‘Spacetime’ by Joanna McParland

Every morning I make my coffee and go outside to sit on my bench. It is a length of slate set on stones, built into the wall of the house. The seat is cold at this early hour, but it wakes me up to the day, and here, we sit together.

I feel content like this, with our backs to the village. From here, my eyes run past the millstone, across the fields to the sea; and look back over the years. Through distant clouds, the trees on the horizon, the merging of sea and sky; the farther I look, the further back in time I see. And all that has happened exists still.

In spring I watch the greens unfurling: ferns, grasses, leaves. Delicately tinged with the hope of summer, I wrap the colours around me and hold them there for as long as I can.

With the hope comes longing, a lament for all the good things that did not last long enough. Happy memories I wish to keep for always. But memory is fluid, and the world is full of distractions. Here though, it is just us. The walls keep me safe and shield me from sadness.

This is where I feel closest to everything I love and have loved. Here I feel everything. I breathe the scents of the earth; inhale the blue sky. I smile, and the house smiles with me.

'The Shack' by Emma De Vito

It had stood there for almost two centuries. Leaning to the left, the straddle stones underneath the old granary barn kept it aloft. Even so, the field mice found their way inside, nibbling whatever they could find which usually consisted of biscuit crumbs and discarded sandwiches.

As the afternoon sun warmed the earth, the barn creaked, readjusting itself for comfort. The sound of hurrying footsteps down the path interrupted the bird song which filled the air.

Izzy placed her hand on the barn door and cast a glance over her shoulder to see if she had been followed. Listening, she was content she was alone - the only sound being that of a wasp scratching at the wood. She watched it for a few seconds before swinging the door open and then pulling it tight, sealing herself inside.

Sunlight peeped through cracks in the wooden sides of the ‘shack’ as she called it. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she tucked her hand in her pocket, withdrawing a cotton handkerchief. Unfolding it carefully, she picked up a brown tipped, white stick and striking a match, as she had seen her mother do, lit it. The end glowed red and fizzled. Placing it in her mouth, she inhaled deeply.

The bitter taste made her feel sick and as she coughed, she could hear someone outside.

“Mum’s going to be so angry!”

Izzy’s younger sister ran up the path and as she did, Izzy threw the cigarette to the floor and pushed the door open, running after her.

The old barn gave a deep sigh. A thin curl of smoke reached up from the floor, as the red glow wrapped itself round the wood. Outside, the wasp continued to pick at the barn until it became too hot and the flames too close.

'Biding Time' by Rick Haynes

I’m not the home I once was. My slates are cracking, my stonework is covered in moss and humans left long ago. How I miss the laughter from the children, the dogs sleeping alongside the warming fire in my main room, and the care the two humans took in looking after me.

Alas, time moves fast and my time is nearly over.

All I have now are the memories and they will slowly fade as the years pass ever quickly. I will rot and return to the land that gave me life. The stones quarried from the mighty mountains, the wood freely given from the forest, the clear cold water from the well and the land beneath my roots, I thank them for giving me life.

A familiar sound is coming my way. It is a vehicle, an aged one. Could it be my old friends? Please, please let it be so.

The car slowly rolls to a stop.

A man and a woman open the car doors and walk towards my solid front door.

They have a key, my door opens and they enter.

They kiss, they hug, they show no signs of being cold.

The heart of my home is beating faster than ever.

Could they? Would they? Do they want me?

The man moves to the fireplace where the wood is stacked, ready to burn once more.

A flame, the wood ignites and my heart is afire.

“This is where I was born. I’m so glad dad left it to me for this will always be a special place for us and our children."

None of the slates dared to move now for I was back as the true guardian of my home. For didn’t I always have a sign on my front door.

Welcome Everyone.

'I Told Mummy Real Elephants are Gentle Creatures' by Alva Holland

Mummy says there’s an elephant in the room. Can you see him? He stalks the dusty corners of our shack, ducking when he passes the window. Clever he is, for an animal his size – knowing when to stay out of sight. He dashes daytime hopes, night-time dreams.

You’d think an elephant wouldn’t fit into this tiny house with its skinny door, its tiny grimy window, but Mummy says the elephant lived here before the door closed our fear inside.

The giant creature is fed with dread, pessimism, vulnerability, inability to communicate. When he feeds, we get the scraps. Is this why Mummy doesn’t talk? Sometimes, I hear her whimpering, like I think a baby elephant might.

I’ve become resigned to living with him because I love Mummy, but he cannot fit inside the tiny scullery where I crouch under the wooden sill and stretch my hand up to wave my dolly’s blue dress, hoping that someone might see; hoping that someone will break down the red door, tranquilize the giant creature and carry him far away to a place where he belongs, with others of his kind.

I don’t want the elephant dead, just out of our house.

Then, Mummy will be sad because she’ll be on her own again, with just me, but I think we can do better than a stalking, scary elephant, and when he’s gone, I might be allowed to open the door, carry my dolly and my plastic tea-set outside and play at the garden table again.