Write-In 2019: 'Retirement Community' by Virginia Moffatt

‘Greg and Nancy Poliakoff?’

‘That’s us,’

‘Angela Merriweather. Welcome to Greenfield Retirement Community.’

 ‘Tea?’

‘Please.’

‘Reduced caffeine, better for the circulatory system. And no coffee of course.’

‘Of course.’

‘We’ve never had a problem here. We’re very strict about that sort of thing. But, well you do hear the most terrible stories. Only last month, thirty people died due to uncomposted coffee grounds at Hazelgrove.’

Nancy shakes her head in horror. Greg looks at her appreciatively. Her yellow petals may be browning with age, her seed cases less full, but her kindness and empathy shine through. She is still beautiful to him, after all these years.

The tea arrives as Angela takes them through the different packages on offer. Option 1, for the fully mobile. 2 bedroom bungalows, with private garden for any tenants wishing to draw directly water from the soil. Perfect for semi-retireds like Greg and Nancy. There is easy access to the outside world, but thick walls to keep them safe. ‘There’s so much street violence these days you can’t be too careful,’ says Angela, Greg nods.

Then there’s option 2, the in-between phase. Glass conservatories, with room to lounge in but also soil trenches to plant your feet, a preparation for option 3. Nobody says it, but option 3 is end game. One last year,  rooted in the soil, subject to wind, rain and sun. One last, glorious year when they’ll grow as tall as tall can be, and send their seeds scattering in the wind, before...Well. Angela doesn’t need to say anymore, they all know what she means.

‘Lovely don’t you think?’ says Greg as they head out towards the car.

‘Let’s do it,’ she smiles as she climbs in the car.

They put the deposit down first thing in the morning.

---

Unbound: https://unbound.com/books/echo-hall

Blog: A Room of  My Own  https://virginiamoffattwriter.wordpress.com/

Twitter: VirginiaMoffatt@aroomofmyown1

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Write-In 2019: 'Castling' by Kyriakos Chalkopoulos

If I am to keep up, mistakes known to lead to serious problems should be avoided. Last night I missed an appointment with an influential businessman who may well have agreed to sign a contract there and then – while now he seems unwilling to even return my calls. We were to meet at ten thirty, and I had already left my apartment one hour before that – yet I never made it past the gate of my building. I do recall how I stayed next to the wall until it was a quarter to ten, way too late for me to make it even if I was already running to the bus station, and consequently returned to my house, sighing while reflecting on what went wrong.

I distinctly remember that prior to leaving the apartment I went to the kitchen and opened the top drawer to observe the white pawns placed there on a striped napkin. It seemed to me that their position was conforming to the known rule, but it didn’t take me very long to understand my error when I returned, following my failure to leave the building.

It is a simple enough mistake to make… Castling always happens if the three pawns aren’t positioned exactly as they should. Of course I was being ambitious, and in an attempt to negate a lesser obstacle happened to resurrect a major one from the past. Besides, it didn’t matter if that other obstacle would have been dealt with, given that one only materializes when I am inside the bus, while this time I never made it to the street…

Castling must always be prevented. Due to hastiness I allowed once more a full wall to form around the building, and it does seem my prospective client walled up as well...

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Write-In 2019: 'Taking the Mickey' by Amanda Jones

A shout from my mother. “Mouse. Quick. Mouse.” “Yes, coming”. Where was Linus when you needed him? Blasted cat.

In her room, I realised there was a new development in the mouse scenario. The creature had clearly dined well. It was wedged fast in the hole. Front quarters invisible. Hind legs scrabbling. 

The snap of the cat-flap heralded Linus. He swaggered in. The mouse sensed danger. A small pile of droppings appeared and it plunged forward into the skirting board.

“Honestly, Linus” I said. “Honestly? Honestly what? ” He’s always peevish when he’s tired, now he was slurring after a night on the tiles. “May I have some breakfast please” he said with studied politeness. Then he sat bolt upright , stuck a leg in the air and did cat-cleaning things. I shuffled off to the kitchen. “Coffee mum?” “What time is it?” “Five.” “No thanks. But please get that ridiculous cat out of here.“ “Going” snapped Linus. She and Linus don’t speak. She pretends she can’t hear him. “Are you going to clear up this mouse manure?”. “Yes, in a minute”. Linus cackled. We both pretended not to hear him”.

There was silence. Linus can’t groom and speak. We both know this. It’s a recipe for fur-balls. I made coffee and toast, grabbed a sachet “Cod ok?” He had finished grooming. “No. Tuna. And some of my special milk please”.

So here we are. I sit at the table. He sits on the floor. That rule does survive. “It’s all take, take, take with you” I say. “Of course. I’m a cat. It’s what we do”. He wanders over to his basket. Turns round three times. Curls up. He’s asleep before I close the front door.

Write-In 2019: 'Four o'clock Session' by Grace Palmer

‘Hello.’

There was no response, as usual. I liked to nod at him hoping that one day he might chat or raise a wispy hand in salute, and look at me rather than through me. He appeared at around four o’clock each day as I was pushing the grandkids back home for tea and toast after nursery.

As bold as brass he leant behind the sandstone wall. The path was stubborn by the churchyard – old cobbles and soft grass and the Maclaren Buggy’s tiny wheels had a habit of bogging. You had to shove when they stuck, so maybe the noise attracted him. He had a top hat and a neckerchief, or it could have been a scarf; the smudging made it hard to tell. He oozed melancholy but as we got used to each other I thought I detected a longing in his gaze.

I often looked behind me to see what entranced him. Sid’s neat bamboo canes wigwammed with runner beans in the allotment so maybe he remembered hunger or had been a gardener.

‘Hello,’

‘Top of the morning to you.’

‘You’re a long way from home. Ireland, I mean.’

There was a hiss and his words formed a little speech cloud above the wall, as if drawn in copper plate, by a Victorian scribe. Speaking probably took up more energy than speechbubbling, for a gentleman like him

It took me a while but being a dab hand at sudoku I managed to unscramble his meaning.

‘Will you help me find the key, now?’

I parked the buggy and obediently clambered into Sid’s allotment. A silver CD dangled from pea-sticks. The word ‘No,’ rang inside my brain. A pitted key lay on the ground. I picked it up and turned. My friend flared into colour then evaporated. 

Write-In 2019: 'The Children's Library' by Jennifer Cousins

There’s this hatch, about two foot by two foot, set into the outside of the building, near the door. This is a library. When the library’s closed, if you want to avoid a fine, you post your book through this hatch. It says: ‘Library of Birmingham – Book Return’. I have a strong desire to do this during opening hours just for the hell of it: to take the little man on the other side by surprise. “Hey”, he would say, “That got me on the head – it hurt!” 

The last time I saw a hatch like this, years ago, it was in a convent wall in Florence. It wasn’t for books. It was for babies. Catholic women who had fallen from grace had few other choices: the medieval church could dream up some pretty nasty sanctions. So women would creep out at night with their pathetic wriggling bundle and post it, maybe with an anonymous letter, through the elaborately carved stone hatch.  I presumed there was someone on the other side to catch.

The other night I couldn’t sleep. I roamed the city centre in the small hours, thinking. As I passed near to the library, I saw a woman with a bundle. She looked this way and that, but didn’t see me. She kissed the little bundle then posted it through the hatch. The notice had been changed. It said: “Library of Birmingham – Baby Return”.  I hope there was someone on the other side to catch.

I wondered: maybe this is a place where you can borrow babies too?