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?
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'An Unfortunate Oversight' by M. H. Thaung
He says the biscuits are allergen-free.
She says she’s not so sure.
He says he’s upset she doesn’t trust him.
They say at the inquest it’s a pity nobody read the label on the packet.
It says: may contain nuts.
He says he can’t understand why she didn’t.
She says she’s not so sure.
He says he’s upset she doesn’t trust him.
They say at the inquest it’s a pity nobody read the label on the packet.
It says: may contain nuts.
He says he can’t understand why she didn’t.
Write-In 2019: 'Schism' by Mileva Anastasiadou
“I can’t see anything,” you yelled. “Neither can I,” I confessed. I think you realized my terror because you squeezed my hand. I must have left your hand abruptly and turned. In an attempt to gain back composure, I took a deep breath that sounded like a sigh. You held me close and kissed me, without giving me time to react. My contempt for you grew stronger, as your immaturity shone through. I unwillingly let myself enjoy your touch, until the sun shone above our heads. Those sun rays lighting the scene were the last sparks of a love doomed to end soon. Relieved, I held your hand and we moved on.
“I can’t see anything”, I said. “Neither can I,” you told me tenderly to appease my fear, although I was mostly excited, not scared. I squeezed your hand in joy. Your hand was wet and sweaty and I realized that finally the universe conspired to leave us all alone on earth. You let go of my hand and turned my way. Your sigh was soft and tender. I fell all over you, as if a huge invisible magnet pulled me to your side. That was a long and tender kiss, a prologue to a lifetime of togetherness. The fog dissolved in a few minutes, as you took my hand and held it gently into yours under the bright sunlight. We moved on without uttering a word.
Now they can’t see. Now they’re two figures, trapped in a foggy forest, trapped in their thoughts. People have thoughts. They touch, then take their distance and touch again. One wrong step and I’ll bite. My bite is poisonous, yet unintended. For snakes don’t think. Snakes do not write stories inspired by Tool’s songs. Snakes only wish to not be disturbed.
“I can’t see anything”, I said. “Neither can I,” you told me tenderly to appease my fear, although I was mostly excited, not scared. I squeezed your hand in joy. Your hand was wet and sweaty and I realized that finally the universe conspired to leave us all alone on earth. You let go of my hand and turned my way. Your sigh was soft and tender. I fell all over you, as if a huge invisible magnet pulled me to your side. That was a long and tender kiss, a prologue to a lifetime of togetherness. The fog dissolved in a few minutes, as you took my hand and held it gently into yours under the bright sunlight. We moved on without uttering a word.
Now they can’t see. Now they’re two figures, trapped in a foggy forest, trapped in their thoughts. People have thoughts. They touch, then take their distance and touch again. One wrong step and I’ll bite. My bite is poisonous, yet unintended. For snakes don’t think. Snakes do not write stories inspired by Tool’s songs. Snakes only wish to not be disturbed.
Write-In 2019: 'The last holiday' by Cath Barton
We set off for the place where we’d been happy lots of times, before, but I felt terrible from the first day, a stone dragging in my heart. In the evenings I drank wine to numb me, but next morning, on the long drive, I felt its leaden weight. I found myself crying for no reason, except of course there was a reason, I just couldn’t work it out.
When we reached Provence the sky was luminous and I thought it might work its magic on us again. I cooked the simple food we both loved and we ate on the terrace, overlooking the lavender fields. Anyone seeing us would have thought he was behaving normally, but he was always a good actor. There were times when he had rehearsed his parts with me, on that balcony. We had laughed together then, when there was no-one else in the plot. Now I had an unknown rival stealing all my best lines.
‘You can guess who it is,’ he said, finally cornered.
‘I don’t want to guess,’ I hissed, eyes narrowing. Though by then I knew her name. I wanted him to wriggle. Like a worm. Skewered.
When we reached Provence the sky was luminous and I thought it might work its magic on us again. I cooked the simple food we both loved and we ate on the terrace, overlooking the lavender fields. Anyone seeing us would have thought he was behaving normally, but he was always a good actor. There were times when he had rehearsed his parts with me, on that balcony. We had laughed together then, when there was no-one else in the plot. Now I had an unknown rival stealing all my best lines.
‘You can guess who it is,’ he said, finally cornered.
‘I don’t want to guess,’ I hissed, eyes narrowing. Though by then I knew her name. I wanted him to wriggle. Like a worm. Skewered.
Write-In 2019: 'Nursery School' by Judy Tweddle
Little Jack Horner sat in the corner. On the naughty chair. Again. This time he was to think about what it would feel like to have someone put their finger in YOUR food.
Write-In 2019: 'Am I ugly or do I look like Daddy’s cheating ex-wife?' by Kate Miller
Ouranos or Father Sky was the son and husband of Gaia, Mother Earth in Ancient Mythology.
Ouranos and Gaia had twelve sons and six daughters. He locked he eldest of these – the giant ‘Cyclops’ and the ‘Hecatoncheires’ away inside the belly of the Earth. They were the ugly ones – the children he despaired. Sometimes I think Daddy doesn’t like me.
‘Why does not daddy have favourites?’
‘... Because you remind him of your fucking mother.’
Ouranos and Gaia had twelve sons and six daughters. He locked he eldest of these – the giant ‘Cyclops’ and the ‘Hecatoncheires’ away inside the belly of the Earth. They were the ugly ones – the children he despaired. Sometimes I think Daddy doesn’t like me.
‘Why does not daddy have favourites?’
‘... Because you remind him of your fucking mother.’
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.’
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: 'Blame Game' by Lynda McMahon
I blame him. He lead me. Big, bad, a cad. Fed me fig jam, ham, mead. Bed head jagged. I bled. He came. I fled. Dead mad. Had.
Write-In 2019: 'Lost' by Sue James
When I came home from work the light on my Ansaphone was flashing. I pressed to hear the message while I put the kettle on. Molly's voice stopped me in my tracks. It sounded different though, as if in a wind tunnel. I recognised that sound.
'No?' I pleaded inwardly.
'Mum? Where are you? Mum? I can't find my way back, Mum?' her voice faded out. The Ansaphone bleeped and the machine intoned that
'There are no more messages' before switching itself off.
This was the first time I had heard Molly's voice in the six years since her disappearance and I had missed her call. I sat and sobbed before calling the Police. I stayed by that phone and waited for a second call that didn't come, before going through Molly's room and searching for what I feared all along was at the root of why Molly and I were apart. Finally, at midnight, I laid out her Ouija Board and lit two black candles.
'Okay Molly', I whispered, 'if you can't find your way back to me, then I'll come to you'.
'No?' I pleaded inwardly.
'Mum? Where are you? Mum? I can't find my way back, Mum?' her voice faded out. The Ansaphone bleeped and the machine intoned that
'There are no more messages' before switching itself off.
This was the first time I had heard Molly's voice in the six years since her disappearance and I had missed her call. I sat and sobbed before calling the Police. I stayed by that phone and waited for a second call that didn't come, before going through Molly's room and searching for what I feared all along was at the root of why Molly and I were apart. Finally, at midnight, I laid out her Ouija Board and lit two black candles.
'Okay Molly', I whispered, 'if you can't find your way back to me, then I'll come to you'.
Write-In 2019: 'The Visitor' by Sarah Mosedale
‘I confess the purpose of your visit is not immediately clear to me,” said Dr Fowler, closing down the desktop screen, removing a smeared pair of glasses and rubbing the back of her thin, pale hand across red rimmed eyes.
The small woman sitting on the other side of the desk in the consulting room said nothing in reply; it was not her responsibility to set the agenda as the doctor was well aware, her presence was quite sufficient.
The doctor shifted in her seat - as a well informed citizen she had, of course, been expecting this day for a very long time but now it had arrived she found herself awkward, at a loss, curiously unprepared.
What were the correct words for the occasion, the correct demeanour, how was she expected to conduct herself, to behave, how should she move her eyes, her hands, did any of it matter?
The visitor sat quietly, relaxed, well presented, generally unremarkable in appearance, a bit of a mouse one might suppose, though a mouse conspicuously at ease in its surroundings.
The doctor shuffled a few papers, fumbled a drawer open, closed it again, caught sight of the wall clock tick tocking through the day like any ordinary day.
Suddenly the time passing, the lack of speech, felt oppressive; surely something should have been said.
The doctor cleared her throat but it seemed the opportunity had been missed.
She could think of nothing to say, not a single word, nothing at all.
The visitor caught her eye, smiled as if politely and rose.
“After you, Dr Fowler,” she said.
They left the room.
The door closed.
The small woman sitting on the other side of the desk in the consulting room said nothing in reply; it was not her responsibility to set the agenda as the doctor was well aware, her presence was quite sufficient.
The doctor shifted in her seat - as a well informed citizen she had, of course, been expecting this day for a very long time but now it had arrived she found herself awkward, at a loss, curiously unprepared.
What were the correct words for the occasion, the correct demeanour, how was she expected to conduct herself, to behave, how should she move her eyes, her hands, did any of it matter?
The visitor sat quietly, relaxed, well presented, generally unremarkable in appearance, a bit of a mouse one might suppose, though a mouse conspicuously at ease in its surroundings.
The doctor shuffled a few papers, fumbled a drawer open, closed it again, caught sight of the wall clock tick tocking through the day like any ordinary day.
Suddenly the time passing, the lack of speech, felt oppressive; surely something should have been said.
The doctor cleared her throat but it seemed the opportunity had been missed.
She could think of nothing to say, not a single word, nothing at all.
The visitor caught her eye, smiled as if politely and rose.
“After you, Dr Fowler,” she said.
They left the room.
The door closed.
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