'Different Handmaiden Same Tale' by Adele Evershed

Aggie rubbed the small of her back as she unfurled. After all the bending she had done gathering bear garlic for Mam's tea, her back was sgrechian. She loved her time in the ancient forest; dappled shadows and soft breezes didn't take away her worrying, but it did help her breath away from the sad eyes of Da. 

It had been seven long years since Mam was encased, seven long years of poisonous lead diffusing into her blood. At first, Aggie's remedies helped. She read her grandmother's herbarium diary from cover to cover. She found an entry written in beautiful script, "For the relief of the dragging fever brought on by encasing seek out bear garlic, the herb that gives bears back their strength after their long cysgee. You will know it by its tiny white flowers and spicy scent. Bruise the leaves and stew in tea to help purify the blood."

After that, Aggie visited the forest to pick bunches of the smelly herb. At first, Mam said, "Oh Aggie, this is yuch-a-fi. I think this might poison me quicker than the coverings!" Her Mam was right; it was a bitter concoction, but Aggie's face was full of gobaith, so she finished the cup. These days she drinks the brew down with no complaint. 

Aggie knows she will not let The Uried encase her nipples. She keeps a shank in her pocket, vowing to herself to take at least one of the so-called holy men with her when the time comes. 

Recently Aggie and every other Scurrier have felt glimmers of gobaith; no boys have been born for twelve moons, and The Uried are worried. There have been no encasings, and Scurriers are being told to have more babies. So maybe, just maybe, things are changing.

'Legerdemain - V 2' by Ataur Bacchus

“My mitts is frore”, the toddler said, as her father lifted her on board.

After a leisurely, reasonable feed, she had chosen from the centre piece on the saloon table, awara, the oldest and oddest thing in the Garden of Eden. We suggested that the best option for the night was to set the child on blankets in the fore-cuddy, where we forward-five were laid-on guardians. We winced and shivered at the crunch of infant adze pitted against the almost impervious awara flesh.

We did not have to wake her up as we approached the dock on the mainland.

“Aunt Phyllis, Aunt Phyllis”, she shouted at the mist-shrouded spectres.  One spectre waved back.

“Aunt Phyllis, is that an ice-cream truck?” Her teeth were yellow from snagged awara fibres.

And Number Five among us, Old Peter, lay preacher, and weekend helper at the funeral parlour, when he wasn’t too hung over, stepped from behind his winch.

“Little lamb, who made thee? Does any know who made thee?”

'Three Miles to Freedom' by Finnian Burnett

Harry strode from the trailer. Maria’s voice followed, fading as he got further into the desert. 

And stay out… Swear to God… El papel higiénico…

He chuckled. He’d left the toilet paper roll empty once in their twelve-year marriage and she’d scolded him so loudly, he’d never done it again. Fitting words for the end of their relationship. The midday sun beat on his face. Hacia calor. He should have brought water.

The nearest neighbour squatted in an RV three miles down the road. He could make it by 2:00. He’d call a cab, take it to the bus station, start over. 

Sweat broke out on his neck and dripped into his collar. He had 168 dollars from a job he’d done for Maria’s dad last week. Maria’s dad, Maria’s truck, Maria’s life.

If he made it to the broken RV, he’d be a new man. 

With no money, no prospects. Maria wasn’t awful. He tried to conjure her face, a smiling version before the scowl of disappointment settled into permanent residence. 

He remembered their wedding and their apartment in the city. They’d come to the desert for freedom and got trapped. 

He had to be halfway to the neighbours. His skin felt sticky and flushed, but he was nowhere near heatstroke. He could make it. 

Then what? He turned around, peering back down the road toward his home. A shiny spot appeared in the distance. Harry squinted at it for several seconds. A vehicle. Maria, coming to take him home? ¿Qué chingados? He could dive into the brush at the side of the road, wait for her to pass. But then what? The long trek to the neighbour, the scramble to rebuild. He stared down the road toward freedom, then spun around to face the rest of his life. 

Only the ghosts by JP Relph

 When we shared our first kiss, when your lips, chip-salty and beer-tangy, pressed to mine, I felt them dance to life in my chest. Those small, white butterflies I see on sunny mornings; like torn tissues flitting in the haze. I could feel their dusty wings tickle and tantalise, like your fingers in my hair.

 When we shared our first dance, when your arms enwrapped me in all my diaphanous georgette, I felt them quicken my pulse. Those glorious, Monarch butterflies we saw on Caribbean milkweed; like blood-orange stained-glass. I could feel their feathery antennae probe and promise, like your tongue on my neck.

 When we shared our first child, when your hands embraced her in all her milk-sweet flannel, I felt them swoon in my heart. Those burnished, Comma butterflies we spotted on woodland walks; like scalloped scraps of beautiful fabric. I could feel their ragged wings swish and soothe, like your lips on her cheek.

 When we shared our last anniversary, when your smile, whiskey-sour and sham-thin, hung on threads, I felt only the ghosts of them. Their powdered corpses leaving a hollowness. An absence. In time, in their place, industrious spiders would weave silk-strong scaffolds; pulling together my broken parts. Warming the cavern of my chest in anticipation of a new, rousing vibrant flutter.

'They Think It’s All Over. It is Now!' by Julia Smith

 

I’m watching a man dressed as a Roman gladiator on television, wildly waving a flag. The week has been unterminably long and hot; my feet are twice their usual size and your droning voice is not wise given that I skipped last month’s period and could kill you right now without thinking twice. You’ve been going on about the need for logical thinking in our relationship, just another way of saying I’m too emotional. I’m willing to accept that’s true just to watch this game in silence and I don’t even like football that much.

 

“We need to measure our words, think things through, not get carried away,

 

Darling, what we need now is…”

 

“Rigore!” says the match commentator.

 

“Rigore, my love?” I finish his sentence for him and pray for a swift passage to the knockout stage.

 

And the crowd grows wild.

'Driving with Daisy' by Maggie Seren

I slammed on the brakes, and in the milliseconds before they engaged, my old Mini seemed to be floating. I could see us aquaplaning into the central reservation and meeting certain death, squished between the barrier and an oncoming juggernaut. A nauseous feeling started in my stomach and prickled all over my skin like a colony of ants.

“Absolute dick!” The black Audi that had come out of nowhere to cut me up was rapidly disappearing. “Kill yourself if you must, but don’t take us with you, you arrogant bastard!” 

Two blurry red lights shrinking into the distance. Rain lashed against the windscreen and the inefficient wipers were losing the battle against the torrents. 

I looked into the rearview mirror, relieved to see that neither the sudden braking nor my outburst had woken Daisy. Intermittent overhead gantry lights lit up her sweet face as she slept on, rosebud mouth partly open, a silver line of dribble shining on her chin. 

I’d have to watch my language around her. Not that I was in the habit of swearing, but since having Daisy, my patience with careless drivers had worn thin to the point of extinction.

I could see blue lights flashing up ahead. Slowing, instinctively, I glanced across as we passed.

There was the Audi driver, head down, shirt wet through, at the end of his expensive hunk of metal with a police officer in High-Vis. 

Never mind German engineering, give me Schadenfreude any day.

'They Think It’s All Over. It is Now'! by Julia Smith

 

I’m watching a man dressed as a Roman gladiator on television, wildly waving a flag. The week has been unterminably long and hot; my feet are twice their usual size and your droning voice is not wise given that I skipped last month’s period and could kill you right now without thinking twice. You’ve been going on about the need for logical thinking in our relationship, just another way of saying I’m too emotional. I’m willing to accept that’s true just to watch this game in silence and I don’t even like football that much.

 

“We need to measure our words, think things through, not get carried away,

 

Darling, what we need now is…”

 

“Rigore!” says the match commentator.

 

“Rigore, my love?” I finish his sentence for him and pray for a swift passage to the knockout stage.

 

And the crowd grows wild.

NFFD 2021: Prompt #20

 

Legerdemain

2021 marks National Flash Fiction Day's tenth anniversary and tenth anthology, Legerdemain.  

For this prompt, write a micro incorporating one or more non-English words.  These can be words from a different language, or words that you make up -- without providing a definition in the text of the story.  See if you can make the meaning or impact of the word clear enough to a reader who isn't familiar with it, without relying on obvious definitions.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 20: Legerdemain.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 27 June 2021 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

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Past National Flash Fiction Day anthologies are available at the NFFD Bookshop.