As an Independent, I will work with other parties to deliver the results that are needed. I was a Conservative Councillor, as you know, so I already have the connections to do this. You say there isn’t enough honesty in politics. I always tell the truth, as I see it. That it does not always match your truth does not make me a liar. It just means that you don’t have access to the information that I have. Truth is subjective. Let me represent you for the next five years. Or until the court date. Vote Bracketson for Honesty! Honestly...
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She’d left him. He felt as though his world had collapsed.
He wandered from room to room. Everything reminded him of her. Books, sewing machine, half-finished knitting on the coffee table. Was she missing them? Was she missing him? She’d done this before but eventually came back, contrite and apologetic. But what if she didn’t this time? She was really annoyed earlier, accusing him of never listening to her. If she came back again, he would take more notice. ‘Sorry I’m late, Sammy. The shops were busy. 'You’re hungry aren’t you, boy? Fetch your bowl. I’ll get your dinner.’ Jessica opened the last birthday card. ‘To Jessica. Happy Birthday, with love from Zack. XXX.’
Zack was the best-looking boy in her class, and to think he had sent her a birthday card and signed it that way made her feel giddy. Jessica secretly loved him, but didn’t know he felt the same about her. That day at school she sidled up to him and said, ‘Thank you for my birthday card, Zack.’ ‘What card?’ said Zack. ‘I never sent you a card.’ Jessica heard laughter from Chantelle and Aurora behind her, and she realised who had. My fingers graze a jar of pasta sauce. Your favourite brand is on sale. All at once I’m victimized by the unexpected poignant moment in aisle 5. Nostalgic for laughing in our galley kitchen as you threw noodles at the wall to check for doneness. You zigging for the bowls, me zagging for the forks. Our well-rehearsed bachata in the narrow space. I never cared much for dancing, not until you, not since you. I squeaky wheel my cart away from the memory and decide to make tacos instead.
Something peculiar seemed to be happening with time so that when I looked down into the deep red of my wine, I got lost in the infinitely slow process, of picking fruit, from vines planted where Roman Legions once trudged. But then looking up and around the table in the treacherous candlelight, I found the conversation hurtling headlong to a decision made without my participation about my future.
Every cigar was cut and lit. Every Cognac glass filled and every chair leaned back in satisfaction from a suitable conclusion for all but me. I would be the next party leader. “Grandson found a tuxedo kitten at the dump last week and gave it to me,” she said, joining her friend for coffee at Dunks. “I call him Trouble.”
“That is one goodhearted young man. You needed company after your old tom died last year.” “Yeah, harder to lose that cat than my husband. I got all the stuff but can't lift anything heavy so had to buy this special ultra-light, wicked expensive litter called Shovelbum.” “Some committee had fun with that name! Where you dig it up?” “It came in a camouflaged box so it was pretty hard to find.” Fred stood outside the room, in all his years as a hospital porter turning away visitors who wanted to say goodbye to their terminally ill friend never got any easier.
‘Sorry, family only.’ Fred said to the stranger who tried to enter. The stranger and the duty nurse both gave Fred an odd look. ‘You can see me?’ the stranger asked summoning a scythe from thin air. Fred nodded, his heart clenched. Had he just told Death that he couldn’t claim a soul? ‘It seems I’m not here for them,’ Death said pointing into the room. ‘I’m here for you.’ If you vote for me in the forthcoming election, I promise I will:
You know you can trust me to deliver all of these pledges! You know it makes sense to vote for me! At 6’5½” I’m head and shoulders above all the other candidates! Vote me! I really am 6’5½”, of course, so that bit's not fiction – GL When he was 20 John was dreading being 30 much to the chagrin of his 50 year old mother but little did he know how much help would be available.
Each day he can get ready for his visit to the Day Centre with the Long Back Scratcher and the Long Handled Brush and Comb Set. His ablutions are aided by the comfort of the Self Adhesive Loo Cosy and the Long Handled Bottom Wiper. His dressing is completed with the help of the Sock Fitting Aid and the Warm Fleece Insoles. When the door bell rings he’s always ready. Well after midnight. Homesick. Heartsick. Miserable. Another hour before the bus.
A man ate in silence two tables over. Would it be weird to say hello? The young woman tarried on her way past, eyeing his plate curiously. She’d never seen anyone do that. “Did you put mayo on your fried chicken?” Oh no, too late to turn back now. She’d said it aloud. The sage man smiled. “Why, yes I did. Have a seat.” Never more relieved in her life, she happily complied, and the strangers became soul friends as they shared the basket of chicken. I’m an experienced, professional dog-walker with many satisfied customers. But I never expected to have Cerberus (yes, the three-headed giant dog who guards Hell’s Gates) as a client.
When we go to the dog park, all the dogs flee for their lives, as they should, since the first time we went there, Cerberus ate three of them at once (he has three mouths, after all). On the street, he frightens everyone we meet and when he pees, it dissolves fire hydrants, trees and building walls. But how could I refuse Hades? He’s giving me a get-out-of-the-Underworld-free pass. We sit silently around the oval altar suspicious of players, heads bowed, hunched over game masters, calculating the odds of success. Old men, mature women, young studs, and young women, bluffers all, experts at their craft. Each with a plan to lay waste on anyone that dare challenge their superiority.
Each one has their own tale to share, whether of triumph or of being defeated by misfortune, Moirai, the mother of destiny. Each hidden behind a wall of lies. Platitudes, crooked smiles and a pat on the table. The flop, the turn, the river… a microcosm of winners and fish. Lisa's Choice The drifter entered the tavern. He placed his old bag over the bar and asked for a drink. The barkeeper grunted and served him a whiskey. One of the patrons sat next to him and tried to chat amiably.
“Hello! No people come during this time of year. Visiting some folk?” “No. Just passing through” Said the stranger, his gaze down on his glass. “Oh, I see. Maybe you’re looking for a job.” “No. I’m just looking to feed my friend.” Then, something alive shook inside the bag, growling. The stranger opened the bag and let the hungry demon out. Gordon's Choice Jack woke with a start. She was not beside him. He discovered a note on the way to the hotel bathroom. "Dearest Jack, Please forgive me. Today has been so beautiful, too beautiful and life can never be as sublime again. Also the first stirrings of madness have infected my soul once more so I'm returning to the cliffs to end it all. Lisa." He rushed to the cliffs and by dawn's eerie light he viewed her form approach or was it a trick of his eyes or perhaps a ghost? What I particularly like about this story is the reader isn't quite sure what the ending is – Ed Like a book between bookends, my arms extended upwards until my muscles ached, holding their hands. I yearned to wander but they kept me safe between them.
As a teenager, how embarrassing to have to hold their hands before crossing a road. When I was old enough to ignore other’s opinions, I loved to hold their hands and one day, I realised I was protecting them as they’d protected me. Finally, I held their hands while their lives ebbed away. Now all I have is the memory of their hands in mine. How I wish I’d held them for longer. Nightfall came sooner than expected, so he had to act fast, sprinkling salt in front of every entry point to the house and anointing them with protection sigils. By the time she was done, she was ready for bed already, at least till she entered her bedroom. The drawing. The lipstick. When she saw what her daughter did, all the day’s frustrations reached a boiling point. She snatched the lipstick from the girl’s hand and railed at her as she babbled tearful apologies, but to her horror, the door of the drawn house creaked open and an inhuman hand emerged.
Lying in bed, 3 days before high school graduation. My next life chapter is [Top-10 university]. I still remember the first day of high school: so many new faces, new teachers, new campus. “Wow, I am finally a high school student!” That excitement is long gone but what remains is the memory and a slight regret. I wish I took more time to get to know the faces, connect with the teachers, and enjoy the campus. Time moves fast, so let's enjoy the moment. Life is not just about college prep; it’s also about life.
Parents weren't suppose to have favourites but Shelley knew she was Mom's favourite. Her brother and sister accepted their status as second bests.
Art was the bond that kept Shelley and Mom close. As a young woman, Mom had wanted to be an artist but she lacked talent. She worked for the government. Shelley was a successful full-time artist by age thirty. Mom's face glowed when she attended exhibitions. After Mom died, Shelley felt adrift. Her siblings continued on. In time, Shelley remembered her childhood ambition that Mom hadn't liked. At fifty years old, Shelley became a nurse. The cat next door reminded me of my childhood self.
How? You ask. Trapped in a home she didn’t want to belong to. Her searingly painful meows would bounce off the houses nearby and slip into my ears. From dusk till nightfall, she would precariously perch on the lip of the balcony. And make her pleading calls for freedom. Blue Point Birman. Magnificent, but melancholic. She escaped dozens of times, unsuccessfully. About a year later, when I moved, she leapt in my car as I loaded it. I didn’t notice. I didn’t return her. She never meowed like that again. “Come down to the basement,” Ben invited his two sons-in-law. “Let me show you something.”
He carefully slid the treasured bottle off the shelf. “It’s vintage 1961- kept saved for a special occasion.” Each time, the bottle had been gently replaced. The sons-in-law glanced at each other silently recalling: two weddings, the birth of four grandchildren, numerous holiday gatherings. This time however, Ben paused. He reverently wiped off the bottle, uncorked it and produced three small glasses. “A toast,” his voice shook. “The sweetest wine for my sweetest, most beloved wife.” They raised their glasses. The wine had gone bad. “It was a public holiday,” James told his granddaughter. “Many had the day off work.”
He opened a gate. They entered. “She and I were classmates,” he continued. “Were you in love with her?” “I was, but she cared for another. They got engaged, set a wedding date. When it happened...” “What?” the granddaughter interrupted. “An overloaded paddle-steamer capsized and sank. Close to two hundred died.” “Were you onboard, Grandpa?” “No, I had to help on the farm.” They stopped at two graves linked by an overhead arch. He placed his hand on her lichen-encrusted tombstone, tears filling his eyes. Eloise was home alone. The kids were at school. John was at work. She went into John’s office to snoop. She hadn’t done it for a while, not since she discovered John’s password and started reading his email. Her frisson of pleasure was soon punctured when she read John saying to a friend that she showed him ‘no sort of love that he could recognise’.
It was like a dagger in her heart and she ran from the room to her bedroom and collapsed in tears. She was shocked to find she cared that much, that she was so hurt. Rose coloured beads, embroidered on the bodice, twinkled in the afternoon sun, the damask rose skirt moulded itself to a plastic dummy’s legs. It was the most stunning dress Petronella had ever seen.
“You’re beautiful,” her face pressed against the store window. “Twenty-five per cent off in this month’s sale,” preened the dress filling the air with the scent of roses. “I have to wear black for the next six months.” A beaded tear fell. “Mio padre è morto.” Petronella walked away, stooped by the burden of both losses. “I hate black,” muttered the dress, its beads now dulled. No offence, but this German compound word malarkey is a waste of ink, line-space and time.
And we need an extra deep breath before speaking. I know I'm biased, but take my language as an example. We need a new word? Simply steal it. Then mispronounce it. Or portmanteau it Or change the ending: We have bounteous endings, both breathtaking and straightforward, so one is destined to fit. If worst comes to worst, just take an existing English word and give it yet another meaning. We have good words, they can take the extra weight. Steven hadn't invited the cockroaches, but since they'd arrived he'd been treated to hours of company and fun. Look at them now, racing around the crust of mouldy pizza discarded on the floor! He watched them scuttle under unwashed crockery, use the stove as an obstacle course, run upside down along the window frames.
Shifting on the springless sofa, he tried to find a comfortable position for his hernia, cursing when the doorbell rang. As he stood up, his knees buckled and his hands grabbed at air and random objects for support. The avalanche of unread hardbacks buried him alive. |
"Classic"
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