Write-In 2019: 'But We Still Have Seasons' by Marissa Hoffmann

All the seasons remain but there’s no yesterday, or the day before and maybe no tomorrow. We share today. That’s what we have. When I wake, Mum isn’t in her bed again but droplets down the stairs and across the hallway make her easy to find. The backdoor is open and the cat is minding her. Mum is bent at the hip weeding in her nightdress and wellies. Marigolds, violets, begonias—all from seed—all in neat rows—the way Dad kept it. The wind has stolen the neatness from the plaits in her hair but at least she’s dry now. In late Autumn, the alliums will glisten with frost and again she’ll ask when Dad’s coming back, and like we’ve always done, we’ll plant the spring bulbs, snowdrops, daffodils, tulips. All the seasons remain but there’s no yesterday, or the day before and maybe no tomorrow.


www.marissahoffmann.com

Write-In 2019: 'Jesus said that he would explain everything.' by Al Moore

JESUS SAID THAT HE WOULD explain everything. I haven't got long, I said, but go ahead. I couldn't help myself  interrupting him before he could finish the story he was telling me. You are eager, he said. I said, You are breaking up — can you repeat that? Quickly I dropped more coins into the receiving slot. Is it true, I asked. Everything is true, said he. You must believe. I'll come and meet you, I said, I've got to see you to believe. He said that he was at IKEA and that he had bought a new seat to sit at the right hand side of his father. I'm good with making that stuff, I said, I'll stop by. In the background I could hear the beep—beep—beep of checkout. A pinched woman's voice said, Holy Jesus, is it really you? It is surely, I heard Jesus say. I am sorry I just never thought that I'd ever see you here; in fact I didn't even believe in you until now, I could hear the woman say. Let's do a selfie, she asked. Sure, he said, just the one. That'll be, she said, no go on, take it, we'll say nothing. Jesus, I said, my coins are running out, are you there, Jesus, I'll meet you at Subway — my shout — I'm in the mood for a foot long. The operator said I had ten seconds left. I wondered what chair he was after. Keep your receipt safe, I shouted. The line had already expired. I thought about him all of that morning. I was sure that I'd recognise him. I just had to meet him. I'd bring wine and cheese and grapes. I'd watch him make wine. I'd watch him thumb the curls of his beard. I'd ask him to pray for me. I'd ask him to rob a bank with me. I'd spend it quickly. Then I'd go home with him. I wrote a list of things.

Jesus said that he would explain everything.

Write-In 2019: 'Call me, Mum x' by Julie FitzGerald

I watch his WhatsApp. Last seen yesterday at 06:20; no answer, calls unreturned, no text reply. Eighteen hours, a son in incognito mode: AWOL, taken, gone. No. His phone is lost, yes, that's it; the screen smashed from a bar drop, seeped in pear cider that faults his index print. The Touch ID says Try Again. Try Again. The finger pad is wet and cold, its onyx eye fixed and dilated, unblinking at the moonless sky. On the embankment, left on a bench carved In Loving Memory above the fist-crushed empties and flattened roaches. At a girl's with no iPhone charger; she's got a Samsung you see. Please God. He has no Facebook status, all social mediums remain unupdated. No vital signs, no online, typing... Sound on, volume set to max, my palm-encased phone is warm under the pillow. I check, I wait, heart in mouth. I watch his WhatsApp.

Write-In 2019: 'Ice' by Stella Turner

Frost hanging off long eye lashes. Scarf wrapped around frozen ears dulling the sound of the whipping wind, nose running, rivulets washing over her cheeks leaving white marks, brain going into meltdown. The little jacket pulled tightly around thin bones. Feet burning inside torn flimsy shoes: painful chilblains starting to form. Too cold to look left or right, just keep going straight. Watching her walk, the swing of her narrow hips, heart beating he licked his lips tasting salt, she saw no-one, didn’t feel his touch on her shoulder or the grip on her neck promising eternal life. Frost hanging off long eye lashes.

Write-In 2019: 'Things Might Be Different' by Michelle Christophorou

As with every morning lately, John wakes up crying. He can’t say why. Helen slumbers beside him, soft and flannelly with middle-age (long gone the days she slept naked); his job rumbles on, weekdays nine to six (he opts for ‘middle management’ on forms); Lucy will wag her tail feebly, fix him with shining eyes as kibble dings and echoes into bowl.

Maybe it’s time for a change. Tonight - Thursday – it’s fish and chips. Instead, he’ll bring home Asian. Nothing too spicy for Helen. Chicken teriyaki. Chilli beef for him.

Dining table eschewed (medium oak), they balance plates on laps, swap Killing Eve for Line of Duty. At 10.30, instead of turning in, he opens the single malt Dad bought them, unfogs a brace of tumblers (wedding Royal Doulton), measures out two fingers. Who knows? Things might be different.

As with every morning lately, John wakes up crying.

Write-In 2019: 'Half a Tank' by Sarah Mosedale

Are we nearly there?

That little voice floating up behind her. A balloon whose trailing string, razor-edged with optimism, slashes her heart, clots the breath in her lungs, rips her guts. Gripping the wheel, half blind with snot and blood, she struggles for silence. Prays the child will give up, will sleep. Her reason for living, her likely death sentence too, one warm sweet bundle, buttoned up and belted in.

Nearly where? There is no there. She’d left the death house because in the end there was no choice. She was driving because she’d managed to snatch the keys and the car was faster than walking. It is warm and dry too; outside the rain drums with cruel enthusiasm. Half a tank of petrol is all that stands between them and him. Can it possibly be enough? Can she hold that tiny terrifying balloon?

Are we nearly there?

Write-In 2019: 'The Keepers' by Maxine Davies

They never stay for long. There’s just me and wor Tessa now. Yi can see ‘em from the top of wa lighthoose, pickin’ tha way through the narrow streets and tip-toeing around corners, hands held oot like the world’s made of sharp edges. I see a bairn hoy ‘imself over the waal, tiny thing, land with a dull thud. Me heart’s doing somersaults inside me chest. A scramble through the hatch, reet fast.

Tessa, a says. Another one.

She breathes, in and oot, in and oot. Pops the ribbon bookmark carefully between the seam of the pages. They never stay for long.

Write-In 2019: 'Personal services.' by Grace Palmer

‘You’ve only got one Mum.’

I slammed the door in his face, rage powering my footsteps, leaving behind the smell of carrots, ancient wee and talcum powder. Besides it wasn’t quite true, was it? I’d been one of those first babies, born with three parents, genetic material mixed and muddled.

In the park I vaped, watched dogs race up and down the Northern Slopes, their owners flinging balls, time after time. The dogs panted, meaty tongues lolling, their wagging tales all yes yes yes. That look in their eyes; so trusting. So compliant. And then the pat. The stroke.

I ran down to the bakery at the bottom of the park. They’d sold out of bread but they still had an egg custard with a grating of nutmeg. Proper wobbly, with pale pastry. Just how she likes it.

‘You’ve only got one Mum.’

Write-In 2019: 'Silence' by Abi Hennig

Hush now and listen. In the beginning there were monsters and the monsters were fine. They talked to her and played together and laughed when she laughed and stroked her hair with their claws when she cried. When scratches appeared in the woodwork, her parents pointed and demanded and eventually shouted so loudly the windows rattled in their frames. Words lay scattered on the carpet of her room.

The monsters tried their best, but the games they played were raucous and rambunctious and fun, fun, fun; they just couldn’t stop themselves – even when the curtains were torn down and the light fitting fell from above.

Hush now. No shouting. Now just a silence that sits in the room between her and the man with horn-rimmed glasses. Silence grows and the monsters are scared. They shrink away but it catches and eats them, tail to snout. Hush now and listen.

Write-In 2019: 'Maybe I’d Better Write That Down' by Kymm Coveney

What did I say?

…

What I said was … That’s not what I meant.

…

You thought I said what? … Why would I say that? Obviously, I didn’t explain myself.

…

Okay, I didn’t explain myself well. I did not mean that.

…

Maybe you don’t listen … Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t understand.

…

I would never think that. I’m offended you think that of me … Would you please listen to me?

…

You are choosing to misunderstand me now. I cannot make myself any clearer.

…

Don’t be so obtuse.

…

Why won’t you listen? … I didn’t say that … What do you mean?

…

What did I say?

Write-In 2019: 'I wish the soil were undisturbed' by Elaine McKay

I wish the soil were undisturbed. I wish the shovel were in the shed. I wish I could walk up the hill, undrive the van. Be in the kitchen. Undrink the bitter coffee. See the heat spirals unwind back into the shitty brown liquid. See clear water flow back up the pipes. Unhear- You're useless at everything. You stupid bitch- for the millionth time. Push down the lava of volcanic rage in my stomach before it erupts.

But you don't ever take back your words. 

I wish the soil were undisturbed.

Write-In 2019: 'Imagine' by Voima Oy

Can you imagine a future where we're not together? he said once.

They were living under the bridge, sound of traffic rushing by overhead. She watched the waterfall of rain, and didn't care about the future.

That was when they were young and strong.  They saved their money working the asteroid mines, breathing in the black dust. She covered her cough with her hand, pretended not to notice his cough was getting worse.

They were going to start a new life on Mars.
Now she watches the blue sunset, his ashes mixing with the red dust.

Can you imagine a future where we're not together? he said once.

---

This first appeared  as a 3-tweet story, for Mythic Picnic Tweet Story Project--Volume 3, April 2019.

Write-In 2019: 'Death goes on strike ' by Mary Sheehan

Death picked up his scythe and went to work. Only he was fed up with the ingratitude. The way people reacted, you’d swear they were entitled to live forever.

‘Let’s see how they get on without me!’ He huffed and he laid down his scythe and headed for the bar.

Nobody died! The old just got older. The world rejoiced, went a little mad. Death was plied with free Mohitos. The undertakers, coffin makers and life insurance brokers changed careers. It was great!

Only life became… overcrowded. Food got short. Death started getting dirty looks. An envoy of world leaders came to visit him. The orangey obnoxious one said,

‘I have great respect for you. Hell… I like you. But you have to get rid of the losers.’

Death grinned. That sounded like a personal invitation, he was happy to accept. Death picked up his scythe and went to work.

Write-In 2019: 'A Waltz' by Julia Calventus Coveney

A girl sits down to eat at an empty dining table. She peppers her meal and strips a napkin from its container. The girl looks down at her plate and picks at the food she finds there. Footsteps get louder. She resists looking up.

   - Is this seat taken?

   - No.

Forcing a smile, she listens as the chair is dragged off across the room. The taking of the chair symbolizes many a lost conversation.

Time crawls by and her meal is gone; the girl picks up. On her way out she smiles at the dining hall worker who replies with a friendly nod. The girl waltzes to class, sits silently, never raises her hand. She takes notes she will never revise. She attends a meeting that totals three people, including herself.

The Sun goes down and dinner time rolls around. A girl sits down to eat at an empty dining table.

Write-In 2019: 'The perks of blaming the summer sun' by Mileva Anastasiadou

It wasn’t me. It was the heat.
The trip had been his idea. Once we arrived, I knew I belonged there: to an endless, lazy summer. Reality felt sunny like our love, flowing effortlessly though our veins.

It wasn’t me. It was the blinding sun.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
I wanted a sunny life he couldn’t afford.
He bowed his head and left.

It wasn’t me. It was the warmth of the sun intoxicating my mind, blurring my thoughts.

Comforted in the arms of another man, who offers me that everlasting summer I longed for, I feel cold.
I finally realize summer is not a season, but a state of mind, for colors don’t seem that bright without the love.

That damn sun is confusing. I was naive enough to to fall into the trap, but deep down I am relieved. It wasn’t me. It was the heat.

Write-In 2019: 'Serpent' by Gail Aldwin

The humid air makes Jessie think she’s wearing a second skin. She tosses in bed, throws off the covers and wishes she could writhe and slide to shed the layer and come out new, glistening. To discard the rubbish that is her life, she makes a gash. Just one thin line creates a breach. Blood oozes. It’s what she does to slither free from the parasites. And what she leaves behind like an old sock turned inside out. But. The humid air makes Jessie think she’s wearing a second skin.

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https://gailaldwin.com/

Write-In 2019: 'Eulogy for a Silent Partner' by J.R. Bournville

Some things don't need to be said. I remember when you pulled me beneath the duvet, whispering conspiratorially, educating me in ways I'd never imagined. We speak loudest with our bodies, you said; with those lingering looks and half-hidden smirks, louder than words ever could.

Over the years, we barely spoke; never have two people been more in love. A tilt of your head as I come in for breakfast; you've got grease down your t-shirt. Raise my left shoulder, crinkled eyes, wan smile; what, again? Seems I'll never learn. Back in a minute, love.

With all those years hardly speaking, you'd think I might've saved up my words for something important, but I don't think either of us ever imagined this day. Certainly not so soon, anyway.

There's nothing more to say. I love you, darling; the rest you've always known.

Some things don't need to be said.