'What was the last thing you remember before waking up here?' by Tilly Greenland

Running through the meadows, feeling the flowers and grasses rush through my hands.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Floating sticks and leaves down the stream, seeing who reaches the bridge first.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Walking along the beach, wind in my hair, salt spray lashing at my face.  Probably collecting sea shells.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Eating chocolate cake, my favourite flavour.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Sitting at my table making jewellery, or sewing something, or making resin shakers.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Watching Netflix, curled up on my sofa, just me and the cat.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Going to meet my friends at the pub, before heading into town.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Getting a little drunk, unsteady on my feet.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Walking along the pavement, bright lights, loud noises.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

A shout, a beep, a screech.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Flying through the air.  Bouncing off the roof.  Splayed out upon the floor.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Crowds gathered round, people crying and holding each other.  Perhaps that’s what I remember?

Yes, wait, I do remember.

What was the last thing I remember before waking up here?

Dying.  That’s what I remember.

'We wanted to be the same as our parents. That's all we knew.' by R.J. Kinnarney

It was the first day of the summer term. “We’ve got a new car. You know that the registration changes in March now? So it’s brand new.” Joel was one of those kids from the cul-de-sac, where everyone had a front drive and double glazing. The three of us looked at him. We didn’t say a word.

We were none of us kids who could brag about new cars. We’d only got one car between three families up our end of the street. We were lucky, though, because our Mums and Dads were pals, so we kind of shared the car. Although, officially, Evanses owned it, our Dad paid the insurance and Ashley’s Mom paid the tax and petrol.

We shared meal times, too. It was usually something like fish finger and chips or sausage and chips. Basically, anything and chips. We’d eat in the back kitchen, all six of us kids. Sometimes the grown ups would be in the front room. Sometimes they’d be in one of the gardens. Most of the time they were all together. Just occasionally, a couple of them were missing. We never took much notice.

Our Mum put the plates down on the grubby cloth. It was supposed to be wipe clean but we never bothered with that. “Anything interesting back at school?” she asked us.

“Not really. Jerky Joel’s got a new car.”

“Language, Kelly.”

We all laughed. Our Mum had the worst potty mouth. That’s where we got it from in the first place.

“Where are Ashley and Stephen?” Mum didn’t like food going to waste.

“Think they’re upstairs, playing Mummies and Daddies, like Ashley’s Mum and Stephen’s Dad.”

We wanted to be the same as our parents. That’s all we knew.

 https://www.rjkinnarney.com/flash-fiction

'Alternative medicine: To be swallowed whole and taken once a month' by Jennifer Watts

 Once a month she rises, a bright goddess in a dark sky. 

All day I’m restless, pacing round the small room. The ward gets noisier as the hours count down, and my expectation grows. 

Nightfall comes. Here she is - pearl and perfect! 

I reach out the barred window and, gently, between thumb and forefinger, pluck her from the star-struck canvas. I pop her on my tongue, hold her for just a second. Then, with one gulp, she is gone. 

This full moon is no bitter pill. 

She’s a sweet orb, fizzing through my veins. I’m the exact shade of deep happy.

 Now I’m exquisitely focussed, everything crystal clear. 

I call out answers to the universe’s questions. Harried nurses nod, offering sedation but I tell them, “I’ve taken my medicine.” 

The full moon, she holds me enthralled til morning when once again I’ll shuffle through moody days, my thoughts woolly, my plans half-baked. 

Until the next wild tide, when they’ll call me crazy again.