'Recognising might on a plastic step' by R.J. Kinnarney

 

They all do it – unthinking, hand up, pat my knee and move on. Those tall boys. I’m not sure how they grow them so tall these days. Folk used to say that you needed to go into the street and stand in some horse manure if you wanted to grow. There’s no horse manure in the streets now – it’s all fast cars and exhaust fumes.

The staircase is filled with their noise, clattering, chatting, yelling – each one shouting over the next, their volume inversely proportional to their confidence. Insecurity hidden under a pile of sports caps and badges.

This one, though, he’s different. He has barely grown since the Lower Fourth. Always last to be picked for teams, always trailing behind. A tiny turtle of a boy, his rucksack of books providing shelter and home. We’ve sat in companionable silence for hours – sometimes he’d break it, whisper his concerns – and I’d listen, giving him room to speak, letting him fill the vast hallway.

Out of the rucksack shell, he pulls his yellow folding step – it goes everywhere with him, lifts him to the highest stack in the library, helps him drag his heavy winter coat from its peg, gives him a better view from the stands. He sets the step in front of me and climbs onto it. He touches my left knee, shiny and bright from the thousands of hands which have grazed it over the years. It’s become a piece of folklore. Patting the founder’s knee is supposed to bring them luck on their journey out of boyhood. This boy, though, holds my knee, all the while looking deep into my bronze eyes. This boy needs no luck, he needs no fake badges of confidence.

He towers above them all.

'Good for Business' by Jan Simpson

Funeral teas are good for my business.  Lots of cold, hungry mourners gasping for a cuppa and keen to snaffle my famous sausage rolls.  About a fortnight ago, though, the bookings dried up.  Suspicious that someone had phoned Environmental Health again I gave the kitchen a bit of a wipe down.  Hauling the fridge away from the wall I could see plenty of evidence of my little lodgers.  Fresh and a bit smelly.  I thought someone must be on to me so took care to grind my special ingredients to an even finer paste.  Cashflow began to get tight.  Too many bills were landing on the mat.  I needed a second wave, a spike in cases.  Occasional heart attacks and natural causes weren’t going to get me out of the hole with the bank.  Not to worry though, turns out the Crematorium was just closed for refurbishment, everything’s back to normal, lots of hungry mourners tripping in, eager to snaffle my famous, tasty sausage rolls. 

'Muuuum, The Guinea Pigs are Hungry Again' by Tilly Greenland

“Feed me!” That’s what that squeal means.
Like, there isn’t a garden full of grass outside.
All the Guinea pigs wanted to do was eat.
Stay inside and eat.
Haven’t they heard of the great outdoors?
Flowers, plants, grass, waiting for them the other side of the open door.
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” I said, “the door is open, you can go outside and feed yourselves.”
Couldn’t understand me, obviously, as they just looked up at me and squealed even louder.
Teeth showing, ears flapping, rising up on their hind legs.
“Ignore us at your peril,” I thought I heard them say as they wheeeked and squeaked, squealed and begged.
“OK, OK, but only a small piece of cucumber,” I said.
“Now get your furry, fuzzy little butts outside and eat – my – grass.”

'Priestly Pleasures' by Linda Woodhams

Father Grundy slides open the confessional window, just a fraction.
Lockdown has interrupted relations with his flock for too many weeks; he is keen to return to this, his favourite duty.
A thin ray of sunlight shines diagonally across the box, picking out particles of shimmering dust that pierce the darkness like an arrow.
Suzanne, a long-time favourite, is first to attend; bursting, anxious to offload her murky thoughts.
Holy water drips from her red-spotted headband and trickles across her bowed forehead as she struggles to speak.

Fidgeting, Father Grundy breathes hard into his ironed cassock, sweating hands clasped together in his lap.
It’s so good to hear your voice again at last.
Catching her breath, she pauses to stroke the gold, embossed letters that decorate the cover of her tiny, white Bible.
The seeds have been re-sown, generous specks of rice falling into flooded fields.
Is it strange they’ve taken so long to germinate?
Opening the window fully, he offers the sign of the cross as he speaks.
Naturally I’ve missed our regular sessions, Suzanne, and am, as always, happy to listen and of course confirm your forgiveness.

'Killing Time' by Amanda Jones

“At least she didn’t feel anything.”

But, are you sure she didn’t?”

“Course I am, that’s what they said.”

“Did you definitely ask them? Are you sure?”

“Extra sure. Extra sure with knobs on.”

“For God’s sake, no need for that.”

“Great Scot, don’t be so touchy.”

‘Hang on. Let’s not do this now.”

“I’m sorry, we’re both stressed.”

“Just so, tired and stressed.”

“Kickboxing. When I’m like this, I go kickboxing.”

“Lord above. Kickboxing?”

“Many’s the time it’s stopped me hitting someone.”

“No way. And does that mean you want to hit me? Me, your sister?”

“Of course not. Not you, not family.”

“Pleased to hear it.”

“Quite pleased to be able to say it.”

“Right then. Let’s get on. We’re wasting time. They’ll be here soon.”

“So, you’ll go in the first car with the others when they turn up and I’ll go with ... with her.”

“That works, yes.”

“Unless you want to go with her?”

“Very happy for you to go.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Xavier’s coming with the others?”

“Yes, yes he is. I’ve told him not to wear his—"

”Zoot suit. Well remembered. Thank you.”

' Becoming A Birdwatcher' by Brid McGinley

Frank told his mother he needed binoculars, that he wanted to be a birdwatcher, and would also like a camera. Lately she hadn’t laughed much, and Frank didn’t understand why birdwatching was funny, but hearing her laugh and cry, chanting birdwatcher, birdwatcher, made Frank feel happy.

‘A bigger birdwatching book would be good too’ Frank said between laughs, ‘one like Dad’s.’

She stopped laughing and the sad look came back, making Frank sorry that he had spoiled everything again. He just wanted to see Dad, sit on his knee, look at pictures of robins and wrens, make plans for trips to see puffins. Frank loved puffins, short and fat, orange feet and beaks, how they rubbed beak to beak, looking to have a friendly chat.

‘I’m sorry son,’ Dad whispered the last time Frank saw him, and he didn’t know why Dad hugged him so tight, his face sad like Mam’s.

‘Cameras are expensive, Mam, binoculars would be enough,’ Frank said, hoping she might laugh again, but she stared into the distance, eyes open but seeing nothing.

Today Frank had packed his birdwatching bag; torch, notebook and pencil in the front, easy to hand like Dad said, banana and crackers in the main part. It won’t be much fun without Dad, he thought, trying not to worry about finding the way to the hide, but maybe Dad was missing him too and would be waiting there for him. Outside, Frank looked down the street, moon-dark, startled by a hooting owl, suddenly aware of the gap left by the binoculars.

Now as he walked back up the front path, his Mam stood against streaming light in the doorway, arms outstretched, and her heart thumped against his ear as her wings enfolded him, and Frank wondered did puffins have cosy nests.

'Strangers When We Met' by Valerie Griffin

Faces intrigue me and, although I don’t believe in love at first sight, I can be swayed by an interesting face.

Likewise, the intoxicating tease of a sandalwood-based aftershave.

Arriving at the Frothy Coffee a fraction before me, I watched his eyes turn to the only vacant table.

Surging forward, I hoped chivalry and discretion would prevent him from pursuing one of the seats as I don’t like sharing a table with strangers.

He staked his claim opposite me and removed his hat to reveal surprisingly thick, tousled salt and pepper hair that stirred something deep in my subconscious.

‘Frank,’ he said, the timbre of his voice deep and kind, his extended hand stopping a fraction on my side.

‘Ingrid,’ I replied as our fingertips touched and a forgotten sensation tingled its way up my spine.

‘Can I get you a coffee?’ he asked but I declined…I don’t like feeling obliged to anyone.

To distract myself I rummaged in my handbag until our drinks arrived, mine in a large cup sitting off-centre in the saucer and his in a tall tapered glass with a handle two thirds the way down that looked too small for those perfectly manicured, large hands of his.

I like to savour my treat, but I willed it to cool so I could drink it and not feel obliged to make small talk…I’ve never seen the point.

On any other day I delight in spooning out the remaining froth, but I didn’t like to in front of him, and this made me feel a little resentful as I stood and draped my scarf round my neck.

Negotiating the tight space between the chair and table, more dormant sensations tumbled into the present as I looked into those deep, brown eyes…and hesitated.

ends

'Consequences' by Sue Morón

Freddie wondered how this would be resolved; what would become of him?

Lying prone in the hospital bed he mentally surveyed his body; could have been worse he supposed.

Arms bandaged with gauze, one leg in plaster and raised, muscles sore and aching, head throbbing.
Someone was coming towards him, a navy clad nurse, backlit by the lights from the corridor outside the ward.

Hello, I’m glad to see you’re awake, you’ve been asleep for a while, how are you feeling, do you want a drink, any painkillers?

Feeling groggy and I ache, yes I’m thirsty, maybe ….

I think you should have something, for the pain, it’ll help with the healing; the police are waiting to question you if you’re up to it, apparently you’re in a bit of trouble.

Cycling away for the last time, the incriminating documents safely despatched, he’d been feeling relieved.

The car had clipped him, hoping to tip him into the path of the lorry, but he’d managed to push himself in the opposite direction, unfortunately that had meant a tumble down the embankment and knocking himself out.

Inez watched as the expressions of fear, doubt and worry moved across the face of the vulnerable looking young man in the bed before her, holding his wrist she could feel his pulse speeding away and hear his breath becoming rapid.

Ok, you need to calm down, I can’t stop them talking to you, but you won’t be taken anywhere, not while you’re in this state.

No, it’s fine, I knew the risks …

'Space Trip' by Linda Irish

Fixtures and fittings are not included but Pres says we can sort those out after.

Lately he’s been saying that a lot.

“Are you experienced in handling spacecraft, then?” asks the seller, whose rickety looking semi sits awkwardly with her claim to be a master builder.

“Stand aside,” says Pres, unhooking the tiny hatch with a self-conscious flourish.

His hands are shaking slightly, and I wonder again if we were going about this in quite the right way.

Feet first, as my mother would have said.

It would have been so much simpler to send our vital essence instead, to Mars, or the moon, or as glitter sprinkles across the galaxy, but we kept missing the submission windows.

“Can you pass me a spanner, love?” asks Pres, from within the flimsy metal casing, his voice carouselling elusively around my head.

The seller loses interest and starts an air-video call with some ban-fake-green agitators. 

Isolation pod holidays were popular earlier in the century, only falling from favour when so many of them disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle of space and never returned.

Other technologies took over, then; personalised and multi-flavoured security fields.

Nobody else wanted this patched up curio, but Pres and I made a vow: to greet our ancient Earth, just once, through the faraway prism of unbroken promises.

'Man and Myth' by Sarah Mosedale

Finally it was over. Last night had been the end of all the nights, the culmination of what felt like a lifetime of peering through a dense fog. And don’t think it had been easy. She’d have done it years ago if she could only have figured out how. He’d seemed invincible, impervious to tears or rage, effortlessly manipulating her words, curving and twisting them into a smokestream, demonstrating black was white, leaving her stranded, gasping for air, fins flapping uselessly.

 

Friends had told her, some more kindly than others, that he was gaslighting her, that she’d be much happier without him, that she deserved so much more. It was impossible to argue with them - she could see that from the outside it must look like that - but what they didn’t see, couldn’t see, was the man she’d created from her romantic dreams, from her happy memories of those early days. Created and then immortalised in myth, in a million stories she’d told herself, stories that wrapped their words around her, pinning her arms, preventing movement.

 

Then it had happened. It was impossible, what he had just said; it was inconceivable that he could have said such a thing, yet he had said it, she had heard it. One moment of blinding clarity was all she needed. No, she cried, feeling the beloved myth dissolve, the bonds falling away, her arms rising from her sides, the pain and joy of life returning - finally, it was over.

'The rush of it all' by Audrey Niven

 

‘Follow me,’ she said as she brushed past me without stopping.

Looking ahead in the crowds I couldn’t tell which way she would go.

And I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted to do what she asked, and my feet just took me.

She turned left, down a lane and through an archway and along one echoing side of a paved courtyard that gave out onto a wide green parkland on the other side.

Her heels click clacked, click clack, click clack, and my feet followed, dumb, in their plimsolls, behind.

Far ahead now, she was running, her high heels in her hand, hair bouncing in the wind, her skirt blowing up, showing her tanned legs. 

I raced after her, all thought of college gone from my head, not even caring where we were going or how far I was from the start of my day.

Catching up just before the line of trees, I reached out and grasped at her wrist.

The skin was so thin I could see the veins there swimming with the life of her.

I wanted to kiss her.

‘Oh,’ she said, like she was surprised to see me there.

‘No-one has ever been brave enough before.’

'Going From Bad to Worse' by Cath Barton

Frank was late. Late for his own wedding, with sweat trickling down his back and a sick feeling in his stomach. At the church they would be cursing him, Natalie’s mother saying she’d always known he was a shirker, Natalie herself doubtless in tears. Sam, his best man, was mumbling apologies at his side, but Frank wasn’t listening. He was in meltdown, his shirt sodden now.

‘...Faithful, as long as we both shall live...’ In the rehearsal the exchange of vows had gone so smoothly; he’d had a bad feeling about that, a presentiment that something would go wrong on the day. Currently it was about as bad as it could get. Tomorrow they’d laugh about it, or would they? Indecision had been his downfall too often in the past, and if he didn’t act now he knew he would regret it as long as he lived. Out of the car and running, that was the only way, Sam lumbering behind him.

Neither of them saw, as they ran towards the church, the ring box fall from Sam’s pocket, open as it hit the ground and the wedding rings tumble out and down a drain at the side of the road, to be lost for ever.

'Celebrate' by Mileva Anastasiadou

Figurative man always talks in metaphors.

Long before he approaches, he has counted all possible outcomes, he has made up all appropriate sentences, he has thought of imaginative ways to get through, to speak the truth.

A shadow in disguise, a formless figure in the dark, he talks to me gently.

Slow are his moves, tender is his voice, as he speaks and his words linger above my head, before they enter my brain, my heart, my soul.

He moves like a ghost, he floats like a cloud in the sky, as he gets closer and closer, speaking his truth.

*

Figurative man always speaks the truth, but he speaks it softly, he speaks in poems, or paintings, or music, he never throws his truth onto my face, like a ball I have to catch, or like a bullet.

In time I see through him, I understand.

Clouds of doubt vanish, as he steps closer.

Truth is hard to swallow, so he paints it, he colors it, he bakes it into delicious cakes, into notes and celebrations and letters and words, beautiful words, metaphorical words my mind doesn’t understand but my soul nods, my heart agrees.

I can see him now, approaching me, I know his agony, his fears.

Oh how he fears me, as he comes closer, I may be too blunt, I may hurt him, while he speaks softly, he speaks tenderly, always in tactful metaphors, his truth deafening but smooth.

Not that he cares, but figuratively speaking, figurative man is a poem, while I am a short story, a poignant flash, yet too straightforward to be understood, but I hold his hand and I know, I know well, he makes me better and that together we are prose poetry and we will change the world.

'Covid Romance' by R.V. Mitchell

“Forever seems a long time,” Hennie typed onto the messenger.

“Lockdown, isn’t forever,” Kennan responded.  “All of this will end eventually.”

“Sure seems like forever,” she replied.

He responded with a sad faced emoji.

Flirting online had become the extent of their fledgling relationship.

“I can’t wait till school starts again, and I can see you,” she mused in print.

“Calculus was the high point of my day too,” he responded.

“Thank you,” she wrote and added a bashful face.

“I signed up for Art and Debate, like you suggested,”

“Oh, that’s so sweet.”

“Now we will have three classes together,” he typed, adding a kiss face.

'Paul's Room' by Kathryn Kulpa

Funny how things work out, or don’t.
Last time I saw Paul’s brother Ian he had his hand wrapped in a gauze bandage, grey and dingy, like he’d dragged it through charcoal.
A ferret bite, Ian said.
Since when do you have a ferret, I said, because not a boy in that family had ever been able to keep even a cactus plant alive.
He said it wasn’t his ferret, and they were vicious beasts anyhow, and smelled like ass; he’d never want one.
Ferrets don’t smell half as bad as Paul’s bedroom, though, I said, and he laughed and said truth, but his mom had cleaned it since Paul left.
It’s a Marie Kondo room now, Ian said, and then we both looked at other corners of the street, maybe both thinking of all the time I’d spent in Paul’s room, and where he was now, and finally I asked Paul’s brother if they ever heard from him, or got to see him.
‘Course, Ian said, when they could—it was a long ride—but he was doing better, and they had him in this program working with dogs.
Therapy dogs, no lie, he told me, because he must have seen I looked surprised.
I’d never seen Paul even try to pet a dog in the street or speak a nice word to one—Good boy, nice doggy, the way you do.
One of them lives with him in his cell, Ian said, they train every day, it’s a bonding thing.
Now would have been the time for me to ask if Paul ever mentioned me but I didn’t ask, and Ian never brought it up, only said he was on his way to get Indian takeout and did I want to come along, we could eat in the park and go for a walk after, and I stopped thinking about Paul or asking about him and all I said was yes.