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Short Fiction ~ J.W. Wood First Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 21 They’d been developing these algorithms for decades. The old “You look like you’re writing a letter” expanded to include, “You look like you’re writing a clerihew,” “You look like you’re crafting a sermon”, or what have you. For any form you could think of, your computer gave suggestions: better grammar, corrections, emendations. The writer started tapping on the keyboard: Julia O’Brien put down her coffee and gazed at her mobile phone in disgust. What was meant to be a convenience had become an instrument of slavery. Her every utterance stored to be used against her by those with access, from brain-dead marketers to the intelligence services. Nominally free, in fact she was chained to an invisible, all-devouring algorithm. The writer paused. Patches of his screen populated with dialogue boxes offering hints. These machines were so powerful now they had, if not minds of their own, then binary memories so enormous they operated like minds. He ignored the popped-up hints and kept writing: Modern life seems little more than slavery, since freedom of expression has been interdicted, monitored via the internet. After those few lines, the inevitable dialogue box popped up: “You look like you’re writing about the role of technology in society.” “No shit, Hal,” the writer muttered. He clicked in the corner of the pop-up to remove the message. He placed his fingers back on the keys. But then, another dialogue box: “Are you aware that other writers such as Dick, Philip K., and Le Guin, Ursula K., have already tackled this theme?” “Yes I am!” the writer shouted, slapping his mouse down on the trackpad. Just as he was about to type, yet more dialogue: “Risk of repetition is estimated at 93.7%. Do you really want to explore the same theme as other writers of greater ability? Other themes are available. Click here to read more.” “Greater ability? I’ll give you–” He stopped in disgust. He stood up, chair falling backwards with a thump. Time for a coffee. He headed for the kitchen. *** It started forty years ago with the first spell checkers. Around the same time as people started paying to have their work considered by magazines. Back then, debate centred around the legitimacy of self-publishing, the ethics of paying to submit. Then came the grammar and style checkers. Writers became enveloped in a techno-cocoon, then redundant as conformity to moral and social norms came to matter more than truth, beauty or anything else. In the kitchen, he pressed a button on the espresso machine and watched as it gurgled and blew, doing things to beans he did not understand. As the coffee ran into his cup, the writer wondered how to get round his computer’s trickery. Even without a connection, dialogue boxes advised you splatterpunk and cybercore were most likely to attract readers, that literary work would not sell, and that self-publishing was a great idea. Then it tried to sell you “Self-Publishing Solutions” ™, delivered with lots of smileys and attractive women pursing their lips against a pencil as they gazed out of a sunlit window for inspiration. The writer drank his coffee, listening to Mozart’s Requiem played by an Austrian orchestra over the internet. As he sipped, he reflected that someone, somewhere had recorded his love of Mozart. That person, or bot, had noted him listening to his internet radio during working hours. The writer put down his cup and snorted. Even Mozart used technical assistance in the shape of his amanuensis, Franz Xaver Süssmayr, who completed the last four sections of the work after the Maestro’s demise. And if Mozart had lived now? He could have sketched some outlines and let an online composition tool do the rest. Or even more likely, a modern-day Count von Walsegg, the man who commissioned the Requiem, would have written it himself using a computer. *** The writer finished his coffee and went back to the study. He sat down and stared at the words on the screen: Julia O’Brien put down her coffee and gazed at her mobile in disbelief. What she’d imagined as a tormenter was actually an instrument that enabled her to the point of omnipotence. Now she could record her every utterance and use it to fend off brain-dead marketers or even the secret intelligence services, as if they’d be interested in what she did or said. She was free, but willingly engaged with an invisible, all-enabling machine. A dialogue box popped up: “You’ve self-identified this work as a novel. Are you sure it’s not a political treatise? Please be aware of libel and slander legislation – false accusations of corporate malpractice may carry prison terms.” Shaking his head, the writer pressed a key to delete the message. Then another dialogue box: “For your convenience, we have edited your text for style and grammar. Ready to upgrade? Go Pro with Wordly™: Shakespeare’s power at a keystroke™!” The strains of Süssmayr’s Sanctus, one of his additions to the Requiem, floated into the study from the kitchen. Known to all as Mozart’s work, this score was not his. These tones, this depth, this genius guaranteed Amadeus immortality – but he was cold in a pauper’s grave when it was written. Today, computers acted as a cyber-Süssmayr for writers and – worse – as an instrument of control. The writer shut his laptop and reached for his old notebooks. Still half-full of fresh pages – enough to set down what had happened for some better, future time. He fished in his desk for his fountain pen and scratched at the page, watching the ink dry as the pen wrote, its meniscus fading like souring blood. But he no longer knew for whom he was writing, or why. ~  J.W. Wood is a 2025 nominee for the Edgar Allan Poe Award in the US (nominated by Wildside Press). The author of six books of verse and a thriller, his first collection of short fiction, "Captcha This!" will appear from AN Editions (UK) in March 2025. www.aneditions.com
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Short Fiction ~ Dr. Dianne Bown-Wilson Mama died swimming in the sea at the age of eighty-six. ‘Oh,’ strangers say, raising their eyebrows. ‘How did that come about?’ They imply I should have been able to prevent it, but they didn’t know my Mama. Truth be told, I’m proud she met her end that way. Fourteen years ago, with my father gone, she moved to a village in Cornwall where she eased herself into local customs and squared up to the ways of the sea. Mama made friends as quickly as rustling up pancakes. They’re not traits she’s passed on to me. Mama was fond of swimming. Fond, because she didn’t believe in extremes like adored or passionate; she was always low-key. She demonstrated her fondness by swimming in the sea every morning, 365 days a year. Back when she started, swimming was just something people did, an everyday activity of choice. Recently, it’s been rebranded ‘Wild Swimming’ with social media powering its popularity - not that Mama cared a jot about that. ‘I’m not going over Niagara in a barrel,’ she’d say. ‘I can’t see why it’s wild.’ Exasperated by her nonchalance, I needed to drive the message home. Online research revealed a list of recommended accessories that was astonishing even to me: Essential Kit for Wild Swimming Swimsuit or swimming wetsuit Old trainers or similar footwear Safety Tow Float Goggles and silicon swim cap Towel/s Dry bag for wet kit Warm clothing layers and changing robe, gloves, and bobble hat Drinking water for hydration, plus a flask of something hot Snacks to counter a sugar dip First aid kit for bumps and scrapes Headtorch for early/late expeditions Map, compass, mobile phone I printed it off, and predictably, she laughed: ‘Heavens - it’s only swimming. If I had to bother with all of that, I’d never leave the house!’ Soon after, Mama died from a heart attack minutes after entering the sea. The medics said nothing would have saved her; it was an excellent way for an old lady to go. I miss Mama’s confident nonchalance. These days, I’ve far too much time to dwell on how my life has gone wrong and other turnings I should have taken. Soon after her death, a coup-de-foudre at forty-seven (something I’d never foreseen) left me reeling and all at sea. ‘What should I do?’ I asked the ghost of Mama, hoping for the voice of sense. ‘Do what feels right; follow your heart; this may never come your way again.’ So I wore his ring, started planning the wedding, and consulted experts about what brides must do. Then, as list after list became more complex (Essential Kit for Weddings), I floundered, flailed, and out of my depth, my soul struggled and joy drained away. It’s only marriage, I thought, taking Mama’s approach – it shouldn’t be so hard! And in that spirit, I steeled myself, waded in, and persuaded my man to elope. Looking back, I understand I should have exercised more caution. The human heart is more treacherous than the sea. ~  Dr. Dianne Bown-Wilson is a short story writer who grew up in New Zealand and now lives surrounded by stunning scenery in Dartmoor National Park in Devon, UK. Her work has won prizes in numerous international competitions and has been included in anthologies. Her passion is for character-led tales exploring the extraordinariness of ordinary people.
She has published two collections of her successful stories: Instructions for Living and Other Stories, and Degrees of Exposure. Visit her website https://diannebownwilson.uk/ Short Fiction ~ Fiona Dignan The scene is startlingly familiar to you. A family outing. Suitcases piled on the pavement outside the semi-detached suburban house. What did they choose to pack? Did they consider the weather where they were going or do the usual thing of taking the just in case array of woolly jumpers and garish cotton t-shirts? The girl has packed a small stuffed unicorn whose colour reminds you of cotton candy. It emerges from the top of her rucksack, its glittery gold horn a sudden thrill against the pavement’s grey screed. The family are bedecked in their travelling gear; mum laden with pillows and snacks and the two boys’ backpacks crammed with comics, electronics and crosswords to combat the spooling boredom of the journey. You consider if kids these days still play I-spy and remember your own children’s invention of the rainbow car game. Spot a red one, then an orange one, yellow etc. Indigo always caught them out and you remember the silence as their eyes scanned motorways for the elusive deep purple. The colour memory forces you to re-look at the bruise on the girl’s temple where she fell. You kneel as though in devotion, khaki touching the pavement, but you are prayer barren these days. You close her unceasing eyes. Her skin has a sheen to it, like softened butter and the scent of ammonia stings your nostrils. You trace the stench to the younger boy’s crotch; the splashed patch of dampness looks pathetic. “We need to move Oleksiy, there’s nothing we can do here,” your commander tells you. You hate your futility. What is the point of wearing this uniform if all you can do is bear witness to a seven-year-old boy pissing himself as a shell splits his family apart with steel spite? It is then you hear the mewling and consider the cage by the older boy’s right arm. It is not a detail you noticed before; your attention fixed by the obvious outrage. “Sir, there’s something in here,” you say as you peer inside the criss-cross of metal at the cage’s entrance. Huddled against a blue towel you see the tiny ginger kitten, pawing and whimpering. Unharmed. You remove your gloves and stick your hand in to grasp the little creature who wriggles with a surprising force in your grip. A squawk emerges from its red mouth; a clot of pure primal sound bursting across a smouldering landscape. You wonder if the children called out for their mother as they bled against the broken concrete. The creature is almost weightless, and you know the warmth of its fragile body cannot stand as a hope against the blasphemy of the three dead children sprawled in front of you. Yet as the striped tail twists around your war-stained fingers, you feel the racing dum-de-dum of its still-beating heart. In your hands you cradle a featherweight salvage of grace. ~  Fiona Dignan started writing during lockdown to cope with the chaos of home-schooling her four children. Her work has been published in various anthologies and magazines including Mslexia, Pop Shot and WestWord. She has won the London Society Poetry Prize (2023), The Plaza Prize for Sudden Fiction (2023) and the Farnham Flash Fiction competition (2024). She has been listed for the Bath Short Story Prize and the London Independent Story Prize. In 2023 she was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
Short Fiction ~ Chris Cottom 'You’re up early. Not painting today?’ ‘Lecturing. If it’s Monday, Michelle, it must be Monet.’ ‘Look, before she comes down, I told Kayleigh I’d talk to you.’ ‘Or maybe Manet.’ ‘She’s asked us something.’ ‘Mondrian if I’m feeling abstracted. Any porridge?’ ‘She’s asked if Nick can stay the night.’ ‘When?’ ‘Just sometimes.’ ‘In the spare room?’ ‘In her room.’ ‘So they’re at it, are they?’ ‘She’s seventeen, Bertram. So, yes, I imagine they are.’ ‘Haven’t you had a mummy-daughter chat?’ ‘Why me? What about a daddy-daughter one?’ ‘Better coming from you.’ ‘She won’t discuss it. You know what she’s like.’ ‘What’s he like, this boy? Nick Nack Paddy Whack.’ ‘Why don’t you talk to him and find out? He’s round here often enough.’ ‘What do you reckon?’ ‘He’s a polite kid. And she’ll definitely be sensible about … you know …’ ‘I’m not very keen.’ ‘You’d rather they do it in the woods or somewhere?’ ‘I’m sure the woods see a lot more action than this house.’ ‘What is that supposed to mean?’ ‘This house is a sex-free zone.’ ‘And who’s fault is that?’ ‘You’re the one in iron-plated undies.’ ‘You’re the one who couldn’t keep it in his trousers. Again!’ ‘Because you were acting like a crabby old cow.’ ‘What did you just say?’ ‘Like you are now!’ ‘Right! Here’s your porridge!’ ‘Yikes! You trying to kill me, you bitch?’ ‘Eat it off the floor, for all I care.’ ~ ‘Home by eleven, Kayleigh. You’ve got school tomorrow.’ ‘Actually Mum, I’ve been at college for the last year, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ ‘Listen, about … Nick staying over–’ ‘Forget it. We’ve split up.’ ‘You’re kidding! Why?’ ‘None of your business. Why are you and Dad splitting up?’ ‘Well I’m sorry, anyway. So who’s picking you up now?’ ‘Just this guy.’ ‘Well you need to do that button up.’ ‘Fashion expert, are you?’ ‘You’re showing far too much.’ ‘Oh yeah? You’re just a dinosaur.’ ‘And where’s he taking you?’ ‘Dunno. For a drink.’ ‘You’re not actually allowed to drink in pubs yet, you know.’ ‘Yeah, that’s useful advice, coming from this family.’ ‘He’d better be a safe driver.’ ‘I’ll find out, won’t I? Bye.’ ‘Aren’t you asking him in?’ ‘Yeah. “Come and meet my mum. She’s practising to be a prison officer. The grumpy one all the prisoners hate.”’ ~ ‘Right Bertram, we need to decide who takes what.’ ‘I need a glass of wine to do this.’ ‘Bit early, isn’t it?’ ‘Actually Michelle, the point about splitting up is that you get to nag somebody else and I get to have a drink at eleven in the morning if I want to.’ ‘It’s only five to.’ ‘Thank you Miss Nitty Picky. Let’s hope your next husband appreciates you timetabling everything.’ ‘Huh! Don’t imagine I want another–’ ‘Friday fishfingers; Sunday no-sex-thank-you; a blue moon so I might get a blowjob, but probably not.’ ‘Who’s fault is that? You sticking your–’ ‘After you instigated a marital ice-age–’ ‘SHUT UP, WILL YOU?’ ‘Let’s get this over with.’ ‘Which sofa do you want?’ ‘Why should I care? They’re both the same. Red and lumpy.’ ‘Except Carrington was sick on one of them, remember?’ ‘Okay, I’ll have the cat-sick one, providing I get the coffee maker.’ ‘That was a present from my mum.’ ‘Actually she gave it to both of us.’ ‘But she’s my mum.’ ‘But you prefer instant.’ ‘Maybe I’ve developed a taste for something dark and continental.’ ‘Ha! The exotic tastes of the girl from Oadby!’ ‘Didn’t notice you complaining. So, what about this picture?’ ‘Indian ink and pastel. My early years.’ ‘No stretch marks in those days. You did it after that walk along the canal. The Regent’s Canal, all the way to Limehouse.’ ‘No we didn’t. We went the other way, to Paddington.’ ‘I’m telling you we–’ ‘I remember it very well. And the sitting. You could barely keep still, frantic for it.’ ‘Huh! More like frozen frigid. That studio was like the Artic.’ ‘Anyway, I’ll be taking it.’ ‘Surprised you want it.’ ‘One of my better ones. Nine out of ten.’ ‘What about the model?’ ‘Hmm. Four, five.’ ‘Thanks Bertram.’ ‘Maybe a six.’ ‘You bastard!’ ‘Hey! What’re you–’ ‘Shhh …’ ‘Which sofa is this? Yours or mine?’ ‘Wrong to split them up, really, don’t you think?’ ~ ‘Kayleigh, listen. Dad and I are going away for a weekend.’ ‘You never go away.’ ‘We are now. We need you to be in charge and look after Carrington’. ‘Who’s eaten all the chocolate biscuits? Sorry, I’m going out.’ ‘I haven’t told you which weekend.’ ‘I always go out at the weekend. Unless I’m babysitting over the road.’ ‘And make sure your brother eats something other than pizza. The one after next.’ ‘I don’t want to be stuck here all weekend.’ ‘We’ll give you a bit of money.’ ‘Can’t you wait ’til I’ve passed my test?’ ‘We’ve booked everything: the train, the hotel.’ ‘Unless …’ ‘Stop fingering all those biscuits.’ ‘Could Nick stay?’ ‘I thought you weren’t seeing him any more.’ ‘Well maybe I am.’ ‘You said he–’ ‘It was all a misunderstanding.’ ‘Fifty quid.’ ‘But I’m never speaking to that cow Catriona again in my life.’ ‘Fifty quid and Nick can stay.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Just your boyfriend. No one else.’ ‘He’s not my boyfriend again yet. Well, I suppose he is. What about Dad?’ ‘He’s fine about it. Just don’t get pregnant.’ ‘Mum! Fuck’s sake!’ ‘Talk like that and I’ll change my mind.’ ‘No you won’t.’ ‘Try me.’ ‘You’ve booked everything, remember?’ ‘Are you going to eat that Hobnob, or just scratch your nose with it? Don’t you want to know where we’re going?’ ‘Like, I’m so interested. Okay, where’re you going?’ ‘We’re going for a walk.’ ‘A walk?’ ‘We’re going to walk along a canal. In London.’ ‘Uh?’ ‘The Regent’s Canal.’ ‘You and Dad?’ ‘Yup … Hey, what’s this?’ ‘Just feel like giving you a hug, Mum … that’s all.’ ~ 
Chris Cottom once lived next door to JRR Tolkien. He’s packed Christmas hampers in a Harrods basement, sold airtime for Radio Luxembourg, and served a twelve-year stretch as an insurance copywriter. He liked the writing job best. Short Fiction ~ Heather Haigh Of course, James got here first. Tube—taxi—done. I had to fight the traffic snarl, kamikaze flies bulleting my windscreen, radio dipping out like a crappy phone connection, and the CD player dead. 'How's the shop going?' he asked, when I arrived, while he peered into Gran's silverware cabinet. 'Getting by. The Witchery was always more for love than money.' James tilted his head. 'Car music system still playing up?' I let him tinker, while I started on Gran's bookcase. Familiar spines sat sagging, wrinkled and cracked. The Elves and the Shoemaker's pages had curled yellow. James could rummage through the rest—the storybooks were mine. He was back in no time, swooping on the treasures around me. 'Music system, A-OK.' 'Thanks.' I finished penning my name on the selection I'd put aside for myself, making sure ANNA was visible from every angle, in thick black marker. We'd packed six boxes when James suggested a break. 'Let's sit in the shade by the old tree. I put R Whites in the fridge. It's not Grans, but ....' The bench still sat beside the hollow oak. It felt wrong sitting in Gran's seat—the spot she always settled in while James and I crept inside that tree. Once inside, we'd sip tangy, cloudy lemonade while elven music tinkled all around us, and a million stars glittered above our heads—way up inside Gran's magic oak. I glanced at the dark hole in the trunk, then down at my drink. 'I thought it was real, you know.' I could taste again great lumpen sobs from when we were children. James had tugged aside the fairy lights and softly draped fabric. He'd pulled the music box, wrapped in a burlap sack, from its hidden nook. He had to know why Gran checked the tree for trolls before we crept in, our breaths held in unison. 'Sorry,' he said. 'Was always nosey. Needed to know how things worked.' 'Well, your pragmatism serves you well. Congratulations on the promotion.' James half-smiled, half-grimaced, like there was something I didn't quite get. 'Wait there. I nosied in the freezer earlier.' The bilberry pies were warm from Gran's microwave. As buttery pastry melted in my mouth, melding with the sweet fruity filling, it brought back the smells of Gran's kitchen. It brought back Gran. Tears trickled, then ran feely, then finally dredged out big fat salty dollops I'd long since swallowed, snail-slimy snot, and an ache so deep it was bigger than me. 'Guess we'd better clear out the tree,' I said at last, gulping breaths between words. James squeezed my hand. I squeezed back. James crawled in and handed me lights and fabric, foil stars on tangled strings, a pair of emerald green cushions—worn and damp. Finally the music box. Faded blue paint. A fairy whose wand trailed sparkling dust. I prised the lid open and found a note, rolled up tight, dampened only at the edges. Grandma's neat handwriting, from when her hands were strong and steady. Magic is real. It's the love in your hearts. # 'I made you this.' James handed over a CD. We exchanged a hug. 'For driving. The music box might be nice in your shop—ambience.' 'Thanks again. We should get together sometime.' It wasn't the right note, but nothing was. I started the engine and slipped the CD in. The music box lay silent in the passenger seat. James was waving. Even before I pocketed my tissue, before I clicked the seatbelt around me, before I eased off the handbrake, Gran's music, Gran's magic, was swelling around me—filling the car—filling my head—growing bigger and bigger and bigger. As big as that bloody ache. I cut the ignition and hurled myself back out of the car and into my brother's arms. This time, I held him, and held him, and held him. ~  Heather Haigh is a disabled working-class writer from Yorkshire. Published by Oxford Flash Fiction, Fictive Dream, The Phare, Timberline Review and others, she took first prize in micro contests with Globe Soup and New Writers, and was runner-up in both The Quiet Man Dave Prize For Non-Fiction and The Kay Snow Award For Fiction.
Find her at https://haigh19c.wixsite.com/heatherbooknook Short Fiction ~ Sarveswari Saikrishna Crinkle your eyes and stretch your lips to the farthest corner of your cheeks. It is easy. Do it before your mother gets anxious and your father becomes impatient. Do it before the man who has come to ‘see’ you finds it impertinent. At sixteen, it should not be hard to smile. But be aware. Too wide, it can turn into a sneer. Too inconspicuous, it can look sullen. So smile just enough, enough to carry that pleasant look on your face. Do it like how your mother taught you to, when you clear the table after your father and brother have eaten, as if you are looking forward to washing their dirty plates, as if you don’t mind eating the leftover rice that is too little to assuage your and your mother’s hunger. Do you remember when your mother said, “We are lucky. Many have to do with less than this,” you nodded vigorously to compliment your smile? Some actions associated with happiness make the smile look genuine. Also, that particular smile helped you to pretend that you did not see your mother scooping up much of what was left over in the pot and putting it on your plate. So smile and be grateful for the fact that you may have been dead the day you were born but for your mother. She had pleaded, “Just this one. I could do with a helping hand around the house.” Had she let the old hag, her mother-in-law, feed you oleander sap, just like she had fed your sisters born before you, you would have been ash that mixed with the crimson soil on which nothing but palm trees grow. Smile like when you helped your mother herd the goats, clean the pen, wash the clothes, and cook the meals that fill two and a half stomachs of a five-member family. If you want to let people know that you are really pleased, show some teeth while smiling. Like you did when the whole of Class III clapped for you when you scored the highest in maths. Smile like when you told your father about it. He had been unimpressed. “What use is maths for a girl?” he had said and shook his head, ‘If only your brother did this well in school.” You continued smiling then because you understood your father’s predicament and wanted to make him feel better. You knew the only reason you were in school was that the headmistress convinced your father that children who attended school would be given a free meal. So you went to school along with your brother though it came with a needless education. While smiling, exhibit considerable skill to hide your disappointment. The man who has come to ‘see’ you is judging you, assessing your ability to raise a kid, rein a buffalo, chase a wayward goat, and bear his weight on your thin frame. You have done it before. No! not having someone on top of you. But smiling through disappointment. Remember the time when you smiled through a sinking heart because it was agreed a ‘big’ girl need to be at home and learn to be a good wife? Remember how you smiled because, at that age, you did not even know what else to do? Please remember, don’t show expertise while you are smiling as if you had been smiling at men all your life. No good girl will smile at boys. In fact, no good girl will ever raise her head to meet anyone’s eyes, let alone smile. Your honour is directly related to the angle at which your neck is bent towards the ground. It is understandable that sometimes it might be beyond your control when a voice entices you to look up. There, you might have seen your brother’s friend, tall and brawny, laughing at a joke your brother just made. You might have felt your ears burn when he caught you looking at him. You might have even let a smile twitch on your lips when you were sure no one was looking. And if that boy ever caught you alone while going to fetch water, and told you that you had a beautiful smile, you might have had to restrain your heart from flipping around like a fish washed ashore. It is understandable that those were the days when a smile came quite easily, because it does when you fall in love, when dragonflies sit on your skin and water tastes like forest honey, when you think of him. But that is all in the past. Remember to forget love and smile through pain. You might have to do it as often as necessary when you are engaged to a man twice your age because he agrees to marry you without a dowry, because he wants a mother for his five-year-old son, because you are not expected to protest against your father because good girls listen to the man of the house, because your mother says you owe her this much for saving you from being killed. Then, it is understandable smiling won’t be easy at all. But you will have to. Try to smile when your husband touches you. Find solace in those words, words uttered aeons ago — You have a beautiful smile. Because you will have to smile, when you pick stones out of the rice carefully, milk the buffaloes, bathe, dress, and feed the child which can never be yours, and clean the house which, again, can never be yours. You will be reminded of that repeatedly by your husband. You will smile, not a novice anymore to it, but gently, resignedly every time your husband loses his temper, which is often, and shouts at you to wipe that silly smile out of your face. ~  Sarveswari Saikrishna is a short story writer and a Kolam Writer’s Workshop Alumnus. Her stories are published in Out Of Print, The Bombay Literary Magazine, USAWA , Gulmohur Quarterly, Meanpeppervine, and TMYS. She also has articles published in The Open Page, The Hindu, to her credit.
She lives in Chennai with her family and dreams of a day when she can write without interruptions. When she is not moonlighting as a copyeditor, she can be found actively imagining winning awards for stories she’s yet to write. Media handle links https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010124764417 https://www.instagram.com/kaapi_write/ At 3,000 degrees Fahrenheit, sand finally melts into glass. Thus, he is used to the heat. He is used to the furnace, to waves of feverish air breaking rhythmically upon his cheeks, to standing before the inferno in its brick cloister, resisting l’appel du vide. “How’s it going?” She slips into the annex and drifts as close as she dares to the glowing glory hole. She is terrified of fire. They have yet to ever touch one another in the glow of the furnace, limbs sweaty and entwined, writhing amidst the blistering air that leaches from an annealer during the birth of molten glass. “It’s terrible,” he responds. “It’s shit.” The ground is littered with the detritus of his failure. Glass shards crunch under his feet; everything is covered with a fine dusting of silica. He grips the blowpipe and prepares to begin again, Sisyphus trudging up the hill. To blow glass is a practice in masochism, each success overshadowed by the sheer amount of loss first required to achieve it. “You have time,” she soothes. To blow glass is to break glass, destruction at the hands of the most infinitesimal of forces, the simple flap of a butterfly wing that creates a tempest across the sea. “They said they don’t need it until next week, right?” she continues. To blow glass is an act of bondage, servitude to the laws of physics, talent and willpower fading before the power of gravity and the curse of thermal stress. “I had it,” he laments, staring into the furnace without seeing its light. “Right up until the last second.” Only seventeen, his artwork has a maturity that speaks to decades’ worth of lived experience he has never actually enjoyed; a true savant, glassblowing is the only thing that quiets the static in his brain, an exhausting white noise born of neurodiversity and trauma, always working to extinguish his passion and dilute his joy. He is the youngest gaffer at the largest glassworks in Philadelphia; he is one of the few juvenile members of the USW. He was thrown this commission for Cirque de Soleil as a bone to accept the hot shop’s admittedly-lowball offer of employment, understaffed and overworked as they are providing props for this impending premiere, and he has never felt less confident in his own genius. The piece he is constructing for Dralion – Cirque’s new show about tension and balance and juxtaposition; about harmony between East and West and Man and Nature; about dragons and goddesses and the reigning princess of fire – will determine the course of his career. And his best attempt currently lies shattered at his shoes, having imploded upon itself like a neutron star moments before she entered. You’re better than this, his inner monologue pipes up. You should be better than this. She edges closer to his bench and lays her palm upon his shoulder. He rests his head upon her fingers, taking solace in her scent. “Thanks,” he whispers, exhaling properly for the first time in an hour. He lifts his eyes from the bench where the piece is beginning to take shape, a stiletto heel emerging from the amorphous globe of liquid glass. “I missed you.” They stay in repose for several seconds more, savoring the solitude, savoring their proximity. They are so seldom alone. He is suddenly intimately aware of the ticking clock, the minutes remaining until the studio fills back up and he is no longer alone. Only he has earned the privilege of privacy in the annex; only he seems to need solitude in order to create. At least, that was the case until she came into his life. Now, even as he craves isolation, he craves her company; now, he feels incomplete when she is not around. She kisses his forehead, then loses her nerve and scurries away from the furnace. “It’ll be fine,” she prophesies. “You’ve done harder things than this before.” He loses his temper then, something he often feels inclined to do in her presence for no reason he can discern, strange emotions simmering like magma behind his skull. It isn’t anger, per se; but it also isn’t that he isn’t angry with her, either. “It’s fucking Cirque du Soleil!” he yells. “Fine isn’t good enough.” The silence after his outburst is viscous like liquid. Then comes the bright tinkling of breaking glass, and the half-shaped glass slipper finally lies in a disarray of fragments upon the floor. Pathetic, his inner monologue comments. He lays down the blowpipe and runs his hands through his hair. The weight of secrecy suddenly seems like a lot. Blowing props for Cirque du Soleil suddenly seems like a lot. “I’m sorry,” he utters. “I don’t know why…” She chooses not to respond, then chooses not to take the hand he has extended. Desperate for comfort, he wants only to hear he does not deserve this pain; he wants only to believe her loyalty is unconditional. But she does not take his hand, and she does not quell his fears. Dimly, somewhere beyond the annex, a bell rings. A tide of chattering teenage voices rushes in. Lockers slam; laughter abounds. “You’ll get it done,” she repeats instead, heading for the door, for the complex microcosm of the High School for Creative Arts churning just outside. “I’ve got to go.” Frustrated, he rises to follow her. “Wait. I love…” She holds up a hand, stopping his advance. “Careful,” she warns, glancing towards the door, confirming the head of the art department has still yet to return. Then she walks out. He watches the A.P. English instructor leave. Adoration and adrenaline and anxiety and shame crystalize in his veins like fulgurite. He is a million tiny grains of sand and she is a lightning bolt; he is an element and she is fusion itself. He thinks about Dralion and balance and harmony; he thinks about suffering and art. Then he reaches into the crucible for more molten glass to try again. ~  Shannon Frost Greenstein (She/They) resides in Philadelphia with her family and cats. She is the author of “The Wendigo of Wall Street,” a novella with Emerge Literary Press, and “These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things,” a full-length poetry collection from Really Serious Lit. Shannon is a former Ph.D. candidate in Continental Philosophy and a multi-time Pushcart Prize nominee. She is an avid fan of Nietzsche, ballet, Mount Everest, motherhood, the Hamilton soundtrack, and acquiring more cats. Follow Shannon at shannonfrostgreenstein.com or on Twitter and Bluesky at @ShannonFrostGre. Insta: @zarathustra_speaks
Short Fiction ~ Stephen Smythe First Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 20 You’re legging it through the back alleys of your childhood estate, training for the West Yorkshire Marathon, when you crash into an old man, sending him sprawling. You gulp, scared you’ve hurt him. As you go over to help, you realise the crumpled heap between the bins isn’t an old man, after all – it’s Jacko, the boy who made growing up around here hell. Except now he must be fifty-two – you’ll never forget he’s two years older – and his flaming mop has turned white, his angry crimson cheeks pale, his fierce blue eyes watery and widening as though he’s seen a ghost. But you’re real and, hands on hips, you’re panting. Even as you tower over him, you have to tell yourself not to be daft – this shell of a man can’t hurt you. He eases himself onto his elbows. He doesn’t seem injured, but you chide yourself for even caring. Frowning, he looks you up and down. He knows who you are, alright, even though he’s not seen you since you left for university. He holds out his shaking hand and you yank him up. Despite your soaking sweatshirt, his pong overrides anything else, the stench of chip fat, whisky and weed coming from the army surplus greatcoat swamping his skinny frame. You wait for him to speak, to explain himself. All he does is look away. You always thought he was taller, even when you shot up past him at sixteen, but he’d been bullet-headed and barrel-chested with arms like Popeye. He called you names for years – weirdo, freak, wimp – chased you, pushed your face into the muddy field when he caught you, kicked you up the arse for laughs, but it was on this spot where he humiliated you the most. That summer day couldn’t have started better. You’d had a letter saying you’d passed ten O-Levels. Your dad gave you twenty quid and you went to town and bought a cream Ben Sherman shirt. In the evening you went to The Regal with Joanne Carter. You’d liked her for ages, but she had to ask you out because you were too shy. After the film, you walked her home and she slipped her hand into yours. You turned into a back alley – this back alley – and like now Jacko was waiting, only he was with Skinner and Nudge, all three leaning against the wall blowing smoke rings. As you tried to go past, Jacko blocked your way. You shifted to get around him, but he shuffled across so you couldn’t. He curled his lip and put his cigarette out on your arm, burning a hole in the sleeve of your new shirt. The other lads guffawed as you yelped. Joanne squeezed your hand, and you both edged forward. Jacko sneered and said to her, ‘Why are you with that wimp?’ She looked at you, maybe hoping you’d do something, but all you did was stammer. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ Jacko said. ‘You’re a slag.’ ‘Get lost, carrot head,’ she said. Jacko tugged her ponytail and she yelled. For a moment, you forgot your fear. ‘Leave her alone!’ He let go of her, but rabbit punched you instead. The scorching pain seared through the back of your head, and you staggered before keeling over. He bellowed, ‘Let’s see what the wimp’s got.’ Skinner grabbed you in a chokehold, putting you on your back, while Nudge pinned your arms. You writhed in vain to cover yourself as Jacko pulled down your jeans and underpants. They pointed, in hysterics, while Joanne screamed, ‘Stop it!’ Your cheeks burn as you remember. You want him to look you in the eye, see you’re not frightened anymore. You spit out his name. ‘Jacko.’ He reaches inside his greatcoat and pulls out a packet of cigarettes. His hand trembles as he lights up. He blows smoke out of his nostrils like an impotent dragon. His voice is thin. ‘I’ve not been well. Had the flu.’ And the rest, you think. Booze, fags, drugs. No wonder he’s got the shakes. ‘My missus died last month,’ he says. ‘Lung cancer.’ You bet he was husband of the year. Now he wants you to feel sorry for him. It starts to rain, but you’re going nowhere. ‘Why did you treat me like that?’ He looks at the ground and sniffs. ‘It were a long time ago. I were nowt but a kid.’ ‘Huh. Some kid. More like an eighteen year old hod carrier, that night with me and Joanne Carter.’ At least he blushes when you mention Joanne’s name. There’d been no second date. You’d spent longer than you wanted trying to figure out why he’d tormented you. You even had therapy. Was it because you went to the grammar school? Or was it that you had no mum? Or your dad was in a wheelchair? Eventually, you stopped speculating. Even though you came across bullying with your job, you thought you’d got over Jacko. He flicks away his cigarette and coughs so hard he hacks up a clump of yellow snot. He puts his hand on one of the bins for support and comes round. ‘Well, I’ll be going.’ You shuffle across and block his way. He looks up at you. His thin voice deepens. ‘What’s going on?’ You sweep your hair off your forehead to stop the rain dripping into your eyes. ‘Why did you do it?’ His greatcoat is sodden. He fumbles for his cigarette packet, this time offers you one, but you wave it away. He curls his lip. ‘Never had any vices did you? Still a goody-goody.’ ‘Here’s me thinking you might feel a bit sorry.’ ‘Why should I? Hear you’ve done alright for yourself, Mr. Headteacher.’ The fractured sound of a detuned radio escapes from somewhere. There’s nobody else around, only ghosts. You’ll let him finish his cigarette, wait until he stops coughing his guts up, before you rabbit punch him. ~  Stephen Smythe is a Mancunian writer. In recent years he has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize (Flash Fiction category), longlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award, came third in the Strands International Flash Fiction competition, and completed an MA in Creative Writing at Salford University. In 2022, he won the Bangor Literary Journal FORTY WORDS competition. His debut book, ‘Looking for Love,’ 40 x Forty Word stories, was published in 2023 by The Red Ceilings Press. Later that same year, his Novella-in-flash, The Night Shift, was published by Flight of The Dragonfly Press. Second Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 20 The Spy Chief eats a meal a day. Two years ago, he read a study on longevity that suggested that mice that consumed their food in a single sitting evolved to have better use of fat stores than their peers, elongating their lifespans. He flew the author of the paper first-class from Wisconsin and spoke with her for seven hours, for which she was paid the equivalent of a month’s salary. Since then, the single meal has become part of his daily routine, along with an hour in a flotation tank, extreme cardio sessions and prolonged exposure to UV light from a lamp developed by NASA. He consumes a precise number of calories and complex carbohydrates at daybreak, usually while digesting intelligence reports or sealed confessions from the night before, finding satisfaction in the way discipline has reshaped his biology. He no longer experiences hunger and is close to eliminating any physical response from consumption – no anticipatory salivation, no pleasure or memory triggers from specific combinations of salt, fat, and heat. Today, he is sitting on the terrace of his villa picking at a combination of dark leaves, baked salmon and electrolyte supplements. The speakerphone is on, and a succession of lieutenants talk through current surveillance details, their voices drifting into the canyon below. The Spy Chief alternates between his pen and chopsticks, scribbling notes next to names and then stabbing into the bowl. “What news of Kishorilal Sethi?” he asks, leveraging a small lump of protein from his teeth with his tongue. Sethi is the son of Krishna Sethi, who was already under house arrest when the Chief was but a rising star in the National Safekeeping Authority, as it was known at the time. The reporting officer, who is new in the role, stumbles slightly over the details, but it seems as though the epigone’s movements are being documented satisfactorily. The younger Sethi has taken a quiet teaching role far from the city, seeking refuge among adolescents’ equations. “Keep watching the boy but stay out of sight,” he tells the officer. “Whenever the rats in this family feel comfortable, their thoughts turn to sedition. Let him get fat and restless in his classroom, then we’ll take him.” The briefing finishes shortly after. He takes the opportunity to smuggle a warning into his commentary. “Gentlemen, be sure to stay vigilant. Our job is to make sure that the unexpected always arrives.” He clicks the ‘Off’ button with the base of a chopstick. His bowl is empty too, aside from a single strand of fish flesh. It is early, and the morning is creeping over the mountains. The Spy Chief stands and examines his shadow on the terracotta floor. Still lean at 50. Barely out of puberty on his personal timetable, at a time when his contemporaries are collapsing into middle age, clogged arteries and cholesterol signalling the inevitability of their decline. And his enemies? If the science is successful, he thinks, if the medical interventions, and calorie plans, and longevity therapies do what they are designed to do, then he will be able to remain in the job until he is 150 years old. He will have time to oversee lifelong surveillance for Krishna and Kishorilal Sethi, and whatever luckless grandchildren they bring into the world. It will be possible to inflict three or maybe four generations of defeat upon a single family, something even his wiliest predecessors would have struggled to achieve. The phone judders with messages, his lieutenants jostling to subtly denounce their colleague, the agent who spoke too little and stammered too often. They picked up on the Chief’s last comment and are trying to turn it to their professional advantage, suggesting that their colleague might be insufficiently committed to the cause, that his duties could be profitably reallocated. He selects his lieutenants for their ruthlessness, so expects no less. This is the world we are building; he thinks. This is what time and technology make possible. We are giving seed money to technology start-ups, so that we will have access to the data generated from every device they produce. We are planting listening equipment in the foundations of new estates, to better learn a community’s daily intimacies from the day they move in. The absurd whimsy of the situation delights him, the idea that no detail in this country or its neighbours will ever escape his attention again. His people have always been beset by troublemakers and freedom fighters, but the momentum of history is entirely on his side now. Absolute knowledge and absolute power for another century and beyond – all thanks to a meal a day. He scoops the last sliver of baked salmon and flicks it into the air with a chopstick, his reactions and aim sharpened by daily isometric exercise. The Spy Chief leans his head back, opens wide, determined to catch it, to master every moment of his prolonged and pitiless life. Inside the fish, an unnoticed shard of bone shifts, caught by the gravity of destiny. The Spy Chief’s throat, lean through extreme cardio and intermittent fasting, is not quite wide enough for the task. The unexpected arrives. ~  Edward Barnfield is a writer and researcher living in the Middle East. His stories have appeared in Triangulation, Third Flatiron, Galley Beggar Press, The Molotov Cocktail, Tenebrous Press, Leicester Writes, Strands Publishers, Cranked Anvil, and Shooter Literary, among others. He’s on X at @edbarnfield Short Fiction ~ Sudha Vishwanathan Third Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 20 Savitri aunty hummed a melodious rendition of the late Carnatic music maestro, MS Subbulakshmi, as she carefully kept her sarees from the neatly arranged cupboard into suitcases. I watched in awe at the exquisite collection. I have often seen aunty draped in those lovely sarees when she visited the temple or attended a wedding alongwith uncle. Pointing towards a saree with a beautiful combination of navy blue and pink border, she mentioned with a blush on her wrinkled face, 'This is my wedding saree.' I expressed my admiration for the texture and durability of the nine-yard saree, marveling at the unfaded zari borders. Aunty explained that in her time, women wore the nine-yard saree on all auspicious occasions, unlike the present generation. Despite of repeated usage, the unfaded zari stood testimony to the flawless work in those days, nearly five decades ago, she avered. Recounting the instances when she wore the saree, Savitri aunty shared how her co-sisters envied her for possessing such a unique piece, unlike their monotonous red wedding sarees. Aunty rolled her eyes dramatically as she described how her father had bravely deviated from the tradition of red sarees, facing opposition from other family members. Running her fingers fondly over a six-yard silk saree with a lotus color and a green border, she started sharing the story behind it. Her husband had gifted her this saree during her eighth month of pregnancy, and it had attracted attention and sparked discussions among relatives about her husband's love for her. Upon the birth of their son, her husband had gifted her another exquisite six-yard silk saree. She displayed that one too with utmost delight. “Uncle had earnestly requested me to continue wearing the silk sarees even after he would be gone. He didn't want me to stick to age old traditions wherein a widow has to wear only sober clothings.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she missed her better half, who had passed away the previous year at the age of 77. “I do not wish to disappoint his kind soul. I feel he is watching me from wherever he is. That is why I am taking these sarees alongwith me.” She wiped her moist eyes. Aunty's son Rajan who lived abroad was scheduled to arrive in India today and had assured her that she wouldn't be staying alone in her house any longer. He had also indicated about having finalized the sale of the house. Savitri aunty always spoke fondly of her only son, daughter-in-law, and her two grandchildren. The septuagenarian's life revolved solely around them. A week ago, Aunty had said that she would need my help in packing her bags and organizing final wrap up of things in her house. With pride lit large on her face she explained that her son was to come only for a day to take her. I had taken the day off from work to assist her in packing. Her fondness for various coloured combination sarees became evident as I arranged her suitcases. She then handed over a beautiful saree to me. It was an off white one with maroon border. “Keep this as a gift from me, and do wear it on some occasion. It will remind you of me.” I assured her that I didn't need any momento to remember her. Though we were neighbours, aunty had been more like a mother figure to me. After my parents passed away in an accident and in the same year when I got separated from my husband, both uncle and aunty had been like pillars of support. “Keep it,” she said. “You need to wear sarees often. What if you are single now, someday you will find someone.” She sounded very confident. At 45 my hopes of finding a compatible partner had wanned. A faint smile escaped my lips. As we were clearing the kitchen Savitri aunty asked me to take any extra groceries and perishable items, teasing me about my lack of cooking skills. “I have seen the food delivery persons at your doorsteps very often.” She chided me lovingly. I hardly bothered to cook. Preparing a meal for a single person according to me was a cumbersome job, but Savitri aunty opposed my theory vehemently. She was an excellent cook and would prepare small quantities with utmost precision. She had infact suggested that I should share her meals everyday. Many a times she had offered me her delicious preparation, but I would decline to accept it at times, feeling embarrassed. That wouldn't discourage her and every other day she would be at my threshold with some food whose aroma forced me to give up on my stubbornness. I smiled as I envisaged aunty wearing the pretty silk sarees and preparing delicious food in her son's house. I was almost certain that she would garner admirers there with her charming versatile personality. Just as we finished arranging the suitcases, Rajan arrived. He seemed confused at the sight of the luggage. “Ma, you don't need to carry your sarees. They have a uniform there for everyone. Elder ladies like you are given a flowing gown in blue and white while men have similar colour combination of shirt and trousers. I have chatted with them and understood how well they take care of elderly people.” As the reality dawned upon her, aunty's face showed a mix of emotions, realizing that she wouldn't wear her beautiful sarees anymore and that her son had made this decision for her without bothering to consult her. She struggled to camouflage her disappointed behind an enforced smile. My eyes blurred out at the sight of aunty wearing a simple gown and sitting idle all alone. Without uttering a word I picked up the suitcases and gestured to aunty to follow me. I shall not need the food delivery persons anymore. Cooking for two would be fun that too under the auspices of a lady like Savitri aunty. We entered the threshold of aunty's new abode. ~  Mrs.Sudha Vishwanathan, a professional tutor, took to writing as a hobby. She generally writes short stories but has also received accolades for her poems. Many of her short stories have been published in the Woman's Era magazine. Her stories and poems have appeared in anthologies. Soul-stirring articles on true-life incidents she wrote have been published on the TOI online page. She actively participates in many fiction writing forums and has won quite a few accolades. She has won the TMYS story award for her inspiring story, "The Daughter."
Short Fiction ~ Birgit Solvsten D'Alpoim Guedes Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 20 A tall African man with long, lean limbs wearing nothing but a leopard skin thrown over one shoulder, and tied around his waist hung a string attached to the small piece of animals fur that barely covered his private parts. His head, a perfect ebony sculpture with fine high cheekbones looked down at me from large anxious eyes. Dressed only in pantaloons that were much too small, I reached no taller than his hipbone. We both stood there, almost naked, in the bright sunlight. It was warm and white Jasmine flowers bloomed fragrantly along the garden fence. Across the road the golden veld already had green shoots appearing among the elephant grass and the air smelt of spring in the way that only the high veld does from that first rain after a long dry winter. He spoke to me in his mother tongue as he tapped his long black stick on the pavement, his other hand indicated in a sweeping motion to the newly built houses along our side of the street, then he looked down at me with a flicker of hope in his eyes followed instantly by a fearful, haunted look as he let out a loud breath. Again he tapped his stick, harder this time and with more anger in his tone. I understood enough Zulu to know that he was looking for his daughter, who must have worked as a servant in one of the houses. She had not come home for a long time. My eyes widened with fear, not of him but a fear for him. I stood there, very young, looking up into his eyes as I remembered the recent darkness in our home when my brother disappeared. Those eyes were the eyes of my parents. It was the mid 1950's, my brother walked through wild countryside in South Africa, crossed the Crocodile River and made his way over the border to Mozambique where he was found several months later attempting to board a ship at the port in Lourenco Marques. He was barely twelve years old, unhappy and determined to go back home to Denmark. I shook my head and our eyes locked in tears. He touched me gently on my hair and that noble Zulu man who had no one to ask except a small child, turned and walked away wearing nothing but his traditional clothing to continue his search for his missing daughter in that cruel City of Gold so hostile to Africans. I never forget his eyes or what I stumbled on in the koppies four years later. There was a graveyard, where houses now stand. There was a graveyard, where no gravestones were found. There was a graveyard, with only a round hole in the ground. There was a graveyard, with blood all around. There was a graveyard, my dog and I found. ~  Birgit Solvsten D'Alpoim Guedes was born where two seas meet in Northern Denmark but have since lived on four continents in several countries. She now resides in the Val De Cher in Central France surrounded by vineyards, Chateaux and Castles.
She has had a story published in The Morning Musings on Medium 'I Am an Artist', a micro in Scribes FairField magazine; 'The Squabble' and Longlisted for 'Mortal Sin' with The Propelling Pencil. Short Fiction ~ Cath Barton Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 20 Joe knew. By the time they were seven years old like him, all the kids in school knew that bad things had gone on in the biscuit factory, though there were different stories about exactly what. Joe and his friend Simran went to the factory on Sundays, when Joe’s parents had fallen asleep in front of the TV after lunch. Simran would be waiting for him at the end of the street. His parents served food at the Gurdwara every Sunday; so long as he was in his room studying when they got home he knew they wouldn’t worry about him. The boys cycled up the gravel path from the river as far as the wood where older kids went to drink cider on Saturday nights. Here the path became a rutted track, and Joe and Simran got off their bikes and pushed them up to a bush where they knew they could hide them. Then climbed over the wire fence that was supposed to keep people out of the factory. They’d explored the whole site that summer, forensically, sharing out the treasures they found, bits of coloured glass, odd-shaped rivets and dried-out frogs. Most things in the factory had been trashed or burned long before, but one Sunday they opened a door they’d overlooked till then, onto a room that was untouched. A table laid for tea, with fine china, including a tiered cake stand. Mice had got in, of course, and left their droppings where the food had been. ‘Let’s sit here,’ said Simran. ‘I’ll be the king and you can be–’ Before he could finish his sentence there was a bang from beyond the door. They looked at one another, hands across their mouths. There was nowhere to hide in the room. But there were no more sounds, no approaching footsteps. ‘Must have been a ghost,’ said Joe, when he dared speak again. His friend nodded, then slid off his chair and moved towards a cupboard on the wall. He pulled on a knob on the cupboard door, but it didn’t shift. ‘Locked,’ said Simran. ‘There must be something really, really valuable in there.’ He had watched a lot of Kung Fu films, said he could kick off the lock. After five minutes the lock was still intact and the boy was hopping around the room with a sore foot. ‘My go,’ said Joe, putting his fingers under the left hand side of the cupboard and pulling. The wood splintered and came away with an explosive crack. The two boys froze, but there was no sound from outside the room. Joe went to the door and opened it to check. The only thing he heard was what he took to be the fluttering of birds’ wings up in the blackened rafters. Meanwhile Simran was peering into the cupboard. It was full of packets of biscuits, the colours of the pictures on the cardboard still bright. The contents had, they discovered, turned to dust, but in a dark corner they found two little mice, huddled together, mummified. They took one each for their treasure boxes. When the boys had left the factory the ghosts of their future selves drifted into the room and sat together at the table enjoying the memory of their childhood explorations in the ruined factory, as the mice of ages scuttled in the back of the broken cupboard. ~  Cath Barton is an English writer who lives in Wales. She has four published novellas, most recently The Geography of the Heart from Arroyo Seco Press. A pamphlet of her short stories, Mr Bosch and His Owls, is published this Spring by Atomic Bohemian. Short Fiction ~ Dianne Bown-Wilson Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 20 It was the ordinariness of it after all those TV dramas in which wet nights gleam with menace and the soundtrack’s chosen to make your nerves jangle (not that you’re listening because you’re engrossed in where the bad guy‘s coming from and what exactly he’s doing to who, and are you going to be able to see him well enough so you can sit back and know who dunnit while the cops still work it out?). Tesco off the ring road, Tuesday morning around 11, mild and cloudy with a chance of rain, wasn’t a bit like that. You spotted him from inside as you approached the big sliding doors leading to that bit at the front of the car park where the trolleys congregate like a shoal of fish and traffic lanes loop like guts to the left and right. If all choices can be reduced to yes/no, on/off states (which is what your grandson told you once when he was explaining the mysteries of computers), do humans act like machines? For example, in a life-or-death situation, you’ve often wondered if you’d:
So when something happens that does matter, and you’re faced with the ultimate on-off challenge, choice goes out the window. Or does it? You were there with just the one lumpy shopping bag dangling from the crook of your arm as you juggled your purse back into your handbag, trying to avoid colliding with people coming in because whoever designed the place hadn’t bothered to get that bit right. Only you started to realise that people were running to get inside, and you heard yelling, and a bang as the window off to the right of you shattered. But you just kept walking, vaguely wondering what was going on but not bothered because whatever it was, it was Nothing To Do With You. Which it wasn’t until you reached the doors and heard another crack and glanced to your right, looking beyond some chap loitering in the middle of the road wearing dark overalls and a balaclava (which you thought a bit odd) to where a woman was slumped face down on the footpath with blood pooling underneath her. But Overall Man, despite having what looked like a gun in his hand, was standing there casually as if he intended to marshall traffic – not that there was any, which was strange in itself - and just gazing about like he was waiting or looking for someone which maybe he was except the someone was anyone and the next anyone was a middle-aged man on his phone who ambled around the corner towards him, not paying attention until the gun cracked again and he fell too, and his phone bounced into the road. And you didn’t think: 0 or 1? Yes or no? Good or bad? - because you didn’t think anything except, This Isn’t On. Mere yards from where he stood with his back to you, your car was just two bays into the disabled spaces (because you don’t walk too well these days). So you fumbled your keys out of your coat pocket, clicked the button, threw your bags on the seat, scrambled inside and turned on the engine. Maybe that balaclava blocked his hearing, or perhaps he didn’t care being so focused on finding someone else to shoot, but he didn’t turn around as you lurched forward, wrenched the wheel right then left and put your foot down hard. So now you know that under pressure, you don’t make reasoned choices because your mind goes blank, and all that happens is you feel Very Angry Indeed. You also discover that a person travels a surprising distance when you hit them fast and full-on from behind. You slammed on the brakes after impact because, God forbid, you didn’t want to run over him, too, and immediately, people descended on his crumpled form like a swarm of flies. You heard yourself mutter, ‘Pick up the effing gun, someone’, which is what you often tell the television, even though no one would hear you with the car windows closed. Then you thought, I’m going to be in the way here when the police and ambulance arrive, so it made sense to reverse back into your original parking space. Carefully. Unobtrusively. Steadily this time. That was a yes/no choice. As was texting William while you waited for someone to come and talk to you: Running late. Still at the supermarket. Better get your own lunch. ~  Dr Dianne Bown-Wilson is a short story writer who grew up in New Zealand and now lives surrounded by stunning scenery in Dartmoor National Park in Devon, UK. Her work has won prizes in numerous international competitions and has been included in anthologies. Her passion is for character-led tales exploring the extraordinariness of ordinary people.
She has published two collections of her successful stories: Instructions for Living and Other Stories, and Degrees of Exposure. Visit her website https://diannebownwilson.uk/ Short Fiction ~ Susan L. Lin Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 20 #5 On your way to a famous national park, you find a city called 2:00 PM. According to the guidebook, it was named that because a dip in the main road causes momentary blindness at that time thanks to the angel (you wonder if maybe the writer meant “angle”?) of the sun. Apparently, an encore happens every day at 6:00 PM. An investigative journalist asks you to describe the phenomenon on camera, and to read a poem you’ve written in the same notebook as your travelogues, but you politely decline. Choosing, instead, to keep moving. Eventually you find yourself standing at the mouth of a large canyon, wondering how it might feel to be swallowed up. To spend the rest of your days languishing inside those bottomless bowels. #4 You black out, coming to inside a roomy building overflowing with other people. You’re uncertain whether they’re family or not. All the windows and doors are covered with dark cloth. Someone makes a reference to the night, but you notice rays shining through an open flap: It’s daytime! But your protests are met with a dismissive wave: “Pffft, sunlight? Haven’t you heard? It’s like that outside 24/7 now.” Scornful rejection spurs you to theft. You begin lifting everyone’s shoes from their bedrooms. The stolen goods finding a cool new home in your empty mini fridge. #3 The plot of land neighboring your alma mater goes untouched for years. But three months after graduation, bulldozers appear overnight. Billboards announce a new institution of higher learning: Proust University. A winding staircase bridges the two properties. While other schools boast about the bright futures of their alumni, PU seems preoccupied with their pasts. The objects inside designed to trigger déjà vu in every prospective student. You catch a glimpse of Little Red Riding Hood within its halls, ducking into a dim room with an endless collection of sinister clown beds. #2 One evening, you’re walking to a friend’s place for a sleepover, pillow and blanket in hand. An ominous house across the street. A blurry structure your eyes can’t focus on stands between you and the building, creating a mustache-like mask over its features. The night falls apart from there: Yearbook pages defaced, threatening messages scrawled across the grotesque photos. Soon you are hiding in a bathroom. The bashful toilet is sitting inside the bathtub, obscured by a shower curtain. You don’t notice it at first. Someone is at the door, demanding to be let in. #1 You find an elusive screening elevator in a hotel lobby. The sliding doors open to reveal a compartment where travelers can sit to enjoy a film as the suspended box ascends. It is either a very slow elevator or a very short film. You hear screams before you reach your destination. A woman who looks a lot like your mother (at least from afar) is delivering a baby at the end of the hallway. Inside your suite, you find poetry stenciled on a bus bench. ~  Susan L. Lin is a Taiwanese American storyteller who hails from southeast Texas and holds an MFA in Writing from California College of the Arts. Her novella Goodbye to the Ocean won the 2022 Etchings Press novella prize, and her short prose and poetry have appeared in over sixty different publications. Find more at https://susanllin.wordpress.com. Short Fiction ~ Aneeta Sundararaj ‘The desire to provide a legacy that outlives us can be an excellent way to accomplish more in life. When we face a haunting reminder of our death, focusing on what we would like to leave behind could help us turn something terrifying into a positive motivational experience. Artists are the perfect example of this. Through their creative legacies, they live on and are never totally gone. Such legacies also help those who remain cope with their loss.’ Professor (Adj.) Dato’ Dr. Andrew Mohanraj All of Alor Setar’s high society was abuzz with the news. It wasn’t that we’d have to turn up at Stadium Dato’ Syed Omar on short notice. It was not that a celebrated dancer, who returned home after an illustrious career in Australia, had chosen our tiny town in which to give his first live performance. It wasn’t even the anticipation of wondering if this Malay-Muslim would publicly carry out the Hindu ritual of paying homage to both his guru and the Gods before dancing. It certainly wasn’t about a dance form that none of us had heard of. Mercifully, in a feature article published in the papers the day before he arrived, the dancer explained that Odissi was a sensuous and lyrical dance form which originated in Eastern India. The talk of town was quite simply that Rosli Idris was coming to dance for us at the invitation of the Sultan. I repeat. At the invitation of the Sultan. Imagine that! This had never happened before or, for that matter, after Rosli’s ‘one-night-only’ performance. Seated between my parents, three rows behind the Sultan, I instinctively recited the Guru mantra when Rosli, to the left of the stage, waved the aarti in front of a brass sculpture of Ganpati whom we believed removed all obstacles. “See, Daddy,” I whispered every so often throughout that performance. “That’s Kuruma,” or “that’s Vamana.” I showed off my ability to interpret Rosli’s depiction of the ten incarnations of Vishnu, one of the principal trinities of the Hindu Gods. Vishnu descended into our world to restore peace and righteousness whenever humanity was threatened by chaos or evil. Doubtless, Rosli’s production that night called Dasavatar was an unforgettable event for the inhabitants of the town a mere hour or so south of the border with Thailand. After this magical evening on the second Sunday of August 1980, as the world hurtled into the new millennium, Stadium Dato’ Syed Omar was torn down, the Sultan’s long and prosperous reign came to an end, and Rosli became a world-renowned dancer showered with accolades, awards, titles and much respect. “But, Darling, that was more than forty years ago!” Such was Rosli’s response, with one elbow resting on the shoulder of his principal male dancer, when I reminded me of his visit to Alor Setar. “Ah well…” He walked towards the dining table of his house in suburban Petaling Jaya. Ah well, indeed. Keeping in mind Rosli’s multipronged oeuvre, the events of the past ten days were nothing short of unbelievable. “See what they did.” He stretched his left leg from under him once seated. I tilted my head. An electronic tag encircled his ankle. “One step out of this house and, within seconds, sirens will be blaring.” Rosli reached for the jug of fresh lemonade and poured me a glass. A week after Valentine’s Day in 2023, Malaysians woke up to the following headlines: ‘Iconic dancer arrested for alleged theft of a black diamond.’ The report stated that Rosli and his dance troupe had agreed to an impromptu performance at a high-end luxury store. They were accompanied by a local artiste singing her heart out to Dame Shirley Bassey’s ‘Diamonds Are Forever’. The diamond stolen was worth USD37 million. “Why are you giggling? What is so funny?” “Rosli, you’re an Odissi dancer.” “So?” “’Diamonds Are Forever?’ How did you dance to this?” “I can do other dance forms, you know.” He had a point. The youngest of five children, afer completing his studies at the elite Malay College of Kuala Kangsar, he’d pursued an engineering degree in Australia, after which he joined a ballet company. He’d aslo dabbled in contemporary dances before immersing himself in various Indian dance forms. “But why? What was special about this black diamond?” Sighing, he leaned back: “I’ve been reading Jung lately. We are all going to die, you know.” “Why, lah, so morbid?” “No. No. No. I’m just thinking about my childhood. What is my legacy?” “Hmmm…” I didn’t know how else to respond. After four decades, Rosli had become synonymous with dance globally. It seemed inconceivable that a time would come when there was going to be no Rosli. “What am I leaving behind? Has it all been for nothing? Is there zero purpose to all I’ve done?” I recognised this lamentation of an artiste. Yes, our creative endeavours fed our souls. But at the heart of it was the desire that the life we breathed into our creations would live long after we gave up our mortal coils. That we had, in some small way, touched another human being. That they, connected to us by blood or spirit, would hopefully find solace and comfort from our works if and when the need arose. “But why do this, Rosli? The charge is stealing. I know you didn’t do it. So, why?” It’s the way he looked at me. He neither smiled nor scowled. There was the faintest dilation of his pupils. He lifted his chin, challenged. “What’s the proof?” “Errr…” “That’s what I mean. There is nothing to tie me to this. This is just another way for the authorities to stop me from dancing.” “Huh?” “Geeta, I am Malay. Right now, there are so many issues here. All those religious people, instead of serving the rakyat, they are forever being vigilantes and taking the holier than thou attitude to extremes.” “But you’ve been doing this for years. Why should they bother you now?” “Aiya. Now, we have a new lot. I’ve already been told I cannot teach Indian dance because it involves rituals. I expect to be arrested if I enter a temple or conduct the prayers with my students during Vijayadashami.” He had a point. “People think dance is just dance. It’s not for me, you know. It’s a passion. Actually, no. It’s more than that. It’s a calling.” “I agree. You’re so talented, Rosli.” “That talent, Geeta, is a gift. It is a golden opportunity to fulfil one’s reason for being. I love to quote Martha Graham who said, ‘I did not choose to dance. Dance chose me.’ That’s it. Odissi chose me. Ballet chose me. I didn’t choose them.” During the ensuing silence, I wondered how I’d get him to reveal the location of the diamond or, at the very least, how he’d taken it from right under the noses of the authorities. “Hypothetically speaking, Rosli…” “Y-e-s?” “Hypothetically speaking, how would you have done it?” “Did you watch any of the videos posted online?” “Well, sort of. I don’t trust what I see.” “Pity.” “Huh?” “Geeta, you’re like so many of the children of the modern world. Your body is now weak and you’re poorly coordinated.” “Fine.” “No. I’m not trying to insult you. Tell me, what did you do for fun when you were a child?” “Play, I suppose.” “Play what?” “Masak-masak.” “Masak-masak.” He hit his forehead with his palm. “For God’s sake! Did you run? Skip? Dance like there was no tomorrow?” “No. I was in Alor Setar. We didn’t have dancing schools like in KL. And, if I wanted to learn dance, I’d have to go to the temple. That wasn’t what girls from good families did. We played piano. Other girls travelled to Penang to learn ballet.” I waved my hand. “Bharatanatyam was out of the question.” I shuddered. “And, all those priests? Huh! They would be staring at us.” Dropping my voice a few decibels, I added, “Some didn’t stop at staring, I tell you.” “Hmmm… Okay. You’re forgiven. But look at the ones in the city today. They are clumsy, sit like buffaloes and look at their tablets all day. They can barely walk up the stairs without panting. They don’t know what grass feels like under their feet.” “They live in condos, Rosli.” “Exactly! It’s a real pity because Nature is the greatest teacher.” “Okay, but that doesn’t explain how…this…happened.” “Well…actually, Geeta, do you know any Greek mythology?” “Some. I mean, I know the major ones, like the Apollonian and Dionysian principles. Apollo and Dionysius were the sons of Zeus, no? Apollo represents order, predictability and stability. “Ah! So, you know something.” “I studied it in school. Very basic. It’s the idea of stability, no?” He nodded. “Sort of. With Apollonian, everything has to be symmetrical. With Dionysian, it’s the opposite. Nothing is symetrical. Dionysius is all about chaos, instability and surprise. All my life, I’ve tried to create a balance between the two. That’s what we did here. I created a balance.” I frowned. “How?” “I’m not going to tell you.” He had a twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll show you.” I stared at him, trying to decipher his meaning. “You brought your phone, yes? Put on the music and let me dance. Find something better than Shirley Bassey. Something Indian. I’ll go change.” In fifteen minutes, Rosli, dressed in a floaty white cotton kurta, walked onto his ‘stage’ in the lush garden of what was, rumour had it, going to become the archival centre of Indian dance in Malaysia. He winced when he stepped onto the sun-soaked slab of cement measuring some fifteen feet in diameter. “There,” Rosli said, pointing to the middle of it, “I put a piece of granite I brought back from the Annapurna Base Camp in Nepal. I was there on 9 September 1999.” “Ah-so.” “Music.” As he began to dance to the tune of ‘Lalitha Lavanga’ by Sikkil Gurucharan and Anil Srinivasan, there was a sudden breeze. The palm fronds, leaves of the bouganvillea and surrounding bushes all rustled, as though Mother Nature appreciated this impromptu performance. “The first avatar, as you know, is Matsya.” Avatar? I took three deep breaths. Decades of yearning to see this particular performance and, now, in these strangest of circumstances, I would bear witness to it. I held my breath, afraid that the tiniest movement may make Rosli change his mind. He moved his limbs to form a fish swimming in the waters. Similar to the myths of many a culture, Matsya forewarned the coming of a flood and ordered Man to preserve all the grains and living creatures in a boat while he retrieved the Vedas from the clutches of the demons. “I,” Rosli said, “wanted to preserve the goods from being taken by all the baddies.” “Hmmm…” It was a rescue mission for the black diamond, rather than the theft of it. That was how Rosli planned to plead, apparently. “No man is an island like Mount Mandara.” Rosli opened his palm and stuck out his tongue. He was metaphorically tasting the mythical nectar of immortality, amrit. In this, the second incarnation, Vishnu was Kurma, a tortoise. Acting as a pivot, the reptile stabilised the mountain for the task at hand. “But I almost broke my back lah, Geeta.” “Why?” “With so many people and things in the crowd, lah.” In a classic step familiar to thieves, Rosli moved his limbs, mimicking the act of avoiding an invisible high-end handbag here, a string of Mikimoto pearls there, one fat Datin swinging her Louis Vuitton bag here, and the emcee there. “Like Vasuki, the snake used to churn the ocean, I moved around so much so that nobody would think that I stuck to near where the diamond was.” Taking a moment, he stood still. “That Nagen dancing with me for incarnation number three was a huge mistake. It should have been Padmini. But she’s busy with her parents right now.” Rosli then struck a pose to depict Varaha, the boar who raised Mother Earth from the bottom of the sea after the demon Hiranyaksha dragged Her to the bottom of it. “He was supposed to show that Bhoomidevi sat on the tip of Varaha’s tusk, like a spot on the moon.” Shaking his head, he added, “Instead, he was like a bull in a China shop. We missed our steps, almost knocking that whole pedestal with the diamond on it.” I laughed, unable to help myself. “Don’t laugh, Geeta,” Rosli scolded from the stage. “It was bad, okay? I had to do quick damage control.” “Okay. Okay. Okay.” I pushed a lock of hair behind my right ear. “What next?” “Narasimha.” For a moment, I wondered how this half-man-half-beast incarnation of Vishnu could possibly aid in Rosli’s quest. When he bent his fingers to depict talons, I got it. This was a crime that would be committed neither by using tools nor exposed human fingers. Rosli had worn gloves. The precious stone wouldn’t be snatched under the cover of darkness or when the entire store was bathed in bright light. Its removal would take place when the lights were dimmed and the focus was solely on the sinewy girls modelling various pieces of jewellery in the middle of the store. “That almost worked, but, again…” He shook his head. “Arrogance got the better of me.” “What do you mean?” “I miscalculated the number of steps to another dancer, Yogini. She is Nagen’s younger sister. I was supposed to take only seven steps. But I needed ten to reach her.” Ah! This meant the diamond was already in Rosli’s possession. “If only I could have been like that Vamana.” The fifth avatar, this clever dwarf begged a king for all the land that he could cover in three large steps. The king granted his wish. Vamana then morphed into a giant who was able to cover earth, heaven and all the space in between. “Hmmm… If the steps were not enough, then how did you do it?” Patting the side of his nose with his forefinger, Rosli said, “It’s all in the timing, Darling.” “What does that even mean?” “Remember how Parashurama wielded his axe to get rid of all those corrupt kshatriyas? Well, I also began to twirl. The more I moved around, like I was wielding an axe, the more people had to make space for me. And that got me farther away from the…err…scene of the crime.” “Okay. But this one thing I remember from all the videos online. You were not just moving around, Rosli. You stopped in front of so many people as though you were putting something in their hands.” “Yes. That’s what Rama did, isn’t it? After he killed Ravana, he distributed the demon’s ten heads to the presiding deities of the ten directions.” “Huh?” “I was making sure that as many people were distracted as possible for what I was about to do next.” “Okay.” “Like Arjuna in the Mahabharat, I let my ‘Krishna’, the eighth avatar, lead the way in the chariot.” I frowned. Feeling like a real dumb-dumb, I asked, once again, “What does that even mean?” “Well, a charioteer guides the horses, no?” “Yes.” “He guides them off the battle field, no? Taking with him all that’s in the chariot?” “Ah-so.” Even if Rosli had been caught and searched at this stage, the diamond was already in the hands of dancers who’d left the stage altogether. “Why did you continue dancing? All over, what?” “I needed to change direction. Like with Balarama. The ninth avatar, is said to have used his plough to change the course of the river Yamuna and save mankind.” “I thought the ninth avatar was Buddha.” “Aiya! It can be. But for my dance it’s Balarama, okay?” “Okay. So, how?” “Remember how Krishna danced off the stage? Well, I danced in the other direction and made sure that while my dancers left the store, all attention was on me. Then, I danced Kalki. I made the audience feel the rasa.” Hearing Rosli’s words, in my mind’s eye, I went back in time to when I was all of eight years old. My eyes were glued to the person on the stage at Stadium Dato’ Syed Omar. All our surroundings – the sound of the music, the Sultan, my parents, the very air we breathed – became secondary to the dancer twirling, head raised to the skies. Round and round he danced with an unstoppable energy from within. Arms akimbo, he welcomed the energies flowing from on high. In the language of dance, Rosli was in communion with the Divine. I exhaled. Rosli did not bother to change out of his sweat-soaked kurta. Instead, he returned to the dining table and reached for the second jug of fershly made lemonade. “I don’t understand, Rosli.” “What don’t you understand now?” “In that store, you danced to Shirley Bassey. Here, Indian dance. This doesn’t gel.” “A good dancer can dance to any tune. It can be dacning to tunes from Old Malaya to tranditional dancing. Like you. A writer.” “Huh?” “Good writers can write books, for the papers, journal articles no? Same here.” “Ah.” For a while, neither of us said anything. Then, I couldn’t help myself. “Where is it now, Rosli?” There was that smile again. He shifted in his seat. “In dance, Geeta, we may learn what a shloka means. You know exactly the meaning of all the lyrics in Dasavatar. Nothing is more wonderful, however, than when these lyrics are imagined. So, imagine. Look around you.” I did for close to a minute until I realised that Rosli’s gaze was fixed in the direction of the cement platform with a series of concentric cicles carved into it. Oooo… What was that? Hadn’t he said that he’d placed what he’d brought back from the Himalayas? Still, unprocessed rough granite didn’t posses the power of reflectivity. As the light of the setting sun hit the very centre of Rosli’s stage, light was not merely reflecting off the surface, but coming from within. It was quite simply sparkling. Turning to the dancer, whose years on earth were close to threescore and ten, I shivered. “R-o-s-l-i?” We stared at each other for some moments. I knew the question in his eyes: ‘What are you going to do now that you know the truth?’ I didn’t dare say a word. And I knew I never would in this lifetime. “I try not to be too specific about the future, Geeta.” Rubbing his chin, my idol for life added, “Destiny will look after itself. If the endurability of your spirit deserves it – whatever the tapestry of your mind conceives it to be – it’ll happen.” *** References Mohanraj, A. October 2, 2022. Thinking about dying can spur you to live a better life. The Star. Retrieved from https://www.thestar.com.my/lifestyle/health/matters-of-the-mind/2022/10/04/thinking-about-dying-can-spur-you-to-live-a-better-life ~  Aneeta Sundararaj is an award-winning short story writer whose work has been featured in a national newspaper, various journals, magazines, ezines and anthologies. Aneeta’s bestselling novel, ‘The Age of Smiling Secrets’ was shortlisted for the Book Award 2020 in Malaysia and her latest short story collection is ‘Tapestry of the Mind’ (Penguin Random House SEA, 2024). Throughout, Aneeta continued to pursue her academic interests and, in 2021, successfully completed a doctoral thesis entitled ‘Management of Prosperity Among Artistes in Malaysia’. She manages a website called ‘How to Tell a Great Story’ and occasionally tweets at @httags.
Short Fiction ~ Chandrika R Krishnan 2016 It took ten minutes. It took just ten minutes for the half a dozen young men to wreak havoc and reduce the shop to nothingness as they crossed the threshold without a backward glance. But, to the elderly couple who saw their livelihood and way of life crumble around them, it was the longest and agonizing ten minutes of their life. The story is getting a little ahead of itself. So, let me press the rewind button. Mama's (pronounced like drama) kitchen was located in the labyrinth of Sri Venkateshwara Temple Street Ulsoor, in the city of Bangalore. The narrow streets and lack of parking place proved to be no deterrent when it came to satisfying the gourmet taste buds of the discerning few or the loyal others. They came in singles and dozens to devour the fluffiest Idlis made in this part of the world. The shop had no signage to speak of nor boasted of appealing ambiance. Operating from the front room of their own house, Mama and Mami (his partner both in life and profession) did not serve anything other than Idlis and Sambar signing it off with piping hot filter coffee. A small steel container had the mulagai podi* paste to go with the idli for those who hankered for more spice. The latter was often called the gunpowder for the spicy trail it left behind in your mouth. Yet, most patrons stood around dunking the piping hot idlis into the sambar* and licking their fingers after each bite. There is nothing new about this traditional and popular breakfast in most South Indian households. Yet, a plate of hot soft fluffy Idlis with the suitable accompaniment has made stronger men weep for the sheer joy it brings forth as it tingles the palates as never before while being kind to your gut! The reason people braved the no parking zone to enjoy the quick 'take away' was not a matter of mystery considering the fluffy nature of the 'whiter than white' idlis. The aroma of sambar, a broth made from an assortment of vegetables, pulses, tamarind pulp, and spices and boiled to the right consistency, would waft down the road and overpower the odious fumes made by the passing traffic even on the main arterial road. It had the right amount of tanginess, spice, and all things nice. The couple rolled up the shutters as early as half past six in the morning to serve the early birds who had to leave for work. They served on till 1 PM. They again opened it at six in the evening till eight in the night though it was mainly to cater to the bachelors who took up accommodation in nearby areas. The couple knew no holidays. It was a way of life for this tall, swarthy man and his comfortably plump wife. The fact that this small eatery could thrive amidst the proliferation of high-end restaurants, could be attributed to his "Kai Manam' – a phrase in Tamil which can be loosely and literally translated to 'magic of his hand' in English. At 5 AM each morning, Mama soaked the de-husked black lentils and rice in separate containers. At noon, mami ground them in a grinding stone, and he beat the mixture with his hands to aerate them. The ground batter was left to ferment for the rest of the afternoon and night. They ensured that a wet gunny bag kept the batter cool during summer. Sometimes, they had to soak more in the afternoon and grind one more lot in the night, especially on the weekends and holidays. But, then this is not a story of the Idlis & sambar nor it was of the filter coffee! Moving on to the story now that you got the drift, Mama, whose given name was Srinivasan, was one of those taciturn kinds. His smile was a mere twist of his thin lips, something Mona Lisa had perfected but sans the intrigue and mystery. He hardly spoke to customers except to tell them the amount each one had to pay, and he rarely made a mistake. Most people, even if their middle name was to 'bargain,' paid without protesting primarily for two reasons- it was reasonable. Secondly, they wanted the taste to linger on and didn't want to talk lest it wafts away. His wife, Kamalam, was more talkative of the two and enjoyed conversing with all her customers. Besides helping around the house, she got the best bargain for the vegetables. Like her husband, she too was not a well-read person but unlike him, she kept abreast with the local news and spoke to her neighbours. The couple had come to Bangalore in 1960s when they both were in their early twenties. It is one of the universal truths that hardships make one grow faster. It was his mother's brother, enjoying the hospitality of the Kannada-speaking population and the clement weather of Bangalore, who insisted that he come away from a remote village near the Tanjavur district of the neighboring state of Tamil Nadu and try and make a living in this new place. Mama surpassed his uncle's expectations. His profit for the last fifty years would have been more significant if he had been a hardcore businessman. He never worried about competition, for he believed that he had his loyal clientele. Both he and his wife provided idlis, free of cost, to the youth who came to the city to earn a living. He reaped the benefits of his labor and goodness, and he was never in want of either customers or money. He and his wife were a beautiful team working hard and had twin boys, Vasu and Sriram, who were academically oriented. Like most Indian parents, they gave much importance to academics. The children, in turn, made their parents proud by working their way to the top, getting admission into top colleges, and enjoying the subsidized fees their parents could afford. Like most children of that particular generation, they flew to the United States of America for their further studies and had just completed their education and were employed in the city of New York and Connecticut. They often spoke to their mother and talked to their father through their mother! During their weekly call back home, they urged their parents to wind up the business and make their home with them. The mother promised that they would visit them over the glare directed at her by her husband, for she knew that her husband would be most uncomfortable in unfamiliar surroundings. She sighed, wondering if he would even ever visit her boys. She missed the boys. They were good children, and she looked forward to seeing them. She asked her husband every day as she rolled the mattress on the floor next to the only cot in the adjoining room, "Ēṇṇā will we be able to walk in the plane?" Another night, she would ask, "Ēṇṇā, will idlis be available there or only Pizza (which she pronounced as Pijja)?" His impatient grunt would make her look at the calendar thinking of one more day gone by without seeing her children. Despite a silent tear, she would thank goddess kamakshi for giving her this husband who did not tire of working hard and providing for his family, unlike her sister's useless husband. Somerset Maugham once wrote that though he respects and admires ordinary people, they are not the sort he could write stories about. People needed a singularity of character or involved in unusual contingencies by some accident or circumstances to be written about. Similarly, this story wouldn't have been told if not for that dark evening in September 2016. Both the states of Karnataka and Tamil Nadu had an uneasy relationship and were on constant loggerheads over the sharing of the waters from the River Cauvery. The sharing river water was always a volatile topic considering that the agricultural nation was heavily dependent on good monsoons and river waters. Politicians ensured that the parochial fervor played a pivotal role, and the tempers simmered with frequent reminders. Despite the embers, ordinary, middle-income men were too busy keeping their heads above the water to worry too much about differences in the way they spoke or the dress they wore. The cosmopolitan city of Bangalore too underwent a remarkable change as 21st century rolled in and brought forth many changes. Gone was the idea of neighbourhood and the oneness. Aloofness and non-interference were fast becoming a norm among neighbors with people becoming busier than before. Many old-timers made their new homes with their adult children in different cities or moved to apartment complexes. Hence, there were a lot of new faces and an absence of old, familiar ones. People in power depend on the gullibility of the crowd to use them as a tool for destruction. A tranquil city can turn into a violent and destructive one as riots are rarely mindless. Hence on September twelfth, 2016, when the Supreme Court passed an order in favor of the neighboring state in the quantum of Cauvery water to be released, Mama's kitchen became an unwitting target. Armed with bats and sticks, sickles and hammers; the masked youths plundered and wrecked the shop. At the end ten minutes, the white batter on the walls took the shape of horror. The soft, fluffy idlis flew across the street and were stomped. In a country where thousands went to bed hungry, this was a tragedy of monumental proportions. The utensils were thrown out, and the grinder on which the batter was ground was broken. The smell of the coffee decoction ceased being aromatic and carried the stink of destruction. The *sambar* in the utensil was upturned and flowed till it became mere splotches on the uneven, cemented floor. The shop was plundered beyond recognition, and except for the twitching curtains, none came to help the older man who cried the deep guttural cry of a man who saw his life wash down the street for no fault of his. They ignored the older woman's screams as she beat her chest and ran from the home to the road and back again. The couple who had never considered themselves an outsider discovered themselves to be one, and that too in their own country. They found themselves alone amidst many familiar humans. In the midst of the broken shop sat the dry-eyed man as his wife sobbed at his feet. The police did come a little too late. They asked the old lady questions but couldn't get any response from her as she couldn't find the right words and reverted to her mother tongue, Tamil. The crowd grew, and there were a few empty words of comfort, but nothing could take the pain away. The sun set on the old couple, and people drifted away, leaving them in the darkness of despair. The madness continued in both the states with buses torched. The number of dead and the injured became a part of the known statistics. But destruction of shops like Mama's kitchen fell between the cracks among the powers to be. The following morning, the old neighbors and friends of their sons came bringing with them humanity in the form of food. They tried to retrieve what they could from their shattered lives. Amidst it all, Mama lost his grunt too. No amount of coaxing from his scared and scarred wife could make him move away from the place that was once his shop. One of the twins flew down to be with them as soon as he could get leave from his office. He took charge of bringing some semblance of order to their home. No amount of medical intervention could help the father recover his' voice.' Though none is a stranger to hate crimes- the madness closer home brings forth a wave of anxiety, fear, distrust, and rage. Sriram made arrangements so that his parents could travel back with him. Staying longer was not an option as both sons had their own bills to pay. So, they did their best in the present circumstances- uprooted their parents from their known surroundings so they could take care of them and yet hold down their respective jobs. 2023 The line snaked around the corner leading to the gleaming food truck. The aroma of something tangy and spicy was in the air. Some among them were newer patrons, but for most standing in the line, they knew precisely the gastronomic pleasure they were in for. The road to the present wasn't all that easy. The older couple had found their displacement from their known environment painful. The weather too had been a source of tremendous discomfort. The nightmares of that September evening continued to remain fresh. Mami found it far easier to adapt but for Mama he continued being frighteningly quiet. Not one to share his pain, he withdrew into a shell, and with each anniversary of the devastation, he turned even more of a recluse. The pandemic proved to be a blessing of sorts. Their idli making enterprise started small with them helping out the community when in need. Very soon, the demands increased and one of Vasu’s friends, who never forgot the number of times he was offered 'free idlis', reached out to crowd source for their 'idli making mama.' Mama's Kitchen came into existence in the corner of Flushing Meadow Park at the start of 2021. The familiar grunt was back. Glossary: Ēṇṇā: The way of addressing husband among traditional Tamil Brahmin community without using his name as it is considered disrespectful Mama - addressing a maternal uncle. It also is an easy way of addressing an older man in South India where people are uncomfortable or hesitant to use their given name. ~  Chandrika R Krishnan, is a Bengaluru-based writer and educationist who likes all things beginning with a ‘T’ – talking, teaching, tales, and tea.
A people person and a born observer, she weaves fiction and dispenses ‘gyaan’ alike to the unsuspecting audience. Her 250 odd articles and stories (both in print and online media) are mostly eclectic and experiential. She is a published author, and her collection of flash fiction was published recently titled- vignettes- a slice of life. Her stories feature in many anthologies. You can read her articles @ https://chandrikarkrishnan.com/ You can connect with her at: https://www.facebook.com/chandrika.r.krishnan/ https://www.instagram.com/chandrikarkrishnan/ https://twitter.com/Chandrikarkris1 https://www.linkedin.com/in/chandrika-radhakrishnan-12101b1b/ Short Fiction ~ Murali Kamma Having ignored my alma mater’s reunions over the years, I wasn’t planning to attend an event to mark the residential school’s fiftieth anniversary. The prospect of revisiting our former lives, formative yet far removed from the present, held little appeal—and I felt, I’m not embarrassed to say, that meeting strangers would be easier than meeting schoolmates. Nevertheless, when my wife and I find ourselves in the native land for her niece’s wedding, and I get another invitation to what the organisers call the grandest celebration in the school’s history, I overcome my reluctance. We’re already in the country, after all. While my wife is busy and unable to accompany me, she encourages me to go, pointing out that I’d be able to attend the function and return to her niece’s hometown in time for the nuptials. From the regional airport, on the day before the school’s main event, I share a cab with a couple of other travellers for the two-hour drive on a winding road that slithers up the mountain slope like a black serpent. The journey is comfortable and fast. All the same, I miss the blue narrow-gauge train, which used to take twice as long, with its heaving engine belching plumes of black smoke that would dissipate in the canopy of mist swirling above the valley. There’s no rumble when our cab enters a tunnel, but the views from numerous other spots, except when obscured by ugly high-rise buildings, are still gorgeous—and the heady scent of eucalyptus and pine trees is still the same, bringing back an avalanche of memories. The town, when we arrive, is more congested than I remember, with haphazard growth that has made it less attractive. That doesn’t dampen my spirits. Finding the cold mountain air bracing, I’m ready to explore old haunts after checking in at the elegantly built, if faded, landmark hotel I chose for my stay. What I forget—as I walk through the clubby lobby—is that other old-timers also remember this place. The dim interior, with antique furniture and a gaudy orange carpet that has seen better days, doesn’t seem to have dissuaded some attendees, though more comfortable and up-to-date hotels have sprung up in recent years. “Hello . . . Beet? Glad to see that you made it!” I freeze, just a few feet from the check-in desk. Hearing that nickname has startled me, but when I turn around and see the greeter’s face, I’m relieved. I was thinking of another student—Pump—who had used my nickname regularly. Is he here as well? The food at our school had been far from memorable, and we were especially turned off by the bland, overcooked vegetables they served every day. Once, while complaining about a soggy spinach dish, we took turns to name a vegetable that should be permanently banned from the dining hall. I picked beetroot, and promptly became Beet Root. Cauli Flower and Pump Kin, along with a few other nicknames, were also adopted. To protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned here, I won’t use their real names. “Wow . . . hello!” I say, shaking his outstretched hand. “Mr. Flower, I presume?” “Of course!” he says, laughing. “Call me Cauli, and I won’t call you Mr. Root.” “It’s been so long. I guess we haven’t forgotten our nicknames.” He appears different now—his thick dark hair has turned into a scraggly grey patch, like a long-neglected lawn, and he’s much heavier. But his animated manner, punctuated by smiles and frequent hand gestures, hasn’t changed. “Why would we forget? Let’s catch up, Beet. A lot to talk about. I’m heading to the coffee shop next door. Why don’t you come?” “Well, I have to check in, you know, and put my bag in the room.” “Of course. What I mean is, why don’t you join us when you’re ready?” “Us?” Looking around the lobby, I say, “Is there somebody with you?” “No, Beet, not here. Pump is in the coffee shop. Next door. We’ll chat for a bit before he goes to his cousin’s house. He’s staying there tonight. He texted me a short while ago.” I’m at a loss for words. Recovering quickly, I say, “Cauli, I have to call my wife after I check in. Perhaps we can meet later this evening if you’re free?” A moment of silence. “Of course, Beet. I’ll be back in about thirty minutes. We can talk then. Room number 42. Are you going to Shangri-La for dinner? A bunch of folks—” “Absolutely!” I grinned. “Can’t miss it . . . I have such wonderful memories. Isn’t it great that the restaurant is still in business? Not surprising, I guess.” “Sounds good,” Cauli says. “Seven-ish? We can have a drink before heading out.” Just before seven, I walk over to Cauli’s room on the same floor and knock on the door. Opening it promptly, he says, “All right . . . see you shortly. Bye.” He’s on the phone. Hanging up, he greets me and says, “That was Pump. He’s coming to Shangri-La.” “Oh!” I’m nonplussed. “With us?” “Yes. He’ll text me from downstairs. Are you okay with that?” “I guess. I’ll be meeting him at some point. I didn’t come here to hide from anybody.” “Of course,” he says, putting his phone down on the desk before picking up a tall bottle of chilled beer. “So much time has passed. I could barely recognize him. Please take the chair. I’ll sit on the bed.” The condensation on the bottle glistens when Cauli pops it open to pour the sparkling amber liquid into two glasses on the same tray. He must have called room service. NAP Day, as it was unofficially known, stood for No Adults Present Day. But our parents, if they had paid attention to the school’s calendar, would have seen it listed as Sports Day, the official name. It was a small, quirky boarding school back then, proud to be seen as innovative, and its unconventional founders and staff members—though hardly hippies, as some seemed to think—did things that would be less acceptable in our more cautious era of standardised schooling. NAP Day was one such initiative. Given the absence of adults, napping wasn’t on anybody’s mind, making the name a misnomer. But that was also its appeal, I’m sure. What we students mostly did was play sports without adult supervision. That morning, after the teachers and support staff left for a day trip, the graduating class—seniors—took charge of the school’s activities. Besides outdoor sports, which took up the entire morning, we played indoor games later in the day, though that was preceded by some quiet time in our classrooms in the afternoon for reading or creative pursuits like drawing, crafts, and writing. The seniors gave orders, and we obeyed. At lunch time, they picked some of the younger students for cleaning up, but only the seniors served the food. There was no cooking. Our meals were mostly sandwiches and wraps that had already been prepared or purchased. Everything—including drinks, fruit, dessert, and cutlery—was handed out before we went with our trays to the assigned dining table. The absence of adults didn’t lead to a meltdown, as might have been expected. In any case, we were on our own for no more than ten hours. Once the adults returned, just after sundown, they took over and things were back to normal—or as normal as they could be. But, yes, there was enough time for some things to go wrong. While there was no breakdown that year, we did have an incident, raising questions about NAP Day. The following year, when a handful of teachers stayed behind to supervise us, we just called it Sports Day. On that last NAP Day, after lunch, nobody in our class seemed interested in creative activities. Instead of writing or drawing or even reading, most of us were chatting, emboldened by the absence of a senior to keep an eye on things. Somebody had dropped the ball, leaving us unsupervised, at least for the time being. We resorted to our usual clownish behaviour—flying paper planes, catapulting pellets with rubber bands, etc.—although we made sure it didn’t get too raucous. The abrupt appearance of a patrolling senior couldn’t be ruled out. It was Pump who first noticed the sealed cardboard box, which lay on a chair that had been pushed under the teacher’s desk. With a whoop, he picked up the box and, using a letter opener like a dagger, repeatedly stabbed the packing tape. The chortling over Pump’s antics stopped when he opened the box. Tall and imposing, Pump, a ferocious batter on the cricket field, had numerous admirers—but he inspired fear as well. While he could be charming, he had a mean streak that surfaced unexpectedly. “Wow, we have some cool stuff here!” he said. “They seem to be for a play.” There was a flurry of excitement as Pump, with a flourish, pulled out a shimmery red dress, a tube of glossy lipstick, a silken black wig, a beige sports coat, a matching clip-on tie, a pair of glasses, two laminated menus, and a sign that read “The Dinner Club.” That was the title of our play, not to mention the name of the restaurant featured in it. Only the cast members, which included me and another boy in our class, knew that the drama teacher had ordered these costumes and props. Until now, we’d been memorising our lines and rehearsing in regular clothes, but as the school’s preparations for Founder’s Day celebrations picked up speed, that was going to change. Why was the box here? Probably because our drama teacher, who was obviously not in the building now, had her office on the same floor. Since it was locked, the delivery person had apparently decided to leave it in our classroom. “Hey, Pump, why did you open it?” Cauli said. “We could get into trouble.” “What’s the big deal? Aren’t you in this play, by the way? I’m sure at least one thespian from our class has a role—” “No, not me. Beet has a role . . . don’t you?” “Yes,” I said tersely, even as I silently cursed him for outing me. I wanted to be no part of whatever Pump had in mind for his afternoon entertainment. “Who else?” Pump asked, his voice tinged with impatience as he stood near the teacher’s desk and looked at the boys gazing back at him. Nervous about revealing the other cast member’s identity, I remained silent. Here, parenthetically, I should note that our school back then wasn’t co-educational, which meant that, often, boys who hadn’t hit puberty played the female roles in our theatrical productions, whether they were contemporary dramas or adaptations of classics. The school has girls now, although the majority of students are still boys. It didn’t take long for Pump to discover that A—as I’ll call him—was also in the play. Gentle and rather shy, the slightly built A, who didn’t talk a lot, was smart—and he shone in the arts, particularly on the stage, where he used his large dark eyes very expressively. In the play, A and I had to enter The Dinner Club as a married couple, but it didn’t take long for the audience to catch on that we were impersonating another couple. So it wasn’t just the actors who were pretending; the characters were also pretending to be a married couple. Anyway, the plot is irrelevant at this point. Suffice it to say, while the red dress, wig, and lipstick were for A, the sports coat, clip-on tie, and spectacles were for me. A padded bra—which our drama teacher sometimes included for female characters—wasn’t in the box. Luckily. “Come on, wear your costumes . . . let’s have some fun,” Pump said, his eyes glinting as he summoned us to the front of the classroom. A and I protested, but to no avail. Pump and a few other boys, getting a little boisterous, persuaded us to dress for our roles. We reluctantly donned the costumes. “Wow, what an amazing transformation!” Pump said, gasping, as a glum-faced A adjusted his wig. “Lovely hair. And look at that skirt . . . so short! Don’t forget the lipstick.” He giggled deliriously. “No, no,” A said tearfully, and fearfully, stepping back. “I don’t want to do this—” “Come on, come on . . . nothing wrong with it,” Pump said. “You can’t stop now. Beet also looks smashing in his coat and tie. And look at those glasses! Priceless.” Blinking, I adjusted my spectacles as the class, fascinated by this spectacle, watched silently, as if we were staging an improvised play for them. “You’re a married couple, aren’t you?” somebody said. “No, we only pretend to be married,” I said morosely, though I wasn’t supposed to reveal anything about the play. A, dismayed or frightened, stared at the wall without speaking. His cheeks were reddish, as if he’d dabbed them with his tube of lipstick. Giggling broke out, and another boy asked, “So what do you say to each other?” “Never mind that,” Pump said brusquely. “We can wait for the performance on Founder’s Day. Do you kiss?” “No, of course, not!” I said, flushing. Laughter. “Well, you can do it now,” Pump said, smirking. “A bonus . . . an extra scene that only we get to see. Be a sport. Don’t be scared . . . you won’t get bitten.” More grating laughter, as if I was being mocked. Even after all these years—or especially after all these years—I can’t say what came over me that day. Turning towards A, almost like a zombie, I put my hands on his back and, pulling him closer, kissed him. Although it was fleeting, I could taste the lipstick and a pleasant sensation coursed through my body. Struck by the warmth and softness of his lips, I shivered. A furious sob, sounding more like a shriek, sliced through the air, ending the cheers that broke out. “Stop it,” A cried, pushing me away. “What are you doing? You are crazy!” I stumbled backwards. Steadying myself, I watched A turn around and, without another word, run out of the classroom. Unimpeded by what he was wearing, A was agile—and I wondered where he was heading. A senior walking outside, or sitting near a window, was bound to see him. Mortified and paralysed, I struggled to say something. Nobody spoke. Pump had a strange look in his eyes, as if he was trying to understand something or someone. Himself, perhaps? “Where did he go . . . dressed like that?” Cauli said, breaking the silence. “What if a senior sees him? We’ll be in trouble.” “No worries,” Pump said calmly. “They seem to be goofing off. I’ll find him. He’s just upset. I’m sure he went to the dorm. Nobody leave . . . and don’t say anything about this if a senior shows up. I’ll be back.” Some seniors, as we later learned, had indeed taken it easy after lunch and neglected their duties. After Pump left and somebody shut the door, the subdued students took out their books or drawing materials. I’m sure everybody was thinking about what just happened. My head spun in confusion as I put the items for the play back in the box. How long was Pump away? I lost track of time, even as the text of a book I was trying to read didn’t make sense. When Pump returned, looking dazed and a little dishevelled, the students looked up expectantly. My heart sank when I didn’t see A with him. Pump, sounding sombre, announced that A was, unfortunately, missing. He was breathing heavily. “Missing? What happened?” “Did you not see him in the dorm?” “What! You didn’t see him at all?” The shouted questions and commotion stopped when a senior, appearing suddenly, demanded, “What’s going on?” “I didn’t do anything,” Pump blubbered, astonishing us. A had removed his costume and was packing a small bag in the dorm, Pump said, when he confronted him. “I only asked him to return to the classroom. But he got angry. Pushed me and ran away.” When the teachers returned and A still couldn’t be found, there was concern but nobody seemed unduly alarmed at first. The principal quickly assembled a group of adults to fan out and look for him in the area surrounding the school. They had no luck, even after two hours of searching, and it became clear that the police would have to be involved. What happened next seemed unbelievable. The phone rang before the principal could make the call. It was A’s father. Now I should mention that we didn’t see or talk to A again. I have no idea if the phone rang just as the principal was about to contact the police. I didn’t witness it, so I can only share what we heard. A’s father was calling because A had made a collect call from the railway station to tell him that he’d bought a ticket and was boarding the train for the overnight journey to his hometown. He didn’t explain why he’d left the school. After walking to the bus station, which wasn’t far from our campus, he’d boarded a bus bound for a city in the plains, where he got off at the train station. He had enough money for a rail ticket in an unreserved compartment. It was no secret that boys at our boarding school were bullied. I was bullied—and sometimes, I’m not proud to admit, I became a bully. But there was also a darker secret, which didn’t come out until years later. Some boys had been sexually harassed. Pump and I were questioned by the principal and a couple of teachers. Insisting that he’d done nothing improper in the dorm, Pump said there had been a scuffle when A refused to return to the classroom. Had A been assaulted in the dorm that day? We don’t know, for A refused to talk about what happened or respond to the principal’s queries. A didn’t return to our school, and his father didn’t ask questions. Neither Pump nor I faced major repercussions, and I suspect it was because the principal, relieved that A’s parents didn’t demand an investigation, was glad to keep things quiet. Notwithstanding our school’s idiosyncratic bent, the administration was keen to prevent even a whiff of a scandal. The only punishment, if you could call it that, involved working in the community garden. I didn’t mind, and even liked the job, although I missed the weekend outings with my friends, who got to spend their pocket money on movies, shopping, and treats. Cauli’s phone pings, and even before he looks up to tell me, I know that Pump is waiting for us downstairs. “I’m ready,” I say, bracing myself. Putting my glass down, I stand up and ask if I can use his bathroom before we leave. When I’m done, Cauli, who’s standing by the door with the room key in his hand, looks at me curiously. “Are you okay, Beet?” he says. “You look a little tense.” I smile grimly. “Well, I’m wondering how Pump would react to my news that A will be at the event tomorrow.” “What!” Cauli looks shocked. “Are you serious? Where did you hear this? I don’t know anybody who’s been in touch with A.” “No, he’s not coming . . . as far as I know,” I say. “I’d be amazed if he did. But you know what will be most noticeable for me tomorrow? A’s absence.” Closing the partially open door, Cauli says, “I want to tell you something before we leave. Just between us. Pump is going through some challenges. I heard that his wife left him.” Before I can respond, he adds, “Did you know that he went to A’s house?” “Wow! Sounds unbelievable. When did he go? What happened?” “From what I know, he went during the break after A left the school. To apologise, I believe, and ask him to return the next term. A’s father answered the door, and when he found out who Pump was, he asked him to leave immediately—and threatened to call the police.” Bold . . . and bizarre. Is this a true story? I don’t bother to ask Cauli where he heard it, knowing that Pump was capable of doing something like this. I have my own little story, which I don’t share with Cauli, even though it’s much less dramatic. During the same break, I wrote a letter in which I asked A to forgive me for my stupidity and bad behaviour. I never heard back from him. ~  Murali Kamma is the author of Not Native: Short Stories of Immigrant Life in an In-Between World (Wising Up Press), which won an Independent Publisher Book Award. His fiction has appeared in Havik, Evening Street Review, Rosebud, BigCityLit, Maryland Literary Review, Indicia Lit, The Apple Valley Review, and other journals. One of his stories won second place in the Strands Flash Fiction Competition. He's the managing editor of Atlanta-based Khabar magazine, and a contributor to New York Journal of Books. His stories have also appeared in The Best Asian Short Stories, and The Wise Owl and Wising Up Press anthologies.
Short Fiction ~ Jackie Bayless When Molly was younger, she spent a few weeks each summer with her grandmother. Her grandmother worked as secretary at a publishing company. When she came home at five o’clock, the first thing she did was to take off her girdle and stockings and put on her housecoat. A housecoat was more than a bathrobe—it had more style and was constructed of nicer fabrics. You could answer the door in a housecoat, but not in a bathrobe. Her grandmother’s housecoat was a royal blue velvet with rhinestone buttons. She put it on over her slip and made herself a restorative martini while she made their dinner. “Gramma, you look like a queen,” Molly said, “Can I try it on please?” “Of course,” said her grandmother, draping the housecoat around Molly’s skinny shoulders. Molly was small for her age and worried about it as she was approaching an age where her friends were growing breasts and having their periods. *** When Molly turned fourteen, her grandmother mailed her a box filled with promise. “Molly, a package came for you,” said her mother. Molly carefully lifted the tissue paper away from her gift. It was a beautiful, velvet housecoat in a soft peach with rhinestone buttons. “What the heck is that,” asked her younger brother. He was ten and a total pain in the neck. “It’s a housecoat,” she breathed. “Just like Gramma’s.” “Don’t you think you’re a little young for a housecoat,” said her father. “Hush, Bob, it’s beautiful. Why don’t you put it on Molly?” *** When Molly was fifteen, she finally got her period and started to develop. She was no longer afraid to undress for gym class. She went to Lerner’s and bought a red lacy bra and petti-pants, kind of like a slip but with legs. This was the same year her braces finally came off. She was in the tenth grade and boys, more than one, were starting to pursue her. “Mom, I don’t know what to do,” she told her mother. “Drew really likes me, but I really like Joe and Joe’s best friend Mike asked me to go to a concert with him.” Her mother looked at her as if she was crazy. “Really Molly, you’re too young for this nonsense. Just study hard and be sweet,” she said. *** Saturday morning is a bright late spring day filled with promise. Molly, now a senior in high school, takes the bus to Marlow Heights, a new shopping center recently built in this rural, becoming suburban, community. She just wants to walk from store to store, gloriously independent. She is feeling hyper aware of herself as a pretty young woman on the edge of something wonderful. She is tan and wearing a sleeveless, flowered shirtdress that curves in at the waist. Walking by Britches, a men’s shop, she recognizes Larry, a classmate, through the window. He beckons her in. Larry is cute, in a kind of squashed nose way, and popular, but not her type. He is just a friend, but fun to flirt with. Larry is folding shirts. “Molly, hey, looking good, girl. What’cha doing here?” he asks. “Just shopping, free from babysitting my bratty brother for the day. I might take myself out to for a hot fudge ice cream cake at Howard Johnson’s,” she says. She pushes her long dark brown hair back over her shoulders and smiles at Larry. Larry smiles back and gives her a kind of hug. “What are you doing this summer?” “Working at the library, returning books to the stacks, and I get to do the story hour for the four-year olds, and I’m finally going to earn some money,” she says. “Oh,” Molly turns around as she feels someone grab her waist. “Hey Jim,” Larry said, “This is Molly, we go to school together. Molly, this is Jim. He’s an old married man.” Molly gives Jim a flashing smile and says hello, backing away from his touch. He is a good looking man, old, maybe in his mid-twenties. He stares at her. It makes her feel excited and anxious. “Well, nice to meet you, see you at school, Lar. I’m out like a light.” *** Molly has a boyfriend. He is a year older than she is. He goes to community college and has a job. They are going to the movies tonight. She wonders if she and her boyfriend will go parking afterwards. He works on a new construction project and he had taken her the previous week to sit in the darkened driveway of one of the houses under construction. The first time she and Fred did this it felt a little scary. “It’s fine,” Fred says. “We’ll just sit in the driveway at the back of the neighborhood. No one will see us with the lights off.” Fred, long and lanky in a flannel shirt, reaches into a cooler, offering her a beer. The crack of the pop top, the music on the radio, Hot Town, Summer in the City, makes her feel hyperaware again. Something wonderful is happening, she thinks, she loves being older. Fred pulls her close and kisses her, his mouth hot and moist. She doesn’t stop him when he unbuttons her blouse and slips her breast out of her bra. She trembles with excitement but stops him when he tries to take her blouse completely off. “No, I’m afraid, someone might see us. Let’s talk,” she says. Fred laughs. “Ok, let’s talk.” He pops open another beer. It is a beautiful balmy night with a lovely cool breeze coming through the window of his 442 Oldsmobile. Molly is torn when Fred stops. She feels as if she is melting. This is a new sensation, but she is glad Fred doesn’t push it. She feels responsible or, at least, he is. *** Molly is alone, loving having the house all to herself. Her parents and younger brother have gone to Howard Johnson’s Friday Fish Fry Night. She showers and puts on her beloved peach velvet housecoat. It has a mandarin collar and three-quarter sleeves. The color is perfect against her long dark hair. She is thinking of what to wear to the movies. There is a knock at the front door. Molly frowns, wonders who it could be. There is an unfamiliar car parked in front of the house. She opens the door cautiously. “Hi beautiful,” says Jim. “Larry told me where you lived and I am just a few miles away. I thought I’d stop by. I hope it’s okay. “Jim, uh,” she stumbles from polite to a little frightened. “You mean you and your wife live in this neighborhood? This is not a good time. I’m leaving soon.” She keeps the door at an angle, peering across the street. What if the neighbors see this strange man here? “Molly, Molly, right?” he says. “I thought you were so pretty the other day in the store and I kind of thought you liked me a little, too.” “I don’t even know you. I’m in high school and you have a wife and a baby,” Molly backs away a bit as Jim opens the screen door and pushes the front door open. “Hey, you can’t come in,” Molly stammers. “I’m leaving soon. My boyfriend is coming to get me. She moves away until her back is against the back of the sofa. Jim reaches out and touches her cheek. “Stop, please. You have to leave right now.” Jim moves his hand to the front of her velvet housecoat, stroking the fabric where it covers her right breast. She gasps. He unbuttons the top two buttons. Molly turns and flees into the kitchen. Jim follows, pinning her against the refrigerator where her head bumps into her mother’s to do lists. He grabs both her breasts, squeezing until it hurts as she tries to spin away from him. There is a knock at the front door, followed by a call from Fred. “Molly, I’m here. Where are you?” Jim grins at her nastily, giving her breast a final tweak, and slips out the back door. Molly calls out to Fred, saying she is not quite ready and he should sit down on the couch. “I’ll be right out,” she calls, as if nothing at all happened. She takes off her peach housecoat and tosses it crumpled into the corner. She quickly dresses in jeans and a loose sweatshirt. She stares at herself in the mirror. Why did this happen? Was it her fault? Why would a grown man do such a thing? *** Fred and Molly go to the movies and then park in the darkened construction site. She has more than one beer this time. She allows Fred to take off her bra. She never tells anyone, ever, what happened with Jim. ~  Jackie Bayless is a writer living in Laguna Niguel, CA. She has written newspaper and magazine articles for publications ranging from the Washington Post to the Laguna Beach Independent. Her short story, “The Red Suit,” was published in The Wall, a literary publication of Saddleback College, her story “Mirage,” was published on Strands Lit Sphere, “John Watson,” and “Inn” on Down in the Dirt, and “Jean” in Computer Lit. Two stories inspired by art at the Laguna Beach Festival of the Arts were published in two chapbooks, Art Inscribed.
Poetry ~ Mohammad Zahid 1. Transpiration The plant remembers. Every drop of water poured to nurture it, the touch that butterflies make, the caress of morning breeze, the solace of warm evenings, the adornment of the shimmering heavenly delights of the moon and the twinkling stars. The water seeps into the soil nourishing every vein making the plant grow, sprout buds and unfold leaves. The plant grows yet another organ to tell its stories, embroidering stomata in every unrolling leaf. Eye shaped to replicate something else. And in silence they tell the tales, drawing in a mixed medium of a floral extract dabbed with the silent outpouring of the stomata. No one hears, for it is a muffled flow, somehow aligned with the cycle of the universe itself, subtle, slow, silent. While the science steps serendipitously terms it transpiration, the plant looks on with its fogged stomata, for the loss of words. The plant remembers. ~ 2. Frozen Tears A cold whiff of winter air brushes across the face just brightened by some inner joy, unknown to even those who seem close. The last Ivy leaves left midway by the quick retreating autumn, having turned rust-red, haven’t given up, for heart-shaped they are. The overnight frost glistens in their veiny surface limned by the tiny needle-shaped crystals of ice. Sometime later during the day, the winter sun with all its might tries to thaw whatever it can. The ivy leaflets listen to the sun and create a tear drop. The winter breeze gives them a shiver and the tear drop is shed. The tear of joy however gets frozen on the eyelashes, for it wants to be there, forever. ~ 3. Ending a Poem A poem does not end at a full stop nor does it pause at a comma, it doesn’t raise eyebrows at a question mark or vanish at an exclamatory mark. A poem isn’t caged in a guillemet or imprisoned in parentheses A poem may end in a sob, a shriek, a distant cry or a whimper. Some poems slowly disappear in a tear-drop leaving behind faint traces of saline crusts. Does a poem ever end in a smile? ~  Mohammad Zahid is an award winning poet and translator from Kashmir, India. His poetry has appeared in many Indian and international journals. He is a translation editor for Kashmiri at Muse India and Lakeview International Journal of Literature and Arts. His translations of some major works of Kashmiri Literature were published by the Academy of Art, Culture & Langauges, Jammu & Kashmir, and Sahitya Akademi New Delhi India. His latest poetry collection titled Graffiti of Dreams is published by The Writers Workshop Kolkatta, India. Apart from his poetic meanderings, he also talks to his surroundings through his camera lenses, capturing his perception of life and nature in pixels. He is a banker by profession. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohammad_Zahid_(poet) Short Fiction ~ June O' Sullivan First Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19 The day that George became real was a murky Thursday in November. The streets were full of flipped umbrellas and sodden leaves clinging to the ankles of soaked shoppers. Terry had been looking for George for about six months. Since the day after his mother’s funeral when Valerie called by the house. A favourite niece of his mother’s, Terry presumed she wanted to lay claim to some keepsake. Instead she made strong tea and held his hand as she unravelled the story that had been a secret knot inside of her. The details were slim but the tragedy shone through the gaps. A fling, a boy, a void, a silence. A long, deep, suffocating silence. He had arranged to meet George in Bewley’s Cafe. Long past its former glory the place appealed to Terry for its nostalgia. He used to come here with his mother every Friday after school. He could feel the neck scratch of his school jumper and taste the almond sweetness of the cherry bakewell as he sat waiting. He thought it was neat, poetic almost, to meet George in a place where the ghost of their shared mother lingered so strongly in Terry's mind. Terry was sure he would know George the moment he saw him. So he was surprised when a tall gentleman in a beige mackintosh cleared his throat loudly behind him and spoke one word "Terry". It was a declaration, not a question. Time stood still for Terry as his mind raced to catch up with the situation. He had lived through it in his imagination so many times in recent weeks that he was now thrown by how different the reality was. No heartfelt hugs, no tears, no mutual recognition. It felt all wrong. He may as well have been meeting his accountant. George peered down at the rotund, balding man who had declared himself his brother. He had resisted all temptation to search for Terry’s picture online once he had got in touch. Just as he had resisted the temptation all his life to search for the family that had chosen to give him up. He was given up, like a bad habit. When people asked about his family he always spoke about his own children. They were grown and gone from him now. His daughter complained to him that he was an absent father. Maybe there was truth in that but he preferred to let them go their own way and not bother them; the odd call now and again and maybe a gift cheque at Christmas. George had done well for himself. He liked to tell people that he was a self-made man. He had earned his success with blood, sweat, tears and the calluses on his hands. His attire now belied little of the hod-carrier who evolved into the owner of one of the largest construction companies in England. There had been the occasional drunk-fuelled longing to find his roots, unearth his people, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to go back to where he wasn’t wanted. When Terry made contact his first impulse had been to slam the phone down. But then he thought, "Why not? Why not meet this half-brother of mine and let him see what I’ve made of my life.” So here he was. Terry. The brother who had been given everything. George scraped back the chair, sat and leaned across to shake Terry’s hand. “Nice to meet you Terry. Can I get you anything?” He gestured at the teapot. Terry shook his head. “This is unbelievable. Isn’t this unbelievable George? The two of us here together. If our mother could see us!” George smiled. “So Terry, what can I do for you?” “Do for me?” “Well, maybe you need some money? The funeral expenses were covered by you I presume.” George produced a well-thumbed cheque book from the pocket of his mackintosh. Terry stared at it. “This isn’t about money George. This is about us. Two brothers. “ “Half-brothers.” “Well ok, if you want to split hairs. But brothers nonetheless.” “Depends on your take on things ,Terry, my good man. I’m not the sentimental type. We are half-brothers true but really when you get down to the nitty gritty we are merely a collection of the same genetic material. No more. We are two sides of a coin. Our mother flipped that coin and we ended up with very different lives.” “But our mother....” “Our mother - Eileen - chose to give me away Terry. That’s grand. I’ve made do with the hand that was dealt me. I’ve made do very well in fact.” “She was a good woman.” “That may be. I don’t see the point in raking over old ground. I only agreed to meet you because I had business in Dublin. Are you sure now about the cheque?” Terry nodded. His gaze rested on the table-top and stayed, even when he heard the scrape of George’s chair on the tiles. “I’ll head off so. I’ve a few things to take care of. Nice meeting you.” Terry lifted his head in time to see the steely grey head disappearing under an expansive golf umbrella and out onto the rain-splattered cobblestones of Grafton St. He pulled from his pocket an old black and white photograph of his mother that he had brought along to show George. She was standing with her left hand on Terry’s head, squinting into the camera. Her right hand hovered over an empty space where there was nothing. George’s heart pounded in time to his footsteps. He was relieved. It was over. All those years of struggle finally come to fruition. He stopped at the edge of the footpath looking left and right for the oncoming LUAS. Then he stepped into its path. ~  June O’Sullivan lives on an island in Co. Kerry, Ireland. Her writing has appeared in the Leicester Writes Short Story Anthology 2022, The Ogham Stone Journal, The York Literary Review, Seaside Gothic, The Storms Journal, The Waxed Lemon, Sonder and online as part of the National Flash Flood Day. She is a student of the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Limerick. |
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