Fiction

Lorraine Whelan; Prayers for My Children

February 25, 2018 — 4 Comments
Prayers for My Children

The bedside light is dim and two of my daughters speak to each other in subdued tones. I can’t quite hear what they are saying, but if they were speaking on a normal day I know they’d be talking excitedly about art and writing. They think I am asleep and I am doing my utmost not to disabuse them of this idea. But I also know they are watching me closely, despite their conversation, in case there are any changes in my breathing, any signs of discomfort or pain.

I can hear small sounds of night-time traffic outside. Footsteps. A car door. Someone calling in the distance, laughter – people on their way home from the pub. This is a busy street during the day, but there is always some noise or other, at any hour. I insist on having one window open at least. It gives a welcome coolness to the air. Prevents an accumulation of odour. A sick old woman, me, is near to death. A bit too near for my liking. Earlier today, my eldest daughter had plugged in one of those discreet air fresheners that you can buy in any shop nowadays. She must have been worried that I would be insulted, as she waited till she thought I dozed off before fiddling in the corner with the outlet and freshener. However, it was a relief to me too; the air was cloying. I appreciated the thoughtful gesture.

The hospital bed whooshes and settles. Like the freshener, it too is plugged in to an outlet and is regulated to a constant air pressure for my maximum comfort. At first this sound was startling, but everyone – both me and my various carers, my daughters – is well used to it at this stage. I have been bed-ridden for at least a month, confined to this small room. Maybe it has been longer, I am not sure, as I navigate the fuzzy edges of time these days. I have friends who visit often and a lot of children, who cater to my every need. Well, some more than others.

This room used to be my mother’s sitting room. I have a permanent image of her seated between the bay window and the fireplace, watching the “soft parade”. I understood this phrase later to mean the outside world passing by. I was determined not to be like my mother. I would fully participate in everything life had to offer. And I did. I don’t know where the time has gone, but I would so love to have more of it. There is still much I could do. Fun I could have. “People to meet, places to go” as they say. If only.

Changes were made to the room before I got home from hospital. Items brought down from my upstairs bedroom. Lots of photographs form a collage on a cork board: my numerous children and grandchildren and great grandchildren watching me from the wall. But no books. No art. None of the clutter of my life. My bedroom here, now, is more clinical than I am used to, but it is pleasant enough. It is practical. In one corner there is a table for medication – so many prescriptions, syringes and tiny plastic cups – a veritable nurse’s station. In another corner the potty chair looms; it is moved closer to the bed in the evening, when non-family visitors have gone home. There are several tapestry covered foot stools that I bought years ago and a comfortable chair for special guests. The small set of drawers has been brought down from my room to contain the clothes I need now – mostly pyjamas – and one drawer of bed linens. It is a practical room to die in. 

The two daughters who are with me now like to talk to each other, but when they realise I am awake they change their focus to me. Other siblings have accused them of “partying” with me when they are here together at night, and I am wondering who could have started this strange rumour. I only wish I could dance, be capable of a party! I love dancing.

I ask for painkillers, the potty, food. Generally that is the order of things. Though less “asking” – more demanding, or motioning if I can’t speak. Sometimes I can’t speak, the pain is so bad. And sometimes I can’t even indicate where the pain is. They try to keep me comfortable. I try to escape in sleep.

We laugh when I am on the potty. This has become the state of things: there is no longer a time and place for private bodily functions. They help me out of bed, slowly, slowly. Sometimes I am in more of a hurry but still everything goes very slowly. I can’t will my feet to move. One daughter always massages my feet while I am seated. Or rubs my back; this I love. Her hands are so warm. They are considerate of my modesty and place a shawl on my lap. My daughters sit beside me, hold my hands, ask gentle questions, tell jokes, reminisce. I am joyful with them. There is still much joy in my life.

I’m hungry and one of the girls offers to fix me a bite to eat and the other takes the potty bucket upstairs to clean. While one negotiates the steep staircase to the main bathroom, the other walks – quickly – down the hallway to the kitchen and investigates the fridge. I hover over her shoulder, peering inside the refrigerator as soon as it is opened. I like the look of the cooked drumstick of chicken cling-wrapped on a small plate behind the milk carton.

My daughter brings me a ham sandwich with a light salad and a cup of coffee. I can’t hide my disappointment with this fare and ask her about the chicken leg. The expression on her face is priceless: she has a look of surprised awe. Then I remember that I have been in my bed this whole time, and though I correctly saw a piece of chicken that was there in the fridge, I am confused at my guesswork. She explains “out-of-body” experiences to me, and describes the incident in detail when my other daughter returns to the room. She is hugely interested in this “astral projection” as she calls it, and talks about her own, related experience from a hospital bed, in another country, many years ago.

To placate me, the chicken leg is brought on a saucer along with the pepper mill, and I devour it with gusto, obviously dismayed when I reach the small bone and there is really nothing left for me to gnaw on. My two daughters look a bit shocked, but they are also amused. I return their smiles and suggest dessert. Simple rule: if I am awake, I am hungry. It is 4 a.m. One of the girls runs to the kitchen to fetch me some raspberries, cream and a bit of cake that she has made. I realise that this is what the other siblings have complained about as a “party”. But when I first came home, they explained what the Palliative Care nurse had told all of them: “be led by your mother’s desires and give her whatever she asks for; don’t forget to be a daughter as well as a carer”. I don’t have much time left, so it hardly matters how outrageous my requests might be. We all know this. A bite to eat and a coffee in the middle of the night is hardly outrageous.

After more medication and more time seated on the potty, I am tucked in, kissed and gently cuddled by both sisters. I worry and ask for my rosary beads, which are nearby on the bedside table.

One of the girls is not sure what to do; she abhors Catholicism though I know, deep down, she believes in the spirit and the soul. She just isn’t sure how it all fits into the modern world; this is something she will discover on her own terms. My other daughter is more fluid: with good humour she embraces the best of all religions and kneels by the bed to murmur the prayers with me, holding my hands steadily while I touch each bead.

I start with the Joyful Mysteries. The repetition of prayers is comforting to me. The “Mysteries” represent the stages of Christ’s life, a man’s life – well, anyone’s life. My life. Joyful. Sorrowful. Glorious. I think the “glorious” part is supposed to be the next life. After death. I’ll soon find out.

My daughter who is praying with me thinks that what we are doing is parallel to chanting a mantra in Buddhism. She is proud of herself for remembering the order of the prayers from her childhood. The other daughter is completely quiet, listening but not participating in this ritual.

I pray for both these daughters and the others too. They will all need a lot of help in the coming days to face their fears and despair. They have shown me the depths of their care and I know they will support each other with strength and love when I am gone. I pray that they will be kind to each other. This is my most important prayer. It will be a time of deep sadness for them, but I pray they will remember my joy. This will be my legacy.

*

Biography

Lorraine Whelan is a writer and visual artist based in Ireland.

Fiona Perry; Circumnavigation

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
Circumnavigation

(Part 2)

The calm, pretty midwife wanted the absolute best for my baby and me. I could tell by the way she said, “I’ll be back in an hour to give you the first pessary”.

I was aware that I had been nodding and grinning at her too excitedly as she spoke but I had just finished a box of Black Magic chocolates which Loran had given me for my hospital bag and I was ready for anything. The other mothers-to-be on the ward were nervous, weary or in pain so I was consciously trying to tone it down a bit because my mood seemed so hopelessly out of synch with theirs. But I couldn’t resist taking out a small Babygro and stroking it. There will be a baby inside that by tomorrow.

The heartbeat couldn’t be found. The normal precursor, a musical introduction of rushing blood, was absent too. “There’s something wrong with the Doppler,” I thought, refusing to acknowledge the concerned expressions and solemn hush in the room. But the look registered on Loran’s face could not be ignored.

When Michael was born he had to be untangled, set free. His cord encircled his belly and coiled fully several times around his neck. It was as if he had been attacked and squeezed lifeless by the tentacle of a giant squid. In fact, his umbilical oxygen supply had been cut off as he dropped to be born. But I wasn’t listening to explanations at the time. I was cradling my perfect baby, who was still warm from being inside me, and contemplating why the awesome power of birth had cast out this tiny, suffocated corpse instead of the wailing, pink newborn of my imagination.

As the heat dissipated from Michael’s body into mine, I began to disappear, my molecules mingling with the surroundings. Lorcan’s expression changed from pity to fear as he shouted something at the midwives.

I was bleeding out a crimson river over a tundra of starched hospital sheets. Before long, I found myself swimming underwater, Michael in my arms, admiring green swathes of seaweed and darting fish. I tried so hard to hold him but he wriggled free and swam away into the watery darkness.

 

*

“The Holy Spirit moves in mysterious ways,” I whispered at the kitchen window overlooking my David Austin Tranquillity rose bush, as I sometimes did when I thought of Michael. 

            Geraldine looked at me wide-eyed, clearly surprised that the subject of the Holy Spirit had made a reappearance in our conversation.

            “I don’t know Mammy,” she said in a casual tone, as if controversial theological discussions were a common occurrence between us, “that belief has been used to cover up a multitude of sins for the Church. I’m not sure it should be employed in this instance to excuse the mysterious predilections of priests.”

            She looked cautiously towards me, blushing right up to her hair line, but when she turned back to read the paper, a smile flickered on the corners of her mouth.

            That’s it. She doesn’t deserve this lovely dinner, I’m going to throw it all in the bin!

            After I placed the mashed potatoes and the steak steeped in oniony gravy in separate casserole dishes and covered them with foil to keep warm in the oven, I told Geraldine that I was off to work in the spare room.

*

I’ll say the Mysteries and start an Our Lady of Hope Novena for her tonight. I was sure I could convince her to continue with Medicine. History? What kind of future does that hold? Teaching? Untold years slaving for some bossy headmistress? I sat in an armchair running my eyes back and forth over the knitting machine’s needle bed for a long time. When I came to myself, I saw that I was wringing my hands.

            I picked up the body of a baby cardigan and started to sew on a sleeve when I heard the familiar dripping noise, subtle but present. Predictably last night, Lorcan had said he couldn’t hear it, presumably just to annoy me.

            In an effort to screen out the sound, I slipped wantonly into my customary knitting daydreams; Geraldine is a cardiologist renowned for her surgical ability; now she is a paediatrician reassuring a despairing couple that their beautiful boy is in safe hands; finally an oncologist speaking to the World Health Organisation about new, cutting edge therapies. Her confidence and poise astounds onlookers. Her hair is shiny and groomed.

             As I finished the last stitch on the armhole, I had the despairing thought, “none of those dreams will come true now,” and the words spiked with every irritating drip sound from above. The infuriating pitter-patter was increasing in volume the more determined I was not to listen and it wasn’t confined to one location above the ceiling but moved around and overlapped like light rain fall. I jumped up and wandered around the room following the sounds.

            Resolving to find the cause, I stormed into the kitchen and grabbed a torch from the drawer. Geraldine looked up from the paper and gave me a bored look. She was massaging the back of her head again.

            I pulled apart the step ladder in the hall, wobbled up the steps slowly and lifted the attic hatch door. My head and shoulders were now above the entrance as I cast the torch light around.

            In the corner of the roof space, seemingly floating just below the eave, was a huge, white oval-shaped object, as softly contoured as a Georgian wig. Imposing and stately.

            A wasp’s nest.

            I had a sudden recollection of my father tackling one on the farm by dousing it with petrol and setting it alight with a blowtorch, it didn’t seem to bother the wasps but he badly singed his eyebrows. It is was very funny, right enough. A little shudder of muted giggles washed over me. I tightened my grip on the horizontal door frame to anchor myself, my heart was fluttering like insect wings.

            As I continued the investigation I noticed that the wasps in flight appeared to be astonishingly stupid and uncoordinated. They were banging off the roof and wall, emitting little tapping noises with every collision. That explains the dripping sound. Why are they incapable of flying in an efficient, straight line? I singled one out to track it with the torch light. It was facing the nest whilst flying in a series of ever-increasing arcs away from it. The movement looked like a hypnotic act of worship, every conceivable angle of the nest was being lovingly memorised as if the insect had just witnessed a miracle inside. “The wasps are trying to tell me something,” I thought, swiftly followed by, “I’m losing it. Mary, mother of God preserve me.”

*

Biography

Fiona’s short stories and poetry have been published in The Irish Literary Review, Spontaneity Magazine, Into The Void, Dodging The Rain and Skylight47 amongst others. She grew up in Ireland but has lived most of her life in England and Australia. She currently lives near a volcano in New Zealand. Follow her on Twitter @Fionaperry17.

Bayveen O’Connell; Collooney Man

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
Collooney Man

The storm woke me, cleaved the old tree and threw my bones into the air to feel the darts of Connaught rain in the shadow of my Maeve in her cairn. Someone in the sky was throwing spears of light. Barely a man when I was buried face down and alone, I was catapulted into a new time and space, with half of me tangled in these roots. Who were my people? What was my crime? Why was I brought back? And my bed, my eternal bed exploded?

     The wind died down and dry leaves scraped along the marrow, drying me, though I felt no cold. Days and nights passed. I saw the stars hadn’t changed. Cows kept their distance from the cavity left by the wrenched tree. It seemed that cow pats looked the same but gave me little bother without a nose to smell them with.  A farmer appeared with a dog a few times. The dog sniffed, whined and made to go for my leg bone, while the farmer clutched his chest and just peered down at me with his gob gaping.

     Not long after, more folks came with white gloves, masks, brushes and tiny spades. These strange hands were gentler than those that buried me. My skull was carefully plucked from the high roots, my shoulders and spine unwound and lifted down, and I glimpsed my hips and thighs being dug out little by little. The touch put me in mind of a mother or a lover. All lost and long gone. 

     I was put on trays with little tags, covered in sacks and placed in a strange cart that was driven from the inside. Later, under a very strong light near my eye sockets, the people with gloves and masks put me together again. They took each bit of me, looked at it, put it back down and made a little scrawl on their vellum.  Staring at me and shaking their heads, they smiled excitedly. I wanted to tell them that I was just old bones.

     Couldn’t I have stayed looking up at the sky after having my face full of dirt for all these years? If I’d been able to reunite the pieces of myself, where would I have gone? Taken the back road towards Strandhill, struggled up the slopes of Knocknarea, and knocked on Maeve’s grave to see if she was awake?

     I missed my earth blanket with its peace and quiet. It wasn’t much of a grave but it was mine. Someone was done with me all those days, weeks, months, years, decades, centuries before and placed me there. Did Maeve really toss me back up to have all these eyes on me? To be danced around like a bonfire?

     The people disappeared and the giant indoor sun went out. It was no place to sleep – on some table made of silver. Please Maeve, I prayed through broken teeth, send another storm, set me free once more.  

*

Biography

Bayveen O’Connell lives in Dublin and delights in dark things. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in The Bohemyth, Nilvx, Rag Queen Periodical and Molotov Cocktail. She is currently seeking a home for her Historical Gothic novel set in a medieval village. 

Kurt Tucholsky; Flu Remedy

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
Flu Remedy

At the earliest signs of the flu—recognizable by a slight tingling in the nose, foot cramps, coughing, a shortage of money, and an aversion to going to work the next morning—one should gargle a pinch of ground cocaine mixed with half a drop of iodine. This helps the flu to take hold.

The flu, also known as Spanish flu, influenza, and the common cold (in latin: the sniffles), is spread by nervous bacteria which have themselves come down with a cold: the so-called infectious animalcules. The flu is sometimes accompanied by fever, which begins at 128 degrees Fahrenheit. On days when the stock-markets are strong, the flu is somewhat milder; when the markets are weak the flu is stronger—so it’s generally stronger. In order to expedite contagion, male flu-sufferers are advised to kiss a woman; female flu-sufferers, a man. Consult a medical professional if you are unsure of your sex. Contagion can also be achieved by visiting a cough-house (or so-called “theater”). But avoid covering your mouth when you cough: this is unhealthy for the bacteria. The flu is not strictly-speaking contagious, but it is an infectious disease.

Cold compresses always did my husband the world of good—for best results cook up a warm batch of semolina pudding, pack it in a linen cloth, eat it, and then give the patient some brandy—within two hours the patient should be tipsy; after another hour, blind drunk. In lieu of cognac, furniture polish can also be used.

It’s best to avoid all vegetables, soup, butter, bread, fruit, compote and dessert. Homoeopaths are advised to lick a five-Pfennig stamp three times a day, or, if the fever is particularly high, a ten-Pfennig stamp.

One must not leave the bed under any circumstances—it does not necessarily have to be one’s own bed. In case of chills, woolen stockings should be worn, preferably around the neck. To avoid bare legs, wrap each leg in a detachable shirt collar. The main thing is warmth: so a trip to the thermal baths is in order. On the return journey, make sure to sit on the top deck of the omnibus, but have the other passengers close their mouths to avoid a draught.

Conventional medicine is powerless against the flu. It is therefore a idea good to hang a pendulum over the belly: if it swings from right to left, it’s influenza; but if it swings from left to right then you’ve got a cold on your hands. Wash your hands immediately and proceed to Dr. Weissenberg for treatment. Take the white cheese he prescribes and smear it directly onto the flu; sticking it to the underside of the bed is a sign of medical ignorance and hard-heartedness.

Under no circumstances should you bring this mysterious ailment to a so-called “Doctor.” If you have the flu you’re better off asking Frau Meyer. Frau Meyer always has a remedy. If there is an outbreak of flu within a circle of acquaintances, it is sufficient for one member of the circle to seek treatment—the others can just follow the same instructions.

Principal remedies include: Camomile tea, elderberry tea, magnolia tea. rubbertree tea, and cactus tea.

These remedies go back to our grandmother’s days and are not particularly effective. Our modern age has seen the advent of new means of supporting the pharmaceutical industry. Popular flu remedies include: Aspirol, Pyrimidine, Bysopeptan, Ohrolax, Primadonna, Bellapholisiin, and Ethyl-Phenil-Lekaryl-Parapherinan Dynamite acetylene Koollomban-Piporol—In the latter case, it’s enough to pronounce the name several times in quick succession. Take all these remedies immediately—for as long as they help—in alphabetical order (“Ph” counts as a single letter). Bicarbonate of soda also does wonders for one’s health.

Prophylactic injections (lac, from the Greek. Lit: “milk” or “lake”) are proven to be particularly successful after treatment. These injections have a 100% success rate in cases of flu which are already over.

Americans are known to treat flu by filling cold compresses with hot Swedish punch; Italians keep their right arm extended in the air for long durations; the French ignore the flu, just as they ignore the winter, while the Viennese write lengthy feuilletons each time they fall ill. We Germans tend to treat the matter more methodically:

We go to bed, catch the flu and don’t get up again until we have a really high fever—at which point we rush off into the city to take care of some urgent business or other. A telephone by the bedside of female patients can considerably lengthen the course of the illness.

The flu was invented by the English priest, Rev. Jonathan Flue in 1725; it has been scientifically curable since 1724.

The signs of a full recovery include back pain, coughing, foot cramps, and a slight tingling sensation in the nose. These symptoms however do not belong—as the layman might be inclined to believe—to the old flu, but to a new one. The duration of a common domestic house-flu is three weeks with medical treatment, twenty-one days without medical treatment. Additionally, male patients suffer from so-called “self-pity” with roughly the same amount of fuss that women exhibit during childbirth.

Julius Caesar’s go-to remedy for flu was laurel-leaf soup; at the Vanderbilts’ palace they prefer platinum-broth with soft-boiled pearls.

I’d like to conclude my remarks on the subject with the words of the world-renowned Fluologist Professor Dr. Dr. Dr. Ovaritius: The flu is not a disease—It’s a state of being!

1931

Translated by Daniel Kennedy

*

Biography

Kurt Tucholsky (1890–1935) was a German-Jewish writer, journalist and one of the most influential satirists of his time. He wrote under multiple pseudonyms for a variety of magazines and newspapers, most notably die Weltbühne. He tirelessly and mercilessly satirised those he considered to be the enemies of democracy and human rights, but grew increasingly pessimistic about the future of his country.
He left Germany in 1924 and travelled widely before eventually settling in Sweden in 1930. In 1933 the Nazis revoked his German citizenship and burned his books.

Mitchell King; The Fairy With The Turquoise Hair

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
The Fairy With The Turquoise Hair

(Part 2)

 “Do you remember anything from before?”

“I don’t believe there is anything to remember. I exist because I was Dreamed.”

“Have you ever undergone, sorry to be rude, but…studies?”

“If you are asking if I’ve ever been poked by men in white coats, then yes, and you’re right to be

sorry.”

“Did they disclose anything to you?”

“About myself?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

……..

“Would you like to ask if I’ve ever had a period or any other intrusive questions while you’re here?”

“No!—I just—well, have you?”

“I was Dreamed by a seven year old boy in 1946—I have nothing but a smile and blue hair. Peter didn’t think to make me anatomically correct.”

“So, you’ve continued to exist years after Peter died.”

“Yes, he died young and I don’t age and now I think I’d like it if you left.”

“Are you angry at him?”

 

When The Fairy With The Turquoise Hair slammed her door behind me, I stood on her front porch under a trellis of wisteria and whispered to her blue oak door my last question—I had been too afraid to ask in our five minute interview—do you wish you didn’t exist?

I came home from Maine and our father had three new pairs of goggles and it was dusk and he was getting ready to head out and walk the same corpse roads looking for the dead and he offered me some chocolate milk and I said yes and he said he would make it special which means he just adds a splash of French Vanilla coffee creamer to it and it does taste better but I think drinking milk this way is going to clog his heart.

When I woke up I was holding a twitching hand with pearlescent nail polish and my hair was blue. I went downstairs and waved the hand at dad and he said “nice hair” and I threw the latest hand into the pile and it disturbed the butterflies into a ripple of flying orange and insect smell.

Our house is on stilts. Hanging from it is a garden fed by rain run-off and in the back yard there is a large oak tree beside a honey suckle plant and some nondescript shrubs that bud violet in the late summer. Our house has three bedrooms. Sometimes in the spring a wind will ride up against the house and the timber holding it up will lean. The house will snap back into place. We lock all the cabinets shut in the spring so the dishes don’t fall out.

“I think I’m going to go back to Maine and see The Fairy With The Turquoise Hair.”

“Would she like that?”

“Yeah, we got along famously.”

_

“Come home with me.”

“Get off my porch.”

Spring is colder in Maine than it is back home and I saw inside her house how she had the logs dancing into her small fireplace.

“Can you change things?”

The logs stopped dancing.

“Why would I change anything for you?”

“Because you are The Fairy With—“

“I know my name. What do you want changed.”

“Is dream stuff identical—composition wise—to the real thing?”

“What do you mean? Most of the time Dreamers bring back unique things.”

“I’m bringing back hands. Is it as real as a hand from this world?”

 

Spring is a season of mud and butterflies. Our backyard is a mess with them both and the fairy had to lift her skirts as I showed her the pile and the butterflies and the smell and the red mud around the pile which was held together by chicken wire like a compost heap and I told her how sometimes when I come outside I find foxes chewing on the fingertips and I have to chase them away with a broom and she felt sad but she told me she couldn’t guarantee and then our father introduced himself and I could tell he thought she was pretty because he told her the joke he only tells pretty women and she asked about the goggles and he got embarrassed and I told him it was alright because I told her everything—that she was here to help—and he smiled wide and toothy and I could see the caps on his teeth and I think the fairy liked him too because she likes wood things and one of his teeth is polished and finished sycamore and then they went inside and he offered her some chocolate milk with a splash of creamer and the fairy giggled because she had never heard of drinking milk that way before and our dad said it was a family secret and I heard all this from outside because I have good hearing but I didn’t come in I just kept counting the butterflies on the pile of ivory hands and I kept losing count at 350 but some would leave and others would come back and I don’t have a word for a hive of monarch butterflies except maybe to say a “court” of butterflies or a “palace” and they shifted and blurred and I couldn’t see them as individuals anymore because they were a kaleidoscope because I had water was in my eyes and it seemed like a breathing heap of smell and orange and I wanted to lay in the mud but instead I went inside and took a shower.

 

The Fairy With The Turquoise Hair was standing over me as I counted sheep and I could hear her wand swishing in the dark air above my bed. Before that I told her what I wouldn’t tell dad— about ache and memory and heartwounds and she said my tears might help so she caught each one with the tip of her wand and I sank further into the bed.

“I don’t know if this will work.”

“I appreciate you’re trying your best.”

Dad had said she could sleep in the empty third bedroom and sometimes you hear things and it opens a space in the middle of your body like a small black hole and all you feel is empty and sucking and light draining.

“The angles of your room are helping—did you do this yourself?”

“I’ve been rearranging it for months trying to get the layout right for this.”

“You want whole things.”

“I want whole things.”

And then her wand touched my forehead right between my eyes and she said something about the third eye and chakras and bringing imagined manifestations into reality but I fluttered shut my eyes and thought things like the vowels of your name.

*

Biography

Mitchell King is a runaway witch living in Kansas City. Someday he hopes to colonize the moon.

Natalia Godsmark; The Bridge

February 25, 2018 — Leave a comment
The Bridge

 

Sarah

I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands clamped over my ears. Matthew is crying again. I can’t listen anymore. He never stops. Never. I just…need some sleep.

            Nine years, we tried. Nine long years. Every month I would let myself get caught up in excitement; maybe this month will be the month. And each month reality would hit me like a punch in the stomach and I would weep and sob and rage. I would sit in the bathroom, the drip of the tap mirroring the dull thud of my heart, while the fan would sigh with me. I would flush the toilet and it would roar in anger. And then I would pick myself off the cool bathroom tiles and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. Get back to the slow rhythm of my life.

            Then one day it happened. Just like that.

Matthew was conceived, quite out of the blue, when I had long stopped thinking it was a possibility. I was 39 and Jonathon was 40. Our little miracle.

Nine uncomfortable months later, he was born, with dark, wide eyes just like his father’s, but with a soft jawline and fairer hair like my own. The desperate longing I had felt for nearly ten years was satisfied; I would never want for anything else.

            And now, just two weeks later, I sit at the edge of my bed, with my hands clamped firmly around my ears. How can a creature, so tiny and beautiful, make that sound for so many hours a day? He’s hungry again. Or maybe he has wind? Or maybe he just doesn’t love me?

I don’t know what to do. I can’t hold him all day and all night. I need some sleep. I just…need some sleep.

            Jonathon picks him up and hold him until his screams quieten to soft little mews.

            “Sarah,” he says, tiptoeing forward to sit beside me on the bed, “I think he might be hungry.”

            I reach for Matthew without a word. Let the bruise-coloured bags beneath my eyes do the talking.

            Jonathon puts his hand on my shoulder and together we watch Matthew’s tiny mouth latch onto my nipple. He suckles furiously and I close my eyes.

“Once you’ve fed him, just go to sleep. I can watch him,” Jonathon says.

            I shake his hand off me. “I’m fine,” I say. And I am fine. All I need is Matthew.

 

Jonathon       

For the fifth time tonight (or is it the morning?) Matthew’s screams pull me back to consciousness.

I was having that dream again, or I guess it was a memory. Isobel and me on a night out in London eating at a restaurant overlooking Tower Bridge. She was telling me her plans, her hopes for the future. They didn’t involve me. Not the way I wanted to be involved anyway. I had started a row; how could she be thinking about these sorts of things without consulting me? Didn’t she want to be with me?

No, it turned out, she didn’t. Because when sweet, innocent Sarah had come along, she had pushed us together. Practically set us up. Sarah who wanted a football team of children and whose life plans involved making her future husband and children very happy.

            I can see now it was the turning point of my life, that night at Tower Bridge. Had I not started the argument, who knows what would have happened? Perhaps Isobel and I would have stayed together, making each other miserable, each of us putting ourselves before the other. And Sarah and I wouldn’t have ended up together; we’d never have suffered through those ten unbearable years of what we thought was infertility.

            I pick up my son. My beautiful, very noisy, little boy, and, for the first time after dreaming of that night, I feel no sadness that it happened at all. Sarah mumbles in her sleep and I brush a loose tendril of hair off her face.

I take Matthew into the living room and lie him on my chest.

            “Ave Maria, Gratia plena…” I sing, and very soon, his whimpers become the snuffles of sleep.

*

Biography

Natalia Godsmark recently resigned from her day job as a Compliance Officer in an Asset Management organisation (but she’s a much more interesting person than that makes her sound). She has a one year old and is currently trying her hand at writing flash fiction and short stories. In April this year, she was longlisted for the OhZoe Rising Talent Award with two children’s story manuscripts.

Natalia Godsmark; Da Capo

October 1, 2017 — Leave a comment
Da Capo

Sarah

I sit in the church hall, listening. The soloist is singing over the hum of chattering guests: “Ave Maria…gratia plena…”

My heart is racing like the staccato beat of a metronome. But it’s not from nerves; my day has finally arrived.

I close my eyes and take in a long, deep breath. The scent of wild flowers woven through my hair fills my nostrils.

A choir joins the soloist and I open my eyes, blinking back the brightness of the day.

Linda hands me my glass of champagne. “One more sip for luck!”

I take a gulp and the bubbles fizz on my tongue.

“Are you ready?” Dad asks. He holds out an arm and I take it, pulling myself up and giggling.

“As I’ll ever be,” I say with a wink. He guides me to the huge wooden doors and they open with a percussive bang. And as the Wedding March begins I see my Jonathon turn, and a warm, happy smile spreads across his face.

 

Jonathon

             Married… My goodness. Married! Well if that doesn’t draw a line under things, I don’t know what will. 

I had allowed myself one final glance at her before Sarah arrived. One peep. Imagined it was her walking up the aisle. That it would be her wrapped in my arms tonight. She was wearing scarlet lipstick – she knew I loved that. And a dress that fit her curves so snugly I had to avert my eyes, for fear I might give myself away.

            The choir was silenced and the organist began to play the Wedding March. Sarah looked beautiful, of course. But it was never her looks that I objected to.

She just…wasn’t Isobel.

I got through the vows, a Cheshire cat grin plastered across my face. You proposed, I remind myself. You set all this in motion.

I remember her face when I told her. Remember the blink of surprise and then the smile, all teeth and red, juicy lips.

“I hope you have a very happy life together,” she had said, without a hint of hurt, regret, or anything to suggest she didn’t mean exactly what she said.

So that is what I plan to do.

 

Sarah

            The crescendo of the babbling guests is broken when my husband stands to deliver the Groom’s speech and the best man tings on a glass with a teaspoon.

“Thank you all for coming today, to join my wife (ha ha!) and I on this very special day. Those of you who know us well know we met studying music at Nottingham Uni. Those of you who know me well know singing is my strength; speeches have never really been my forte (ha ha!) Probably because my jokes always fall flat (ha ha!)…”

            Jonathon’s face is the picture of happiness. I hope when we have children they favour him in looks; his smiling eyes, his square jawline and his wide, handsome grin.

            When the speeches and wedding breakfast is over, he pulls me from my chair to cut the cake with him. His eyes glisten as he places his hand over mine around the handle of the knife.

            And then it’s time for the first dance. My friend, Maya, sings ‘The way you look tonight’. Jonathon chose it. Said it would describe how he knew he was going to feel on the day; that I would be beautiful. Hand in hand, we glide towards the stage and begin our slow dance. The pools of his deep brown eyes lock on my own and I feel as though I am the only person in the world that matters to him.

            “I love you,” I say, and he kisses me softly and slowly on the lips. Our guests cheer wildly, dragging me back to the moment.

            In music, there is a term ‘da capo’ that means ‘from the beginning.’ It is written as a directive to return the musician to the start of the score and repeat what he has just played.

If this day was a piece of music, I would write da capo here.

*

Biography

Natalia Godsmark recently resigned from her day job as a Compliance Officer in an Asset Management organisation (but she’s a much more interesting person than that makes her sound). She has a one year old and is currently trying her hand at writing flash fiction and short stories. In April this year, she was longlisted for the OhZoe Rising Talent Award with two children’s story manuscripts.

Brian Dunster; The Tangram Enigma

October 1, 2017 — Leave a comment
The Tangram Enigma

It began with a retired astronomer discovering a comet on a direct course for Earth. He never really retired but officials really wish that he had after identifying the ball of fire and doom. Over the many days the world leaders were presented with very few options on dealing with the crisis at hand. Fearing they would make the wrong decision they decided to let the public choose. They swore to honour and uphold the people’s vote, no matter the outcome. But this was a world that thought “Boaty McBoat Face” and “Trainy McTrain Face” were great names for transportation vehicles. If the politicians had any mercy they would have just blown up the planet then and there. At least that way it’d save a major embarrassment.

Three options where put before the population of our once round planet.

Option One: Send a team of highly experienced, highly skilled, astronauts to the surface of the comet, plant an explosive device deep inside its belly, and detonate from a safe distance. This plan was given a sixty five to seventy percent chance of working. And was suggested by the Hollywood elite.

Option Two: Send several nuclear warheads into space and blast it to pieces. If it didn’t completely destroy the comet it would limit the damage to the planet. Some planet was better than no planet at all. This plan was given a meagre thirty three percent probability of success. But of the three options it was voted the second most favourite.

Option Three: Calculate the precise point of impact of the comet, dig a massive hole to the other side of the planet, then simply let the comet fly through. It was nicknamed “Holey McHole Face.” It had a minus infinity chance of effectively avoiding disaster but won by a staggering three quarters of the vote. The voting turn out was the highest in the world’s history and all the experts agreed that they wish it hadn’t been.

Before the hole had even reached the core of the planet (which they never fully figured how to bypass) the comet struck. Its destructive power was amplified by the giant crater we had provided it with. It caused the core to erupt and the Earth shattered into pieces. Billions died. It was absolute chaos. At least, that’s how the elders tell it. I wasn’t even born then. All I have ever known is this flat piece of rock we call Plana Petram. You can see the edge from every direction if you’re high enough. But I’ve never been that high. There’s only one building with that kind of view and if you’re smart you’d avoid it completely.

We were never told any other story other than the one the Governingmen taught. They tell us Plana Petram was formed by The Goods and gave Manly Men the power to rule. One Manly Man in particular, President Comfort. People forget what he looks like now. He’s not one for making appearances. But he has been in charge for as long as I’ve been alive. Before even. He resides in the tallest building at the centre of Plana Petram inside The Ministry of Stuff and Things.

It is here Governingmen deal with all the important issues that face our world. We’re not quite sure what they are but we’re told it’s extremely tedious and that there is seldom time to worry about the problems of the people, such as hunger and medicine.

But there has been a growing distaste towards our Governingmen as of late. People are sick and tired of the lack of attention they receive. But they better be careful for what they wish for. The Governingmen may not care about the everyday woes of us common folk, but they do have an interest in what we are up to. Those who were caught preaching tales of a round Earth were either mysteriously murdered or suspiciously killed. But those who managed to survive and are brave enough to tell their stories to whomever will listen, do so because they believe that we are only but one Plana Petram. In fact, they believe there are seven in total. They call this The Tangram Enigma.

I have been around for three hundred full moons. This world is the only one I have ever known. But the idea that there are other pieces of rocks like ours fills me with excitement. I can’t stop imagining them out there, floating about in space, perhaps thinking the same things we are. I wonder what their world looks like? Are the people a somewhat similar shape? Do they

tell the same stories of a round Earth? Do they worship the same Goods or different ones, or none at all? I have a dangerously curious need to find these answers. But I need to do it quietly, and away from the ever watchful eyes of the Governingmen. That is why, as of tomorrow, I start a new job inside the Ministry of Stuff and Things. There is no better place to find the truth and no better place to stay under the radar, right under their very own noses.

*

Biography

Brian has an itch… A mighty big itch. But it is no ordinary itch, oh no. It’s an itch for storytelling. Brian creates for a living. He can not see himself doing anything else. He has spent the last ten years building a portfolio of work, producing short films, music videos, and short stories. Brian studied film and television in IADT Dun Laoghaire and since graduating in 2011 has been evolving and honing his skills ever since.  He has won awards for his work, winning Best Student Film at the Kerry Film Festival ion 2011, and has showcased several other projects in numerous festivals across Ireland, including the Jameson International Film Festival and Cork Fastnet Film Festival, to name but a few. Keep up to date on his Facebook page – https://www.facebook.com/dunsterpictures and check out some of his work on Vimeo – https://vimeo.com/briandunster

Aviva Treger; What Came Out Of The Box

October 1, 2017 — Leave a comment
What Came Out Of The Box

He carried the head of Stooky Bill along clifftop paths yellow with gorse, above the beach where dinosaur footprints claw the rocks.

He thought about Genesis; he dropped his Woodbine and crushed it underfoot. Uncoiling his tie, he thought,

‘What if, in the beginning, on his first attempt, God’s creations…failed to work?’

The idea filled him with hope.

On that new morning, shadows then sunlight bled through the glen – silver evolving to gold.                                       

***

In a green glade, a chime of water pattered from a wall of old stone, curving like the dark side of a half-moon. Droplets glinting reminded him of the diamonds he once tried to invent from an alchemy of base elements. The memory made him sit  and rake his hair.

Hush descended and the rhythmic plink of the water swelled. The world basked in a lush soporific lull. Insects circled in shafts of light.

***                                                      

From his knapsack he wrenched the head of Stooky Bill and propped him up in the moss amongst the butterflies.

Bill’s features kindled forming bulbous scowls and glowers. In a rasp like a dry susseration of kicked leaves, a crackling became words.

‘You…set fire to my hair’, he said. ‘You scorched me.’
The Inventor yawned and slid off his shoes, massaging his feet in their pneumatic undersocks.

‘Haha’, he replied. ‘Experiments go wrong.’

He gurned a silly grin as compensation.
Bill growled for a while then he said,

‘When you’re not looking…I’ll have revenge – an eye for an eye’.

He leered.
The Inventor scratched his peeling sunburn. He recalled the human eye he once took possession of – to study how it worked, how it saw, if it could be fabricated and a new one invented.

He sighed.

‘And one day’, he said, ‘I’ll succeed’.

He bit his lip and his face dissolved.
‘I know the future’, said Bill. He lurched forward, his grimace distorting.

‘…and I guarantee your success’.

His voice sharpened and heightened: sly, zealous and hammy.

‘But out of your box of tricks you’ll summon a devil’, he said.

‘A putrifyer of minds…an un-stitcher of decency…a swindler of time…’
The Inventor chomped on his luncheon meat sandwich. He interrupted, tutting.

‘How can you know anything?’ he said.

‘You’re not alive’.
Bill’s chin plummeted.

‘I know secrets’, he said.

‘They would shock you.’

He seethed and jolted.

There was a pause and the trees shimmered. Over the cliffs, the sea dragged in shingle with the waves. A whirling murder of crows brawled across Fairlight Glen.

***

The Inventor rose and scooped his palms under the spring. He snatched up the clunky head of Stooky Bill and eyed him – the singed hair and the cracked cheeks. He fought an urge to sling him far into the copse, but instead he cooed.

‘Will you help me?’, he asked.

Bill’s lips twisted into a rictus.

‘Will you do exactly as I say?’ he answered.

***

At that moment, the sun vanished and the glade dimmed to a monochrome. A gust of wind snaked through the undergrowth; the giant ferns flustered. The air smelt feral – heavy with intent. The Inventor hurried off up the hill just as a silver veil of rain descended.

When the first flash of lightning blinded the landscape, he was out in the open meadow.

Stooky Bill wriggled, still in his grip, biting for attention.

‘If you want inspiration’, he said, ‘deep profound inspiration, my advice is to get struck by lightning.’
The Inventor snorted.

‘How ridiculous’, he said.

And yet he stopped. He peered up into the downpour, into the pewter sky where a window of ivory light revealed the hidden realms. From it, a crepuscular beam captured him in pearlescence and for a moment he thought he saw moving figures in the glow – angels or ghosts.

He shut his eyes and prayed to the deity of brainstorms, the god of invention. He exhaled with a theatrical whine and spread his arms wide – slavish, a willing initiate. As the wind whipped and the rain spattered and thrashed, he waited for revelation.
But nothing happened. Over the English Channel, opaque lightning skimmed the horizon far away. The Inventor slouched home, with his tweed suit sopping and the beginnings of yet another cold.

***

For a long time afterwards, Stooky Bill refused to speak and increased his puckish tampering with the instrument dials in the workshop. The Inventor continued his experiments frequently having to check the safety of his settings. Then one day, out of the blue, Bill reanimated and addressed him.

‘Do you want to remain a failure all your life?’ he said.
The Inventor made an O shape with his mouth.

He replied, ‘What the hell have you been doing with my equipment?’

‘I’m trying to help you succeed’, said Bill.

The Inventor scoffed at this. He chewed his fingernails.

‘It’ll cause an accident’, he muttered.

Bill continued in a pompous tone.

‘I suggest a new beginning, John’, he said.

‘A renewal of our efforts. I’m taking charge of the experiments now’.

The Inventor balled his fists. His face flushed. He glared at his shoes.

Then he roared. He grabbed Stooky Bill by the throat and squeezed. He shouted obscenities. He hurled him against the wall with a savage thwack and stormed from the room.

***

The next day, he returned. As the door swung open, the workshop seemed different: fresher, with a keen new clarity like the green smell of foliage after rain. He searched for Bill but his box was empty. He fetched James instead to sit under the lights.

The tests continued as normal but the electricity kept flickering on and off; so the Inventor examined the plugs and wires – and that’s when it happened. A crackle juddered the rig, a venomous hiss of a spark; and the next thing he knew, he was hammered across the floor to the opposite end of the studio, thrust backwards through space by a thousand volts.

As he lay howling, the angels from the portal of ivory sky seized him. They whispered and whirred; they exhaled sibilate cryptic knowledge over him like a crystalline mist. They bound him tightly with a crisp bolt from the blue and anointed him with eminence.

‘I’ve been initiated’, he raved, and in a hoarse bark, he cried out again and again for Stooky Bill; then he sobbed until he laughed.

***

Afterwards, the Landlord of the building inspected the damage. He surveyed the workshop with a thunderous face.

‘Your demonstrations are unsafe’, he said.

The Inventor gestured with bandaged hands, his voice febrile, frenzied.

‘But I’m doing very important work here’, he said.

‘I’m sending moving pictures through wireless – this machine is called a televisor. It will change the world’.

The Landlord stared at his equipment – the tea chest, the bicycle lights, the darning needles and the hat box. He grimaced through his moustache.

‘He’s a lunatic’, he thought.

Then he asked, ‘Why are you holding the head of a ventriloquist’s dummy?’
The Inventor tittered.

‘This is Stooky Bill’, he replied, ‘my effusive muse.’ He hugged Bill like a puppy.

‘He’s made me see the light!’ he said.

‘And in return, wooden though he is, I’ve promised Bill a gift – that he’ll become the world’s first

televised actor’.

He screeched with glee.

‘Him! An actor!’

The Landlord stiffened. He reached into his coat pocket.

‘Sir, I must evict you before there’s another catastrophe’, he said.

‘Here’s official notice’.
He placed an envelope on the table, half in the light, half in the shade; and on it, bold handwriting spelt out a name – John Logie Baird.

A gleam of pale sunshine touched the Inventor’s cheek, reflecting off the rim of his glasses as his smile waned. And then the scene faded – in colour, in brightness, in sharpness, in contrast, until all that remained was a dark grey mist in a hopeless storm, dissolving away into a single white dot.

*

Biography

Aviva Treger was born in Hastings. She studied Ancient History at UCL then later trained as an actor with Questors Theatre in Ealing. She’s a new writer, with two short stories published in her first year – ‘Wake Up To Yourself’ and ‘Unturn This Stone’ both appear in story anthologies: their genres are sci-fi and speculative fiction.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Aviva-Treger/e/B01MSS5CE4/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16117082.Aviva_Treger

https://www.facebook.com/aviva.treger/about?lst=658070915%3A658070915%3A1500139235&section=bio&pnref=about

Cathal Gunning; Trinkets

October 1, 2017 — Leave a comment
Trinkets 

In his eyes the medals themselves were little more than trinkets, the small scraps of hard shiny things which magpies would retrieve, according to David Attenborough, to impress their prospective mates. He never gave voice to this view, knowing too well the reaction it would augur; vague but passionate protests informing him that medals meant bravery and valour and honour, that they represented in their featherweight physical presence some ineffable something which mattered in deep, philosophical terms. Lightweight medals were, he’d be told, rendered heavy by the meaning attached to them. The Jesuits were right, though; you couldn’t take it with you, macabre as the thought may have been. For all practical, rational intents and purposes, communion was wafer-meal and medals were merely trinkets. The war, commemorative jewellery aside, was a leaden weight all of its own, and each alone knew whether it left them proud and honourable or empty of anything other than nightmares of abetment.

As a result of his dim view of them the medals spent the early years of their lives—the later years of his—sitting at the bottom of a thin-wood sock drawer, safely entombed away from imaginary thieves. An ideal army man would have no trouble tracking down these thieves to retrieve his honours, but he was getting old, his chest weighing him down when he walked, his gait stooping. He never knew whether he would bother to retrieve the medals if they were to go missing; he never wanted to know, uncertain what the trinkets meant to him and unsure what he wanted them to mean. What meaning he was intended to gleam from them.

When he died, the medals became his youngest son’s, taken from one drawer to be ferreted away into another, the charity-shop beech-wood dresser too big and imposing for a one-storey starter home bedroom. The bedroom was overstuffed, its space stolen by both the dresser and a double bed big enough for two and too small for a third. The move came after the baby and the medals, like so many other trinkets over the years, went missing somewhere along the line. Some evening when they were out, a rare treat during the baby’s first year, the medals were stolen away, the earache squawk of a car alarm ignored by anonymous neighbours, the medals missing along with the no-cash which young parents keep at home, a handful of costume jewellery earrings, a half-dozen syringes, and a car radio, invaluable back then. The pile of erstwhile belongings, an odd mix, was deposited on the forest floor inside the thick woods at the foot of the Wicklow mountains.

The medals were stashed at the foot of an oak, overgrown and towering, blotting out any rumours of sunlight and the rattling persistence of rain. Over time they grew worn, mildewed, the skin of thin gold wearing grimy with age. There were great intentions to retrieve the medals, to resell them for far more than their former owners thought they were worth, to pawn metal into money and opportunities, the freedom to leave. The handful of syringes, though, were filled with insulin, pig’s insulin back then, great unfiltered quantities of it. The mistake was obvious a second too late, a gift which looked too good to be true and was. The medal thieves never did get a chance to return to the woods, sitting and succumbing to hypoglycaemia, the shivering mix of dry-mouth lethargy and a hot-temple tension headache, muscles feeling numb and atrophied as they watched the light of a living room fade into murky, single colour stillness.

The medals sat, eventually knotted over by tenacious weeds, coated by dewy moss and settled into the earth. The forest was a reprieve in winter and summer alike, from torrential downpours and muggy heat respectively. The medals were side-stepped and tripped over by two generations of dog walkers and underage drinkers, by awkward first shifts and newlyweds, by divorcees and last chance widowers. They sat undisturbed for years, precious metal reclaimed by the scattered rocks and piles of overgrowth.

The forest was scheduled for demolition when he visited, and he was surprised to find himself discomfited by the empty darkness of the fairytale woods, still as large and looming as he remembered it being when he was a boy. He grew up near the woods, or so he had been told; he was too young to remember when they moved, when a rash of recent robberies unnerved his parents, convincing the young couple this was no place to raise a child. If they lost anything of value, they never mentioned it, though very little was of value to them, his mother reminding him “You can’t take it with you”, a phrase which never sat right with him.

Peering into the depth of the woods, he wished he hadn’t brought his youngest. At six, she was old enough to explore, roaming far enough and covering ground fast enough to get lost, but too young to find her way back. She was already leading the charge, stumble-running through the uneven floor of the forest, little footsteps just missing the protrusions of rock and tripwires of tree root-piles. She stopped before the first clearing, her magpie-eyes distracted by something shiny. He winced, walking to her in brisk steps, hoping she was reaching for the glossy gold of a King crisp packet and not the sharp point of a half-crushed discarded can of Dutch.

She picked it up before he could pick her up and walk her away, a little handful of gold, lighter than it looked, its surface tarnished but unmistakeably real precious metal. He frowned, following her eyes to the pile in front of her. They could have been real for all he knew, a discarded handful of commemorations, gold plated and weather-beaten, or they might have just been convincing costume jewellery, the same as the earrings beside them. Trinkets, worth whatever they meant to you.

*

Biography

Born in Blackrock, Cathal now splits his time between Dublin and Mayo. In university, he authored opinion pieces and satirical cartoons for the University Observer and film criticism for the College Tribune, and was selected for UCD’s career mentor programme. He contributed “Malahide” to online collective ‘Snakes of Various Consistency’, and he is an editor and co-founder of the online poetry, non-fiction, and literature collective ‘Cold Coffee Stand’ (www.coldcoffeestand.com). His story “Hearts/Sinews” was short-listed for the Hennessy New Irish Writing competition and his poetry has been published in The Rose Magazine (‘Hark’, Issue 4). His debut novel ‘Innocents’ will be published by Solstice on September 30th, 2017. Excerpts from ‘Innocents’ have been short-listed for the 2015 Maeve Binchy Award and the Cuttyhunk Island Writer’s Residency.