​Short Fiction ~ Edward Barnfield

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.
 

~

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:

1. stay or run,
2. fight or submit,
3. scream or keep schtum?

• and when you were young, you supposed you’d find out one day (not that you wanted to court danger, but you felt it was important to know).

Now you’re 78, you accept there’s a lot that’ll remain a mystery, and most of it no longer matters, but it doesn’t stop you wondering, nevertheless.
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. 

~

​

​
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.

~
​

​
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?

~

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.”

~

Short Fiction ~ Kevin Cheeseman

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.’ 

~

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”.

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?”

~