'I've Been Coming and Going for Years' by Julia Smith

My son has a small dent in his eyebrow where he cracked his head open when he was eight, playing football in a market square while I finished supper and two three four glasses of wine with friends. A stranger carried him to me dripping blood on my white flimsy dress. Someone drove us to hospital where he got six stitches and I fell asleep on a chair in emergency. I have never loved him as much as when at three in the morning they let us go and he kissed me and asked me if I was tired.

'Cutting Teeth' by Natalia Rolleston

‘’Blow into the bag slowly,’’ the stern woman with stiff auburn curls instructed. Her eyebrows told a different story. Disappointment had crept up on her and hardened her features over the years, as the bitterness had become lodged deep within her soul.

The older woman’s heartbeat, pulse and blood pressure returned to normal. Panic over. He was gone. The man who had grabbed her ankles from beneath the car had been there. The shock of it lingered. Replay. The purse hit the floor and disappeared as quietly and as quickly as the two hands had shot out from underneath the car.

She fell to the floor. Cold sweat had collected above her top lip - in a fractured second. The breath stolen from her lungs.

‘’Ma’am. What exactly was in the bag? I need to know for the report….Look I need to file this thing and get to my next job. I don’t mean to be rude. But it’s a homicide, so they really need me there.’’

Time stopped. Dry mouth. Pulse definitely still racing. Heart in chest, apparently no longer pounding.

‘’Lipstick, cell phone, bank cards, a tiny Halcyon Days music box and my husband’s teeth.’’

She pushed out the words as raspberry compote might push through muslin. Concentrated. Smooth. With a uniform consistency.

She drew her shoulders up, thanked the officer, pointed her torso in a westerly direction and hoped she would remember which one was her car, and that the keys were still nestled high above the left rear wheel.

It was white. Definitely white. Like her husband’s teeth had once been.

 

'The Suitcase of Delights' by Albert Moore

You are last to leave the train. You eye the abandoned suitcase. You leave the station. The taxi driver puts the suitcase into the boot. You imagine all the missing people in the world are inside the suitcase. You will be famous, you will be blamed. 

No. You think it is full of money. Just like the movies. Or a genie inside a bottle will float like a butterfly and sting you with three wishes. You key the door to your apartment. Home sweet home, you say. You run a bath. Your skin reddens. You stare at the suitcase in the corner of the bedroom. You get down on your knees and turn the locking wheels to the year you were born.

Bingo!

You smile like and cackle like a hyena. You open the suitcase and stare into it the way you stare into a sandwich. Another damned suitcase! The code is the same. 1975. Inside that is another case. Typical, you think, a Russian doll set of suitcases. You open the next suitcase. Another suitcase. 

You imagine a suitcase the size of a matchbox and inside that is another set of suitcases. You open the next one and pick up the hard drive. You give it a shake. You hear the hissing of a snake. You put it down and pick up a bag of pills. You read the tag: Human Flesh Pills. You think of all the missing people. You put it down and pick up the bag of fish. The fish splash like children. You put it down and pick up the pigeon. In its beak are all the love letters you ever wrote. You put it down and pick up the little house. 

You push the tiny door with a finger. Come in, says the voice.

'Mix Up, Match Up' by Jennifer Watts

Three!

The tv booms. Louder than the three kids, yelling and throwing lego at
each other. It’s dinner time. Chaotic. Today’s lazy lunch with girlfriends
seems eons ago.

Eleven!

I’m a ditz. Our handbags were identical twins, at our feet on the cafe
floor. This stranger, Elle, will wonder who Beth is.

Six!

I’ve rifled through the tote. From her licence, I know what Elle looks like
and her address. Tomorrow, I’ll drive over, play switcheroo with six
million sorries. It’s amazing what you glean about a person from the
contents of her bag. Elle is fancy. Dior lipstick, gold compact, soft
tissues, posh perfume. By now, she knows me too. Loose gum, cheap
chapstick.

One!

If I were rich, I’d hire one of everything: cleaner, cook, gardener. I’d buy
one huge house, banish the tv. And the kids, out to play in manicured
grounds. Get the trampoline they’re harking for.

Twenty!

Mash spuds, turn sausages, rinse dishes, prepare school lunches. Twenty
tasks at once? No problem. Try being a mother. In this busyness though,
I’ve forgotten something. It’s nudging at my mind. An appointment? A
date? Numbers.

Thirty-eight!

My age, ha! “Congratulations!” How did the presenter know?

A piece of yellow dots my vision.

“Someone set the table,” I yell. “Turn that box off!”

In the sudden quiet, the tote hums from behind the couch. Vibrations
race along the floorboards, hit my toes, climb my torso, explode in my
head.

On autopilot, I repeat figures until the kids sleep. My mind races far
ahead. Can she track me down? How long should I wait?

I reach into the tote. Careful now. Pull out each item as if electrified.

Here! A yellow ticket, strands of lines and a perfect set of numbers along
the top row.

Do I dare?