'No Cross Words' by Amy Wilson

“I think the rain might stop soon,” I say.

“Mmm,” you say, noncommittal.

“I might go out. When it stops, I mean. For a walk.”

“Good idea,” you say, without looking up.

“Do you want to come?”

“No, that’s alright. You go ahead.”

I hesitate. “Are you sure you’ll be …”

Safe, I want to say. Alright. Still alive when I get back.

But I don’t say any of these things and you just sit and look at me. No anger on your face, no recrimination, just a kind of mild curiosity as if you really don’t know what’s worrying me.

I cross the floor and put my hand on your shoulder. I just want to feel you there, reassuringly warm and solid under my palm.

You reach up and squeeze my hand.

You don’t look at me as you return to your crossword.

'A Mother's Love' by Audrey Niven

‘It’s me, he says.  ‘Alistair.’  He puts a box of Dairy Milk on her lap and takes off his coat.  Her hand grips the box but she looks away from him.  He notices how grey her hair is, how her cardigan is slipping from her shoulder.  He pulls it up and straightens it.  Rests his hand on her arm.  She tuts. 

He knows she knows him.  He makes tea and serves it to her in the good china from the top shelf.  She can’t reach that high now he’s taken away the stepladder, ‘for safety’.  He gives her a slice of cake, shop-bought.  She eats it daintily enough, all the same.  They watch the television, neither of them commenting on the story or the weather.  His father watches them both from his frame on the bureau, still as good looking as he was the day he left.  It wasn’t Alistair’s fault, but still, she never forgave him. 

‘I’ll maybe bring the girls next time,’ he says, standing in the doorway dutifully drying the dishes at the end of the afternoon.  His mother is unwrapping the cellophane from her chocolates, too busy to reply.  He puts the cups away and looks around for other jobs to do.  The place is neat as a new pin.  ‘Sally sends her best.’  His mother looks at him then, and nods.  He pulls on his coat and checks his pockets, producing his car keys like a magician. 

‘Right then, that’s me away,’ he says.  Another film is starting on the telly. 

‘Cheerio, son,’ his mother says, her eyes fixed on the screen. ‘It was nice to chat.’ She doesn’t know what else to say.  As the door closes behind him, she swallows her anger down with a caramel cream. 

'Where Do We Go From Here' by Julia Smith

I’ve been collecting things for when you come back; shells to put on a string, dry bones, bus tickets to other towns, stones from cherries that I rolled in my mouth, corks from bottles I never throw out. You would smile wryly and say I was tender before rolling me over and licking the excess. The jar catches the light on the kitchen ledge and invites worrying thoughts. It might take more than I believed to hand over that treasure trove of times you chose not to be there; the weight of it too much for us to carry

'When You Say Nothing At All' by Lena MacDonald

“I spoke to Sarah this afternoon...”

“Oh right”

“Said I’d be going away for a while and could she keep an eye out to make sure you’re ok. ‘Cause you’re not really, are you? On your own I mean. You just don’t do well on your own.”

“Mm.”

“I’m going to Mum’s for a few weeks... Are you listening?”

“Yep!”

“So Sarah’ll pop by every few days to make sure you’re still upright and breathing. There’s food in the fridge - a week’s worth of meals that you just need to put in the microwave. The laundry’s done and I’ve put fresh sheets on the bed. It’ll just be you in bed tonight remember... Right, I’ll go and finish packing then.”

*

“Any chance of a hand with this suitcase, love? Love? Right, I’ll carry it down myself then. I’m really not sure why I bother talking to you at all. It’s not like you actually listen. You used to be so chatty. Now it’s just your phone and headphones. I swear you’ve forgotten I exist...”

“See, I’m talking to you now! Standing here like a bit of furniture, leaning against the doorframe,  staring right at you... You don’t see me let alone hear me... Mum warned me about this. ‘When you get to my age’ she said, ‘you won’t have anything to say to each other anymore ‘cause you’ll have said it all already’. Well we haven’t even got to her age have we? We’re still in our thirties and you’re just sitting there, surgically attached to your phone and dead to the world. Would it help if we only communicated by text? Love? LOVE?”

“Mm?”

“I’ll be off then. You know where I am if you want to talk. Bye Steve.”

'Fledgling' by Martha Lane

 

‘They’ve lost their chick.’

‘Who have?’

‘The seagulls nesting on next door’s roof.’

‘Is that what they’re clamouring about?’

He prises my fingers from the clammy window handle, silently pushes it closed. Walks down the stairs without looking back.

Through the frosted glass pane, the squawks are deafening. The birds’ distress carving the air, striking the clouds. Echoing around my hollow insides.

'Go Home' by L Scully

 

The first of the men on my street to scare me was Victor. Victor had a nice house and a nice wife, right next door to me. Victor was handsome and a successful lawyer with a little son whom I watched whenever I had the opportunity. My sisters and I adored Victor’s son. Victor’s wife could have been a model. I spent my summer afternoons in their garden. One day in the fall my father raked leaves in the driveway when Victor came across the asphalt. He was holding something, a magazine. I poked my head out the backdoor to eavesdrop, but Victor knew I was there. Check This Out, Victor said to my father, wide-eyed. Victor’s finger rested on a bikini-clad woman laughing in the surf, advertising a sports swimsuit for women. Can You Believe That? I Mean Wow. Victor smiled a too-big smile. My father stopped raking the leaves. Go Home, he said to Victor, You Have a Beautiful Wife Next Door. 

'Beach, 4.30pm, I'll be Waiting' by Joyce Bingham

She dragged her hair continually across her face and tucked the errant strands behind her ears as she watched for him. The salt spray was melding into her, the wind bone-aching as it whipped her coat tails.

‘You are late,’ she said.

He shrugged his shoulders and crossed his arms over his heavy-duty weather-proof coat. Brows furrowed like the freshly washed sand.

‘It’s time, isn’t it?’ he said.

She sniffed, dabbing a salt wet hankie to her nose. Lips pressed together, keeping the words safe.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘When?’ he asked.

It was her turn to shrug, she faced into the wind, her hair streaming back behind her. Eyes on the horizon, searching for something she would not see.

They stood together on the edge of the sand. He reached his hand out to her, the cold wind bit at his fingers, he returned his hand to his deep pocket.

‘It’s cold out here, how about we grab a cup of tea at the café?’ he asked.

‘Too late,’ she said, ‘I need to get back, they will be missing me.’

‘We have more to discuss. When can we meet again?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think that’s wise, do you?’ she said as she turned back onto the overgrown path.

NFFD 2021: Prompt #6

Eating Words

Eating My Words was National Flash Fiction Day's third anthology, published in 2014.  For this prompt, we're embracing its title....

Write a flash in which the things the characters don't say are much more important than what they do say.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 6: Eating Words.

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.