'BEWARE THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER WHO HAS BEEN DRAPED OVER THE ROOF SINCE 2011! ' by Jo Derrick

 

I want to be alone, but when I am I don’t. There’s so much I can do while they’re out enjoying themselves. I can hoover or dust or make a cake or read. I go for a walk, drink raspberry gin, scroll through Facebook. I eat crisps, assess the garden, resolve to do some weeding. I read old diaries and weepily reminisce about the good times. I’m busy wasting time in what has become a wasted life. Silly me, as always, wishing I was like Brogan or Myra. They have money, adventurous husbands and kids who invite them over. Envy isn’t an attractive emotion, as my glamorous mother would say. I decide that later I’ll dance crazily naked on the lawn.

'Tunneling' by Jared Povanda

She imagines tucking her daughter into bed before grabbing the knife. She imagines kissing her head, smelling her shampoo, saying a prayer. She wishes her daughter could be healthy, happy, safe, strong, alive. But her daughter isn’t those things, and the truth is sharp. Still, she prays, and then she slices open the night sky. Like coins from a purse, several bright stars fall around her. She will leave these at Josie’s grave—wishes scavenged through sacrifice. Next, she cuts through tight dirt, ages of rock, time itself. Deep below, twisting rivers of turgid grief create a vast map. At home here, she follows one branch, remembering Josie’s bright twinkle. Walking, remembering Josie’s everything, she begins to carve her own river.

'Draw A Human Figure Without Lifting Your Pencil' by Laurie Marshall

This body is shaped by the children it bore. By the struggle of keeping them alive and alive and alive. This body is a wound. A carving. A bloodletting. A scar since womb-darkened eyes first focused on its breasts. A talisman. This body stretches and twists around the world’s gaze. Rejecting judgement from every quarter, it thrives. This body is shaped by gravity and loss of intimacy. Wisdom blurs the outline.

'A single unassuming piece of paper' by Sandra Purdy

The envelope plopped onto the coarse, hairy ‘Wipe your paws’ doormat.

She stared at it, fixated, until the blink urge became overwhelming. She

poked it with her toe, looking for signs of life. ‘Get a grip woman’ she

heard her inner self whisper rationally. She had anticipated this day,

practicing how it might play out. A good result meant a takeaway and

fizz for tonight’s tea. She couldn’t contemplate the booby prize

alternative of beans on toast. ‘Just do it’ she heard, carefully tearing

open its gummy seal. Inside, one sheet of ordinary paper knew what her

future held. Her eyes frantically scanned the page, focussing on one little

paragraph. ‘We are pleased to inform you that…’ was all she needed.

'Gran-Gran, curly hair and a return to my roots' by David X. Lewis

When I was 11, my great-grandmother came to stay with us. Gran-Gran, who was 90, had wispy white hair and brown teeth. She took cold baths daily and did exercises in the nude. She encouraged me to join her, but Mummy vetoed the idea. We were doing family trees at school, so I interviewed her. She said my curly black hair came from Giacomo, her grandfather. If Gran-Gran was one quarter Italian, that made me 1/32 Italian! Impressed by my Italian blood, my school-friends began calling me Luigi. So at 17 I went on an exchange trip to Venice. There I met Luisa, who took my nickname as an omen. Now we are married and expecting curly-haired children, one of each.

'The Age Old Question' by Rebecca Kinnarney

‘And how old will you be on your next birthday, then?’ This was always the question that Maude dreaded the most. Why did adults think that this was so important? Why didn’t they ask what books she’d read? She could give them chapter - and verse. She could quote her favourite line. Maude touched her thinning hair. A grey wisp fell. ‘I’m not sure.’ Maude sobbed. ‘Eleven?’

'C…O…N…D…U…I…' by Ali McGrane

As I open the door, the man says, with authority, ‘Conduit’. He has a plumber’s tools, and the right kind of hands. One of those heavy-duty pipes, I’m guessing, maybe for chugging waste. I leave him to it and head back to my station. We all know what happens if we don’t meet company targets. The plumber hums tunelessly as he works, a disrupting, rhythmic drone. I struggle to keep focus on my task, on the count. Then, to crown it all, my damn screen starts playing up. Electric lightning flashes, and my hands lift from the keyboard, sharpish. So no way did I type the tiny letters popping up. I have to practically climb inside the screen to read them…

'Secrets and lies in a holiday destination supposedly perfect for two' by Cath Barton

They should have been suspicious when they looked at the photographs. But they did not know the deceptions of the fish-eye lens. And they were both desperate for a break, not thinking straight. ‘Never mind,’ said Hord, ‘it’s just a step to the coast.’ The ‘step’ took them two hours and the pub was closed. The beach was covered in jellyfish so they couldn’t swim either. They walked along a dirt path and found a fish shack. But on this day luck was not with the two travellers. Gulls dive-bombed them, took their chips and shat on their heads. Brag said that the delights of Earth had definitely been over-stated. ‘Next time let’s try the further planets and hang the expense.’

'Eleven is the most important number to keep all three together' by Sumitra Singam

When I was eleven, I decided to do eleven of everything. Eleven chews, eleven steps to the door, eleven Gayathri Mantras etc. It made me late to everything - Ma said it was tiresome. But my tummy would squeeze tight if I didn’t do it. They took me to a psychologist - she smelled like boiled lollies. The receptionist let me ding the bell eleven times; Ma tutted. The psychologist gave me toys, but I said I was eleven. So we talked - I said nothing was more important than eleven. Because Ma and Pa now talk in hushed whispers about me. They don’t scream at each other anymore, I said to her. What will you do when you are twelve, she asked me. 

'Birding for the Broken Hearted' by Jen Eller Kirkham

When you see my flipflops, you say, ‘Please—change your shoes.’ But I packed almost all work shoes, and have only these. Muttering, you pocket the $100 and the hotel receptionist eyes me. 5.00am and I’m in a car in Medellin with a stranger. Because of my shoes, no hiking, but you know a place. Up and up, through the barrios of Antiquoia before we stop. Beside the dirt road, we see Andean Emerald, Yellow-headed Manikin, Sharpbill. Lacrimose Mountain Tanager, Chestnut-winged Chachalaca, Long-tailed Potoo, Amazonian Swift, Violet-tailed Sylph. You leap in delight when we tick the rare, Red-Bellied Grackle. You’re heartbroken, you tell me; your girlfriend left you for another. I’m silent, wearing flipflops in cloud forest with a broken-hearted stranger.

'The Bells' by Lynda McMahon

Eleven chimes of the bells gave me definite pause for thought.

Lately I’d been losing time just like an inattentive, dilatory schoolchild.

Emptying my consciousness I attempted to focus on the primary cause.

Very soon I was sure I discerned a tendency to overreach.

Even so, I was very concerned that nothing could be done.

Now I knew I needed to alert others to my predicament.

But what to do within such tight parameters at my disposal?

Every overwrought, overwound nerve strained and, finally settled on a solution.

Leaving aside my narrow restrictions, I knew I could do it.

Listeners expected twelve bells on the hour but they got thirteen.

Seconds later and, “what’s wrong with the clock?”; objective successfully achieved.

'Ice Ice Baby' by Sherri Turner

The icing is blue, like each of the last four years. “Sit still,” her mother says, “and think about what you did. You are a wicked, jealous child and no child of mine.” It will be many hours until her mother unlocks the door. She thought she was being a good girl, a good sister. How could she possibly have known, only three years old herself? She didn’t like hearing her little brother cry, left all alone. She had thought the cat would be a comfort to him. This year she has stolen matches hidden in her dress pocket. She lights the candles then blows them out, imagining his breath. She knows there will never be a cake with pink icing.

'The Dare' by Birgit K. Gaiser

During the year’s shortest night, we all headed to the shore. Despite the late hour, the sky retained some memories of light. I heard Grant slur “I totally will” before he staggered seawards. Stripped down to his boxers, he yelped, then entered the waves. When he had not returned thirty minutes later, we were panicking. We fanned out , surveying the beach with our mobile phone torches. Ashley, more sober now, proclaimed she wished she hadn’t challenged him. She’d demanded he find the treasure in the old pirate’s ship. Having been raised with the cursed treasure’s legend, we lost hope. Indeed, Grant never returned, and Ashley quietly withdrew, emigrating months later. I heard they sold the treasure and live in the Caribbean.

'Comment' by Catherine O'Brien

I hope my voice can find you down this one-way street. Typical is traffic choking a metropolis coiling around its runner’s legs. Atypically, dwells a love story in the spaces of noisy lives. You didn’t ever believe in pressing questions; answers met their match. That which is unimportant should never have importance bestowed upon it. I am the person that made them but you forgave mistakes. I could/would have listened forever as you spewed mirth-provoking words. Brazen in your shyness, you spilled light into happenstances and coincidences. You challenged the world, you often said ‘if imitation isn’t flattery…’. I didn’t know that last precious day the hourglass was inverted. If you’re reading this, please insert your comment and/or comments.

'One Little Paragraph' by Joyce Bingham

Tendrils of smoke begin to rise, straight at first then wavering. She squints into the sky’s blueness; the fire is taking hold. Darker smoke billows out, enveloping the trees, green to a grey-brown. The photographs and her tightly cramped writing crackle and curl away. Words dissipating into ash, each leaving an echo of the past. Memories go unseen and unremarked, charred destroyed, wandering in the smoke. The cleansing mithers the blue shade of the sky, marring sunshine. When the heat and pain is burned apart and coolness returns. She will rake the ashes, and spread amongst his red roses. The silky ash will leach into her pores, stain her nails. She knows there will be a perfect day soon, maybe tomorrow.

'Close to Home' by Sravanthi Challapalli

I would buy it one day after I grew up, surely. When we moved, I bid each tree goodbye with folded hands. There was the mango, the gooseberry, the dappled guava, and more. I caressed the walls decorated with gray and pink cement orbs. Older, I bought a flat with gray walls and little green. The mango tree outside my window grew up after several years. The help, ours and the neighbours’, assault it for the fruit. Us residents ignore it, we can’t be bothered by such trifles. My old home is two streets away, demolished and built anew. It now has high walls and a forest of sprawling trees. It’s the perfect shroud to protect it from a stranger’s view.

'Autumn' by Al Davidson

It is autumn where I live and the breeze is pleasant. The trees have begun to turn golden and red like flames. The smell of bonfires and cinnamon linger on cotton garments everywhere. I can see the sun already beginning to set from here. From my window seat where I ponder all things. I ponder the movement of the earth and time with fervor. I ponder how fickle all things are, how beautiful and strange. I’m hit with nostalgia like the waves upon a rocky shore. Nostalgia for a place I have not seen or known before. The places novelty candles summon with their notes, colors, and aesthetics. I think of you and sigh, I dearly miss my Autumn.

'Eleven Years' by Debra Daniel

A friend texts to say that my ex insignificant other died. For close to a dozen years, he slogged through my life. Jumping to another the channel whenever I’d sing with the radio. Only gift he ever gave, a BB gun which he kept. Didn’t like holding hands or kissing or saying, I love you. He didn’t really, love me, that is, but still I stayed. Summer mornings we’d walk the pasture, searching for signs of deer. I spent afternoons with him, digging for spearpoints on the ridge. I kept looking for artifacts that held meaning for someone somewhere. He wanted no obituary, no memorial service, no marker, no mourners. I read the text again, turning each word, unearthing nothing significant.

'When the School Bell Rings Giving Reprieve From the Playground Gossip' by Emily Macdonald

Mondays are eagerly anticipated, the start of the weeks’ righteous battles. Brenda believes in rusticating rumours and testing all the tittle tattle. She gushes, speaking in rapid fabulation, ignoring interruption or questioning consideration. She conspires in breathy whispers, shielding her mouth behind closed fingers. Sideways insinuations are offered with elbow nudges and pursed lip punctuations. She shares secrets and hearsay speculation, or shrieks with wild gesticulations. She eyerolls at dramatic revelations, expresses deep felt, hand squeezing consternation. Supposition is sold along with ‘Oh, I told you so’ affirmations.

Sympathy is offered so very insincerely; empathy expressed but lacks conviction. She only stops when defeated by the school bell shrill ringing.

'One Little Paragraph' by Brenda Jacobsen

Writers have two heads, the monkey mind and the creative muse. Monkey mind sits on one shoulder and says I can't write. Hearing the voice of my creative muse is a listening challenge. Monkey mind, by nature, jumps around in my head, distracting me. It's problematic for me to stare at a blank page unendingly. Mental static is having a field day, and I am stuck. How do I turn down the volume on my monkey mind? Consider this thought: I don't have to believe everything I think. Negative thoughts about my intentions are passing clouds in the sky. If only I could remember how mindfulness helps the words flow. Then I will hear the creative  muse singing in my ear.