'My World' by Abida Akram

Fire

Many voices. Fire ants are having their lunch as they crawl up my arms and legs. There is no ceasefire, nor will there be. No aid will get through. Hot and cold.

Blue and purple mottled patterns snaking from the soles of my feet and up my calves. The electric bar heater is too hot. I don’t move away. We red-headed people are told we have a temper and are feisty so why am so I silent. This withdrawal is a bitch. I curl up as if paper torched by the sun. My ashes swirl in the room as if sparking the voices into chilli red flakes.

Air

Oceans deep and the deepest of space, unexplored. So much unknown. I am vulnerable to the invisible. I am vulnerable to the empty space inside. A black hole, never to be filled. Scared, drowning, I can’t catch a breath. I wish I could see you once more before I choke.

Water

70% water. You’re kidding, right? More voices from the TV. Loud. I laugh. My thirst is constant. I am drowning in the shallows of little saliva. Floods everywhere. Homes washed away; cars overturned. Strong trees brought low, slumping over roads. My body tight, holding on, whilst my eyes ache, waterless.

Earth

Bodies in white shrouds, bodies under flags, bodies in coffins, bodies in mass graves. You take all the genocides in your stride, for you will be there when we are long gone. You will cough up our bones when you are good and ready.

The voices are louder. There are no walls. There is no peace for such as I. The voices are knocking loudly. 

They say they are saving me from burning, that it’s all in my head.

'Ruby Cabernet' by Laura Cooney

The thing was, she really didn’t see it coming.

 

She should probably have seen it coming, if this had been a movie, we’d all have seen it coming, there would’ve been a music change, the camera would’ve panned out and we’d have felt it. 

But, as always, she had her nose in her phone and was totally absorbed. So she really didn’t see it coming.

How many social sites are there anyway? Most people can sustain two. She had six, all six of the main sites and she was never off them. Sometimes she’d be talking to the same people on two of them simultaneously, it was that bad. 

It was the fourth day of the holiday and the photos she took made it look like it was her ideal, but, if she was being honest, she wasn’t really enjoying it. Her husband Craig was avidly listening to this dude talking about Cabernet grapes and how hardy and blendable they were… boring and pointless. It was pissing her off, though it was an Insta post waiting to happen!

Last night Craig bored her to death in the vineyard restaurant, acting like he had a clue about the wine. It was wet, it was red, that was all that mattered.

The server had clearly noticed her, she’d liked that. Exciting! She wondered if it would lead anywhere. Tonight perhaps?

What she hadn’t noticed, on account of the phone, was that he had followed them there. He liked the way she brushed the hair from the nape of her neck, he’d chosen her. She’d like that.

 

So that was how it came to pass, in the vineyard, while she posted photos of herself drinking deep ruby cabernet, he, shockingly brazen, covered her mouth and pulled her back into the vines. Looking down at the blood, from her freshly exposed belly, he smiled. It was wet, it was red, that was all that mattered. 

'By Golden Threads' by Ellen Grace

Saffie?

Phoibe had red hair and green eyes and freckled cheeks.

Saffie?

Dottie stood off to the side, smirking.

Saffie!

Phoibe stepped closer.

“Saffron!”

Her mother’s voice wasn’t what caught her attention, but the clang of metal on stone. Her tweezers were lying on the floor. Saffron lifted her glasses onto the top of her head and reached down to pick them up. As she rose, she knocked her head on the underside of her work desk.

“Ow.”

Saffron rubbed at the sore spot on the top of her head while her mother righted the jostled equipment.

“Perhaps you should take a break,” her mother said.

Saffron considered protesting, but they both knew she could not work in this state. Whatever this state was.

Saffron went upstairs to her room and lay down on her bed without removing her clockwork foot. On the backs of her eyelids, she saw her: red hair, green eyes, freckled cheeks.

“Go to her.”

Saffron shoved herself up. Dottie was standing at the end of her bed. She had dark hair and olive skin and that smirk on her face.

Saffron groaned and slumped back down onto her bed.

“Go away.”

A thump sounded at Saffron’s window, and she jumped near out of her skin. She scrambled from her bed to look. On the street, with a stone in her hand, was Phoibe. Dottie stood next to her, whispering in her ear.

Saffron unlocked her window and pushed it open. Phoibe threw her stone to the ground. Dottie was nowhere to be seen.

“I cannot work!” she called.

Saffron looked to the uneven brickwork. “Can you climb?”

Phoibe beamed and leaped onto the side of the building, scaled it with ease. Saffron let her in her window and in her arms. Finally, she could concentrate. 

—Inspired by Sappho's “Sweet mother, I cannot weave..." 

'Chocolate Pumpkin Bread' by Donna M Day

Every Halloween, Mummy makes chocolate pumpkin bread. Every year, I come home to comforting cinnamon. Warm and sweet, with a sharp edge, like cough medicine.

I tiptoe through the front garden, past the glowing pumpkins and into the hall filled with ghosts, bats and spiderwebs.

I can hear Mummy in the kitchen and imagine her smiling as she stirs the thick brown spiced dough. 

When I walk in, she is laying the pumpkin seeds and leftover chocolate chips on top of the loaf.

The oven has made our small kitchen very hot, and the counters are covered in mixing bowls and spice jars.

I creep up behind Mummy and hug her. She smiles. It’s our annual treat. Every Halloween, she makes chocolate pumpkin bread and every year we hug right before she puts it in the oven.

Daddy walks in, kisses her and starts returning the jars to the spice rack.

‘Ah, cinnamon,’ he says. ‘That smell. That’s how you know it’s autumn.’

‘We’ll need to get more before Christmas,’ she replies, filling the sink with soapy water. ‘There won’t be enough for my special reindeer macarons.’

I won’t be able to come back at Christmas. The veil is too thick by midwinter.

I love you, Mummy and Daddy, and I’ll see you again next year.

'Margot MacDonald's Favourite Lesson' by Laura Cooney

The spring breeze blew through the open window disturbing the jotters on the desk. Mrs MacDonald was in the middle of an experiment, and let them fall to the floor with a slap. She glanced at them momentarily before looking back to the metal in the flame. 

Magnesium burns brightly when it is on fire and Margot MacDonald gripped the tweezers tight having expounded her favourite lesson. She found that she couldn't quite bring herself to let them go. 

She sighed, to mark the end of a long morning and looked round the room. The first time you give a first year a bunsen burner, there is always a need for the fire blanket. This Margot had to hand, just right there on the desk. She was tired of the routine. Tired to the bones. Not even magnesium held light for her now. But, nevertheless, the script must be followed and, remembering that safety was first, she told Amanda Reid that the blanket was there. Amanda was sensible. She’d know just what to do when it came to it. 

So it came to pass that in the moments after the experiment, and right on cue, Stuart Petrie set a small fire on his desk. Afterwards the students reported that the fire was followed by the crash at the window. Though some remember this part differently and said it was almost eerily silent, apart from Stuart's screams at the other side of the room. 

They said that half the students ran to Stuart with Amanda to douse the flames on his left arm while the other half ran, just in time, to see Mrs MacDonald hit the biology lab roof below. The tweezers she had been holding lost to the undergrowth. Magnesium, an element they’d remember.

'Bright Lights' by Donna M Day

'Richard William Whittington, get out of here! Lay your filthy paws on my daughter again and...'

Young Dick never heard what the baker said next, as he tripped over a small tortoiseshell cat, cracking his head on the dusty road.

The cat’s mew was drowned out by laughter. 

Dick pounced on Robert, the leader of the pack, but was quickly put down by the others.

‘Get out of here, Dick,’ growled Robert. ‘Don't ever lay your filthy paws on me again.’

Young Dick was done with these dusty streets and village kittens. He was going to journey to London, where the streets were paved with gold and a young man could make his fortune overnight.

The little tortoiseshell cat trotted along behind him, out into the great wide world.

As night fell, snowflakes began to drift onto Dick Whittington and his cat, and he decided to find an inn where he could spend the night.

Noticing his feline companion for the first time, he tried to shoo her away, but she ran inside as soon as the door opened and settled by the fire.

‘No animals,’ growled the innkeeper, but the cat pounced on a rat lurking by the coal scuttle.

Dick Whittington and his cat received fish for her hunting efforts and in the morning, they continued to London, where the streets were not paved with gold.

They wandered through the dark streets, with only the lamplighters for company. Shivering, Dick suddenly slipped, cracking his head on the muddy road.

Ears ringing, he looked up at his cat. Her bright green eyes shone like gold in the lamplight.

Looking at the murky, deserted streets around them, young Dick had an idea.

Cats’ eyes might just be the bright lights that would lead him on the road to fame and fortune.

'The Grocery Gatsby' by Allison Renner

I wasn’t surprised to see Jay Gatsby working at the corner store; it was all anyone was talking about, and we were all struggling to make ends meet. Still, something about him seemed better than the rest of us; I could sense it even as he bagged my groceries.

Back at home, I typed his name into the property assessor’s website.

There he was–on my block! I clicked on the property map and saw the pool in the backyard. Maybe if he invited me to one of his infamous parties, I would warn him.

—With thanks to 'The Great Gatsby' by F. Scott Fitzgerald

'Not What We Came Here For' by Julia Ruth Smith

We lay down to love in a field of fire-red, flutter-flutter flowers without knowing their name in our language.

We skim-skimmed perfect stones from the shore of the far-from-home licking lake as it watery-lapped at our city shoes.

We tumbled to the train, our knees grazed with happy earth-mud and excitement.

I’d remember that day as the foul factory air took your hand and I coughed out your name at the graveside.

'Fertilizer is $19.97 at Home Depot' by Christina Tudor

My wife and I decide I have the stronger stomach for pregnancy. She’s always a little bit queasy. It would be like being on a non-stop zero-gravity ride, she said. The doctor goes on about implantation and fertilization. I feel like a yard that needs tending to. I joke that fertilizer costs $19.97 at Home Depot. Nobody laughs. After the doctor confirms the pregnancy is viable, I dream that I’ve swallowed a handful of nickels. I cough them up, spit them into my unsuspecting hands. I laugh in my dream. I laugh myself awake. My wife stirs beside me, asks what’s so funny. I hold my palms out to her that moments before were full of nickels as if to say here, take them. 

'Night Terrors' by Nick Fogg

His key fumbles in the lock. I shrink under the covers. Maybe tonight he’ll just fall asleep.

The bed sags. His alcohol-foul breathing slows. I unclench my eyes.

But the space beside me is empty.

How can it be? I wasn’t asleep.

A hesitant knock at the front door. A wrung-out policewoman tells me there’s been an accident: his car, a tree. Nothing anyone could do. She’s so sorry.

I thank her, turn away. She mustn’t see my heart dancing.

Restless, I strip the bed, let the shower’s warmth caress my body.

As I slide between clean sheets, a whisper slurs from the darkness, “You know I’ll never leave you, don’t you?”

I whisper back, “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

—Previously published in Tortive Theatre’s inaugural #FlashFiction101 competition in 2020.

Revenge Spell by Donna M Day

 Fire

The rage you ignited

The humiliation you bestowed

The betrayal you committed

Boiling tears spilling from my scorched eyes

Earth

The way you made me fall

The way you fractured all stability

Salted water pouring from my eye sockets down my arid cheeks

Air

My scream to the Universe

Hollow eyes with nothing at all left in them but pain

Water

Tears

Tears. Tears.

Tears. Tears. Tears.

Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.

Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.

Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.

Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.

Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.

Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.

The Biscuit Factory by Lisa Williams

 He’d wet himself; possibly worse. We were all trying to not notice that. He kept repeating that he

was waiting for his Mum. She was meeting him. Double shift at the Biscuit Factory apparently. His

Dad was working away so she’d promised him chips on the way home. I know we all felt sorry for

him but didn’t know what to do.

I noticed then the flats there were called The Biscuit Factory and it dawned on me.

He was agitated. I was imagining my own Grandad there. I went over to ask gently whether he knew

where he lived.

A Young Man Ignores His Father by Lynda McMahon

 Icarus took to the air with the confidence and exuberance of youth. He soared above the earth

and watched rainbows form among the clouds as they released their water onto the arid fields

below. Such was his enjoyment of his own cleverness that he was not aware of how close he

was to the raging fire of the sun until it was far too late. His wings, so powerful but now burnt

and useless, fell from him as he hurtled towards the earth and certain destruction.

'In My Element' by Liz Gwinnell

You never heard of Americium? Well hell it’s about time you did. Let me introduce myself. Element 95. At your service.

I was discovered in 1944 but kept secret for a long time.  My creation was hectic, chaotic, a monster baby so unpredictable scientists nicknamed me Pandemonium. What do you expect when you’re created from a bombardment of high energy neutrons? Eventually I broke away from my Uranium parents and so did my sister Curium, Element 96. 

Occasionally we meet up, exchange stories – hers about space travel, mine bemoaning the human and smoke.  We are revolutionaries, pioneers. We influence your worlds without you even knowing we exist.

Burned the toast? Need to fire up your Sat Nav? Here we are, at your service.  Want to know about my alpha particles? How I send them out slow, real slow, letting them ride the waves between positive and negative? And then you go and leave the grill on or burn the toast and all hell breaks loose. The smoke disrupts my flow. And sets off your smoke alarm.  And then I gotta save your life. Jeez. So many times it's a false alarm, so many times.

My sister has no such interruptions up there in outer space.  Nothing violent, nothing intrusive. She is the Element that fires up the satellites you take for granted, satellites powering up your phones, your SatNavs, your everything. 

I say to her, I say, mix it up a little! Get disruptive! Have some fun! Have you seen how much they rely on you down there? But she just looks at me with that cool space look of hers and drifts on past another black hole.

Well, gotta go. Someone’s just turned on the grill and you know what that means.....

'My Elemental Odyssey' by Sarah Oakes

Fire

In October, I was a raging torrent of fire and flame, because the celestial cryptid of my sight was not seen or heard or understood, and it wasn’t fucking good enough to be told I was inconclusive, and it wasn’t fucking good enough that they lost results, and it wasn’t fucking good enough that they didn’t care, and it wasn’t fucking good enough that they wasted my time.

Earth

In January, after years of searching, they finally found my roots. Like Yggdrasil, they reached deep into the earth, into realms of certainty where answers flourished and diagnoses blossomed. From those roots, I began to grow, until my branches kissed the clouds.

Water

In April I became a well of knowledge, as I learnt more about myself and the celestial cryptid that calls my sight home, of her wondrous ways and mysterious magic, and how to navigate the churning sea of my sight with long cane oars, until I started sailing into every horizon.

Air

In June I am a summer breeze, finally feeling like myself, finally accepting the celestial cryptid of my sight as part of my life, finally embracing everything. And now, I skip and dance on every gust of air, living life and loving it. For my elemental odyssey was one adventure, but now I set sail on another, and know I shall soar.

Alarming Elements by Jane Claire Jackson

 

 Earth

Terracotta tiles cover ochre buildings. Earthenware pots adorn fenced terraces. Dusty soil. Parched vegetation. Sunbaked land.

 

Fire

A match dropped from a car window, still glowing. Sparks crackle, smoulder and spread. Rapidly flames ignite. Tongues licking, hungry for more. Smoke choking, billowing out of control.

 

Air

Wind fanning, encouraging, heating. Sirens echoing for miles around. Planes taking off, flying, circling, assessing the situation far below. Relatives holding their breath whilst rescuers debate options. Hot air

 

passes from mouth to mouth. Orders shouted. More planes soar full speed to the coast.

 

Water

Hosepipes spraying, depleting emergency sources. Rivers acting as barriers. Planes splash down, filling tanks with seawater. As this artificial rain pours from the sky, slowly the blaze is dampened and squelched.

The Scent of Rain by Cath Barton

‘You know what that smell in the air is, don’t you?’ I said, feeling sure he would lecture me

about it in his usual way, but making the effort to smile at him as the water from the sudden

downpour swirled and gurgled in the gutter, but he shook his head.

‘It’s Petrichor,’ I said, ‘which is a word for the dry earth releasing chemicals after rain.’ I

was fired up by the discovery that for once I knew a fancy word he didn’t, and I gabbled on

about it all the way up the long road home. Having the upper hand in conversation for once

was a thrilling distraction from all our woes, but of course it didn’t last, any more than that

evanescent scent of rain did.

'She Looks So Like Her Mother' by Adele Evershed

Someone said as I walked past them. It wasn't true; we only shared our slant wrinkles - they rose across our foreheads like angry sergeant-major stripes and our love of gin. My sister, on the other hand, was the spit of her dark blue winter eyes, lips like a guppy from too much filler, and a long sharp nose that could smell anybody's bull shit. Like my mother, Jojo was beautiful, whereas on my good days, I'd been described as handsome, which, unless you are a man, is a label usually used to describe a prize cow or a pumpkin. But she wasn't here, so I didn't have to suffer the unfavorable comparison with my only sibling. Since the time Jojo could walk, I'd suffered her presence like a blister from an ill-fitting shoe. It suffices to say I didn't miss her, and I was rather enjoying the look of confusion on the faces of the people who enquired after her when I said she couldn't make it. Of course, I never told them the reason - that Jojo was heavily pregnant so that she couldn't fly.

Later, after the toasts and tears, another person told me I had my mother's smile as if I'd taken a putty knife, lifted her turned-up lips like old wallpaper, and pasted them on my face. It was an odd thing to say, as I didn't know the greying gentleman, so how on earth would he know? It's not like I'd been smiling during my mother's funeral.

Leave It All Behind by Allison Renner

 Air

In the mountains, far from “home,” you can breathe. The air tastes fresh and moist, allowing

hope to fester in your lungs in a way the sandy desert heat never could cultivate.

Earth

Scorched Earth. It’s what he expected, and you’d never dream of disappointing him. Not even

now, after all he’s put you through.

Water

Cut off at the street.

Fire

Burning down the life he’d trapped you in.

'Perseverance' by Sravanthi Challapalli

This was the last time she would look for a mud pot, Maggie told herself as she approached the lady selling her wares by the road. She had bought several pieces of earthenware for their purported advantages, but she had gained only grief.

When she had set up home thirty years ago, fancy boutiques had begun to sell terra cotta stuff in a back-to-the-roots movement. Maggie bought two clay dishes to set curds in. Their porous walls would absorb the moisture and thicken it. But the curds stank. She now used those dishes to store keys, buttons and pins. A small wok she had bought began to darken and smell strange after just days on the fire, incinerating the mustard and the chillies no sooner than they hit the oil.

Her latest dietitian insisted she drink water stored in mud pots. It was good for her metabolism and her heartburn. Maggie had bought and discarded three, they wouldn’t stop oozing all over even after she cured them as per instructions. “Buy a fourth one,” the dietitian insisted. So here she was, on a scorching May afternoon, the air rippling with heat, preparing to take home another failure.

“You can use it right away, it is well-seasoned,” the vendor said. She held up the pot and hit it with her knuckles, producing a loud, clear sound. Maggie tried it, but her knuckles hurt. She shrugged and paid for it. She washed it, filled it with water and the next morning, crept into the kitchen where she had installed it on two thick Turkish towels and felt it gingerly. Hooray! It was moist but not leaking, just as it should be. Joyously, Maggie reached for a glass, dipped it into the pot and drank her fill.