'They Need to Clack' by Philippa Bowe

Teeth do. Make that satisfying sound, clack clack clack. Shows you’re alive. So what do you do when you’ve got hardly any left? Fallen, cracked and crumbled. No dentist wants to go near your mouth. Dusty with the breath of decades. 

I’m not putting up with it. I want to clack, I want to crunch nuts. Gums aren’t doing it for me.

I try Jeff next door. A winked excuse, toilet’s blocked, can I…? He knows about bladders. I rifle through his bathroom cabinet hoping for a spare denture. Nothing but pills like smarties. I shove some in my pocket.

I sway along the high street with my trusty cane. A pirate surveying the seas in search of bounty. A fine pair of choppers. 

A couple of incursions into charity shops and I’m still empty-mouthed. But here comes the number 69 and I set sail for the old codgers’ home. Sure to be a treasure trove.

I creak off the bus and the first thing I see is a man lounging against the wall. Natty fellow wrapped in a greatcoat like the ones they issued us in ’39. Smiling at me, teeth so bright I’m nearly blinded. ‘Harold,’ he says, ‘I have what you want.’ I spot the forked tip of his tail below the heavy wool. ‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to hand over your soul. I’ve got enough of them. Just a little helping hand.’

I’m tempted and he grins with those shark teeth. But then I see the boys in the trenches sharing everything, my darling Molly stopping me killing even a fly, a million dazzling kindnesses flying round the world. I don’t want teeth so sharp they’d shred them. ‘No, sir.’ I walk away and try clacking my gums. I like the sound of it. 

'Elapse' by Willow Woo

I fell into a platonic limerence with my nephew at his high school graduation. He’s only three months away from moving across the country to Bowdoin College.

Paxie was born in 2007, the same year I moved to San Francisco to start anew, reluctantly leaving my beloved hometown, LA.

I wanted to be the present auntie.

My sister told my mother, “He’s my son, and now she (meaning me) gets to take him to
the park for playdates?”

So, I became the absent auntie.

I saw him on holidays, the same as his aunties, who flew in from the east coast. But I was local, and the distance felt the same.

As Paxie grew from a baby with lungs that could nearly shatter glass, to a funny toddler, to an introverted middle schooler, and an athletic and focused high schooler, I meandered. I was a bored paralegal, laid off, and was surprisingly diagnosed with Autism, ADHD, and OCD. I became a tired pastry chef who worked at 3.30 every morning.

Now, I’ll graduate with my MLIS in December and become a librarian. Why didn’t I find this path sooner? I could have read to Paxie and shared my favorite stories. But no, I wouldn’t have been allowed.

As I look at Paxie head out into the world, poised, sweet, and tall, I can only say, “I’m proud of you. I know you worked so hard.” But I want to say, “Paxie. I’m sorry I wasn't a better auntie. I’m sorry I let your bully of a mother push me away. I know that whoever gets to spend time with you, your new college friends, will be lucky in ways that I wasn’t.”

I wish I had gotten to know you, Paxie. Oh, how I wish.

'Long Gone, Living On' by Scaramanga Silk

All of his old records were long gone. Along with his wife. And the cats.

Mind you, he still had the radio and the internet for music.

Recently, he’d noticed that Bill Knightswoon’s ‘Baby, come on home’ never gets played over the airwaves anymore. Even on his Golden Oldie stations. How he yearned to hear it again.

He’d looked online for it too. Nothing came up on Spotify, YouTube, or that new Claude fella. The song hadn’t been released on a major label and only appeared on a 7” vinyl. Yet, it was a hit for a short time back then. Alas, nobody had transferred the classic to computer.

In the town, one record store remained.

“I doubt you’ll have it or even know it but I’m looking for an old copy of ‘Baby, come on home’. It’s by—“

“Billly Knightswoon! The most underrated singer of his generation. You’re in luck. We just took in a collection and that gem’s in there. What a voice!” The assistant wonders out back and rifles through boxes of dusty records. A few moments later, he returns.

“That’ll be $3.”

The elegantly dressed, softly spoken gentleman purchases the record and thanks the chap for his help.

That evening, in his toasty and comfy home, he spends hours staring at the cover, reading the sleeve notes, and admiring the black wax. But he doesn’t set it on his turntable.

Early the next morning he returns to the store before they open. Upon arrival, he posts the record through the letter box and leaves.

Yesterday’s assistant notices the 45 on the doormat and stumbles before picking it up. On the front of the picture sleeve is some handwriting that wasn’t there previously. It reads, ‘To the great kid on the counter. Thank you! Best, Bill’.

'Man’s Best Friend' by Allison Renner

The boy struggled as the dog pulled against her leash. His dad had said once around the block, not across the street.

“Please,” the boy whispered, trying to convey confidence as he rounded the corner, hoping the dog would give up and follow. Instead, she yipped and jumped, strong enough to pull the boy a few steps sideways.

“Want a treat?” a gentle voice asked. The boy looked, but the old man wasn’t talking to him. He held out his hand, a tiny brown treat in his palm. The boy could barely see it—how would the dog?

But she did, and came bounding up and settled at the old man’s feet to chew it to bits while he scratched behind her ears.

“For you, too,” the old man said.

The boy shook his head automatically. “My dad said don’t take things from strangers.”

The old man smiled. “I’m Charles, so I’m not a stranger anymore. And these are more dog treats, so if she tries to steer you wrong, you can keep her on track.”

The boy thought about it. Would his dad be madder if he chased the dog across the street or took something from a stranger? He wasn’t sure, but he knew one thing: he loved this taste of freedom. Being away from home, with his dog. When it was okay to be alone, when no one thought he was strange for not being surrounded by other boys his age.

He took the treats and pocketed them. “Thank you, Charles.”

The old man nodded once, and the dog stepped closer to the boy, acting like his shadow as they continued down the block. 

At the next corner, the boy glanced back. Charles was offering a treat to another dog walking by.

'Would You Rather…?' by Scaramanga Silk

The choice had been offered.

“Either, an exciting short life. Or, a boring long life.”

This made a big change from reading my horoscope in The Metro every morning, stuck on the commute, between BO Bobby and Handsfree Helen.

Sam had discovered the Would you rather…? game and insisted on us playing it when he boarded our packed train at Clapham Junction.

“Go to jail BUT keep the money OR Don’t go to jail BUT lose all the cash.

One night with your dream girl OR Ten years with someone less attractive BUT she’ll worship you.”



However, it was his current conundrum that was the real crux of the crescendo.

“A one-hit wonder with a Number #1 single OR a steady BUT unremarkable musical career.”

Sam wasn’t aware of what I did before this job. Sam didn’t realise how I had lived this scenario. Sam couldn’t have known how painful things had gotten.

We worked for a publishing company on the edge of London. They had transitioned to digital and were all about the data. Nice bunch of people… if you wanted your soul to die.

I’d been there for four years now and desperately missed the recording studio. Yet, late nights, travelling the world, and partying, were not compatible with the life my wife and kids needed. So here I am.

Sam didn’t know I was at breaking point. Sam didn’t know that I had my solicitor’s card in my wallet. Sam didn’t know about the unfinished letter to our boss.

What example would I set to my kids if I didn’t follow my dreams? What sort of father and husband would I be if I was miserable?

“Either, be someone who makes sacrifices and provides OR risk everything for an unrealistic goal BUT at least know you tried…”

'Ria, Ria, Ria' by Vijayalakshmi Sridhar

She walked in as Diya and Dodo welcomed her with short barks that turned into squeals and a lot of head-butting. “Arey. Andhar to aane do,” she rolled her brown eyes and admonished them, sounding like a dadima.

Lakshman was Debu kaka’s replacement and Ria was Lakshman’s niece who had come to stay with him for the holidays. Dum aloo posto, keema curry, tomato borta and rice- all of a sudden, I was in the mood for a festive dinner, Ria smiling-approving my hukum.

As Lakshman busied himself in the kitchen, Ria she recited A,B,C, 1,2,3, ka,Kha,ga, when I asked about school and cooked and served me breakfast, lunch, dinner on the glass-topped dining table, her imaginary kitchen. 

“Aaj Dhoru ki Shaadhi hai,” she made up a ready-made context, started singing a Bhojpuri ghana, urging Sri to repeat after her in his deep teacherly baritone. He followed that up with tumkhas, hip-butting with her.

After Sri left to work, she sat me down on the maharaja vintage chair Sri and I had picked up from an auction in Kolkata, that was still as shiny as new. “Beena ki shaadi hai,” she announced, rubbing her palms and started braiding my colour-streaked hair like she was my Ma. Later, twinning in pigtails, we side-cheeked and smiled wide for the selfie, showing a lot of teeth. 

When Debu returned from his break, I took his help and made Chicken Rezala- an instagram recipe I had wanted to try for a long time. More postos and curry dums and bortas followed. Like two monkeys, Diya and Dodo trailed Ria, jumping up and down with her and catching crispy bits of the Goloroti or bhatura I was feeding Ria like I was her Ma. 

'The Gift of Gab' by Lisa H. Owens

“Benny, do you still love me?”

“In response, sweetheart, I’ll answer your question with a question. Once there was this kid, let's call him Rupert, who asked Santa for a puppy, and knowing he’d be good all year, he was certain he’d find a puppy under the tree on Christmas morning, therefore, to save money to buy things for his soon-to-be pet, he worked all summer—mowing lawns, pulling weeds, washing neighbors’ cars, until one day he cracked open his piggy bank and took a wad of cash to Pet-World, where he purchased food and water bowls and a medium-sized bed, because he knew puppies wouldn’t stay little forever, then hid the stuff under his bed, because if his parents found out he’d talked to Santa about a puppy, they would sabotage his plans since his dad was allergic to animal dander, but his dad didn’t just have an allergy, but would actually go into anaphylactic shock if exposed to fur and dander, especially dog fur, so had he known that, he wouldn’t have accepted a puppy from a lady in a parking lot who was giving them away—for free—saying the runt was the last in a litter of eight, which was his lucky number, and he wouldn’t have taken the pup home, who wouldn’t have jumped in Dad’s recliner…for just a second—but apparently long enough, and when Dad sat in his favorite chair, his airway wouldn’t have closed and the ambulance driver wouldn’t have gotten in a wreck while rushing to get Rupert’s dad to...” Benny paused to glance at Glenda, fast asleep on the couch, “...my question is, do you think Rupert jumped the gun?”

 

Benny smiled and hopped up to silently moonwalk and perform celebratory jazz-hands. No answer was always the right answer.

'Teddy Bear Picnic' by Melissa Flores Anderson

Lilly strips the bed of its sheets and the comforter, tosses each stuffie to the far corner of the room. Jack is whining about Blue Bear, the one she and her mother made while she was pregnant, from the leftover remnants of her own baby blanket. The blanket she’d brought to college, to graduate school, that she’d only folded and put into the shelf of her old bedroom at her parent’s place when she’d moved in with Mick. Because Mick wasn’t sentimental. Her something blue on her wedding day had been a piece cut from the cloth and sewn into the inside of her dress by the seamstress who tailored it to her exact measurements. As the dress hung from the bride’s suite at their reception venue, she searched through the layers of satin and tulle to find the swatch, rubbed her fingers on it, silently spoke to her dead grandmother to ask if she was making the right choice. Jack formed an attachment to the bear around age 2, when he carried it down stairs in the morning, back to bed at night, to her mother’s house for sleepovers. Blue Bear went everywhere with him. But now on the one day he could take it to school for the Teddy Bear Picnic, she couldn’t find it. She’d thrown off his routine by getting home late last night, missing dinner, rushing him to bed. Because she had stayed for a reception after work, talking with Charles, not quite flirting, but almost. 

Lilly searches under Jack’s bed, her room, the upstairs bathroom, the playroom. Nothing. Downstairs, she crawls into the fort Jack erected with Mick, of throw pillows and folding chairs, and there in the dark is Blue Bear, waiting for Jack.

'Bitter and Sweet' by Suzanne Hicks

In winter we showed up to school with thrift store snow pants, cheeks smeared with Vaseline, and when someone saw the beige handle of the plastic grocery bags Mom used to line our leaky moon boots sticking out, everyone laughed at us.  At home we cried, and Mom told us a story about some girl who stunk so bad no one wanted to sit next to her at school, so she did because of how you could always see where tears had streaked her dirty face. We didn’t understand her point because we had squeaky Noxzema-clean skin, and all the girls at school smelled like Love’s Babysoft. 

When the snow melted in spring, Mom grew rhubarb along the side of the house, which she made into just about everything she could. Jam, dumplings, pie. One time Nicole from class came over after school and we plucked some out of the dirt, dipped the stalks in sugar and chomped on ‘em. The next day after we found out she only used us to make Jessica jealous, and she made fun of us in front of everyone at recess saying rhubarb was poor people food because it grows like weeds. But when the notes about the lice outbreak got sent home in everyone’s backpacks, we all were itching our heads, sharing stories about the shampoo and tiny comb. Nicole showed up to school with a bob because her hair got so tangled up, and when the other girls made fun of her, we sat down next to her at lunch, spread out the contents of our three lunchboxes, and had a big buffet. 

'Home for Christmas' by Allison Renner

The wall of heat smacked me as soon as I left baggage claim to hail a cab. By the time I wrestled my suitcase into the trunk, the humidity had curled my hair. I gave the hostel address and leaned back into the cracked pleather, trying to relax. Trying to pretend I knew what to expect, bunking with a room full of tourists likely half my age.

I’d never been this far from home. And I’d never gone anywhere alone. But I knew it was time. I couldn’t take any more questions: “When will you…?” “Why don’t you…?” or the ever-so-helpful “Have you tried…?”

Because they were there, gathered around the Christmas ham while snow turned the dead grass white. Maybe my empty chair would be answer enough.