'P.E.' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Mick sat between Joey Oates and Terence Perez during warm ups. Joey wore short shorts and when they did push-ups the pale white flesh of his upper thighs wobbled as Joey’s body tired toward the end of the 30 count. He wished it was one of the girls sitting next to him in their co-ed class, but the teacher made them line up alphabetically. Said it caused less chaos when the gym was filled with three simultaneous classes of 45 students each. He wouldn’t have minded having Lilly Suarez next to him, to hold her feet steady for her as she did sit ups in the white shirt that showed the outline of her bra.

P.E. was the only time their paths crossed because Lilly was in accelerated everything. Mick wasn’t into any of his classes and muddled through with Cs.

The teacher whistled to get their attention and told them to start their mile run. Mick knew the route, positioned himself to be near Lilly as they squeezed out the gym door.

“Hey,” he said, holding the door for her.

“Hey,” she said, brushing her hair back out of her face into a scrunchie. 

As soon as they were out on the asphalt, he pumped his legs in his green P.E. shorts. Lilly dropped to the back of the crowd. She wasn’t a runner, and if he slowed to her pace, Joey and Terence would give him shit. Instead, he ran as fast as he could and circled back to where she was at the end of the pack, alone. He paused. He could keep forward and take first in this non-competition, or run the route again and keep Lilly company, not worry about the pace and the opinions of others. 

He took a step.

'Suds for Duds' by Lenny Eusebi

The ladies of the East Wilmington Crocheting Guild always assembled on July the 23rd, the possibly apocryphal anniversary of their founding (no one actually remembered founding the guild, but this didn't bother a membership that had mostly ceased serious attempts to recall what they'd had for breakfast), as they hosted a car wash in the Church Street lot to raise money for yarn and scones.

"Slide on in here, big boy," called Sheila Masters to the driver of a dusty old Buick, running her thumbs up the spaghetti straps of that lipstick red bikini her daughter had called "garish" when photos of last year's fundraiser enjoyed a brief notoriety online.

She could perhaps be forgiven for not recognizing the vehicle, as it spent time in the Kingsleys' garage, while she spent time elsewhere. But forgiveness was of little interest to Betty (written "Mrs. Charles Kingsley" on the return address labels in her roll top), whose suspicions had been fueling feverish scarf-and-mittens work, when Charles cranked the window and blurted an overly cheery hello.

The silence frothed as wrinkled bikini babes began to scrub at years of neglect. Charles hastily reversed the window crank. Betty and Sheila locked eyes. Betty, smoldering with the fire she usually reserved for those who dared suggest a cane, eventually closed the distance, bringing them nose to nose.

"The hat you presented on Tuesday," she said sweetly, "Was loose and sloppy."

Sheila's cheeks reddened. "Well," she replied airily, "I found a large head to fill it."

'Check Mate' by Scott MacLeod

Her profile said independent. Well was that just talk? She’d spoken at length during the meal about various exploits at work. Defeating gender-based expectations. She’d actually mentioned her bonus, which if he was being honest was a bit of a turn on, but he was relieved when she did not mention the amount. The point is it certainly seemed like she could swing it. Half, that is, he wasn’t asking for the moon. He understood conventions. But he worried about setting a precedent. 

His profile talked about traditional values. Respecting women, but also protective. Alpha dog. Throwback. That appealed to her. He certainly seemed in no hurry to get out of here. That too was a good sign.  But as for the current situation, she needed him to get off the pot. Equality is non-negotiable, but who doesn’t like being treated once in a while. He didn’t get that watch at Kohl’s. 

Meanwhile the little leather folder holding the bill sat in the middle of the table. Untouched. The dishes had been cleared. The wait staff circled uneasily. 

'August' by Angela James

My stepson, Caleb, has corralled his friends for a weekend of celebrating his 25th birthday. I can almost see the steam radiating from their bronzed limbs in squiggly little cartoon lines as they burst through our entranceway. 

Sweaty night air, pungent with plant gametes, infuses the space. “Close the door, boys,” my husband, Keith, calls out to them. “You are letting out the cold.” He doesn’t attempt to rise from the padded upholstery of his automatic sitting-to-standing armchair as the boys make their procession over to greet him. 

The boys detail weekend plans of beaches, bonfires and barbecued meat.

Keith smiles and tells them we have plans too. Dateline on tv tonight. Paul and Dianne’s 40th anniversary party tomorrow at the new Italian restaurant downtown. 

When I was 30, Keith was my debonair 50 year old fiancé. Did I truly have a thing for older men then or had I enjoyed the currency that came with being younger? Now, at age 50 myself, I can’t say I’m sure.

Keith urges them to enjoy the heat, the sun and whatever shenanigans the summer has to offer. When the boys leave, he reminisces about how it wasn’t that long ago that he adored soaking in the summer himself. Breaststroking against the lake currents. Boating through the channels. His skin browning under the sun. “That would have been a while ago,” he says. “Back when I was a lot younger.” Back when he was still older than what I am now. 

'Missing Note: Wanted' by Kate Axeford

It wasn’t the headline,

Woman Freed After Getting Head Stuck In Bin In Auchtermuchty

that stopped me searching for your note, saying it was over.

It wasn’t an ASBO from the council promising prosecution if I didn’t refrain from  playing ‘Your Song’ by Elton John on a loop at full volume that stopped me broadcasting.  If you’d heard it, you’d have rushed home to give me my note in person. 

It wasn’t the café owners who chased me away down the tree-lined boulevard where couples sip coffees and shoot the breeze that made me desist from handing out fliers sporting your photo.

Reward paid for information leading to this owner of a missing note

being found and brought home, alive.

It wasn’t the shrink who gave me a felt-tip and instructions to draw two clear circles. One, I had to fill in with all the worries I couldn’t control, the other with ones that I could. It certainly wasn’t her — that witch wrenched her pen back complaining the court just paid her for an hour.

It wasn’t my adoptive mother that stopped me looking. 

‘Things often turn up when you least expect them to.’  

She’d wise-owled after I’d festooned her drainpipes with your underpants. Vast grey flags of surrender waving in the wind. If only you’d seen them, you’d have brought my note back.

No, it was the fireman, that handsome brute, Bill. Bill held me in his arms. Bill felt my heart beating. 

‘Stop howling like an orchestra of mating cats, hinny, and get your heid out that bin.’   

Bill asked if I was OK – if I needed help again, not to hesitate, just dial the three nines.

Now I don’t need your stupid note, I’ve got Bill’s number. I’ll call if I start to feel lonely.

'Shantay, You Stay' by Elisa Dominique Rivera

The Drag Race audition was buzzing with queens: Sequins, make-up, flesh-coloured stockings with sheen all mixed with excitement and my demophobia, I pushed on for my son trying out as Meghan Lo Mania. Frantically walking, barely seeing through the crowd when I felt a stabbing pain on my toes and howled. “Shit, sorry are you okay?” said a frumpy lady with ash hair and a woody grin. 

Then I saw the damned heels she was wearing, and rued the day Louboutins became an “in” thing. I swore under my breath, she said she was only trying it for shits and giggles. We locked eyes and guffawed. She introduced herself as Sonia. That was Season 43.

Fast forward to Season 46 my son’s turn for his third audition soon. I searched for him before he threw a queen’s tantrum, but when I found him he’s already made up, “Mom, I had to borrow makeup from Princess Dye Verging!” I thanked Sonia who’s proud as punch with her Princess who’s become my second queen since we met in S43. I rolled my eyes while our queens preened each other. Sonia handed me a flask, as we sat down amongst the multi-coloured and multi-textured costumes. “Vodka?” Sonia nodded, “Next time I’ll bring soju.” I giggled and was thankful that I found a co-Drag Mum. We sighed, muttering under our breath, “Shantay, you stay.”  

'Behind you!' by Jeremy Boyce

I was sitting at my desk, trying to write, something, anything, didn’t matter, but my fingers couldn’t hit the keys striaght. See what I mean ? Couldn’t hit them straight, couldn’t put one word after….. It just wasn’t... 

It wasn’t the beer, wine, spliff, the energy bills, price of petrol, wars, the end of the world as we know it or any other shit that was happening at that moment. 

“Will dinner be ready soon, Dad?”

She didn’t actually speak, but she was there, her cold back on the wintered-up radiators, mobile texting and whatnot, behind my back, not in view, present, in my space. Out of sight is out of mind? Out of sight is out of my mind.

“What’s she doing? Why is she there?  Do I have to speak? Is that what she wants? What do I say? What if she doesn’t hear, or answer? Would it be worth it?”

She moves in silence, a ghost of a ghost of a ghost, like mist, suddenly fogging your vision. Unheard footsteps tip-tap occasionally, but no creaky floorboards or staircase to warn you in this land of stone and tiling.

“What does she want, can’t she see I’m busy with this, that, and the other?”

It’s always been like that. Finding.The.Time.To.Fit.In.Some.Of.The.What’s.Wanted.Between.The.What.Needs.To.Be.Done.

“I’m here, Dad, and when will dinner be ready?”

She didn’t actually say it, but I could feel the words creeping and crawling across the open and closed space between us, like a ground frost.

“Are you going to talk to me, Dad?” 

Probably, but only when you stop asking, just leave me be and let me hit my keys striaght then I’ll live and love you forever more. Or at least ‘til next dinner time.

'The News Anchor Read the News, but No One Watched it' by Marzia Rahman

except a couple of old men and an Italian Greyhound in a suburban old home who watched the news not because they enjoyed watching it, but because they had nothing else to do. 

It was Sunday, and the old men woke up early forgetting who they had been. They didn’t bother much, knowing memory often played tricks on them. Often, they could remember only half of their lives, the other half remained as elusive as Mars. 

After putting on hearing aids and false teeth. After swallowing hordes of pills. After a vegan breakfast and a non-vegan walk outside, they settled in front of the television and watched world affairs and the weather forecast.  The dog sat nearby, wagging its tail. 

They had a fondness for the weather broadcaster. They called her ‘Weather Girl’. A young pretty woman whose red lips and white flashing teeth reminded them of lost youth and sun-soaked summers. 

The pretty woman always smiled, but not today. Today, she wore a semi-black dress and looked super-sober. She looked like a forgotten guest at a late-night funeral. 

She announced that all life on earth would go into extinction very soon. Humans, animals, plants, reptiles, flowers, birds, butterflies …all might die out. As she said this, she shed a few tears. Her blue mascara smudged. Tiny purple veins popped under her eyes, and she looked almost poetic.

They felt bad not because the world might end or not but because the young pretty woman with red lips and white flashing teeth was sad. The world could go to hell. As their midday bowel movements bothered them more, they rushed to the toilet. The dog barked at the weather girl.  

[First published in Red Fern Review, Fall 2023]

'They Need to Clack' by Philippa Bowe

Teeth do. Make that satisfying sound, clack clack clack. Shows you’re alive. So what do you do when you’ve got hardly any left? Fallen, cracked and crumbled. No dentist wants to go near your mouth. Dusty with the breath of decades. 

I’m not putting up with it. I want to clack, I want to crunch nuts. Gums aren’t doing it for me.

I try Jeff next door. A winked excuse, toilet’s blocked, can I…? He knows about bladders. I rifle through his bathroom cabinet hoping for a spare denture. Nothing but pills like smarties. I shove some in my pocket.

I sway along the high street with my trusty cane. A pirate surveying the seas in search of bounty. A fine pair of choppers. 

A couple of incursions into charity shops and I’m still empty-mouthed. But here comes the number 69 and I set sail for the old codgers’ home. Sure to be a treasure trove.

I creak off the bus and the first thing I see is a man lounging against the wall. Natty fellow wrapped in a greatcoat like the ones they issued us in ’39. Smiling at me, teeth so bright I’m nearly blinded. ‘Harold,’ he says, ‘I have what you want.’ I spot the forked tip of his tail below the heavy wool. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to hand over your soul. I’ve got enough of them. Just a little helping hand.’

I’m tempted and he grins with those shark teeth. But then I see the boys in the trenches sharing everything, my darling Molly stopping me killing even a fly, a million dazzling kindnesses flying round the world. I don’t want teeth so sharp they’d shred them. ‘No, sir.’ I walk away and try clacking my gums. I like the sound of it. 

'Elapse' by Willow Woo

I fell into a platonic limerence with my nephew at his high school graduation. He’s only three months away from moving across the country to Bowdoin College.

Paxie was born in 2007, the same year I moved to San Francisco to start anew, reluctantly leaving my beloved hometown, LA.

I wanted to be the present auntie.

My sister told my mother, “He’s my son, and now she (meaning me) gets to take him to
the park for playdates?”

So, I became the absent auntie.

I saw him on holidays, the same as his aunties, who flew in from the east coast. But I was local, and the distance felt the same.

As Paxie grew from a baby with lungs that could nearly shatter glass, to a funny toddler, to an introverted middle schooler, and an athletic and focused high schooler, I meandered. I was a bored paralegal, laid off, and was surprisingly diagnosed with Autism, ADHD, and OCD. I became a tired pastry chef who worked at 3.30 every morning.

Now, I’ll graduate with my MLIS in December and become a librarian. Why didn’t I find this path sooner? I could have read to Paxie and shared my favorite stories. But no, I wouldn’t have been allowed.

As I look at Paxie head out into the world, poised, sweet, and tall, I can only say, “I’m proud of you. I know you worked so hard.” But I want to say, “Paxie. I’m sorry I wasn't a better auntie. I’m sorry I let your bully of a mother push me away. I know that whoever gets to spend time with you, your new college friends, will be lucky in ways that I wasn’t.”

I wish I had gotten to know you, Paxie. Oh, how I wish.

'Long Gone, Living On' by Scaramanga Silk

All of his old records were long gone. Along with his wife. And the cats.

Mind you, he still had the radio and the internet for music.

Recently, he’d noticed that Bill Knightswoon’s ‘Baby, come on home’ never gets played over the airwaves anymore. Even on his Golden Oldie stations. How he yearned to hear it again.

He’d looked online for it too. Nothing came up on Spotify, YouTube, or that new Claude fella. The song hadn’t been released on a major label and only appeared on a 7” vinyl. Yet, it was a hit for a short time back then. Alas, nobody had transferred the classic to computer.

In the town, one record store remained.

“I doubt you’ll have it or even know it but I’m looking for an old copy of ‘Baby, come on home’. It’s by—“

“Billly Knightswoon! The most underrated singer of his generation. You’re in luck. We just took in a collection and that gem’s in there. What a voice!” The assistant wonders out back and rifles through boxes of dusty records. A few moments later, he returns.

“That’ll be $3.”

The elegantly dressed, softly spoken gentleman purchases the record and thanks the chap for his help.

That evening, in his toasty and comfy home, he spends hours staring at the cover, reading the sleeve notes, and admiring the black wax. But he doesn’t set it on his turntable.

Early the next morning he returns to the store before they open. Upon arrival, he posts the record through the letter box and leaves.

Yesterday’s assistant notices the 45 on the doormat and stumbles before picking it up. On the front of the picture sleeve is some handwriting that wasn’t there previously. It reads, ‘To the great kid on the counter. Thank you! Best, Bill’.

'Man’s Best Friend' by Allison Renner

The boy struggled as the dog pulled against her leash. His dad had said once around the block, not across the street.

“Please,” the boy whispered, trying to convey confidence as he rounded the corner, hoping the dog would give up and follow. Instead, she yipped and jumped, strong enough to pull the boy a few steps sideways.

“Want a treat?” a gentle voice asked. The boy looked, but the old man wasn’t talking to him. He held out his hand, a tiny brown treat in his palm. The boy could barely see it—how would the dog?

But she did, and came bounding up and settled at the old man’s feet to chew it to bits while he scratched behind her ears.

“For you, too,” the old man said.

The boy shook his head automatically. “My dad said don’t take things from strangers.”

The old man smiled. “I’m Charles, so I’m not a stranger anymore. And these are more dog treats, so if she tries to steer you wrong, you can keep her on track.”

The boy thought about it. Would his dad be madder if he chased the dog across the street or took something from a stranger? He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing: he loved this taste of freedom. Being away from home, with his dog. When it was okay to be alone, when no one thought he was strange for not being surrounded by other boys his age.

He took the treats and pocketed them. “Thank you, Charles.”

The old man nodded once, and the dog stepped closer to the boy, acting like his shadow as they continued down the block. 

At the next corner, the boy glanced back. Charles was offering a treat to another dog walking by.

'Would You Rather…?' by Scaramanga Silk

The choice had been offered.

“Either, an exciting short life. Or, a boring long life.”

This made a big change from reading my horoscope in The Metro every morning, stuck on the commute, between BO Bobby and Handsfree Helen.

Sam had discovered the Would you rather…? game and insisted on us playing it when he boarded our packed train at Clapham Junction.

“Go to jail BUT keep the money OR Don’t go to jail BUT lose all the cash.

One night with your dream girl OR Ten years with someone less attractive BUT she’ll worship you.”



However, it was his current conundrum that was the real crux of the crescendo.

“A one-hit wonder with a Number #1 single OR a steady BUT unremarkable musical career.”

Sam wasn’t aware of what I did before this job. Sam didn’t realise how I had lived this scenario. Sam couldn’t have known how painful things had gotten.

We worked for a publishing company on the edge of London. They had transitioned to digital and were all about the data. Nice bunch of people… if you wanted your soul to die.

I’d been there for four years now and desperately missed the recording studio. Yet, late nights, travelling the world, and partying, were not compatible with the life my wife and kids needed. So here I am.

Sam didn’t know I was at breaking point. Sam didn’t know that I had my solicitor’s card in my wallet. Sam didn’t know about the unfinished letter to our boss.

What example would I set to my kids if I didn’t follow my dreams? What sort of father and husband would I be if I was miserable?

“Either, be someone who makes sacrifices and provides OR risk everything for an unrealistic goal BUT at least know you tried…”

'Ria, Ria, Ria' by Vijayalakshmi Sridhar

She walked in as Diya and Dodo welcomed her with short barks that turned into squeals and a lot of head-butting. “Arey. Andhar to aane do,” she rolled her brown eyes and admonished them, sounding like a dadima.

Lakshman was Debu kaka’s replacement and Ria was Lakshman’s niece who had come to stay with him for the holidays. Dum aloo posto, keema curry, tomato borta and rice- all of a sudden, I was in the mood for a festive dinner, Ria smiling-approving my hukum.

As Lakshman busied himself in the kitchen, Ria she recited A,B,C, 1,2,3, ka,Kha,ga, when I asked about school and cooked and served me breakfast, lunch, dinner on the glass-topped dining table, her imaginary kitchen. 

“Aaj Dhoru ki Shaadhi hai,” she made up a ready-made context, started singing a Bhojpuri ghana, urging Sri to repeat after her in his deep teacherly baritone. He followed that up with tumkhas, hip-butting with her.

After Sri left to work, she sat me down on the maharaja vintage chair Sri and I had picked up from an auction in Kolkata, that was still as shiny as new. “Beena ki shaadi hai,” she announced, rubbing her palms and started braiding my colour-streaked hair like she was my Ma. Later, twinning in pigtails, we side-cheeked and smiled wide for the selfie, showing a lot of teeth. 

When Debu returned from his break, I took his help and made Chicken Rezala- an instagram recipe I had wanted to try for a long time. More postos and curry dums and bortas followed. Like two monkeys, Diya and Dodo trailed Ria, jumping up and down with her and catching crispy bits of the Goloroti or bhatura I was feeding Ria like I was her Ma. 

'The Gift of Gab' by Lisa H. Owens

“Benny, do you still love me?”

“In response, sweetheart, I’ll answer your question with a question. Once there was this kid, let's call him Rupert, who asked Santa for a puppy, and knowing he’d be good all year, he was certain he’d find a puppy under the tree on Christmas morning, therefore, to save money to buy things for his soon-to-be pet, he worked all summer—mowing lawns, pulling weeds, washing neighbors’ cars, until one day he cracked open his piggy bank and took a wad of cash to Pet-World, where he purchased food and water bowls and a medium-sized bed, because he knew puppies wouldn’t stay little forever, then hid the stuff under his bed, because if his parents found out he’d talked to Santa about a puppy, they would sabotage his plans since his dad was allergic to animal dander, but his dad didn’t just have an allergy, but would actually go into anaphylactic shock if exposed to fur and dander, especially dog fur, so had he known that, he wouldn’t have accepted a puppy from a lady in a parking lot who was giving them away—for free—saying the runt was the last in a litter of eight, which was his lucky number, and he wouldn’t have taken the pup home, who wouldn’t have jumped in Dad’s recliner…for just a second—but apparently long enough, and when Dad sat in his favorite chair, his airway wouldn’t have closed and the ambulance driver wouldn’t have gotten in a wreck while rushing to get Rupert’s dad to...” Benny paused to glance at Glenda, fast asleep on the couch, “...my question is, do you think Rupert jumped the gun?”

 

Benny smiled and hopped up to silently moonwalk and perform celebratory jazz-hands. No answer was always the right answer.

'Teddy Bear Picnic' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Lilly strips the bed of its sheets and the comforter, tosses each stuffie to the far corner of the room. Jack is whining about Blue Bear, the one she and her mother made while she was pregnant, from the leftover remnants of her own baby blanket. The blanket she’d brought to college, to graduate school, that she’d only folded and put into the shelf of her old bedroom at her parent’s place when she’d moved in with Mick. Because Mick wasn’t sentimental. Her something blue on her wedding day had been a piece cut from the cloth and sewn into the inside of her dress by the seamstress who tailored it to her exact measurements. As the dress hung from the bride’s suite at their reception venue, she searched through the layers of satin and tulle to find the swatch, rubbed her fingers on it, silently spoke to her dead grandmother to ask if she was making the right choice. Jack formed an attachment to the bear around age 2, when he carried it down stairs in the morning, back to bed at night, to her mother’s house for sleepovers. Blue Bear went everywhere with him. But now on the one day he could take it to school for the Teddy Bear Picnic, she couldn’t find it. She’d thrown off his routine by getting home late last night, missing dinner, rushing him to bed. Because she had stayed for a reception after work, talking with Charles, not quite flirting, but almost. 

Lilly searches under Jack’s bed, her room, the upstairs bathroom, the playroom. Nothing. Downstairs, she crawls into the fort Jack erected with Mick, of throw pillows and folding chairs, and there in the dark is Blue Bear, waiting for Jack.

'Bitter and Sweet' by Suzanne Hicks

In winter we showed up to school with thrift store snow pants, cheeks smeared with Vaseline, and when someone saw the beige handle of the plastic grocery bags Mom used to line our leaky moon boots sticking out, everyone laughed at us.  At home we cried, and Mom told us a story about some girl who stunk so bad no one wanted to sit next to her at school, so she did because of how you could always see where tears had streaked her dirty face. We didn’t understand her point because we had squeaky Noxzema-clean skin, and all the girls at school smelled like Love’s Babysoft. 

When the snow melted in spring, Mom grew rhubarb along the side of the house, which she made into just about everything she could. Jam, dumplings, pie. One time Nicole from class came over after school and we plucked some out of the dirt, dipped the stalks in sugar and chomped on ‘em. The next day after we found out she only used us to make Jessica jealous, and she made fun of us in front of everyone at recess saying rhubarb was poor people food because it grows like weeds. But when the notes about the lice outbreak got sent home in everyone’s backpacks, we all were itching our heads, sharing stories about the shampoo and tiny comb. Nicole showed up to school with a bob because her hair got so tangled up, and when the other girls made fun of her, we sat down next to her at lunch, spread out the contents of our three lunchboxes, and had a big buffet. 

'Home for Christmas' by Allison Renner

The wall of heat smacked me as soon as I left baggage claim to hail a cab. By the time I wrestled my suitcase into the trunk, the humidity had curled my hair. I gave the hostel address and leaned back into the cracked pleather, trying to relax. Trying to pretend I knew what to expect, bunking with a room full of tourists likely half my age.

I’d never been this far from home. And I’d never gone anywhere alone. But I knew it was time. I couldn’t take any more questions: “When will you…?” “Why don’t you…?” or the ever-so-helpful “Have you tried…?”

Because they were there, gathered around the Christmas ham while snow turned the dead grass white. Maybe my empty chair would be answer enough.

'Seasonal Defiance Reorder' by Adele Gallogly

Since December, Essie’s brother Cal has been calling her shifting moods “she-asons,” dragging out the she. He means this as another insult, a way to needle her for weather sensitivity. But she leans into it, tips it sideways as only she can. Shivering down the wooden stairs on face-meltingly icy February mornings with a full grin becomes an act of war. She treats even the white coated wheat squares in her cereal bowl like rafts of sweetness, signs of winter’s sustenance. When two of the rectangular pieces stick together like waterlogged pages in a book, like soggy Ten Commandments tablets, like milky conjoined twins, she gobbles them up. 

April eventually melts everything into thick mud and birdsong. Bud-lined branches slap the kitchen window. One morning, Essie greets Cal near the toaster dressed in a rough wool sweater the colour of asphalt (screw pastels!). Smoke starts to ribbon up from his slices, and he yells and stomps, a teenager in the dumb clutches of a tantrum. She stays as cool as the first frost, as silent as the iceberg roses in the yard spotted with pink fungal rot. All days are hers, now – me-asons. She’ll tease him about his outburst later. Plan her words while slurping steaming cider. Tell him to stop being so goddamn temperament-Cal. 

'The Last Hunt Before Winter' by Noah McWilliam

Roars echoed as I trudged through the lush, green forest. The sun blazed through the canopy, UV rays stinging my eyes. I scratched at the trees as I swirled through the woods, the light blinding and wild. It was hot, buzzing with insects and bursting with the smell of life.

To cool off, I waded into the river and caught fat catfish with my sharp, deadly claws. I tore into them, scales flashing, water splashing. Then I stumbled back toward my cave, tripping over roots and rocks, belly full, fur dripping.

But the warmth didn’t last. It was freezing now. The air turned sharp, biting at my nose and ears. The forest that once buzzed with heat was quiet, covered in frost. Leaves, once green, had turned brittle and brown, crunching under my paws.

My breath came in thick clouds. I moved slower. I needed food and fast. I lumbered from bush to bush, gobbling up the last of the berries, their juices cold against my fur. I plunged into the icy river once more, my claws flashing through the water, catching fish while I still could.

The trees creaked. Wind slipped between the trunks like a whisper. The forest had changed becoming quieter, older, ready to sleep and so was I.

My belly was full. My body was heavy. I crawled into the cave and curled into myself, the cold pressing at the entrance but never reaching me. Outside, the last leaves danced. Inside, I was still. Season to season. I slept.

'Fresh Canvas' by Lenny Eusebi

We stride through the shuffling leaves, letting their crunch and shoof speak into our silence. Our eyes travel up the path, each on our own side, sliding along the trunks to puffs of color. Dabbed on leaves that remind us both of our sponge work that time we tried PaintNite. No need to mention it or even share a little wink or nod, but we dwell in the memory. For several paces it hangs between us with its thick paints and brushes like day camp supplies, its layered canvases and smocks as we dipped into each other's palettes. Then we crest the hill and a checkered spread of reds and yellows rolls out below us, pricked with evergreen flourishes. We sigh in unison. Stretching legs and backs, we linger there at the top, admiring the climb behind us as much as the valley ahead. To one side, the well-marked trail leads to parking lots and her packed-up bags; to the other side, a vague break in the leaves meanders down below that gorgeous layer. 

And now I stand atop another hill, boots caked and heavy from the trudge. The canvas below has been brushed with fresh white, deep and thick enough to remove all trace of prior art. Up here there are no paths, no single obvious way except the one line of boot prints I brought with me. The rising sun glitters across the slope with the cold beauty of unsold diamonds. Soon it will be crushed and plowed by hundreds of toboggans, inner tubes, and laughing children, but for this one moment it hangs below me, steep and fast, a blinding rush. I lay out my bit of plastic sled and tumble awkwardly inside, my rear in the air as I gather speed, breaking a new trail.

'Persephone in the Forest' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Spring

For now, I sleep. When the days grow longer, I will meet her, wrapping my arms around her, welcoming her, basking in her life, her light, as plants bloom and birds sing. I smile: A red squirrel excitedly pokes its head around a tree, wondering where its nuts might be stored. Its whiskers quiver as it smells the air. A wildcat, eager to fill its belly with unsuspecting prey, patrols the borders of its realm. The seasons are too short to waste a single day. I feel it, too: Too soon, the world will be cold and brown, lonely and sleepy. A final rebellion of reds and yellows, of spiders carried on the wind, trailing silk like old women’s hair. Too soon, always too soon, she will leave. I wait.

Autumn

I wait. Too soon, always too soon, she will leave. A final rebellion of reds and yellows, of spiders carried on the wind, trailing silk like old women’s hair. Too soon, the world will be cold and brown, lonely and sleepy. I feel it, too: The seasons are too short to waste a single day. A wildcat, eager to fill its belly with unsuspecting prey, patrols the borders of its realm. Its whiskers quiver as it smells the air. A red squirrel excitedly pokes its head around a tree, wondering where its nuts might be stored. I smile: When the days grow longer, I will meet her, wrapping my arms around her, welcoming her, basking in her life, her light, as plants bloom and birds sing. Now, I sleep.

'On the Bench Nearest the Disabled Parking' by Rachel Burrows

It takes a shuffling-while to reach the seat. She backs cautiously up and holds the arm to lower herself. The young man she nearly lands on, slides along without a word. They both stare out to sea. Behind them the world hurtles along on a skateboard, a scooter, a bike - and legs like she used to have. Screaming teens and barking dogs, lovers’ strolls and family swarms. Everything is behind them. There is no sand, the tourist tideline spills into the cafes and up the chine. 

She can’t remember the questions the girls have told her she can’t ask. She chooses to forget. But it’s time now.

Where are you from? she says. 

The man turns and looks at her. He takes in her silver hair and shrunken frame. And her eyes – their unusual brightness. 

The name of his home, the first thing he’s said all day, flies out to sea. 

By the time the sand appears, he’s told her about his studies, how he misses his family, and his dreams for the future. The beach fills up with life, and he laughs about how much she’d like his grandma, how they are similar. This would make her so happy. He puts his hand on his heart as he leaves. 

In the café behind them, three lost souls spot their chance and rise to make their way to the bench. The bench where the listening lady sits. They will all get their turn, eventually.

'Time Killer' by Dimitra Fimi

Hercule Poirot stood in his shiny, patterned leather shoes. Next to him, the Boy’s trainers looked scuffed, discoloured.

Poirot’s tailored cream suit crisped next to the Boy’s soft joggers and plain top. Luscious moustaches shined next to the Boy’s nose, slightly blocked from hay fever. The black homburg hat shuddered next to a bright-yellow Pikachu cap. Complete with ears.

Hercule Poirot and the Boy continued to look silently at the display of pricey watches. The airport lights were disorienting. A chaotic day. Many flights delayed.

“Is that a rabbit hat that you’re wearing?” Poirot asked.

“No. Pikachu is a mouse,” said the Boy.

“A strange mouse,” muttered Poirot.

“He’s an electric type,” offered the Boy.

“Are you thinking of buying a watch?” asked Poirot.

“No. They’re too expensive,” said the Boy. “I’m just looking. Hoping time will go faster and we’ll get on the plane at last.”

“Ah. You’re – how do you say it – killing the time?”

“I guess so.”

“I catch killers,” smiled Poirot.

“Like Ash catches Pikachu?” asked the Boy. 

“Pardon?”

The boy looked at Poirot head-to-toe.

“When are you from?” he asked.

“About a hundred years ago,” said Poirot.

“Are you flying too?”

“Certainly not. I didn’t like flying then. It’s even more uncomfortable now.”

“That’s what my dad says,” agreed the Boy.

Poirot looked at his pocket watch.

“I am afraid I have to go,” he said. “I’ve got a murderer to apprehend.”

“You got to catch them all,” grinned the Boy.

“I always do,” said Poirot. “It was great to have made your acquaintance,” he bowed. “You and that… mouse.”

The Boy watched him waddling away, leaning on his stick. As Poirot disappeared among the crowd, the advertisement screen over the watch display flashed with the next slogan.

Time flies.

'What’s For Dinner?' by Lucienne Cummings

        ‘What’s for dinner?’

My heart sinks. Em’s asked the same question every day since she was four.

        ‘What do you want?’ 

Here we go.

        ‘Don’t forget I’m out tonight Love.’

Claire’s social life is something to behold. There’s a spreadsheet somewhere in the Jurassic layer of reminders on the fridge, somewhere above the copy of our Save the Date cards, but below lists of what goes in which wheelie bin. 

        ‘You said we could have pizza if I did my essay on Catch 22!’ Dan grins. 

        ‘Have you?’ 

He hasn’t. Our son does his homework at the thirteenth hour, never earlier.

        

        ‘Miaow!’ The cat senses the worst moment. That, naturally, sets the dog off.

        ‘Woof!’

        ‘I’m sorry Astro, I know it’s walkies time.’ His tail thumps expectantly on my foot and his hot breath soaks my hand. 

        ‘I’ve planned the essay.’ Dan’s face contorts.

        ‘That’s not finishing it though, is it?’

        ‘I don’t want meat. I’m meat-free on Mondays.’ 

         ‘It’s Wednesday Em!’

I know what day it is. I put the bins out. 

Or did I?

        ‘Shit, it’s Wednesday? I’m in then. And I missed book club yesterday.’ Claire rubs her temple. It’s not like her to forget.

        ‘Can we have pizza anyway? If Mum’s home?’ Dan’s eyes are cartoon-wide, his expression trying to reach back to his baby days.

Can’t get me like that. I’m immune. Okay, not immune, but hardened.

        ‘Dan, you can’t have pizza if you haven’t finished your essay.’ I hate myself. I want pizza too. ‘And Em you’ll have to go with the majority vote.’ 

        

        ‘That’s not fair!’ 

        ‘That’s not fair!’ 

        

        ‘Life’s not fair!’

Astro and I discuss philosophies of the unfairness of life, as we leave for a very, very long walk. 

'A Day In The Life' by Suzanne Hicks

Mothman wakes when the sun comes up. He’s a big believer in honoring your circadian rhythm. Too bad he’s a night owl. He brushes his teeth (no, they aren’t pointy), washes his face, and applies a moisturizer (yes, he knows the importance of a good skincare routine), but he doesn’t need to dress because you could say his look is ready-to-wear. He hides away during the daytime, watching his stories, playing NYT puzzles, exercising (cardio is critical to keep up his flying chops), and reading books. Truth is, he stands out too much in daylight. Even on a cloudy day. Once night comes, he ventures out. Tries to stay out of sight. Because despite what everyone thinks, he’s not trying to scare anyone. He doesn’t know why doom follows him around. But he’s working on himself. Taking up meditation and posting motivational memes online (okay, yes, he stole the password for a nearby house’s WiFi, but that’s not the point). Because maybe he’s not that different. A cryptid, yes, but perhaps he’s also just a man hoping to find a place where he can belong in this world. 

'Got Lucky' by Michael Pettit

Malls: they’re not for me. Dead-eyed, I doom-trudge to the parking pay-point. I wait in line. I feed the machine. It snatches the ticket and swallows it whole, but before it figures out the fee, the elevator chimes. Steel doors part revealing a woman laughing her head off, face a squirm of hilarity. Mirrored walls multiply the mirth. I gape. She couldn’t give a hoot. Then: ping. Time’s up. Doors shut. Show’s over. But I can’t stop grinning. I’m grinning as I pay. The machine is gimme, gimme, grab. There’s a suspenseful pause – and my change comes clattering down. I feel I’ve won the jackpot!

'Amanita Sapientia' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Three hours into the hunt, my phone vibrates. “Final three,” the message reads.

I’ve nearly made it, nearly found Amanita sapientia, the priceless mushroom growing under the tree of wisdom.

I hear a whooshing sound and turn. An owl is flying straight at me. Shapeshifter! I duck and cast a paralysis spell. The bird hoots indignantly and drops to the ground. I gently place it on a tree stump and continue walking.

“Oi!” A squat, red-faced man approaches.

“Go away. Look for mushrooms,” I say, annoyance exaggerating my accent.

“You one of those Polish professional pickers?” he asks, instinctively prioritising xenophobia over his own best interests.

“Professional witch,” I drawl, flicking a palm his way.

Hedera helix, native British ivy, he’ll be pleased to hear, wraps him up tightly. He’s secure but not in too much pain.

Only then do I realise that I’m the only one left. I’m going to win! The tree of wisdom has to be close, what with the last three candidates all converging here.

Eyes on the ground, I methodically work my way from tree to tree. There they are!

I kneel, knife and basket at the ready, when a red squirrel jumps right in front of me. It chitters angrily, front paws firmly placed on the largest mushroom.

“Yours?” I ask. It takes an affirming bite, then looks up at me, surprised, proof that the mushrooms really do work.

“Yours?” I repeat.

The squirrel nods.

I cut the mushroom and hand it over. It hugs it close, staring over the cap, clearly assessing me. Satisfied, it climbs into my basket, mushroom and all, curls up and goes to sleep. All that new wisdom must be tiring.

I harvest the remaining mushrooms and leave, having won both the hunt and a rather endearing familiar.

'Lost' by Michele Catalano

There’s a world where everything’s barren, where the wind blows remnants of lives around like pieces of dirt. The wind is unrelenting and there’s always pieces of someone’s heart or the disarray of someone’s past getting in your hair and your eyes. The world is torn, the sky ripped open. Diary pages and unsent letters fall apart against the wind and come down in torrents, creating storms of regret no weatherman knew to predict.

She carries an umbrella and raincoat, but they’re never enough. She thinks one day she’d like to leave, if she could only find the road out.

'Meditating about a Carp' by Anne Howkins

At the garden centre, my toddler grandson wants to see the fish. His father lifts him to watch his favourite, the huge white carp ghosting its way around the indoor raised pond. See how it swims we say just like you!

I remember the carp I fed in a Kyoto park, how they flooded towards me, glowing sunlit gold, pushing their gaping mouths out of the water for food. How they followed my slow walk around their pool, their lithe bodies rippling the water.

I wonder how long ago the ghost carp last saw natural light, if it remembers how that felt?

'Amusement Parked' by John F King

– There are two points of view. Minimum.

– No. There is only one.

– Your opinion?

– No the right one. Objectively.

– I thought this was a fun day out.

– It is. I think so.

– So that makes it fun?

– What is your problem?

We were standing at the foot of the statue. Above us The Explorer was looking out to a greying sea, middle horizon, in that 18th century kind of way. It was of its time, as, so it appeared were we.

Kae read the plinth inscription: ‘To strive, to seek to find and not to yield.’

– Enough said, she said. Was something concealed in her parka? A hammer, paint, words? Was she going to destroy everything?

– ‘Discovered!’ She continued reading, a tone of voice I hadn’t heard before. – Wasn’t land there before he went, like all these other continents people like him went to and messed up.

Was she going to regurgitate her chips? Neither of us ate fish anymore.

– Leave it, I said. – Who cares now? It was the way it was.

– Meaning?

Silence, the waves below paused, came in again. The sun low set over the locked crazy golf pitch.

Nothing was meant to be serious. It was still the seaside, sand not stone.

– It isn’t going to stand. I can’t stand it. All it represents. I’ll see to it. And all the other imperialist stuff all over the hemisphere.

– Busy you, I said.

She looked at me as if everything was my fault. –Don’t you care about anything? she said.

I walked alone to the bus station below. Only one bus a day now. A police car blared past me on the way up. I didn’t feel I had anything to be guilty about.

'Lost and Found' by Jack Morris

Her broomstick’s not lost. A devil-child took it whilst Geraldine searched a puddle on the town square. The spell calls for a newt but they are impossible to find in the city. Mistress Pirbright won’t cough up until she gets her intimate poultice so—

In her current mood, when Geraldine catches the scrawn-spawn she’ll soon thereafter have a newt. She strides the cobbles. Townspeople scatter before her. Where is the little—? Ah.

Down this alley.

The lickspittle is using Geraldine’s broom—Outrage!— to sweep a doorway.

‘Come here, vile creature.’

The guttersnipe—Amazement!—doesn’t stop.

‘Tuppence for a sweep, Missus,’ it says. ‘Cutting my own throat, but what’s a girl to do?’

The child’s bravado in the face of a witch’s wrath is admirable. Reminds Geraldine of herself, back in the day.

‘That’s my broom,’ she says.

The girl frowns.

‘Nah, Missus. I found it. I’m excellent at finding things. S’in me nature. Do you want me to sweep, or not?’

Geraldine notes the grime on the child’s face, the hollow cheekbones. She hears herself, in a voice unused to gentleness, say:

‘What I really need is an Assistant. A Finder. Of Things.’

The girl's eyes calculate whether to listen or scarper, sharpish.

‘There’s a shilling in it. Maybe dinner.’

The girl swallows. Dinner wins. She spits on her palm and holds it out.

‘I’m your new Assistant, Missus.’’

Geraldine takes her broom back, shakes the wet hand by the fingertips.

‘Find me a newt.’

The girl scurries away. Geraldine sweeps the rest of the dust into a pile. Feels for the shilling on a fine chain around her neck and remembers a fierce old woman with a broomstick.

Smiles.

'Seasons of sound and silence' by Sarah Oakes

Summer is a season of sound. And it's always my favourite. Music fills months with magic, making summer evenings shimmer and late afternoons sparkle, full of swing and jazz and sweet cider, of laughter and friends and fun. But it's not just music. The world thrums, with its own melodies; rivers ringing, trees humming, birds calling, suitcases rolling, friends chatting, kindness chiming. Storytellers add their tunes; fingers tapping on keys, pens scribbling on paper, tales dancing on ears. Slowly, it becomes a symphony that I adore every year. 

In winter, the world packs up its melodies, leaving only soft silence behind. I struggle with it, every time. It has its beauty, a quiet time after months of sound. But it feels lifeless. Empty. Frightening. It suffocates, and makes every move uncertain, as the obsidian shrouds deepen. Concerts feel forced, choking winter's silence with cheery carols. Nature loses songs and chatter fades, birds fly south, and storytellers stop pens. Months drag on without dynamics, and I ache for them to start again. With its pianissimo nature, I hate winter, and always wish it had more sound.

'No one sings carols any more' by Chloe Cook

We share a meal across speakerphone because you still cannot centre yourself in the camera for longer than three seconds and I refuse to be the only one on screen, sharing an intimate conversation with the ceiling or a flower frozen in bloom on wallpaper. You’ve made honey roasted turkey, mothering an empty nest. You joke about the leftovers you’ll construct your meals from during my absence. I send you a photo of my seat on the balcony, the sun heavy in the sky, crystalising sea. I have never spent Christmas in a strappy dress before or been alone for it. But I needed this. I needed to not force a smile. He is smiling, I am sure, another woman being called love. After you say goodbye, I will go to the beach and swim until I feel free. The sea wind medicinal, rattling palm leaves, anointing head. I think I might be healed here.

Christmas in London is like living in a pocket. Streets stagnate, dust builds. My girl on the beach whilst I roll amongst lint. The heating in my flat has run out and I have opened every window to enlarge my self-pity. Body itching and bulging in wool. I watch my breath curl out the window and imagine it turning through the winter sky until it reaches summer in Chile. I wish my body could follow. I wish my arms were wrapping her in a hug. Instead, egg sandwiches turn stale on the table behind me. I smoke a cigarette for warmth even though I haven’t smoked since I was in my twenties. It is instant peace. This time of year, for most people, is instant peace: family returning home, everything paused. I take a drag, another second closer to reunion. I live inside an interval.

'Never ignore a flashing light' by Alison Wassell

The washing machine breaks the day we bring the baby home from the hospital. When I try to look up the error code you tell me to leave it all to you. I’m tired and sore, and sad that I haven’t got the hang of breast feeding yet, even though my mother told me it would be a piece of cake. But you’re not the practical type, so I say let’s phone my dad, he can fix just about anything. You look hurt and I feel bad. A plumber then, I say, and you say we’ll never be able to find one on a Sunday.

I say OK, we’ll worry about it tomorrow, even though I’m worrying about it now, worrying about how we’ll wash the baby’s clothes, what the health visitor will say if the baby has nothing clean to wear, whether she’ll think I’m an unfit mother, whether I am an unfit mother, and I’m so, so tired that I drift off to sleep for a couple of hours on the couch.

When I wake up a white van is pulling up outside with a new machine in it. I say we could have fixed the other one ourselves, it was probably something minor; a kink in the pipe, or the door not closing properly. You say things aren’t built to last these days; it’s called built in obsolescence. Much easier to buy a new one. I say I wasn’t raised to think that way. In my world, if something breaks, you do your best to mend it. You kiss the top of my head and tell me I’m so cute and old-fashioned and that it’s one of the things you love about me, but in my head, an error code is already flashing.

'Unclear Cache' by Scaramanga Silk

Grey haired, head up, along the branch she returns. Descending the trunk, reward claimed, a hole is dug, and her later lunch is earth hidden. Onward squirrel ventures.

At the perimeter of the wood, man gathers, for the time of savoured sunbeams adorns the field. Soon, the revellers are many and the glistening green disappears underfoot. Union, community, the celebration of the human spirit proceeds. The splendour of song abounds across the air. Arms wave, bodies sway. Joyous moments echo into the ether. The cheer is dear.

Bass reverberates, treble permeates. To man, magnificent music. For her and them, unfamiliar noise. The thud-a-thud-thud pulses from the speakers, while the stomp, whoop, and hoorah usher in the lady moon and campfire haze. By now, the feathered flocks have fled, squirrels scattered, and nature’s life giver lays marred.

Lunches left, dinners discarded, a tip of triangular tents lived in for a weekend. Beer cans, plastic bottles, flyers, disposed vapes, cigarette butts, all planted into the land which does not know how to grow them. Smoke stench, excrement entwined, is a further intruder where there should be fragrant flora. Footprints are forged, of boot and carbon. Tyre treads tear unnatural trails that tire this once abundant plain. Sacred soil, scarred and soiled.

As the days of shortened sunlight surge, human hubbub is long gone. A former inhabitant returns. Squirrel stares across this space. There’s her large oak tree, but all around, a difference to the ground is haunting. She relocates the spot where her later lunch was hid and dig-a-dig-digs. Eventually, her tiny paws uncover a hard-shelled reward. But what is this? Much bigger a treat than she did cache. And why is this meal transparent bodied? With empty belly, gnaw she must on this treasure. Man’s water vessel, forever it will nestle.

'Bianca is Happy All the Time' by Jean Feingold

Bianca had two boyfriends. She loved them both equally. They both loved her fervently. Until recently, she’d had three. One guy wandered off when he got tired of sharing. 


The other two were content with the current arrangement. This wasn’t a threesome. She would spend time alone with Jeremy some days and on other days would be alone with Stanford. Each man knew of the other’s existence although they never saw each other. They were each so devoted to Bianca and so disinterested in other women they preferred having only part of her to having none. 

Bianca’s friends told her she was nuts and should pick one. She was unwilling to do that because each man had different interests and skills. Everything each of them savored was also of interest to her. Jeremy was an artist, musician, and poet. They spent time at museums, concerts, art films, and lectures. Stanford was handy at fixing things, a gourmet chef, and liked cars. Together they went to car shows, races, and chase movies. He kept everything at her house in good repair and made delicious meals. Both men were fabulous lovers, each approaching lovemaking differently in ways she relished. How could she give up half of what she enjoyed in life by selecting one man? 

The only downside was the large number of other women who constantly flirted with both men. They believed the two men’s relationships with Bianca weren’t serious because they weren’t exclusive. Bianca ignored these women, knowing she satisfied both Jeremy and Stanford so well they had no reason to look elsewhere. She thought of herself as the luckiest woman alive. 

'Four Years' by Allison Renner

“I’m not going,” Marissa insisted, tilting my head this way and that. “Can I put some darker eyeshadow on you? And maybe trim your hair? You’d look adorbs with bangs.”

“Only if you go with me to the party. Please? I want to scope out everyone before starting high school. You know, suss out the cliques. And maybe even try to find some friends.”

“You don’t need friends,” she said, bumping my shoulder with hers. “You have me. But if it means I get to cut your hair… I guess so.”

***

Graduation couldn’t get here fast enough. I was sick of seeing the same people at every party, especially Marissa with her friends, whispering behind my back, snickering when I walked past. No matter how hard I tried to ignore them, the rumors they spread followed me everywhere. I couldn’t wait for orientation… a chance to scope out everyone before starting college, suss out the cliques, and maybe even try to find some friends.

'Resignation' by Chloe Cook

If someone broke in now, they would think they had been beaten to this house by another criminal. I might invite them inside and ask for their help: thieves are good at finding valuable things. I have ransacked each room so thoroughly that the floor has been resurfaced, clothes and doodahs rising from it like molehills. How is it that things grow legs in the night? I must have put the thermometer down on the nightstand because I always do before bed. I take it out of the pocket of my jacket or jeans or fleece and I put it there, ready for when I wake up. This morning, it was elsewhere, and it hadn’t left a note, so I do not know where elsewhere is.




I flinch as my phone leaps between two notes.

“Stop calling, stop calling,” I jitter in my limbs as it rings out. I am not going in to work. Doesn’t he realise this is an emergency?

I check the text I sent has been delivered: Not coming in. Lost the thermometer.

I lower my eyes the short distance to his reply: Buy a new one.

Rage replenishes in my gut. A new thermometer wouldn’t have her temperature recorded somewhere in its electric brain. A new thermometer wouldn’t have ever touched her and won’t ever be able to touch her. Does he have a plan for that too? Can he rewind time? If he can, he could do the decent thing and travel further back and force me to take her to the hospital sooner.

“Hang up on the doctor,” he could say. “The doctor cannot see her colour drooping. The doctor cannot see what a mother can.”

I reply: I quit.

I begin putting the clothes back in the drawers, working backwards.

'An intervention' by Birgit K. Gaiser

Pearl and Amber

Hey P, seen Binks recently?

No, you?

No. He’s been acting weird. Shifty.

On it.

Pearl and Binks

Binks, where are you?

Rovaniemi.

WTF, Binks?

What?

You don’t go to Santa’s Village. Never. Defo not in JANUARY.

Why not?

Why? Because we’re ELVES, Binks. We stay the fuck away.

Why?

You know who works there? Elves. ELVES work there.

And in January, the old bastard is looking for replacements for whomever he’s worked into the ground the previous Christmas season.

But I need to know!

Know what?

How the wooden toys are made.

Why, Binks? Why do you need to know? Why do you care? We don’t even LIKE wooden toys. We PROTECT trees.

But the human children! They’re so happy!

Hold on, Binks. Back with you in five.

Pearl and Amber

They’ve got him. He’s in Rovaniemi.

Fuck.

He’s totally brainwashed. Talking about the workshop. Happy human children, toys, yadda yadda.

How? WHEN?

Online I guess? Forums, subreddits, chat groups? A human boyfriend?

Eww.

Yeah.

I’ll make the call. Keep him busy, make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.

Gotcha.

Pearl and Binks

Sorry, back now.

Binks?

Hey! Binks!

WHAT NOW

What’s wrong?

You’re not being supportive.

I AM! I’m looking out for you!

But I WANT to go.

And do what? Work for the red bastard for mince pies and milk until you die?

He’s NOT A BASTARD!!

Binks…

Hold on, room service. Weird. I didn’t…

Pearl and Amber

They’re at his door

Phew.

Yeah. Thanks, A.

np

Pearl and Binks

What did you do?

Saving your furry arse.

PEARL. WHAT DID YOU DO?

Love you, kiddo. You’ll understand, I promise.

'Drive' by Michele Catalano

They don’t say much on the drive. She leans against the passenger door, eyes shut. His eyes

are on the road, his head somewhere else.

They’re never alone. All these things travel with them, taking up room, making it difficult to talk.

The car is crowded with trysts and mistakes, lies and secrets. They whisper and mutter amongst

themselves, their conversation making the windows fog up with accusations and unspoken

apologies.

Even if she wanted to say something, she wouldn’t be heard. They just drive without talking,

letting the ghosts in the car speak for them.

The road never ends.

'Let’s Pretend We Didn’t See Each Other' by Gargi Mehra

I hadn’t just been sheared of my fur. The pimply woman at the parlour hadn’t just spent a quarter of an hour bent over my face, primping and squeezing, massaging and tweezing, until tears welled up in my eyes.

You weren’t wearing that fuchsia V-neck tee that I loved, the one that clung to your ribs, the one that enticed me to reach out and touch you.

I didn’t see you across the glass window of the salon, through the glass walls of the bakery right opposite, as I counted out crisp notes to pay the price for my preening.

And of course, she wasn’t there, cloaked in the one dress that (she thought) focused on her substantial assets.

You never headed for the counter to pick up pastries and hot beverages with the steam rising from the cups, and you never carried the tray back to the table where she sat ogling you.

I never stood still as if frozen in time, catching her rub the coffee stain off your upper lip.

You didn’t watch me rush out of the parlour, down the stairs, onto the street, across the road.

You didn’t see me beckon the taxi, flag it down, climb into it.

Not once did I see her bat her eyelashes at you.

You didn’t smile at me as I floated past you.

We pretended we never saw each other.

You never spoke about it later.

Neither did she.

Fifty years our hearts have been chained together, and I’m still pretending.

'Unknown Overdressed Man Discovered' by Jean Feingold

The rangers found his body on a high ledge. Although it was 90 degrees Fahrenheit, he was wearing a ski parka, fur lined boots, padded wool gloves, and snow goggles. 

No one had been looking for him. He had not been reported missing despite it having been months since his clothing would have been weather appropriate. The day he was found, the rangers were on a routine patrol, one of several routes through the national park they checked out regularly. On their last pass along this trail two weeks earlier, the dead man had not been there. Nor had they seen him in all the months since winter. 

The coroner’s examination determined he’d died of exposure. Whether it was exposure to heat or cold was unclear. There had been little decomposition. 

When investigators checked their computer for the name on his drivers license, there were no other records of him. Fingerprints also led nowhere. His pockets contained only some beef jerky. There was no notebook, no map, no computer, no cellphone, no keys, nothing with info on how he’d arrived in the park. It was as though his body had sprung into existence and then mysteriously deposited itself on the ledge after being hidden in some other place, perhaps in cold storage. 

The detectives had a million questions. They could answer none. 

'Monsoon Season' by Abida Akram

Between jobs and bored. Blindfolded, I stuck a pin in a map. It was the Punjab in Pakistan.

 

I had two weeks, the last week in June and the first week in July. I packed my lightest summer clothes and a cotton scarf to cover my hair. A room at the Ramada hotel in Lahore and an Emirates airline ticket booked online were an expensive shock. 

On the flight from Heathrow, I was the only white person, the others – Pakistanis going back home. Would it be too hot? Hopefully everyone would speak English. I only knew one word ‘Shukriya’. 

Landing in Lahore, walking down the steps to the tarmac, every bit of moisture in and on my body evaporated instantly. It was 42 degrees centigrade! The smell was of dry dust. The sunlight was so brilliant, it hurt to look.

The hotel’s air-conditioning, a relief, and siestas were a must. I visited tourist sites early in the morning and in the evening due to the heat. The Fort and the Badshahi Masjid, where cool marble floors eased my feet with shoes left outside. The walled city and red buildings were a delight. The markets in the evenings seethed with the chatter of people. 

Children and women followed, fascinated by my red face and blond hair. When the monsoons came in July, the sheer force was new to me. I went out to the hotel gardens and terraces when the warm showers began, whilst everyone else ran inside.

The joy of having a warm shower in the open air and the massage of pelting fat, heavy drops on my skin and cotton dress was heaven. The staff shook their head in bemusement at my Bollywood wet scene. It was glorious and I was so glad that I had come.

'A Visit to St Nick' by Lucienne Cummings

Not a creature was stirring.

‘What the hell is that?’

‘An elf… I think.’

The statue’s crazed yellow eyes stalk us into the silent park. 

I should never have compromised – yes I got my June holiday, but my Christmas-obsessed boyfriend got his pick of the destination. 

Santa Claus’s village, Lapland.

At midsummer.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a lustre of midday to objects below.

A muzak Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree seeps from the midnight-sun-drenched speaker system.

‘I swear that fibreglass snowman just grinned.’ I reach for Alex’s hand.

‘Don’t be daft.’ He pulls me into Santa’s Square. ‘Look!’ 

‘It’s just a signpost.’ 

‘To everywhere! London, Melbourne, Bali…’ 

‘Bali’s a lovely holiday destination...’

My stomach growls. I survey the haunted concession stands, empty mulled wine urns, and– 

Alex’s scream curdles the air.

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

‘That signpost bit me!’

I examine Alex’s hand. ‘It’s just a splinter. I’ll get it with my eyebrow tweezers later.’ 

We follow a jolly sign for Santa’s House and Burger Cafe.

I’d kill for a bowl full of jelly.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

The plastic cottage is (of course) made to look like gingerbread and candy canes. Spotting a case piled with cakes, I creep inside. 

I reach towards a bun.

‘Ho ho ho!’ 

Santa, cowled in the dark, is down on one knee. 

I faint. 

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day tinkles from sun-drenched loudspeakers above our deckchairs. 

‘I love Bali in December!’ Alex raises his glass as I admire the sparkle of my engagement ring.

‘Here’s to compromise,’ I toast.

— includes extracts from 'A Visit from St. Nicholas' by Clement Clarke Moore

'When Life Gives You Bitter Hellas Planitia Fruit...' by Lisa H. Owens

Spring had sprung and Martin the Martian packed his bags and gassed-up the flying saucer. He packed his binoculars—bird-watching was best done in the spring, and he had yet to spot a Magee Marsh Cerulean warbler. His swimming trunks went into his travel pack next. There was nothing quite like an early Spring cold-plunge in Lake Superior. Martin set his course, then flew a tight circle around Mars to test the old clunker’s rotational-wazoo. Still listing to the left, but good enough to make it to Earth, although he’d fly her manually, else he’d end up in the boondocks on the left side of the galaxy. Before heading home, he’d swing by the in-laws’ in Georgia with high hopes the peaches were ready. Dickey Farms for their famous soft-serve peach ice cream was always on his “to-do” list.  

It was December and in all of his 116 years of life on the frigid fourth rock from the sun, Martin had never been so cold. His short visit to Earth had turned into an eight-month frozen tundra nightmare. Before his saucer had even broken through Earth’s atmosphere, the old clunker shot off to the left and he found himself stranded in some godforsaken town in the Nunavut region of Canada, where it was always winter. As his mother always said, when life gives you bitter Hellas Planitia Fruit, make Hellas Planitia Beer, so he got a job at Santa’s Workshop, where he’d spent 237 days making realistic toy flying saucers… and falling in love. His salary? A ride home—with new wife Elfvira in tow—on Santa’s sleigh, once Santa slept off his after-party spiked eggnog hangover. Martin was nervous about bringing home another Earthling wife. He hoped Mother liked this one. At least this one wasn’t an American.

'Joey’s looking for a table' by Katie Willow

It’s the last one he needs. Matty ‘The Bump’ Richards was bragging again, ‘bout how he had the top score on Flintstones (Williams, 1994) and Joey just can’t stand the way he says I’m Top, I’m Number One and bangs his pint down on the table so it sloshes over the side and everyone grabs for their smartphones and curses him for being a wanker and won’t he just shut up about pinball because nobody cares. But that’s how The Bump gets when he’s had one too many. Joey’s the quiet one. He never tells a soul about his quest but ever since Matty got on the IFPA (International Flipper Pinball Association) player rankings he’s been boring the tits off everyone. Joey’s not ranked but he’s beaten every one of the scores The Bump has mentioned, even if his fingers felt sore for days and the change machine swallowed more than one of his twenties without plinking the quids out below. He doesn’t know if Matty has noticed, that’s not the point. He’s doing this for himself. Joey’s not flash but he keeps going until the job is done. That’s his power. He just needs to find that last table. It’s not in the big arcade in town where most of the tables can be found. He doesn't want to ask Matty. He doesn’t want to set that prick off again, on one of his stories about stance, finger position or hitting the ramp six times in a row. He trudges into another bar, Cathy from work thought she might have seen a table there but she doesn’t know which one it is, why? There’s a glow of lights in the corner. Owe you one, Cathy, cos it’s only a matter of time now. Yabba dabba doo.

'The Deepest Part' by Cate McGowan

They walk to the lake in their coats, though it’s June and the heat clings. The path is mostly dust now, cracked and thin with thistle. They don’t speak.

Ella carries the jar. Just a wide-mouthed mason jar, damp from her grip. Inside: water, clear and sloshing. She watches the water as they saunter as if it might change if she looks away.

“I’m not sure it matters,” Jonah says.

She shrugs. “I want it to.”

The lake is lower than she remembers. Drawn back from its edges, the color of old coins. Along the shore, they spot bottle caps, bones of long-dead fish, and a single boot with a daisy growing through the laces.

They find the rocks where they used to sit with their feet in the water, telling secrets between them. Ella wades in. The water is cool against her shins.

At knee height, she unscrews the jar.

“What was in it?” Jonah asks.

She hesitates. “The last melted piece of snow. From January.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he watches her pour it in.

The lake takes it.

She holds the jar to her chest. They sit a while until the sky cobalts and the lake’s surface smooths over like breath settling.

That night, it rains for the first time in weeks. 

'The Moon in June' by Madeleine Armstrong

Go to the moon, they said. It’s got a great atmosphere, they said. What no one told me is that the moon is fucking dead in June. No wonder this trip was so cheap. Everyone’s got somewhere better to be at this time of year, except the Plutites, and they’re even more boring than Canadians. I guess anything’s exciting when you live on a cold, dark rock. Pluto, not Canada.

There’s not much to do here right now. The dust park, with its lunar flumes, is shut. The moon mall can only entertain me for so long. So I resort to day drinking at the local pub, One Small Step, chatting to the cute barmaid. I say cute – she’s got six eyes and four tentacles, but after a few Gagarin garglers and shots of Buzz juice she looks just fine to me.

I suppose this trip has had its moments. I’ve seen the dark side of the moon. I’ve been crater hopping. And Earth looks pretty sweet from up here, with those blue and green swirls. Sweet enough to make me wish I could go back. But there’s even less atmosphere down there nowadays than there is up here. 

So I don’t think I’ll be coming to the moon again. Next year, I want a bit more sun. I’ve heard Venus is the place to be.

'The Vixen' by Abida Akram

Talia looks away from her laptop screen on the dining room table to the garden through the French doors. A vixen sits with her two cubs in a patch of grass graced with afternoon sunlight. The vixen, unblinking with amber eyes, daring her to come out. Talia blinks first. The vixen had come from the wood behind her garden. The low Yorkshire stone wall is easy to clamber over. The house is a new-build, Talia accepts that the vixen had a prior claim.

Talia's gaze turns to look at her walls. They need more colour as the magnolia is a blandness that irks her. The house needs more character, more art, more colour and noise but most of all it needs more people. The house was built for a family. She laughs; she has to remind herself to use the three toilets and two bathrooms in rotation. 

Now where had she put it? She searches her bedroom drawers, her bag and the papers on the table. She still has to process it and doesn’t want to make it public yet. She hasn’t even had the chance to take a photo of it with her mobile to send out to her friends and family later.

Is it the hormones? The changes in her body? Why couldn’t she remember where she had put it? Had she accidentally dropped it somewhere? She looks under the table and on the floor near her bed. Nothing. 

Thirsty, she opens the fridge door to grab a can of diet coke when she spots it lying on top of the pizza box. The black and white ultrasound scan photo of her baby. She strokes the cold photo. How her world and this house is going to change!

She could stop hunting men for their sperm now. 

'Lost, Maybe Forever' by Jean Feingold

Mirella was distraught. Her computer had crashed just as she’d finished the first draft of her most recent novel. There was no fixing the machine or restoring the document from the hard drive in which it was contained, her computer tech said. “Of course, you backed it up, right?” he asked. 

She had and she hadn’t. Much of the manuscript was on an external hard drive by virtue of an overnight backup program that auto-ran daily. The problem was the drive had become full before the last third of the novel had been saved. Her tech always bugged her to check the remaining disk space. She always forgot. 

He’d also told her one backup method was never enough. She did a second one the old school way by printing out what she wrote each day. The printed manuscript filled a decent-sized box. She put new pages in the box after finishing her daily writing. The box was kept in the hallway closet behind a locked door.  

As a reward for finishing, Mirella had planned a two-day beach vacation. Instead, she bought a new computer and had the tech restore as much of the manuscript onto it as he could. Planning to retype the last third from her printouts, she unlocked the closet. The box wasn’t there. Dust covered the floor where it had been. 

In a panic, Mirella searched her house. She looked in the office, the bedrooms, the living room, every closet and cupboard, the kitchen, the bath. No box. She sat down on her couch and wept. Sure, she could rewrite the last part from memory, but it would take months. 

The ringing phone interrupted her hysteria. It was her sister. “Your copies are ready,” she said. “You know, of your manuscript.”

'When They Walked Out One Winter’s Morning' by Lynda McMahon

It was insanity but this was the only time they could get away. A friend offered them a cottage in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter. Sal didn’t think they’d get much use out of the chic, cast iron garden furniture. She could imagine being welded to it like when she’d licked the icy metal lamppost egged on by her older brother.

In the morning they awoke to that particularly dense silence which connotes a heavy snowfall. They drank their tea in bed taking in the virgin landscape and worried about what to do with themselves. Later, in the cupboard under the stairs, they found scruffy wellingtons and wondered if they dared. Sal’s were a size too big but two pairs of socks solved that. Tentative at first, they entered the almost silent world the squeak of untrodden snow the only sound. Even the birds were dumb anticipating further precipitation. Mike and Sal were totally alone. They held hands for the first time in ages reassured by the proximity of another warm, human being in that strange new world. The woods were alien but heart-breakingly beautiful, other-worldly yet familiar. Time no longer existed and it was only hunger which sent them hurtling back to the cottage. They drank steaming hot cocoa and ate tinned soup as if it was champagne and caviar. They laughed and talked and made plans. Tomorrow they would take throws outside and have their morning coffee at the pretty table before they strode off into the woods.

Back home, when people commiserated with them on their poor holiday, they looked at each other and could still see the magic of snow-filled woods and the solitude to find each other again. They had been so lucky.

'Street art of a fox catching a bus at sunrise' by Ida Keogh

Fat beats and they oom, thrum, so sick my ears might bleed. I’m flying, the bike wheels a blur as I scream down the hill, midnight-slick, no cars, no people, just a streetlight and a light and a light like a second rhythm I feel in my eyes. 

I startle a fox as I skid to a halt. A mangy thing, all rust and hunger. He slips into the shadows as I chain the bike and sling a bag of brights over my shoulder, the perfect shades for that beautiful, bare brick.

I’m still deciding what to spray when I round the corner and… There’s someone there, pale and hunched like screwed up paper, sat on a bench like she’s waiting for a bus. I scowl but she looks up at me with a false-tooth smile and it’s so damned trusting that I stop, feel the corners of my mouth twist. I flash gold in return.

“You okay, lady?” I ask, loping over and ditching the bag next to my pure virgin wall she’s sat in front of. 

“Isn’t it a beautiful night,” she says, voice like the cracks between paving slabs where flowers push up, broken and sweet.

“Someone coming for you?”

“Oh, I’m sure someone will. But you’re here now, at any rate. Wait with me?” Above that chunky smile her eyes flash liquid moonlight, more scared than the fox, and I know she’s going nowhere, not till dawn at least.

“You like art? Not going to snitch on me, are you?”

“Something happy,” she says, and shuffles to get comfy, wraps thin shoulders in my scuffed denim, and together we paint two worlds into one.

'Homing instinct' by Jeremy Boyce

The coach had left at 6am from the school car park, oval ball big day out at Twickenham, bagged and picnicked, travel sick pills. Back in the day, toe end kicking by doctors and dentists, wages paid in glory. Rugby school and rugby dad, he never played much on account of his chest, asthma, no National Service either. He’d have loved to come but… I waved goodbye but he was flat out. Anyway, the Boks were waiting.

Everyone sick on the long hot journey. Big crowds gathered, Land Rover picnic hampers and placard protestors in equal numbers. Mandela jailed, match to play, great unwashed versus establishment. Shouting crowds jostled our tickets to the gates. Late start, due to protests, but justice done on the field of play.

Beyond dark when the coach pulled in through the school gates, big day out, time for bed. In the darkness I clearly saw no Mum or little car. Strangely, the elderly neighbours from our old house stood, smiling, beckoning. The Fieldhouses. Why?

“Your mum asked us to come.”

“My mum ?”

“She couldn’t, she asked us to come.”

“Why couldn’t she come ?”

“Because she’s with your dad.”

“Where’s my dad ?”

“He’s…in the hospital. Not well, they’ve taken him to hospital and your mum’s there. Everything’s going to be alright, but you’re to stay at our’s tonight.”

I nodded, then shook my head. It wasn’t good, but I needed to be THERE, where we’d waved goodbye hours before, before….

“Thanks, but I’d like to go home please, I need to be there. Please. In case anything happens.”

They glanced, left, right, eyebrows creased.

They dropped me at the gates, then stayed, watching ‘til I let myself in, turned the light on and turned to wave, smiling, I waved back and pulled away slowly.

'Mrs Murdoch' by Madeleine Armstrong

Our neighbour, Mrs Murdoch, is always walking around our close at all times of the day and night, even when it’s belting it down. Dad calls her Skeletor, and Mum tells him not to be so mean, but it makes me wonder if she has skeletons in her closet, like the ones Auntie Sarah’s always talking about. Maybe one of the skeletons is Mr Murdoch, who died last year.

That’s why, whenever I see Mrs Murdoch doing her slow shuffle to the end of the street and back, I put my head down and hurry past, like Dad when he’s on a mission.

But that day she shoots out a bony arm and grabs my sleeve. I’m trembling as she leads me back to her house, thinking about those skeletons, but I daren’t make a run for it because Mum’s always telling me to be nice, and Mrs Murdoch’s so thin I’m worried I might hurt her if I try to brush her off, and while I’m thinking all this we get to her door, and she’s opening it, and I’m cringing wondering what scary stuff might be inside.

But then she’s giving me a football shirt, Crystal Palace, my team, saying it used to be her son’s years ago but he’s too big for it now, obviously, and would I like it? And it’s an old shirt but it looks kind of cool, retro, so I say yes, then I remember Mum and say please and thank you, and Mrs Murdoch hands it to me, her face lit up in a smile. And at that moment she doesn’t look like a skeleton, just a sweet old lady. So after that, whenever I see her shuffle-walking along the road, I always smile back at her.

'Sudden Season Change' by Meshv Patel

One hot  summer's day a boy named Calvin went for a little stroll around the park, it was burning hot that day, but he was committed to walking. So slowly but surely he dragged his legs along the path. He was thirsty so he reached behind him to grab his water bottle from his grey little bag on his back. He quickly drank his water as he instantly coaghed. he put his water bottle back but that's when...

Suddenly, it started to hail very hard on him, he ran around trying to find shelter but he couldn't see anything as it was so foggy. Just when the hail stopped the wind started roaring loudly at him. He was terrified so he tried running but got lost in a nearby forest...

'Fall and Spring Semesters' by Jean Feingold

Jody showed up for his first class of the fall semester. Now a college senior, school had lost any allure it once had. He had to grind through two more semesters and he’d be done. This was PR 410, a required class in his major, public relations, so he’d expected to see students he knew. Instead his classmates were strangers. When the professor entered he understood. It was old Dr. Magnusen, the hardest grading teacher in the whole school. There was a good chance Jody would fail and have to repeat the class to graduate. Why hadn’t his friends warned him to wait a semester? Magnusen called the roll. When he got to Jody, he looked at him oddly. “Why aren’t you female?” he said. “Where I come from, Jody is a girl’s name. I’m going to call you Joe.” Jody was flummoxed. “It’s the name my parents gave me,” he stammered. “Maybe they wanted a girl, but liked the name so much, when I showed up, they used it anyway.” Almost to spite the tough professor, during fall semester he was the best Joe he could be and got an A. 

When spring semester started, he chose Magnusen, who still called him Joe, for his final PR course. He continued his intensive study techniques and enthusiastic class participation, wrote his best papers ever, and again earned an A. Somehow his enjoyment of college had returned. At the last class before graduation, he asked Magnusen whether he’d ever changed another student’s name. “No,” he said. “You were a special case. You needed something outrageous to break through your college burnout. Worked, didn’t it?” 

'The Perfect Season' by Abida Akram

She starts in autumnal September. First lists. ‘Presents’, ‘Christmas Cards’ and ‘Food Shopping’. She adds another list, ‘Cooking Days Breakdown’. She really wants to write another list, ‘Expectations Everyone Has Of Me’ but resists. She knows what they want. She will do without sleep and then recover in the quiet months of January and February. So, she becomes Durga, the goddess with the ten arms, letting autumn colours pass her by whilst she multi-tasks. She shops, cooks, cleans, decorates, all whilst burping the baby and feeding the other three children and the cat. Online shopping saves her. She is creative in where she hides the presents, in the garage and the garden shed on high shelves. In spaces where her husband rules and the children dare not play.

In December as winter starts to bite, yet still hiding behind colorful lights and tinsel trees, she sends out a Christmas photo card of the whole family and the cat, all posed. The postage cost a shock. The father sends out a smug TikTok family sketch to that song by Slade, with glowing family faces singing Season’s Greetings with the cat dressed as an elf. The scratches from the cat he wears proudly as his contribution. The mother laughs and laughs before putting ointment on his arms and hands. He emails and WhatsApps the sketch to all. She loads up Instagram photos of the excited children, all smiles and goofy teeth. On Christmas day Google Pixel tacks best birthday party faces earlier in the year onto the necks of their Christmas jumpers. He tweets a photo on X and Blue Sky, of a table laden with Christmas food she had cooked with wishes for world peace and plenty for all. After New Year's, she finally starts to enjoy winter and sleep.

'When Agatha rediscovered her own love story' by D. X. Lewis

Aggie discovered the document in a removal box unopened since she came to Geneva as a young secretary. Written in pencil on airmail paper, it was adorned with hearts and tied in gold ribbon. She returned from the cellar to her third-floor flat which, on good days, had a view of Mont Blanc. She poured a tumbler of whisky, and sat in her late father’s armchair. She felt she was about to do something very wrong, like reading someone else’s diary. But surely you couldn’t invade your own privacy? She pulled the gilt bow and dived into her own childish script of 50 years ago. Her eyes swam.

STEVEN AND I ARE INGAGED!!!

THE STORY OF OUR LOVE 

BY AGATHA AGGIE BAILEY (aged 8) 

PRIVITE AND TOP SECRET!!!

My name is Agatha Bailey, but one day it will be Agatha Pryke. That’s because Steven has ingaged me. And after our wedding I will take his sir-name. Because that’s what happens when men and women get married. Acshully I’ll probably call myself Aggie Pryke, because I don’t like the name Agatha. My mother only called me that because of some silly writer. I call myself Aggie. 

Steven lives four doors down the road from me. He’s in number 26, and I’m in number 18. Steven and I have set up a speshal phone between our bed-rooms made of empty baked bean tins and green wire. We saw how to on the telly. I can’t often here what Steven says, but Janet gets very jellous when I tell her he calls every night to say he loves me.  …

 

The manuscript ran to seven more pages, but Aggie couldn’t bear to read any more for now. She put it down. A sob erupted for a time when a shining future lay ahead.