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
Monday, 17 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'Somethings Are Better When They're Dreams' by Alison Powell
If I had time I’d write this story I heard from a friend, about this woman who married a man she met on a plane. Sat next to him reading the same magazine – even on the same page - picture of the Taj Mahal.
“I’ve always wanted to go,” says the man and the woman says it’s a sign. Within weeks they got married.
I’d tell you all the stuff about how that was bonkers and hasty, but there’s no time for that. Fill in the gaps if you will. Dress. Cake. Dancing.
Skip a few months and they’re landing in Delhi.
Noisy. Sweaty. Anyone would be crabby. They both are. They’re so hot their fingers swell up. They work their wedding rings off with soap. She puts them in her purse for safekeeping.
Usual tour of Delhi – Red Fort, Humayun’s tomb, Jama Masjid. Then to Agra early for the sunrise tour, planning to get there before the hoards.
The hoards have the same idea.
The couple start arguing. I mean, who wouldn’t? This was their dream afterall.
Mostly they bicker about beggars.
He says, “Just give them some coins.”
She says, “It doesn’t help.”
But the beggars keep asking and he keeps tutting, so in the end she gives a few coins away, and then a few more, until she isn’t paying attention, just dipping her hand and giving out coins and wishing they’d leave her alone.
Cut to the plane home. He’s trying to make peace. Says they should get married again. Presses the buzzer for the steward to be witness. She puts her hand in the purse for the rings. Of course, they’ve gone. She feels sick – realises she’s given them away.
Says it’s a sign.
If only I had time.
“I’ve always wanted to go,” says the man and the woman says it’s a sign. Within weeks they got married.
I’d tell you all the stuff about how that was bonkers and hasty, but there’s no time for that. Fill in the gaps if you will. Dress. Cake. Dancing.
Skip a few months and they’re landing in Delhi.
Noisy. Sweaty. Anyone would be crabby. They both are. They’re so hot their fingers swell up. They work their wedding rings off with soap. She puts them in her purse for safekeeping.
Usual tour of Delhi – Red Fort, Humayun’s tomb, Jama Masjid. Then to Agra early for the sunrise tour, planning to get there before the hoards.
The hoards have the same idea.
The couple start arguing. I mean, who wouldn’t? This was their dream afterall.
Mostly they bicker about beggars.
He says, “Just give them some coins.”
She says, “It doesn’t help.”
But the beggars keep asking and he keeps tutting, so in the end she gives a few coins away, and then a few more, until she isn’t paying attention, just dipping her hand and giving out coins and wishing they’d leave her alone.
Cut to the plane home. He’s trying to make peace. Says they should get married again. Presses the buzzer for the steward to be witness. She puts her hand in the purse for the rings. Of course, they’ve gone. She feels sick – realises she’s given them away.
Says it’s a sign.
If only I had time.
Write-In 2019: 'Nineteenth Floor' by Grace Palmer
If it came to court, he’d say he’d thought about the fire angle, the safety features, how he’d researched how they’d escape. This tower block had three lifts. The girls were safe with him and he could run fast, even with three in tow because he jogged everywhere with one in the buggy, one riding behind and baby strapped to his chest.
At court he’d dress in a suit, would not expose his wife. He’d focus on the girls. That’s all.
His roll-up was burning low. After his PhD finished, he’d aim for Cambridge. Out the window the seagulls swooped. They loved the thermals. If that wasn’t play he didn’t know what was. Behind him the charity shop toys littered the carpet. A complete bargain. He was lucky; his girls, this view.
At court he’d dress in a suit, would not expose his wife. He’d focus on the girls. That’s all.
His roll-up was burning low. After his PhD finished, he’d aim for Cambridge. Out the window the seagulls swooped. They loved the thermals. If that wasn’t play he didn’t know what was. Behind him the charity shop toys littered the carpet. A complete bargain. He was lucky; his girls, this view.
Write-In 2019: 'Thurso' by Sarah Mosedale
She wasn’t born there. No, she was an
incomer, arriving at eighteen months, oldest child of parents moved
to the far north for a better job than he could ever have imagined. A
million quid to think up research projects in a nuclear reactor? For
a working class bloke from Blackpool with a third class degree who’d
really rather be playing jazz? A reactor prudently situated in a
sparsely populated area, not that the locals considered this prudent,
well they wouldn’t, would they. It might be fewer lives at risk but
it was their lives. Anyway it never blew up though there was some
unpleasant business involving the casual disposal of radioactive
waste. None of which was his fault.
For her there was a lot about living
there that was good. It was normal to roam free aged five, shouting
back to your mum that you’d be home for tea. The sea was freezing
so even after fifteen years you didn’t need double figures to count
how often you’d been in. But there’s nothing to beat sitting
staring out across the Pentland Firth as a teenager. Angst - don’t
tell me, or any other Thurso kiddie, about angst.
Kiddie, that just means person. Like
wifie means woman, there’s no diminutive, or any relationship to a
mannie, implied. You meet some fucking tough wifies in Thurso. It’s
the gale force winds that does it. If you can stand on your own two
feet in Thurso you can stand on your own two feet anywhere. You meet
some totally crushed wifies in Thurso too. I suppose you do anywhere
really.
She left of course. She was desperate
to get out by the time she was eighteen; she was lucky to have an
escape route. She was an incomer.
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.
Jesus said that he would explain everything.
Write-In 2019: 'Hope' by Vicky Newham
She
crouches against the cold wall. Motionless. Strains her ears.
Listens. Scans the calm hush of the roof terrace. Is it safe now? Has
the man gone?
Overhead, the night-time gods spill black and grey, like cavernous yawns. Pain sears through her knees, the flimsy cloth of her trousers no match for stones.
She straightens up. Grabs the parapet. Swings leaden legs over and rests her butt. Sits.
Careful.
Easy to slip.
She inhales the vista's sweetness; the refuge that night provides.
All around, the quiet horizon screams with light. It's not the whispers of those who sleep that she hears; not the manic inertia of the shift-workers and insomniacs. It's the pained tapping of the homeless who prowl the city at night, as she does. Their punctured souls drip like leaky buckets on knowing pavements.
Yes.
She could let herself slip. End the agony of a life diminished.
And yet. Hope scratches again, louder now. Somewhere in this vast city, kindness will smile on her again. Kindness will restore the life which misfortune greedily stole.
Overhead, the night-time gods spill black and grey, like cavernous yawns. Pain sears through her knees, the flimsy cloth of her trousers no match for stones.
She straightens up. Grabs the parapet. Swings leaden legs over and rests her butt. Sits.
Careful.
Easy to slip.
She inhales the vista's sweetness; the refuge that night provides.
All around, the quiet horizon screams with light. It's not the whispers of those who sleep that she hears; not the manic inertia of the shift-workers and insomniacs. It's the pained tapping of the homeless who prowl the city at night, as she does. Their punctured souls drip like leaky buckets on knowing pavements.
Yes.
She could let herself slip. End the agony of a life diminished.
And yet. Hope scratches again, louder now. Somewhere in this vast city, kindness will smile on her again. Kindness will restore the life which misfortune greedily stole.
Write-In 2019: 'Stanley’s Fish Bar' by Tina Edwards
If he had not bought a bag of chips from Stanley’s Fish Bar, things would have turned out very differently that evening. But he was hungry and they did the best triple fried chips this side of Brighton. To be fair, it was his choice to walk across the promenade and onto the beach to find a spot under the pier to eat them. He could have easily sat on a nice dry bench with a sea view. Then he wouldn’t have found him. Dead, bloated and tangled in what looked like a pink seaweed tutu.
If he asked her one more time to dress up in the ridiculous poncey outfit he’d bought her, from god knows where, she swore she would kill him. All those stupid bows and beads flouncing about, she was a jeans and jumper girl through and through. Always had been. Anyway, it was totally inappropriate for a beach barbecue but… as usual she ended up wearing it just to keep the peace.
The blow to his head had come out of no where. One minute he was drinking from a bottle of beer, the next he was falling onto wet sand. When he came to it was almost dark and even without any light, he knew he was wearing a dress. With each wave that washed over him he felt it billowing around him, and even though his head hurt real bad, the floaty feeling was rather nice. Then he remembered someone once told him the last sense to go before dying was your hearing. They must have got it wrong. All he could smell was Stanley’s fish & chips.
If he asked her one more time to dress up in the ridiculous poncey outfit he’d bought her, from god knows where, she swore she would kill him. All those stupid bows and beads flouncing about, she was a jeans and jumper girl through and through. Always had been. Anyway, it was totally inappropriate for a beach barbecue but… as usual she ended up wearing it just to keep the peace.
The blow to his head had come out of no where. One minute he was drinking from a bottle of beer, the next he was falling onto wet sand. When he came to it was almost dark and even without any light, he knew he was wearing a dress. With each wave that washed over him he felt it billowing around him, and even though his head hurt real bad, the floaty feeling was rather nice. Then he remembered someone once told him the last sense to go before dying was your hearing. They must have got it wrong. All he could smell was Stanley’s fish & chips.
Write-In 2019: 'Catharsis' by Ahaa Jan
I expected there would be, but there is no deliverance watching my school collapse into clouds of dust, each an unresolved memory. I imagine swinging the wrecking claw but it’s too late; I’m still that child.
At the school gates, now the site entrance, a thirty tonne tipper grunts under its full load, impatient to exit. I get the nod and trample the grit of tyre tracks that vanish in arcs onto the road.
I let a funeral cortege pass. In the polished black I see him again; Dad, the lollipop man; hair as white as my hard hat; his lip stiffer as the mocking children cross. Seems I’m starting where he left off but I don’t measure up.
I step in front of a double decker because its driver will understand. I raise my ‘STOP’ sign on its pole and put the queue of irate commuters from my mind knowing another labourer delays the opposing traffic behind me.
Stillness.
Then a pneumatic hiss in stereo. Doors clatter open. Someone jumps off the bus. Shrieks as a cyclist avoids him. He strides toward me; the revving engine. His malice minds my sign, the high visibility jacket, the family resemblance but sees my father.
“Want to hear a joke?” he shouts, reprising our pasts.
I squeeze the pole like I squeezed my Mum's hand.
“You!” he roars, crossing me, laughing, staring at the past when I see the unavoidable present in his eyes. He sees me, I’m sure because he never sees the tipper coming.
I am stunned. What’s this I’m feeling?
At the school gates, now the site entrance, a thirty tonne tipper grunts under its full load, impatient to exit. I get the nod and trample the grit of tyre tracks that vanish in arcs onto the road.
I let a funeral cortege pass. In the polished black I see him again; Dad, the lollipop man; hair as white as my hard hat; his lip stiffer as the mocking children cross. Seems I’m starting where he left off but I don’t measure up.
I step in front of a double decker because its driver will understand. I raise my ‘STOP’ sign on its pole and put the queue of irate commuters from my mind knowing another labourer delays the opposing traffic behind me.
Stillness.
Then a pneumatic hiss in stereo. Doors clatter open. Someone jumps off the bus. Shrieks as a cyclist avoids him. He strides toward me; the revving engine. His malice minds my sign, the high visibility jacket, the family resemblance but sees my father.
“Want to hear a joke?” he shouts, reprising our pasts.
I squeeze the pole like I squeezed my Mum's hand.
“You!” he roars, crossing me, laughing, staring at the past when I see the unavoidable present in his eyes. He sees me, I’m sure because he never sees the tipper coming.
I am stunned. What’s this I’m feeling?
Write-In 2019: 'Seeing the light' by Summer Phillips
“What’s so special? Didn’t you see the pamphlet?”
She stood at the crossroads listening to the audible gasps.
“It’s so…so…blue,” said a lady in a maroon poncho, two but one away from her.
“Come on, it’s changed now,” I said, giving a nudge that, wasn’t quite, but awfully close to, a shove, to the bodies infront of me. It was nearly 8.46am and if I didn’t get across this road soon I’d be late for work, as I had been since they installed the new lights a week last Tuesday and my boss wouldn’t let me have a morning coffee before the daily 3 hour spreadsheet me to death meeting.
“Come on!” I’m getting more impatient.
“I’ll go in a minute,” says a man infront to the left. “I just want to see the blue one more time. It’s so compelling. I’m so happy we are all on foot now.” He looks at me directly which is disconcerting to say the least. People haven’t looked at each other for years. “Aren’t you glad we no longer have cars. Look at all we’d miss.”
“Like these traffic lights?” I ask.
“Yes,” he laughed and snorted at the same time which was utterly disgusting.
Welcome to my overpopulated city. Where people walk everywhere, in droves, and we are too many to sustain. Maybe the blue traffic lights are doing what they tell us they are doing, Green for go, Amber for wait, Red for stop and the new Blue, to go back. Or maybe, just maybe, they are there to make us gaze up in wonder and be so enchanted we begin to talk to one another again. I mean, what kind of messed up idea would that be?
She stood at the crossroads listening to the audible gasps.
“It’s so…so…blue,” said a lady in a maroon poncho, two but one away from her.
“Come on, it’s changed now,” I said, giving a nudge that, wasn’t quite, but awfully close to, a shove, to the bodies infront of me. It was nearly 8.46am and if I didn’t get across this road soon I’d be late for work, as I had been since they installed the new lights a week last Tuesday and my boss wouldn’t let me have a morning coffee before the daily 3 hour spreadsheet me to death meeting.
“Come on!” I’m getting more impatient.
“I’ll go in a minute,” says a man infront to the left. “I just want to see the blue one more time. It’s so compelling. I’m so happy we are all on foot now.” He looks at me directly which is disconcerting to say the least. People haven’t looked at each other for years. “Aren’t you glad we no longer have cars. Look at all we’d miss.”
“Like these traffic lights?” I ask.
“Yes,” he laughed and snorted at the same time which was utterly disgusting.
Welcome to my overpopulated city. Where people walk everywhere, in droves, and we are too many to sustain. Maybe the blue traffic lights are doing what they tell us they are doing, Green for go, Amber for wait, Red for stop and the new Blue, to go back. Or maybe, just maybe, they are there to make us gaze up in wonder and be so enchanted we begin to talk to one another again. I mean, what kind of messed up idea would that be?
Write-In 2019: 'Admiralty' by Annie Bien
The photographer: Today one after another they bring baby’s breath, chrysanthemums, carnations, and daisies. Stacks of bouquets pile one on top of the other for the one who fell from the scaffolding. Yeah, I watched him waving the banner against extradition, I watched him fall but I turned away for the landing. I’m not a sensationalist photographer. It looked like he lost his balance, that he couldn’t stop falling. He looked totally unprepared, taken by surprise.
The policeman: I was doing my job. The guy jumped from the scaffolding. No personal comment. The official statement is suicide. You could lose your balance and not mean to die. I don’t speculate.
The woman: It looks far. You’re asking me if I saw it happen? Did I have to see someone fall from a building to gasp? Was it worse to just hear them land? Is it worse to know it’s your friend? He had soft hands.
The policeman: I was doing my job. The guy jumped from the scaffolding. No personal comment. The official statement is suicide. You could lose your balance and not mean to die. I don’t speculate.
The woman: It looks far. You’re asking me if I saw it happen? Did I have to see someone fall from a building to gasp? Was it worse to just hear them land? Is it worse to know it’s your friend? He had soft hands.
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