2023 Pushcart Prize Nominations

Every year we are more and more impressed with the quality of submissions and the wide variety of stories that come through our queue -- no mean feat when authors only have a weekend to write, polish and submit their work.  This year, we've decided to start nominating work for awards.  It's a nice chance for us to honour some of our authors, and with luck, introduce some of our Write-In stories to wider audiences.

Our first nominations are in!  Congratulations to the following stories and authors, whom we've nominated for this year's Pushcart Prize:

• 'Between the Lines' by Shareen K. Murayama
• 'Eating like a sanskaari girl' by Vijayalakshmi Sridhar 
• 'Inheritance: A story in pseudo programming language' by Elisa Rivera 
• 'Into the Woods' by Jackie Morris
• 'Nobody Dies at the End' by Martha Lane 
• 'To Have Him Back. Back, Back and Back' by Mairead Robinson
  

'There's Always Time For One More' by Laura Cooney

You need to understand that there are endings, and then there are endings.

So, we reach the final curtain, sure, but can you hear any singing? Nope! Here we go, writing the last one! The real last, last one. May this sweet ending last forever and ever… and ever more. 

'The Encore' by Chris Albin

I’m a masochist. I could be anywhere in time and space, yet I come back here to this moment. I know it by heart now.

There’s the Kid at the front of the crowd; fifteen, overweight and with long curly black hair. He wears a black trench coat even though it makes him sweat like a pig. On his wrist is a black Naruto- bracelet, he still thinks counts as Metal. Currently, he is headbanging his little dweeb heart out.

In the back, there’s me; thirty-five, still overweight, slightly less black, and slightly more red plaid. I’ve been nursing the same lukewarm beer for a while now, watching him go at it. Avoiding eye contact.

God, he looks so happy.

I want to leave, but the envelope in my pocket keeps me anchored. Then, on cue, the final riff dies off and the crowd goes wild – the Kid is the loudest. I cringe and take one final swig, before moving in for the kill.

I elbow my way through the crowd unnoticed because I’m a tourist in the Kid’s world. In here music only matters when it’s loud and screaming. In here having a depression makes you interesting and the only place to show positivity is in the crowd and nowhere else. Here rebellion is conformity.

I hate how happy he looks.

But I’m just a ghost. I slide the letter into the pocket of the coat, and he doesn’t even notice I’m there-

Then the band breaks into the encore, I take a final beer to go and step into the December night. I don’t fade away, nothing timey-wimey. Just another tourist to the Kid’s world, leaving.

Only the letter in his pocket remains – two sentences. 

Keep trying, bud. Maybe you’ll find it for both of us.

'Bard' by Suzanna Lundale

The scene opens on a river scene. Plentiful swans are placidly swimming. The camera pans to a bridge – not a modern bridge, but a Tudor-era wooden bridge. A young man in early-modern dress leans on the bridge, watching the swans.

“Master Will,” says a female voice. “Well-met, indeed. I wondered if I might find you here.”

The young man smiles shyly. “Mistress Anne. Would it sound a lie if I confessed I was just thinking of you?”

Voice-over: [dreamy, sultry feminine voice] You have read his stories, seen them play out on stage and screen.

The camera irises out. We see the same young man walks in a dense wood, telling himself a story about a fairy queen and her kingly husband, who seeks to embarrass her after she snubs him. Not all of what he says is audible, but the audience can make out the names – Titania and Oberon.

Voice-over: [same voice] But what of the mind that conceived them?

The camera irises out. We see a montage. Will traveling to London. Will meeting men at alehouses, getting deep into discussion with them. The Globe being built. An early rehearsal. Culminating with criers touting Julius Caesar. The montage slows to show us a bit of the “Ides of March” speech.

Voice-over: [same voice] This fall, in theaters everywhere, the tale of William Shakespeare, the Swan of Avon, THE BARD.

'Situation Vacant – Still' by Rachel Burrows

She lies in the dark, reliving the whole sorry interview, trying to block out when she had s…

shit – she had said,  ‘A seag..’

Oh Lord, so ‘she could steal people’s sandwiche…’

Surely she …, how could she have been so clum…

see – she knew she shouldn’t  have applied for the stupid…

…post-traumatic stress now, thinking about when they asked about her reasons for wanting part-time and she said so she could walk the …

don’t go there, don’t go there, don’t go…

there’s a flashback to her saying she was most proud of the way she could balance a …

why hadn’t she mentioned Times Ed prize for …

disaster, disaster, dis..

after all that work and effort on the application…

for months, for nothing, for absolutely no…

thing is, they put her off with the, ‘we aren’t quite ready for you, there’s been a problem, we don’t seem to have your…’

details they didn’t need, yabber, yabber, always talking without think…

in the morning it will feel better won’t …

it was ex-crut-iat-ing and even the radio being on, and all the voices can’t stop her thinking about the answer to the question the students panel asked, and she can’t block it out because it’s right there frozen infront of her screwed up eye…

‘I would like to be a seagull, because

I like looking down on peop..’

Almighty God in Heaven – that’s what she answered, to that question, in front of the headteacher about what animal she would most like to …

B – o-l-l o-c- 

'Time to Call It A Night' by Tilly Greenland

Well, that’s it, that’s all I’ve got brain for.  My thoughts are becoming fuzzy and spell check is having to work very hard as I mis-click the keys on the keyboard.  And I keep using the wrong mouse.  Maybe got enough energy for one more... cup of tea before bed.

'The Nick of Time' by Suzanna Lundale

“Hi, are you a friend of Annika’s? I’m her brother, Nick.”

“Oh, I– Yes, she’s a colleague, but I only just arrived this term. Pleasure to meet you. Are you also in Time Studies?”

“I am, but more on the experiential end.” Nick gave a winning smile, and Annika knew with conviction that he imagined a little starburst over one tooth and a little ‘ting!’ like in the cartoons.

“Oh, you mean you actually time travel?!”

“Yes, I do,” he practically purred, popping open the business card case he always kept close to hand. “I’m something of a private detective…through time.” He fixed his gaze on the punch bowl by Dr. Erickson, staring into what he no doubt imagined was the middle distance.

“Nick of Time Investigations,” read the woman from the card. Annika wondered how she managed it without laughing, but some people seemed to find her brother charming.

Nick tried to suppress his crow of delight at hearing the name out loud, so it came out as a snort. “That’s my little witticism. Nick of Time, get it? Because I’m Nick!” Again the grin with the glinting tooth.

This proved a bridge too far for the woman. She muttered some excuse and walked hurriedly away. Annika would have to find out who she was and apologize, so she didn’t think the whole family is mad. Nick was still gazing after her when Annika sidled up to him. “Strike out?”

Nick started and looked down at his sister. “Nah. She’ll be back. Just in the Nick–” Annika groaned, which made him grin all the harder as he finished, “of Time!”   

'The Manuscript' by Cath Humphris

Imagine his hand, his bony fingers gripping the quill lightly, at the sloping desk in the stone room, where comfort is of secondary importance. Cold winter sunlight slants in from a biforate mullioned window, unfiltered. It sharpens the folds of his rough brown habit. 

The sleeve is pushed back to the elbow, exposing the lean brown arm that on other days wields a hoe, gathers in hay, empties the latrines. His wrist is angled carefully above the creamy surface of a freshly scraped parchment, lest he leave an unintentional stain. 

The other desks are cleared of all but the scars of sharpened quills and graffiti.  

Imagine the ink, in a stout pottery jar, and his tonsured head, bowed, gleaming, as he marks the curves  of a capital, snake-like. Now thick, then thin, neatly turning the tail with the last drop. He watches the glossy shape appearing and drying as he measures the distance for a smaller, downward line to follow. Knows without tracing how to place the three cross-marks. Parallel, perfectly balanced.

Thus, each letter, faithfully copied.  Blindly constructing not just a text, but a work of precise beauty in a language he cannot read, but knows by heart. For how many pages has he never touched the inks on the far side of the room, the blue, the red, the gold?

'They Said Not To Do It' by Sumitra Singam

 

But I’m doing it anyway and now there’s pee all over my hands and maybe since I have to wait five hundred years to see if it’s two lines or one, I can wash my hands and my God it takes a long time to sing three happy birthdays but also that’s only twenty-three seconds and I still have nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds to wait but what there’s a line! No it’s just the control line so that’s good the test will be valid but it also not because the IVF nurse specifically told me they’re inaccurate with fertility treatment, so wait for your blood test, but how am I supposed to wait ten whole days when for weeks it’s been daily trips to the clinic for bloods and scans and needles and creams and pessaries at twenty-two past four exactly in the morning and did you know the parking is seventy-five dollars for five minutes at that time? And all so that my psychopathic womb will stop just pretending to be a normal hospitable thing and actually become one in real life like one of those show homes with more throw pillows than sense and what the hell do they do with the throw pillows when they’re in bed asleep, put them on the floor? So wouldn’t you just not have them in the first place and it’s this thinking that’s got me into this situation in the first place so I’ll snap out of that completely unmaternal mindset and smile into my new throw-pillow-embracing self and holy watch what you wish for, Batman, there are two fucking lines on the pee test and what the hell am I meant to do with that, they told me not to do a fucking test and I did one anyway

'At the Arrivals Gate' by Suzanna Lundale

“You will love it here!” That’s what he’ll cry, when he welcomes her finally. He will wrap his arms around those shoulders again and painstakingly apply little kisses all over her face, and she’ll giggle.

“I know I will,” she’ll say, between giggles, joyful to be with him again, joyful to be on the threshold of a new life.

“I’ll grab your suitcases,” he’ll offer with giddy nervousness, turning toward the carousel, eager to get the suitcases and get her home where he will greet her properly. 

“I’ll come with you,” she’ll laugh, and interlace their fingers more tightly to show him she will never let go again. Not then, not ever.

And wrapped in each other, they’ll wait, only half-watching the bags go by, because the future will be in each other’s faces, and they will have waited so very long to get there.

'It will be blindingly obvious' by Jeremy Boyce

 It will be blindingly obvious to everyone because there will be an incredible flash, brighter than the dawn of creation or a nuclear bomb. Time will briefly stop, no birds will sing and clocks will not tick, or tock. All normal activity will be stopped and public transport will be suspended, the Stock markets will have a bank holiday, taxes will neither be demanded nor paid,commodities and futures given a day off at the beach, where no seagulls will fly and waves will not break on the grainless sand because the tides will stop pushing and shoving. Beneath the surface fish will take a break and have a much needed nap, all their predators doing likewise. The sun will stop spitting fire and the moon will be neither waxing nor waning, the universe itself will stop Quantumly expanding and all the black holes will suddenly turn white. The plants and trees will stop growing out of respect, and their flowers will not fade, so as to add joy to the occasion. Everybody will be happy and smiling and the bees, butterflies and other pollinators will collect pollen and nectar all day long untroubled by wind, rain or insect repellant. The mosquitos will stop biting and wasps will be happy to play among themselves, not bothering the festive barbeques or picnics. There will be no sand in the sandwiches and the dropped ice-creams will always land cone side down. On this day I will know I have found true love.  

'How To Train Your Diary' by Jaime Bree

The diary flew across the room seemingly on the trajectory of the bookcase, but it didn't succeed, instead it embedded itself into the wall.

'Don't hesitate', it whispered playfully. 'Put me in my place before something from your past breaks free.'

I pulled. It was resolute.

'Am I going to have to?' I sighed.

I closed my eyes, twisted my hand in the air, resetting the invisible sands of time.

The book rattled defiantly then propelled itself from the wall into my hand.

I clicked the flamboyantly flapping clasp tightly shut.

'Good try, but my secrets are safe with me.'

'How Dragons Pray' by Suzanna Lundale

You would look lush on a dragon, way up skyward, folk of all lands hungry for your favor. You could. You should. Show crown’d brows who soars by clouds, and who holds only land. Your sojourn’s young. Show us. 

'Old Stories in Modern Times' by Jinny Alexander

 

The storm swept fiercely through Kansas, uprooting trees and sending people scurrying to their basements. Being hurricane country, and well-used to inclement weather, the houses were strongly built with solid foundations. Cellars were well-stocked with tinned goods and calor-gas cookers; generators stood ready in dim corners. Dorothy settled herself down into a comfy old armchair, Toto curled on her lap.

‘Make popcorn, please, Aunty Em,’ she called. ‘I’ll get Netflix started up.’

 

'Wednesday and all the ones before' by Leia Butler

Empty house, dinner for one, nothing good on TV, 'Not enough storage' popping up on your phone. Scrolling through, trying to delete, going back in time, 

Sunscreen, screams, spiders, the milk has gone off, away from home and missing the smell of your pillows. Swimming costumes, damp towels, holding breath, holding hands. 

Quality streets, milk, cookies, tinsel getting stuck in the hoover, all laughing at the same old jokes. Sellotaped fingers, 6 am starts, bin bags full of wrapping paper scraps, tiny gasps and 'I can't believe it' whispers.

Jumpers too big, shouting in car parks, first-day pictures, shops already tearing down 'back to school' billboards to bring out the Halloween bits. Rush-hour pick-ups, pictures to stick on the fridge, book covers to wrap, baths before bed.

Wishing you could relive them all. 

'Regret at the End of a Jagged Path' by Suzanna Lundale

Mort nosed his way through the sack of refuse, contemplating the jagged path a once-eminent Time Magus had taken through the sands of time to land himself in the body of a goat, with no means to jump again or even to find his way back into a human body. "Balls," he swore, choosing a banana peel to snack on. 

"Thinking about your, what was it, jagged path through the sands of time?"

"You shouldn't mock a cripple," he grumbled.

"Aww, I wasn't mocking. You know you're my favorite ghost-goat," Rocio soothed, scratching behind his ears.

"Goat-ghost," he corrected.

"Whatever."

'Faithbreaker' by Leigh Loveday

(A whisper: five)

Father,

It is good to be able to write to you using the calligraphy they teach here. My own adaptation of it, in fact, which I have worked on with great diligence and zeal.

I will forego further pleasantries; you will not entertain them.

(A growl: four)

I will also forego recriminations; I am sure you had reasons for delivering me to the monks against my will, knowing full well the reputation of this place.

They are devilishly hard masters. Or simply devils, some would say. I wonder how much you knew of their true teachings.

(A shuddering breath: three)

I do not expect you to heed me now, of course. That time has passed. But it is important that I state this plainly: practices occur here that countenance not one wayward word, and punishments that no untainted man could have devised.

Already, I am deeply changed from the boy you raised. I will never again be the same.

 
(A sigh: two)

And nor will you. Here we come to the crux of it. Do you feel it yet? A stirring of your cold blood?

Do not fear a sudden rush of remorse at the rawness of my words. No, father. This is merely everything I have learned, poured into one short letter. A sacrifice I make in turn.

(A quiet laugh: one)

Likely you now feel the fire that follows the hot flush, as the ink transferred to your skin begins to wither your nerves and blacken your bones. It is potent stuff, and for you, I have made it more so.

While it is unlikely to be a comfort at this critical stage, be assured you will not have to feel it for long.

I remain your attentive son,

Jeremiah

'Time to Call it a Night' by Jeremy Boyce

As he slid into the spare bed he heard her snoring. There’d been ranting, but she’d run out of steam, all shouted-out, totally pissed. Before he knew it sunlight burst through the un-shuttered window. Mireille would be along soon. He could get back to work.  

But Cathy never came back.

'This Modern Life' by Suzanna Lundale

I guess I sneered at Liz one time too many about her whole Black Friday nonsense because suddenly I found myself shivering outside Oakhurst Shopping Mall at her side with my gut still bursting with turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes and pie, listening to her wax rhapsodic about the God-knew-how-many inch TV she wanted to snag at a limited price of 200 bucks if we could just get to the electronics department ahead of the rest, Liz laying out strategies about whether we should cut through Jewelry or no, what if we–but then the doors were open and the time for strategy past, we were just pushing forward, trying not to lose each other in the crush with my left ear ringing after it took a sharp elbow jab early on and two more blows by the time I hit Accessories which had me grabbing an umbrella for defense and slinging a backpack over one shoulder to shield my back though it didn't seem to be helping one desperate woman I saw on the floor crawling for the safety of one of those round clothing racks kids like to hide in to scare their mothers, a large bootprint in the center of her own backpack shield, so by the time I found Liz, bloodied and triumphantly guarding a slightly bigger TV than the one she came for - but it's only $400 more, Kim! - I felt like I'd been to war and could only grimace when Liz crowed, best Thanksgiving ever!

'Jenny's Cat' by Tilly Greenland

It was Jenny’s 3rd birthday and all she wanted was a cat. She’d never met a cat, never held one, but she’d seen pictures and her friend at nursery had one. And that was all she wanted.

Mummy and daddy as their cat had recently had a litter of kittens who were now ready to leave.

Jenny was so excited, she would get to choose the kitten herself. They were all in the kitchen and Jenny walked around the kitchen table looking at them. There was one black and white one who was sitting all alone, next to the table leg. “I want this one.”, she said as she grabbed it and picked it up. “This is Fluffy Cat.”

They put Fluffy Cat into a box and drove home, stopping briefly at her grandparents.

“I’m staying in the car with Fluffy Cat,” Jenny said. With windows and doors secured Jenny let Fluffy Cat out of the box. She had very sharp claws but a pretty smiley face. Fluffy Cat wandered around the car, followed closely by Jenny who made sure she didn’t get into any trouble. Then they sat on the back seat together, Fluffy Cat settling down on Jenny’s lap. That’s when Fluffy Cat started making a very strange sound. Jenny hadn’t heard it before and was frightened. She didn’t know what it was. Plopping Fluffy Cat back in the box, Jenny quickly left the car and ran up to her grandparent's door.

Safely inside Jenny burst out crying “I broke the cat!” she sobbed.

“What on earth do you mean?” asked everyone, concerned.

“She’s making a funny noise. I didn’t do anything, I promise. It sounded like rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

Then everyone started laughing. “Oh, my dear Jenny, the cat is purring, she is happy she likes you,” said Gran.

'Sometimes If You Want Something Done Right…' by Lisa Thornton

Lower. Not there. To the right. Let’s just. Never mind. It was. I mean. Absolutely. Next time. I do. I definitely do. I will. 

'When a woman falls in the street' by Catherine O’Brien

When a woman falls in the street, an obliging sky abandons its woes relating to writer’s block and supplies unsolicited tears because she’s not just someone who got trampled in a great metropolis, even though technically she is, because the impact caused her body to high five the ground, but it should also be noted that she’s gracious without the constant need for gentleness, has traversed incomparable continents of contentment but having said all that she’s no longer ‘Mum’ with her tough exterior feathers hiding a snuggly puffin in her handbag for her toddler who just turned two that the emergency worker will find and melt into hot, heavy tears as he holds it away from the carnage, because there’s so much blood and such little beauty, because it’s clear that she wasn’t made to be forgotten like a facsimile taken at face value, summarised in an evening paper with the blithe consideration of a detached mind that will never journalise anything remotely important like - what can be done to fecundate our souls with more understanding of a fellow human's inherent splendour? 

'Girl, become woman' by Suzanna Lundale

Twenty years. It had been twenty years since she had seen his face, been in the same room with him, watched his face carefully for signs of danger. Yes, there had been a few phone conversations, most memorably the one where he demanded to know what made her think pursuing a doctorate was a reasonable goal for her, when she should know well that it took real intelligence, like her mother’s, to do a thing like that. There hadn’t been many phone calls after that.

But now her cousin – another person she hadn’t seen in twenty years – claimed that the old man was dying, and wouldn’t she come see him to say goodbye? Dying. Him. The waking nightmare who had faded into regular nighttime nightmare when her mother fled, one child tucked under each wing, across the continent. Do nightmares die?

Rapid decisions made and tickets bought, she and her sister boarded a plane to cross the continent again. While her sister chattered about wanting to drive by their old house and definitely wanting to see if that one restaurant was still there, she looked out the window to watch the miles of safety – her safety – stream away far below.

And then they were there. The car was rented, directions obtained, unfamiliar roads navigated. She pulled up. She turned off the car. She hugged her little sister. She walked in first.

“Hey, Dad.”

'Why I Can’t Stand Your Latest Girlfriend' by Roberta Beary

Not because she’s so much younger, not because she doesn’t like your kids (she doesn’t), but because you published her work instead of mine.

'New and Improved Feline Day Planner' by Caroline Gonda

 

24 December

 

 

 

1.  Wake human for morning feed. If no response to vocal warning, bite foot under bedding.

 

2.  Complain about quality of food.

 

3.  Eat food.

 

4.  Complain about absence of food.

 

5.  Continue tests on kitchen worktop. Results on chewed area inconclusive so far.

 

6.  Repeat steps 2 through 4.

 

7.  Demolish low-hanging shiny objects on unexpected indoor tree.

 

8.  Climb unexpected indoor tree.

 

9.  Reproach human for collapse of unexpected indoor tree. If necessary, follow up with mouse in water-bowl.

 

10.  Mouse stair-flinging. Suggest moving this activity to night shift for maximum effect.

 

11.  Repeat step 6.

 

12.  Sleep.

'Lost' by Jeremy Boyce

Neither of them had ever been before. Neither the place, or the situation, so they'd done all the things they'd thought they should. Ancient monuments, palaces,castles. Museums, galleries, and a special treat at the big theatre, seeing the big names live, mingling with the glittering literati and interval-drinks well to do. They'd been dazzled and deafened by the bright lights and 24/7 never stop lifestyle, and they'd loved every minute. They'd got lost a few times as you do in a strange place, despite the best efforts of Google Maps, but always found their way.

This time they were completely lost when they walked round a corner and there it was. Brightly lit, advertising its wares with a mouth-watering window display, "Eat as much as you like buffet" signage and the powerful scents of spicy delights wafting from the entrance. People were hurrying in, no one was leaving. It was true, they'd spent more than they'd expected so far, they were lost, and hungry, why not ?

Hans had eaten at least three meals, and Greta like she was pregnant with triplets. They'd paid on entry so all that remained was to raise themselves from the cheap vinyl bench seating, check Google Maps and find their way back to the AirBnb. They'd been tempted and they'd enjoyed the experience, no question.

Hans leaned back, belched loudly, excused himself, and thought about visiting the toilets before leaving. He leaned gently forwards over his "eat as much as you like" belly and tried to lift himself upright, pressing down hard on his feet, using every ounce of thigh muscle. Unable to lift himself, a wave of confused panic washed over his face. Greta forced her hands into the vinyl bench seat pushing back and downwards, but it was no use, she couldn't stand either.     

'Off Piste' by Donna M Day

             I used to love off season but now there’s not a single flake of snow left on this planet, the season will never be on again.

            My Dad says I should make the best of it, but cosy armchairs, copious amounts of hot chocolate and cable cars are useless when the coldest days are 32º.

            I fill the bath with ice, lay down and dream of snowmen and slaloms

'Make a Wish - No, not that one' by Suzanna Lundale

I was unsurprised to wake and find myself alone in the house. Our final words to each other were far from fond goodnights. They were more like a final battle, a culmination of years of small hurts collected, hoarded, waiting to be used in case of all-out warfare. Have we come to this? You hurled accusations about how I was never there during your childhood, how I was too concerned with myself, my career. I prodded your weak spots with well-aimed comments about your disastrous life choices, grimly refusing to shout, because I know – I know ­– how much you hate that. To be fair, you hadn’t told me the doctors had you back on keto, and yes, I made the whole meal before your arrival, so my having made your favorite dessert was not, as you called it, a final f-you to you and your efforts to get well. Just as the lasagne wasn’t an effort to undermine your efforts. You’ve always loved how we – how I – make lasagne. And maybe if you hadn’t arrived with two bottles of wine – one in hand and one inside – it all would have gone a little more smoothly. I don’t know. Maybe my whole idea of a festive birthday dinner, with the hurts tucked away, and the happy memories at the table, was just a pipedream anyway. Happy birthday to me.

'Palette' by Wendy Newbury

 

Tell me in colors if you can’t say the words, I’m a mustard yellow, a sticky blotch of mess ‘round your white coffee cup; tell me here in this moment what you’d prefer, perhaps a splash of red and I will swirl the orange you’ve been after; tell me our love is no longer violet, deep afterglow sky, soft rain kissing windows, handwritten notes left by the kitchen sink; tell me you want an evergreen start, a redo, your beginning; tell me this is the end, that I’m now last season’s shades of Love in New York and you, Faded Love; tell me all the things that made me choose you, like when you said I’m your sunrise palette, your ocean blue and golden ray, white sea foam waves; tell me, tell me quick before it all turns grey.

'What she asked and what I answered' by Caroline Gonda

 

A long pause. “So, are we all right?”

My throat is dry. I’m not ready. It’s now or never.

Twenty years.

Deep breath.

“No.”

'If My Dog Could Talk' by Tilly Greenland

 

Oh my god, hooman, I wuv you soooo much, you is my fav hooman, you bwing me fud and givs tickls an scritches and such and, oooooohhhhhhh, jus there, right there, that’s it hooman, you got it, ooooohhhh yeeeaaaahhhh, now fud, giv fud, wan fud, am starvd, you see dees bowanz, is mine bowanz, wan more bowanz, play now, hooman, play wid me, frowd bol, fetch bol, is your turn now, you fetch bol am tired, ned fud, am starvd, and more scritches, dis ma fwend , hooman, dey lik scritches too an fud, not my fud, nevr my fud, bad hooman, growl at hooman, Pippin no share fud with fwend, I run now, catch me hooman, I run fast an far away, can’t catch me hooman, am fastr dan you, Pippin can run vez fast, bye hooooommmaaaaannn, byeeeeeee.

'Yes, I do have a pet, called:' by Leia Butler

 Fear. And I wonder if anybody else looks after theirs like I do. Feeds it daily, takes it for walks, gives it little treats. 

'Empty Nest' by Jonathan Beck

 

An audience has gathered on the banks of the river and crowded to the edge of the bridge, staring at the small inflatable with its figures in wetsuits and goggles and tanks and flashlights. The heavy rain threatens to thin the numbers, but umbrellas quickly spring open to anchor the viewers in place.

 

            Earlier, a lone jogger stops to gather her breath, panting with hands on hips by the sign that highlights the wildlife one might see amongst the reeds: herons, ducks, the occasional swan. It’s why her gaze lingers on the rushing water, searching, hoping. There! Her breath catches. An otter? The slick dark hair so much like fur, she thrills to think she’s being gifted this sighting. She unfastens the armband that keeps her phone secured to her arm, keen to capture proof of the moment, then stops as the shape in the water changes. It turns over, revealing a strip of coloured jacket. A small schoolbag is strapped to its back.

           

            Earlier still, and further upstream, Isabelle tears chunks of bread from uneaten lunchtime sandwiches. Standing on the steep embankment, she gently tosses the pieces towards the tall reeds, hoping to lure out the swans she knows live among them. She doesn't know that the swans are not there; that their nest has been abandoned; that rats had gotten to the eggs and now all that remains are meticulously arranged bulrushes and ruined eggshells. She edges closer. It’s starting to rain.

'Always Leave the Ring in the Box' by Laurie Marshall

As she crawled on her hands and knees, Alex was acutely aware of cameras flashing and paparazzi shouting her name. This was not the red-carpet photo-op she’d had in mind when she decided to propose at her film’s premiere.

“Found it!” her publicist sprang to his feet, a vintage ruby and pearl ring held triumphantly over his head.

Flashes and shouts intensified as Alex adjusted her stance back to only one knee, grinned up at her girlfriend, and asked the big question:

“Darling Faith, will you attend all the red-carpet events with me for the rest of your life?”

'What’s for tea?' by Donna M Day

Proposal – Bangers and mash

Objection – It’s too warm

Counter-proposal – Chicken salad

Issue – I had salad at lunch

Compromise proposal – We go out. You order what you want

Objection – I’m too tired

Meeting adjourned

'Intruder' by Rachel Burrows

I woke up to banging. Not imagined or dreamt. Thump! They said there‘d be high chance of break-ins, but nothing prepared me for this absolute terror - all happening right underneath our balcony. Then primeval dredging provided sudden uncharacteristic courage which propelled my tingling body from under the mosquito netting, straight towards danger, armed only with adrenalin. Final moments.  Old Askari Musa looked up, still crumpled by sleep - that apparently hadn’t been solitary!  ‘Mamba!’  he croaked, and held aloft a quivering dead snake, beaten, minutes earlier, against unexpectedly lethal burglar bars.

'Let’s Pretend to be Romans whilst No-one is Around' by Tilly Greenland

Turkey is still open over winter.  Beaches and resorts are deserted and the raucous noise of holidaymakers has long since subsided.  Life goes on, peacefully.  Shopping arcades and markets, city centres and ancient wonders still welcome visitors, although not many from foreign lands.

I love visiting the old ancient cities around Selcuk; pretending to be a Roman to amuse myself and wondering what life was actually like.  Ephesus has too many barriers, many more than there used to be, keeping you to the main areas.  A long time ago I walked to the end of the arcadian way, right out into the sea.  But the sea wasn’t there.  It hasn’t been there for centuries.

Prienne is a better place to pretend to be a Roman.  It’s much more available.  A road leads down from the town on the side of the mountain, all the way to the harbour below.  Boats no longer dock.  There is no sea there anymore, either.

I debark the imagination boat and walk up the main road towards the town.  There’s no-one else on site so I can be a Roman all I want.  Walking up the main road there are so many people on the brightly coloured street.  Market stalls, shop fronts, so much noise.  The smell of food cooking, being sold from baskets and vats, fruit sellers offering slices to tempt you.  I take a quince from my bag and sit down to watch.  Plastic bottle replaces earthen ware as I sip my water.  The rain starts now so I head upwards, underneath the trees that grow in the middle of the road, brushing past bushes that now live where the people once did.  At the top of the road there are two original ancient market stalls.  It helps ignite the imagination.

'Death do not us part' by Donna M Day

Ghost stories don’t usually end with “and they all lived happily ever after” and I guess this one doesn’t either as we’re not technically living but happily ever after is ours and no one can ever come between us again.  

'Time Waits For No Man' by Ruth Allen-Humphreys

 

They say a watched pot never boils but they never mention kettles. It would have been quicker if there’d been less water, but it was tea for two. I watched in horror as the bus sped past without me on it. I was late, for a very important date. I waited, and then three more came at once. This was a blessing in disguise because it meant I travelled a new route, enjoyed a change of scenery and, as my pulse slowed, I found that a change is as good as a rest.

 

A lone magpie signalled sorrow; roadworks took us to the back of beyond. When my bus got in, I hit the ground running, resisting the temptation to look for my missing watch in my bag; I didn’t have the time. I burst into the meeting, better late than never I suppose, but my sweaty appearance did nothing to inspire confidence.

 

I locked eyes with my nemesis. I couldn’t think why they’d hired him. Between you, me, and the gatepost, I wouldn’t have touched him with a barge pole. Except of course he’d arrived on time and didn’t look like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Putting aside my irritation, I concentrated on getting through the rest of the day.

 

At the bus stop, heading home, it seemed my luck had changed. A car pulled up; the window lowered. ‘His’ head popped out and offered me a lift. Gritting my teeth, I accepted; beggars can’t be choosers and I didn’t want to cut my nose off to spite my face. All I wanted was to climb the wooden hill to Bedfordshire, arrive in the land of nod and put the longest day, (the actual longest day; June 21^st) behind me. After all, tomorrow is another day.

'Love Lost' by Anna Peter

 

David Magnus slumped into a kitchen chair, a large blue ceramic jar clasped to his chest. Only the sounds of breathing could be heard. Someone switched on the heater in the corner, sliding it closer to the work table in the centre. No one rushed to take off their coats. Vapour streamed out of Elaine’s nose, her eyes focused on her husband who seemed reluctant to empty the jar. A throat cleared at the back of the room. Probably her nephew Danny, but today he was the cop. David pulled out crumpled papers from the jar. Other hands flattened them on the table. People bent over him to read. He seemed to be moving too slowly, his breathing laboured. Danny’s throat cleared again. “Need help, Uncle Dave?”

Years ago Elaine had watched Lucy leave a note in Dave’s work boots after Lucy dropped by to have coffee. She’d read the note soon after Lucy disappeared around the house. She had felt sick. Helpless and enraged, the torment of her shaken trust corroding her for years. That day Elaine had watched David like a hawk and saw him slip the note in the jar – he had pulled out the bills on top and stuffed the letter right at the bottom and left the kitchen in a hurry. Reaching for the bottom of the jar, Elaine found a few more, realising that David thought the letters would never be found. But he’d be at the jar around tax filing time, trying to remove the evidence of his mistress, but unwilling to destroy them. Elaine had toyed with the idea of divorce, or showing the notes to Lucy’s husband Willard, but stopped – they had children.

Lucy leaned against the doorjamb, sunk from the strain. She had kept David’s notes, even though they had moved on. She had locked them in her little metal box, the key hidden away. She read the letters sometimes, they had made her feel desired, but in later years hopeless and frightened. Their stupidity was now on show to their grown children, friends, neighbours and police. She couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Willard, poor dear Willard, had gone through the letters, drunk almost all the liquor in the house, stuffed David’s professions of carnal love into his pockets, jumped into his truck and rode it around the Magnus property while firing his shotgun at their house. When he tried to drive through their living room, he rammed into a small tree. He was now in jail. A lawyer had served her a divorce notice. Lucy glanced at Elaine, and was startled. Elaine was smiling.

'If the Shoe Fits' by Donna M Day

This Halloween she will carve a carriage from the pumpkin, wrap her feet in glass and crash the biggest party of the year.

All she wanted was to dance but now he’s determined to find her.

And he’ll never give up. Even if he must burn the whole world to cinders. 

'Searching For' by Leia Butler

I will look for you under my bed, between forgotten single socks and fluff, and will spend too long evaluating if I'm looking at a spider or a hair band. And nobody will be there so I'll turn to my cupboards, and poke through a packet of pasta. I will not find any friends within the fusilli, but I'll have run out of other places to look. 

And I will wonder if every day of my life going to be like this, looking for something I am never going to find. Like the reason I don't know you anymore, or the set of keys I'd promised I wouldn't lose again and I'll realise I've forgotten what I was looking for anyway.

I'll abandon the search while the kettle boils, unable to remember the last time I had to buy new teabags. And I'll knock over my mug but that will be fine, because I'll still have three more and that's a good position to be in when you never have guests.

'Crosswires' by Elisa Rivera

 Suh fam, did you hear–’ 

‘The tea? She really did the thing…’

‘Was she even with?’ 

‘Ah yeah that actor-slash-director. So he’s not?’

‘Ben? No, it must be a freak accident. She couldn’t just’

‘They were flying from LA when…’

‘Hang on are we…?’

‘Sarah Diaz, the girl we met–’

‘Oh! I was talking about Emma. Wait what? Did they both–’

‘Far out.’ 

'Your advice always competed and always won' by Catherine O’Brien

The playlist pauses when I dream but your words are lyrics that have wallpapered themselves onto the trellis of my mind. “Don’t give up!” 

'Roll Back the Clock' by Rowan Bell

And they’re off! You can hear the crowd going wild as the race begins, a few filthy cars crossing the start line over the course of half a minute, some grouped together and jockeying for position, others spaced well apart, the unlucky winner crossing last...

...We’re a third of the way through now, pristine paintwork and sponsors’ logos are coming into view as dirt flies off the vehicles and is neatly pressed into the road surface by the large front wheels of the following cars. Tyres are building up as they pick rubber up off the roads, and we’re almost at the stage where they have to be replaced...

...For those of you who haven’t seen the race before, those large intakes suck in air, and the engines process the gases into a useless liquid making the car heavier and slowing it down. When the car’s tank is full, the liquid is taken away and stored it until it can be thickened and pumped into empty holes in the ground...

...There goes the first car into the pit lane... Incredible! Less than ten seconds to swap out the heavy old tyres for light new ones and empty the tank...

...I can see red flags being waved by marshals over there to indicate that it’s safe for the two cars on the grass to join the race. There they go, spinning and bouncing off each other, stabilising as they settle onto the road on that hairpin...

...Here they come into the final straight, the full complement of immaculate cars slowing to a stop in neat formation, as the crowd falls into reverent silence.

Back to the studio.

'The Fire Was Too Hot' by Donna M Day

 When it was too late, they cried.

 

When they still had time, they drank coffee stirred with bamboo spoons from styrofoam cups.

 

When they first noticed, they encouraged recycling and made it as difficult as possible.

 

When they didn’t know better, they flew further than birds in winter.

 

When they embraced industry, they drank, smoked, snorted, swallowed and multiplied.

 

When they embraced war, they cowered and hid from bombs they dropped.

 

When they embraced coal, they coughed up black dust and died young.

 

When they moved to cities, they crammed the poor into workhouses and prison ships.

 

When they lived in villages, they held public balls for husband hunters.

 

When they lived on farms, they perished if the rain dried up.

 

When they wore codpieces and farthingales, men hunted animals and women hunted husbands.

 

When they wore suits of armour, they played at fighting.

 

When they wore animal skins, they found fire.

 

When they found fire, they killed.

 

Before they killed, they lived.

 

Before they lived, they were born.

 

When they were born, they cried. 

'A love story in three parts' by Jinny Alexander

1.

That Day

The 2.05 from Euston to Carlisle will change at Crewe. This, Benedict knows. 

Benedict doesn’t know that between trains he’ll meet Imogen on the stairs, struggling with her battered leather suitcase.

He doesn’t know he’ll carry it for her, over the footbridge to Platform 4, or that he will notice her hair is neat and shiny as the conductor’s brass bell, or that her perfume will mingle with steam and coal dust to linger in his clothes.

Benedict doesn’t know he will lift her suitcase into the luggage compartment before slipping away to his pre-allocated seat on another train, where he will gaze out of the dusty window and look straight into her eyes.

He doesn’t know she will squash her freckled nose against the glass of her own dusty window, or that as their trains pull away in opposite directions, his heart will leave with hers.

2.

Seven Days

Benedict spreads marmalade on Sunday morning and the toast is the colour of her freckles. He shakes open the paper but sees only her face on every page. 

On his way home from work on Monday, he notices her in every fawn-coloured coat on the platform.

When he sniffs the sleeve of his jacket on Tuesday, the scent of her perfume is fading.

On Wednesday, his tea goes cold as he studies the weekend timetable.

On Thursday, he books a ticket.

On Friday, he agonizes over which hat to wear; which coat.

When Saturday comes around – seven days since they met on the footbridge – he boards the 2.05 Euston to Carlisle, and alights at Crewe, where he will wait and hope that she will be there.

3.

A broken teacup

Perhaps, today, she will come.

He’s about to leave as the telephone jangles in the hall.

Great Aunt Agnes suggests High Tea in a pretty bistro on the edge of Oxford, that very afternoon. Benedict, truly fond of Agnes, acquiesces, albeit with a pang of regret for a chance lost.

The 2.05 from Euston continues northwards without him.

Kisses bestowed on Aunt Agnes’s papery cheeks, Benedict sips tea, seated opposite.

Directly behind Agnes, afternoon sun bounces off coppery tresses Benedict last saw three weeks ago. A dainty china cup waits, forgotten, halfway between its chintzy saucer and his open mouth.

As Agnes turns to look, her napkin flutters to the feet of the copper-haired girl, who dips, retrieves, swivels, and proffers the errant linen towards Agnes’s waiting manicure.

Glancing upwards, Imogen notices Benedict, her open mouth mirroring his.

His teacup falls, as more than the napkin passes between the tables.

'The Pleasure Beach Closed the Day We Arrived in Blackpool for Our Honeymoon' by Katie Willow

We caught the last minutes of operation, but already the feeling of shutdown had settled and we didn’t ride anything despite the lack of queues. Everyone working there looked tired and ready to leave—some already had; strings of once-bright light bulbs hung dull and lifeless. At the fast food place they had run out of napkins and ketchup and half the menu. We wondered when the cut off date for ordering had been, how many days had the essentials been deemed non-essential. 

We went back to our hotel room which had been upgraded from a double to a superior family room with a playstation and extra bunk beds. We were young enough to think this was cool, but old enough to decide this change had been more convenient for the staff. The corridors were eerily quiet, even in the early hours when the hen/stag parties of Blackpool would normally be dragging themselves back to their beds, laughing, squealing and shoving like kids on a school trip. A goodbye of sorts, some of them more ready than others. 

The next day the wind shocked us with its vigour, and forced us into side streets, hanging on to each other to stay out of the road. These streets were quiet, inhabited only by the few locals who knew which shops would still be open, and charged past the closed ones with stubborn determination, desperate to get home to their teapots. But we were thinking only of the wind which took our words away but reminded us of Tintagel and the last time it had forced its way into our bodies. When it felt like our love emerged, trembling; forced from our cells by the invading air and unable to hide anymore.

'The Three Bill Grads Gruff' by Suzanna Lundale

 

By now, we’ve probably all read about them on social media – the Three Bills, three recent graduates from Georgetown who took on student loan giant Tröllbridge, and – more or less – lived to tell the tale. When the company began dunning the first Bill, Bill Morris, demanding that he begin paying $700 monthly within 6 months, he responded, “Oh no! Not me. I signed up to teach at an underperforming school, where I can teach kids active shooter drills for several years so the government will pay my student loans! As long as I survive, I’ll be free and clear.” With a grumble, Tröllbridge deferred Mr. Morris’ loan payments pending his completion of the program and moved on to the second Bill. This Bill, Bill Martinez, responded, “Oh no! Not me. I did ROTC all through school, and will be going into the Army for several years to get the government to pay my student loans! As long as there isn’t another war, I’ll be free and clear!” With a grumble, Tröllbridge deferred Mr. Martinez’s loan payments pending his completion of his term in the Army and moved on to the third Bill. This Bill, Bill Jefferson, had been job-hunting since the start of senior year, and had realized it was almost impossible to get a professional job that would pay enough to manage the student loan payments without a graduate degree. When Tröllbridge came demanding his first payment, this Bill responded, “Oh no! Not me. I’ve been accepted to the Master’s program, so I’ll actually be taking out a lot more student loans to pay back when I finish.” With a grumble that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, Tröllbridge wished Mr. Jefferson luck in his graduate program and sat back to watch his debt grow.

'Colder Than You Think' by Philippa Bowe Smith

It ends with an ankle wobble. Twenty-two years of skate blades knifing the ice with surgeon precision. Applause. Medals. Far-flung competitions. A frosty star, me. But at tonight’s gala my feet ignore quickfire orders. Tonight I land on my arse and I’m not sure I’ll ever get up again. 

'Soft Boiled' by Donna M Day

I look down at my descendants with shame.

I ensnared the sands of time in the hourglass and controlled everything and those idiots use that infinite power to boil eggs!

Do they have any idea what it means to rule the universe and all the time in it? Of course not. No, the biggest thing that they worry about is having a hard boiled yolk. 

I have high hopes for my youngest granddaughter though. She’s still young enough to see me and she hates eggs. All I need to do now is get her to come out of her shell. 

'For Him' by Debbi Voisey

She didn’t expect it but it came through her window through a chink in the curtain like a crack of thunder or a flash of lightning brought by a bird with black feathers and a beak so sharp it made pin-prick indentations in her chest her heart her mind which was filled with emptiness or cotton wool or sharp tacks that rattled and hurt but not as much as when He came all puckered and screaming and doughy and soft and warm and vulnerable like a delicate glass vase from Murano which was where they were when He was made one drunken night in the city that had gentle waters lapping at its sides like a lover promising the world but breaking it into sneaky little pieces that came away and drifted into the Adriatic Sea just like her dreams of being something anything a long-term wife shattered into tiny fragments of ambition hope togetherness love and bobbed like flotsam on a choppy ocean and what was left of her could do nothing but wait for time to finally settle and show her the beauty she was promised would one day come while she held his head in one hand and his safety and future in another because she was all he had and every crack of thunder and every flash of lightning and every black bird with a sharp beak was her foe to fight for him

'Goodbye?' by Nick Fogg

 ‘Last orders!’

 ‘Already?’

 ‘Guess so.’ 

‘Want one more?’

 ‘Better not.’

 ‘Yeah, better not. So, um… best be off.’ 

‘Okay.’ 

‘Look after yourself.’ 

‘You too.’ 

‘I just wish…’ 

‘What?’

 ‘Nothing.’

 ‘I’m sorry.’ 

‘Me too.’

 ‘Maybe…’ 

‘Maybe?’

 ‘I’ll see you around, right?’

 ‘’Course.’ 

‘Want a lift?’ 

‘I should walk.’

 ‘Right then.’

 ‘Yeah.’

'In the Foreseeable Future' by Voima Oy

In the future, there will be no war, no tears, no more pain. It will be peace and green fields and sunflowers. We will return to the world of our dreams, where there will be no words. And I will find you there, you will be dancing in your flowered dress, among the smiling crowds walking down the green streets of the future, and the sun will be shining on your hair.  

'She Fell in the Night' by Donna M Day

I need to report the death of my mother. I found her when I came over this morning. The hall
light had been left on. The double bed is undisturbed. She’s eighty and her cat is sleeping
next to her. She dropped her cup going up to bed, I think.

Transcript of 999 call begins: “I need to report the death of my mother.” Deceased is female,
eighty years old. Dressed in a pink nightgown. A ginger tabby was found sleeping next to the
body. The hall light had been left on. The double bed is undisturbed. A blue china mug was
found three feet from the body. The deceased’s son reported the death. Unlocked the door
prior to calling the police. No signs of disturbance. Everything indicates that the deceased
was alone at the time of the incident.

You can do this. Tell them you found her when you came home. The hall light had been left
on. The double bed is undisturbed. The damn cat can’t say anything. It’d look dodgy if
anything happened to him as well. Come on. Deep breath. I need to report the death of my
mother.

'An Adventure of the Senses' by Suzanna Lundale

 

If you, reader, were here with me now, well, for one thing, you’d be gaping like a codfish, but the main thing you’d notice would be the smell. I used to live in your neck of time. I know how clean and flat everything smells. People don’t smell like people. Streets smell like ghost towns. Here, come through, I’ll show you. Now that I’m used to this, I don’t think I could go back to that. But, as you’ve only just arrived, we’ll get you a pomander and a scarf to tie over your nose – probably best, anyway. Wandering around Southwark with that unmarked skin, mouth agape, you’d be begging for robbery, at best. Here, now, here’s a hat – what were you thinking walking around everywhen with your head uncovered? – pull it down a bit, like so. Perfect, not so conspicuous, as long as you keep quiet.

Now, I have a treat for you. You see this building? See the shape? Any guesses on where we might be? Good! You’re not completely hopeless, then. This is indeed the Globe Theatre. And I suspect you’re familiar with the play we’re about to see, King Lear. First performance is today. I don’t think we’ll be able to get seats, but standing among the groundlings is its own experience. Well, yes, it’s loud, but surely you don’t expect people to stand silently watching. Ah, perhaps you do. If you decide to stay, perhaps we shall come again, and sit up with the quality. It’s quieter up there. Oooh, let’s get some cockles to enjoy during the show. Oh. Oh dear. Have you died, or merely fainted?

'Runaways' by Suzanne Hicks

Someday we’ll take off, leaving our packed bags behind, and we won’t tell a soul where we’re going because maybe we won’t know either, but we’ll drive and drive, perhaps until we reach the ocean, and we’ll walk out in the sand holding hands, and no one will be there to witness us stripping off our clothes, our skin warm in the sunlight, cool water rushing over our toes, beckoning us to come closer, and I’ll look up to see the smile on your face before we disappear into the blue. 

'Useful Gardening Advice From My Late Husband' by Jinny Alexander

The roses bloomed particularly well this year. Bob had always said a good fertiliser works wonders. Blood and bone, he’d said, blood and bone.

'Time Flies' by Donna M Day

Remember that Time is very old and grumpy and He won’t want to fly but until Time flies, Time stands still and when Time stands still, a kettle never boils, watched or not, and I need a cup of tea.

'Holst In Ely Cathedral' by Sarah Oakes

We begin the third section, that trill promising wonders, and the brass launch into that melody that is faster than dreams, skipping up arpeggios and leaping octaves, Holst’s joy filling the space as they rumble like thunder, blossoming and booming as his grand sweeping passages fill the chapel with wonder and delight, and more majesty than faith, made for cathedrals. sweet on the ear and smooth on the tongue, and I lose myself in the music as it consumes me from head to toe, taking me to worlds where my failing sight doesn’t matter, for Holst’s pieces are made to be heard and felt more than seen, and as the drums roll and we build to that crescendo my breath catches as Holst takes us to the stars, and we soar up the spire, and into the great beyond, climbing higher and higher each time, and with a trill we let loose and fingers fly faster than lightning, faster than flying, faster than breath, as Holst takes us to galaxies where anything is possible, as we skip over his semiquavers and dance on crochets lighter than air and achieve the impossible, hardly daring to draw breath lest it break the spell, and I shudder in delight as that euphoric ecstasy fills my soul, music thrumming through heart and bone, and as the piece draws to a close we descend back to earth, I feel the lightning course through me, that adrenaline that tingles and buzzes, that feeling of being electric and alive, that feeling like I could do anything, happy and whole, and as the final chord erupts, and applause follows, the chapel resounds, with an echo that lingers, through memory, and time, and I wish we could do it again. 

'He Won’t Admit It But He Knows What Will Happen' by Melissa Flores Anderson

I will arrive early and look around the airport for a bathroom, will pull out my toothbrush from
my carry and will scrub the stale taste out of my mouth and will spritz a bit of that fruity perfume
on my neck. I will straighten the spot where my hair will be frizzled on top and will apply
another layer of lip gloss so my lips will shine. I will step into a stall to empty my bladder and
will reach into the v of my dress and dip my hand into the cup of the pink bra to adjust my
breasts upward, and they will settle back into the ideal position to create cleavage. I will wash
my hands and the industrial antibacterial soap will mingle with the perfume, and I will walk out
to check the monitor for his gate number.

He will be 20 minutes out, up above the clouds still, and he will look at a picture of me on his
phone. He will remind himself that he is not going to kiss me again, he will not touch me, he will
not want me, he will stick with his plan to convert me back into a friend. I will wait in a gray seat
and will look at the time on my phone.

He will depart from the plane and will find me near his gate where I will be standing in the same
dress as before and he will look at my unsure eyes and his resolve will crumble and he will pull
me into his arms and he will love me again.

'Breathe' by Donna M Day

 

the first time I saw him was among flotsam of a shipwreck and I needed to be near him to breathe every part of him in so I went to see the witch who took my voice for three days and she gave me a tail but no gills so I couldn’t get near him and just floundered on the surface forcing that anchor of a tail back and forth as fast as I could just to stay afloat and alive before sunrise on that last day which signalled my last chance to be with him for always and breathe in his beauty and his love and I felt myself caught tight in the reckless net of desire and swallowed a lungful of air before throwing myself below the surface where salt filled my eyes with fire and I couldn’t find him and my scream as my shimmering tail shredded into two useless legs filled my lungs with water as he grabbed me in his strong arms and I saw that the smile that had hooked me was a wreck of pointed teeth but I had been right about one thing because with him I could breathe and he hauled me to a cavern filled with his collection of sailors and pirates where I was the only female and I have been here for so long I have lost count of the breaths and I want to go home

'Local Attractions' by Leigh Loveday

 

He misses the turnoff to the village, curses and drives on. He’s already late, caught out by the tail end of Friday rush hour.

Minutes later, smeared through the rain, a second sign appears.

Little Belliston (via the Heart of a Black Star)

He blinks, but takes the turn.

On the deserted single-track lane, he casts around for an explanation of the sign’s intent. There is nothing.

And then, without warning, there is nothing. Primal darkness tumbles in from all directions, cascading dreadfully down the hillsides, gushing up through potholed tarmac.

What– what is–

The rain abates, or is overwhelmed. Pressure builds rapidly inside the car; his ears pop, his eye sockets throb like badly wired toothache. Panic rising, he steers through a void.

Time flattens out like roadkill. Direction signs buckle under his skittering headlights. He is inverted, then backwards, then spinning end over end. Masonry and fenceposts ricochet off the roof. His nose bleeds. The droplets hang in the air.

He is going mad. He should brake, put his hazard lights on, try to control what’s happening. But now there is no air. There is a terrible, charring heat that swallows everything. His bones groan under unbearable strain. He makes sounds of deep distress, or tries to.

A rich black scent invades the car and he thinks, eternity.

Then:

Rain is sheeting down the glass. The road grumbles beneath him. Watery daylight returns. Breath rushes into his lungs.

According to the car’s clock, it’s Sunday morning. He has 11 missed calls.

He drives into Little Belliston.

The village hall looks quaint.

'The Shining' by Kate Axeford

After her mum quit, the city got banished by window grime until today, when soddened by vodka and mildewed by tears, she spots her last chance through both shiners he gave her and possessed now by his spirits, she creeps up on that horror snoring, slaughtered, on the sofa, filches his keys, and un-turns his locks – like a ghost, she slips out, takes the lift down to greet the daylight, and leaves all her demons behind, but she can’t resist stealing one last look at the tower block and is struck by that pane: how lonely, from the inside – yet today, it dazzles defiant in the final flames of a setting sun.

'Time is of The Essence' by Tilly Greenland

Jonathan Time was a grumpy man. Throughout his life people would mock him: correct answer – the Time is right; wrong answer – wasting Time; a little whiffy – Time is ripe; walking in front of someone – behind the Time(s).  I won’t even begin to explain “doing Time”.

Jonathan Time was a patient man.  He knew that one day, he would win. They had it coming. All in good time.

Jonathan Time was a troubled man.  He heard whispers.

“Killing Time.”, and darting eyes.

“Time flies.”, and small titters.

“Hit the big Time.” and large exaggerated swinging motions.

“You’ve got too much Time on your hands,” said another.

“Ew, wash that off.” and they fell about, laughing

Time passed. It was donkey’s years before the time was right.

Jonathan Time was a man on the clock. Time was ticking. He was up at the crack of dawn, busied himself like there was no tomorrow. At the eleventh hour on the dot he left the house. He was painfully aware that there was no time left to lose and there would be no turning back.

Jonathan Time waited for his tormentors. In the blink of an eye, Time was upon them. His plan worked like clockwork. Before they knew it they had their arses whooped into next week.

Jonathan Time was a pleased man. In the nick of time, he paused and they grovelled. “Sorry,”, he said. “That boat has sailed. You are too late. But I’ll call it a day. You may go.” Their parting was swift and he never saw them again.

'Nightingales' by Jeremy Boyce

 Still Sunday sunrise quiet no noise then rainfall tapping dry leaves tiles and soaking the parched tarmac rhythm of birdsong through closed windows pigeons and turtle doves keeping the beat endless nightingale solos and other virtuosos calling out windows open to white stones sloping down to lush green hedge bulging out and up leaves lifted dog bark distant football cries man on your back spring iris springing up and leaning down outwardly searching for light avian orchestra always on song with rhythms and solos beats never missed and no bum notes rising above no-leaf trees carry white bunch flowers upwards to blue sky white clouds abundant and bouncing gently on thin twig hangers in swaying breeze spreading their thick smell perfume in all directions nightingale solos over carswoosh passing updownwards on steep road, black wet tarmac engine grind gear change sometimes nightingale solos through wind tree rustle and rattle hidden by abundant flower bunches swaying buzzing with bees and heavy smell perfume drip drop leaves around about drumming last night’s rain heard but not seen under deep sleep duvet shutters and knees drawn up still Sunday quiet and wet stone smells after the dripping drops downward splashing nightingale solos and tasty lunch coming on tasteful terrace white stones sloping to bulging hedge and wet black tarmac below ding-dong bells pigeon beat rhythms suddenly started and flying above dogs bark and distant football cries goals achieved chiming the time to kneel up and down on dirty ground pew cushions eyes raised to blue sky clouds and endless nightingale solos well hidden in the leafless flower bunch trees perfume swaying and sweeping in the still Sunday quiet breeze ding-dong bells and beat combo pigeons nightingale solos kneeling down and up in hope and faith

'Bless You' by Donna M Day

I don’t remember the first time I sneezed, but my last sneezing fit was very memorable.

I was about to kiss Callum, the most beautiful boy in high school, for the very first time when I felt the telltale tickle and ducked away.

Achoo!

I screamed. The baby was crowning, and Callum was holding my hand telling me I was doing so well, and I just needed to breathe but I needed to…

Achoo!

Sat in the mud tears were streaming down my face as my mother wiped my grazed knee. God, I miss her.

Achoo!

My daughter is beautiful walking down the aisle on Callum’s arm. I notice my own ring finger is naked. Damn.

Achoo!

Being old makes me want to sneeze. Oh, the aching.

Achoo!

Callum is smiling, bemused, as I peer at him over a heap of tissues.

I’ll never forget our first kiss. I’ve done it 5,236 times.

'Summer Break' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Dennis walked across the Paseo, the sun reflecting off the glass walls of the student union and radiating off the brick walkways. He checked the time on his phone and saw he’d missed the three-hour window when the sandwich shop on campus was open. He couldn’t even find a soda or a coffee at the university anymore as the Associated Students had voted to eliminate vending machines to promote better health. But at 2 p.m., he desperately needed a jolt of caffeine or sugar or something to remove the sour taste in his mouth so he could get through the next three meetings on his calendar.

He cut between the science building and the parking garage to the convenience store across the street. He lingered in the candy aisle staring at the chocolate and caramel and gummy confections, then instead picked up a bruised apple to go with the giant diet cola cup he’d filled up. His phone pinged and he saw Mindy’s name flash across the screen. 

Mindy had encourage him to make the move from tenured professor to administrator four years ago. The extra pay could get them a home loan before they got priced out of the market. So he took the job and salary increase without thinking that he had also traded away his summers off, his engagement with students in the classroom, his peace of mind, the chance at a sabbatical every five years. Now he paid the mortgage while Mindy sent him pictures from France of her with the kids, and told him she couldn’t wait for him to join them for a week in July.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket as walked to his office. He had 15 minutes before his next meeting.

'The Endangered Species Quarterly (Special Edition, Spring 2025)' by Kate Axeford

 

 ‘Humans have destroyed our habitats: the fightback starts now.’

This will be the battle-cry of a takeover editorial by the Gorilla Army. Weapon advertisements will proliferate. Giant Pandas will pose with AK47’s and Rhinos will pose in chef’s hats, showcasing easy recipes for Dirty Bombs. Whaling ships will discover the inefficacy of harpoon guns as Blue Whales spout plutonium – fountains of diamonds shattering the surface of tepid, algaed oceans. 

            Under the banner: ‘It’s full-scale war on the illegal wildlife trade,’ an armoured pangolin will put the true horror into horoscopes by predicting how captured poachers should be punished. Paws, claws, and beaks will press frenziedly on voting buttons to decide whether these men should be:

a)     a} Sold alive at markets for their body parts to be made into medicine/s.

b)   b}   Crammed in filthy cages and smuggled across several continents.

c)    c} Shot / snared in the wild for their skin / teeth / bones to be owned or worn as trophies.

d)    d} Retrained in conservation to provide an alternative income for their communities.

But it’ll be the centrefold, a close-up photo of the Pygmy Three-Toed Sloth, that will really  bring on the goosebumps. How sweet she’ll snore, curled up alone by that Big Red Nuclear Button. Just one more nap in the mangrove trees before her Final Act.