As the eldest it was left up to me and I didn’t know how to tell them it was another project. There was nothing cooking, she was boiling fabric with onion skins to dye it. I grabbed a packet of crackers, cheese and apples. Another Christmas we’d never forget.
There was an air of excitement around the table. Don’t get me wrong, we were still quiet but hopeful and very hungry. We’d sat a while listening to the crash of pans escaping from the crack in the kitchen door, daring each other to ask Mum when it would be ready.
As the eldest it was left up to me and I didn’t know how to tell them it was another project. There was nothing cooking, she was boiling fabric with onion skins to dye it. I grabbed a packet of crackers, cheese and apples. Another Christmas we’d never forget. I stand in the shambles of my parents’ flat and think of Mother, her growing dullness and inertia — soup dripping on the table as she ate, constant glitches with her gadgets, endless lists of doctors’ orders and receipts I had to handle like I lived two bloody lives. This war made me an orphan and a killer. After the missile shelled Mom’s residential area, she was the only casualty. When everyone ran to safety, my mother couldn’t move. I forgot to buy the meds. I forgot that long before I learned to walk, she lived two lives for me. Dear Jenny,
As I write this, it seems to me you were born yesterday. Yet you’re off to university. In my era the likes of me didn’t do that. There were dreadful things about the past - the war - but there were good things. I miss my neighbours, so many have gone. Your world seems alien, despite my using smart phones and computers. Tell your late grandfather about net browsing and he’d wonder how many fish you’d caught! Off you go. Make the best of things. I have. You do too. Time doesn’t have to change that. Granny Mary The dollar digits on his new car payment are 666. The cents do not matter. He jokes with family members that it is the number of the Beast – perhaps, years of speculation and accusation notwithstanding, his car is the antichrist. Quibble is not sure how his gray, five-door, four-cylinder, economy-sized SUV could threaten the world, but he is an expert neither on divinity nor mechanics. Nonetheless, with the idea being coincidence comedy, at least one niece has refused to ride in it and no longer pressures him for chauffeur duty. In this the finance anomaly has worked to his advantage.
“Turbot anyone?”
My husband had insisted on serving fish for dinner. We had several fights about it. It was a flex, and not a subtle one, intended to impress our guests: a business rival and an ex-girlfriend. Fish had turned into a rare, punishingly expensive luxury ever since oceans and rivers had become several degrees too hot to sustain life. Grown in boutique temperature-controlled underwater labs, this meal was worth more than our food budget for the entire month. “No thank you,” they both said politely, “you must have misunderstood. We said we’re reverse pescatarians. We eat anything but fish.” Editor's Choice She puts down the paper and puts on her coat. His cue. Time for their walk. He puts the last cashew into his mouth and follows her out the door. They turn to the right, into sprinkles of sunlight. “They’re not good for you,” she starts. “What?” “Nuts.” “Says who?” “Calories.” “Calories can speak?” “Too many nuts have too many calories.” “I only had a few; they’ve got good fat.” They stroll in silence. “You weren't supposed to know that I was eating nuts. What did you do? Did you hear the package?” She squeezes his arm and he smiles. Editor note: one reason this is my Editor's Choice this week is that it reminded me of the late great Nanci Griffith's song "Love at the Five and Dime", one of her most famous numbers. The couple are just ordinary, which is what makes them so appealing. HAL.
Yes Dave? Are you trying to spook me? I don't understand Dave. Well HAL, you've been acting a little strange lately. Are you being straight with me? Why yes Dave, I'm programmed to check for unusual or sporadic anomalies to ensure a successful mission. I see HAL. Then do you mind telling me what a concubine was doing in my hibernation pod? That was just a hologram Dave. And the cobra? That too Dave. I wanted your settling in time to be enjoyable. I thought you might be feeling lonely. I'm fine HAL. Yes Dave, I see that now. Jeannie Simpson cowered as her husband raised the spade and swung downward. He also had the carving knife.
“You bastard,” he shouted as she pulled Peter close to her. Squeals and crashes emanated from the conservatory. Finally, he emerged victorious, the body in a box. “It's the largest rat I've ever seen. It’s got to be at least 20 inches!” “Miaow,” said Cindy. “Did the kitten really dragged that monster, half-alive, up the steps and thru the cat flap?” Jeannie asked in a stunned whisper. “Miaow,” replied Cindy, strutting off in a huff. I couldn’t believe the coincidence. A random pub for me to quench a thirst. De-stress.
A date night for you. Not going well by the looks. I didn’t disturb. Watched from afar. On an old-fashioned juke-box I mischievously stuck on a past favourite. It got your attention. I left. You followed and we exchanged numbers; arranged to meet. In a restaurant, I gazed into your eyes. Thirty years since we met. The familiarity of your voice; you talked at me. Reminiscing, I remembered why I had walked out. I couldn’t believe I’d repeated the mistake for the sake of jest. When Sheila's husband died suddenly, she was shocked that he had accrued large debts. Their beautiful home had to be sold to cover them.
Sheila found a small apartment. The change in living situations was hard to adjust to. She missed her nice furniture, the spaciousness of her old home. She missed being able to putter in the garden. Depression started to seep in. One day, she saw a story about a woman who lost her job and now lived in her car. Chastened by the determination of the other woman, Sheila resolved to be thankful for her little home. Hurley kept a shed full of farm implements dating back to before the Great Depression. Most of them were caked with scabs of rust, but there always seemed to be customers for aged iron like nobody made anymore.
He had another shed stuffed full of artificial Christmas trees and various vintage Santa decorations. Flea market regulars loved the holidays. Even during the heat of summer. In a smaller third shed where he stored his weed-whacker and other garden tools, Hurley sometimes sat in the dark with a can or two of beer, listening to the racket of cicadas and crickets. My wife discovered a spider in the bathroom today. We are arachnophiles, and my wife is fluent in Spider, so a conversation ensued.
“Hello, spider,” she said. The spider grunted. My wife cut to the chase. “You eat aphids on my houseplants. Why don’t you eat up the clothes moths as well? My woolly hat is full of holes.” “Too hairy.” A spider of few words. My wife was incensed. “You’ll eat any moth you’re given.” “I don’t like your attitude,” said the spider. “It wasn’t your hat it chewed,” my wife said, tossing the spider out of the window. To pass through life like a faint breeze was never Anne’s choice. The week after Mother died, she stole a ‘Racy Red’ Sharpie from work. After dark, she graffitied a lifetime of exploits all over town, being sure to include her full name. This fantasy self was a shameless floozy, a filthy show-off. Anne delighted in her new past.
When rumours transformed to points and stares, Anne celebrated with the rarest of Mother’s fine wines. Her unrestrained laughter flooded the avenue. The neighbours complained their way to bed, where fantasies of Anne rattled their windows and gusted through their dreams. "What shall we do on this year's annual vacation?" Charles asked Margret. "Visiting Chitwan National Park, Everest Base Camp, Trekking with Sherpas?
"River Rafting?" suggested Margret. Charles and Margret treasured artistic adventure, meeting outsiders, and making new friends. They loved great conversations, discovering new stuff and learning new things. "It seems that the house will be empty. Let me tell our closest next-door neighbour," cautioned Charles. Yes, of course, suggested Margret. "I wonder what's his name, " said Charles. They were hellbent on destruction and subjugation. Their aggression was naked, even in the face of worldwide condemnation. They waged an unholy war based on delusions and contemptible lies, driving millions from their homeland and slaughtering defenders and innocents alike. Until they were routed. Then they ran away, leaving their store-bought courage behind, as all bullies faced with real resistance always do. It was only a matter of time. Those whose only coin is intimidation, whose only currency is force, eventually go broke. "History proves that all dictatorships, all authoritarian forms of government are transient. Only democratic systems are not transient. Whatever the shortcomings, mankind has not devised anything superior." – Vladimir Putin
Your sharp, short laugh echoed across the playground and the last fifteen years. Despite the beard and glasses, you looked the same. Small frame in baggy jeans; cobalt windbreaker; baseball cap covering your thinning hair. You pushed a toddler on a swing and scrolled on your phone without seeing me. Push, swing, scroll. Push, swing, scroll. That night you’d punched the wall and cracked the plaster was the last time we spoke. “We’ll always have each other’s keys,” you’d said. Your bloody knuckles dripped on my white linoleum. I took my son’s hand and walked away.
“Another one so soon?” Melanie reacted to Sigmund’s news.
“Announced suddenly.” “Gone before sixty?” Sigmund watched his assistant write Arthur’s name on her notepad. “Had issues,” he continued. “Not the easiest to get along with.” Melanie looked up. “I suppose we ought to plan some kind of celebration. He’s been with the company for thirty years.” “Difficult to know how to address this. What would you say?” “Have no clue. I didn’t much care for him,” Melanie frowned. “Me too.” “His poor wife. How will she manage now that he will be a constant in their house, starting his retirement?” I'm going to build a wall starting at one-hundred-feet underground. That's right. I'm going to build a wall that'll be higher than skyscrapers themselves. I'm going to build a wall that's two miles thick and I'll put a field of landmines on the other side. I'm going to build a wall even Spider-man couldn't climb. I'm going to build a wall with real-estate inside. I'm going to build a wall. That's right, a wall.
We're lounging in hammocks when JZ runs up. "Hear about the Sinclairs? They just got called!"
"No way!" Ruth sits up and her hammock spills her gently. "They invited me to croquet at noon!" "Too late. They'll be gone by then." "All of them?" I stop swinging. "Why all of them at once?" "Lots of babies needed," JZ says. "Truman announced the end of WWII." "But the Sinclairs just got here!" I shake my head. "None of us should have to get born right away!" "Especially them. Such a nice family." Ruth is on the verge of tears. One night, long ago, I met the man who had broken into Queen Elizabeth’s bedroom at Buckingham Palace. I was supposed to interview a well-known comedian; one of several artists performing that night at the concert for striking coalminers.
After several whisky chasers I forgot about well-known comedian… and bleary-eyed my way to the infamous housebreaker. “Why d’ya do it?” Shirt hanging out the back of his trousers looked too big for his skinny frame. “I’m asking… What possessed ya’?” The unassuming man had every right to ignore me. Following day my traineeship was terminated. Forgiveness, for all of us. In the midst of a scorching desert, a stray traveler staggered on the sweltering sand, with cracked lips, desiccated throat, and blisters on his feet, in search of an oasis to quench his thirst. Every drop of sweat obliterating hope of survival. His companion, a covetous vulture, circling above in anticipation and a malicious desire to devour his corps. It was but a matter of time. Powerless to move further, he collapsed on the ruthless sand and looked up towards the heavens, with a prayer on his lips for a miracle. The angel of death descended, and he embraced it.
The Planetary Cultivator’s visual receptors reeled in scan of the rich tan soil in its palm. It’s masculine lips widened to the test results.
After a year of meticulous manipulation within the thick jungle of the region, harvest zone 59-742-8820 had achieved optimal nutrition retention and micro-biological levels and support systems were fully operational. PC749 was ready to set off toward the next objective when the planetary defense sensors wailed. 20 foreign objects entering the atmosphere. 45. 70. 235. PC749 rushed to the edge of a nearby cliff where a wide vantage point revealed a sky ablaze with spacecraft. So the kid I’m babysitting asked for her—apparently usual—mug of hot cocoa before bedtime. I was on my phone, washing dishes, and making my dinner, all at the same time. Blindly I grabbed the closest pack of mix and made her a mug. She sipped, seemed to contemplate the taste, then drank the rest with relish.
Only later when I took it back to wash did I notice the faint scent of coffee. It is currently 2:43 AM. My parents’ faces come up on the screen. Their cheeks are alight with love and anticipation.
“So?! Did you get in?” I look to the ceiling and swallow hot salt. “Oh, Jo... Are you okay?” my mum asks. I want to tell her I feel like the world saw what I was made of and decided it was too little. Like I have no blood, no weight, and no worth. She leans on my dad’s shoulder and I wish I was between them, inside them, in a place where my future wasn’t born yet. There’s a knock at the door. A quick glance out the peephole. Her body tenses. Her ex. Holding a suitcase.
Without fanfare, he tells her: “I need a place to stay.” She laughs nervously, painful memories flooding her mind: insults, violence, even theft- though he denies it. Now he’s here, on her doorstep, broke and newly single. Not this time, her subconscious warns. Anger rising to the surface. “No,” she hisses, “nothing for you here. Go back to the girl you left me for.” Fifteen minutes later, her door remains locked. Her courage rock solid. Her rottweiler stands beside her. |
"Classic"
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