'Orphan Seeds' by Rosaleen Lynch

It’s history class, with postcards already laid out, of old-world flowers, waters, skies. Holding up a seed, I explain it grew like them. Germination. Seedling. Adult plant. Students can’t understand the pictures, that they’re photos not fiction. Water cycles. Seasons. Trees growing wild. We talk about why today we’re wearing green in remembrance. Without any idea what’s been lost they feel no loss. Now these cards will just be used for games. Sometimes ‘lotto’. Other times ‘memory match’. I’ll make my own rules playing ‘solitaire’, also called ‘patience’, depending how much hope you can bear, and if waiting to remember or forget.

'Head Chef Required' by Emily Macdonald

The notice is pasted alongside sample tasting menus at the restaurant booked 9 months ahead.

'A History Lesson' by Stella Turner

Miss Page, our teacher, shows us a brooch her father found in the river. She tells us it has the suffragette colours, purple white and green. They were the women who protested and threw themselves under horses to get the vote. We girls think that’s bloody marvellous, (we’re not supposed to swear but bloody, ruddy and flip are allowed) the boys just grunt. No one votes now. It disappeared after something called Brexit! We’re told it was divisive. Strange that people were given the choice on whether to leave Europe or not. To be honest I’m not sure where Europe is on the map. We have zones now and the World Council of Women decide major and minor issues. Tomorrow we are studying Boris Johnson, Keir Starmer, Donald Trump and Fake News. Sounds really boring!

'Political Coop' by Anna Peter

Lizzy found her hen Heen comatose at noon yesterday. Or was she acting. Sprinkled water sorted matters fast. Drama queen! Diva! It all proved addictive. Our family has been glued to the backdoor, peeping out, listening for sounds. Just as prima donna took up abode here, nosy neighbours began complaining about extremely loud squawking. Rooster Bobby always wanted space and silence. Gruff old soldier, strong, silent persona. Type that attracts unwanted attention. New bird a rowdy show-off. Today, Le Général is still sitting with his back towards Madame. More backyard politics in store. Stay tuned. 

'When None of Us Spoke to Ella Wiseman' by Emma Phillips

Macey says she’s Batgirl, the wisest, the boss of our pack. None of us question this because Macey can shrink you with a look, scrunch you into a ball of paper and toss you in the trash like she did to Ella Wiseman. Ella sits in front of Miss and puts her hand up so often we call her the Fuhrer, but nobody cares if you are smart because Macey made her invisible. 

Macey and I were born in the same hospital, besties since birth. Macey’s mom hung out with mine before they hooked up with our dads and Macey says Some friends go so far back, they’re family, though I can’t imagine Macey’s manicured toes under our table. She wouldn’t unsee Mom’s grey roots, my brother’s awkward chewing as he tries not to let food catch in his braces. Macey wants to be an influencer when she’s older but Mom thinks we should be whoever we like, as long as we’re still kind. 

That makes me think of Ella Wiseman again, how Macey crushed her faster than a can in a dumpster. Ella is the only person I ever met who didn’t want to bathe in Macey’s light so I guess that is why she got left in the shadows. Macey talks a lot of bull and I’ve spent my whole life nodding like a dashboard dog or chasing my own tail to please her, even though I know Macey takes things too far, that she feeds on the pack, that she’d chew up anyone who dared to challenge her and spit them out like meat.

At recess, I ask Ella if the empty chairs either side of her are free, slip into the space she creates in her pause and lower myself in, without waiting for the splash.

'A Stranger' by Allison Renner

There’s already a figure by the water when I arrive well after sunset, but I don’t want them to acknowledge me, to make awkward chit-chat or worse, so I keep my distance and let the cicadas fill the silence.

I just want space, just want to be alone for one damn minute of the day, and can’t even have that.

The gravel crackles and I turn, hoping they’re leaving, but they’re taking a step forward, toward the water. Part of me knows I should reach out, put a hand on their shoulder, tell them it doesn’t have to end this way, but their posture reminds me of my husband, how he never does anything for himself, always needs to be told what to do next. How I have to care for him as much as I do our four under four, acting as not just mother but assistant and therapist for them all, which I should love, which I do love, at moments, in my way, but this stranger is not my responsibility.

They don’t seem to expect anything, anyway. They take another step, another, the crisp crunch of rocks and pebbles muffled now as the water swallows their footsteps.

Before I know it, the river is lapping at my ankles, colder than I expected on such a warm summer night, and I follow them into the river. As the water fills my mouth, I think it’s nice, for once, to do something you didn’t plan, that will surprise everyone, that will make them wonder if they ever knew you at all.

'Etched In Memory' by Shalini Gupta

She enters from the kindergarten section, hallways echoing synchronous voices of eager toddlers screaming at the top of their lungs, a heady chorus almost like an anthem they were trying to learn by heart. The rooms were empty. Traditional art depictions in bright vermillion red and a lively forest green with black outlines graced the walls that stood drab in an off white state of slumber aeons back. The colours instantly reminded her of art class and a painting of leaves jostling for space with each other on the white background, until all that was left was blobs of green and red. She could picture a sweaty, gawky, teenager trying to swing the racket batting the oscillating white bird that touched it every time, to a salvo for her opponent on the other end of the court, out in the open on her left. A few steps ahead the open reception area was now a row of elitist chambers, a notice board, hanging in the middle. “Can I help you,?” said a woman with a condescending smile. Years ago, a student came looking for a water bottle forgotten during the assembly in the playground to find it tucked safely in a rusty almirah labelled lost and found, just behind the counter. 

'Life's Heartbeat' by Rubi Kleinjans

The midwinter dawn light shone on us as we stiffly scrambled off the heaving bus. Sleep-blurred eyes found solace in the partial darkness retained from the night, and our skin was shivered, nipped and awoken from the cold.

Little feet, big feet, all ventured toward that cavernous building named School. For unending hours each day we remained in its womb, absorbing its unending supply of knowledge. Yet, despite it being an everyday occurrence, it was a constant source of rhythm which moulded each of our lives differently.

Each day was unique; new knowledge, new encounters, and as our footsteps wove the age old path into the innermost sanctity of School, curiosity kindled in my heart. For, even amid the endless pulsating of everyday life, joyful moments can be sought effortlessly. What would today bring?

'By The Lake' by Emily Hall

A splash. Herons scattering. Feet pounding. Cattails parting. Cries.

The doe keeps her fawns close.

'Dropped Weight' by Sarah Oakes

On the bank of the River Ness, I cast my sight into the water. It drops, like a stone, vision falling into the depths.

I know now I don't need it. The world is so much more wonderful without it, filled with songs and stories, kindness and joy, deep connection and sensual pleasure. And this place proves it, more than most, made of senses that sing and people who are happy to help, sacred spaces felt more than seen and acceptance that hums underfoot.

It sinks to the bottom, a votive offering to old gods and ancient sea creatures. As it does, I feel lighter, happier, freer. I don't have to struggle with what I can't see, grapple with old ghosts, or worry about fogged futures. Instead, I can just be me, and know it's more than enough.

A weight lifts from my heart, and heals old wounds. Because I know that life can be lived without sight, and can be lived well.

 

And as I walk away from the river, I pave a new path, footsteps springing with wonder as my long cane swishes from side to side.