'Love Lost' by Anna Peter

 

David Magnus slumped into a kitchen chair, a large blue ceramic jar clasped to his chest. Only the sounds of breathing could be heard. Someone switched on the heater in the corner, sliding it closer to the work table in the centre. No one rushed to take off their coats. Vapour streamed out of Elaine’s nose, her eyes focused on her husband who seemed reluctant to empty the jar. A throat cleared at the back of the room. Probably her nephew Danny, but today he was the cop. David pulled out crumpled papers from the jar. Other hands flattened them on the table. People bent over him to read. He seemed to be moving too slowly, his breathing laboured. Danny’s throat cleared again. “Need help, Uncle Dave?”

Years ago Elaine had watched Lucy leave a note in Dave’s work boots after Lucy dropped by to have coffee. She’d read the note soon after Lucy disappeared around the house. She had felt sick. Helpless and enraged, the torment of her shaken trust corroding her for years. That day Elaine had watched David like a hawk and saw him slip the note in the jar – he had pulled out the bills on top and stuffed the letter right at the bottom and left the kitchen in a hurry. Reaching for the bottom of the jar, Elaine found a few more, realising that David thought the letters would never be found. But he’d be at the jar around tax filing time, trying to remove the evidence of his mistress, but unwilling to destroy them. Elaine had toyed with the idea of divorce, or showing the notes to Lucy’s husband Willard, but stopped – they had children.

Lucy leaned against the doorjamb, sunk from the strain. She had kept David’s notes, even though they had moved on. She had locked them in her little metal box, the key hidden away. She read the letters sometimes, they had made her feel desired, but in later years hopeless and frightened. Their stupidity was now on show to their grown children, friends, neighbours and police. She couldn’t look anyone in the eye. Willard, poor dear Willard, had gone through the letters, drunk almost all the liquor in the house, stuffed David’s professions of carnal love into his pockets, jumped into his truck and rode it around the Magnus property while firing his shotgun at their house. When he tried to drive through their living room, he rammed into a small tree. He was now in jail. A lawyer had served her a divorce notice. Lucy glanced at Elaine, and was startled. Elaine was smiling.

'A love story in three parts' by Jinny Alexander

1.

That Day

The 2.05 from Euston to Carlisle will change at Crewe. This, Benedict knows. 

Benedict doesn’t know that between trains he’ll meet Imogen on the stairs, struggling with her battered leather suitcase.

He doesn’t know he’ll carry it for her, over the footbridge to Platform 4, or that he will notice her hair is neat and shiny as the conductor’s brass bell, or that her perfume will mingle with steam and coal dust to linger in his clothes.

Benedict doesn’t know he will lift her suitcase into the luggage compartment before slipping away to his pre-allocated seat on another train, where he will gaze out of the dusty window and look straight into her eyes.

He doesn’t know she will squash her freckled nose against the glass of her own dusty window, or that as their trains pull away in opposite directions, his heart will leave with hers.

2.

Seven Days

Benedict spreads marmalade on Sunday morning and the toast is the colour of her freckles. He shakes open the paper but sees only her face on every page. 

On his way home from work on Monday, he notices her in every fawn-coloured coat on the platform.

When he sniffs the sleeve of his jacket on Tuesday, the scent of her perfume is fading.

On Wednesday, his tea goes cold as he studies the weekend timetable.

On Thursday, he books a ticket.

On Friday, he agonizes over which hat to wear; which coat.

When Saturday comes around – seven days since they met on the footbridge – he boards the 2.05 Euston to Carlisle, and alights at Crewe, where he will wait and hope that she will be there.

3.

A broken teacup

Perhaps, today, she will come.

He’s about to leave as the telephone jangles in the hall.

Great Aunt Agnes suggests High Tea in a pretty bistro on the edge of Oxford, that very afternoon. Benedict, truly fond of Agnes, acquiesces, albeit with a pang of regret for a chance lost.

The 2.05 from Euston continues northwards without him.

Kisses bestowed on Aunt Agnes’s papery cheeks, Benedict sips tea, seated opposite.

Directly behind Agnes, afternoon sun bounces off coppery tresses Benedict last saw three weeks ago. A dainty china cup waits, forgotten, halfway between its chintzy saucer and his open mouth.

As Agnes turns to look, her napkin flutters to the feet of the copper-haired girl, who dips, retrieves, swivels, and proffers the errant linen towards Agnes’s waiting manicure.

Glancing upwards, Imogen notices Benedict, her open mouth mirroring his.

His teacup falls, as more than the napkin passes between the tables.

'He Was My Man' by Rachel Burrows

 

Kate watches Dad appear from the back. The pallbearers appear to be sashaying to the Nina Simone song. And, as if they’ve rehearsed it, they remove the coffin from their shoulders in time with the ba, ba ba, babababa ba. Dad would have found that hysterical. Feelin’ Good was an inspired choice - Rhian’s idea. The Floral Dance too. Dad spoke about Terry Wogan like they were best mates. He would have been devasted to realise he’d gone.

She is amazed at what Ro pulled off with the coffin - she had no idea that she was so talented – never given her much thought really. She had expected it to be easy, decorating it, but three wonky daffodils in, and she had had to admit defeat and call Ro for help.

He’d love this though! He’d be so proud of them.

 

Ro smiles as the bright yellow coffin makes its entrance. It feels joyful. There’s a stir of knowing laughter as the liquorice allsorts at the foot end become apparent. The bobbly ones had been hard to paint, but she couldn’t have left them off. Great tune too. Dad would have been so chuffed to see how the three of them had come together to plan this. Their unity was his lifetime’s wish.

When Kate finally relinquished control, her inner peace had been indescribable. Kate had seemed surprised to realise that Ro was a capable, grown woman.

Everything Ro had painted on the coffin reflected Dad’s life before the brain damage: the mackerel; the gorse wine; the beach. A beautiful man.

Rhian was getting up to read – a Dylan Thomas piece about the bay where Dad grew up, where The Hut was. The next time they went there it would be to scatter him. He’d be back at last.

 

Sue is mortified. What were the girls thinking putting John in a cardboard box? They were treating this like a party. The man she had loved, in vain at the end, was being danced down the aisle by strangers who looked like they were auditioning for Strictly. She does not feel good, even if that bloody woman singing does. Members of John’s squadron are here too! What must they think? She hasn’t had any say in today’s proceedings: their history was wiped clean by the divorce. Apparently, there won’t be any hymns. John hadn’t been a churchgoer, but you still needed hymns at a funeral. And now Dylan Thomas and that ruddy beach. Things had shifted in their marriage when she suggested selling The Hut.

The girls really have no idea what he was like!

She makes a mental note to plan her own funeral later.

 

 

'A Night Downtown' by Suzanna Lundale

It was her smile that got me. She was smiling at him when she looked up and saw me looking in the window, but her eyes didn’t flee, like folks’ eyes usually do when they see me. I told myself she even raised her chin, just a little, in greeting, or at least, in recognition, as if to say, Yes, I see you. You exist. Her smile, and the fact that I was powerful hungry that night, not having found anything all day. So, though I usually don’t bother with these fancy places, I went in.

For our anniversary, Jim took me to the swank new seafood place downtown. He’d reserved the best seat in the house: gorgeous view over the harbor, and the noise of the kitchen well away from us. I was smiling at another of his witticisms about the menu descriptions when I saw a man approaching, the vagrant whose haunted eyes I’d met through the window - those eyes that held stories it seemed like I could hear right through the glass. He’d almost reached our table when the maître d’ swooped in front of him, halting his progress.

I was plating yet another order of $50 scallops when I saw that Marcus had caught himself another miscreant, as he likes to call them. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was that man who sleeps on the benches by the park, overlooking the sea. Guess he came in hoping for some luck with a guilty society type or some guy trying to show his date that he’s a nice guy and she should definitely go home with him. I shook my head. Poor guy must be really hungry to brave this place on a Friday. I put the plated scallops in the window.

'Into the Woods' by Jackie Morris

Wolf

A guy’s got to make a living, right? I have a long-standing arrangement with the broad- can’t call her a babe anymore, maybe once- in the woods, and I’m on my way when I see this kid - not quite a kid, but not quite a woman either - she’s got the biggest, bluest eyes and my heart catches, she reminds me of — nevermind— and I give her a flower to make those eyes glow and she leans in and I almost — but I don’t, because I know how this one ends, so I wave her goodbye and hightail it out of there and I figure after all maybe I’m learning, maybe I can look myself in the mirror after today, maybe today’s the beginning of a whole new story …

Grandma

Every Wednesday you leave the cottage door unlatched and three fresh banknotes on the hallway dresser. You drape yourself in honeymoon lace, yellowing and sagging in places it once held firm, and swoon onto the bed where your children slithered from you and your husband death-rattled. 

As per the arrangement you wait, ice-maiden still. Birds scrabble in the thatch. A distant axe hacks a steady beat in the forest.  

Pit Pat on terracotta tiles. The bed creaks. Hot breath on your thigh. His feral scent. The nip—always the nip—and the lick and the threat and the thrill. 

Little Red

‘Well, hey,’ His voice is almost a growl. He lopes alongside me, then stoops to tuck a late primrose behind my ear. I know he’s trouble - everyone says Marcia Edwards came out of the woods bluebell-stained and ripe-bellied and Michelle Robertson carved hollow hearts into her arm for weeks and never kissed a boy again - but still I hold my breath, ready for a kiss.

‘I’ve got a bit of business,’ he says. ‘Catch you later.’ 

I trip along the path. He’s not so big or bad, I think, just misunderstood but at Grandma’s house I peep through the lattice window and see—I see—

Her axe lies by the woodpile. I smash the window, rush inside.

'Crosstown Traffic' by Allison Renner

The light was yellow but he was already in the solid lines; he knew he could make it. He pressed the gas pedal a little harder, just enough to send him through the intersection without getting flagged for going ten over the limit.

She slowed down as she approached the intersection. It seemed like the first time she’d ever been in the right lane, needing to make a turn, without someone stopped at the light in front of her. She eased off the brake, scanned the intersection, and started turning the wheel, feeling almost giddy at her chance.

I usually take Sandwich for a shorter walk but the breeze felt amazing to both of us so instead of heading home, I turned left toward downtown. My hair blew in the wind and his tongue hung from his mouth as if tasting the freshness. I kept his leash wrapped thrice around my hand since we were nearing the corner of a busy intersection, but a squirrel darted past just as I looked up at the clear blue sky and Sandwich took off, throwing me off balance and sending me falling forward into the road.

'Another regular Friday night at the local pub' by Nisha Patel

Everyone laughs at my jokes. I can’t help it that they are a bit sexist. I just say what I’m thinking and then people laugh. I don’t mean to be sexist and most of the time I know it’s wrong and just keep quiet. When there’s a whisky glass in front of me though, my thoughts just tumble out. But people laugh so it must be okay.

Everyone humours his pathetic drunken jokes. He’s drunk and it's just the way he is. He means no harm. He’s a gentle giant when he’s not drunk. The sexist jokes though. It’s so close to being wrong. So, so close. Should I laugh, roll my eyes and smile, pretend I didn’t hear?

Everyone’s laughing at him. This is so embarrassing. How long before we can go home? Oh, that last joke wasn’t even funny. “Dad! Just stop! Come on, let's go home now.” I can’t even be bothered to smile at everyone now and pretend it’s ok.

What’s wrong? All I said was that’s a great ass and pretended to lean back to admire the view but I must have stumbled. I better get up off the floor. My eye’s throbbing a bit. I think I should call it a night. Where’s Sophie gone?

He shouldn’t have said those things or tried to touch her. No matter how drunk you are, you don’t do that. What was he thinking? I don’t blame her for punching him in the face. I heard it’s not the first time he’s tried it on with her either. Not sure how it ended last time but it’s so unsafe for girls to go out these days.

What is wrong with dad? She’s younger than me. I went over and apologised to her for my dad. She shrugged her shoulders and told me she wasn’t strong enough last time and didn’t think anyone would believe her. She didn’t want it to go as far as last time so she wasn’t going to laugh it off this time round.

'Choices' by Alex Herod

She cradles the glass, watching the light dance on the amber liquid before it disappears below the surface. Dipping her head, it smells sweet, warm, welcoming. She lifts the glass to her lips.

 

She grips the glass, watching as the shadow plays in the depths, a beckoning finger. She is drawn in by the smoky, heady scent. She knocks it back into her open, hungry mouth.

 

She circles the rim of the glass with her index finger, head-tilted at the meniscus where fluid meets

 glass. Sitting at arm’s length, she smells nothing. A cat-like gesture nudges the glass to the edge of the

 table, and she smiles as it shatters. 

'There are Boundaries' by Abha Iyengar

I saw it happen with my own eyes. It was in self-defense. The boy, Hashim, did not stand a chance against Otto, that hulk of a man, as he attacked him. The boy had said something to Otto. Otto obviously did not like it. He took a step back and then rushed towards the boy. He had suddenly become a raging bull. I saw the anger in those blue eyes. Otto is a big man, but a good man. I have known him since we were children. Even had a crush on him, a long time ago. Yes, it happened in a split second. The sudden rush. And then the boy had no choice. He picked up something from the floor, I don’t know what. He hit Otto on the head with it. Otto fell to the floor. He did not bleed. But we both knew he was dead. 

*

Hashim, this immigrant boy, hardly fifteen, stood waiting for me to check him. I always check to see my factory workers have not stolen anything. They take away things like nails etc. I don’t allow it. I thought I would ask Hashim about his mother. I had seen her the other day and found her pretty. Simple, but pretty. I asked him, “Hashim, how is your mother today?” Olga was also standing there, a little distance away. She was an old friend, a neighbor. Perhaps she had come to tell me something about my wife, Alina. I would walk home with her later and find out if anything was amiss. Alina had been ailing for a while. Hashim told me, “You old fool, keep your eyes to yourself!” How dare he? I rushed at him, my anger beyond control. Then, he hit me with something. I fell and blacked out.

*

I don’t know why I did what I did. I had no intention to hit Otto. It just happened. The way he rushed at me; I wanted to protect myself. I was sure he would pin me against the wall and tear the breath out of me. His eyes were filled with rage. I have never seen him like this. He should not have asked about my mother. Why did he ask?  He has no interest in us immigrants. He only wants us to work long hours for small wages. We are exploited, but we can deal with it. But just as we know our place, he should know his. There are boundaries. Now he is dead. I have been shaking ever since. That lady, his friend, has tried to calm me, but how can she know what this means? It’s the end of my life. There is no future. 

'Pasta Three Ways' by Sumitra Singam

One

As I watch you devour your pasta, I wonder how the oily strands of linguine might feel curled around my tongue. Whether they would hiss as I sucked them into my maw, whether the flecks of chilli would sting me, whether acrid vinegar would catch at my throat, choking me. This happens at a time when you measure your sinuous body against mine, to see if you could swallow me whole; and I consider folding myself in half then half again to fit neatly into the hollow I imagine exists inside you. But you hypnotise me with a swirl of pasta. You hold the fork out, sauce dripping into the bowl. I open my mouth. It is inevitable.

Two

The hollow inside you has a gravity of its own. In this version of the story, I have passed the event horizon. I have become the blackness, my atoms scattered across your unfilled shell, requiring me to populate you, spread myself to your very edges, surrender colour so you may move through this world, beaming with my refracted light, shards of me lodging in you like a shattered rainbow. You slurp the last strands, use the bread to mop the sauce, the food masticating into wet balls in your mouth. It is like I can taste it myself. It is like I don’t have to eat if you do. It is inevitable.

Three

This other me is already gathering the stray, scattered bits; sucking them back into herself with a greedy inhalation. Or maybe she never surrendered them in the first place. This other me has no patience for your vacillation between panna cotta and tiramisu. This other me stands, unfurling her body fully, gathers her bag and leaves with a purposeful stride. She won’t need to say anything. You’ll know that this is something that has already happened. It is inevitable.

'It's Too Late' by Lisa Weber

I quickly glance at the girls in the back seat, still huddled together in the blanket I wrapped them up in. It's not cold, but it's dark and it's late, and I felt the need to protect them somehow. I wish I could cover their eyes and ears, too. I wish they didn't have to see the glowing red sign of the bar when I pull up. I wish they didn't have to hear me cry when I return to the car without their father. I wish they didn't have to witness a love slowly dying.

*

I look at the clock. I know any second, the door will fly open and I'll see my wife, the anger flashing in her dark eyes. She will stomp over to me, demand I come home with her. It's a game we play. She pretends she can convince me to put down the beer and come home. I pretend I'm not fighting demons. No one wins. I won't leave with her. I'll return home in the early morning hours after being somewhere I shouldn't have been. We'll fight. The girls will sit on the floor in front of our locked bedroom door and cry.

*

I'm in the back seat of the car with my little sister. It's really dark outside and I wish we were home in bed. I'm too tired to go look for Daddy again. I wish Daddy would just stay home and not make Mommy cry. I wish they wouldn't fight. The fairy in "Pinocchio" said when you wish upon a star your dreams come true. But I tried that and it didn't work.

NFFD 2023 Prompt #5: Split Second

Split Second

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2023 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of time.  Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from now until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 25 June 2023....

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Write a triptych (three flashes meant to be read together) or a three-part flash (one flash made of three distinct parts) where each section takes place in the same moment of time.  Maybe each section is written from the point of view of a different character, or maybe it's the same character or situation, but things are a little different in each telling.  

We appreciate it's tricky to write a triptych in 300 words, so if you're writing a triptych, you can have up to 150 words per section (450 words total). 

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 5: Split Second.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 25 June 2023 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 2 July 2023 by going to the here (hosted by the NFFD website).