"Post-It" by Brendan Thomas “I’m cold, can you fetch me a sweater?” Barbara called up to her daughter, Susan.
Susan entered her mother’s tidy bedroom. No sweater was in sight. “Where is it?” she said. “Maybe the corner closet.” Susan opened the closet doors and was immediately confused. The inside doors were covered in post its, almost a hundred to Susan’s eye. She recognized her mother’s hand. At school she’d copied it on excuse notes and school letters home, and knew the individual loops and squiggles better than her own. Puzzled she picked a few off. My name is Barbara. I live at 5 Croyden Lane. My husband was Sam. He died last year. I have two children. My son's name is Ron. He is an Accountant. My cat’s name is Tiger. I was born in 1942. My sister’s name is Rita. Thoughts rushed through Susan’s mind but she couldn’t catch them. She heard her mother’s footsteps. Susan grabbed the sweater, rocking back and forth, weeping quietly. Barbara looked at the closet door in silence. “Mum. What’s happening?” Barbara looked into her daughter’s eyes. “My life is disappearing. My memories, experiences, my abilities are leaving me. I’m confused Susan. Some days I don’t know who I am or where I’ve been and it frightens me.” Susan embraced her mother, refusing to let go. She ran her fingers slowly through her hair, stroked her cheek, and kissed her forehead. “I promise I will never let you forget.” Later Barbara wrote a note for her closet. My daughter’s name is Susan.
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"Blue Horizons" by Jacqueline Harrett"What do you mean the side effects could be permanent?" Zelda glared at Erik. "When you gave me the drugs you said that any side effects should be temporary. At no point did you say 'permanent.'"
Erik blinked and shuffled the papers on his desk. He coughed. "Yes, well....it seems the air on Mars made unexpected changes to your physiology and altered the way the drugs worked. Unexpected changes, you understand...which appear to be..." he took a deep breath, "...irreversible." He forced himself to look up at Zelda. She looked just as beautiful as the day she’d set off on the mission to Mars, twenty years ago. He swallowed, trying to keep his voice steady. "There have been benefits too, Zelda. No signs of ageing such as loss of muscle tone or...loose skin..." "But my skin is blue, Erik. I’m a freak." "The other side effects are..." "Don’t try to calm me down. I know what they are. The superhuman strength comes with a desire to kill someone. Anyone. There has to be an antidote and you’d better find it quickly." Zelda slapped a hand on the desk which cracked and collapsed. Erik’s papers slid to the floor and he could feel his heart rate increasing. "I...we’re working on something but..." "Sort it or you’ll be sorry. Everyone on this little planet will be sorry." She left the room, slamming the door in her wake. Erik collapsed into a chair. There was no solution, no antidote. Sweat beaded his upper lip. What had he done? He knew, to his horror, that he’d released a beautiful monster into the world. "A Horse Walks into a Bar" by Charlotte HarkerA horse walks into a bar.
The barman did not say, "Why the long face?' Before the barman could proceed the horse explained, 'I am a horse. I have a long face. I am a grazing animal and evolved in open grassland. With a small stomach and a diet high in forage, I spend a large amount of time eating with my head down at ground level. Having a long face places my range of vision, in this position, at a level which allows for greater awareness of my surroundings. This is important as I am a prey animal and my primary defence is running away. That's evolution for you. Happy now?' The horse ordered drinks, 'Bacardi and coke with ice and a straw. An orange juice for my rider.' The barman served the drinks and turned to the horse for payment, since the horse seemed to be doing all the talking. The horse said, 'My rider is paying, you idiot. I am a horse. I don't have any money. The rider paid the barman. They finished their drinks and the horse turned to leave, banging its head on a low beam. The horse was drunk and not concentrating. The rider ducked beneath the beam as they made for the exit. Outside they passed a queue of assorted fauna. A swan was at the front, followed by a cat, a bear, a squirrel, an otter and so on down the line. Each was clutching typed scripts in whatever means of clutching evolution had deemed appropriate, beak, paw, pouch, for example. A sign read, Today. Auditions for replacements or variations on 'A Horse Walks into a Bar.’ 'I thought that went quite well' said the horse. The rider nodded in agreement. "No-one" by Chris TattersallHis wife was comforted by friends and family as he lifted their daughter. It was the smallest of coffins but weighed so heavy on his shoulders, yet no one realized the effort it took him. He was masculine, dependable, strong. Weak in no one’s eyes, he was a man’s man and undoubtedly a hunter-gatherer in a previous life. He had no recollection of the last time he had cried and in this dire situation tears still eluded him. He couldn’t summon a reaction despite feeling so desperate he would willingly give his life to change the recent past. No one saw his pain. Time off on compassionate leave was killing him. His vocation as a Police officer had informed him of life’s possible battles but this was personal for which no training or experience could prepare him, yet no one considered the possibility that he couldn’t cope. He was a rock for his wife, her friends, his parents, seemingly everyone. He soothed their tears, served them with sympathy and gave them strength by proxy. "Your poor wife, is she ok?" "It must be so hard for her, give her our love." No one offered him solace. After the mourners had left and the nursery door closed, their future lacking in life was adjusted to. Time slowly dragged itself forward. Like an excited child showing off her latest toy she rushed out of the bathroom clutching the white stick. Proudly she presented him with it, its window displaying a thin blue line. He put a strong arm around his wife and kissed the top of her head. He showed her nothing but joy. Turning away, his heart sank, he didn’t want to risk any more pain. A tear came to his eye but no one noticed. "The Buzz Around London" by Laura StubbsSmoke! Burnt toast as a healthy accompaniment to fried green tomatoes and boiled eggs? I’m reassured by the elderly woman hovering next to the fire alarm that it is not a toast disaster but in fact wanted charcoal that helps cleanse her body. I want to stick to the belief that the smell of her burnt toast is exposing me to more pollution than a busy intersection. But at age 80 and with drooping jowls she can still find her way around the YHA kitchen, so maybe BBQing your toast has some impressive health benefits?
The other hostel guests are excited over photographs of their bright and insanely healthy looking acacia breakfast bowls. Superfoods come with a generational buzz in London - teenagers eat mouthfuls of immune-boosting berries and grannies bake, fry and roast toast until it looks like death itself. My age is hidden somewhere between 18 and 80 and my morning cup of coffee is also hiding somewhere in-between what some say is healthy and what others simply call a bad habit. Like oxygen, I need to breathe the all-natural liquid through my lungs and down into an irritable bowel that energetically pumps life, and movements, back into every part of me. But is coffee really any good for you or just another fashionable addiction? Evidence shows, just like berries it is full of antioxidants which may help you stay young. Another study has linked coffee to a reduced risk of Alzheimers, and a lower risk of burning your toast. I take a little more coffee then energetically step outside into the cool brisk English morning. What’s that in the bushes? New research has found that drinking coffee may improve eyesight and I have just spotted two slices of cancerous black toast tossed into the garden! "Scene and Unseen" by Madeleine PelletierI loll against the velvety wallpaper as the extravagant party swirls by. My friend had begged me, was dying to attend a costume ball, could never go alone. Now I’m here, hiding in the wings, struggling to see from behind my bargain store disguise, my friend turned invisible.
Opposite wall, a fancy lady in a stunning black gown. Confidently anonymous behind her feathered Venetian carnival mask, she doesn’t realize that her body is calling out her secret thoughts. Or perhaps she doesn’t care. A man stumbles towards her, dribbling wine with every second step. She averts her eyes and pats her updo. I imagine she’ll pull out a hairpin and stab him if he gets too close. I think he senses this too. He lurches off in another direction. Two women in too-high heels and too-revealing tops wobble by; the lady puts hand to onyx hip as her eyes follow them, waiting (hoping?) for someone to fall. Someone who thinks he’s somebody ambles over to her, puts out his hand. She smiles coldly and offers him nothing. He talks. She hears him out. He talks more. Her smile disappears. He shrugs and walks away. She hadn’t said a word. A flicker of blue satin to my left. My friend materializes. I raise my glass to toast her safe return. She passes me by without a glance. I spin away. Flustered. Discarded. When I look up, the lady is blowing towards me like an obsidian cloud. She carries two glasses of champagne. She hands one to me as she leans back on my wall. United, we savor our drinks, mutely shouting our disapproval. "Final Out" by Brendan ThomasThe short stop bent low, gathered the ball confidently in his glove, and delivered it precisely into the outstretched hand at first base as the runner lunged in a desperate attempt to beat the throw. The Umpire bent his right arm and shouted “Out!” Game over. Bill sat in the bleachers watching his son congratulate the victors before assembling for his final team talk. Bill thought back to his son’s first baseball day, oversized glove, baggy pants, cap low over his eyes, ball rolling between his legs, joyful laughter. He’d grown into his uniform, played every position from pitcher to catcher, and enjoyed success. He remembered his son’s first home run, little league, final inning of a bad loss, the ball scraping over the outfield fence. They’d left the diamond that night like winners, his son holding the prized ball tightly in his hand, only loosening his grip when sleep came. He thought of coaches, good and bad, parents full of advice for their player alone, bad hotels and good team dinners. They’d lived it all. Now it was over, college beckoned, his son short on the skills required to continue playing the game they loved.
His son packed his bag for the last time. First his black bat, nicked and scratched, the veteran of many important moments, his glove with leather laces dangling, it’s surface softened by balls slapped into its face. They would miss the sound of ball against leather. Finally he turned his cap bill to back as was his postgame habit, looked for his father’s face and slowly trudged towards him, crossing the baseball diamond and pitchers mound once more, stopping to scoop dirt before continuing forward. “Ready?” he asked his father who took a moment to steal another glance across the field before answering “No.” "Ghost Walking" by Tom MorganThere’s a man on the roof of that building. If you would just turn around, you’d see him up there. This isn’t the usual view from your kitchen window, and I can’t help but be distracted, I’m sorry. You’re so upset, but I can’t take my eyes off him.
He’s wearing what look like pajamas. Christ, who’d be up there dressed like that? I think that building’s a hotel, it must be only a few blocks away from your apartment, though I’ve never noticed it before. This is one of the things you’re telling me; that I don’t pay enough attention to anything. If only I could think of something to say, something to stop your tears. But my attention is fixed over your shoulder, at the little figure in the distance, atop the harsh white of the flat rooftop and the sirens gathering below. He’s standing there still, not looking down. I wish it hadn’t come to this, I wish this wasn’t happening. Because the maw in my stomach is opening, it senses that something terrible is about to happen, and it’s lashing out. You stop the tirade for a moment, and stare at me dumb, asking what I have to say for myself. I gag on the words, mumble that I’m sorry but don’t know what more I could have done. The man on the roof raises his hands to the sky. Is he waving? Praying? You lay your palms on the table and explode into tears. I just stand there, this stoic contrast to your emotive sincerity. This sums up our time together. I refocus on the man, though I think I know what happens next. "Flowers for Emily" by David LloydConor feels exhausted. He sits in the undertaker’s office smelling the embalming fluid that’s drifted in from the mortuary next door. Six back-to-back funerals have left him feeling like there’s no beauty left in the world. Two of the services were for young people, both killed in the same automobile crash.The upturned vehicle lay in the ditch as they slowly drowned in the flood waters. It's a small town and he knew both of them. His hay fever’s been triggered by the lilies which crowned all the coffins today. He looks at the calendar on the wall knowing that his vacation is still three months away. Those days by the lake will restore him as he sits and watches wildlife capturing their movement with his camera. Then he starts to sneeze repeatedly. He struggles to breathe and reaches for his inhaler shoved in the back of his desk drawer.
As the clock chimes 7pm he remembers it’s his partner’s birthday and he’s forgotten to buy a present. He locks up and walks towards the park as the sun begins to adopt a tangerine hue. The gates are locked. He climbs over, lands awkwardly, staggers forward and starts to pick all the bluebells he can lay his hands on. He carries them gently, lays them down, creates a bouquet and the world changes. Afterwards as he walks home he sneezes and sneezes. His eyes fill with tears. "The Darkness" by Daria CampbellShe huddled in the front room behind the couch, the only sounds coming from the dying fire in the stone hearth, the soft swing of the clock pendulum, and her shallow, rapid breath. It was out there. She knew it.
Minutes ticked by and she could see the hands on the grandfather clock move....two....five..... She had heard its heavy breath at the windowsills before, seen the glint of its blood covered teeth through a slit between the closely drawn curtains. It would come for her. Would this be the night? It had taken so many that she loved, so much of her family. The heavy footsteps on the worn boards of the front porch made her jump. It was there. She tightened the grip in the shotgun, knowing full well that neither the weapon nor the wooden door would help if the Darkness was determined to take her like it had her father. Others had escaped, though not without scars. She had made up her mind long ago that she would fight until her last breath. She would not go quietly into the night. The footsteps retreated suddenly. She sagged against the couch as tears of relief seeped out of her eyes. Stiffly she stood and replaced the shotgun above the door. It would not be tonight. |
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