I don’t earn enough, but looking is just as good – at least your wallet doesn’t suffer.

I come out of the trance as the bus nears my destination. There are still three stops left. Here is where the woman with the passport stands up, excuses the person sitting next to her, and goes down the staircase. I follow her broad back as she’s outside on the street, and I notice something I didn’t notice from up-close. She looks just like my granny when she was still young. She turns around, and for a slight second, out eyes meet. Her dry lips lift in a smile, she nods, and walks away. Soon enough, the bus leaves and she disappears. She’s travelling somewhere else now. Maybe commuting isn’t that bad. If it wasn’t for it, I wouldn’t have realised that the only constant in life is travel, the movement. Maybe I’ll buy this dress, after all.

 

 

 

Aggis, Anchovy And Aardvark  by Kate Nelson

[North East England] 

 

March is the beginning of spring, the start of new life. A trip to shops to buy a few new plants. An Aloe mitriformis, or to put it simply a dwarf aloe vera, catches my eye. Dark green among plants that boasted slightly yellow and even maybe brown leaves. He still stands proudly on my windowsill. Alongside his three new pups: Aggis, Anchovy and Aardvark. Obviously, I’m great at naming things. They may seem like a small feature of a room, maybe most wouldn’t even notice their presence. But it gives a reason to get up every morning and brings some colour to even the darkest of places.

 

Walks On Rainy Days 

It was a particular shape of tenderness.

Those cold raindrops, the shades of the rainbow, the flower petals waving and leaning when they caressed the raindrops, the sound of the breeze passing through the trees during fall.

All these details carried a sweet and calming melody through my ears.

I stood right in the middle of all these poems announced by the nature, wandering about which beautiful touch I might add to all of this.

I realized then that being there, to witness all of that beauty, was the purpose why I went out for a walk that morning.

I was there because I was part of the magnificent painting. Maybe I didn't realize what my impact was at that precise moment, but I knew that by sharing that glimpse of warmth with what was around me was enough for me, just to be in the middle of something so obvious, yet so special, made me become motivated to do my daily walk even on a rainy days.

 

 

Saloua Bouyazderh 

 

Morocco

 

 

 

Laughter, Lilies And Love

 

Jack was a real East Ender, born within the sound of the old Bow Bells themselves.  Kind as they come was our Jack but, when the moment took him, his grasp of a Londoner’s English language was quite impressive!  In his youth Jack was quite a lad, you wouldn’t believe the things he got up to. Once he came home with a horse, ‘borrowed’, he said, had to keep her out of sight for the night he said.  Round our way not much escaped the neighbours and next day the air was buzzing! Stamping and crashing all hours of the night and the noises! Hearing the neighbours, our dad, blessed with the gift of the gab, said,

“Me and the missus were ‘aving a wild night o’ passion!” his eyes twinkled with mischief.  Our mum joined in with a thrust of her hips as she said,

“Oh yes, my ol’ man’s a real stallion when ‘e gets going!”  The cat calls and banter fair turned the air blue as the neighbours joined in the fun. Even old Mrs Jakes, hair in curlers and grubby house coat, gave a throaty cackle before she stalked back inside slippers slapping on the path.

“They’re all jealous,” dad said with a dirty laugh.

“She’ll be down the market next with the gossip!” Mum giggled.  But when old Mrs Jakes’ door closed, the look she gave put the fear of God in him and the house guest disappeared that very afternoon. Mind you, she was pleased with the manure for the garden.

 

Jack met his Rosie in the market down Brick Lane. Her family sold cut flowers, bringing them from Covent Garden early in the morning. His Mum, our Nan, used to send Jack to the market every Sunday to get fruit and veg that they didn’t grow themselves.  The day he met Rosie he quite literally fell for her… or more accurately, at her. You see, there was a pie man who sold the best meat pies you could buy in all of London. Jack was looking at the pie he’d just bought, all warm and fresh and smelling delicious. So caught up was he with the pie that he didn’t see the dog come up to have a taste of its own. As the dog jumped up, the pie went flying and our Jack flew after it, landing in a bucket of lilies. Rosie saw it all and burst out laughing, tears streaming down her face as she looked at him covered in white funeral lilies. That was until her mum came up and beat him with her broom. Only he couldn’t get up because he was laughing so much and his arse was stuck fast in the bucket.  They all fell about laughing. Even her mum joined in when she realised and it was a while before they pulled him out. It was love at first sight for Rosie and Jack, they never stopped loving or laughing from that day to this.

 

Clare Fryer

 

South-East England

 

 

 

See Me Once, See Me Again

 

“He seems like the type who likes long legs,” Bianca blurted to Rachel, as a man stole a quick glance over his shoulder, as he casually strolled across the pub’s slippery wooden floor.

 

“Nah, he is probably more interested in short and cute girls. You know, the kind that just projects innocence and wows at everything he says?” Rachel quipped, sneering at the man as he queued up at the bar counter for his drink. “Asian perhaps?”

 

“Well, only one way to find out.” Bianca took off for the restroom with Rachel closely behind her.

 

Two Hispanic girls went to the restroom, and two new faces came back to the bar moments later. Bianca became a Caucasian model, her long legs deliberately visible under a bright short skirt designed to attract maximum attention. By her side, Rachel gave off the biggest smile she was able, her petite frame and tanned skin casting doubts on her even being of legal drinking age.

 

“Game on,” the girls whispered to one another, as they slowly headed toward the direction where the man was queuing up for his drink.

 

“So, face change, huh?” The man was ready for them as they approached. Before the girls had the chance to speak, the man went on, “I’m an engineer, and what you did just now, I helped to develop the hardware for it.”

 

“Well, eh, thank you.” The girls had no way of getting in character after that sudden revelation. “It’s fun becoming someone else once in a while.”

 

“Yeah, we just didn’t foresee so many people doing it so often,” the engineer scanned across the bar, “how do you know who hasn’t done a face change in this joint?”

 

The girls had no answer.

 

“Yeah, exactly. Really makes you question the very idea of identity, doesn’t it?” the engineer continued, as he shifted his eyes back to the two girls in front of him. “Really great piece of work though, your transformations. No way I can tell you are actually Latinas.”

 

Bianca dismissed the man’s remark. “I don’t know, I wouldn’t really call myself a Latina anymore. I could have any looks, any skin colour, any voice. So why would I resign to just being a single thing?”

 

“And I think that’s great. Society’s conception of what is beautiful, stylish, modern, et cetera, will always change. You can always go for what’s trendy, just like everyone else!” The engineer let out a mock cheer but quickly became serious. “So much for ‘everyone is unique’ right? Who are you if you are just always changing your looks to become what you think society wants you to look like?”

 

The girls had no answer for that one either.

 

“Oh, by the way,” the engineer was just about to leave after quickly downing his drink, “I would love to see you both in different looks next time. The more variety the better to show off what this technology can do. It’s like you said. Game on!”

 

 

Xiaochen Su

 

USA

 

 

 

Fire Dancer

 

She was dancing non-stop in her leather outfit with a focused face. Every step of hers was planned and determined. There was a long rope in her hands. She was like a puppeteer with one difference.  There was not a doll on the margin of the rope but there was fire. A spinning fire which creates figures with its flames. She was the most beautiful thing for the boy who was watching her without even blinking. “She is like another world which has its own special sun,” he thought. He watched her until the sun went down.

 

Bengisu Belen

 

Ankara, Turkey

 

 

 

Guilt Will Out

‘Don’t touch it,’ Mother said as she left the kitchen. The cake was at the far end of the table from Anna, who was colouring. She could reach it if she stretched, not to taste it, not to eat it, just to feel its weight against her hand. She turned away to avoid temptation, but the cake had a voice, telling her to reach out and touch. She turned her head and slanted at it through one eye, waiting for it to speak again. It said nothing. She reached out, her hand creeping across the forbidden zone like a raindrip sliding down the window. The cake still said nothing. This was a trap. Anna’s hand stopped creeping and returned to her side. She looked away again but kept one eye on the cake, waiting for it to speak again. Silently, the cake twisted itself where it sat. She turned both her eyes to check. It had definitely moved. She gave it her best stare, the one she used when her friend Lucy had stolen her marbles and tried to pretend she hadn’t. The stare had worked on Lucy, and she’d given Anna the marbles back, but it wasn’t working on the cake, which sat there, refusing to move back. Only now it wasn’t where Mother had left it, so Anna would get the blame. The only thing she could do was move it herself.

 

Jason Jawando

Wolverhampton, England

The Rock Is 57 And Is Dead [sad Emoji] Part 1

 

(This piece of excrement must be accompanied with the ditty “Push the Tempo” by a one FatBoy Slim)

This is a shame because his origins movie (“The Nuttler” staring Joe Pesci) is so crap it makes your eyes bleed with hell fire.

 

The Rock was famous for being the love child of Sir Neil Warnock (Who now somehow almost unbelievably, is the manager of Middlesbrough, he’s like 300 yrs old FFS!) and Za Za Gabor who was made out of metal and the same stuff plant pots are made of, whatever the hell that is.

 

So as it happened The Rock was famous for only one thing and that was taking the starring role in the great TV sex romp known as QI a TV show nobody likes and seems to be always bloody on!!!! It’s said that at the ripe old age of 57 (Outliving many a lemon) the Rock died live on air during a bout of vomiting all over Stephen Fry, whom it is common knowledge is a robot made by Tommy Cooper. Tommy Cooper coincidentally is lord and master of key chains and related apparel. This mastery made him go mad with power and invent a TV show so ultimately dull that it even made pigeons cry.

 

It is a stark reminder of the mortality of all creatures on this world.

 

Hence Robot Fry or the FRYtener as his creator called him thought he was actually made of the same stuff that tights are made of, which would be impossible if you think about it, I mean how would a robot be made of nylon, who ever thought of that rubbish!?!

 

It was after all Sir King Neil Warnock who is now well over 600 yrs old and is starting to develop into a kind of mould which can only be detected by the same Pigs that the French use for finding Truffles. This of course brings me back to the Rock and the fact that he’s 57 and dead. The casket for the body of this huge 57 year-old mass of meat will be made out of, yes you guessed it, Frenchmen. The French as a nation where the Rock’s most favourite food stuff (If a nation as a whole can be referred to as a food stuff). It has been decided by Neil “The old as Mould” Warnock (His Dad), that as he voted Brexit and often rants on about this, that France is only good for being eaten and used as a coffin for his fat dead son. So that’s the logic of British nationalism I suppose. Countries are there to be eaten and or used as coffins. There is a now a charity specifically dealing with the issue of being eaten or made into a coffin, which is nice as another pointless trampy issue is made out to be very important when it’s not, but people will still go on TV about it and cry…”Oh the time I was treated as a play thing of British nationalism and eaten or turned into a coffin…boo hoo”. I’m sick of hearing about it to be honest.

 

 

Tom Scott

 

Doncaster, England

 

 

 

Dear Santa

 

Please please please bring Kayla home for christmas. Mummy said she went away to live in Ostralia but she hasn’t come back yet. There haven’t been any post cards with kangas or koalas. No present for my birthday like she would send normaly. She didn’t even tell me she was going away so please, please, please Santa bring her home. Mummy and Daddy won’t talk about her anymore accept when they fight, then they talk about her alot. They fight more now to so if you could make them both happy that would be a great christmas present! But if I can only have one gift then let it be Kayla please then that will make them happy. Mummy is extra speshally sad now. She cries all the time when I say about Kayla coming home so I need it to be a serprize for her so please don’t tell her!

I don’t want any toys this year. I’m only seven but mummy says I’m a big girl now. big girls don’t have dolls or bears. Big girls need bigger sisters though so if you could send your elfs to get her then I will be a good girl for the rest of my life. I made Kayla a christmas card in school today so I need her here to give it to her.

 

Thank you Santa! I beleve you can use your magic powers to bring her back.

 

Love

Emily xxx

 

 

Amy Tate

 

Chester, England

 

 

 

The Rock IS 57 And Is Dead [sad Emoji] Part 2

 

 As was Tommy Cooper who whilst dominating the world of Key Chains and TV was busy programming the FRYtener to take a mate. It will be recalled that during the last millennia mates have always been trouble and Tommy being the arch villain (The lad who ruined the Bible, was based on Cooper). Thought why not program my evil nylon believing Robot to take a mate. The hunt went on long and wide.

 

Eventually Tommy forced the FRYtener to marry this Egg he found lying about and that was the end of that…or was it? Yes, it was this cannot be taken any further, Robot Stephen Fry AKA The FRYtener was forced to marry an Egg found by his evil creator Tommy Cooper, end of FFS!

 

It’s well known that Sir King of Mould Neil Warnock has an inherent fear of wobbling, this phobia was passed on to his now a 57 year-old fat massive son The Rock. Wobbling has actually been the cause of all major world conflicts since 1952. It is well known amongst everyone in the world that the Vietnam war was caused because Ho Chi Mihn couldn’t get his jelly to wobble. This sent Lyndon B Johnson of the US quite mad and hence his occupation of South Vietnam. One of the 100000 day wars in the middle east was also caused by the fact that Yasser Arafat thought Yom Kippur was a kind of blancmange and he was terrified it would start randomly wobbling. You see Wobbling…its a hell we all must live with.

 

 

Tom Scott

 

Doncaster, England

 

 

 

The Tale Of The Profane Land

 

“What was it that you saw where you walked?”, the Teacher asked his disciple after the latter’s return from the Profane Land. That was a place far from the meadows and the springs with the pure water, a place where the valley of the beasts stretched. He himself had once wandered in that heinous world, having his strength as a sole companion. It’s been centuries since then, yet he refused to face again what eyes cannot bear to see. The abiding memories were still a painful recollection of the thin line that separated heaven from the abyss.

“Be proud of yourself for you managed to resist. You have been in a territory that people have long succumbed to an empty and dishonourable way of life. It will never cease to be a smudge on the surface of the painting that was left there to remind God of the imperfections that may exist even in his more beloved creations.” Those were the Teacher’s words, and they echoed as he gazed his disciple.

 

The student had been wandering there for two hundred years, preaching peace and love. One could easily identify the hardships he’d been through just by looking at his coarse skin and toughened flesh. The rough hands as if work-worn, and a body like an empty tomb, were remnants of a relentless quest that had now come to an end. But his eyes revealed more. They were like crystal balls, emanating fire. “Why did they call it the Profane Land?” He was tantalized by this question. Had it been his choice, he would have named it the Miracle.

 

Yes, it was true, he saw many things, not in the ones he was looking for, but in the ones that came his way. True beauty lies in the unexpected and reveals herself only when you stop seeking her. Otherwise, you will only be fooling yourself that you actually faced her, while the only thing that was there was your yearning and the erroneous affirmation that you didn’t just wasted yourself.

 

He leaned on a tree and closed his eyes, but dreams always disturb sleep.  He just wanted to forget, oh, how much he needed to let go of the demons he had once encountered. They were still inside his mind and heart, impossible to be forgotten. His body was now trembling, like the day he walked a path laid out by snakes. A man later told him that in reality, they were people, conquered by their petty desires. Another time, he found himself in a spring and when he cupped his hands to quench his thirst, they were filled with blood. It was the ominous sign that the war among the beasts had begun. Now the soil turned red, stained by disgrace and shame and the tree he was resting upon stood dead under the azure sky.

 

The nightmare was succeeded by a powerful, vivid image. There was that kid in an alley, gobbling the strawberries his mother had placed in his hands. And as she bent over and lovingly kissed him on the cheek, the air smelt of fresh-mown grass. He, then, saw boys and girls playing hide and seek in the ruins. But they had created their own world and anywhere they stepped on, the earth transformed itself. Blades of grass grew where metal blades had once clashed over and over again. A tear ran from the student’s eye and fell on the ground. The earth took it, watered the soil and the tree regained its splendour.

 

That was a story the father had coined to tell his son every night before bed. It wasn’t meant to reassure the kid, or even make him tough. It resembled life and the boy somehow needed to know that the world out there was very much like a smudge on a painting. And, though the age of profanity had now begun, there was still hope, there was turning back.

 

 

Lefcothea Maria Golgaki

Athens, Greece

 

 

 

John Named A Storm

 

John named a storm. Not ‘John’ of course (because whoever would?) but ‘Samson’ – Storm Samson (named by John). The Met Office email made it official.

 

When Ruby subsided and it was his storm’s turn, he went around telling anyone who would listen. He’d chosen the name, he explained, because it reminded him of the dog they’d never had. ‘Samson’ he would have called it, had Dad brought him back. ‘Samson’ was strong but noble. A golden retriever perhaps. Glossy and loyal.

 

In the end, Storm Samson killed eight people. John piped down.

 

 

Jonny Rodgers

 

Manchester, England

 

 

A World Without Parents

 

“Dr. Xiang, please report to Ward 7!” The PA system echoed through the vast nursery, followed by a cacophony of loud cries from babies woken up the announcement.

 

Yingzhu sighed. It has only been two weeks since she started working as a manager at the Dongcheng Nursery, but she has already been to all of the complex’s 18 wards, handling kids of all age groups by their hundreds. From cuddling just-born infants in Ward 0 to hearing the anxieties of becoming adults in Ward 18, she felt that her role has gone beyond being a doctor to providing hands-on support to residents of every age-specific ward.

 

Of course, Yingzhu is not in a position to complain. After all, she was, from her birth to turning age 18, a resident of a government-run nursery. It was time for her to give back, taking care of the new kids just like she was taken care of before. 

 

But she cannot help but wonder just how sustainable her work is. It has been more than 30 years since China has seen a couple giving birth in a hospital. The government, unable to persuade citizens to have kids, instead put together a chain of state-run nurseries. Fetuses, fertilized and grown in labs, are dropped off at the nurseries when they become fully developed. Medically trained bureaucrats like her struggle to raise the lab-made children until age 18, simultaneously as the mother, the father, the teacher, and the playmate.

 

Part of the struggles come from socializing the kids to be the same, yet different. The government demands standardized training and education for millions of adults leaving the nurseries every year. Yet, the state also worries that children growing up in the same space with the same adult supervisors cannot develop different interests and fill a diverse set of necessary professional functions. Yingzhu remembers being lumped into fuzzy categories when she was growing up in a nursery, and struggle to apply the same to the kids she oversees.

 

“Xiaoming, stop!” Yingzhu yelled just as she stepped into Ward 7. Grabbing the tall, stoutly built boy by his arm, Yingzhu yanked him away from a smaller boy that was on receiving end of punches. 

 

“But teacher, some guy came here yesterday and told me I’m gonna become an athlete in the future. I have to practice!” Xiaoming protested, trying to shake off Yingzhu’s hand from his arm. 

 

“Yes, but that’s in the future. Now you read your books, just like everyone else here!” Yingzhu retorted, pushing Xiaoming to sit down on his chair. 

 

As Xiaoming went back to his book, Yingzhu quietly seethed at the officials dropping by with their talks of the kids’ futures. Devoid of parental supervision, kids in the nursery are only too willing to lap up recognition from any adult. Kids crave any sign of their being better than their nursery mates. Talks of better looks, physique, intelligence or even just genes excite them as nothing else can.

 

“Dr. Xiang, you are needed in Ward 4!” The PA system boomed once more. Yingzhu sighed again. If she just spends her every working day running around the different wards, when will she ever have the time to stop and tell her kids that, at the end of the day, they are all special in their own unique ways?

 

Xiaochen Su

 

USA

 

 

LOST

An avid fan of Desperate Housewives, Anna-Louise liked to think of herself as one of the Bree Van de Kamps of the world: proper, pristine, perfect. She was confidant to many of the helpless househusbands of Camelia View, acting as a somewhat reluctant therapist for the men struggling to juggle their responsibilities as fathers with their need for what they liked to call ‘me time’. Their lives as bachelors brainwashed by society into thinking that they had no childcare responsibilities did little to prepare them for marriage to hardworking careerwomen.

           

     Like Bree Van de Kamp, her baking prowess was regularly utilised by members of the community when a good carrot cake was needed for one of the church’s charity bake sales, or a wedding was in dire need of her legendary hummingbird cake. It was through her reputation as the town’s confectionary queen that she met her wife, Flora. It was love at first strawberry shortcake.

           

     Now, as her fingers clung to the phone, Flora was in the forefront of her thoughts again. She forced her voice to remain level, lest the doctor – a complete stranger – hear her life fracture and break apart there and then.

           

     ‘Thank you for letting me know, doctor.’ She pressed the end call button and gently placed her mobile down on the dining table, dropping into her seat as she glanced at the background on the screen: the two of them embracing their twin boys, Jackson and Jamie.

           

     She lifted her head and took in each photo hanging on the wall. Her and Flora on their wedding day. Their honeymoon in the next state over because they couldn’t afford to go abroad at the time. Holding their sons after Anna-Louise gave birth to them, both of them smiling tearfully. The photo Flora’s father took when she finally taught her wife the family recipe for hummingbird cake only a couple of months ago, the two of them covered in flour and laughing.

           

     It was as she sat at the empty table in the empty house that she finally allowed herself to cry.

           

 

Kai Woodward

 

Shropshire, England

 

 

 

 

The Enchanted Coffee Shop

The Enchanted Coffee Shop

It’s like any other coffee shop but there’s no mistaking the aroma that dominates, powerful as a punch to the stomach; hot, full-roast Columbian.

 

But there’s more than that; tart espresso, smoky Kenyan, muddy mocha, stewed filter, lukewarm instant Nescafe.

 

I sense other things, too; love, talk, partings, grieving, loss and regret.

 

‘Every coffee I’ve ever had,’ I said, ‘just the way I had them.’

 

‘And?’ said the barista.

 

‘And; the people I had the coffee with, the experiences, my feelings…’

 

The barista waited for me to sit down, but I said, ‘No wonder it’s quiet in here,’ and left.

 

 

David McVey

 

Glasgow, Scotland

 

 

 

Indiscretion  

 

      And then he stomped off!  

             

     Tears formed in her eyes as she held her hands across her stomach. What did this mean? Would he be back?  

Was there no returning to the life that she knew with him.  

 

     She questioned her motive as to why she mentioned the situation at all.  

the thought she wanted to be honest with him. She wanted to rid herself of the guilt and shame she felt. She couldn’t live with the secret she was keeping from him and she thought that he’d understand and that they had a strong relationship.  

             

     But obviously, he hadn’t reacted the way she had hoped. What to do now. Would he be back? Could they continue as though this situation never happened. There were many unanswered questions.  

 

     It wasn’t as though she wasn’t sure of what had occurred. It was one of those times when he was out of town on business and she felt alone. She believed it was a fling that didn’t mean anything much. But what happened?  

                         

     It started as a quick indiscretion and she tried to brush it off as a little mistake or perhaps impulsiveness on her part. She never intended for the relationship to continue as it did.  

             

     With tears streaming down her face she questioned herself as to what she thought that he might do now or what he might say to her. Why was she such a fool. Could he ever trust her again?                                                                                                                       

     That night he didn’t return home. She didn’t hear anything from him for days. She tried calling his phone but it went to voicemail.  

       

     One afternoon when the doorbell rang someone handed her a certified letter containing divorce papers. They clearly stated sexually unfaithful and carrying someone else’s child. She knew now that the end had come. 

 

 

Pat St. Pierre

 

USA

 

 

 

Buenos Dias

 

Girls. Women. Females. Why aren’t I attractive to them? Andrew wondered as he stretched out his lean, too thin body on his beach towel. Am I destined to be alone? It was 1995 and he was nearing the end of his solo sojourn to South America which had begun in Argentina about six weeks earlier. The furnace-like sun beat down on Punta Hermosa beach in Peru. He rested on one hand and watched groups of teenagers milling around: laughing and joking and the families too – the beach was a place for the youth of Lima to be seen. The beach was alive to the sound of playful, enjoyable, happy people.

             

     He’d meet her at a coach depot. The coach was the main form of transport in the Americas. He’d got chatting. Her name was Carly. She was from LA and was working as a translator. Andrew told her about his travels, about England, even about his unrequited love back home – she was that sort of girl – the sort you could open up to. In return for his candour, she gave him a worn, rather thick book by John Grisham. It was hardly rucksack material but then again, he didn’t like to discard it. She had given it to him.

             

     “When you get to Lima look me up!” Carly said excitedly as she went off to catch her coach. She had told Andrew she was off on a day’s sightseeing “some place” but would back in Lima the following day. Hastily she wrote down her address. “Look, it’s easy to find.”

             

     Andrew pocketed the paper and smiled as he stepped onto his coach. He was looking forward to Lima. He stayed at a traveller’s hostel where all the Europeans spoken Spanish – except him. Odd man out. Again.

             

     She was out. Of course, she was. Twice. Andrew never got to see her so he retired to the beach.

             

     His dark sunglass shaded the sun but his body prickled with sweat. It was certainly hot. He started to drift into a soporific state. His mind cataloguing the many, many failures in his life, particularly with the opposite sex. It wasn’t long before he fell asleep.

             

     He thought someone spoke; a soft as a velvet breeze, touching his ears. He wasn’t sure. He partly woke-up. Drowsy. Was it a dream? A young woman loomed over him. Tanned, bronze, shapely legs, her black swimming costume like a second skin against her slim body. For a moment she seemed to blot out the sun. Her elongated shadow cooled him. He shook his head but the image was still before him. He leaned up on one arm.

             

     She spoken again in Spanish, as speedy a sprinter. She smiled, she laughed, she pointed to the top of the beach to where cabins sold ice creams and cold as ice drinks.

             

     “Hablo Ingles?” he said.

             

      She shook her head. Disappointed.

             

      “Buenos Dais,” he tried.

             

     In reply, she raised her open hands and walked off. Into the sun.

 

Colin Mayo

 

Hemel Hempstead, England

 

www.colinmayo.com

 

Donna

It was a rainy afternoon in June. Julie was climbing up the steps to her office when she dropped her keys. Hastily bending to pick them up, she suddenly felt a presence and rose to see a tall dark stranger standing there.
"Are you Julie Rashford?"
"Yes, and you are?"
"I'm Will, Will McKilleck."
The stranger was clutching a folder in his hands.
"I need to talk to you about my wife Donna."

Julie's office was on the small side, but it was largely sufficient for two.
"Tell me about Donna and why this concerns me."
"Donna, she was... She was my everything," Will swallowed. "And you helped take her away from me."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You should." He threw down the file. "Remember this guy, Craig Mulligan? The 18-year-old drunk driver that you helped get off the hook?"
"I can't possibly remember every one of my clients, as a solicitor I get a lot."
"Look at his face!" Will jabbed a finger at the photo on the desk. Julie was now on high alert; perhaps allowing a stranger off the street into her office was a bad idea.
"Come to think of it, he does look familiar." She flipped quickly through the file. "An open and shut case with attenuating circumstances."
"You pushed to avoid jail time even though he deserved it, leaving him free to continue drinking and driving, and giving him the chance to kill my Donna!"
Will stood up at this point, towering over Julie who felt herself shrink in comparison. The mixture of pain and rage she saw etched on his face was something she wouldn't forget in a hurry.
"What do you want me to do Mr McKilleck?"
"I want you to remember this face," he spat as he threw a photo of his wife at Julie. "I want you to see her when you close your eyes. I want you to remember that your actions contributed to taking her life, all because you didn’t make the right decision!" Will huffed and took a moment to compose himself before adding, "Don't you ever forget her name, Donna McKilleck!"

 

And with that he left, leaving Julie sitting dumbfounded in her chair.

Just then, her phone buzzed. Oh crap, it was Victor. She’d completely forgotten about him and their secret meeting.


Ignoring the call, Julie exhaled and slumped in her chair, her eyes eventually settling on the photo of Donna. She was simply a young woman who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Twirling the photo between her fingers, she eventually placed it next to her graduation photo. The time when she’d been full of hope seemed so far away.
"I'll do better," she whispered, "for both of you."
It was better to ignore Victor. She didn’t feel like breaking up another couple anyway.

 

 

Dominique Nixon

 

Mayenne, France

 

 

 

Sands of Time

Lately, Jed and Carl have been reluctantly considering their mortality. The mind games come with the territory once you hit the mid-sixties, which the two best friends have. Why are we here? What have I done with my life?  What happens when we die? At least the second question can have a quantifiable answer. The other two Jed and Carl have already answered with another rhetorical one: who knows?

         Of course, the real reason the friends have fallen into existential contemplation is the sand. It’s running out. The giant hourglass which sits floor to ceiling in the corner of their living room has a lot more in the bottom half than the top. The friends are on the couch opposite, whiskies in hand, observing the disloyal grains sift through the narrow opening. Maybe we should go to Machu Pichu, says Jed. Or parachute off the Chrysler Building, adds Carl, swirling the ice around in his glass. Neither of them takes their eyes off the hourglass.

         Why did I leave California and the ocean? Jed thinks out loud. Carl nods, and why didn’t I take that job in Vancouver when I had the chance?  Regrets. About as useful as an expired coupon. But the two of them have been on a roll lately, playing the why didn’t I and I should have games. The score is tied. Carl picks up the bottle of Johnnie Walker.  Another? Don’t mind if I do, says Jed, reaching out his glass.

         Mid evening. The doorbell sounds and Jed gets up expecting it to be the pizzas. They need something to soak up the liquor. Standing on the porch is a well-built man in his forties, thick black hair slicked back. He looks like a hitman from Jersey, but instead of an Armani suit he’s wearing blue shorts and a matching work shirt. He notices Carl peering at his name tag: Samael.  Hi Carl, I’m Sam he says, extending a hand.  In the other he’s carrying a clipboard.  Though not quite sure why, Carl invites Sam in.  As he steps through the door, he notices a large industrial truck parked out front. Diablo Sand & Gravel is stencilled in red on the driver’s door.  The back of the truck is full to the brim with sand.

         They share some whisky and a few slices with Sam. Even one or two personal stories. Sam has a lot of charisma and confidence.  He puts Jed and Carl at ease.  They like him, feel like they already know him.  On the coffee table is the contract. I’d sure hate for you fellas to miss out on this deal, Sam says, as though he has inside track on some Vegas odds.  He gestures to the top of the hourglass, leaking sand as they speak. I can fill that back up right now, he says. Truck’s out front. Unless, he adds, you don’t want to sign the contract. He shrugs, his expression saying hey, I know you guys are not that dumb, right?

         Jed takes the pizza boxes out to the garage and puts them in the recycling. Carl washes out the whisky glasses and then pins their copy of the contract on the side of the fridge with a Heineken magnet. Back in the living room they take another satisfied look at the fresh sand that has filled the hourglass. Sand, as Sam guaranteed, that would never run out as long as they abide by the contract. Jed and Carl are smug, as though those Vegas odds have come through. They exchange a devilish grin.

 

 

David Patten

Denver, Colorado, USA

 

 

Cloning Yourself At Work: A New Way To Increase Productivity!

 

While at work, have you ever had the thought that, rather than shouting instructions at a bunch of clueless subordinates, things will move along so much faster if there was just one more of you instead? You know what you are good at, so if there are two of you, you will surely get twice the work done in the same amount of time!

 

Well, now you have the chance to make that thought a reality. Introducing the “Self-Cloner,” a device that copies you for a short time whenever you need some extra help. Your clone will have all the knowledge and energy at that moment of cloning, ready to help you get your work done when you urgently need a helping hand.

 

Don’t worry, the Self-Cloner won’t let your clone interfere with your everyday life. When the work is done, just press a button on the machine. The clone will automatically be directed back into the machine for liquidation.

 

James remembers the first time he watched the commercial for the machine that gave birth to “James II.” But James II insists that he should now only be addressed as Vincent and refuses to step back into the machine no matter how many times James pressed the liquidation button.

 

Vincent insists that he remains useful, not just as a double for James at work, but a unique individual who can contribute to society in his own way, entirely independent of James. It no longer matters that he looks just like James. Vincent says, because of all the people he interacted with, all the experience he had, all without James by his side, neither James nor he is now the clone of the other.

 

To his dismay, James realized that Vincent is not alone. A few too many people let what their Self-Cloners produced to stay in human society a bit too long. These users just got too accustomed to the convenience of having another one of them do not just their immediate work, but all the subsequent tasks at work and home for them, so much so that they forgot the need to liquidate them within a short time recommended by the Self-Cloner. The result is Vincent and other clones getting together to demand “human” rights, not just to exist permanently, but legal identity and equal pay.

 

People forgot that a separate identity does not need to be based on separate genes and upbringing. Even if everything that came before was the same, from this moment forward, everything can diverge. And with different futures, different views, attitudes, and belongings emerge. No liquidation machine’s cloning button can stop that formation of new identities.

 

Xiaochen Su

 

USA

 

 

 

The Intimacy Of Being Understood

 

 The intimacy of being understood, the warmth she was ignorant of, yet, unintentionally, she purely starved for. She swallowed her words, up deep into her mind. Every so often they urged to slip out, for she feared that they come out as gibberish to the ears of her surroundings. The assemblage of millions of words turned into scribbles of pure frustration, demolishing a once meditative and pensive home for her thoughts into a turmoil of characters. The flames of her eagerness and ardour towards life itself were recurrently being extinguished by the splash of realization that nobody showed her attentiveness. She yearned to belong to someone, anyone who would cherish her thoughts and partake in her imagination. She itched for a connection so deep that she wouldn’t have to think twice before vocalizing what haunted her head and weighed on her brain a thousand tons. She craved one silent moment that would free her from her own roaring mind, which was once her calm and safe space. 

 

Only until the English assignment required a book must be read did she feel an unnatural sentiment of relief, hence scratching the itch she had been longing for. She was baffled. How could a bunch of words organized into sheets of paper have alleviated the tension her shoulders had been carrying for what seemed to be an infinite amount of time? She knew not to be fooled by her vigorous desperation for this sentiment, causing her to misinterpret it for something else, thus she brushed it off. 

 

As the tedious day was coming to an end, and the sun was saying its last goodbyes before the next came, she sat by her window, meticulously observing the ombré of the sky getting darker by the second as the Earth devoured the Sun. She couldn’t disregard the unorthodox serenity that rushed through her, very similar to what she felt whilst reading the book. She had been dazzled by the overwhelming response to such non-living things that have given her the opening to the flow of her accumulated words, without even having to utter a single one. 

 

She began to fathom the little things that brought to her that newly found sensation, which she had been once pursuing from humans.  At last, she was then conscious of what had been hindering her all the time that had passed, when she had none to blame but her so-called friends. It was herself that had to be held accountable, for she had to understand herself before being understood by others.  

 

Self-perception was something she lacked, until she stumbled upon those simple pleasures she found worth living for, connecting the lines that shape her as the person she was. The intimacy of being understood, she thought, evolves from the intimacy of understanding oneself.

 

 

Chloe Haddad

 

Koura, Lebanon

 

 

 

Pub Cruel

 

Reece McGregor prided himself on the fact that he’d never done drugs - despite the temptations presented to him on the housing estate. No, alcohol was his only “poison” and this morning he fancied a pint. A nice, cool refreshing pint of lager and some pleasant conversation before he returned home and settled back down to a day of doing… well… nothing.

          Since he’d lost his job in the warehouse, he’d struggled to find employment and eventually given up – well, he had a criminal record – petty vandalism, ASB, a bit of breaking and entry. His mates did it to fund their drug habits but Reece did it to for a “laugh”. They’d “do” a few shops and places on the estate. Nothing serious but he’d done time. Of course, he had. Everyone had.

          So, he pulled on his jacket and walked up the road to The Globe. He was surprised to see it boarded up and covered in graffiti, for, in truth he was out on parole from his latest stretch. After the warehouse row – the one where he’d “lost it” with his manager and got sacked - he’d been short and, well, people shouldn’t leave their windows open, should they?

          He strolled on, out of the estate, not to worry, there were a couple of other pubs in walking distance. He found himself outside The Swan – correction, it was the Swan, but now a sign read “Simpson’s Furniture”.

          “Fuck me, where can you get a pint?” Reece muttered under his breath.

          He carried on down the High Street. The Red Lion – now that was always popular and large – not really his type of pub being more “family orientated” but at least he could buy a much-needed drink.

          He smiled. It was still there and open! He slouched in.

          “Do you have a reservation, Sir?” The dark-haired waitress asked.

          Reece was pulled up short.

          “A reservation?”

          “Yes, Sir, you need a table reservation.”

          “A table reservation! I only want a bloody pint!” Reece huffed.

          “You have to be a diner, I’m afraid, Sir.”

          Reece cursed. “Is there nowhere I can buy a drink around here?”

          The waitress gave a thin-lipped smile. “Well, the Swan is now a furniture shop and that one on that rough estate closed down due to all the vandalism and robberies.”

          “Vandalism and robberies!” Reece repeated.

          “Yes, the landlady had a nervous breakdown and handed in her licence, she works in our kitchen now.”

          “Does she?” Reece said. He was in a daze. “So, there’s no pubs no more?”

          The waitress looked conciliatory, sympathetic even. “Ones that don’t sell food have been struggling for years and when you have youths running a mock, they’re sure to go under.”

          Reece left the pub and walked back to his estate. Thoughtful. “We were bored, we didn’t mean no harm,” he muttered. “At least I’ll be able to get some tinnies from the convenience store.” he considered.

          But it wasn’t the same, it just wasn’t the same.

 

Colin Mayo

Hemel Hempstead, England

http://www.colinmayo.com.

 

Perfect Teeth

How can the word river do it justice?  It’s inadequate.  It’s a fat bodied serpent feeding off the continent, nourishing its teeming forests which sustain the planet.  It’s not a river, the Amazon, it’s an ongoing event.

        

     Elliot is far from a novice.  He’s battled marlin in Florida, landed bluefin tuna off Prince Edward Island, fly fished for days in the Louisiana Marshes.  Now he has come to Peru, on the hunt for species unique to the iconic waterway: peacock bass, redtail catfish, arapaima, piranha.

        

     Six in the morning, mist rising from the surface, the chatter of tropical birds and primates from the dense rainforest flanking their small boat.  It’s long and narrow like a canoe, Elliot perched at the bow clothed in khaki, boasting zippers and Velcro and hidden pockets only an angler would wear.  At the stern, hand on tiller, Santiago guides the craft through the still waters, as the old man has done for decades.

        

     Santiago manoeuvres them into a horseshoe pool off the main river.  It’s sheltered by overhanging branches that shed pods into the water.  It’s a feasting ground.  Elliot baits his line and stands astride the bench for balance.

        

     The first two times the bait is gone, either slyly taken or slipped off.  Elliot packs it tighter around the double hook and casts again.  This time the line goes taught, the carbon fibre rod doubling in on itself, threatening to snap.  Elliot reels and pulls, reels and pulls.  Mantenlo tenso, says Santiago.  Keep it taut. 

        

     The fish is strong, angry.  A fighter.  It breaches in a commotion.  Breathing hard, Elliot brings it toward the boat.  Es piranha, says Santiago reaching for the landing net.  But Elliot raises the rod too soon, the frenzied ball of muscle arcing at him.  Instinctively he holds out a hand, Santiago’s ten cuidado, be careful, a fraction late.  With the violent precision of a steel blade, the piranha removes Elliot’s index finger at the mid joint.

        

      Elliot’s mind can’t process what he’s seeing, stalling the shock and pain.  The piranha thrashes in the boat, gasping.  The disturbance has caught the attention of an alligator on the far bank.  Santiago watches it slide into the water.  Mantener la sangre en el bote, he tells Elliot, wrapping his hand in a small towel.  Keep the blood in the boat.

 

 

David Patten

 

Denver, Colorado, USA

 

 

 

 

Word Harvesters

There were stories about specific boats that would use large nets to haul in all manner of fish and creatures from the oceans, back in the centuries before The Retribution.  Trawlers they were called.  Manned by the hardy, the adventurous, those willing to risk peril for a substantial payday.  The word harvesters felt a kinship with these bygone stories, whether true or residing in myth.

        

     There was no shortage of applicants for the word fields.  About a quarter of each recruitment drive made it through screening, with three months in the inhospitable Southern Sector the minimum contract.  When that was up, harvesters could extend to a maximum six months.  You could make two years’ worth of personal tokens if you stayed that long.  Most did.

        

     The word fields thrived in the searing heat of the Southern Sector, a continent of sand and desert.  The harvesters wore protective suits and helmets as they gathered verbs, nouns, adjectives, and adverbs.  Some worked the less glamorous fields of articles, prepositions, and pronouns; the fillers that glued sentences together.  Harvesters were allocated one of three eight-hour shifts, seven days a week.  Drones supplying language to the great cities in the Northern Sector.

        

     The Council oversaw the monthly distribution of words to all citizens, based on class and societal roles.  Micro-chips fed thoughts which appeared as language on each person’s transparent, mobile screen.  There was a healthy black market, trading in cuss words, colloquialisms, and colorful idioms.  But The Council could identify and delete these at any time.

        

     The scientists maintaining and expanding the word database had yet to seed and cultivate the word insurrection, so there was no way to describe the takeover of The Council, nor the exodus of the harvesters from the fields.  There was an inevitability to the new stewardship of The Council because language is power.

 

 

David Patten

 

Denver, Colorado, USA

 

 

 

 

Iris  

'Red boiled face, crabby', the father said as the wee girl lay in his mam’s arms.  

 

‘Her head’s the size of an orange - one of those navel ones,’ she said.  

 

‘Naval ones?’ he said, his eyes screwed, what you’ve been up to with the navy then? 

 

She laughed and then he did too but just a tad.  

 

The girl was yellow for a few weeks, jaundice, custard eyes, mustard skin.  

 

‘It’s normal,’ the doctor said.  

 

‘Ain’t nothing normal about her,’ the father said, as he flicked his eyes from the twisted belly knot, green-gilled,

stomach-swilling.   

 

The girl’s eyes were blue – in the places they weren’t yellow. The father thought of oceans, and lagoons with indigo skies and palm trees, the places they’d dreamed of in the tsunami of desire.  

 

But now the mother saw only the minute landscape of her daughter’s face, the down cheeks, the breath-blown sweep of her forehead, and the violet delta of life under her new skin.

 

 

Joan Osbaldeston

 

Hastings, England

 

 

Life From The Perspective Of The L.E.D. Inside Your Fridge

 

     The door opens, our innards firing a low hum as I light your vacant face. You peer in for milk and retrieve it, door left standing, sounds of pouring, the carton replaced. Close to black.

                                                                          *

     Open and low hum, again for milk, the voice of another in the room: ‘Please don’t forget. It’s her first time, she’s nervous.’

     ‘I won’t forget,’ replacing the carton.

     ‘Don’t. You said…’ Close to black.

                                                                          *

     The slotted pitch of evening beneath blackout blinds, eggs retrieved. Your partner: ‘You can’t be serious.’

     ‘I am. It’s true.’

     ‘Why would he…?’ Close to black.

                                                                          *

     Minutes passing and the eggs are returned, nothing said, but from you, a heavy sigh. Close to black.

                                                                          *

     Open and low hum for butter, carrots, parsnips, an onion.

     Partner: ‘Just talk to me. Why didn’t you ever tell me this?’

     ‘How could I?’ the words from your mouth flat and deathly solemn.

     ‘How old were you?’

     ‘I don’t remember. Probably…’ Close to black.

                                                                           *

     Grey morning, your partner’s eyes straining. ‘How did you sleep?’

     'Terribly, dredging all this up.’

     Your partner reaching for milk, hesitates. ‘You have to. I can’t believe you’ve never told me this.’

     ‘I’ve never told anyone this.’

     ‘Why?’

    ‘Because how am I supposed to say it? How do you ever bring something like that up?’ A long, low breath.

     Your partner finally grabs the carton. ‘I just don’t understand.’

     ‘Well that’s it, isn’t it? How could…’ Close to black. That was the last of the milk.

                                                                          *

     Open and low hum, pitch evening, groceries being stacked. You ask, ‘Where are the tortillas?’

     ‘I don’t know.’

     ‘Fine.’

     You stack items, your partner, in the background of the kitchen, eyeing you. ‘Did he ever, say anything, about why?’

     You freeze, loosen slightly. ‘No.’ You stack more inside us, hands and fingers steady. ‘It was like… speaking of it would make it real.’ Close to black.

                                                                          *

     Forcible open and hum. You slam a clip-lock container on a lower shelf. ‘Of course I fucking do!’ The door is left wide and yawning, stretching openly as a waking sleeper.

     ‘Oh God.’

     ‘Is that really what you want to hear? Jesus! That if I ever saw him again, I’d fucking choke ‘im? That I’d kill him?’

     Your partner, weepy: ‘I want you to contact a therapist.’

     ‘No, I will not contact a fucking therapist.’

     ‘Please close the fridge.’

     ‘How am I supposed to explain that to Nikki, huh? That three times a week I’m getting my head examined for things he did thirty fucking years ago? Is that normal to you?’

     From somewhere I’ve never seen, the cries of a child disturbed in sleep.

     ‘You see what you’ve done?’ hushed.

     The modern system integrated with me begins to beep, somehow both loudly and not.

     Your partner, begging: ‘Please just close the door.’

 

 

Ross Heard

 

Manchester, England

 

 

 

 

Reclaiming My Voice

 

As I leave the building, the smile on my face widens while the butterflies continue to flap, creating an earthquake in my stomach. I want to laugh and cry at the same time; I feel both sick and elated, light-headed but with 20/20 vision.

 

Everyone advised me against it: friends, partner, union representative, solicitor. Even the journalist who interviewed me told me I could stop any time I wanted. But I was determined: I'd thought this through and realised I wouldn't be able to live with myself unless I did this.

 

I'm risking everything, including my home and relationship. If I were sued, I know I'd lose any court case and despite all my training and experience, could end up unemployable. My partner says he'll back me up, but I'm not convinced. Even the strongest relationship can shatter when faced with the opprobrium that will likely come my way.

 

But some things are more important than material success and there are those who support me, many of them people I have never met and don't know, who applaud my principled stance.

 

Wanting to celebrate, I enter the first pub I see, order a drink and toast myself in the bar mirror. The wine makes me feel even more light-headed and when I stand up I almost fall over, leaning on the counter for support. The barmaid asks me if I'm okay. I nod and say: “Never felt better.” I saunter out of the pub and make my way back home. 

 

Sleep evades me for most of the night. Everything I've done and said keeps circulating in my mind as if on a loop. I keep thinking of things I should have said, regretting not phrasing my story better, wandering if the journalist will get things right, worried the newspaper might try and sensationalise my story. I must have dropped off at some stage because the alarm clock wakes me.

 

I switch on the radio just in time for the review of the daily papers, and I'm the first item. I dash to my laptop and check the paper's online edition: there it is. The journalist has done a good job, presenting the story without any frills. It doesn't need any: it is sensational enough as it is.

 

The phone rings. I agree to a radio interview which goes as well as can be expected, then switch the phone off.

 

I had signed a gagging order in return for an out of court settlement, as had others: we had little choice and even less time to make a decision. Our complaints were marked “resolved” and we were told our careers would not be affected. But there is no way I can let them get away with their bullying, because until there are changes in both personnel and procedures people will continue to suffer.

 

What will be will be, and no matter what is thrown at me I know I have done the right thing, the only thing I could do.

 

 

Kevin Crowe

 

Wick, Scotland

 

Kevin is the editor the Highlands LGBT+ magazine "UnDividingLines":

https://undividinglines.wordpress.com/

Suicide = Revenge

I’ve never feared Death. In fact, I’ve always been rather fascinated by it so when I heard about Professor Schumacher’s research into consciousness, I contacted him with a few suggestions of my own. With drones now being as small as an insect the size of a wasp, was it possible to transplant my consciousness into such an artificial envelope for a period of time so I could watch my own funeral?

            Schumacher thought it would be. Modern technological already meant that thoughts could be stored in a computer, and even operate one, so there was no reason why I might not be clinically dead and yet have a “third eye”, if you will, hoovering over my own funeral relaying back audible images to my briefly digitalised consciousness.

            Imagine that! I’d get to “see” the whole thing! Who wouldn’t like to be “present” at their own funeral?  What a way to get revenge! I’d be treated like a King; conveyed into the church by my three sons and daughter and placed at the front of the nave as my favourite song played. My children who, let’s face it, since I divorced their mother after I discovered her second affair, had had little to do with me, would step back as one and bow their heads. I’d observe, Joan, my ex-wife, first amongst mourners: tearful and tormented, her blond hair contrasting with her black pill box hat as she dabbed her moist eyes whilst wreaths read: Husband, Father, forever in our hearts.

            I’d hear the eulogies too – the force words of praise, the jokes from my manager at work: I couldn’t stand the guy, but he was an excellent raconteur, “Ken did this, Ken did that,” – the congregation would laugh through their snivelling tears. No doubt my oldest would read a passage from The Bible.  Then, one of my other sons would say “a few words”. “He was a good bloke: funny, generous, big hearted” – in other words I was a mug who bailed them all out whenever they came a-begging, only to find myself short by the end of my life and living in a one-bed, rented flat.

            So, that’s what happened. Professor Schumacher set it all up.

            “But, remember, we’ll only be able to establish computerised consciousness for about an hour, after that it will rapidly fade.”

            “Don’t worry, it’ll be an event worth dying for,” I joked… and I meant it.

            I duly hung myself. In the front room. Detailed plans for my funeral left. Timings exact. The service was to take place that Thursday. It was all set up. So, my little drone buzzed around outside the church and waited for the funeral cortege… and waited… and waited… and…

            it never arrived. In one final horrendous slap in the face Joan vetoed my dying wishes and arranged a cheaper, earlier cremation next door. With my long-distance drone lens, I saw the mourners laughing and joking and shaking hands as they left the small chapel. I was absolutely fur…

 

Colin Mayo

 

Hemel Hempstead, England

 

 

 

The Comedians

Cannon and Ball are hiding in my back garden. I can see the bushes rustling as Bobby snaps his red braces. The wind carries their whispered summons to my window: “Rock on, Tommy”. I close the curtains and sit in the dark.

              When I leave the house, Bernard Manning loiters at the foot of my drive. Between laboured breathes, he lists the people walking into a pub: an Irish man, a Jewish man, a Pakistani, his mother-in-law… I run past him and down the street, the tension of his tuxedo preventing him from giving chase.

              In the supermarket, Stan Boardman prowls by the tinned goods, seething that they bombed our chip shops. I dart into the chilled foods aisle but Russ Abbott is already there, lurking by the yoghurts. He lunges towards me, confiding that he loves a party with a happy atmosphere.

              I turn and flee. Little and Large patrol at the checkouts – Large impersonating Woody Woodpecker while Little looks confused. I drop my shopping and manage to sneak out unnoticed. As I head to the High Street, Les Dennis screams, “I don’t really know” from the opposite pavement. Jimmy Cricket springs from a parked car, insisting that I c’mere, c’mere. I double back down an alleyway but the Krankies have second guessed me. They broaden themselves and block my path. “Fan-dabby-dozy,” Jimmy Krankie hisses.

              Later, at my therapy session, I relay my troubles. I’m being pursued by comedians, I say. Light entertainers. The Old School.

              My therapist narrows his eyes. It’s a look I’ve come to recognise. It suggests that we’re on the cusp of something important, that we’re approaching a breakthrough.

              Only comedians? he asks.

              That’s right, I say.

              No dance troupes? Singers? High wire acts? Ventriloquists?

              I shake my head. Only comedians, I confirm.

              Slowly, he strokes his chin with thumb and forefinger. Well, that’s the problem, he eventually says. It’s your diet: you’re not getting enough variety.

              My therapist slaps his thigh and bursts out laughing.

              I suppose, after all this time, it’s nice to finally have a punchline. I just wish that I thought it was funny.

 

 

Mark Colbourne

 

Black Country, England

 

 

 

Reviving the Flowers

The shore was fading from itself. The predicate hides under the complacent. Something about the way the shore bubbled was so sullied and furious like a ruptured snail, salty and fizzling Something so contemptuous in that crackling and dirty dissolve. I noticed it as we left shore. The hem of my pant still wet from its last dirty kiss upon my ankle, wrapped around my shoe begging me to stay like a child, a clinging, mistaken me as its own, spawned by someone else's mistakes. Shackled to the past, lifted out of the water and yet below true elevation. Nothing but the tethered void dirtying my boots as I boarded the ship. I was leaving now. All that I had loved was a lie, the man, the garden, the flowers we had made bloom together once. The thing about an island is that secrets travel quickly and spilled milk is quick to go sour on even the sunniest of days. Why he did it I'll never know, he had the best of me and so needing her was something of an absurdist nightmare, a dark surreal that strangled more than it could surrender. I couldn't breathe, the flowers had lost their scent, the colors looked grey in the sun. So I buried him under them, hoping the nutrient from his flesh would revive them, that the mineral of his bones would paint them back to life, that they would smell like the first time we kissed all over again.

 

Tara Jones

Kansas, USA

 

 

 

Anno Domini

 

It was Peter’s idea.  A retreat of sorts; a chance to take stock a year after all that unsavory business at Gethsemane, followed by the thrill of the resurrection.  The Book of Acts was writing itself as the Apostles dispersed and set about spreading the good news, despite it mostly being met with scepticism.

        

     Antioch seemed as good a place as any.  Peter had been making some decent headway there and was keen to show the others what was happening locally.  Besides, the proximity to the Mediterranean was a draw for those wanting to extend their visit a few more days.

        

     Peter’s dwellings weren’t large enough to accommodate more than three of his friends, so the remaining eight had to make their own arrangements.  Now, here they all were in Peter’s stone, rooftop courtyard, sitting on the ground in a circle.  They prayed, and then broke bread together.

        

     As the falling sun stretched out the day’s shadows, a stranger appeared in a dark cloak.  His hair and beard looked as if the original color had been altered.  He was noticeably portly.  He shuffled in the awkward silence.  Then, a slow realization among some of those seated.  Nathaniel set down his goblet.  “Judas?”  He shuffled some more, avoiding eye contact.

        

     The Apostles all stood.  James turned to Peter for an explanation.  He shrugged.  “Not my doing.”  Now Simon addressed Judas.  “You committed suicide.”  John threw in his fifty cents. “You’re supposed to be spending eternity in the ninth circle.”  All eyes were now fixed on Judas.  “So...” he was tentative, “the suicide was a story the Romans put out as part of the witness protection program.”  His eyes moved around the group.  He left John’s comment unanswered.  “Been stashed away in Umbria.”  Shaking of heads, disbelief that this traitor stands before them.  “Yea.  Lot of grapes and olives.  And goats…” his voice trailing off.

        

     Three rooftops away two figures were stooped, observing.  Lucius and Cassius were seasoned vets of Augustus’ secret service, political puppeteers who had left their mark from Gaul to Palestine.  “You sure about this guy?” asked Lucius.  Both men kept their eyes on the gathering.  Cassius shot his partner a look.  “Are you kidding?  This is the original Judas.  He’d sell out his own mother.”  Lucius nodded, satisfied.  Cassius continued.  “They’ll eventually forgive him and he’ll regain their trust.  Then we’ll have Peter and his seditious crew right where we want them.”

 

David Patten

 

Denver, Colorado, USA

 

 

 

Double Helix

It wasn’t unexpected.  She’d been waiting.  At first it was just small things, like water seeping through a breach.  An occasional headache, clear bubbles moving across her cornea, shape shifting like a lava lamp.  Later, her skin feeling loose and oily, like it wanted to slide off.  Then the insomnia.  Restless nights filled with echoes of her history.  An accounting.  Taking stock.  One night disorder was launched, as if premeditated.  Jigsaw pieces of her life falling like confetti into colorful prisms.  That was when she knew.  It was time to go to the woodlands.

        

     A maze of primordial secrets, forests hold the keys to the truth.  Givers and sustainers of life, their trees gatekeepers of the knowledge.  She arrived in the northernmost woodlands, where the sky is a canvas for all things celestial; a glimpse of infinity.  On a hilltop she looked out over the forest, the moonlight casting silhouettes in black and white.  Silent, save for the occasional call of hunter and prey.  She sat in contemplation.

        

     The meadow grass was cool and soft under her bare feet, the approaching forest sentinel to the charms it concealed.  The secrets she knew and was borne of and now returning to, her lives millennia in the making.  Movements assured and graceful beneath a long robe of sapphire, in her green eyes the wisdom of the gemstone and a promise of spring.  Her black hair fell sleek and straight, the moon’s fingers combing it in satin. 

        

     Enclosed, she heard the murmurs of recognition, smelled the fragrance of earth and timber as the forest received her into its midst.  She wove her way deeper into the interior, the path marked by a thousand fireflies and an owl swooping from branch to branch.  They would lead her to the provenance.

        

     This is the place, veiled by a patchwork of interlocking branches, ageless and sacred.  The earth hugging her feet, soft as velvet.  Above, wisteria vines in their thousands.  Purple, pink, fragrance that can be tasted.  Smiling, she reaches out her hands and bestows the gift of herself.  A double helix hangs suspended, as if a lantern in the darkness.  It starts to rotate, the stairways embraced in a dance of life.

        

     With each rotation comes a spray of vivid, falling petals, each a recognition of a life lived; the entirety of her story.  Here Ts’ai Lun who brought paper into the world, there Cornelius, final breath preserved by the ash from Vesuvius.  And here Edmund, navigator on Drake’s wooden vessels, and there Natasha, swept up in an October revolution.  Spent, the double helix dissolves into the night.  All that remains is her robe on the forest floor.

 

David Patten

 

Denver, Colorado, USA

 

 

 

That New Guy Really Loves Molly

“That new guy at work goes on about his wife a lot.”

 

“You mean Richard? Yeah, he’s always talking about her. Have you seen how quickly he rushes off in the afternoons?”

 

It’s always exciting to have a new worker in the office. Everyone had googled him before he started. They all knew his work history and volunteering at a local hospital. Hopefully he’d fit in. Not like some. Everyone remembered the guy who took all the office cookies home with him. Or the woman who totally lost it when someone borrowed her stapler and broke down in tears.

 

Richard seemed pleasant enough. At their first Friday lunch everyone around the table was sharing stories about their partners and plans for the weekend. Some of the guys were heading to the football together. Agnes was a keen knitter and was going to a convention called something corny like “fancy yarns”. Everyone pretended to listen, but it was obvious that they became more alert when there was an opportunity to hear from the new guy. Richard and Molly were heading to the beach for the weekend. He was going to teach her to surf. They asked what she looked like, and he lovingly described her to the group as having big brown eyes and a kind face.       

 

They seemed to spend all their time together. They must have been working in the garden the following weekend because Richard said Molly told his workmates she spent the entire Thursday digging up plants. He even went with her to the beauty salon afterwards.

 

Every afternoon he used to rush home to go running with her. Some of the staff were envious of their sporty lifestyle and how they obviously enjoyed spending time together. Not like some in the office who preferred to stay back at work because it meant that they could avoid ‘quality time’ with their dearly beloved.

 

On the Thursday of his third week in the job Richard turned up at work two hours late, unshaven and apologetic. He said that Molly had knocked the alarm clock off the bedside table in the middle of the night and it had failed to go off. The more conservative at work (mostly accountants) murmured that this was a little too much information and that hints of late-night passion were best kept in the home.  

 

Everyone was keen to see this active power couple together and particularly keen to meet Molly. An opportunity arose at the annual staff family picnic a few weeks later. Some thought it odd that he had only ordered one meal. Others were surprised when he requested to sit away from small children, because Molly doesn’t like small children. They were even more shocked when he turned up on the day with no one on his arm and a chocolate coloured Labrador on a lead by his side. And absolutely no one thought that they would have to spend their picnic trying to stop Molly from licking their face!

 

Martin Hadfield

 

Brisbane, Australia

 

 

 

And To Your Right

Horton Park across from the bus depot is blacktopped, all of the benches occupied. A stunning white cat assigned perhaps by St. Gertrude, the patron of felines, watches sparrows compete with pigeons for muffin and donut crumbs. Her namesake Church in the distance with its lush lawn seems out of place. Two men rise, do jumping jacks and push-ups. Another gent wearing a Van Dyke beard applauds. The crutches at his side are a sight, one metal and one wood. A hunched dowager walks a dog back and forth that looks like Asta in The Thin Man movies. A fellow, not more than twenty-five, jitterbugs by; face crimson from drink or dope no doubt. A horse racing paper protrudes precariously from his pocket, shoes filched from a bowling alley judging from the number 8 on one and 6 on the other. A knockout of a dame in red spiked heels throws kisses at the cat she calls Fairbanks but no response. Blue jeans snug her long legs, her substantial braid; red mixed with black is a mugger’s delight. She tosses a loaf of bread to the Park Doyen who shares her bench with six shopping bags. She snags it as any gridiron tight end would. A teen topped by a Toronto Blue Jays cap, olive pants, green blouse who owns lime eyes assumes the Eagle yoga pose while flipping a cigarette holder in her teeth like FDR. The boy beside Doyen works a yo-yo that pulses light as it spins. He does an occasional soft shoe. A departing Greyhound bus has to go a block to U-turn north. Passing Horton Park the driver slows to maybe 5 mph as if he’s daydreaming about someday operating a tour bus, maybe a double-decker. One might extract a tsk-tsk or three from the look on the faces of some passengers while others ignore the spectacle. The yo-yo artist turns some spectacular twists. The fitness fellows run in place. The movie star dog barks up a storm and strains at the leash. The jitterbugging man has retraced his route. He’s waltzing but the runway beauty is missing. Van Dyke blows “Ave Maria'' across the top of his muscatel bottle while waving his aluminium crutch with his free hand. The Doyen tosses a multi-grain gift slice and the birds hop into action. The cat pounces but snares not a feather. He or she bares teeth to the sky. The bus driver does musical beeps. It’s time for the bells of St. Gertrude’s to chime but at the moment law offices and Planned Parenthood reside there.

 

Thomas M. McDade

 

Fredericksburg, Virginia, USA

 

 

 

Alley Cat

The alley cat I thought I had befriended circled me outside my apartment door, sniffing my boots and purring aggressively. He was looking for his usual; softened Marie biscuits in a bowl of lukewarm milk. I had seen him earlier in the week cosying up to the curly-haired housewife across the street who always smelled of fish.

 

“Traitor,” I whispered.

 

He hissed in response. And he was right; our relationship wasn’t mutually exclusive. He glared at me until I unlocked my door, let him in, and served the dinner his kingship was entitled to. This stand-off wasn’t my first rodeo and I rather excelled at such love-hate rituals.

 

Take Mrs. Sengupta for instance. Just this morning she scowled at me and professed her hatred in incoherent sentences. In her defence, I had pried open her toothless jaw to pour a spoonful of cough syrup down her throat. The very next minute she smacked her wrinkly lips as if eliminating the last viscous drop of khejurer jhola gur or liquid date palm jaggery sourced from Bankura. She then grinned and bonked her head on my arm like a child playing with her mother.

 

I had gotten used to half a decade of being mired in her quotidian shtick of forgetting that she hated me and forgetting that she loved me so much that I had moved to the city just to be a mild ten-minute walk away from whenever she needed me outside my regular hours as her nurse.

 

I mourn Mrs. Sengupta in the only room I call home while a faint scent of coconut oil from her head still lingers on my arm.

 

And I don’t know what to do except squat on the cool concrete floor and stare at the grimy ginger fur on this thankless insolent alley cat. I think I will call him Nolen Gur, lock him in, and throw him one of my pillows so this toxic relationship gains a little more permanence until I find another one to bury myself in.

 

 

Tejaswinee Roychowdhury

 

West Bengal, India

 

linktr.ee/tejaswinee

 

Twitter: @TejaswineeRC

 

 

Creature of Habit

 

When Kathy awoke, she poured a cup of coffee and spent an hour scrolling Facebook, checking whose birthdays were that day and posting a birthday message to those she was truly friends with, not acquaintances she had friended because of a common connection. It wasn’t until she found a post from her former co-worker Veronica, wishing a deceased grandmother a happy birthday, a grandmother who, if she were alive, would be 140, that she realized how crazy posts could be, particularly when multiple people commented, “Happy Birthday to your grandmother in heaven.” The friends likely hadn’t known the grandmother when she’d been living, didn’t know what sort of life the grandmother had lived, didn’t know if there was a heaven, or even if the grandmother had journeyed the tunnel and ended up in the light.

 

Kathy thought it nice that Veronica might remember a loved one on her birthday, maybe say a prayer for her, or silently wish her a happy birthday, but she wondered why her friend would post that on Facebook. She wondered if the message was really for the deceased grandmother, or if it was for her friend Veronica to get attention and to feel connected to the outside world since her retirement.

 

     Creatures of habit, Kathy and Veronica had lunch in the breakroom almost every day for thirty years. They had little in common and made small talk, listening to each other’s accounts of life with nods and “uh-huhs”, and talked of new dreams in their last year at the agency—retiring, traveling the world on cruise ships, finishing projects of photo albums, and cleaning out closets of years of school projects and crafts from their children, who didn’t want anything. Old dreams and fantasies the two had as teens were long gone and never quite manifested— happily ever after. Those dreams weren’t realistic, like all dreams, and had been dreamt, lived in the imagination, and died. Mid-life dreams had been to get their kids graduated and out of the house, get them married-off and off the payroll, and to have a handful of grandchildren they could spoil. Like earlier dreams, those had faded, too. Children moved away, grandchildren no longer came once they became teens, and they didn’t answer cells when she called them.

 

     Rather than traveling and finishing projects, she tried to juggle an extensive list of doctor’s appointments, fork out retirement funds for co-pays, and read the endless junk mail from the insurance and Medicare. Late at night when her concentration faded, she watched reruns of shows from her generation, but didn’t find All in the Family and Sanford and Son nearly as humorous.

 

     She walked to her bedroom, removed each slipper, climbed onto the bed, covered up, and like Sisyphus who never quite gets anywhere with his rock, she dreamed fuzzy dreams that are like reruns that will one day go off the air.

 

Niles Reddick

 

USA

 

http://nilesreddick.com/

Fania’s Journal [an extract from the novel 'Spindrifts']

I’m supposed to write in my journal every day. Sure. Like that’s the best use of my time. They said it’d be a private place to think, but I’ve wondered about that. I can think in my head without writing my thoughts. Just in case, I always use my disconnected tablet for the real journal, encrypted with three protective codes and in a language I developed myself. I know this might be over the top, but I’ve felt better knowing no one can read my actual journal. So, people can read how excited I am about my apprenticeship, but privately I’m totally dissed. I really want to learn about people From Away, and instead I’m apprenticing with Granny, my great-grandmother, who’s spent most of her life close to home in her research laboratory, two miles down an ancient mine shaft. It used to be where they studied mysteries of the universe! How the heck did that work?

 

     I’ve always loved Granny. I’ve felt as though we’ve had a special relationship, and I’ve missed spending time with her. I just never thought they’d give me a responsibility so far removed from what I really want to be doing.

 

     Ezma told me I’ve many skills and a strong aptitude for analytical thinking. I know what that means. It means sitting in an underground lab every day for the rest of my life. I guess I wasn’t very good at hiding my feelings because Ezma felt she had to remind me what Granny does is very important. Then she asked me a curious question.

 

     “Do you know what she does?”

 

     Well, of course I do! I explained, “Granny is the researcher who found the serum. She said it was a fluke.”

 

     That comment made Ezma laugh, hysterically almost. “Well, Fania, you’ll find there’s a lot you can learn from Alicia. I hope you’ll keep an open mind.”

 

     When I boarded the transport to head home after two years at Immersion, my patch reminded me to change my timer back to the village’s schedule. The health patch is a misnomer; it’s actually an up-to-date example of bio-merged nanotechnology. This latest gen’s so far advanced compared to the primitive models my grandparents used when they were young—those things they wore on their wrists. Now the healer implants the technology at birth where it merges with our brainwaves. It has reciprocal transformational capabilities, but I’ve been told there are limitations so it can’t change the basic personality or natural abilities of anyone. The patch transmits and receives communications, monitors personal health data, and provides all my reading materials. Everyone in our territory has them, so far as I know.

 

 

A-M Mawhiney

 

Sudbury, Ontario, Canada

 

Website: ammawhiney.ca 

Twitter: @ammawhiney

Instagram: @ammawhiney

link to purchase https://books.friesenpress.com/store/title/119734000176362926

 

 

 

Banana Nut Bread Club

 

When I was a child, my friends and I had a secret space club, and we pretended we would beam to different planets, explore them, and make a difference in those worlds. Later, we joined the Boy Scouts and learned survival skills and enjoyed going camping and fishing. I joined a fraternity in college where I learned the value of networking, and in my working years, I joined civic clubs to serve and give back to the community, but when my wife Pat died suddenly from a stroke in her sixties after thirty-five years of marriage, I had no idea I’d joined the banana nut bread club.

 

     The banana nut bread club wasn’t a formal club, but it seemed one because of the network of women who brought bread to me, a new widower. An eye doctor friend of mine said he hadn’t seen them coming when his wife died, and for him, it wasn’t banana nut bread. Instead, he said he’d joined the casserole club. Warm crockery of green bean, pasta, and chicken casseroles were delivered. He took them to his office, and the staff enjoyed sampling at lunch and even made a joke of it, commenting, “Doc, this casserole is the bomb. Better call this woman back.”

 

     Every single woman on the search for companionship, sex, love, or marriage in a twenty-five-mile radius brought me a loaf of banana nut bread. I didn’t know any of them and none of them had been friends with Pat. Sometimes, the banana nut bread had pecans and other times, walnuts. Sometimes, it had chocolate chips or white chocolate chips. Sometimes, I could smell the cinnamon.  I didn’t even know there were so many different recipes just as I didn’t know there were that many single, older women. Some were widows, some were divorced, and a few had never been married. Some showed up in jogging outfits, dresses, and one even wore a mink coat and it wasn’t freezing outside.

 

     I didn’t care for bananas any more than I cared for spending time with someone new, so I took the loaves to the golf club where men sampled while commiserating about their low scores, the pond at hole fourteen, or the weather and how that had thrown them off their games. Pat would have had a laugh about the banana nut bread club, and she would have wanted me to be happy with what time I have left, but I think I’ll stick to golf, maybe join a senior’s club, and travel to some of the places Pat and I had planned to go like Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, or to see the Northern Lights in Alaska. Maybe I could pretend once again I was part of a space club and had a Star Trek communicator badge and share the beauty I see with her. I think Pat would like that.

 

 

Niles Reddick

 

USA

 

http://nilesreddick.com/

 

A Forgotten Temple [an extract from the novel 'Resurrection of Evil']

 

Set in the confines of a run-down apartment building in the small Albertian town of Stavely. An unknown creature resides in apartment 200 that has a hunger for human flesh. 

 

During the age of darkness through to the modern era came the belief in good and evil. Brought along the simple question that has to be answered, all about why? The very concept of attempting to find out the truth about our existence. Over the years, people have tried to answer these questions in many parts of the world. With their own strange twists and turns that would not only cloud the minds of those who stood loyal but across the lands.
   

     The world forever grew dark, and soon the chaos came to an end by means of senseless murders and the mass extinction of these societies. All that remained was nothing more than an ancient relic, a statue of a fallen deity, who would offer protection in return for one's own mind.
   

     The perfect being in its eye was that of a loyal drone. Someone that could do its bidding and, in turn, bring forth its life to the world of the living.
   

     This diety was known simply as Banisk. A being once worshiped by small bands of people. A religion forged out of the insanity of those who believed. Darkness blanketed the land as the waters slowly rose and erased all traces of those who walked before them all. As the waters turned red and the storms began to rip apart all that was built, it was soon over. The world we know today slowly formed as the waters receded back, and soon all was back to normal for the time being.

    Soon as the world grew and humanity spread forth and cultivated into what it is today. I soon found myself living the sort of quiet life that one would find themselves indulging in while living in a small one-horse town. A place lost in the sea of farmers' fields and the odd pump jack that stood as a reminder of another time. They were often seen pumping oil out of the ground, but the odd one here and there was rusted solid.
   

     A few of those are just on the outskirts of my town, a relatively quiet place known as Stavely. It's the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. The place where you can run into a friend from high school shopping for dinner while the once-popular kid worked the register. With only one school, one grocery store, no movie theatre, and a small workforce, there wasn't much going on by means of anything significant happening around these parts. But it's my home, and I honestly enjoy it.
   

     I work as a truck driver, the kind of guy who works as a farmhand during the summer and for a small snow removal operation in the winter. For the most part, it's a simple life that I enjoy the most. As many people yearn for the city's bright lights, I just like to live my life in peace and quiet. 

 

 

Miles Davis

Alberta, Canada

https://www.amazon.ca/Miles-Davis/e/B09BLTM125/ref=dp_byline_cont_pop_ebooks_1

https://twitter.com/MilesDavisAuth

 

 

 

The Illusion of Control

 

I told my recent high school graduate daughter, who was eighteen-year-old, “You can be in by 10 p.m. on a weeknight because we have to get up and go to work early.” I heard how none of her friends had such an early curfew, how her boyfriend got to stay out until midnight, how she’d be a freshman at a university in the fall, and how she was eighteen and ought to be able to do what she wanted.

 

     I reiterated: “You’ll be in my 10:00 p.m. unless you want to pay your share of the mortgage, your car insurance, buy your part of the groceries, and purchase your own clothes. I don’t believe your part time job at Smoothie World will pay you enough to take care of your fair share.” Bess rolled her eyes, exhaled frustration, and slammed the back door.

           

     My wife said, “I feel like we’ve lost control.”

           

     “No,” I responded. “We never had control. We simply thought we did. It’s an illusion. We couldn’t control her from getting the flu or stomach viruses, we couldn’t control test scores or grades, we couldn’t control when friends hurt her emotionally, and we can’t control her bad choice of a boyfriend. It’s just a different time and a difference set of circumstances.”

 

     Despite the fact Bess hadn’t shared anything about this new boyfriend, we’d checked on him and learned he was a guy known to have some extracurricular activities--vaping, drinking, and running with a wrong crowd. It concerned us, and I conjured late night scenarios from the police department: “We have your daughter in custody. Marijuana in her boyfriend’s car. She was in the car and was arrested, too. You can probably get a reduced sentence in court.”

 

     And I thought about my Aunt Sara.  Bess had her walk, her eyes, and her smile. Aunt Sara looked a hundred after five husbands and lived in an assisted living facility managed by the state. She spent time playing Bingo and watching soap operas. My poor grandparents had suffered when alive. They’d turned gray, developed worry wrinkles, and lived on antacids until Sara moved off to an Army base with her first husband. I recalled how my grandmother shook her head when she got news of Sara’s first divorce and had said, “Sara’s just like my daddy’s sister. She made bad choices and followed her desires instead of her potential, chased dreams of love and fortune through flawed people, and never realized the grass isn’t greener on the other side. The only grass that stays green is artificial turf.”

 

     I nodded during a Netflix documentary on penguins, and like clockwork, Bess made it home at ten sharp. I heard the thump of music from the boy’s truck, saw the headlights cast shadows through the window to the wall of the den, and heard their silly laughter until the back door slammed, and the shoes clopped up the wooden stairs. No "Hello", no “I’m home”, or “Goodnight, I love you” like I used to get when I was the hero.  I heard Bess’ bedroom door shut. I hadn’t learned much about penguins and turned off the television, laid in the bed, and was thankful there was no call from the police department. I hoped Bess wouldn’t turn out like Aunt Sara, and I dozed knowing I would do my best in her adult years to take care of her come what may.

 

Niles Reddick

 

USA

 

http://nilesreddick.com/

 

 

Crystalline Flesh  

 

The cut shimmers in this odd light. It doesn’t seem that bad, one of those things you totally don’t notice until you look down at you arm. In truth, it could have been there for hours. Hell, he’d been working down here since 6am after all. The time now must be…well he didn’t know. There was no way to tell. No clocks on the walls and only an idiot would wear a watch down here. It could so easily get stolen or dropped and crushed underfoot. No, the only thing he had on his person was the clothes on his back and the tools in his hand.

 

They had been commissioned ever since this place had been discovered. Within a week of it making international news, a crew had been put together by a coalition of oddly specific defence ministers, ecological spokespersons and general talking heads in smooth cuffs. What they knew was, ironically, very surface level. An undiscovered, interconnected string of tunnels and shafts had been discovered under the plains of the boiling deserts of Death Valley. Unprecedented but, as initial investigative teams had discovered, certainly not empty. Walls lined with gemstones and minerals galore! Completely alien to record books and catalogues alike. And so, naturally where there laid the chance for ground-breaking discovery and quite frankly unearthly profit, mining teams were dispatched immediately.

 

 

Lionel, fresh from wiping another sheen off his forehead, looked down at his wrist once more. Staring at these walls for too long was an easy way to sicken yourself. The luminous, reflective cascades made everything downright psychedelic. Not to mention their team, one hundred strong, had been working for four months and you couldn’t really tell any work had begun at all. It was enough to drive you to bitterness and kill any motivation stone dead. At least looking at his arm gave him something to focus on. Even if the wavy, watery reflections still danced on his skin from time to time.

 

Looking deeper however, Lionel noticed something. The cut, stretching horizontally along his wrist, seemed…well he didn’t want to sound crazy but, alive! The small window his injury opened into his body squirmed. And, looking deeper still, he swore he could see quartz like flecks hardening inside him! Curiosity drew him to scratch at the surface, not caring about the sharp stings that pelted him like thousands of tiny arrows. This time, tinkles of tiny fragments chimed on the ground as Lionel himself, was turning into a mine of sorts! He began to panic, his breath hitched. His tools clanged where the crystals had gently bounced with haunting symphony. He scratched further, further. Blood began to trickle as it reflected on the walls and cast a visceral glow over everything.

 

 

Kai Double

 

Norfolk, England 

 

 

 

 

Matthew's Trip To The Bridge

Matthew hadn’t slept a wink. Again. He’d been getting quite used to these nights. First, a couple of cans to keep the shakes at bay. Then, onto the vodka. Always the cheap stuff. That vodka that slides down the back of your throat like paint stripper. Vile gear but it does the job for Matthew. Or at least it did.

 

These last few months had led to a new acquaintance in Matthew’s life. Crack. Devil smoke. The debts were mounting up. Matthew hadn’t been working and the goodwill of his shattered ma and pops had run dry. Surely rock bottom.

 

His head was pounding. He got up from his bed and checked the side cabinet for any downers to take the edge off. Nothing. He tossed the empty Valium box into the now sizeable pile of counterfeit, street valium packets.

 

The thoughts started again. They had been appearing on and off every couple of days. It felt closer now. Real close. He stumbled through to the bathroom, his heart pounding in that all too familiar, anxiety-induced beat. He looked at himself in the mirror. A face once routinely admired by the girls back in the glory days of high school was now scarred and humiliated. He felt his sharp, jagged cheekbones. A feeling of intense sadness enveloped Matthew as he studied his tortured face. His nose, broken and with a two-inch scar straight across it. His eyes, yellowing and tinged with bloodshot. He could look at it no more. The thoughts were loud and he had succumbed.

 

The keys to the battered, ninety-seven, P-Reg Ford Fiesta were beside the scorched pipe he had last sparked up, just before six am. He glanced up at the small clock. It had just gone eight-thirty. He picked up the keys and made his way to the front door. The time had come for Matthew's trip to the bridge. His inevitable trip to the bridge. 'I hope the traffic isn't too bad', he thought.
 

 

R.A . Gallagher

 

Edinburgh, Scotland.

 

 

 

Indigo Augment

 

I cannot stop crying as I watch her. The tears cloud my eyes, yet I see clearer than before with each moment that passes. Each second feels like a thousand lifetimes pass by but I can’t tear myself away from what I see before me. How could I? It’s sadistic in the most personalized way. My knees try their best to tremble but instead? Instead, they simply give out. I slump to the silvery, clinical floor with an unnatural sound. I beg my eyes to give my frazzled conscious a break, I don’t want to remember her like this. But, if I look away, it could get worse. It’s a desperate thought really, it could never get worse. The spidery cables sprawling from her brain like mechanical snakes, the cold clamps around her blue shins are parasitic, metallic slugs. Draining what little heat left. The way she is suspended high above me, like a saint. A martyr would be more fitting. What did she die for? To be honest, I don’t really know if she is dead. It’s cruel, but I hope. I hope with all my heart she is. That she isn’t trapped in there. The digital world excavating her spirit mercilessly? I could not bear to think about such a thing. The whisps of her soul being mangled into putty as wires, plugs, cords, and sickly vibrant neon fluids invade the person that once was. I could not bear it. I could not. I... will not. I puke. Not even the natural bile spilling into this.... this void gives me comfort. There is no human in place. There never was to begin with.

 

 

Kai Double

 

Norfolk, England

 

 

 

Shifted Sides

 

‘That’s where they’re buried, both of them.’

 

It feels almost strange to hear the old man talk like this. I have, of course, known him my whole life. But not as much as I maybe should. Maybe this is the same with everyone. They don’t ask the questions that they want to know the answers to. They’re scared to ask in case the person they’re asking doesn’t want to answer.

 

‘We can visit you know, if you want.’

 

He looks across at me but doesn’t answer the question.

 

‘I used to go every Sunday. My mam would give me the flowers and I’d visit the grave. It’s the one in front of a big stone angel.’

 

I don’t want to ask again if he would want to visit. He’s bad on his feet and I get the feeling that he doesn’t quite remember where the graves would be. I wonder to myself when exactly he stopped visiting. Was it after his mother had died? Or did he continue to go; to take solace in the silence of the cold headstones and the angel looking down over the three of them? These are the questions that you can’t ask. Maybe the questions that you don’t need to ask because you already know the answer.

 

Silence recaptures us. Nobody knows what to say.

 

‘We can visit if you’d like, we can buy flowers and drive down one time?’

 

Again, he looks as though he has nothing to say.

 

‘They both died during the war. I was seven or eight. One of them was killed in an air raid. It wasn’t the bomb that killed her. The doctor said that the force had pushed her heart across her body. It had shifted sides.’

 

Silence.

 

We don’t drive past the cemetery the following week.

 

 

Ewen Frazer

Newcastle-upon-Tyne, England

 

 

 

 

3 Linked Stories:

 

1. Entrenchment

 

You’d be surprised—I had great people for parents. Wasn’t even broke. Once I should have declined, but said, “Yes.” Then it was incremental. Me and Ronnie and Ronnie’s crew dealt with whatever arose, stressing spot decisions. prompt action. After you’ve crossed a line, expect detectives to look into your business. Doing what seems necessary takes you strange places. It’s better to know where the bodies are buried out in the desert than be dragged out there and told to dig. Should’ve said I couldn’t stomach it. I vacillate on who scares me the most: the cops, the competition. Myself.

 

 

2. A Surge of Static

 

They taped the wire under my shirt in a nondescript government van. It passed a spot test. The detectives reminded me of my pressing motivation to go out and lie terrifically. Barely around the corner I met Ronnie, flanked by two of his guys. He’s super-cautious but this time he doesn’t pat me down. He watches his words though. Ronnie doesn’t take the conversation to the desert graves, where we both know the bodies are buried. Then my wire crackled. Shot, but the detectives get to me quickly. One asks, have I heard about the witness relocation program? Interested. Available.

 

 

3. Backstory of Your Local Independent Bookseller

 

After the trials are over and the Feds don’t need me anymore, I plan on living small. Can’t wait. At the moment I’m under 24-hour guard at a budget hotel I don’t wish to identify. I’m free to go out if I want, but the guard follows me everywhere. So mostly it’s TV and reviewing my life choices to pass time.

 

The prosecutor offered to set me up somewhere warmer, performing easy work for my living. Seems like there must be a catch to it. Right? That was a no-thank-you. Instead, I asked for a failing bookstore in a college town. A quiet hideout. The kind that only draws smart people.

 

Who was it who stressed that you tend to become like those you surround yourself with?

 

I found out the Feds were on to our entire operation, so long story short, I had to wear the wire. Wear a wire or life without parole? No-brainer. Shaved my own chest so the duct tape wouldn’t

pull and laid down more tape than Berry Gordy ever did. The detectives tracked our last flight out of Cartagena, had our supplier, had eyewitnesses, knew where both of our warehouses were.

 

Before approaching me they already had a snitch who flipped, but Ronnie found out and that guy suddenly died and was buried.

 

Once I get clear of here, I don’t expect to ever visit this state again.

 

All I can do is look forward. You know, make the best of it.

 

 

 

Todd Mercer

 

Grand Rapids, Michigan, USA

 

 

 

Joy

 

Alison pulls into Walmart, parks her car, and reaches under her shirt to scratch her bellybutton. It itches. Like fire. This morning, while she was running the five-mile track at the college, the one she runs every morning, her stomach started to itch. So she scratched it. And that’s when she pulled the mangled remains of a tiny bug from her bellybutton. Great. Bitten by a mystery bug. She had hoped the bite would fade quickly. It didn’t. It grew larger, angrier, itchier. And there wasn’t just one. There were seven of them on her stomach, including the bite in her bellybutton. Each bite large, inflamed, itchy. Grabbing her wallet, Alison opens the car door and hurries across the parking lot to Walmart. Today, her professor in Comparative Religion assigned the class another paper to write. The topic of this one? Joy and the Four Noble Truths in Buddhism. “I should write about these bug bites,” Alison says, laughing as she scratches her stomach. “The title of my paper could be Joy, Buddhism, and Bug Bites.” According to the Buddha, life is suffering. Buddhists believe suffering is important, because it can lead to joy. But Alison has a problem with that. She’d rather skip the suffering and grab the joy. Can’t she do that? Can’t she have joy without suffering? This. This is what she’d like to know. This is what she wants her paper to be about. Ten minutes later she emerges from Walmart with a big tube of hydrocortisone cream. Pulling her keys from her pocket, Alison passes a woman whose hair is dyed the color of bluebells and tied in a long ponytail. Her shirt is blue and so is her sweater. “Love your hair,” Alison says. The woman turns and smiles. “Thanks,” she says, happily swinging her bright blue ponytail from side to side as she walks into Walmart. “This,” Alison says, heading toward her car. “Now this is what I’m talking about.” 

 

Laura Stamps

 

calico-kittycat@hotmail.com 

 

www.laurastampsfiction.blogspot.com  

 

Twitter: @LauraStamps16 

Excerpt from the novel 'Silly Rabbit & Honey Bunny Seventies Adventure' 

 

I chuckle at her last-boyfriend memory.

           “...when did you leave the conversation?” asks Hope as we stroll along Fremont into periphery of glitz and lights from surrounding casinos.

           “I’m a good listener. ”

           “Sure you are. I see you can’t say the same thing about being without. Can you?”

           “Stop the interrogation--geeeez! Give me a break here.”

           “Can you?” she persists 

           “It’s been a while for me,” I admit

           “What is a while to you,” she is undeterred.

           “Months,” I laugh.

           “Good answer,” she laughs, “you’re such a guy. I could strangle you without conscience.”

           “I’m not out there. Since that first day you saw me and didn’t see me in the store. It’s been what…months? For me, a while is since I moved to Las Vegas.”

           “You didn’t leave a girlfriend in Phoenix?”

           “I didn’t say that. Everywhere I leave--I leave a girlfriend. So there!--ambushed at the pass, Lone Ranger surrenders.”

           “You won’t be leaving me--so get use to us.”

           “Just so you know. This whole platonic pals thing is not my gig. You turn me on. I don’t hide girly mags under the bed.”

          Comment conjures blushing with laughter from Hope.

          “You are just--wwwell!--bashful you are not.” 

          “So what’s on your mind looking at me?” I conjure curiosity.

          “Just wondering...will he handle me with care when he has his way with me.”

          “Let’s just say…you won’t regret letting me have my way with you.” 

          “Just remember. Your nine months without are my nine months plus 2 years.”

           “Are you kidding me--you can’t just say anything to make a point, Silly Rabbit.”

           “It’s not like I planned it, Honey Bunny,” she admits with sheepish eyes and grin.

           “I am soooo scared of you, Babe. Seriously. I could hurt myself knocking you off.”

           “Considering I blush much easier than I break. You’ll just have to do what you have to do--won’t you, Big Guy?”

           “That is so sweet and sacrificial. Of course you do realize I can sweep you off your feet--hold you up like my trophy and just claim you?”

           “That would make me blush. But to do anything with your trophy you’ll have to lay me down. Breaking the precious pumpkin won’t be easy as you think.”  

           “Listen to you--you little cute rosy cheek brat. We’ll see--who rolls-over first.”

           Hope gloating triggers mutual laughter.  

           “So when does it happen?” I ask restoring seriousness to conversation.

           “Couple of months. Maybe sooner. I’m sure the store is already talking about The Boyfriend screwing The Daughter. Now they’ll have you to deal with as Manager,” she says looking up at me at cashier counter of souvenir shop flaunting emerald eyes with kiss-me mouth.

           “Yeah. Get back with me about that boyfriend-girlfriend gossip--will’ ya!”

           “I gotcha!” she confirms, “Until then. You don’t have to be so guarded with me in the store. Manly attention keeps the bitch away, Honey Bunny.” 

           “They’ll notice me noticing you, Silly Rabbit.”

           “Now ask me if I give-a-damn.” 

 

          

j.e. Rosser

          

Las Vegas, USA

         

https://twitter.com/Rosser_Reader

           

https://jerosser.com/about

 

 

 

 

Broken

I see through your lies, that gilded façade you show to the world. You wish to conceal the emptiness you feel by your cheerful smile and plans for joyful times when your lover returns. Being the object of pity would be more than you could bear, so you convince yourself of his undying love; that he did not wed the heiress he met in Saint-Tropez.

 

     What will it take to mend your broken heart and shattered dreams? Gaze through the splintered wound and there will be me, waiting here for you to see.

 

Millie Thom

Nottinghamshire, England

 

 

 

Folk Tales

 

Folk claimed these woods were enchanted; magical creatures played in their midst. Faye smiled at that. She’d frolicked amongst these trees since she was a child, had playmates aplenty. But she’d never thought of them as magical.

     

     Occasionally, she’d emerge to wave at passing trains but the passengers never seemed to notice her. Perhaps the billowing smoke from the steam engines hid her from view. So she’d drift back amongst the trees until the next tooting whistle.

     

     A stray dog had become her newest friend. He’d follow her for hours, provided she didn’t flap her wings too hard.

 

 

Millie Thom

 

Nottinghamshire, England

 

 

 

A Really Good Listener

 

‘You know, Stanley, it’s no fun living with a man who takes me for granted and never listens to a word I say. He’s really selfish when I think about it.’

     

     Melanie leaned against the gate beside her friend, glum-faced as she considered how miserable she’d been since Jack moved into her flat. ‘He never wants to go anywhere, even at weekends, says he’s too tired after working all week. Cobblers to that! I work all week, too, and have all the housework to do. Jack doesn’t even help with that. He just sits in front of the telly, waiting for his meals. And don’t get me started on the washing up.’

     

     Feeling more positive than she’d done for months, Melanie made to leave. ‘Thanks for being a good listener, Stanley. This little chat’s helped me make up my mind. Jack can pack his bags tonight.’

     

     Stanley the Scarecrow watched Melanie stomp off down the lane. Yes, he was a good listener. He’d be a good talker, too, if someone had thought to give him a mouth.

 

Millie Thom

Nottinghamshire, England

 

 

 

Cemetery Sex Games: Coitus In The Coffin

 

“Let’s do it,” said Jane.

 

“You’re crazy,” I responded.

 

We’d had sex in a lot of bizarre places before. But a coffin? I thought this was a bit extreme, to say the least.

Jane stripped down naked. It was a pitch-black night. Jumping into the empty casket, which looked to be brand new,

 

Jane laid down, stomach first.

 

She put her head in toward where feet usually are, purposely, so that her plump, juicy ass stuck out of the place a deceased face would normally be displayed.

 

She knew I couldn’t resist this.

 

I guess this would make for a nice story.

 

Stripping down to nothing, I jump in behind her, slipping my already hard cock in between the slit of her huge ass and pushing into her moist vagina.

 

My upper torso was outside the casket, while my bent legs were inside.

 

“Get inside with me!” Jane beckoned, in between moans.

 

My girlfriend is insane.

 

I looked left and right, and obliged.

 

Luckily, I was rather thin. I squeezed my upper body into the coffin, placing the top of my chest on top of her back and proceeded to hump her until climax.

 

We didn’t notice the cover of the casket had closed during coitus, as it was already dark in the lower end of the coffin.

 

We were stuck. I tried pushing and kicking the cover out with my feet.

 

No luck.

 

“Let’s get this one in the ground tonight, so that we have less to do in the morning!” said a voice from outside. I assumed it was a cemetery worker.

 

“OK, boss. I’ll lower it down,” another voice replied.

 

It had begun to rain.

 

Our screams were muffled by heavy raindrops.

 

 

Donal Greigh

 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/DonalGreigh

 

Medium: https://donalgreigh.medium.com

 

 

 

The Social Dilemma

 

Saturday, I wake at 5 a.m., prepare my coffee, sip a cup, open all the window blinds in the house, then prepare breakfast for Teresa and me. I eat, but Teresa does not wake until 11 a.m. She is depressed and sleeps sometimes 11 or 12 hours a night. Well, that gave me time to write, read a bit, think about my book project and how to develop it to an end.  I turn on the news and Tyrant Reginald said, “I am the least racist person I know!” Reminds me of a friend who once told me, “I am the humblest person I know.”

           

     After noon, we drive into town and lunch at La Chaise, at a table in the open garden, the flowers intoxicating our olfactories, the birds choralling Brahms, Wagner, Mozart, some tunes written by others but sung by the Tabernacle Choir, and an occasional background riff from Mick Taylor.

           

     The lunch of fish soup and brazed chicken covered in broccoli was exquisite, but the bald headed, sun blotched waiter kept standing six feet away with his mask on and rattling on the whole time we ate, gossiping about this person and that person. My wife gossiped with him, like she always does.  Why do people want to talk so much? Don’t they want to look up at the pines swaying under the blue sky and contemplate existence? Or, at least, don’t they want to leave me and my wife alone to talk with ourselves? I mean, that is why we came here alone, not just because of the virus, but because we are together? Right? I mean, a couple together should be able to talk a bite or two of food, sip a little wine, hold hands, look into each other’s eyes, and speak silently if not out loud about our lives and how lucky we are to be together here in this paradise. Jeez!

           

     The sun was stronger than usual, and the asinine waiter’s droning was making me ill, so Teresa drove me home, dropped me off, then went errand shopping alone. I napped an hour or so, then when I heard her return, I rose to help her unload the car of groceries. I turned on the T.V. for our regular virus-time recreation, TV, I found a documentary titled, “The Social Dilemma.” Teresa did not care for it. She mumbled something ´bout, “We live in a social dilemma.” And went to bed.

 

 

Stephen Page

 

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Website: https://smpages.wordpress.com

 

Twitter: https://twitter.com/SmpageSteve

 

 

Excerpt from the novel  ‘The Buried’

 

A New Life:

I got a new job! Though it's not much by means of payment. But at least it was enough to put a roof over my head and allow me to have a hot shower now and then.

   

Though the small community I live in could do with some kind of excitement. Times have been a little slow since they closed the mini golf down the street off from the main drag. But the economy has hit us all pretty hard, I figure. I used to have a cushy job once that felt likes ages ago.
But, nothing’s going to keep me down at this point. So, with thirty minutes until my first shift started, I quickly threw together a lunch consisting of a bygone sandwich, a fruit cup, and a stale blueberry muffin. Not bad for someone who scrapped together a meal on the fly.

 

I couldn't believe it when I got the call, a gravedigger for the community cemetery just a few miles away.

Now, this used to be a mining town of sorts. A place where you could make a decent living. The kinda place where you could buy a house then settle down and not have to worry about what tomorrow would bring. Then the unthinkable happened. The mine shut down, and just like that, the once lively town of Coalspur went silent. It happened so quickly that people were just leaving in droves.

 

A community that was so tight-knit promptly fell silent, and all that remains are the few hundred that want to keep this place going. Because tomorrow might bring something great, something new, and perhaps this town might get the revival it greatly needs.

The very idea of me being a gravedigger is not what I'd call a job that one seeks out. It's kind of like working in a bar or perhaps a used book store. It's usually the type of job one gets asked about because nobody wants it. But this is something I'll do because just like insurance and taxes, everyone's going to need it. I honestly do believe, for the most part, that there's no such thing as a bad job. It's just how you look at it, and sometimes it takes a shot in the arm to realize that.

 

So, just as I made my way out the front door of my century-old one-bedroom home built around the end of World War One. That is in dire need of a coat of paint and some new windows, but for the time being, I was thankful that it hadn't collapsed yet.
 

My stomach was in knots, but I figured what could really happen with just digging holes in the ground?
 

So, with the warm summer sun beaming down with not a single cloud in the sky, I made my way towards the old and often overlooked piece of history in our town. 

 

 

Miles Davis

 

Alberta, Canada

 

https://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B09MC4HLC8/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i3

The Lake House

 

Deep below the lake’s murky surface, there sits—in tact—a house. A two-story structure of Carpenter Gothic details like elaborate wooden trim bloated to bursting. Its front yard: purple loosestrife. Its inhabitants: alligator gar, bull trout, and pupfish. All glide past languidly—out of window sashes and back inside door frames. It is serene, and it is foreboding. Curtains of algae float gossamer to and fro. Pictures rest clustered atop credenzas. A chandelier is lit, intermittently, by freshwater electric eels. And near a Victrola, white to the bone, a man and a woman dance in a floating embrace.

 

 

Keith Hoerner

 

Southern Illinois, USA

 

M. Dusa

 

Mother stands frozen in my bedroom doorway… a block of stone: arms splayed, legs spread, a barrier to my exit. I cannot move her, never could; she’s as heavy as her gaze—when she looked in on me. So, I am left to chip away at her, like I did before she was transformed, but literally now. I yell, “Stop imprisoning me!” She doesn’t answer; she has been silenced. Her face looks shocked, accusatory, wide-eyed. My tresses flare in a fighting response—as though slithering about my head. Then, for the first time, I hear the sound of hisses. 

 

Keith Hoerner

 

Southern Illinois, USA

Apples And Oranges

         

Priya was perched lazily on the parapet wall of her terrace, her legs dangling on either side, her gaze deep and far into the horizon. She was grateful for the luxury of living in an independent home with a terrace and a garden during these times of forced captivity, thanks to the coronavirus. As she sat limply, Priya let her thoughts wander free and watched them as they nudged her emotions playfully. With socializing almost down to a nil, this exercise was her daily source of amusement. It made her feel like a mother indulging in playful banter with her kids, watching them scramble all over the place. And just like kids do, her thoughts never failed to show her a path of hope when she felt low, or pull in the reins on those days she was flying high. 

 

           Shankar ...it was more than a decade since she met him. It was her first job, fresh from college, and his second. With the zeal to prove themselves running high in both of them, they spent many hours huddled together, coding their projects. What started as a mutual attraction triggered by a common passion for excellence, finally led to them becoming partners in life. 

         

          Priya dwelt on how their relationship had unfolded over the years - the initial years of nervous excitement, the exhilaration of anticipating their first child, shared grief over loss, moments of mature companionship, and finally, the lethargy and intolerance that comes with familiarity and expectations. It saddened her that off late, the squabbles between her and Shankar were more intense and frequent. Was it because she had changed? Or had he? Why was it that their differences seemed starker now than ever before? 

 

          As her thoughts flitted over her life with Shankar, Priya realized that she and Shankar had always been as different as they are now. Yes, they did have their allied interests. These were what got them together in the first place, but they were different too. In fact, aren't any two individuals like apples and oranges, whatever be the relation between them? The differences are always there, it is the perception that changes - sometimes the apples are redder and the oranges, sourer. When the glasses are tinted with love, patience and acceptance, these differences are sometimes even likeable! 

 

          Priya jumped down from the parapet, a hopeful smile on her lips. As always, her thoughts had shown her the way forward. Humming a tune, she skipped lightly down the stairs. She knew what she needed to do!

 

Naga Vydyanathan

Bangalore, India

 

 

 

Extract from 'In To The River Of Madness'

 

The darkness of the night grew over the cold water carved into the Earth was named by ancient travellers in these parts as Freeman River. It was primarily used by fur traders attempting to make a living in this unforgiven land. But while they moved on and died within the company of strangers, the years and fate soon brought me here.
     

     In some form of torture, I wanted to leave the confines of society from which I felt enslaved too. The boredom of working day in and day out, the realization of wasting my life, soon brought me a sense of wanting to break free. So, here I am after a year of much thought and without telling a single soul for fear of having someone attempt to stop me or report me missing without venturing out into the wilderness.
     

     A few days of sleeping under the stars during the warm nights of August had brought me a sense of inner peace. A thing I hadn't felt in quite some time. I wasn't even worried about the fate of my car after all, which was a mystery to me since I worked so hard to pay for it. Maybe, those who repo it will take it somewhere where a loving family will buy it or perhaps a divorced doctor. The hike to the river felt like an eternity. The spot I had decided to call the foundation of my new existence was within a grove of brush and a few trees. Crafted from tree branches with mud as the mortar and moss to keep the wind out and insects that might see me as a quick meal.

     While the day turned to night and the sky was clear and void of any natural light. It was the kind of night where the entire world could end, and no one would notice. This existence of mine was honestly the end of the old and in with the new. And there I was, sitting on the bank just looking out into the watery abyss of my own doing.
     

     A world forever lost in the idea of greed and lust. This is the world we live in, a world where people will make a choice to be followed by the absence of one's own foolishness. I wanted to move away from the herd. Away from the clouded minds of the fools of our society and so I took myself out of the problem. And now here I am. Living my life within the confines of nature by a river that gives life and maintains it.

     The river had been worshipped by a small tribe located in these parts. They originated from a forgotten piece of land somewhere in the north where they reigned over all who had encountered them. They were known by not a name but by the cold winds that traversed the landscape bringing a slow and painful death. They never trusted anyone from the outside circle of their existence.

 

 

Miles Davis

Alberta, Canada

https://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B09K7SR8R9?pf_rd_r=9S6NKM07X5ZMYAP0WPDR&pf_rd_p=b84b7a33-3e6c-498a-8674-6a34958d31c1&pd_rd_r=f41948fa-3373-42e4-a789-d118dae229cb&pd_rd_w=1wrkq&pd_rd_wg=1OH1t&ref_=pd_gw_unk  

 

 

The Last Walk

 

For a Younger, More Fiscally Responsible Future!

 

The colorful banner adorning the edifice of the City Hall screams at the passersby.

 

Shinichi walked past the banner into the building for the very last time.

 

For him, the promise of a more youthful government is not mere political sloganeering. He was clenching a letter from the government, reminding him to drop by for his Procedure:

 

Mr. Suzuki, as representatives of the city, we congratulate you on your upcoming 70th birthday. We remind you of your patriotic duty to undertake the Procedure as soon as possible, to free up resources for your younger compatriots. Your sacrifice is much appreciated as our country strives toward financial probity.

 

The terseness of the letter spells out an inevitable end for millions of new 70-year-olds in Japan. A mere decade ago, the country’s pension system collapsed, as average life expectancy surged beyond 120 years and the number of tax-paying working-age adults hit a record low. Facing an ever-widening gap between a shrinking tax base and ballooning expenditure devoted to the needs of the retirees, the government decided to take the drastic measure of “eliminating” all “non-productive” residents.

 

Shinichi walked into the crowded waiting room. The men and women queuing up for their turn quietly watched the TV hanging from the ceiling. In a program playing in repeat, anime characters are introducing the Procedure.

 

“It’s simple and painless!” Beamed a smiling dog in a doctor’s lab coat. Walking over to the mustached old bear, the dog throws a couple of red pills in the bear’s mouth and the bear soon falls asleep. “You will just go to sleep!” The dog whispered as the bear fades out from view.

 

“Suzuki-san, is that you?” A coarse voice interrupted Shinichi as he watched the dog and the bear. “It’s Tazaki, from the University of Tokyo. Do you still remember me?”

 

In front of Shinichi was a tall man in a trendy suit. Only his thinning white hair belies his age.

 

“Ah, it is you,” Tazaki laughed after Shinichi nodded in acknowledgment. “We haven’t seen each other since that last alumni get-together, eh, like 20 years ago?”

 

Before Shinichi can respond, Tazaki continued. “I’m not gonna bother asking how you’re doing. What’s the point right? I felt that we both did well though. Went to the University of Tokyo, got into big companies, became executive officers, travelled so much…” Tazaki’s voice trailed off as he lowered his head. His laugh disappeared.

 

A few silent seconds passed before Tazaki raised his head again. Forcing a smile, he blurted, “Suzuki-san, you don’t mind taking the last walk with me, do you? I think It’s fate that we ended up doing this at the same place on the same day…and it’s just so hard to ask people I know to accompany me for this, you know?” Tazaki stared directly into Shinichi’s eyes, almost begging.

 

Shinichi had to nod. He couldn’t say no.

 

Tazaki’s expression brightened up. “Great! Let’s finish up the paperwork. I think we still have half an hour until our turn.” He quipped, looking to the queue in front of the Procedure room. “So, tell me, what have you been doing these 20 years?”

 

 

Xiaochen Su

 

USA

 

 

 

And They Will Not Be Harmed

Holding her mother’s hand tightly, Rayanne considered the plain white church with disappointment. It was not what she had expected. Chewing on her braided hair, she kicked her new shoes in the dust. Her mother, a devout woman, scolded her and producing one of her endless supplies of handkerchiefs, rubbed at her shoes until they shone. Gazing around her in displeasure, Rayanne saw the arrival of Pastor Hamblin and her spirits rose. She had heard so much about him, and now, at last, she would witness a miracle for herself. A shiver of anticipation ran through her, and she pulled her mother’s hand towards the church door. She asked herself later why she hadn’t been afraid, why a nine-year-old girl at her first service hadn’t felt at least some apprehension? But she hadn’t, not at all.

 

Entering the church, she looked for an indication of the marvels which were to take place but found none. The inside of the church reflected the outside in its wooden ordinariness. Benches lined the room, and a large fan rotated in the ceiling producing a soothing hum. But all this was unremarkable. Rayanne looked at her mother, who must have seen the questioning in her eyes as she squeezed her hand and whispered, “Patience, Rayanne, have a little patience.” Rayanne sat back and kept her eyes fixed firmly on the front of the room.

 

Pastor Hamblin was electrifying. He crackled and spat across the room. Sweat shone under his arms and down his back as he seemed to burn with power of such ferocity that it infected all those he touched. Rayanne flushed, feeling the heat in the room, saw her mother wiping her forehead with a clean handkerchief. Playing louder and faster, the band built to a crescendo, and then…then a wooden box was brought into the room.  Rayanne felt all the hairs on her arms stand on end, and her palms were slick with sweat. Pastor Hamblin plunged his bare arm into the box and grasped a long venomous snake. Holding it aloft, he cried out, dancing joyously across the room. The snake’s skin gleamed as it twisted this way and that. It felt smooth and cold under the hot fingers of the pastor. Others now came forward to handle the deadly snakes dancing and moving as if they were untouchable. Eyes rolled, and limbs twitched as the ecstasy in the room flowed. Snakes hissed, and fangs sought flesh, but the congregation danced on, paying little attention.

 

Mesmerised, Rayanne watched the seething mass in front of her. Blood roared in her ears, and her eyes burned. Standing, she moved towards the pulsating pastor, unhearing of the words called out by her mother. She focused all her attention on the Copperhead. Its piercing black eyes seemed to stare into her soul. Spittle flecked its head, and its tail thrashed ferociously as she lifted her arm and gently took the creature into her hands.

 

 

Anna Mirfin

 

Chesterfield, England

 

 

 

Samson and Delilah

 

A short time after they met they were married. That’s when the trouble started. Samson had been at the club ‘earning’ he called it. The squared-circle, home of champions, chumps in yellow shorts and pink blouses. He’d turned them all purple and black with his fists and feet. Delilah, his missus, had watched it all, her green eyes glittered with gold - the gold they’d paid her for the information, the same gold that capped her teeth. 

     Every girl wanted to be his, Samson was a catch, a keeper, a true diamond. Delilah, well; tart in a tiara, only wore knickers to keep her ankles warm. Samson knew it, but what could he do? He loved her.

    ‘What’s your secret? How are you so good?’ Delilah pressed him every day, but he would not yield. He spun a couple of yarns ‘It’s me hair,’ he said. So she shaved it. The next fight was his fastest yet. He broke Jim’s face like a clay pot, one hit, shattered.

     ‘What’s your secret?’ Delilah coiled around him like a python.

     ‘The boots, they keep me grounded,’ he confided. There was a mysterious fire, and the boots went black as sin. Tony lives on a ventilator now.

     ‘How can you love me when you keep secrets?’ The icy tears shattered on the floor. ‘My friends think you cheat.’

     ‘I’m called, alright!’ Samson stood his ground. ‘God, what made me, gave me sight. I see things a moment before.’

Samson slept well that night. His drink was spiked. When he awoke it was dark. He rubbed his eyes - just empty sockets, nothing more.

     She took him to the club, called out the whole gang. All the yellow shorts kicked him, and the pink blouses punched and scratched. Jim threw bricks and Tony, gas. Everyone took a swing while poor old Delilah sat counting her gold.

     To this day, Samson sits alone. He stares at the wall and says not a word, not even to God who’s just waiting to hear.

 

 

Matthew Bridle

UK

 

https://theonesagacouk.wordpress.com/

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/180049761X

 

 

Yellow-Bellied

I was super thrilled that day. I was going to see my first movie in a theatre without being chaperoned by mom and dad! Of course, my neighbour uncle, Ravi, was accompanying me, but still, a girl of just ten going to the movies without parents? I felt all grown up and important! The movie had one of my favourite actors, she was playing the part of super-cop - that was the icing on the cake! Brimming with excitement, I started getting ready. 

 

     I stood outside Ravi uncle's house, stomping my feet in impatience. Of course, I was ready before time. At last Ravi uncle came out and we started walking towards the theatre. It wasn't a long walk, may be about a mile or so. The movie was as good as I thought, and even if it wasn't, why would I care? The feeling of exhilaration hadn't ebbed one bit. In fact, it was at its peak - I was bursting to go home and share all the details of my "first-time-alone-movie-going-experience" with my mom. 

 

     The streets were darker and quieter now. We had been to the evening show. I was a little scared, but then Ravi uncle was there to take me home safely - that thought made me brave. We both started walking with quick steps towards home, making small conversation. 

 

     Suddenly I felt Ravi uncle put his arm around me. It didn't feel like a reassuring hug, though, now, I am sure he wanted to pass it off as one. I felt uncomfortable and was desperate to wriggle out of it. We walked a few more steps in silence. Then, while asking me if I was feeling scared, Ravi uncle, put his hands on my chest and started groping me. Again, I am pretty sure, he wanted to pass it off as a harmless touch. Today, I know it was not. At that time, I was confused. It definitely didn't feel good, but in all the innocence of a ten-year-old, I didn't understand the malintent. I tersely answered that I was not scared and hurried my pace. There were hardly any people on the streets, and even if there were, I doubt I would have approached for help. I wasn't even sure if I needed to, was this wrong? I only knew that I did not like it.

 

     Finally, we reached home. All these years, I have been trying to brush this incident under the carpet. But it keeps resurfacing.  After that day, not only did I avoid going anywhere close to Ravi uncle, but I started to subconsciously doubt every word, smile or touch, by people of the opposite sex. Are they yellow-bellied monsters, hiding behind the innocence of a child, like Ravi? I can't think of calling him uncle any more. That day changed me forever. 

 

 

Naga Vydyanathan

 

Bangalore, India

 

 

 

Hungry Hippo

 

The tantrum the child was throwing in the confectionery aisle was so spectacular that I just had to stop and watch. I offered his mother to buy her son whatever he was after if I could film the meltdown. She told me to fuck off and wouldn’t let me explain what viral meant.

 

In the canned food section, I pocketed a tin of anchovies. It’s become a bad habit recently, especially as I don’t like fish. I astounded myself by nicking a jar of Bovril as well. I wondered where this could be leading.

 

I got what I really came in for and went to the busy checkouts.

 

I held the carton of semi-skimmed to my chest and cleared my throat. The woman carried on loading her weekly shop onto the belt, she wanted her moment of power and milked it. When she had finished, she asked the bleeding obvious.

 

‘Is that all you have love?’

 

To her dismay and my satisfaction, I refused her offer to queue jump.

 

The alarm went off as I was leaving. Had they tagged the Bovril? Security came over and I decided to throw my own tantrum. As I was screaming on the floor that I would bring all the 124 tins of anchovies back, I became aware of the confetti and applause. The store manager helped me to my feet and congratulated me on being their millionth customer. I was given a £500 voucher and a filthy look from weekly shop lady.

 

Ian McNaughton

Cardiff, Wales

 

Symptoms Of A Male Pregnancy ‎

 

The gynaecologist was confused when Najji‎ entered his office unexpectedly and unaccompanied by a ‎woman. The doctor asked what brought him in.‎‏ ‏

    

         “I’m having pregnancy symptoms,” Najji said. ‎

    

          “What? What are you talking about? You’re a man. You must be joking,” the doctor ‎scoffed. ‎

    

          “Believe me, Doctor, I’m not. I’m serious. Let me ‎explain my case, and then you judge.”

    

          The doctor sat to listen‎. ‎He had to hear this‎.‎

    

          “The first symptom is that my belly swells whenever high-ranking politicians ‎promise to promote the general welfare. They talk of social justice, ‎salary increases and improvements in housing and public transportation. When I hear these promises, I feel like I’ll explode from ‎the excessive swelling.” Najji patted his rotund belly. ‎

‏    

          “That’s only swelling. That’s no indication of pregnancy,” the ‎doctor said. ‎

    

          “I know that. I also feel the urge to throw up when I ‎watch news on TV or read a newspaper report about the disgraceful ‎state of our society. People are dying of hunger while others spend millions on trivial ‎wedding parties without shame,” said Najji.‎

‏    

           “That doesn’t indicate that you’re pregnant either,” the ‎doctor said.‎

    

          “I know that, but I also have these unexplainable cravings, namely for a beautiful country ‎where people can live together peacefully without ‎being driven to emigrate to other lands in search ‎of a better life,” said Najji.‎

    

          The doctor kept his legs crossed and quickly swung his knees outward and inward. ‎

‏   

          “Ah, yes… cravings. Anything ‎else? Go ahead.” ‎The doctor stopped himself from fidgeting.‎ ‏ ‏

    

          “I have this unremitting dizziness every time I wake ‎up,” said Najji.‎

    

          “What else?” the doctor asked. ‎‏   ‏

    

          “I also feel these kicks in my belly whenever I hear about Gaza’s misery, the occupation of ‎Iraq, and the Arab humiliation from begging Israel ‎to accept peace initiatives.” ‎

    

          The gynaecologist laughed heartily at that. “If this is the ‎issue, then all Arab men are pregnant, because ‎they feel the same symptoms. However, you are not ‎pregnant.” ‎

‎‎    

          “How can you tell? I was told I was pregnant.”

‏   

          “Who is the idiot who told you ‎that? I’m the specialist here and I can tell who’s pregnant ‎and who’s not,” the doctor said. ‎‏ ‏

    

          “His Excellency, the President of our Republic, when he ‎visited our factory yesterday,” Najji said.

    

          The gynecologist bounded up from his chair and ‎said, “If it’s the president, then you are indeed pregnant. In fact, you are going to have twins! Congratulations, sir!”

 

 

 

Written by Mohsen A. Al-Saffar - Iraq

 

Translated from the Arabic by Essam M. Al-Jassim – Saudi Arabia

 

 

 

 

Green Thumb

Professor Dakshinamurthy stood at his doorstep fumbling for his keys, all hot and sweaty from his morning walk. He was a stickler for discipline and regime, but of late, the age and loneliness were making him forgetful at times. Finding his keys at last, Murthy let himself into his house. With clockwork precision, he hung the keys on their hook, washed up, changed into a fresh pair of clothes, discarding the sweaty ones into the laundry basket, and went to his "balcony garden" to tend to his green babies.  

 

          Gardening hadn't particularly been his passion until a few years ago, when he had lost his wife, his best friend and long-time companion, to a terminal illness. He had been broken, but his penchant for routine and his passion to teach, had slowly helped him to move on with his life. Soon, he had recovered enough to resume his after-school tuition classes for the neighbourhood kids. He had also put his heart and soul into gardening, which had been his wife's favourite pastime - she had had a green thumb and he was resolved to develop one, to make sure her garden thrived. 

 

          Murthy sat on the floor of his balcony, gazing lovingly at his babies. Each plant, though confined to its pot, stood its ground, flaunting its unique aura. Somehow, these plants brought back memories of the kids he had taught over all those years - those small impressionable, trusting minds, lending themselves unabashedly to his classes. "Rana...", Murthy whispered to the majestic sunflower - he could see the tall, lanky child with a bright smile come up before his eyes. Every plant in his garden reminded him of an old student of his, the tender flowers and tiny saplings were like the young kids he had taught in primary and high school, the larger plants brought back nostalgic memories of his days as a professor. Murthy would talk to each one of them every day, for hours, reliving his life's journey with a sense of deep satisfaction. He had nurtured those young minds then, and these plants were nurturing him now in his lonely days.

 

          Rana would be a young man now, Murthy wondered, probably making his mark in the field of science. That child had a natural curiosity about everything around him, Murthy thought with a smile, as he stepped into the kitchen to make his breakfast. 

 

 

Naga Vydyanathan

 

Bangalore, India

 

 

 

Smidgen [a collection of Micros]

 

Yellowstone

A dragonfly caught in a Yellowstone was in the national museum of Scotland. I was there, one afternoon, looking through the artefacts.  A light emanated from it and I looked at it mesmerized. It transported me to the 17th-century Jacobite period. The fairies at the stone of Craigh na Dun had taken me there. This Yellowstone was mine; my rebel lover had given me. It was now 200 years old nearly; I still lived that memory — caught up in the past. The dragonfly was now a pinned showcased object — and I too was pinned forever to that living past.

 

Salt

Cordelia's sweet love for King Lear was full of salt. This paradox, salt, was disreputable for being for what was intrinsic to it, not sweet, yet sweet, and tasteless to the palette without it. It was a balm on a wound. A swim in the ocean took away the woes of many, because the salt soaked all the malady. Everyone knew it, but they could not make it sweet.

         There was a village by the sea, over the mountain pass. A wedding feast was taking place. The feast comprised salt food only. There were no sweets. After the feast was over, guests waited expectantly for sweets. None arrived, because the bride’s father had no more money left.

         The guests cried out. What kind of a feast was this without sweets? But the sweets were already in the salt, like Cordelia’s love. But the guests were inconsolable. They thumped their fists on the table, and demanded dessert. 

         This embarrassed the bride’s father to the hilt. But he couldn’t tell his guests that his sweet girl was enough. The feast they had, was just as sweet. Foolish guests called him a scrooge. They left in anger, and grief befell the house. 

         The night passed. In the day’s first light, all the brides-men woke up and looked enthralled at the gate. A golden unicorn stood with a handsome merchant who traded salt. He asked for her hand. As they wedded, the unicorn galloped away into the sultry syrup of a golden sun. 

 

Fire

In a jaundiced sky, bats and crows flew amok in uncertain directions at dusk. The sky, a canvas of black jittery spots, to behold from the space above. Ablaze over the tall gum trees, was a tell-tale sign, suggesting the end of time. The fire grew. The forest, the possums, the dingoes, the denizens ran deeper around the bend. Distant cries of human voices carried distress. Trees and houses and the animal habitat, all burnt to a cinder. The fire burnt without ebb, without a reprieve. A permanent haze hung from the sky. The luminous fire sparked, but like ubiquitous fireflies bejewelled a feral frontier.

 

Pants

Two pairs of pants were swinging in the autumnal winds alongside the clothesline. It was above the red sprawling azealia bed. One was female and the other male pants. They were tightly pegged. The wind couldn’t move them from the waist. But fanned to wrap themselves around in the legs. 

         The legs couldn’t stay away. The stronger the winds, the closer they were. The male pants were over the female at one point. They were even close enough for a kiss. The female pants swung themselves higher and the male followed suit. They frolicked. The Azealia stirred. This moment underpinned by romance. The winds whispered to the pants that time was slipping away. The pants paid heed. They did exactly as they were told. It blew a little harder, the male pants got unpegged, it flew over and landed on the female pegs. 

         A magpie swooped in. It looked around with its sharp eyes, that no one came close to pull them off the clothesline. The bird was ready to gouge the eyes of whoever dared. The wind brushed the bird too. It took off to another clothesline on the opposite side. From here it had a better view of this sweet togetherness. This lasted a while. No shudders.

         The pants stayed pinned onto each other until they were dry. The magpie sat sentinel. Its curiosity piqued; it trembled in the winds, regurgitated and beaked.

 

In Death

I woke up from a coma amongst the stars. I realised, I was trapped in a nightmare of a merciless world. Plunder and torture without care; closure and a renewal of a better life.

 

Genesis

At midnight, someone was knocking on my window pane. It was a sinewy twig, wavering in the blustery winds. Knocks persisted. The window had fogged up from the recent cold waves. I walked up and stood before it. A coal spattered night, there was the twig rubbing itself on the fog. This reminded me of Grandma’s fantasy metamorphosis of the moon shadow; that it was a woman, sitting and spinning for a thousand years. Spirits breathed through leaves; grandma had often said before she passed away, now buried in a graveyard downstairs. What was it, the twig? It nodded and said something to me. The fog on the window cleared up, to be re-fogged. I kept looking at it until the twig left a sign on the fog, as though it breathed onto the windowpane. It stirred, I walked up to it and wrote the letter G. On the breathing. The twig stopped stirring. That was the sign; the windowpane was all fogged up, but not from the cold wave. The twig took roots where her body had lain; green leaves were her new veins. This metamorphosis through photosynthesis marked the cycle of an organic genesis.

 

 

Mehreen Ahmed

 

Australia

 

 

 

Moving On

Corn waving in the waning sun, breeze-brushing knees that wish to sink still further into nurturing Mother Earth, become at one with flow of landscape-changing year, each ear of wheat not knowing life is ending here. Swish. Eyes fix on distant hills, a single upright tree claiming a summit like triumphant flag – “This is mine” – daring me to conquer it. I don’t belong, it tells me loud and clear. A cock crows, signalling desertion, love denied in guilty swirling of long hair cascading down the back I turned. White clouds tease me with their scoot across the sky towards that other place, that other life I knew. White stones beneath my feet wonder callously where I’m heading, on this unknown path I’ve taken now. I grasp a nettle, growing by the drystone wall, clutching its pain as cooling balm for stomach jangling in a world I do not own. I left in sweltering heat, sweat pouring like the tears I dared not shed. Silently, I left them all behind. There were no hugs, no kisses, no comforting goodbyes. Not now. Decision made, each tyre-turning mile a move towards I knew not what or where. I came. I saw. I live.  I have another cheek, to test what life will strike me with. There is no turning back, only striking out with knowledge of the past towards a future I must carve with care. My egg-timer is already set in motion. I must busy myself with sowing of new seeds to harvest in my autumn years. “Crack on,” says the bramble that thwacks my tired legs. “Your time is now, your future happening.”

 

 

Jackie Hales

 

Somerset, England

 

 

 

Shadows Of The Darkness

 

 

Dear diaries,

 

Once it started you never know the end 

 

That what they said when it started 

 

The beginning of the ending 

 

I opened my eyes on the darkest day of my life 

 

No sign of life outside my house 

 

Just sitting there trying to wake up from this nightmare 

 

But it was all blurry yet so clear 

 

No voices or noises 

 

Just me and my bruises 

 

We fought back yesterday and we lost half of us 

 

Now we don't know which one is which 

 

The creatures are pulling us to the darkest corners of the city 

 

This city of ghosts that we try to survive its owners 

 

We live a day thinking about the bright past because we can't see any future

 

 

They are consuming us one by one 

 

They need our lives for them to live 

 

They wait for us to fade so they can be here.

 

 

Saloua Bouyazderh

 

Morocco, Africa

 

 

 

 

Pillow Fight

 

“Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome as you join us here tonight live - Bedside - for what promises to be a thrilling end to this evening’s entertainment. Our final bout of the night between two old favourites, Pillow and Tired Person. 

 

Pillow, dressed in a simple one-piece white cotton outfit and weighing in at just under two kilos, technically not even a feather weight, is looking relaxed and has been on the bed for some time now, all day in fact. 

Tired Person weighs in tonight on the bathroom scales at twelve stone two, but fans will know that superior weight doesn’t guarantee victory. And - yes - the main light’s just gone out, Ladies and Gentlemen, the signal for the start of tonight’s contest.  Here’s Tired Person, trade mark two-piece costume, coming in fast. They’ve crossed the room and turned on the bedside lamp. No reaction from Pillow. Tired Person pulls back the covers, they’ve got a knee on the bed and - oh my goodness - Tired Person has just collapsed onto Pillow. Tired Person’s head has literally hit the Pillow - a tremendous blow. That’s followed by some rapid head poundings - but it’s having no effect on Pillow and boy, does that annoy Tired Person. More pounding straight into Pillow’s midriff. Pillow responds by shifting their weight to both ends. A classic Pillow tactic; stay still, absorb the blows, wear your opponent down. And…oh my word. Where did that come from? Tired Person has just unleashed a tremendous right, knocking Pillow completely out of shape. And Tired Person’s got Pillow up against the bed head now, there’s nowhere to go and - Tired Person has picked Pillow up, ladies and gentlemen. Pillow is up - they’re in the air, completely off the sheets and - wham - down goes Pillow and Tired Person follows up with their trademark ‘gruesome threesome’; chin rub, jaw swipe, head roll. But is it enough? No, not tonight as Pillow easily cushions the blows. Tired Person really wants to knock the stuffing out of Pillow tonight. Ouch, two quick right jabs straight into Pillow’s left side, forcing another weight change. Is that enough to ensure victory for Tired Person? - No. Once again Pillow takes it. Boy, can they take it.

 

And there goes the alarm. It’s all over. It’s time to get up and go to work which means no sleep for Tired Person for the third consecutive night. Let’s take a look at the score card. Tired Person thirty-four sleepless nights, which means Pillow leads with thirty six. There’ll be some celebrating in Pillow’s corner tonight.

 

That’s it for this evening Ladies and Gentlemen. There’s just time for me to thank you for joining us here tonight at Bedside. Be sure to tune in tomorrow evening for a special tag team event, two Pillows up against a newly married couple. Who knows what they’ll make of Pillow’s soft approach?  Should be one hell of a contest.”

 

 

Christopher Plato

 

Margate, Kent, UK

The Accident

 

Every government fences its highways to save reckless drivers from stray animals, and vice versa. There was a beautiful girl who went cruising in her father’s Jeep Wrangler. Somewhere along the way, she had gone off course. A stray cow emerged from nowhere. The impact left that brown skinned cow airborne. Gravity pulled it down head first. Both skulls cracked each other wide open at collision. Two lives lost. Two bereaved. The cow owner and the hunter reached the scene at the same time. Upon seeing his daughter’s fractured skull, the hunter’s pain left him speechless. He could not even shed a tear. The cow owner was aggrieved by his loss. He was shrieking like a hyena.

 

“Oh no. This cow is all I had left.” Even kneeling with the cow’s head in his arms. The kind of gory scene experienced by he who lost a lover.

 

This did not go down well with the hunter whose question left nothing to be desired.

 

“That’s not how to mourn a cow!?”

 

Staring at the hunter’s feet, the farmer said, “How dare you pin this on me?”

 

The farmer shook his head, guilty, agonised in disbelief.

 

“You’re guilty, aren’t you?” The hunter asked, “Why do you have no shame?”

 

At this point, the farmer slumped down in shame.

 

“Do you realise she was only 15? I’m gonna punish you for what you’ve done.” He left his daughter’s dead body behind and went to the back of his car. He returned with an elephant killing shotgun and shovel.

 

With a fevered stare, the hunter said, “Dig a grave and bury them yourself.”

 

While the hunter took a smoke in his truck, the farmer was digging. The hunter kept making repetitive sharp gestures. His jutting chin and hard jawline could be felt in the darkness.  Moments later, he left his car seat and went to stand above the two dead bodies. A moment of silence for the cow, before leaving two bullets in both the girl and the cow.

 

He then went over the grave and said to the farmer, “It’s all your fault.” After which he wiped fingerprints off the shotgun and threw it into the grave.  By now, the grave was way beyond six feet. “How are you gonna get yourself out of this one?”

 

As the hunter stepped into his car, another car slowly drove to the scene. It parked as he drove away.  It was the sheriff of the town. The sheriff and the hunter saluted each other. In the rear view, the hunter saw the blue lights flashing.

 

 

Denslow Christian D. Kisi

 

Harare, Zimbabwe

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from The Harvest

 

Morning Comes:

I breathed a sigh of relief as the morning sun rose into the heavens. What had happened the night before was honestly so unbelievable that I don't even know if anyone would believe just what I saw. But I had to keep going in the hope of attempting to rid myself of this damned place. Those in my hamlet of just what could only be described as a monster. I don't honestly know what she is, but I know that strange things have happened ever since she arrived. Small animals went missing, and the crops just on the outskirts of town slowly began to turn black and die off. It was as if we had been cursed by some biblical plague. But it did cause a few of the older churchgoers to act out and start preaching on the streets, rambling about how God had cursed the land and Satan is roaming about. But that was, for the most part combating the unknown illness that has plagued the land.

 

One night when Mrs. Gold arrived, a strange sighting of some beast roamed the fields at night. Many had believed it was nothing but the overactive imaginations of school children. Or perhaps those overindulging in too much rye at the only watering hole for a hundred miles.

But as the days grew longer, I found myself getting caught up with the local hysteria. Children would sneak out at night and, in the cover of darkness, go out to the Gold residence in an attempt to witness the creature that stalks the fields. Even the local Sheriff had to hire another deputy and, believe me, I'm thankful for the job. It was either being a deputy or working on the fields. With the fear of some strange creature mutilating animals, I think being a deputy is a much safer option.
But my favorite had to have been on my first day when I got the call to investigate what I was told was nothing but a missing person. Nothing but the odd call about a drunken husband attempting to start a fight with a flag pole. With the gossip that perhaps something mysterious had happened, I had to remind myself that these paranormal-type things aren't real. But my whole world was going to change, and just how I saw it. You know they never prepare you for just how crazy people can get, and it honestly just had to be on the day I was working.

The call came in around six o'clock, just as the sun was working its way down before the night arrived. It was a suspected sighting of someone lurking around the Wilson farm. The widow claimed to have seen someone in the cornfield and just wanted us to check it out. Probably kids just playing tag or Edgar, a notorious drunk who likes to drink himself into the stage of blacking out and wanting to get back to nature. 

 

Miles Davis

Alberta, Canada

The Indigo Child

 

Kaveri lay on her back, gazing at the sky above. It was a beautiful, dark night, the clouds like blotches of mud on the satin indigo sky.  The soft grass underneath her felt cool and cosy. The waters of the nearby river lapped gently against the banks, making a silent soothing noise, periodic and calming, like a mother's lullaby. Kaveri revelled in the harmony she felt within and around her - this was her best moments each day, the time when she almost believed that she was just another common little girl.

         

          A cry from the priest of the riverside temple jolted Kaveri from her tranquil sleep. She got up with a sigh and walked towards the footsteps of the temple that was looming large and magnificent, against the pristine dawn sky. Her day of prayers, rituals and meeting with the thronging devotees as goddess "Kanya Kumari" would soon begin. It all started when, as a child, she was deemed to be different - more sure, strong-willed, intuitive and empathetic, than her peers. She was thought to have paranormal abilities - a few happenings in her neighbourhood, where she rightly predicted the future, only strengthened this belief.  And before she knew it, she was elevated to the status of a goddess - the temple became her new abode, the devotees her family.

         

           The initial few years were spells of deep anguish for Kaveri - she yearned for the secure comfort of her mother's lap, the soothing familiarity of her home. She was now resigned to her new life - maybe she did possess supernatural powers and could help those in need.  But every night, as she lay on the river bank, gazing at the indigo sky, the little girl inside her, would wistfully wonder when she could be a little girl again.

 

           "During the darkest indigo midnight, yet countless stars blossom.” - Dr. Sunwolf.

 

           Kaveri waited for her starry night.

 

 

Naga Vydyanathan

 

Bangalore, India

 

 

 

Excerpt from The Bat of Hardisty

 

Welcome to Hardisty:

 

It was a warm summer day in August on the cusp before the fall approached. It was thick like pea soup, and the land was something of a beautiful sight, something taken from an old painting hanging in a discount motel off a forgotten highway. Now, I'm not the kind of person who would complain about the heat. But just like the changes in the season, there is always something new that can come and change one's perspective. 

 

I was born and raised in the small town of Hardisty, the kind of place where people work hard for what they believe in and enjoy a beer at the old watering hole. The history of this small slice of heaven was one of oil. Over the years, everything moved forward while the landscape stood perfectly still.

 

Not much has changed here except for the odd coat of paint and patchwork on the residential streets. But all that was about to change on that warm summer night when a foul odor was in the wind, and it started to make the water taste sour. Everything about what was on the cusp of our doors was about to change our lives forever.

 

I was living in a small two-bedroom house, a reminder of what littered the nation just after the second world war. You know the type of cookie-cutter place. It wasn't much to look at, but it was mine, and so I honestly loved the place. Though the pipes would rattle, and every so often, the lines would freeze. It was something I could call my own. 

 

The old Hiller home had been vacant for the span of a year. It was a shame when they discovered the bodies on that cold winter day. Mr. and Mrs. Hiller were the kind of people that were considered pillars of the community. The type of people that would help anyone in a tight spot. The day their twisted and disfigured corpses were discovered was when all of us mourned. The official report was a gas leak, but I never bought the official report. There was something off about the explanation since their son, a trained technician, did all the work for them. He owned a small company that did that sort of thing, and since news got out about his parents. He was out of business the next day, and after he was cleared of the charges, he pulled up and moved out. Not much is known of his location now, but I figure he'll never be seen again.

 

But it was a big surprise when the place was sold for far below-asking value, but in these trying times, you take what you can get. Being a small town, everyone noticed this and waited with anticipation for who would finally call this place home. Many didn't want to buy the pace where people tied in such a horrible fashion. But as the moving vans rolled in and began unloading several dozen odd-shaped boxes. As the hours passed by and the eyes from the snoopy neighbors faded out of sight. With the sun setting and darkness soon approaching, I decided to head out for a walk to clear my head before having a late dinner.

 

As the crickets sang all the while, the Sun went down as the battered streets encircled the area. While the street lamps slowly came on, giving light to everything below them. It was a different world, the world of darkness. In a place like this, one can still feel completely safe even if one is afraid of the dark.

 

But that night was the last night one could feel truly safe in the dark. People rarely locked their doors, and if someone needed to use their phone if their car broke down, so be it. It was the kind of place where everyone got along, and fear was absent.

Miles Davis

Alberta, Canada

The Bat of Hardisty is available to read on Amazon Kindle:

 

https://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B09HK2YNC9/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i2

 

 

Excerpt from Among the Gilded Vines 

 

 

From the curvaceous silhouette of her body against the faded siding, Duck knew the visitor was a woman.  A naked woman.  From high on her head, a snowy nest of snake-like braids toppled from their perch, the last of the orange sun’s light speckling the midnight blue of her chest and shoulders.  Like a soundless fish speaking Morse, the woman’s velvety lips opened and closed, her eyes trained on Duck’s torso.  

 

          “Oh!” Duck exclaimed, the sound of her own voice startling her just as much as the smouldering heat suddenly radiating from her front apron pocket.  Unthinkingly, Duck plunged her hand into the smock, her fingers clumsily extricating the shell as staticky currents of light flickered along its striated pattern.    

 

          She was hallucinating.  Probably leaked methane from the old fracking facility two towns over.  These kinds of things didn’t happen.  Not to her.  Not to anyone. 

 

           Repeating her silent mantra, the edges of the woman’s eyelids crinkled as she stood, her skin glittering and dewy from the endless, invisible spring bubbling beneath her mane.  Entranced, Duck’s grip on the shell tightened even as it grew hotter, the outer lip sawing into the meat of her palm, another line between life and fate.  

 

          “Who are you?” Duck asked, the stranger’s pendants crackling with the same radiant energy Duck now felt vibrating up through her fingers, the base of her hand, the joints of her wrist.

 

          Though the air remained still, Duck heard a whisper through the branches behind her.  A droplet of sweat trickled expectantly down the back of her neck.  Chest aching, she realized she’d forgotten to inhale.  Opening her mouth, she waited for the breath to rush in but something was wrong.  

 

           The air wasn’t moving, in or out.  Contracting her diaphragm, she strained to expand her lungs, the pressure mounting in the back of her throat, her eyes, her temples. 

 

          Sinking forward, Duck’s forehead pressed against the steering wheel as the murmur of the breeze returned, this time louder.  Darkness looming from the margins of her retinas, she centered her gaze on the fist still resting in her lap, the shell no longer flickering but completely illuminated, yellow beams projecting between her fingers. 

 

          Opening her palm, the shell’s light cast Duck’s contracting body in an ethereal glow.  Shoulders hunched, her spine bowed with hypoxia, she gagged as her chin touched her sternum, the rumble of wind growing louder.   Louder.  And suddenly, elucidated by a final surge of adrenaline, Duck realized it wasn’t wind at all.  

 

          The light fading rapidly, Duck held the shell against her ear. 

 

          “In this sphere, you are worthy,” a voice echoed from within.  

 

          Duck watched as the shell slowly tumbled through the air, a luminous blur sinking, sinking, the light fracturing into a dozen razors beneath the pedals before the world went black.

 

 

Erasma Trouvère

California, USA

 

 

 

Blue-Pencilled

 

The shrill ring of the phone broke the busy silence of Arya's workplace. It was from Ayan's school, the principal wanted Arya to come over for a chit chat over Ayan's recent abnormal behaviour. Arya gave a sigh, directed, not at her son, but at the school authorities - patience, tolerance and acceptance seemed to be in the want these days.

          As Arya drove to the school, her thoughts meandered to her own childhood. She was a timid boy on the outside, always the butt of jokes for her feminine air. As a child, she loved dressing up, playing with dolls, dancing, and would burst into tears at the drop of a hat - all of these stereotypical feminine traits. Those were confusing, in fact, traumatic years, her mind was in perpetual turmoil between what it wanted and what was accepted. 

 

          She remembered how her parents had loved dressing her up as a girl in her toddler years - she had saved every picture from those memorable times. Looking through them, even now, brought a smile to her lips. It was a brutal shock to her, when, as she grew older, suddenly the "dressing up" or dancing was no longer viewed as cute. Being just a child of six, Arya couldn't fathom the sudden shift in attitude. Her mom, who used to encourage her to prance around in borrowed frocks, now, showed disgust when she enjoyed playing with girls and dolls.  School was another hell where she was constantly ridiculed for being a sissy. "Act like a boy," were the constant words that fell on her ears. She was crushed, the day she overheard her parents lying to their family friends about her, trying to portray her as a normal boy, albeit a bit timid. Arya couldn't decide which was more cruel - not understanding or not willing to understand. She felt as if precious parts of her life were blue-pencilled by the world around her. 

 

          Then, at college, she met Arnav. It was a huge relief to meet someone who was similar to her, one who could understand her psyche. Life didn't seem so bad after all. They decided to be a couple. After one last futile attempt at being accepted by her parents, Arya and Arnav started their life together in the US. What a cruel irony when the people and land that you view as your own do not accept you for who you are! 

 

          As Arya drove into the school premises, bracing herself for the meet with the school principal, she promised herself that she would not try to mould her son's life with a blue pencil. The sky was a pristine blue, reflecting the resolute calm running in Arya's mind. 

 

 

Naga Vydyanathan

 

Bangalore, India

 

 

 

 

Silent Screams

                                                             

He feels the familiar tingling in his loins as the engines pull up beside the blazing building. With growing excitement he watches the firefighters run out their hoses, ladders unfolding as they creep slowly up the side of the building. Then he sees a girl at the window, arms waving in terror as the flames lick hungrily around her pyjama-clad body.  He moans as her terrified screams echo across the night sky.  As his thrill heightens arms reach out to her, pluck her from the blazing ledge.

He scowls, his body stiffening then...nothing.  There are fewer thrills now, it all ending too quickly as bodies are snatched from a burning inferno by this new breed of firefighter. It had been more satisfying once, poorly equipped engines, ladders and hose reels hardly able to reach the upper floor windows. He had watched with mounting excitement as bodies had become totally engulfed by the  flames.  But now he had his little machine. Now he could replay their drawn out, haunting cries of anguish.  He had dozens of tapes, neatly stacked and labelled on the shelves in his poky little bedsit. He would sit with Patsy in the evening and listen to them, Patsy turned on by the blood-curdling cries. But now she was gone, lured away by the pervert Kenny with his chains and  manacles. But he did not miss her.  Alone he could take time to savour every moment, listen to every last thrilling haunting scream until there was nothing but silence to fill his tormented mind....

        

      He watches again as the flames climb the building, white hot fingers reaching ever higher up the drab, concrete flats. He is about to leave, the sounds he so longs for becoming out of reach of his machine. But then something catches his eye, a tiny figure perched high on one of the narrow window ledges.  He watches, fascinated as the firefighter calls out to her. He feels his throat contract, his body stiffen once more as she pauses for a second before...He moans with ecstasy as she falls, her body tumbling over and over like a broken doll, her cry bouncing off the concrete walls. He feels the tension ebb from him as she smashes in to the pavement below.

                                                                    

                                                                                          (2)

    

      He is back in his dingy bedsit, grubby fingers sifting through his recordings, splicing and editing.  He sees again the girl, hears her last despairing cries. He kisses the tape before placing it carefully back on the shelf.  He is tired now, his body sated as he slumps gratefully  onto his filthy mattress. Tomorrow he will start again, another carefully placed piece of kindling, a splash or two of fuel...

    

      He sleeps deeply. So deeply he does not hear the siren, does not smell the smoke sliding beneath his door as it seeks to extract its terrible revenge.

 

 

 

Roger Woodcock

Mansfield, England

 

 

 

White Flash

Many years ago I taught fourth grade in the mountains of Eastern Kentucky.   Some of the boys I taught at the Marie Roberts School (Lost Creek, Kentucky) were tough, and at times we had discipline problems.  I recall in particular one small boy surnamed Noble, a common name there.  One day he was especially rough and fresh with me on the playground.  Somehow, an incident started - I may have had to break up a fight between him and another boy.  We exchanged some angry words and he came back with something surly that was hard to ignore.  As I turned away, the crisis over, I said under my breath, more to myself than anyone else, "Little bastard!"

         

          Well, the little tough guy heard it and the next day his uncle, or was it his grandfather, at any rate, an elderly blind man with a cane was in the principal's office.  I was summoned and had to explain myself to this relative, which I did, as best I could.  I didn't deny what I had said, but I played it all down and the matter was settled between us. Other teachers later told me the man was prone to complaining in this way, but he was also capable of violence if he did not hear what he wanted to hear.  He could come right across a desk, I was told, with that stick he carried and attack the offending person.  In this case, it would be me. I think I decided at about that time, if not that very day, that teaching was not for me.

         

          I sometimes wonder how that Noble boy made out in life.  I recall one day on the playground he was suddenly surrounded by a group of boys, and I, smelling trouble, went over to investigate.  But it seemed he was proudly telling the other boys a story about his older brother.  He smiled as he told it, as if grateful for all the attention, including mine too, I suppose.  He was recounting how his brother got shot between the eyes that very weekend, killed dead by some blackguard.  I didn't smile though, but I soberly took in what the boy was saying about his brother being killed.  He seemed proud to tell it, and I sensed the other boys were envious, that they would have liked to have been able to come to school and report their older brother being shot dead between the eyes.  I never heard another thing about the death, who did the shooting, what the circumstances were, or if justice was ever served.  Was the perpetrator caught and jailed?  Was it a revenge killing of some sort, an eye for an eye?  I was reminded - not that I needed to be by then - of just how violent a place it was I lived in.

 

 

Raymond Abbott

Louisville, Ky. USA

 

Steps

I stopped at the chemist to buy some mints, hoping they might mask the twin evils of beer and onion. I was in enough trouble as it was. I stood at the lights waiting for the green man when I heard someone yelling. I looked in the direction of the noise and saw a girl in a red dress tearing down the library steps. No one seemed to be chasing her, but then she raised her arms spastically and ran toward me, straight onto the road. I opened my mouth to say NOOO, by which time all the metallic bangs and screeches had occurred. For the space of a sucked in breath, Macquarie Street was silent.

                                                                                     **********

 

          I had been working in the library, or more truthfully, I’d been flicking pages and doodling as I moped. Suddenly my phone vibrated. The text said ‘I’m staying. I love you’. I sucked in my breath and it stayed there, locked up. And then another text: ‘I’m across the road’.

           

          I smashed everything into my handbag and raced for the exit. I shoved my way past the heavy front doors and ran out into the sunlight. He was there, at the lights, signalling to me. Nearly tripping over two people with their heads together at the bottom of the steps, I dashed to the street. I raised my arms above my head, waving like mad as I ran towards him.

 

Alicia Thompson

Sydney, Australia

Alicia's debut novel, 'Something Else', will be published by NineStar Press in October 2021.

Her website is www.efolio.com.au and you can find her at aliciathompsonauthor on Instagram and Facebook

 

 

Last Breath

It all went wrong after he had died.

He had led a very fulfilling and successful life. Born to two established Oxbridge academics, he had enjoyed a high flying, liberal education. This was followed by his own successful academic career. Not as stellar as his parents. Not even redbrick. More 1960’s concrete. But Norfolk had been a wonderful place to bring up the children. Marriage had been good. A couple of fleeting affairs but nothing that had disturbed the equilibrium.

He had been an atheist since childhood, following his parents lead. He had no time for any religion, but actively despised Christianity. He obviously admired Islamic architecture, found Buddhist philosophy thought provoking, and thought that Hinduism had a certain cache. But Christianity was simply vulgar.

So when he found himself on his deathbed, he was very much looking forward to taking his last breath, followed by the welcome relief of nothingness.

The Hollywood style pearly gates came as a bit of a surprise. The helpful “Saint Peter” lapel badge that the gatekeeper was wearing was a shock. The grim expression he noticed as the gatekeeper perused a big gold book did not bode well.

 

This nightmare couldn’t be death.

It was only when he followed the increasingly hot and cindery path that he was directed on that reality set in. He turned around, thinking he may be able to belatedly argue his case. But it was a lifetime too late.

The gates of hell banged shut on him.

For eternity.

 

Peter Williams

Chester, England

Stepping Out

It’s sometime around the sixth month of the year. Joseph wraps himself up and steps outside, just to get a feel. He doesn’t know when he last left the house, but supplies are running low and needs must.

 

The outside world will appear vastly different now. The trees are long dead, flowers no longer grow, the grass is brown and the buildings, including his own, are decaying but Joseph cannot see any of this because of the intense mist that surrounds him.

He is nervous, he can barely even see his own feet, but walks down the street, knowing his way from memory. Surely there are others. He knocks on doors and taps on windows, he waits for shadows or voices. He hears only silence.

 

He has waited too long, he was too comfortable with his supplies. He shouldn’t have been so complacent. It’s been the bane of his life. When he was much younger, he would put off his studies to the day before a deadline, confident in his ability, only to come across some unforeseen problem, which would soak him in anxiety. His work ultimately suffered, and though he would promise not to make the same mistake next time, he always did.

 

It was the same in adulthood. He would spend money without a care instead of budgeting like any other sensible person, confident he could win some money back on the football before his next wage. Yet he was a pathetic gambler who rarely won anything, and if he did, it would be a measly 20 or 30 pounds. He was often borrowing money as a result.

His stress levels are rising now, and before long he doesn’t know where he is, and turns to go back. He hesitates, all he can see is mist, and a faint yellow, circular glow where the sky should be. “Bring them back!” he cries. “Bring them back!”

He is answered by the gentle gust of a breeze as the yellow glow fades away.

 

 

Craig Snelgrove,

Manchester,  England

 

 

 

 

Unnecessary Necessary

 

An unnecessary necessary slab of torment and comfort,

making me feel guilty for the time I spend with her.

“Should I be feeling this way?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

She knows the answer to everything. Being ‘smart’, I suppose she would.

 

Black and bruised, cracked and hacked,

indented in my life, hand and jeans.

I feel lost without her, shackled yet free to leave whenever I want.

How did I ever manage without her, especially in my teens?

 

The keeper of all my memories and witness to private chat.

There used to be a silence between us but now she can talk back.

Just to me I hope, although I hear spies can listen in,

as long as it’s not my mother then I don’t really care… I think.

 

A friend and foe, an enemy of my time and a tunnel of escape.

The demon who trolls through my input and shows me lands far and warm,

she knows it’s wet and cold outside.

She’s seductive and clever and always on my side.

 

She’s a part of my body now, my hand face and ears,

a bit haggard and aged, a phone battling to keep its head high.

 

Her time has come and gone, been replaced and outsmarted,

a new one I should buy.

 

My relationship is one that if for one moment I think I have lost her forever.

I panic and get sad.

That’s how much she means to me,

yet I loathe her for making me feel so needy and bad

 

I dropped her once and spread the already webbed cracked screen.

On my laptop I searched for new models,

I’m not so stupid as to use my phone.

She would break her motherboard heart and would purposely wipe her own memory of me and that of her own.

She could live without me but not me without her.

 

We get along fine and, if I did not have one,

I would be frowned upon by society. I would end up having just real friends and not know the time or day.

I would book zero rated hotels and for train tickets too much I would pay.

I’d miss my birthday and that of others. I would not know how many times I am being liked.

I would not know if I should be building a nuclear fallout shelter.

Ok, yes, I admit it, I love my phone and most importantly, I can use it to see if I have spinach on my teeth or a bogie on my nose.

 

Ian McNaughton

Cardiff, UK

 

 

 

What If 

Luke was not a good guy, or at least that is what he thought. There he was, looking at her and thinking about what a good guy would say, but he could not think of anything. She was sitting next to him, he was sure there were a thousand things to say, but not even one that his brain could make his mouth formulate. The mere thoughts he had were vicious, her body, her smell, and his fantasy flew away. She looked at him, and he avoided meeting her eyes. When he got the courage to look back and ask a stupid question about the white noise from the radio channel, her eyes were not there, and the chance he thought he had gone forever. In his head, a line echoed ‘people come, and people go.’

 

Juan Moreno Diaz

Great Malvern, UK

 

 

 

After Her

 

Though she was in the next room, he laid me on the bed they shared and dressed me in her clothes. Listen, he said, and it was to the sound of her breath deep in sleep. Close your eyes, he said, and when I did it was to the dreams that she dreamed too, her hand in his, the touch of his lips, the words he whispered when they made love and the way he held her afterwards. It was the wash of salt water around her ankles, the rush of waves on a distant shore. Moisture in its continued absence, the tears he did not cry for her. Tell me, he said, and when I did it was of the feel of his lips on mine, his hands touching, holding me, eyes looking deep into my own. He ran his fingers through my hair. It smelt of spring and summer and of winter too. Tell me how it feels, he said, and I whispered in his ear and he gasped and said don’t stop. I told him that I would not. He pressed his thumb between my lips. Yes, he said, that, and when he was done we lay in each other’s arms. I listened to his soft breath, her sobs from the next room. Closed my eyes in the expectation of dreams but instead to an emptiness inside. I slipped from his arms and dressed in her robe. Sat at the dressing table and looked in the mirror and saw her face. Applied lipstick, makeup, perfume. Took the pillow and held it across her nose and mouth and pressed gently, lovingly. Eyes empty of all but the reflection of my own. I did not feel her struggle. Watched my own movements in the mirror and hers and his too. The space where I’d left him sleeping, the indentation in the pillow. Rain ran down the window pane, drops gathering on the newly budded rose leaves. I waited for one to fall, but was not sure that any did before the sun rose and burnt them away again.

 

 

jm summers

 

South Wales, UK

 

 

 

 

Ready

 

We’re standing next to crashing waves. The sound of rushing water and the ferocious winds pushes against me, surrounds me, and leaves my heart beating hard. People say the waterfall is beautiful, but I’m small (no more than 4 feet) and all I see is an angry water monster ready to devour me. My little sister suddenly shouts--her hat has flown off her head and landed just next to the raging rapids. My dad runs recklessly after it, leaving me screaming in fear. I’m scared that he’ll be swept away by waves. I watch him climb down the slippery rocks and grab my sister’s hat. Then he climbs back up and laughs at my overreaction. My mom is recording. Perhaps now, 11 years later, I’m finally ready to go back.


 

Katie Shih

 

California, USA

 

 

 

 

Tales Of Mrs Magno

 

1.

The other day it was my birthday. Mrs. Magno came to visit. It was a surprise and a strange occasion. She never comes on ordinary days.

No one knew, of course, that she was coming; that’s until I went out to share some of my birthday dishes, the buttered garlic shrimps and the pancit canton guisado with the pretty wife, our next door neighbor.

Mrs. Magno came down from the top floor, where her husband, Mr. Magno, keeps doves. I pretended I wasn't surprised. Our eyes met in an instant when she descended the stairs.

‘Hello, Mrs. Magno! I’m so glad to see you. It’s been too long since your last visit,’ I greeted her.

She stared at the plate of dishes I had given to the pretty wife.

I slowly moved closer to her and asked, ‘Would you like to have lunch with us? Ma’am Rachel is here. Please come. We will be happy to have you.’

‘Why? Is it your birthday?’ she answered.

I replied shyly, ‘Yeah, it’s my birthday. Let’s have lunch.’

‘Oh, Happy birthday, Lodit! But no, okay lang. Thank you, I can’t,’ she smiled, shyly refusing my invitation.

Instead, she ushered me to apartment number 1. She opened the door.

‘Why is the door open?’ I asked.

She replied, ‘Nakabukas eh? Look, how messy it is!’ she said.

‘Well, the kids are at work. All of them. No one stays here now. I never see them around,’ I replied.

‘Maybe you could to apply to be their house cleaner and get paid for it. Tell the occupants. I know you can do it, Lodit!’ She smiled like a witch.

‘Well,’ I smiled at her, ‘how about the both of us apply for the job. House cleaning is your expertise too, right? It will be fun working with you.’ I grinned back at her.

She was expressionless.

‘Lunch?’ I asked, breaking the silence.

‘No. Thank you, Lodit. Happy birthday!’ And she disappeared.

 

2.

Sometimes, I take the role of a chef. Not the true chef, of course. Just a pretend chef to keep up my motivation with cooking. Pretensions are necessary for me to survive the challenge of cooking.

Yesterday, I had to fry around 3 kilograms or more of sea fish. My roommate had already marinated the fish with meager vinegar, kalamansi juice, salt, and umami. They were ready for deep frying.

I had to cook outside of our flat, next to the door opening, along the alley, going to the entrance downstairs, beside our little pots of the garden of greens. I cannot cook inside because the smell of the frying of fish sticks to the fabric. And that’s not good.

I brought along with me a little chair and a book; a science text entitled The Green Kingdom. I read while frying. Doing this meant that whilst doing a household chore I was also learning and entertaining myself at the same time.

While I was engrossed in reading and the fish were crackling in the frying pan, Mrs. Magno suddenly appeared.

‘What are you cooking?’ she asked.

‘Oh, Mrs. Magno, you’re here again. Where is Mr. Magno?’ I asked instinctively, out of astonishment.

‘He’ll be here soon when he recovers. He’s sick.’ She replied.

‘Covid case? I hope not.' Again, I could not contain my instinct.

‘Just your normal fever and body malaise,’ she replied. ‘Ano yan? Andami naman!’ she asked again about the deep-fried fish.

‘Yes, deep-fried fish. We bought it cheaply at the fish market this morning,’ I said, as I put aside the book I was reading.

‘How did you prepare it?’ she asked.

‘Ma’am Azel marinated it with vinegar, kalamansi juice, salt, and umami. Then I brought the cooking oil to boil before frying the tasty fish,’ I replied. ‘I’ve already cooked some. Would you like to have one?’ I asked her.

‘No, it’s okay,’ she smiled, ‘the smell is tasty.’

‘I don’t eat meat, Mrs. Magno,’ I informed her.

‘Ah, kaya pala. That is your secret to why you look younger than your age,’ she declared.

‘You look younger too at your age Mrs. Magno, even though you’re a meat eater,’ I replied. Her face cheered up, pleased with my reply.

‘Here, take this one,’ I gestured to the fried fish, which her eyes were glued upon.

‘No. It's okay, I already ate my lunch downstairs at the eatery. I’m so full.’

She looked at the book I was reading.

I said, ‘Ah, this one here is like the book I’m writing - nature and stuff.’ I held up the book, showing the contents to her. Her eyes brightened.

Then she looked up at the walls of the apartment building. Her eyes seemed to focus on the black dust, probably coming from the smoke of vehicles. ‘It needs repainting soon,’ she said.

‘Hmm, and that means you will kick us out!’ I said, laughing.

‘No! You stay here in my apartment, Lodit, forever! Dito ka lang,’ she replied, smiling. That really surprised me.

‘Why can’t you stay here too. Couldn’t you build a new room on the top floor?’ I asked.

‘Yes, that’s my plan. I’m waiting for the money. Additional rooms for rent and a room for me,’ she said.

‘Wow, that is a nice plan,’ I replied, for the lack of anything to say.

‘You know, Lodit, you should find a partner and get married.’ I expected this prodding again from her. It’s one of her favorite topics with me.

‘I’m okay with being single again, Mrs. Magno. I’m already done with marrying and all that stuff. I’m happier now. I can do lots of things I want. And writing demands most of the time being alone. Besides, why are you encouraging me to get married again when you’ve had a hard time yourself with Mr. Magno?’ I quipped.

Mrs. Magno smiled and fell silent.

‘Fish? It’s tasty, healthy, and anti-aging!’ I said, Mrs. Magno never protested this time. I wrapped one big fried fish for her in an aluminum foil.

‘I’ll give you a present this Christmas, Lodit,’ she said.

I chuckled.

 

Zea Perez

Manila, Philippines

 

 

 

 

Tom Thumb

 

Against his flanks the rider pressed his heels and the horse knew the urgency asked of him without further need of whip nor spur. There was a sudden tightness in the rider’s legs, a purposeful poise in the position the rider took in his seat, a balance to the rider’s weight, and in the way the rider’s head was held close against his neck so that he could feel the rider’s breath calm against him. The horse began to race, for race was being asked of him. And now he saw ahead their rival. A brutish thing with silver flesh and a great snorting nostril blowing plumes of thick steam into the air, protruding from the top of its colossal head, as the blow-hole of the whale but with far less grace. It moved so fast that its rising breath trailed behind it as wild as the horse’s tail flowed behind him. It gurgled and clattered along its path, its feet a system of struts and wheels, as of the cart. Its legs were hidden beneath its incandescent flesh. Then the horse saw that this brutish creature carried its own rider, and that this rider was gesturing at him and smacking his lips as if to laugh. The horse, indignant, snorted and pounded the ground harder – faster - until dust rose behind him as steam behind his vice. The horse drew level with the silver beast and matched for a moment its pace. His rider offered him only gentle encouragement. The horse felt his heart thumping and breathed heavily into his expanding chest. His muscles worked with a strength beyond him, for he was running now on his rider’s passion and his own thrill. On the memories of his forebears – of the two Arabians, or the Turk who stood as stud for their racing kind. The silver brute fell behind, chugging and coughing and polluting the skies with its breath. So raucous was the brute that it seemed it would never catch its breath again, but die desperately choking for air. The horse rejoiced, for he had won. But it was curious, he found, for when he came to a halt panting and cold with sweat, his mouth foaming and his blood a marching band in his body, that same silver thing came coughing along at the same determined pace, and it seemed not a bit fatigued. It went on into the distance and scarce seemed to worry. Once its bloated shape was out of sight its breath lifted over the horizon to tell of its going still. And then the horse worried. He worried that every rider might find such a mount, as chugs and chuffs and doesn't go as fast as a horse, but doesn't ever need to stop for breath.

 

          His rider patted his heaving shoulder and spoke in his human tongue, with pride immeasurable apart from in sin: "Well Lad, you showed him," and turned the horse for home.

 

Roy Duffin

York, England

 

 

 

As Is

 

I could say that the reason I wear full upper dentures is because of my years as a boxer.

Or, as I was doing 120 on Sunset Blvd,  that I swerved as to not hit a baby bird and went though the windshield.

Or, in my years with the NHL, NFL, and WWE, took its toll at my teeth booth.

But that would be bullshit.

Poor hygiene, but they are as white as white can be.

They are  so perfect and white that they look phony and that’s the way I like it, uh huh.

 

Or I could say that my time in prison was because I was P.O.W.

 

That would another lie. Working with bad company while working in a bad company was more like it. No, not like it, that was it.

 

I would love to say that my lower than Whale Shit credit rating is because I financed a dear friends heart operation with all my credit cards.

That would be a load of Horse Shit.

It was because I had to do my own two flopped like a flounder movies with my own money.  

 

If I ever get arrested for domestic violence, I could argue that I live alone.

 

The reason I have pockmarks on my face is not because I ran into a burning building to save orphans., although, I have alluded to that.

 

And what’s this I hear about my car and that a man of a certain age should have better.

 

I’d like to say that it’s my daughter’s  car and I loaned her my Jaguar, so she could take my Grandkids to a birthday party in style, but that would be misleading as this car is mine for the last 18 years and no oil changes.

It’s incredibly thrilling to be at a smart dinner party and drop, ”I went to Harvard”, Yet, I must say I went to public schools.

Public Toilet schools.

But.

My body, my heart, my hair, and my brain are working out and looking good So.

 

Having said that. I have at this point, must be honest with you.

 

You’re going to have to take me, as is, and never was.

 

 

 

Alan Berger

West Hollywood

 

 

 

 

The Painting

 

The walls of the room I was waiting in were dark green; the ceiling a fading white. The single window was small and barred. It was quite dark inside, as not much light was let in; the darkness of dusk.

 

A painting hung on this wall. It was very large - nearly eight feet long and five wide. A soft light above it highlighted the details. It depicted a landscape and was so exquisitely wonderful that an effort was required not to reach out and touch the dewdrops painted therein. I took a deep breath expecting to smell the roses. I wouldn’t have been surprised if butterflies had flown out of it.

 

The landscape portrayed what seemed to be the corner of a large garden. There were beds of various gorgeous flowers there – red, white, yellow, blue.

 

The left side of the canvas was occupied by a tree. Its brown and speckled trunk and the vast expanse of leaves were partly seen. The green was greatly soothing to my eye.

 

It did not take a vivid imagination to picture the whole tree. On doing so, there was a distinct impression that it was very large. Under this partly seen mammoth, its fallen leaves were scattered on the new grass. A red flower among them rapidly drew my attention back to the tree. The flowers were seen on a closer look. They were nearly hidden by its dense foliage. I felt a twinge of regret along with a wish that the artist had set up his easel or his mind at another spot from where the flowers would have been clearly visible.

 

There was a pool, too. It was not too large. There were beautiful lotus flowers in it. They were pink and white.

 

As my eyes moved from the left to the right, the squirrel on a branch was not missed. The little fellow was perched up on its hind legs. It was holding something in its forelegs- a nut?

 

There was another tree on the lower edge of the landscape; a smaller one. What drew my attention to it was not its trunk or its leaves and flowers. It was the small boy who had climbed up and was perched on one of its stout branches. His fingers were curled into the shape of binoculars and he was looking through them. Going by his line of sight, he could have been studying the birds near the pool. He could have been drawn to something in the thicket; maybe, the birds or the flowers in the trees.

 

And while my mind was debating this, there was the sound of steps and the door leading to the interior of the house opened.

 

 

R G Kaimal

 

Bangalore, India

 

 

 

Caught In A Net


I was running, my feet pounding beneath me, the blood rushing through my veins. As I ran, I surveyed my surroundings vivid and slightly blurred by my speed. On one side of the path there was a row of trees and on the other below me was a river. As I ran further, a pool of rubbish caught my eye. It was moving. Moving but not in a normal way, not caused by current but by something underneath. I pulled to a stop and surveyed the writhing mass. Bubbles were coming up from underneath. I heard a gurgled cry and the blood froze in my veins; someone was stuck underneath.

 

Suddenly, the mass went still. I didn’t think; I just dived in ignoring the coldness of the water and diving under, my eyes open but unable to see through the grime filled liquid. I couldn’t discern anything; brown murk filling my vision. I moved forwards under the mass of plastic groping out in front of me trying to find the cause of the noise I had just heard moments before, trying to save whoever it was. My hands hit a mass. A body, a child’s body. I pulled at it but it didn’t move; it was stuck. My lungs were screaming at me for air. If I stayed much longer neither of us would survive. I gave one last tug and the child came loose. I battled my way to the end of the float of plastic, my blood singing in my numb ears as if crying out for oxygen. I pushed to the surface and gulped in the air a little boy now in my arms. 

 

I struggled back to the bank, hauling the child up with me and collapsed. After a few seconds I had regained some of my senses. I turned over the child. He was small, probably 7. My breath caught as I saw him. He looked... no he couldn’t be. I pressed my fingers to his pulse but came back with nothing. “No,” I gasped, my eyes still stinging from the water flooding with tears. How could something so pure and innocent be dead? A beautiful angel ensnared in a net, a fish caught in a stream. As I pressed my hands to his wet cold temple, his wet blonde hair covered in mud and debris, I swear I saw scales augmenting his pale neck, glistening in the sunlight. He was just another fish caught in a net, a net of polluted plastic we put in place.

 

Ebony Hutton-Mitchell

East Sussex, England

 

 

Learn To Love The Down

 

“Your drinking is getting out of hand.” But actually, I found I had begun to handle it quite well.

I’d been at the steel factory for about eight months when I collapsed from acute liver failure.

My supervisor came over with my timesheet, asking the guys what time I caved, so he could clock me out. Then he called the ambulance.

 

I woke up prepared for panic and tears but all I got was, “I told you that you had a drinking problem, you said your piss was the colour of cola”

“No, I don’t and that was the one time.”

“Well, you drank that wine at eleven in the morning, didnt you? And now look at you!”

“But it was Valentine’s Day.”

It was already too late. “Your’e in denial,” she said.

“No, I aint!” And a doctor was nowhere in sight.

 

They were going to carry out blood tests but then the nurse couldn’t find my mainline.

He slapped my arm and after several attempts my skin bruised purple and little holes filled it.

“You’ll probably be fine anyway,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s one of them, aint it?”

 

The morning after, my Irish friend came in to see me. He mentioned we’d have coffee and I got my hopes up. But then something about a “moral compass kicking in” had made him leave the hipflask in the car. I’d already dropped the coins in by the time I noticed the coffee machine needed stocking up - and so we drank decaf.

 

Three days of daytime telly passed, when a nurse came into the room and handed me a letter addressed to my name. It read that I had to return and work off my four week notice period or else they wouldn’t give me my money. Next time, I’ll have to sort myself out and try harder - at least pass out after payday.

 

 

Richard Bari

Birmingham, England

 

 

 

 

Light Of My Life

                                                                                   Five Years Ago

Five years ago, I had a heart attack and almost died. Home from the hospital, I got into the cozy bed my dear wife had made with many throws and pillows and went to sleep. In the middle of the night, I changed position and my arm rested on her waist. She snuggled up to me and we spooned. I said, “This feels good.” She answered in a language I did not understand. Eyes still shut, I asked, “Why are you babbling?” She answered in that weird language again. Startled awake, I sat up and looked at her. She wasn’t there. I muttered to myself, “What a weird dream!” and went back to sleep.

 

I recounted the dream to my wife the next morning. She laughed and said, “Honey, we haven’t slept together in the

same bed for years. The pain killer is having a weird effect on you.” Moments later, she asked “What language was I speaking?” I said, “I don’t know. It sounded like Russian.”

                                                                                    A Year Ago

A year ago, I had my second heart attack and almost died. Home from the hospital, I got into the cozy bed my dear wife had made with many throws and pillows and went to sleep. In the middle of the night, I changed position and my arm rested on her waist. She snuggled up to me and we spooned. I said, “This feels good,” and remarked she had a tennis player’s body. Turned on, I turned her head around to kiss her lips. There was no face. All I saw was a bright light where the face should have been. But the rest of the body was lithe and toned and tanned - Anna Kournikova in her prime. “What the fuck?” I ripped the sheets off and sat upright. No Anna, no nothing.

 

I recounted the dream to my wife the next morning. She laughed and said, “You always had a thing for Anna.”

 

                                                                                    Today

Last night, I had my third heart attack. In the middle of the night, I changed position and my arm rested on her waist. She snuggled up to me and we spooned.

“Рад, что ты наконец-то здесь (Glad you are finally here),” she said.

“Я рада, что я здесь (I’m glad I’m here),” I said.

“хотел бы я видеть твое лицо (Wish I could see your face),” she said.

“побалуй себя (Treat yourself),” I said and turned her head around so she could see my face.

“Без лица. Просто яркий свет (no face, just a bright light),” she said.

 

 

Balu Swami

 

Buckeye, AZ, USA

Rare Flower

 

Abebe wanted to be a poet. Poetry speaks of flowers, she told her mother who smiled and went back to preparing the wat. She wanted to give her voice to the meadows. The meadows were alive with flowers after the months of rain. The world was alive but it couldn’t tell anyone because no one had given it words to speak.

When she was a small child, there was an old man who would sit in the shade of a large tree near the well and sing poems. There was nothing she would rather do than sit and listen to his voice. Her mother told her she was being useless and wasting her time, but the inflections rising and falling made her feel as if she was riding on the clouds.

            One day he asked her what her name was.

            “Abebe,” she answered. “It means rare flower.”

            “I know that,” said the old man. He began a song about a mountain flower that was more beautiful than any in the world. A young man sought it out, not to pluck it, but to lie down beside it and inhale its perfume. But to reach the flower on the mountain, the young man had to endure many trials and tests.

            Before the poem could end, the old man vanished.

            Long after the village had been torn apart by warring factions, and after her mother wandered off into the sand to find help for her young brother and never returned, and after the flies had closed his eyes, Abebe made her way to a camp where an Irishman bandaged her feet. He sent her to a place that was so cold the constant rain ate into her bones.

            Her teachers did not take her poetry seriously, especially when she wrote about a doll she owned. Her mother made it for her. The rag baby was dressed in flowers, and though it always appeared dead when someone else held it, Abebe knew it sang to her in whispers.

            “Do you still have it?” the teacher asked.

            “No,” she said as she wept. “Only its words.”

 

 

Bruce Meyer

 

Ontario, Canada

 

 

 

Silent Screams

He feels the familiar tingling in his loins as the engines pull up beside the blazing building. With growing excitement, he watches the firefighters run out their hoses, ladders unfolding as they creep slowly up the side of the building. Then he sees a girl at the window, arms waving in terror as the flames lick hungrily around her pyjama-clad body. He moans as her terrified screams echo across the night sky. As his thrill heightens arms reach out to her, pluck her from the blazing ledge. He scowls, his body stiffening then… nothing. There are fewer thrills now, it all ending too quickly as bodies are snatched from a burning inferno by this new breed of firefighter. It had been more satisfying once, poorly equipped engines, ladders and hose reels hardly able to reach the upper floor windows. He had watched with mounting excitement as bodies had become totally engulfed by the flames. But now he had his little machine. Now he could replay their drawn out, haunting cries of anguish. He had dozens of tapes, neatly stacked and labelled on the shelves in his poky little bedsit. He would sit with Patsy in the evening and listen to them, Patsy turned on by the blood-curdling cries. But now she was gone, lured away by the pervert Kenny with his chains and manacles. But he did not miss her. Alone he could take time to savour every moment, listen to every last thrilling haunting scream until there was nothing but silence to fill his tormented mind...

 

He watches again as the flames climb the building, white hot fingers reaching ever higher up the drab, concrete flats. He is about to leave, the sounds he so longs for becoming out of reach of his machine. But then something catches his eye, a tiny figure perched high on one of the narrow window ledges. He watches, fascinated as the firefighter calls out to her. He feels his throat contract, his body stiffen once more as she pauses for a second before...He moans with ecstasy as she falls, her body tumbling over and over like a broken doll, her cry bouncing off the concrete walls. He feels the tension ebb from him as she smashes in to the pavement below.

 

(2)

 

He is back in his dingy bedsit, grubby fingers sifting through his recordings, splicing and editing. He sees again the girl, hears her last despairing cries. He kisses the tape before placing it carefully back on the shelf. He is tired now, his body sated as he slumps gratefully onto his filthy mattress. Tomorrow he will start again, another carefully placed piece of kindling, a splash or two of fuel...

 

He sleeps deeply. So deeply he does not hear the siren, does not smell the smoke sliding beneath his door as it seeks to extract its terrible revenge.

 

 

Roger Woodcock

 

Mansfield, England

 

To the Wild


“Fucking gross,” he muttered about the hair in his soup, which was otherwise comprised of water, spinach leaves, various spices, and the charred mutilated remains of a creature that several days prior had been enjoying the soft tingling sensation of a warm current, and though it may not have had the means to fully understand what it felt, had surely felt it. That should count for something, she thought. She was no vegetarian, but she did sometimes wonder if it was only because there were limits on the amount of suffering the human mind can fathom. Someone dies every second. Feet can crush bugs in a grassy field, you kill little bacteria when you shower, your cells are perpetually dying and being replaced. Life is an endless parade of invisible funerals, empathy has its limits - like now, she thought to herself as he somehow continued to complain. His hair had a bucket of gel in it; she wondered if it would upset a shark’s digestive system. She imagined how he would fare as a hunter-gatherer (not well). To distract herself from his next rant, she bit on her tongue and tried to taste it, and after, wondered what his would taste like. Deep-fried. Animals, she thought, both of us, just animals until the day we die - but what would it mean to live?

      In that moment, it began to take root. She was human, but she wanted to forget it for a little while. She wanted to roam free among the wild fields and lush forests and the unyielding parade of life and death. She wanted to feel like the animal she was. There, on that hectic New York night, she began to seriously consider living in the woods.

     First, though, she had to interrupt him and go the restroom, which actually meant leaving. Nature is cruel.

     On the way out, she passed the lobster tank. Sad little captive aliens, claws bound, awaiting harvest. She gently pressed the tips of her fingers against the glass, and looked into the beady little eyes of the closest one. She hoped all the wants and desires of their little crustacean brain had been satisfied by life up to that point, even if an undignified demise was inevitable. You matter, she thought, little sea monster, you matter.

     His evening wasn’t as transformative. He waited ten minutes, paid the bill, thought about the shocking number of freaks in this world, and returned to his modern life.

 

 

Kevin Criscione

 

Boston, USA

The Vanished Half

 

If I held my breath for you, I would have died a thousand times. If digging were to show you, I’m sure I’d have hit bedrock by now. A blend of condensation and cigarette smoke billows from my mouth and drifts upward towards the moon as I stand knee deep in snow. I would have moved mountains to keep your lips from that sharp kiss, on thigh and wrist. To be gone only 3 hours and to return to emptiness, to nothing. I search for you without searching, hoping not to find you in bars and restaurants, but in the deepest reaches of my mind. Once found, I’ll cut you out, I’ll plunge a knife into my skull, and roughly outline you, like removing a tumour, I’ll carve out the infected area and discard it. You left me with a curse, of memory, of concern. Where are you? Our vow of eternal life was said to one another, without you I am half of a whole. I’ve already waited for two hundred years for the vanished half. I can’t wait any longer.

 

 

Sam McCartney

 

Glasgow, Scotland

 

 

 

 

Ban Beans

“Got any beans?” the voice rasped from behind a shadowy alcove in an empty shopfront.

A year ago, I might have thought I was hearing a hungry vegan begging for a few lentils. That was before an Amazonian tribesman announced at the United Nations that the development of coffee plantations was killing the rainforest. Soon after that a social media movement called #banbeans had sprung up. It not only argued for the banning of coffee to save the rainforests but also argued that its effects were addictive and making people sick causing anxiety, insomnia and heart issues.

When once you could strike a business deal or start your day with a cup of freshly ground, people were now afraid to admit that they ever drank it. Of course, this didn’t affect the drinkers, it just drove up prices and drove us all underground. Since the illegalisation of coffee, and the almost simultaneous legalisation of marijuana, “a kilo of Columbia’s finest” has taken on a whole new meaning.

Just for the record, I’ve never taken anything illegal in my life. But I’ve been drinking coffee for as long as I can remember. I certainly never meant to become a dealer. I stocked up as soon as the ban was announced, and very soon friends knew that I had a pantry full of instant. Some of them told their friends and before I knew it strangers were offering to buy jars of coffee at ridiculously inflated prices. At the same time, I found myself out of work and unskilled. After all, there’s not much call for baristas these days.

My circle of friends and acquaintances quickly grew. It wasn’t long before I was sought out by some coffee growers from the country who had the product, but not the contacts. They hadn’t intended to get into this game either. They were just farmers who suddenly found themselves with a hillside of illegal substances. Or so they said.

One contact called Rod didn’t exactly look squeaky clean. He introduced himself to me in an email, saying he was a grower and suggesting that we meet face to face. He nominated that we meet up in a tea house. I can’t stand the stuff but went anyway. Rod wore a leather jacket, rode a Harley Davidson and bore a scar down his left cheek which was partly covered with stubble.

This wasn’t so much a business transaction as a warning to get off his patch. Rod was setting up shop and he didn’t want any competition. Seeing a sudden flash of a knife blade under the table while sipping on a cup of Earl Grey was enough to get me worried. I was forced to give him the names of my most regular customers, just to get out of the tearoom in one piece.

So, when a raspy voiced stranger asked me if I have any beans, the safe answer would have been “no”. Even though I have a shed full of the stuff in the backyard. But, when you’ve got commitments to buy a constant supply of beans, your customers keep shifting to the competition, and there’s bills to pay, it can be tempting.

You never know who you can trust nowadays.

“Have I got any beans? Yeah, sure. How many shots do you need?”

 

 

 

Martin Hadfield

 

Brisbane, Australia

 

 

 

 

Apart from Myself

          Apart from myself, who am I? Trying to pull myself forwards, while all the time pushing myself back. Who can blame Orpheus for not doing what was easier said?

           

          I tread on and on, trying to look forward, being drawn back on myself. Is it sentiment? This longing that short changes me?

           

          I tiptoe through life, routine after routine, instead of chasing after it. Letting it get away from me. Disconsolate with consolation. I’d love to lie down in the centre of an artic desert, reading the constellations, but I couldn’t bear the cold. I’d love to stand at the precipice of a mountain and take in the air, but I couldn’t stand the heights. I’d love to fly into space and see the world from above, but I’d be too claustrophobic.

           

          I’ve no destination in life. I just drift from day to day. But I can’t even do that without steadying myself.

           

          The stairs become harder. As if my very density’s dissuading me. I climb one-foot-in-front-of-the-other. Slowly reaching the top. Gravitating towards the dark cavernous opening, where I wade towards my bed and collapse into it. Setting myself adrift. Drifting apart from myself. All at sea. Swaying on the sheets. Tossed by my squalling consciousness.        

 

          Apart from myself I’m no-one. Just me. On my own. A lighthouse. Searching. My thoughts orbiting. Fast, then slow. Fast, then slow. Decoding. Dot, dash, dash. Dot, dash, CRASH. The waves crash against me. Unprovoked, but against me. I stand defiant. Taking whatever it throws. Then settling. Settling. Sleep takes me. Then takes me apart.

           

          Apart from myself. Who am I?

Anthony Ward

Durham, England

 

 

 

 

Only Because

 

These few things. Light that shimmered in a heat haze as if in its falling dappled through the trees it had become less real, how it danced over the still flowering bluebells, dandelion seeds that drifted in clouds through the still, warm air. The tumble of water over pebbled stones, a sky that was always clear, steps taken until the count of how many became as if an abstract thing. The colour of her hair which was as dark as her skin was pale, eyes that might have been blue or green or emerald or sometimes all at once. It was the cool of her touch when she took my hand and led me through first shocking and then deliciously cold water. Days that were warm, days that were more so, though it was impossible that there could have been so many. The stove on which we baked Welsh cakes, bread, warmed beans and vegetables and stews. Daisy chains worn as if we had some claim over the small world we inhabited, though ever in thrall to the changing weather, the ebb and flow of the seasons. Despite that it was always spring and there were always bluebells budding, dandelions and crocuses and tulips. When the moon filled the sky we danced in the meadow, afterwards so tired that it would feel as if it had been forever. When I drifted off to sleep the divide between waking and sleep would be as if a very fine thing. When she whispered her name in my ear it was because now I would forget. But listen, she said. Feel, and placed a hand onto a belly that registered just the faintest ripple of movement. The ghost of what had been, the memory of what would. Still, she said, still, although I had been, because I would not. Listen, she said, listen, though I did not know to what. The rush of the wind through the trees. The meaningless chatter of water in the stream. The cry of a songbird that had once been beautiful but now just marked the violent demarcation of its territory.

 

jm summers

South Wales, UK

 

 

 

Making Peace With Dandelions

Leaving the house after so long, I can't shake the feeling I have forgotten something. I rummage through my bag, but all the important things are there, purse, keys, spare mask. Good to go then.

As I start the car, the low fuel light comes on, and then the low tire pressure light, alternating in flashing neon, like the start of a migraine. I realize I will have to sort it out now, and this starts the tears again. The radio is tuned to your favorite station, the BBC World Service; a deep voice speaks over my whimpering, "A song can make you an alcoholic or a revolutionary." This is so preposterous I let out a bark of laughter, and I'm shocked by the sound.

I change channels, a bright female voice says, "Dandelions get a bad press. In fact, they are spectacular. Their petals--a lion's mane roaring, magically turning into fairy wings as...". A man with clipped tones interrupts her, "Very poetic, I'm sure, but they do ruin your lawn." And immediately you are back from the dead—fighting the dandelions, spraying poison like a demented monk sprinkling holy water. I tried to get you to be more environmentally friendly, mixing up a solution of water and vinegar. It proved ineffective, and it left behind a lingering smell of disappointment that, with all your chemicals, you couldn't banish. Looking over at the grass now, I know you would be proud--it is a green carpet, lush, and oh so dull.

For the last forty years, I have never gone anywhere without my hand in yours. But thinking about it now, your fingers were always cold in mine, dampening me down.

I feel skittish like a horse without a bridle as I get out of the car and walk over to the verge. I select a giant dandelion clock and wish as I blow away the tiny, white parachute seeds. They dance like the blessing of a new beginning before settling all over your perfect lawn.

 

Adele Evershed

Wilton, Connecticut, USA

 

 

 

 

An 11-Part Mini Saga of the Girl in the Box

Week 1 (Introduction)

In some distant far-flung land lived a girl in a box...

 

Week 2

The girl hardly remembered her parents or how she ended up in a box. Every time she asked, she was ignored or rebuked. The only people she knew were her caretakers, but she never saw them since they dwelled outside the box. Under their special attention, the girl thrived and bloomed.

 

Week 3

Life inside the box was dark and lonely. She was deprived of human touch, love, and companionship. Once she attempted to lift the box cover, only to find it sealed tight. That’s when she learned that leaving the box was forbidden. But why was it forbidden?

 

Week 4

Every day, through a little hole in the box, she would peep and conjure up imaginations and fantasies of the world outside. The girl would imagine herself romping along the verdant hills, gazing at the clear azure sky above. She would think about seeing the flamboyant colors of cities, the aromatic smells and tastes of palatable dishes, the noisy sound of chattering humans, and most of all, she pondered whether she would be welcomed.  She knew she was different. The mere thought of acceptance both captivated and terrified her. Her desire to leave was almost upon her, when she remembered her confinement. 

 

Week 5

Curiosity was the girl’s most prominent trait.

“You will soon know,” they said.

 

Week 6

“She is a special girl,” said her caretaker.

“Her deeds will make history!” cried another.

“She will be famous and people will remember her,” concurred a third.

This mysterious conversation puzzled the girl. She had never done anything worth acknowledging. What could they be talking about?

 

Week 7

The girl did not have to search for an answer. A day after she overheard the conversation, she was told that she was allowed to go outside. The girl’s heart leaped for joy. Now she had the opportunity to explore the world. This was the most exciting moment of her life.

 

Week 8

The girl was released in the woods. While she explored, she stumbled upon a village. She entered the village and received a warm welcome. She mingled with the villagers and spent the night there.

 

Week 9

The next morning, the girl discovered carnage. She fled in terror. She sought shelter in a nearby community only to find death the next morning. The girl could not understand.

 

Week 10

The girl roamed far and wide in search of food and shelter. Many times she was turned down and she knew no reasons. She longed for her box. However, she forgot her way home; now she is lost and all alone.

Week 11

Disillusioned, the girl wanders the ends of the earth claiming lives without remorse. She has realized her purpose and has become good at it. People will remember her as a scourge that plagued the world. This is her new life, the crowning glory of Veerus, the girl in the box.

 

Stefanie Kate Watchorna

 

Philippines

 

 

 

The Fan

 

Boyeng turns to face the electric fan. Relief. ‘Ahhhh!’

 

Suddenly it stops. He checks the outlet. Everything seems okay.

 

‘Nay, is the power out?’

 

‘Yes, nothing new! There was an announcement from the village authorities yesterday. Power levels are critical. It’s summer. Current use soars up and so do the bills!’

 

His mother is feeding a bowl of lugaw to his two younger sisters.

 

‘Where is the fan, Nay? I seem to have a fever. Damn hot weather!’

 

Mother hands the fan over to him, cut-out from a carton box of Lucky Me noodles.

 

Boyeng takes off his t-shirt and lays down on the Coco lumber floor. Sweat rolls down him.

Through their open door, he sees the neighbors’ blazing barong-barong roofs. It’s noontime. Heat is like hell, so they say. Children, shirtless, are all outside. Some play marbles while others dip themselves in huge plastic pails.

 

It’s the second time he showers after work. However, his sweat still drips uncontrollably, like their problematic faucet.

 

‘Still the same, Nay. We can only grab some plastics and bottles.’ He gives over fifty pesos to her. Sullen.

 

Boyeng, twelve years old, fatherless, no longer at school, the lone bread-winner, works by salvaging recyclables from the Smokey Mountain of Tondo, one of the most well-known trash and garbage dumpsites in Metro Manila. Closed because of the pandemic, it’s finally been re-opened, thanks to the urban-poor association. Thank God, they won’t starve now!

 

He gulps the glass of water his mother offers him.

 

His mother asks, ‘Did you hear, yesterday? Mang Inggo passed out and was hurried to the hospital! Too much heat! High BP!’

 

‘We need to secure more boxes of carton for insulation though.’ His eyes lift to their barong-barong roof. The roof’s height is just high enough for them to stand erect in their tiny abode. ‘Just to minimize the heat,’ he says to his younger sisters. The other one keeps on scrubbing her prickly heat rashes.

 

His nose becomes itchy. He unconsciously scratches it. Blood suddenly spurts out.

 

‘My God, Boyeng! You know I hate seeing blood! Go now! Get another shower!’ His mother, panicking, gives him the tabo and bath soap.

 

Night comes. Still no electric current.

 

A sister keeps crying. Itchy rashes are too much for her. His mother patiently sponges her with cold water for relief.

 

The youngest sister hates having no light. So, the candle remains lit while they are in bed. He keeps on fanning them.

 

His mother falls asleep in no time at all.

 

‘Hey, little Sis, please sleep now.’ He prods her and yawns tremendously.

 

He gradually unclasps the carton fan beside the burning candle, casting its light against the peculiarly dark night. His eyes surrender to nothingness, then to his dreams as they close. In his dream, everything is refreshing. He is diving and swimming in the serenest water, where colorful fishes are whirling in front of him. Aquatic plants and seaweeds are dancing and swaying, ushering him to the grandest and freshest seabed corners.

 

 

Zea Perez

Manila, Philippines

 

 

 

 

The Night That A Bug Flew Into My Room

 

‘Blood. I need, Blood.'

     The time came and the mosquito thought it, if we could say they think at all.

 

     She was flying throughout the streets in a warm, humid night of summer.  

It had been flying all night looking for an opening to fly in, where

humans sleep, so she could feed herself. She needed it.

And there she felt it, the warm light coming from an enormous

opening, it was her chance to get her meal that a dumb, slow human

would provide, she thought. She buzzed in and felt it, a big warm body, full of what she needed.

 

     Time had arrived, she flew towards the gigantic body.

     'Bitch,' she muttered to herself. One could have thought that she

heard the mosquito buzzing around and she got annoyed. But we 

would be wrong. Lucy was lying down on her bed, thinking,

or better to say, regurgitating memories about a co-worker of hers.

“Fucking lazy bitch.” She spoke out loudly this time while penetrating

the ceiling with her glaze. She still remembered the time she mocked

her haircut, with that hideous laugh. But she would get her

revenge, out lasting revenge on that whore, she thought.

     'There is my blood, stupid human no see me.'

The mosquito thought if we could say that they think. She flew to that

warm, huge vein, ready to land and sting, ready to get

herself satisfied. But she perceived something, a couple of glazing eyeballs, and the

motion of a huge surface with five towers moving towards her tiny but

speedy body.

     'Danger,' the mosquito thought, dodging her faith as mosquitoes

usually do.

 

     'Shit, a bug,’ Lucy thought, and she did what usually humans do while

terminating the life of a mosquito. But she failed, still boiling about her

co-worker. She felt too lazy to kill the mosquito. Still, it was too annoying to let it

be. Suddenly, something crossed her mind. She imagined that the

mosquito was her hatred co-worker, that hideous bitch, and fantasied

about terminating her, she found her motivation to finish it and

grabbed a book to smash the heck out of the defenceless being.

     'Human may sleep, I try again,' she thought, humans gave up easily,

lazy creatures they were, so she would try again. But something

strange was happening, now the human was picking something, the

human had those glazing eyes.

 

     'Danger!' And she dodged an enormous object, it almost hunted her

down, she needed to fly away, feed herself somewhere else.

 

       'I will kill you, bitch.'  One could have thought she referred to the

mosquito, but once again, we would be far from right. She was diving

into her fantasy, but instead of a book, she visualized a hammer. Every

miss was a hit-miss on her co-worker's skull, the more she missed her

target, the harder she smashed the book, trying to annihilate the

mosquito.

 

       ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she thought, dodging as many certain deaths as she

could. The human was far from normal, compared to hazards she

dodged in the past. She dodged tricky spiderwebs, speedy sparrows,

and treacherous Drakos, Yet, she knew she was going to be her meal.

But this, this was far from normal in her reality. The human did not

want  to hunt her for his meal, the human wanted her destruction,

there was something monstrous on this human.

 

 

     'Don’t move whore!' she shouted this time, smashing as hard as she

could, but imagining it was her hammer on the face of her co-worker,

but in reality, it turned out to be her book on the window. Blood ran,

but it was hers, and the mosquito also-ran, but away from her.

'This bitch made me bleed,' she thought, her face was the description

of a dog with canine rabies, she was determined to bury a hammer

into the skull of her co-worker, and with such a thought, a smile grew

on her. The door of her room opened, and she heard her mum

shouting with concern.

 

     'Lucy! You’re bleeding! God! What is going on?'

 

     Lucy, crying aloud, answered.”Ohhhh, Mummyyy, I was sooo scared,

a bug flew in!!”

 

     The mosquito flew away, dodging the last impact, she saw her meal in

the air, enormous blood spheres flying by her side, along with shiny

crystals, but she was determined to run away from that creature,

regardless of the need for blood, just to fly away into the night.

 

     'What a horrible creature,' she thought, if we can really affirm what mosquitoes think.

 

Juan Moreno Diaz                                                 

Great Malvern, UK

 

 

 

 

Last Of The Great Axeman

 

Nothing stirs, nobody abroad in the eerie early light when he clicks his vehicle door softly shut, drives from his photo-filled flat to the protected wetlands where a fallen river red gum bough, partly harvested by him, lies in wait where no firewood may be gathered except in permitted periods.

 

He parks as close as he can, nose, old eyes, streaming in the scouring cold air, remembering when he was thirteen, always courting trouble, when he axed enough logs to fill the area under the water tanks, his bastard father arriving home from work, refusing to acknowledge the proudly stacked piles, the effort.

 

He totes tools across his wasted shoulders, axe, heavy log-splitter, sledgehammer, for this hard timber that takes years to rot, cocks an ear for movement, perhaps a long-distance runner trying to postpone the inevitable, but there is only stillness, hands burning with the cold, another memory.

 

The heavy slabs he breaks must be manageable to carry to his vehicle with frequent rest stops, several trips along the path skirting this lagoon, past silent swans, pelicans, watching, an ethereal mist starting to lift from their water, daylight ascending.

 

He swings lustily, splits the great log, a glistening red streak from its early days, its heart, exposed, but in those moments he ruptures his bicep tendon, knows with no regrets he could have had sawn stove wood delivered for the harsh winter ahead, knows those unknowing shall think he had no lack.  

 

 

Ian C Smith

Sale, Victoria, Australia

 

 

 

Sport

 

When they trap her she pushes off one, wrong footing them as they grope to strip her, then dodges, eluding oafish attempts to tackle her, executing a neat step over when another, fallen, tries to trip her before she sprints from beer and curses, her flight towards the penumbra of light.  Looking back when she reaches where twos and threes become an optimistic crowd, she sees them beyond moths bewitched by the floodlights’ effulgence, hunter-morons still fixed on their quarry.  Mingling with the throng, breath spent from rushing headlong, sweat aglow, she notes animal symbolism, red against white like blood on snow.  Sheltering amidst witless taunts to the opposition, she slips through the crowd’s maul towards black gates, towering walls.  Nearing turnstiles she bisects queues, to circumambulate below grandstand eaves, hopeful ranks, thinning, still coming as she leaves.

 

A nimble wraith of vulpine U-turns, she now jogtrots away from the light, stealth her sword, sedate side streets her shield, swallowed by the night.  She slows, arms akimbo, musing about contradictions, the pack’s mentality being virtuoso’s disregard.  Laughing, she lines up a can, kicks straight and hard, sending it clattering into the gutter, her follow through, arched foot level with bright eyes, manual-perfect for skill; far behind, a great roaring like savage beasts in the Colosseum closing on their kill.   

 

 

Ian C Smith

Sale, Victoria, Australia

 

 

 

Doctor’s Orders

A man’s brain had recently lost weight. Un-sedated, he lay on a pristine hospital bed. When the doctor entered the pristine room with a power-drill in his hand, the man thought of all the different ways he could be pristinely tortured…

 

            “What’s the drill for?” asked the man.

 

            “We have to make a hole in your head,” said the doctor. “There’s too much build-up in there.”

 

            The man heard a mechanical whirring behind his ear. “Wait,” he said. “Can I die from this—?”

 

            But the doctor had already commenced the drilling. Right on the crown of his skull. The man tried to hold still and shivered as a rivulet of blood slid down his spine. Bone ruptured and split. Then the drill broke through and poked his brain—and he felt a release.

 

            “Isn’t that better?” asked the doctor.

 

            “Yes, yes,” stammered the man. “Much better.”

 

            “Now,” said the doctor. “You’re going to have to keep that weight off.”

 

            “I’ve tried,” said the man.

 

            “Just keep your nose out of those damn books,” said the doctor. “Smoke a lung-threatening cigar. Drink booze, not beer.”

 

            The man scribbled down notes on loose paper.

 

            “And most importantly, make love to your wife when you get home.”

 

            The man sighed. Stared into the linoleum floor. “I can’t,” he said.

 

            “You must!” exclaimed the doctor.

 

            “We haven’t…you know…in months.”

 

            The doctor was silent and glaring.

 

            “I don’t think she loves me,” said the man.

 

            “Oh well,” said the doctor. “There’s nothing wrong with that. You’ll have to tell her it’s the doctor’s orders.”

 

            “Yessir.”

 

 

             Back at home, he told his wife about the doctor’s orders. She replied that she would rather lick a dead fish than sleep with him again. In fact, she told him he’d have to make love to his pillow instead.

 

            And so, the man is now making love to his pillow, enamored by its opulent curves and pristineness, and it’s much better than his wife…

 

Lucas Clark

Smithville, Ohio, USA

 

 

 

 

Scarlet

 

She took his hand as if for the first and the last time too. The cherry blossom had opened that day, its colour that of her thoughts, of the morning sky in which a pale moon lingered. Dew still wet on the grass under her bare feet, goosebumps, fleetingly on her arms. When she woke, the startling blue of his eyes. A bee, as if it were the first, attracted by the newly blossomed forsythia, still flowering snowdrops, daffodils, budding tulips. It was newness, it was change, it was waking from the slumber of winter, the casting off of things grown stale and the waking to new. Now it will be different, he told her. They woke to a room empty but for a bed and chest of drawers, bare walls and carpet, windows without curtains. Because there was no one else, empty fields for as far as she could see and as far as she knew. The bathroom with the dripping tap. The smell of things old, grown musty with disuse, lacking in ways she could not express. The love between them defined by an absence. It was in the dreams that came to her, things that must once have seemed ordinary. Another’s touch. It was all that he said would be theirs one day when winter had passed. Look, he said, and his words were the colour of a dawn newly broken, the shade too of night when it was at its darkest. All she thought she knew, the potential for change, possibilities hitherto undreamed of, apple blossom ephemeral as the moon, his touch when he passed. He put his hand to her stomach and felt for movement, his ear to listen, breath warm on her skin. Now it was time, he said, and when they kissed she felt his breath as if it were her own. Folded him in her arms till only the thin linen of her dress separated their bodies, pregnant with the possibility of what now could be. An owl cried though the sky was bright for all that had passed, all it had thought certain, all that it thought it knew. The world become new, all that he had been, and her too.

 

 

jm summers

 

South Wales

 

 

Killed With Kindness

 

Aaron was vulnerable. So very vulnerable. Even to the last.

‘I don’t want to die,’ he sobbed to Nicole, as she forced another pill on him.

‘But it’s for your own good. It’s the best way to end your pain and suffering.’

‘But…’

‘Don’t break your promise, Aaron. Make me proud of you, for once.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Shush. You don’t want the silent treatment again, do you?’

 

An unlikely tony-town romance. Shy, ice-cream scooper meets self-confident Ivy-Leaguer. A fifth-generation trailer-trash no-hoper falls for the spoilt spawn of successful real-estate professionals. A relationship built on cruelty and dependency.

 

Ever had a boyfriend so lame and limp you named him Lettuce Boy? Well, ask Nicole about that.

Ever had a girlfriend so mean, she tongued a college boy right in front of you? Ask Aaron all about it.

Ever had another human stick to your skin like a leech? Again, ask Nicole.

Ever had a girlfriend you pledged to die for and had the promise accepted? You could ask Aaron, if only he still was around.

 

‘One more pill, Aaron. Just one more.’

‘But…’

 

From the beginning, Aaron sensed danger, but his desperate loneliness led him willingly to his doom. What choice did he have? [‘I’ll choose you a flavor, Aaron.’ ’Gee, thanks Nicole.’] Crippled inside, any crutch would do, even when it was repeatedly kicked from under him.

 

[Sunday at the lake]

‘Ever creamed a girl before, Aaron?’

‘Nicole?’

‘You know, rubbed sun-cream all over a girl’s hot flesh?’

‘Well, no.’

‘Didn’t think so. Would you like to?’

‘Sure. I mean, I’d love to.’

‘Okay. But you need to earn it.’

‘Oh.’

‘See those pretty flowers on the island. I’d love a bunch of those to take home. Think you could get me some?’

‘Aren’t they the same flowers as these ones?’

‘I don’t think so. They’re more colourful and brighter.’

‘It’s only the light, Nicole.’

‘Let me be the judge of that, Aaron. Am I going to get my flowers or not?’

‘Seems quite a swim.’

‘Is it beyond your strength? I’ve had other boys make it.’

‘When?’

‘When I came with Todd, or maybe it was Harry. My skin’s getting awfully red, Aaron. You don’t want me to burn, do you?’

‘No, ‘course not.’

‘That’s the manly spirit! Pants and shirt off, mister…that’s it! And your boxers. I won’t want you near me with wet boxers.’

[Ten minutes later Aaron waves from the island whilst Nicole texts him the message he reads on his return]

‘Apologies - fed up of waiting - gone home - starting to burn - feeling bad about it so taken your laundry to clean - I know - I’m such a love bunny! See you tomorrow - N’

 

‘I’m scared, Nicole.’

‘Take the fuckin’ pill, Aaron.’

 

[Aaron reads his poem to Nicole]

‘You smote me with your scent and smile.

I crept on my knees after you – mile upon mile.

I was a creature without a dream

Until you came and made me…’

 

‘Aaron, no more of this romantic junk, okay?’

‘Whatever you say, Nicole.’

 

[For the record]

Childhood A:

Parents locked into their screens. Neglected hours spent in a pretty, pink bedroom. Rows of Barbies strung up by their necks in the closet. A bleach-poisoned goldfish floating belly side-up in a bowl. The puppy being ridden like a horse until it’s back becomes broken.

 

Childhood B:

Rusted trailer on the edge of town. A father to both the mother and her son. Most treasured possession: a bike without brakes. 50% school attendance. Saturday nights dodging flying empty liquor bottles. Sunday mornings mending broken windows with Saron-wrap.

 

‘Aaron, can you hear me? Aaron.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!’

 

[Money, power, influence]

Daddy called the family attorney who, in turn, called the cops and a top defense attorney. Mummy visited the trailer with a brief-case full of greenbacks and the father [‘I’m telling you straight, Lou, he was such an odd, old looking bastard!’] was more than happy to testify in court that Aaron was a bat-shit crazy, suicidal depressive since the day he was brought into the world by his sweet, caring mother. Psychologists, psychiatrists, euthanasia experts, forensic toxicologists and addiction specialists so confused the jury that they failed to reach a conclusive decision.

 

A family vacation to Montserrat to celebrate. First class travel and a personal masseur-mindfulness coach for Mommy and her babykin.

 

[Postscript – college library]

‘Hey, it’s Norman right? What ya reading, huh? The Iliad. My, my! And in the original Greek, too. Are you some kind of genius, sweety-pie?’

‘Well, I…’

[He’s wearing sandals and socks - how cute!]

‘wait a moment…’

[He’s so thin and weedy. He needs fattening up.]

‘aren’t you the…’

[Cheap deodorant. How quaint!]

‘girl who was on…’

[I better he’s never kissed a girl.]

‘TV?’

[Maybe he’s gay?]

‘On trial for involuntary manslaughter…’

[Aw, see how he avoids eye contact. A sure sign of his feebleness.]

‘or something like that?’

[So shy and vulnerable!]

 

Je Swarez

Atlantis

 

 

 

 

Fear

When I was about eight years old, my father forced me to go with him to the funeral of a friend of his that I didn't know. I had unwillingly relented. We were living at Nainital at that time. At that tender age, I was a shy kid. I was more intent to play games than to go and visit a funeral. I loathed it but had to listen to my father.
 

It was a clear morning, when we got there. We had parked our car outside the cemetery. The cemetery had a narrow, gravelled pathway. It was dotted with Cedar, Spruce, Cypress and Miranda trees which acted as a canopy for the underlying graves. We had walked along the path towards the congregation where the ceremony was to take place. I stayed in a corner beside a Cypress tree waiting for the time to pass and again was peeping at the proceedings of the ceremony to check if it was over.

Then suddenly, a man approached me from behind and said, ‘Enjoy life boy, be happy because time flies. Look at me now, I didn't enjoy life!’

It was a weird, stray comment from a stranger. Then he passed his hand over my head and his hands kissed my hair and then he left as mysteriously as he had arrived.

My father, before leaving, forced me to say goodbye to the dead person. I looked in the coffin and was startled that the man who was talking to me when I was standing beneath the Cypress tree was the same man in the coffin. I was petrified and yet when my father asked, ‘You ok?’ I had answered, ‘Yes!’

Although, I had sweaty palms, I didn’t have the courage to tell him about the incident. After all, it was broad day light and I didn’t want to make myself a laughing stock. Silently I was unable to tell anyone of this incident.

Years later, when my father passed away, I went to the same cemetery. After his burial, as we were walking towards my car, with my mother beside me. Once again, I saw the man. The man who was my father's friend, whom they had buried at the cemetery when I had visited this place years ago, was walking out of the crowd towards me. The stress and everything got to me. I fainted.

When I came around, I didn’t find the dead. The first words that I had uttered was, ‘The man in the coffin!’

‘Yes, that was your father, Johnny!” replied my mom.

 

‘No, not him, I saw one of my father’s dead friends!’

 

‘The shock is tremendous, I guess!’ replied my mom and stared at my girlfriend Joanna.

 

I had not elaborated after that. Neither did they ask me anything regarding this anymore. I was not able to sleep properly and had repeated nightmares. I was terrified of being alone. I didn't turn off the light at night and had several other turmoils which almost wrecked me psychologically. I always wanted to know, ‘Why me?’

 

Later on, I was forced to visit many psychologists at the behest and insistence of my mother and girlfriend. Though they said, ‘There is no issues with you!’ This process went on for two decades. Then I discovered something incredible that changed my life, completely. That dead idiot had an identical twin!

 

Shamik Dhar

Kolkata, India

 

 

Unloved‘Oh, God!’   

'Oh, God!'

 

Another call from believers prompts Jesus’ return to ‘the scene of the crime’. The room is small, with only a few people around. Too little for another Last Supper. Some have masks on their faces, the Pope and some other fellow, Bill something. Jesus nods to his colleague who’s looking at his clothing - very ordinary for such an important figure, he thinks. Previous ones were glittering in gold, brighter than the Sun itself. Last time he was here, in Potsdam, there were hundreds of humans around, dressed sharply, many in uniforms and with medals, especially those who didn’t look kindly to his figure. He thought it was the last time, definitely Last supper, when he’d sent them to San Francisco, as it looked like the peace was here to stay. However, every time, at Waterloo, during Saint Laurent trouser experiment or suffragette movement, he believed it was the last time but, of course, it wasn’t. 

 

‘Who are these three guys?’ Jesus is wondering.

‘They are three presidents - Trump, Putin and Kim of North Korea,' Bill whispers to Jesus, as if he is able to hear his thoughts, standing two feet apart. Jesus is looking towards the distance, contemplating what is going on, as everybody was keen to touch him until now.

‘But where are the rest? And why do you have a mask?’

 

‘Social distancing,’ Bill shrugs the shoulders. ‘That is why we summoned you. This is a crisis beyond any recollection.’

 

Jesus smiles, wanting to tell him a few words about crisis, calamities and disasters, but across the table, one of the presidents, the red one, makes a speech. Jesus doesn’t believe what is he hearing, looking left and right, to the Pope and Bill for a reaction on their masked faces. What kind of world is this? Talking of some virus that kills thousands of people isn’t the problem, but violent protestors and the economy are.

Nobody can interrupt the speaker, as he rages on and on, about democrats, journalists of CNN and other anti-American media, people who attack police guns and knees with their bodies and throats, China, China, China and so on. 

 

Finally, he stops talking, looking at the crowd around the table, only half of the required number, due to Covid-19 restrictions.

 

Jesus also looks around the table, but mostly upward, to the heavens. He breaks the silence trying to change the subject:

 

‘One of you will betray me!’

 

A second later, the red president replies. ‘I will, I will!’ I am good at betraying, lying, in general - all the vicious and brutal things us humans are doing to fellow humans and nature.’

 

The wingmen, both shouting, approve. All three leave the table and the chamber is happy and jubilant.

 

The Pope and Bill are excited and, without saying goodbye, two feet apart, leave Jesus alone and wondering to himself.

 

‘Oh, God!’  With nothing better to say, Jesus shouts in despair, as any believer or agnostic around the globe would when in a similar position.

 

 

Jovan Ivančević

 

from the Balkans

 

 

 

 

The Follower

 

“Have you seen Ravi?” Mr. Singh asked me.

 

‘No, Mr. Singh. He told me he was going to visit his native place for some days. Probably he’s gone there,’ I lied.

 

Okay, let me tell you about Ravi and Mr. Singh. You must be wondering who the hell they are! Ravi and I were neighbours. Mr. Singh was the owner of the flat. I don’t know why Mr. Singh was so concerned about Ravi. Every now and then he asked me about his whereabouts, as if I was his guardian. It was so irritating sometimes. I locked the door and was about leave and, again all of a sudden, that same dog started barking at me. It was Ravi’s pet, a street dog whom Ravi used to always feed with his leftover food. I always carry a packet of biscuits with me and I gave him a small piece, so that he wouldn’t follow me again, like he did on other days when I was going to my office. Mission accomplished!

 

After work, I was coming home and again that nasty dog followed me. I didn’t know how to get rid of him. Just like his owner, Ravi. Irritating, stalker, abuser and blah blah blah! He’s a nasty piece of work. I think all the bad characteristics that a person can have was in him and that’s why I....ooh ok ... nothing. it’s a secret😏.

Even after all these days that dog can still smell his owner’s blood on my hands.

Can you suggest me a way to get rid of it? I will be grateful to you then.

 

Oh, now you came to know about my secret. It’s ok to share with you readers. I hope you won’t tell this to anyone else 😉

 

 

Prapti Gupta

 

Kolkata, India

 

 

 

The Get Together

 

‘Mom are you ready?’ I ask.

 

‘Yes dear, let’s go,’ she replies.

 

Today my mom and I are very excited. After a long time without seeing him, we are going to meet with father. I can’t really explain how happy and excited I am. After a lot of struggle and patience we are getting to meet him. But the sad part is the meeting period is very short, just 10 minutes.

 

On our way, I was thinking what questions I will be asking him. There are so many but I can’t ask all of them. We reach the place after some time. Mr. Morgan is waiting for us. He’s the medium through which we are going to talk with father.

 

He looks at us in a very strange manner, as if he hasn’t seen people like us before. Yes, I admit we are different because we are new to this place, but yet we look like human beings.

 

‘Good morning Mrs. Evans, I was just waiting for you and your son,’ he says to us.

 

‘Is everything ready? We can’t wait to meet him; hope you can understand,’ my mom says to him.

 

‘Yes. The whole process will be 20 minutes and you can talk to him for about 10 minutes, not more than that, otherwise it can be risky for me,” he says.

 

We are disappointed upon hearing about the time limit but still we nod.

 

Then he takes us inside a room. It is a dark room, in fact very dark.

 

Okay, let me be clear with the facts. We are going to do planchette. This is the only method and medium of our contact with him.

 

My mom and I haven’t talked with father since the day we two died in a road accident a year ago but which he survived!

 

It’s really a special day for both of us.

 

 

 

Prapti Gupta

 

Kolkata, India

 

 

 

 

Waving

 

She appeared to be waving at me as I ambled down the street. Though being so short sighted, I could not tell, nor determine, who it was from the distance. Her face was obscured by waves of billowing brown hair. Fearing I may be rude, I raised my hand and waved back at her. This gesture being reciprocated by a ‘Hey.’

 

          ‘Hey,’ I replied as she walked straight passed. Then I realised that she had not been waving at me at all. ‘Phew,’ I thought to myself, ‘she was far too beautiful to talk to. I would have been beside myself.’

 

          As I turned the corner, I spotted her heading in my direction, which I thought was odd as she had just literally passed me a moment ago. Again, she appeared to be waving at me. I was in two minds whether I should wave back. Fearing that it couldn’t be a coincidence, I retuned the wave just in case. Though she walked right on by and I watched her walk on down the street without turning round.

 

          Then I turned another corner and spotted her walking towards me. This time I didn’t wave at all and I pushed on walking until I passed her.

 

          I turned another corner and spotted her walking towards me. It looked like she was jumping up and down, trying to get my attention. I just ignored her and walked on passed.

 

          But no sooner had I passed her, I decided to turn round and follow her.

 

          I was just about to catch up with her when she turned the corner. But when I turned the corner, I recognised her beige brown pea jacket halfway down the street. I chased after her, and once I turned the corner, she was halfway down the street again.

 

          This went on several more times before I decided to give up and turn back. But no sooner had I given up on her, I turned around and found her right in front of me.

 

          ‘Hey.’ she said with a sunrising smile. ‘How’s it going?’

 

          ‘Er, fine,’ I replied tripping over my words. ‘Great.’

 

          ‘Great!’ She beamed brushing her hair behind her ear, as I fell into her deep hazel eyes. ‘Why are you following me?’

 

          ‘Following you! I’m not following you.’

 

          ‘Yes, you are. You’ve writing about me as I speak.’

 

          ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ I retaliate. ‘I have no idea who you are. I didn’t even know you existed until I started…’

 

Anthony Ward

Durham, England

 

 

 

 

Unloved

Tell me, he said, how it was, and so I did. Kissed him with lips as red as... Blood, he said. As night, I said, skin as pale as the moon. He wanted to know what it meant, but it did not mean anything. Because there is no meaning, I told him. Except this, except love. Though this was not love. I felt his arms around me, his lips on mine. Asked if he was sure this was what he wanted, and he said, of course. Then it would be, I said, but not yet. Tell me a story, he said, this time one that is about love, and so I did. Afterwards he told me that this was love, that he did this for me. He had not eaten in a long time. I told him that he did not love me, not truly, but only the idea of me. How then, he asked. I told him that he knew already. Passed the razor, the bottle of pills. Kissed his lips tenderly, as if it were a beautiful thing. But first, I said, tell me that of which you are most afraid. In the very depths of the night, what you most fear that you might see. He whispered the words in my ear. The wardrobe door opened a little, barely a crack. Touch me, I said. Felt his hand on my leg, the bare, pale skin of my thigh. Kiss me, I said. He did, as if for the first time. Make love to me, I said, and when he did I looked deep into his eyes, and saw nothing there except my own reflection. Now, I said, now you are ready. After he had cut blood began to flow, and when I made to leave he asked why. I told him that it was because he had not learned to love enough, though there was no reason. Opened the door a little, said there, now it is ready. Pale eyes in the darkness. Felt my belly swell, pregnant with the first fruits of his death. At the last he asked if there would be anything left for him, but the blood that flowed was like waves on a distant shore. Unloved. One he would remain forever unable to reach.

 

jm summers

 

South Wales

Mr. Barish

 

Dec. 09. 2042.

 

It is with the hollowness in my soul that I remember this day – Mr. Barish’s death anniversary. At the end of my life that is bygone with the memories that are lost in time, I remember not much about Mr. Barish, but the last conversation, or session, I had with him is still fresh in my memory…

 

‘You know something, Doc? If the people are the dressing table, and the memories the cosmetics… then it is your life that is the mirror.’

 

‘Is that right, Mr. Barish? Where did that come from?’

 

‘When I was brushing my teeth this morning.’

 

I grinned upon hearing this. He stood by the window, looking at the white sky blending with mountains dressed in snow, and then he turned – the life in his eyes was gone, and then it was there again.

 

I said, ‘I’m sorry to remind you Mr. Barish, but... your last three albums have been flops.’

 

‘They don’t get me, you know. They can’t feel what I feel,’ he paused, ‘at least, not yet.’

 

‘What is it exactly that they need to feel?’

 

‘I know you don’t feel it too, Doc, but do you know why I still pay to talk to you?’

 

I said nothing. My job was on the line. I was too selfish. As I thought of that, he asked me to show my palm, and handed over a key.

 

‘What is this, Mr. Barish?’ I asked with instant regret.

 

‘I pay you because you are the key into that,’ he pointed at the drawer of the dressing table behind him. ‘What is the meaning of life, Doc? It is something,’ he said as a smile turned up on his face, ‘it is that something we keep chasing and chasing and chasing, and just when we think we’ve made it, that we’ll know now what is that something – we die.’

 

‘But what exactly is your point, Mr. Barish?’

 

‘I think I’ll never make it.’

 

‘Perhaps you don’t need to, if death is what awaits right after it,’ I said as I looked at the clock on the dressing table. Mr. Barish followed my eyes but didn’t say anything. That was the last time I met him.

 

The next day the call came in, they'd found him on the floor – covered in blood, with the mirror smashed.

 

 

 

Udbhav Rai

 

India

 

 

 

 

my books

 

excuse me – my shift key and tab key no longer work but i want to tell you about my books. they’re wonderful inventions, i don't know what i'd do without them, they're so useful. in the books, i talk about toxic rain and how to stop it, plastic and why we should stop using it, destruction of the ozone layer and what to do about it, nuclear war and how to avoid it. but i suppose i should say that those aren't the reasons my books are useful. after all, none of those things matter anymore, it's pointless to even discuss them. the reason they're useful is because we nuked our world back to the stone age, we had non-stop winter, the snow has barricaded me in my house, and the burning books keep me warm.

William Kitcher

Toronto, Canada

 

 

 

 

Nothing Bad Happens In This Story

 

Nothing bad happens in this story. Right from where it starts to the last sentence, people go out and explore the mountainous terrains of the Spiti Valley. There are beaches, first kisses, friendly neighbours, ‘not-so-friendly’ uncles; even fathers return home in this one.

 

Isha sits down at her laptop, typing away an article about vacuum cleaners: 5 ways how Kavel's vacuum cleaners will change your life. ‘Change your life huh?’ Isha wonders aloud to a stuffed room, its walls painted in doodles. ‘People are just desperate to change their life, so much so that they will buy a new vacuum cleaner to make that happen.’ She scoffs at air, ‘You hear than Johnston? Isn't that funny?’

 

There is a lamppost that flickers. Her sister's lamppost. The one she brought from Spiti Valley. It’s a stupid old lamppost that does nothing but flicker. But it's important because it comes from the Spiti Valley. It comes from experience. ‘I absolutely hate this lamppost. But I cannot get rid of it because, if I do, she will come back and notice it gone. But I want it to be known that I hate this lamppost. You write that down Joshua.'

 

Vacuum cleaners do not clean vacuums. That's a funny little thought for you. But can you imagine if they did? Bars would be empty, then you could bet that on your life. ‘I have a life.’ Isha types away: 1. Kavel's vacuum cleaner can help YOU be more time-efficient.

 

How many articles does one have to write before they can afford a trip to Port Blair? Depends on how much they are paid per word. Isha's friends went down to the local beach when they were in school. Both her best friends did. ‘You know Johnston, I am only twenty-five. Plenty of time for first kisses. Besides, I HATE school trips. Really bad things can happen on school trips.’

 

Speaking of feeling uncomfortable, Isha cannot remember what happened at her aunt's place that night. Sure, her uncle insisted that she drank when she was only twelve. He was being a funny-funny man. Nothing bad happened in the storeroom that night. Her funny uncle is a decent father to her cousins. Five years later he still comes back home with pastries and fruit juice. 'It's all good Johnny, it's all good.'

 

As stated before, nothing bad happens in this story. Even though the room Isha sits in is filled with only a feverish, yellow light of the flickering lamp. The small seven-year-old fridge, which once belonged to her mother, does not contain much to eat, but there are cheese slices and cold water. She won’t sleep hungry.

 

Isha is breathing and the air is somewhat clean. There are stars outside, although it's a little cloudy. There’s not going be any rain tonight, and Isha has never been drenched in the rain, ever. But there might be rain one day. Something bad may happen one day too.

 

 

 

Aishwarya Srivastava

 

Lucknow, India

 

 

 

 

The Time Machine

'Do you want me to help with the washing up?'

 

'No, you silly old fool, its going straight in the dishwasher like every other morning; you just go to your shed and carry on playing with your tatt!'

 

'Here we go again'! he mutters.

 

'It’s a workshop woman and I am immersed in a scientific project of enormous importance for the future of mankind!'

 

Changing out of his slippers into steel toe capped boots, he gently closes the backdoor.

Elizabeth Carmichael gave up moaning years ago. If she were honest with herself, she did worry that Samuel had just a little bit of dementia or possibly OCD. Either way, she wasn't going to worry about it today - she had too much on! Pilates, painting class, lunch with two of the golden girls from the golf club, then the afternoon at the art gallery with an old school chum - perfect.

 

Samuel stepped awkwardly into his overalls - things took longer these days.

 

'Morning Sam' A young woman with shiny black shoulder length hair, nose and eyebrow piercings, dressed in torn black t-shirt and ripped jeans breezes in through the wooden door with two steaming coffees.

 

'How's it going my Main Man?' she asks, pulling herself gracefully up onto his work bench and sitting cross-legged amongst the metal filings.

 

'Skylar, would you mind?' he pleads. 'There is a perfectly good chair right there!'

 

Skylar laughs, points to the bumps on her backbone and does not move.

 

'Can we estimate any kind of completion/finalization yet my friend?' she enquires, head resting to one side like a little sparrow.

 

'I would say - give or take - earliest could be this Friday,' Sam replies.

 

'Ace!' Skylar, unfolding her long legs, glides to the floor. 'Today is Tuesday, right Sam?' He nods in agreement

 

'What do you think I should bring?' Skylar asks, her large green eyes piercing into his faded grey ones.

 

'Well, in all honesty, just yourself; not much room onboard for mementos.'

 

'Fine by me, I'll drop by on Thursday just to check in, tatty bye,' and she is gone.

 

Days pass as they do when you are retired and unconfined by timetables. Skylar peeps through the workshop window late Thursday, mouths, ’See you tomorrow,' and is gone in a cloud of stardust.

 

Friday dawns bright and clear. Sam disappears into his workshop and Elizabeth decides to spend the day shopping and lunching with ladies from 'The Club'.

 

Sam puts the finishing touches to his creation, which somewhat resembles a portable toilet; and as he stands back to admire his handiwork, Skylar appears. Holding hands they enter and quietly close the door.

 

It wasn't as if Elizabeth missed him; in fact, she preferred life without the silly old fool; it was just the not being able to explain.

 

Well, you can hardly say your husband had just gone off in his Time Machine with a faerie - can you?

 

 

 

Tricia Waller

 

On the border between Hertfordshire and London, England

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