'Playing Matters Sometimes' and 'Musical Heritage' by Jean Feingold

Playing Matters Sometimes

Peter was 50 when he began taking guitar lessons. He’d inherited a guitar from his uncle. Learning to play was required in the will as a condition of his new ownership. 

Oddly, although his uncle had owned the guitar for many years, he never played it. He had bought the guitar at a yard sale for $5. It was an attractive instrument he hung on his wall. He liked it that way and never thought of doing anything else with it. 

Musical Heritage

The auctioneer slammed down his gavel. “Sold to the lady in the back for $50,000.” 

The object she had purchased was a vintage guitar. Over the years it had changed hands several times. Many former owners were famous musicians. Along with the guitar, the purchase included a detailed provenance. There were bills of sale and photographs and recordings of those musicians playing it. 

This was the buyer’s third attempt to own this guitar. Her late father was one of the previous owners but had sold it due to financial trouble. She was happy to bring it home. 

'Simmer 'til Reduced' by Donna Day

The days of British people popping the kettle on were long gone, so watching her father boil water was a privilege dampened only by his continued refusal to look at her.

‘Tea or coffee?’ he asked, unlocking the caddy.

‘Tea, please.’

‘You always did have to do the opposite to the rest of us.’

He spooned the dark leaves into the strainer and poured the hot water over them. Finally, he looked at her, his eyes half hidden in the steam.

‘Who did you vote for?’ he asked.

‘You know who I voted for.’

He nodded. ‘Do you want sugar?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Will she see me?’

‘She will.’ He stirred the tea and she noticed his hand was shaking. ‘Please don’t talk about the war.’

‘Which one?’

‘You know which one.’

She nodded. Picked up her tea.

‘Don’t drink it all at once,’ he said. ‘There’s no more where that came from, and she baked.’

‘She baked?’

‘She did. Cherry bakewells. Used all our almonds for the year.’

‘She hates cherry bakewells.’

‘She does, but she knows they’re your favourite. You always did have to do the opposite to the rest of us.’

'One Moon' by Birgit Solvsten D'Alpoim

They met on a moonlit night.

Are you leaving the sun where two oceans meet?

There, two seas meet. You?

Where my night is your day.

They crossed many bridges, one was left. Neither looked at the moon only at its reflection. Then one went east, the other went west.

'Fable Fishing' by Leigh Loveday

A bridge cleaves through the space between stars. On it, the Titan, with ceaseless patience, takes the furious golden serpent and uses it to bait his hook. The wyrm is as large as a mountain pass, the hook like the sweeping curve of an island shore.

Others of his kind, crossing for who knows what purpose, pause to watch the Titan work. Some may ask his intentions. By way of explanation, he casts his line.

A hubbub erupts in the vast darkness where his bait is swallowed. The ordeal of reeling it in reveals profane shadows, things that should not be, swarming the wyrm as it fights for its life. The Titan strains. He hauls them up to where he sits on that narrow span across the void, mountainous legs engulfed by the dark.

Every last one of the demon-shapes is intent on devouring a legendary soul. The Titan knows how dangerous they could become if they did. But he is also sure of his purpose, his strength.

He plucks the bestial forms from his hook one by one, popping them between his fingers. They evaporate, spitting black fire. The serpent’s great sides heave. The Titan extricates it, gauges its vitality with one astronomical eye, and returns it to the hook.

The other passing Titans nod. This is worthwhile work.

'Mother of a Hand' by Scott MacLeod

“I’ll call.”

Phil clicked off the phone. Jesus, what a time for his brother to remind him tomorrow was Mother’s Day. 

Or was it tomorrow already?

Phil watched through the cigar smoke as the dealer flipped over the Ace, face up.

It would pair nicely with the pair of bullets Phil was carrying.

He was counting the money in his head already.

The other guy pushed a pile of ceramic towards the table’s center. Manifesting, the kids would call it.

The dealer nodded at Phil, who could barely wait his turn.

There’d be no ramen this week.

“I’ll call.”

'Hurricane' by Vallie Lynn Watson

We had always preferred the instrumental version because the lyrics were too difficult. Ten years later, the voicelessness still suited us, or rather suited us again, hidden by a hurricane, huddled, hoping the rain would never break, the voicelessness halting the sun-filled moment we would separate ourselves from each other.

'Orphan Seeds' by Rosaleen Lynch

It’s history class, with postcards already laid out, of old-world flowers, waters, skies. Holding up a seed, I explain it grew like them. Germination. Seedling. Adult plant. Students can’t understand the pictures, that they’re photos not fiction. Water cycles. Seasons. Trees growing wild. We talk about why today we’re wearing green in remembrance. Without any idea what’s been lost they feel no loss. Now these cards will just be used for games. Sometimes ‘lotto’. Other times ‘memory match’. I’ll make my own rules playing ‘solitaire’, also called ‘patience’, depending how much hope you can bear, and if waiting to remember or forget.

'Head Chef Required' by Emily Macdonald

The notice is pasted alongside sample tasting menus at the restaurant booked 9 months ahead.

'A History Lesson' by Stella Turner

Miss Page, our teacher, shows us a brooch her father found in the river. She tells us it has the suffragette colours, purple white and green. They were the women who protested and threw themselves under horses to get the vote. We girls think that’s bloody marvellous, (we’re not supposed to swear but bloody, ruddy and flip are allowed) the boys just grunt. No one votes now. It disappeared after something called Brexit! We’re told it was divisive. Strange that people were given the choice on whether to leave Europe or not. To be honest I’m not sure where Europe is on the map. We have zones now and the World Council of Women decide major and minor issues. Tomorrow we are studying Boris Johnson, Keir Starmer, Donald Trump and Fake News. Sounds really boring!

'Political Coop' by Anna Peter

Lizzy found her hen Heen comatose at noon yesterday. Or was she acting. Sprinkled water sorted matters fast. Drama queen! Diva! It all proved addictive. Our family has been glued to the backdoor, peeping out, listening for sounds. Just as prima donna took up abode here, nosy neighbours began complaining about extremely loud squawking. Rooster Bobby always wanted space and silence. Gruff old soldier, strong, silent persona. Type that attracts unwanted attention. New bird a rowdy show-off. Today, Le Général is still sitting with his back towards Madame. More backyard politics in store. Stay tuned.