'Breathe' by Donna M Day

 

the first time I saw him was among flotsam of a shipwreck and I needed to be near him to breathe every part of him in so I went to see the witch who took my voice for three days and she gave me a tail but no gills so I couldn’t get near him and just floundered on the surface forcing that anchor of a tail back and forth as fast as I could just to stay afloat and alive before sunrise on that last day which signalled my last chance to be with him for always and breathe in his beauty and his love and I felt myself caught tight in the reckless net of desire and swallowed a lungful of air before throwing myself below the surface where salt filled my eyes with fire and I couldn’t find him and my scream as my shimmering tail shredded into two useless legs filled my lungs with water as he grabbed me in his strong arms and I saw that the smile that had hooked me was a wreck of pointed teeth but I had been right about one thing because with him I could breathe and he hauled me to a cavern filled with his collection of sailors and pirates where I was the only female and I have been here for so long I have lost count of the breaths and I want to go home

'Local Attractions' by Leigh Loveday

 

He misses the turnoff to the village, curses and drives on. He’s already late, caught out by the tail end of Friday rush hour.

Minutes later, smeared through the rain, a second sign appears.

Little Belliston (via the Heart of a Black Star)

He blinks, but takes the turn.

On the deserted single-track lane, he casts around for an explanation of the sign’s intent. There is nothing.

And then, without warning, there is nothing. Primal darkness tumbles in from all directions, cascading dreadfully down the hillsides, gushing up through potholed tarmac.

What– what is–

The rain abates, or is overwhelmed. Pressure builds rapidly inside the car; his ears pop, his eye sockets throb like badly wired toothache. Panic rising, he steers through a void.

Time flattens out like roadkill. Direction signs buckle under his skittering headlights. He is inverted, then backwards, then spinning end over end. Masonry and fenceposts ricochet off the roof. His nose bleeds. The droplets hang in the air.

He is going mad. He should brake, put his hazard lights on, try to control what’s happening. But now there is no air. There is a terrible, charring heat that swallows everything. His bones groan under unbearable strain. He makes sounds of deep distress, or tries to.

A rich black scent invades the car and he thinks, eternity.

Then:

Rain is sheeting down the glass. The road grumbles beneath him. Watery daylight returns. Breath rushes into his lungs.

According to the car’s clock, it’s Sunday morning. He has 11 missed calls.

He drives into Little Belliston.

The village hall looks quaint.

'The Shining' by Kate Axeford

After her mum quit, the city got banished by window grime until today, when soddened by vodka and mildewed by tears, she spots her last chance through both shiners he gave her and possessed now by his spirits, she creeps up on that horror snoring, slaughtered, on the sofa, filches his keys, and un-turns his locks – like a ghost, she slips out, takes the lift down to greet the daylight, and leaves all her demons behind, but she can’t resist stealing one last look at the tower block and is struck by that pane: how lonely, from the inside – yet today, it dazzles defiant in the final flames of a setting sun.

'Time is of The Essence' by Tilly Greenland

Jonathan Time was a grumpy man. Throughout his life people would mock him: correct answer – the Time is right; wrong answer – wasting Time; a little whiffy – Time is ripe; walking in front of someone – behind the Time(s).  I won’t even begin to explain “doing Time”.

Jonathan Time was a patient man.  He knew that one day, he would win. They had it coming. All in good time.

Jonathan Time was a troubled man.  He heard whispers.

“Killing Time.”, and darting eyes.

“Time flies.”, and small titters.

“Hit the big Time.” and large exaggerated swinging motions.

“You’ve got too much Time on your hands,” said another.

“Ew, wash that off.” and they fell about, laughing

Time passed. It was donkey’s years before the time was right.

Jonathan Time was a man on the clock. Time was ticking. He was up at the crack of dawn, busied himself like there was no tomorrow. At the eleventh hour on the dot he left the house. He was painfully aware that there was no time left to lose and there would be no turning back.

Jonathan Time waited for his tormentors. In the blink of an eye, Time was upon them. His plan worked like clockwork. Before they knew it they had their arses whooped into next week.

Jonathan Time was a pleased man. In the nick of time, he paused and they grovelled. “Sorry,”, he said. “That boat has sailed. You are too late. But I’ll call it a day. You may go.” Their parting was swift and he never saw them again.

'Nightingales' by Jeremy Boyce

 Still Sunday sunrise quiet no noise then rainfall tapping dry leaves tiles and soaking the parched tarmac rhythm of birdsong through closed windows pigeons and turtle doves keeping the beat endless nightingale solos and other virtuosos calling out windows open to white stones sloping down to lush green hedge bulging out and up leaves lifted dog bark distant football cries man on your back spring iris springing up and leaning down outwardly searching for light avian orchestra always on song with rhythms and solos beats never missed and no bum notes rising above no-leaf trees carry white bunch flowers upwards to blue sky white clouds abundant and bouncing gently on thin twig hangers in swaying breeze spreading their thick smell perfume in all directions nightingale solos over carswoosh passing updownwards on steep road, black wet tarmac engine grind gear change sometimes nightingale solos through wind tree rustle and rattle hidden by abundant flower bunches swaying buzzing with bees and heavy smell perfume drip drop leaves around about drumming last night’s rain heard but not seen under deep sleep duvet shutters and knees drawn up still Sunday quiet and wet stone smells after the dripping drops downward splashing nightingale solos and tasty lunch coming on tasteful terrace white stones sloping to bulging hedge and wet black tarmac below ding-dong bells pigeon beat rhythms suddenly started and flying above dogs bark and distant football cries goals achieved chiming the time to kneel up and down on dirty ground pew cushions eyes raised to blue sky clouds and endless nightingale solos well hidden in the leafless flower bunch trees perfume swaying and sweeping in the still Sunday quiet breeze ding-dong bells and beat combo pigeons nightingale solos kneeling down and up in hope and faith

'Bless You' by Donna M Day

I don’t remember the first time I sneezed, but my last sneezing fit was very memorable.

I was about to kiss Callum, the most beautiful boy in high school, for the very first time when I felt the telltale tickle and ducked away.

Achoo!

I screamed. The baby was crowning, and Callum was holding my hand telling me I was doing so well, and I just needed to breathe but I needed to…

Achoo!

Sat in the mud tears were streaming down my face as my mother wiped my grazed knee. God, I miss her.

Achoo!

My daughter is beautiful walking down the aisle on Callum’s arm. I notice my own ring finger is naked. Damn.

Achoo!

Being old makes me want to sneeze. Oh, the aching.

Achoo!

Callum is smiling, bemused, as I peer at him over a heap of tissues.

I’ll never forget our first kiss. I’ve done it 5,236 times.

'Summer Break' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Dennis walked across the Paseo, the sun reflecting off the glass walls of the student union and radiating off the brick walkways. He checked the time on his phone and saw he’d missed the three-hour window when the sandwich shop on campus was open. He couldn’t even find a soda or a coffee at the university anymore as the Associated Students had voted to eliminate vending machines to promote better health. But at 2 p.m., he desperately needed a jolt of caffeine or sugar or something to remove the sour taste in his mouth so he could get through the next three meetings on his calendar.

He cut between the science building and the parking garage to the convenience store across the street. He lingered in the candy aisle staring at the chocolate and caramel and gummy confections, then instead picked up a bruised apple to go with the giant diet cola cup he’d filled up. His phone pinged and he saw Mindy’s name flash across the screen. 

Mindy had encourage him to make the move from tenured professor to administrator four years ago. The extra pay could get them a home loan before they got priced out of the market. So he took the job and salary increase without thinking that he had also traded away his summers off, his engagement with students in the classroom, his peace of mind, the chance at a sabbatical every five years. Now he paid the mortgage while Mindy sent him pictures from France of her with the kids, and told him she couldn’t wait for him to join them for a week in July.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket as walked to his office. He had 15 minutes before his next meeting.

'The Endangered Species Quarterly (Special Edition, Spring 2025)' by Kate Axeford

 

 ‘Humans have destroyed our habitats: the fightback starts now.’

This will be the battle-cry of a takeover editorial by the Gorilla Army. Weapon advertisements will proliferate. Giant Pandas will pose with AK47’s and Rhinos will pose in chef’s hats, showcasing easy recipes for Dirty Bombs. Whaling ships will discover the inefficacy of harpoon guns as Blue Whales spout plutonium – fountains of diamonds shattering the surface of tepid, algaed oceans. 

            Under the banner: ‘It’s full-scale war on the illegal wildlife trade,’ an armoured pangolin will put the true horror into horoscopes by predicting how captured poachers should be punished. Paws, claws, and beaks will press frenziedly on voting buttons to decide whether these men should be:

a)     a} Sold alive at markets for their body parts to be made into medicine/s.

b)   b}   Crammed in filthy cages and smuggled across several continents.

c)    c} Shot / snared in the wild for their skin / teeth / bones to be owned or worn as trophies.

d)    d} Retrained in conservation to provide an alternative income for their communities.

But it’ll be the centrefold, a close-up photo of the Pygmy Three-Toed Sloth, that will really  bring on the goosebumps. How sweet she’ll snore, curled up alone by that Big Red Nuclear Button. Just one more nap in the mangrove trees before her Final Act.

 

 

 

'It Gets Everywhere' by Annette Willsch

Sand everywhere. I comb it from my hair, I blow it from my nose, I rub it from my eyes. It chafes on my skin. It’s between the sheets, making my sleep restless. Walking is difficult because it’s in my shoes. It makes my food gritty, taking away the flavour. It trickles across the TV screen, blurring my vision. It seeps into my ears muffling the sounds of the world. 

I talk to my doctor about it. She says it has to do with time. 

There’s no remedy available. Before long I’ll be buried. Buried under the sands of time.

'Dawlish Beach' by Sarah Oakes

 

We sit on this beach where the red cliffs soar and the railway dips its toes into the sea, and my mother talks of the sands of time, and how hers will run out soon, her hourglass stopping silently at deaths door, and I try to tell her that sand is infinite, and that she still has time, but she buries my words, and doesn’t want to hear of life, and so, exhausted, I walk into the symphonic sea, delighting in cadences of calm, for I still have time, and sands to enjoy, before she wears me down.