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?”

~

Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 18 

Ship’s captain, he’d been. Dapper, upright, commanding. Now, on this brightly-lit ward, little more than a cadaver remained, skin a waxy blue, morgue-ready.
‘Hearing’s the last to go,’ the nurse had said. ‘You should keep talking.’
What about? Simon had wanted to ask. Destroyers? Mainsails? The bloody shipping forecast? If conversation was painful while his father was hale and hearty, ‘a spot of cancer’ wasn’t going to open the floodgates.
But ‘I will,’ he’d said dutifully, and watched as she smiled and turned her attention elsewhere.
It was visiting time again, and twice a day the tide of wearied loved ones washed up around each bed, proffering flotsam and jetsam from the foyer shop. News from the outside world was delivered with unnecessary pomp, and questions were asked - about the food, about what the patient had watched on television, about how they were feeling that day. Simon often listened in, hoping for snippets he might use himself, some hint of a normal relationship. He thought of his own little boy and hoped that when this time came for them, the conversation might at least flow.
‘My turn for Davy Jones’s locker,’ his father had said when the diagnosis was delivered, and Simon had found himself explaining the euphemism to a bemused young registrar.
Six months, apparently, with a fair wind behind him.
And now at that very edge, Simon wanted to shake his father and shout, why could you never talk to me? He looked around the ward for courage, at the hugging and hand-holding, the soft whispered words, looks of tenderness and loss. He took a deep breath.
And then, on cue, his phone pinged in rescue. In the café, the message said.
Later, sitting by the window with his family, he turned his head to hide the salty tears and stared out at the horizon. ‘Daddy sad,’ his little boy said, brow furrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Because my daddy is very ill, and I can’t tell him I’m going to miss him.’
And all at sea he felt lost like never before.

~ ​

Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 17  

As she looks at the photograph of herself in her brown bikini on the Durban beach, Marian recalls that holiday. She recalls how the bikini she had knitted fitted perfectly when she had finished its construction, and that photo must have been taken before she ventured into the sea, because there wasn’t much of it covering her when she came back out.
 
That was the holiday when she, accompanied by the boyfriend, had driven the mother, younger brother, and sister on their first trip to the Indian Ocean. It was the year after the father had left and ‘gone off’ with the other woman. A holiday the mother, who had never been able to drive, had begged and pleaded for.
 
“Your sister and brother have never been to the sea,” she said.  “Your father never took us anywhere. He’s gone off on a trip with her and her kids, though.”
 
Marian could still see the faces of the brother and sister when she glanced at them in the rear-view mirror as they were nearing the end of their seven hour journey.
 
“First person to see the sea gets a Tickey!” said the boyfriend, sitting next to her.
 
“What’s a Tickey?” said the brother.
 
“It’s an old-fashioned coin,” said the mother.
 
“What can we do with it, then?” said the sister.
 
“Just look out for the sea.” said Marian.
 
And, just as they left the motorway and were heading along Marine Parade to the hotel, the clutch had gone. The mother paid to have it fixed.
 
Underneath the photo of the knitted brown bikini, there’s a photo of the colonial style hotel. Beachfront, but not quite. On the corner furthest from the safe swimming areas. Dated. Cheap. Marian recalls the sullen waiter – Davison, she thinks his name was. He never smiled, and got worse when she said ‘smile Davison, it’s not that bad.’ She could slap her own face for that remark. Davison certainly looked as if he wanted to.
 
At the hotel, the boyfriend got into a sulk when he was expected to share a room with the brother. The mother didn’t like it, but relented when Marian insisted she was going to share with the boyfriend, ‘I’ll sleep in the other bed, I promise’; and the brother moved into the mother’s room.
 
On the next page, there’s a photo of the boyfriend and the brother on the rocks with the sea splashing in the background. The brother’s face is freckled and shiny, his hair standing up in sporadic peaks from the salt and the sand. A small fish dangles from the child’s fishing rod, and Marian notices the smile that never did cover the sadness behind it; and recalls the way he chattered on and on about how the boyfriend had helped him catch the fish.
 
Next to that photo there’s one of the mother in a deck chair. Her rust-coloured, recently permed hair dishevelled, her sunglasses covering her red-rimmed eyes as she stares out to sea. In those days, the mother was never far from a silent weep. On a towel next to her is the sister. She too wears a bikini, although there was very little to put inside it. Her face is sullen. The way it always seemed to be when she was that age. She is brushing sand from her legs and Marian recalls the heat of that sand and how it burned the soles of the feet.
 
She turns back to the photo of herself. She is leaning back on her elbows and grinning at the camera. Her skin has not yet been touched by the sun and glares white against the brown of the bikini. Her body is toned and shapely and she notices how flat her tummy is. No one would ever have guessed there was life growing inside her. She hardly knew herself, before it was gone. 

~

​

Honourable Mention, Strands International Flash Fiction Competition - 17  

I was a child when I first met Angelo Sorento in the village square.  I was trying to fish out coins from the fountain, my body resting on the low wall, my hand stretched across the water.
“Don’t take away someone’s dream,” he scolded. “Or one day, someone might take away yours.”
I didn’t know what he meant, but he had such authority in his voice that I sat up and turned away. It was the only way to keep myself from thinking about the coins.
“Good boy,” he said, patting my back.  “Each coin,” he added softly, “is a wish a person makes.  If you take the coin out of the water, you take the wish away.”
 “But my father throws a coin in every Sunday, and he says his wishes haven’t come true.”
“Perhaps,” Angelo said. “A coin in the fountain won’t make a wish come true.”
I nodded, though I was confused.
“But,” Angelo said, raising a crooked finger at the sky, “to take the coin is to steal the wish. The wish may not come true, but it’s the wish itself that’s valuable. The fountain holds them for us, like a bank.“
I didn’t know what to think of that, but I liked the idea that my father wasn’t just throwing away our money, but keeping something alive within himself.
Angelo then asked me what I wanted money for. 
“A candy,” I said, though really I didn’t know.
“Then you must earn it.  Come.” He stood up, motioning me to follow.
We walked slowly up the hill to the top of the village. Along the way, he asked what was my name, how far had I ever traveled, what was the largest thing I could think of?
When we got to the top, he handed me a few coins.
“But I didn’t do anything,” I said.
“You walked me home,” he said. “If I had fallen, you would have gotten help.  And you told me about yourself, which I might use one day in a story.” 
At that I smiled. I was always inventing stories, but I never thought I’d be in someone else’s.  I took the money then and ran down to the store.
That night, I told my parents what Angelo had said about wishes being kept alive.
“If the fountain doesn’t make wishes come true, then nothing can,” said my father, a farmer. “What does he know?”
“Well, he is a famous author,” my mother said.
My father shook his head.  “Who needs stories?”
But I knew then that I did. So, sometimes after working in the field, I met Angelo at the fountain and talked.  Occasionally, he’d pay me to do an errand. But as I grew older and more able, and he grew older and less able, I came to visit him nearly every day, bringing groceries, helping him sort papers, repairing a window or chair.  Some nights, we ate together, and Angelo would tell me of the places he had traveled, the men and women he had loved. I always wondered why, despite all his adventures, he returned to our little village.
One day, as a teenager, I asked Angelo for one of his novels. I took it home and read it through the night.  At first, I was disappointed. I thought it would be about his life, but it was only about a village very much like our own. The main character was a farmer who was too poor to follow the woman he loved. She had left the village for a more worldly life.  Every day he dropped a coin in the village fountain, hoping he would strike rich, or she would come back to take him away. 
Gradually, as I read on, I realized that Angelo was writing the story of my father. 
“How did you write this?” I asked him the next day.
Angelo had always been open with me, but this time, he bowed his head and said nothing. He changed the subject, and soon said he was tired, that he needed to rest.
I went on to read all of Angelo’s novels, which were equally beautiful stories about the lives of people in our town. No wonder he returned here; he came to gather our stories and writing them down.
I was so moved by his books that one day I did something I’d never done before: I took a coin to the fountain and threw it in, wishing that one day I’d write like Angelo.
 
And now, years later, Angelo is on his death bed, having just told me his secret. 
“I wrote nothing,” he confessed, less than an hour ago. He handed me a small bottle.
“Pour the ink from it and your story will be revealed,” he said. 
So I took the bottle and poured the ink onto these pages.
I wrote none of this.  I have not touched a pen. I’ve only sat here and watched these words form, as though the paper had channels guiding the liquid.  I don’t understand how this can be, but I am elated.  With this bottle, I will be a writer.
Still, I wonder how it is done. I go over to Angelo’s bed to get an answer.
“Forgive me,” he whispers, and then he is gone. No longer of this world.
I pick up the bottle and shake it. There is no more ink, but I feel something shift inside. Through the dark hole I see, resting at the bottom of the bottle, a small coin.
I know which coin it is—the one I threw into the fountain years ago. The ink must draw out the wishes from the coins and write them out.  And so, it is only by taking my coin from the fountain that Angelo has made my wish come true.

~

​Nathan Alling Long