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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Short Fiction ~ Steve Wade Second Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19 To combat prospective attacks on the family pub, Tim McGuire, the forty-eight-year-old proprietor had extra strong bolts fitted to the inside of the doors and windows. These bolts he would methodically shut and lock before the last patron left for home each evening. The first frosty days of December and the approach of Christmas brought with them the usual sense of trepidation. As the days ticked by towards December 21st– the shortest day and longest night of the year - the time when the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest - Tim McGuire felt his family’s uneasiness. Whenever he spoke to Maeve, his wife, she considered him through petrified eyes. And, at his touch, she flinched. His three children, two girls and a boy, obeyed his orders as they always did. But the way they hung their heads and kept their eyes from his undermined his paternal authority. His elderly parents likewise altered their behaviour towards him. His father, who had, when no longer able-bodied enough to run the inn and guesthouse, given McGuire the right of ownership to the premises, fidgeted when his son drew near. The old man wiped his palms down his waistcoat, or made this open-mouthed clenched-teeth expression, as though he were suffering indigestion. While McGuire’s old mother, unable to hide her fear, dropped her eyes to the ground and clutched her heart whenever he looked her way. But it was McGuire’s brother, Frankie, who disturbed him worse than any of them. His brother’s face was the face of a man who had felt before the pitiless eyes of Death fall upon him. To cope with such unjust alienation from his family, McGuire did what he had done these past seven years – he busied himself with putting up the Christmas decorations. And then there was the Christmas tree. Each year McGuire left the cutting down of the tree till December 22nd. Traditionally, all the family, including the grandparents, got themselves to the city and the markets for those special extras they needed for the Christmas dinner. On the morning of the 22nd, McGuire remained in bed, awake, listening to Frankie and their father harnessing the two Clydesdales and hitching them up to the carriage. Unseen on the other side of the house, he could picture his father under the bony moonlight holding the animals steady by the bridles, while Frankie pulled the carriage forward by the shafts. Not until he heard the forced gaiety of his family boarding the carriage, followed by the clomp-clomp of the horses’ hooves and the carriage wheels rolling down the dirt track and out onto the road did McGuire get himself up and into the day. He left the house and stepped into the courtyard and across the cobblestones and to the outhouses. There he dug out the whetstone from under some old bridles and bits in the barn. He first soaked the whetstone in kerosene. He then wrapped it in a towel, put it in the old brick oven and baked it at a steady heat of 250 degrees. When the oven had done its job, he removed the stone, unwrapped the towel and brought it into the courtyard to cool off. Still not yet daybreak, the light of the moon was ample. And from the ink-black sky there shone another light. Although a cold, sharp morning, the glow that came from the star of Bethlehem infused McGuire’s heart with warmth. He set about sharpening the axe-head. Holding the head at a 23-degree angle, he drew one side of the blade away from him and over the stone’s surface. He did the same with the other side. While admiring his work by holding the axe before him, a flickering flame burning in the small window of the loft caught McGuire’s attention: Frankie’s room. His brother had left a lamp burning. Cursing aloud his brother’s stupidity, but with the satisfying heft of the axe resting on his shoulder, he made his way across the yard and into the house. Voices. He thought he had heard voices. Like a cat, he worked his way stealthily into a darkened corner of the living room. From there he watched the panicked and unmistakable shadows of his brother and his wife jump about in the flickering light thrown from the lamp in the window. So, the two had remained behind. Something, a force outside his control, gripped him. Fully aware of his actions and even of their terrible consequences, he rushed to the kitchen. There he picked up the half-full bottle of kerosene, dashed back to the living room and let fly from his hand the green bottle up into the open loft. Despite their screamed and agonised pleas to help them, the two succumbed quickly to the killing flames. Next McGuire sat down and awaited the return of his family. Eventually midnight chimed on the old clock. And with its chimes appeared a ghostly figure, a woman’s. And all about her there materialised others: men, women and children, their faces filled with fascination and fear. McGuire clenched hard his teeth and pressed his palms against his temples, a vain attempt to lessen the thrumming in his ears. He had heard the woman speak the same words six times before. But was compelled to listen to her always. “Having cold-bloodedly burned his wife and brother to death in this very house on this very date, almost one hundred years ago,” the woman said in this cheery voice, paused and smiled. “Tim McGuire waited all day for his family to return from their Christmas shopping. They returned just after midnight. Tim McGuire put to use the axe he had earlier in the day sharpened to chop down the tree for the Christmas festivities.” McGuire watched the horrified faces of the strangely dressed people gasp. The woman smiled before concluding her story. “None of McGuire’s family rejoiced that lovely Christmas morning. Nor did they ever again celebrate another Christmas.” ~ Steve Wade is the author of the short story collection, In Fields of Butterfly Flames and Other Stories. His short fiction has won many prizes, been widely published and anthologised. He has had stories shortlisted for the Francis McManus Short Story Competition and for the Hennessy Award. His stories have appeared in over sixty print publications. Short Fiction ~ Kevin Cheeseman Third Prize, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19 ‘Have you taken your medicine today?’ Benny Adler smiled – not at hearing Mitzi utter her famous catchphrase, but at the wild reaction of the television studio audience. They didn’t care how familiar the line was; on the contrary, it was what they’d come to hear. They were whooping and whistling so much that the actors had to wait for quiet before continuing. Benny tried to remember how long ago the episode had been filmed. Thirty or forty years, maybe? Watching it now, in his room in a downmarket care home, he reflected on the craft that went into eliciting that reaction. It wasn’t the line itself that was funny – he should know, he wrote it – it was all in the build-up and in Mitzi’s delivery. The build-up was always the same. Harold – Mitzi’s husband in the show – would work himself up into a state of agitation about something or other until finally erupting in fury. They had rules, though. When Harold had his tantrum, he never touched or even stood close to Mitzi, and he never broke or threw anything. The slightest intimation of violence and his behaviour would cross the line from funny to disturbing. Mitzi’s reaction was a comedy masterclass. The look of reproach. The precisely timed pause. Then the perfect delivery of the line that pops Harold’s balloon. ‘Have you taken your medicine today?’ Cue audience explosion. Watching the actors wait for calm, Benny focused on the actor playing Harold – Jeff something. No – Jack. Unlike the others in the scene, Jack wasn’t struggling to keep a straight face. He probably wasn’t amused. ‘How come you give Mitzi all the best lines?’ he used to say. ‘Why don’t you write some zingers for Harold? I can deliver a line as well as she can.’ Benny had tried telling Jack they were his laughs as much as Mitzi’s. That Mitzi’s catchphrase would be meaningless without all his work in the build-up. Eventually, Benny had tired of playing nice and reminded Jack who the star of the show was. ‘Check the front page of your script, Jack. The show is called “Mitzi and Co.” Now get over it.’ That had told Jack. Or Jeff, or whatever his damned name was. A knock on the door interrupted Benny’s reminiscences, and Ashley, one of the carers, walked in. Something about Ashley appealed to Benny, and it wasn’t just that she was half his age and wore a crisp blue uniform. ‘Morning, Benny. How are you today?’ Ashley rubbed sanitising gel into her hands, and her eyes darted around the room. Benny found it slightly intimidating that Ashley could appraise his physical and mental health from a five-second scan of him and his surroundings. He wondered what involuntary signals he was sending and if he would pass muster. ‘Have you had any breakfast, Benny?’ ‘Yes. I think so.’ Benny thought he’d had yoghurt and fresh fruit, but maybe that was yesterday. Besides, wasn’t it Ashley’s job to know? ‘I don’t see a bowl or anything,’ Ashley said. ‘I’ll check – make sure they didn’t miss you out. Don’t want you wasting away, do we?’ Ashley made to leave, but the TV caught her attention. ‘She’s great, isn’t she? What’s her name again?’ ‘Mitzi Lang.’ She was officially Mitzi Adler at that time, but Benny didn't care to discuss that. Mitzi’s decision to keep working under her maiden name had been a canny move, considering the show ended up outlasting their marriage. Ashley nodded in recognition at the name. ‘Of course – Mitzi and Co. My mum and dad used to love this programme.’ ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ ‘Oh, is this one of yours? I should have guessed. And here it is, still on TV after all these years. Must have earned you a fortune, eh?’ ‘If only,’ Benny snorted. ‘I could do with a fortune, the amount they charge for this place.’ ‘It doesn’t go on my wages, Benny, believe me.’ Ashley opened the door. ‘I’ll go and ask about your breakfast. Back in a bit.’ The conversation with Ashley had unsettled Benny. He muted the TV, watched the actors mouth his lines, and wondered how he’d ended up in this shabby cell. He deserved better than this, he thought. He picked up his phone and looked up the number for Alan Goldsmith, his former agent. He dialled, then paced the floor, fretting that Al’s number might have changed. ‘Alan Goldsmith.’ ‘Al? It’s Benny.’ ‘Benny – how the hell are you? What’s happening?’ ‘I’m watching Mitzi and Co on TV.’ ‘At nine o’clock in the morning?’ ‘It’s on all the damned time, Al. Five days a week. They show all six series, then they start over again.’ ‘Incredible. I mean – it was always a great programme, but who would have imagined they’d still be showing it thirty-odd years later? That’s terrific.’ ‘Maybe, but it got me thinking – why the hell aren’t I getting paid for all these re-runs? I could use those damned royalties.’ Benny heard Al hesitate, and he felt himself getting increasingly worked up. He was vaguely aware that the answer to his question was in his own head if only he could locate it. ‘You’re not due any royalties, Benny. You signed the rights over to Mitzi in the divorce settlement. Remember? You kept the house and most of your cash, but you let her have the TV rights. You were pretty pleased with the arrangement, as I recall….’ Something exploded inside Benny. He smashed the phone on the TV cabinet and hurled the shattered device at the wall. As he did so, he saw that Ashley was standing watching him. He strode up to her and let out a scream of frustration in her face. Ashley took a step back, and Benny felt a shiver of recognition at her ice-cool response. It was all there, every element: the look of reproach, the precisely timed pause, and the perfect delivery of that familiar line. ‘Have you taken your medicine today?’ ~ Kevin Cheeseman is a retired biochemist who lives in Buckinghamshire, UK, with his wife, Annie. Having spent half his career in academia and the other half in drug development for a pharmaceutical company, he feels liberated now that he’s allowed just to make stuff up. He writes mainly flash fiction and short stories, and his pieces have won or been placed in competitions run by Writing Magazine, Writers’ Forum, 1000 Word Challenge and Wild Atlantic Writing Awards, amongst others. Short Fiction ~ Gillian Brown Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19 Jaz musses her hair and grins at Luke. ‘Let’s take a trip.’ ‘Where?’ ‘Anywhere!’ Luke rubs his neck. ‘I need to know where—’ ‘—and how far it is, the best route, the weather forecast…’ She pauses to catch her breath, hating herself but unable to stop. ‘…where we’ll have lunch…what shoes to wear? Etcetera. Etcetera.’ Luke flinches. Jaz hates herself more. ‘Okay. I’ll read my book.’ It is exciting. She has no idea what will happen next. And the ending is impossible to guess. An hour later, Luke reappears. ‘I’ve booked a hotel on the south coast.’ ‘Great.’ Hardly an adventure, but a start. The view from their room takes in a glorious sweep of golden sand. Waves crash on the shoreline. In their frothy backwash, the sand turns a luminous yellow. Less mesmerising is the view from the ground-floor dining room, which overlooks the hotel carpark. Worse still, Luke has booked full board. Set meals at set times. ‘Let’s move on tomorrow,’ Jaz says. Panic floods Luke’s face. ‘I’ve booked a full week.’ ‘Can’t we cancel?’ ‘Non-refundable. Don’t you like it here?’ His pupils dilate. She hesitates. ‘Sort of.’ Jaz thinks back to when they first met. Everything about him was intense. His dark eyes. His presence. Even his silences. It was love at first sight. Since then, they seemed to click on everything, except this one thing – planning ahead. For Luke, there could be no surprises. He always closed up when she asked why. She tries again, softening her voice. ‘Were your family holidays like this?’ He frowns. ‘I was adopted. Didn’t I tell you?’ ‘No.’ Jaz lays a hand on his arm. ‘But you holidayed together?’ ‘Never.’ Luke pulls away. ‘A difficult childhood is no excuse for the rest of your life.’ Jaz decides to press no further. Then she remembers how they divide their time together at home. Tuesdays and Thursdays he comes to her place. Weekends she spends at his. Luke has turned it into a routine, without her even noticing it. That evening, the hotel serves a homely – ‘but tasty,’ Luke says – fish pie. Jaz tries to forget the menu at the seafront café – Fresh Scallops, Grilled Octopus or Catch of the Day – and swallows another mouthful. Through the window, a black Land Rover blocks their view. On the fifth day, Jaz’s patience explodes. ‘I’m going home!’ She raises her voice. ‘Are you listening?’ ‘One minute.’ Luke remains glued to his iPad. Impatience turns to anger. She rips a page from her journal. ‘I can’t do this,’ she scrawls. ‘See you back home. Love Jaz.’ She plants a lipstick-smudged kiss below, to reassure him. And perhaps herself. Luke’s eyes never leave his screen. She fills her backpack and slips out. He’s probably checking out what ice-cream flavours they sell in town or something of equal magnitude. Heading for the bus station, a rush of adrenalin surges through her. She’ll take the first bus that arrives. When one pulls in, she forces back her unease and steps forward. ‘Jaz! Wait!’ The abandoned look on Luke’s face knocks her sideways. She throws her pack on the ground, throws her arms around him, and hugs him tight. ‘I thought you were beginning to enjoy yourself,’ he whispers in her ear. ‘I’m a good actor.’ ‘Please stay!’ ‘This trip isn’t working. You know that.’ Luke gently pulls himself away. A determined grin spreads across his face. ‘I’ve an idea. We’ll toss a coin. Heads, we’ll do it your way. Tails, mine.’ Jaz’s jaw drops. ‘Aren’t you going to research the odds? Ask Google?’ ‘Nope!’ He passes her a coin. ‘You toss.’ The coin spins in the air and circles on the ground. Neither dare move. As it lands, Jaz gasps. ‘Tails! It’s impossible.’ Luke laughs. ‘You lost. That’s the deal.’ The bus rumbles off. A little piece of Jaz leaves with it. Back at the hotel, Luke seems even more distant than usual. He has won the toss. He should be happy. ‘What’s going on, Luke?’ ‘Please be patient.’ That night, Luke tosses and turns and cries out in his sleep. Jaz gets little rest and wakes late. ‘Oh no. I suppose we’ve missed breakfast.’ ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Jaz gulps. ‘It doesn’t?’ ‘No. I’ve bought a picnic brunch. We’ll find a good spot along the beach to eat it. And tonight—’ Jaz interrupts, ‘—we’ll eat here again.’ He smirks. ‘Not an option. What about the seafront café?’ ‘And the full board?’ Luke shrugs. Shocked into silence, Jaz gets dressed and follows him out. Surely Luke is the actor now. She braces herself for what is to come. They sit amongst the dunes. Seagulls swoop over their heads. She twizzles her toes in the sand, inhaling the scent of salt and iodine through her nostrils. For the first time this holiday, Jaz feels alive. That evening, they eat grilled octopus and garlic prawns. The moon’s glow bathes their faces. Waves kiss their feet. ‘What’ll we do tomorrow?’ Luke says. The spell shatters. ‘I’m sure you have it planned.’ They’ll stay and eat at the hotel, then go home before Luke’s act breaks down. The holiday will end with a sense of relief rather than total disaster. ‘Dead right. I have a plan.’ Jaz lays her knife and fork back on the plate. Her seafood seems tasteless now. ‘Go on.’ He gazes out to sea. ‘First, I owe you more of an explanation. My adoptive parents separated when I was four. Neither wanted me. I was passed between them like a parcel, never knowing where I’d be staying from one day to the next.’ ‘You poor darling!’ She reaches for his hand. ‘I built up an aversion to risk taking. Your viewpoint is new to me.’ Luke sips on his Chardonnay. Suddenly, his eyes burn. ‘Let’s leave tomorrow and go wherever the road takes us.’ ~ Gillian Brown started out as a travel writer but her heart lies in fiction. Her inspiration often comes from her travels or real life experiences. Motivation comes from short story competitions, for which she has a mild – but enjoyable – addiction. She has had stories published in magazines, in anthologies, and online. Her work has won, been placed and shortlisted in several dozen competitions. Short Fiction ~ Oliver Barton Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19 Last night I went to see The Dropt Kerchief at the Playhouse, that restoration tragedy by William Shapworth. You probably don’t know it – it’s interminably long and rather gruesome – but they’d cut it and pared it down, and it’s a spanking good romp now, if you can call a tragedy a romp. The plot is one of those convoluted affairs. The crucial bit, ignoring loads of sub-plots and machinations, is that the Earl of Leicester is fearsomely jealous of his young wife, and suspects her of having eyes for every half handsome man who passes by, as well she might, for he is a pedantic bore. As his paranoia reaches its height, he is passing through the garden and finds a handkerchief on the ground, bearing her initials. Immediately he concludes that she has been having an assignation with a young buck, and stabs her to death in his fury. Then he finds that the young buck also has the same initials as her and a rather fancy line in handkerchiefs, so the Earl goes off and stabs himself in contrition. Plenty of other things happen, but that’s where the title comes from. I know that’s what the plot’s about because I first saw the play last week, and thought it would be educational for my chum Algy to see it, so we went along last night. It was all going fine until that fateful moment that the Earl of Leicester finds the dropped handkerchief. On he came, brow furrowed, uttering a monologue that scratched at his neuroses about his wife’s fidelity, until it reached the climax where he spots the handkerchief. Nothing there. I saw him look at the spot and he stopped mid-speech. He looked around discretely, then ever more frantically to see if it was lying in the wrong place. No kerchief. Pas de mouchoir. By now he had been silent rather long, wondering, I imagine, what to do. The audience, who mostly had no idea what was supposed to happen, began to sense something was up, particularly when a muffled hoarse whisper came from off-stage to prompt him: “Heaven, but what do I see?” The Earl looked into the wings and I could tell he was mouthing “It’s not there!” What do you do if the title of the play is missing? He did the only thing he could; he pretended he saw the kerchief, he pretended to pick it up, he pretended to read the initials. He might have got away with it had it not been for a young lad near the front, who I suspect is impossible to live with without throttling, when the Earl cried “Upon my life, ‘tis my Eliza’s kerchief!”, spoke out with perfect diction and splendid clarity and informed the Earl that it wasn’t; he was not holding a kerchief, he was not holding anything. The effect on the Earl was disastrous. He started giggling. At this point a white object could be seen sliding across the stage from the wings, pushed by a long bamboo rod. The Earl gazed, transfixed. Again the mystery voice prompted him, louder this time: “Heaven, but what do I see?” It was too much. The giggle returned. The Earl tried to pull himself together and suppress it, but succeeded only in going deep purple until eventually the laughter exploded out of him, cascading over the stalls, where it started infecting the audience, who chuckled despite themselves, and it grew and grew and spread until the entire theatre was corpsed. The curtain descended mercifully on an Earl collapsed to his knees, heaving in a paroxysm of mirth and incapable of anything. What else could they do? It took a full ten minutes for the audience to regain their composure. They chattered animatedly. Algy said it was the best theatrical experience he’d ever had and certainly the funniest tragedy. Then onto the stage, in front of the curtains, advanced a man, presumably the stage manager. He held a hand up for silence. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he proclaimed. ‘We apologise for a slight technical error…’ ‘With your patience,’ he continued when the laughter and chatter abated once more, ‘we will restart Act 3 in a few minutes.’ And so they did. This time, the kerchief was duly present as the Earl’s soliloquy approached. The anticipation was electric. Nobody breathed. The Earl’s eyes lighted on the kerchief. ‘Heaven, but what do I see?’ he declaimed, steady as a rock, not a trace of a giggle, a trooper if ever there was one. He bent to pick it up. There was an audible click, and he stayed like that, bent double. After a pause that felt like an eternity, in the silence everyone heard him gasp, ‘My back! I can’t move!’ It was unfeeling of us, unkind, cruel even, but we couldn’t help it. The laughter bubbled up again, took over, and drowned us. We wept, we choked, we hammered the arms of our seats. It was remorseless. They rang the curtain down again – what else could they do? - refunds were offered, and that was that. As we strolled to the nearest bar, Algy asked me how the play was supposed to end up. ‘Badly,’ I said, ‘very badly for the Earl.’ ‘Ah well, at least they got that right,’ he said. He always was heartless. ~ Oliver Barton used to write Computer User Manuals, but having retired, now prefers to replace telling facts that nobody reads with writing whimsical fiction that lots of people can enjoy. He lives in Abergavenny, Wales. In his writing, he seeks to bring a wry touch to the commonplace activities of everyday life – “in the ordinary is the extraordinary.” Frequently, angels and bad-tempered mythical beings such as garden gnomes creep in, despite his best endeavours. His Deri Press has published a collection of his short stories “Away with the Fairies”, his first novel “Of Mouse and Man” and the second “Creation”. Short Fiction ~ Sangeetha G Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19 He had not noticed the jasmine vine peeping into his room through the window till it bore a few flowers and invited his attention. Small white flowers had popped up among the green leaves like bright stars in a dark sky. But these stars spread fragrance and happiness around. He wondered how the vine had reached there. All other jasmine vines were growing in the garden and growing in the opposite direction to soak up as much sun as possible. But this new vine was moving towards the shade of the house as if the hot sun was too much for it to handle. It had crept over pebbles strewn in the courtyard, climbed up the wall, and spread itself across the window close to his bed. “Last time when I went to the garden to collect the jasmine flowers for Malar, I had not noticed this new plant. Can a vine grow this long in five months?” he wondered. Malar had only one wish during her last days. She wanted to smell the jasmine flowers till her end. Probably, she wanted to keep the smell of death away. He plucked jasmine flowers from the garden every day and placed them close to her on the table in a bowl. They kept her cheerful and away from dreadful thoughts. She inhaled her last breath swollen with the fragrance of jasmine flowers and never let it out. Inside her body, the fragrance was locked up. He thought she would have gone to a place where jasmine flowers surrounded her and kept her cheerful always. Over the years, he had associated her smell with jasmine. She loved the flowers and took care of the vines like little children. In her conversations, jasmine vine was a constant topic. That morning, the jasmine flowers peeped in through the window and filled him with happy memories about her. In the past five months, nothing much had crossed his mind apart from her memories. But those were sad memories about her sickness and her painful last days. They pulled him further down into grief. He was not quite aware of what was happening around him. His life had lost its pattern - he slept till noon and remained awake in bed till midnight. He hardly ate anything throughout the day and missed most of the calls from the office. After five months, he smiled for the first time when he looked at the jasmine flowers. They made him feel that she was around. Probably, she would be cooking in the kitchen, tending the plants, taking bath, cleaning the vessels, or reading a book lying in the hammock hanging near the garden - he loved to believe so. That thought made him feel that he was not alone in the house. He came back to life and things were once again normal. The jasmine vine grew fast and covered the entire window. A few of the tendrils sneaked into the room and tickled him to wake him up in the morning. The fragrance of the flowers filled him with happiness and energy. He spent time with the vines. He talked to them about his day and they tossed their heads. When he smelled the flowers, the tendrils hugged him. He fell asleep looking at them and woke up seeing them fresh and fragrant. His colleague Vedika wanted to see the jasmine vine which had brought him back to life. He brought her home one day. She took the fragrant trail toward the bedroom. An entire window was covered with green leaves decorated with tiny white flowers. It was a sight to behold. She had never seen jasmine flowers in such abundance. He plucked a handful of flowers and tucked them one by one into her hair. He then smelled those flowers and held her closer to him. He planted a kiss on her lips and held her tight. She snuggled up to him under the quilt. He had fallen into a slumber when she woke him up. “What happened? Why are you looking terrified?” he asked. She pointed her finger towards the window. The jasmine vine had completely dried up. The flowers had withered and fallen on the ground. All the leaves had dried and turned dark brown. The stems of the vine were dark and brittle like dead sticks. He ran outside towards the garden. The jasmine vine lay dead and dry without a trace of life. ~ Sangeetha G is a journalist in India. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Sky Island Journal, Down in the Dirt, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Kitaab International, Indian Review, Nether Quarterly, Muse India, Storizen, The Story Cabinet and Borderless Journal. Her stories have won Himalayan Writing Retreat Flash Fiction contest and Strands International Flash Fiction contest. Her debut novel 'Drop of the Last Cloud' was published in May 2023. Short Fiction ~ Paul Germano Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 19 In the winter, Andy Fitzgerald and Judy Bartolucci make snow angels in Andy’s backyard, vigorously flapping their snow-suited arms and legs back and forth. They both jump up, eyeing each other’s angels. “Yours looks better,” Andy says. “Uhhh, yeah,” Judy says in a slightly snarky tone. Then thinking, she studies the two snow angels and shakes her head. “No, yours looks better,” she says somewhat reluctantly. From the window, Andy’s gruff-voiced mother calls out. “Mother of Christ! It’s cold out there! You kids come inside and warm up. I’ll make hot cocoa.” In the summer, Andy and Judy, now both 19, are on the beach in their colorful swimsuits and trendy sunglasses, busying themselves with an elaborate sandcastle. While Judy puts the finishing touches on one of the towers, Andy lowers his sunglasses and looks over its rims. “We’ve talked about it enough times, so let’s make it official.” He already knows what her answer will be, but he asks anyway. “Judy Bartolucci, will you marry me?” She strokes at her sun-tanned face. “Uhhh, yeah,” she says. They laugh and reach over the sandcastle for an arms-outstretched hug, then scootch in closer for a kiss. They plop down on their backs, flattening the sandcastle into an unrecognizable messy glob of gooey wet sand. With giddy faces, they stare up at the bright blue sky. He reaches for her hand, giving it a tight squeeze. She returns the favor, squeezing his hand even harder. In the spring, at a rented hall where their 40th anniversary party is underway, family and friends form a wide circle around Judy in her shimmering lavender gown and Andy in a rented tux, applauding the couple as they glide gracefully around the dance floor to “Forever Young.” Judy had given the deejay specific instructions to play the song for their first dance, insisting on the Joan Baez version. “Dylan, God love him, is incredible,” Judy had told the deejay, “but when it comes to singing, Joan’s voice is absolutely enchanting.” When Joan Baez’s serenade finishes, the deejay leans into the mic. “Okay everybody, one more slow song, then we’re gonna up the energy level. Way, way up!” As the second slow song gets underway, their oldest grandchild; 17, lean and cocky; steps forward and taps Andy’s shoulder. “My turn Gramps,” he says. Judy pinches her grandson’s cheek hard enough for him to say “ouch,” then throws her arms around him. Andy, proud and smiling, points a friendly finger at their youngest grandchild, a 6-year-old girl in a frilly pink party dress. Her hair is fixed in a lovely French braid despite her initial objections and thanks largely to her mother’s painstaking persistence and braiding expertise. She eyes her grandfather. “Me?” she shyly whispers. “Yes honey, you.” Giddy and nervous, she runs over to him. He reaches down; she reaches up. With their hands grasping tightly, Andy waltzes her around the room. The applauding continues and Andy waves others to join the four of them on the dance floor. By the time the second slow song finishes, the dance floor is crowded. Living up to his promise, the deejay ups the energy level running through a parade of party favorites: “The Twist,” “YMCA,” “Sexy and I Know It,” “Despacito” and on and on and on. At the end of the night, in a Champagne toast, Andy raises his glass. “Judy, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” The crowd oohs and awes and Judy nods her head in agreement. “Uhhh, yeah,” she says to the utter amusement of their party guests. Then, eyeing her husband, she taps at her heart and in a much softer voice, says “I love you.” In the fall, Andy sits quietly in a chair next to their bed. Judy stays warm in a flannel nightgown with the covers pulled up to her chin. Andy buttons up his cardigan, then finds her hand under the covers and gives it a tight squeeze. Their bedroom windows rattle from a furious autumn wind. The walls glisten from a fresh coat of paint, a “welcome home gift” from their second oldest grandchild and his wife. He’d told his grandfather: “When Gram comes home from the hospital, the calm blue color will lift her spirits.” On the dresser, a sleek floral arrangement from their middle child who now lives in Manhattan. The note reads: “Love you Mom, be up to Syracuse next week for a good long visit.” Judy props herself up and says “read it again.” Andy says “will do” and reads it aloud. “Oh, we should send him a text.” Again, Andy says “will do,” then reaches for his phone. She tells him what to type; her voice is frail. “Be sure to use the letters R, C and U instead of spelling them out; the kids like to do it that way.” He types the message. “The flowers R beautiful. We’re excited about your visit. C U in a week.” He signs it “Love Dad and Mom” and then after some fumbling, manages to insert a heart emoji. Immediately, their son responds with an emoji trio of a smiley face, a happy beating heart and a fist-pump. “I can’t wait to see him,” Judy says wistfully, “to kiss him, to hug him, to tussle his hair.” Andy clears his throat. They both know, one week will be too late. Andy strokes his wife’s forehead. “The years, they went by so fast,” he says in a shaky voice. He pauses. “What a time we had,” he says softly. “Uhhh, yeah,” she says. A delicate smile forms on her exhausted face. He holds on tight to her frail hand and watches helplessly as her life slips away. “She’s gone,” he whispers. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He has no idea of how he can possibly answer the question he’s about to ask himself, but he asks it aloud anyway. “How will I ever live without you?” ~ Paul Germano and his dog, a sweet Pit Bull mix named April, live in Syracuse, smack dab in the center of New York State. More than 50 of Germano’s stories have been published in online and in-print magazines in the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom and Hong Kong. He is currently working on a short story collection of school-themed stories called *Learn Baby Learn.* |
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