No real theme, but we expect a bit of Christmas or Celebration in there somewhere – happy or sad, funny or serious, it's your choice. Impress us!!
|
Editor's Choice The quiet sadness in this final Editor's Choice took my breath away when I read it. It's a wonderful example of 'less is more'. I had observed a peacock sitting on the terrace of the vacant house opposite every day, and then flying to the mini-forest behind, owned by the government. It often looked at me, the lonely man, with curiosity, but never came closer.
The forest, with many trees, had nests of several birds. It was where I went for evening walks. One day, I saw the bird sitting longer than usual, and then flying in another direction. They were flattening the forest for some buildings. No one knows where the birds have gone. They have silently adjusted to the new situation. The Tippex no longer flows. Thickened about the middle, slumbering at the bottle’s bottom not even a spritz of water will revive its soul. It is time.
The Editor cuts down the sides of the plastic and snaps out the sludge. Shaping it with their fingers, adding it to a pile of bricks the Editor has collected over the years. Some white, some red, many blue and yellow. Each brick is carefully placed. The wall growing higher and higher, curving over to create a cave. In slips the Editor, one last brick in their hand, sealing the cave they claim. Something lives beneath the roses.
She didn’t plant them. They just appeared. Lush, vibrant, and blooming impressively fast. She’s never seen what’s below. But she knows it’s there. A ripple in the soil, a shimmer if the full moon hits just right. So she waters. Feeds it bone meal and Miracle-Gro. Keeps the earth damp, the roots undisturbed. And the roses grow. They’re magnificent this year. Bigger than ever. Glowing with colour. Geraldine’s dahlias don’t stand a chance. She pictures the ribbon, the applause. And in the dark, the thing under the roses stirs. She hopes it’s proud of her. It’s not a political statement… it’s just a scarf.
-Well, that’s not how it’s seen these days. Yeah, I know… Started as a cultural manner of dress, became a terrorist symbol, then symbol of oppression, now one of hope. Yeah, many other steps over the years, I get it… I just like them cause they’re cotton, comfortable, and I can dry my hands on them in public washrooms. I hate those noisy air dryers. -Maybe they should make some with just polka dots. Nah… But you do make me wonder if, in some small way, I am making a statement. Dave, the newly recruited member of the heavy metal band ‘Los Diablos’ stepped outside the club. In the distance, he saw a large single headlight, growing brighter. Then a loud chuffing, and the shriek of a steam whistle.
In the bar car, Dave sipped on his beer. He looked in fascination at Robert’s drink, the surface dancing with blue flames. The band leader smiled at him, a pleasant enough expression, but Dave noted a subtle lack of sincerity. He gave a shudder. Meanwhile, the hell bound train thundered though the night, the whistle shrieking like a lost soul in torment. When the end arrived, when war finally broke out, there were no bullets, bombs or ballistic missiles. What came was unimaginably worse. It started in a studio in Slough, the track mixed and mastered in a single day then spawned over the airwaves. Listeners died in droves, each pulsing metallic sonic assault infecting towns, cities, continents. A global pandemic of biblical proportions, unstoppable in it’s viral secretion. It was Mr Blobby and the Mr Blobby Song, a pink polka dotted sickly chorus sung at skin shredding volume, a brain worm burying so deep that nothing could ever survive.
The good shepherd had an hundred sheep grazing upon an hundred hills. He knew each by its fleece and small bleat.
When one strayed, it was a test: to see whether the ninety and nine would follow or abide beneath the shepherd’s guiding staff. And they abode. At dusk the shepherd found the wanderer, laid it upon his shoulders, and brought it again unto the fold. There was rejoicing, but it soon faded. The flock regarded the hundredth sheep with wary eyes, and doubt stirred within the shepherd’s heart too. Then arrived the season of burnt offerings. Sacrificial lamb. The cliff edge crumbled, as had their lifelong friendship. Falling, Jamie screamed, but Henry's reactions were sharp, lunging for his companion’s hand; holding on with a tenuous grip.
Panicked, Jamie looked skyward and recognised in Henry’s cold eyes the shoots of revenge breaking ground. His desperate pleas lost to the wind as Henry severed their once enduring bond. Releasing his grip, Henry watched their relationship perish as Jamie plummeted toward the sea, violently crashing on the rocks below. When the police arrived, Henry wore a sorrowful, practiced grief, confident the secret that tore them apart floundered in a watery grave. My daughter...dead because of carelessness. After a frantic search on a frigid night in downtown Chicago, I close in on my quarry. I descend stone steps with clenched teeth. I pound on the steel door at the bottom of the steps. The door opens and a familiar face greets me. It is my own.
I shove the barrel of my revolver into my twin's mouth, and pull the trigger. We no longer look alike. I stare at my brother's corpse. "For Heather," I say and then I proceed back up those stone steps to disappear into the cold night. My oldest brother John bailed me out. Without sermonizing, said, “Paulie! These keys, this address. Keep your nose clean!”
It was a nice studio apartment, food in the fridge, comfortable bed. No booze. Middle of the night, a bright light in my face wakes me. “Wha…?” “Wakey-wakey baby brother.” “Pete?” “Theresa’s having my baby. You’re gonna be godfather.” “I’m no believer. Ain’t nobody’s spiritual guide.” “You’ve come to Jesus. Sin no more. Or else.” Were our parents seers? Named their first-born John. Now an ordained “baptizer.” Second son—Peter—our family’s cornerstone rock. Me? I’m Paul. Waylaid on Damnation’s Road. Pamela answers her mom’s video call during dinner, beaming. “I found the all-in-one store! Cheap, fast, and I can finally put extra money towards my student loan—win!”
Her mom chuckles. “It also leads to unhealthy weight, Pam.” Pamela runs into the shared living room. “Does it offer many junk food options?” She looks at her reflection in the $8 Walmart wall mirror, a cheddar–soaked pizza slice in hand. “Maybe... one slice a day then,” she whispers. Seeing her sadness, her mother softens, trying to lift her mood. “Sweetheart, you aren’t losing anything. Life giveth and taketh—mostly cheese.” General Meyer sat alone in an occupied chateau’s banqueting hall, surrounded by a feast. Nonchalantly, he poured himself some French wine while he contemplated launching another dawn attack.
In a forward trench, Heinrich took a small piece of turnip bread from his pocket, broke it into four and shared it with his half-starved comrades. “Will we attack?” one of them wondered. “Let’s hope so,” said Heinrich. General Meyer signed the attack order before returning to his dessert. Just after dawn, in a temporarily overrun British trench, Heinrich grinned as he filled his pockets with tins of bully beef. “I’m dead?” Marvin said when he saw his obituary in the morning paper. Then he chortled. “Dead men don’t pay taxes. Sweet!”
Marvin went to the bank. The tellers ignored him. A man near Marvin said, “Welcome.” “Where am I?” “Hell.” “Where are the demons?” “In you. You’ll always be hungry and thirsty. You will roam forever among the living. No one will ever see, hear or touch you. You will ache for the sound of a human voice, the touch of a human hand.” “I hear and see you.” “I’m just the greeter,” the man said then he vanished. ‘That carrot cake looks wonderful, Fiona. Smells good. Just out of the oven then?
‘It does, Sarah, and yes. This is for the church fete on Saturday.’ ‘Where funds are going for diabetes charities?’ ‘That’s the one.’ ‘And how much sugar has gone into that carrot cake, Fiona?’ ‘The usual amount. Anyway, people can have carrot cake, they’ve just got to be sensible with it. What are you baking for the fete this year?’ ‘A double chocolate fudge cake.’ ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone when it comes to baking cakes for the church fete then!’ He scanned the resume moments before his Zoom call was to begin.
He’d been interviewing candidates a long time. He remembered when every interview was in person. He remembered when the questions were tough. He remembered when skills and experience mattered. Now he cared only about how a candidate looked. That’s because he knew his organization would be judged by the appearance of its people because its constituents now viewed everything through the lens of social media and TV. Beauty first. The candidate was joining the call. As her image flashed up, he knew instantly she’d be a good fit. We’re on a shopping spree, me and my boy. Boy’s outfits are as trendy as girls these days.
We were excited when the second trimester scan showed you were male. We already have two adorable girls. “That’s my man,” your Dad cried tears of joy when you gave us a frontal view of your macho tackle. “Your usual frappe latte. How’s the little fellow?” The barista smiled down at you. I smiled back, then doubled over with a gut-wrenching cramp. Your scan is in a frame, in my bedside drawer. The only photo I’ll ever have of my boy. The prisoners, half-naked and half-starved, huddled behind the barbed wire, counting the hours. At last it was time, and the meagre daily food parcels would be handed out soon. Each day the quantity was reduced.
The guards tossed the boxes into the crowd and laughed at the mayhem. The survivors, bloodied but still alive, ignored the fallen and gorged on their rations, wondering if they would live until the next day, the next battle. The Great Leader watched his TV and smiled. When would people learn that dissent and criticism was unwise in his country? Home for Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I go on too long. Maybe everyone else asks me too many questions.
I notice her napkin beside her plate. Hear her out in the garage. “I can’t take it anymore!” My mother runs off, returns. “Your sister’s walking home in the rain! I hope you’re proud of yourself!” My father steps in. “He didn’t do anything!” “You! Always defending him!” “What! I wasn’t just sitting here?” The table quiet. Coughing. We start to eat again. Now my brother, softly: “Well. That was interesting…” “Who wants more?” my mother interrupts. “I’ve got more of everything.” They had grown frail together, the old man and his collie. His heart was very weak. She was failing fast; had barely eaten for days.
He stroked her head gently. ‘Don’t leave me, old girl. Wait for me, it shouldn’t be too long.’ A brisk wind got up. She scraped at the door to be let into the garden. Stopping under the chestnut tree, she looked back at him, and whined. ‘What is it, lass?’ He came to her, hand outstretched. Crack! The branch crushed them both. She hadn’t left him. She had taken him with her. “Dad. Are you busy?” She whispered. As though she were in church.
I was, actually. I had just sat down with my newspaper. I had planned my day meticulously. Starting with the crossword. But I said, “For you, darling, I am never busy.” “I have something to tell you.” I immediately thought this will have something to do with the new boyfriend. The unemployed boyfriend. I had met him once. A student. History. What sort of job do you get with that? Probably wants money to go to the cinema. “What is it, love? How can I help?” “I’m pregnant.” Worm's Head stared imperiously out into the restless ocean, the wreck of the ship "Helvetia" pointing her finger up to the gods for it was low-tide in this majestic corner of South Wales. The sun burst through troubled clouds, seemingly filling the sea with glistening diamonds as she listened to the rhythmic roar of the waves as they sizzled onto the wet sand and died.
However, the scene had lost much of its magic for her lover would never be here again. "I can feel your ghost," she shouted as indifferent seagulls cried out a lament. At the bus stop, Glen waited for a number 26. The only other person there, a stranger in a black hooded cape, enquired politely where he was heading.
“Into town. I’m hurrying in to take advantage of the Black Friday sales. My baby just wrote me a letter. She wants an iPad for Christmas. I’ll save £20 today.” “Nice of her to write,” said the stranger. “Not many people write anything nowadays.” “Oh, we write every week. We always will. Our love is forever.” “I think you’ve misunderstood the meaning of Black Friday,” the Grim Reaper said, honing his scythe. September 2040, St Peter’s Square, Vatican City.
Thronging crowds await the first appearance of the new Pope. It’s rumoured he’ll announce a new saint. Suddenly, to a mighty roar, he appears! He doesn’t bother with introductions. “Hi, I’m your new Pope, Jaydee the First!! But here’s the best bit – I’ve inspired three miracles. First miracle: Trump chose me as Veep; second miracle: he died in office and I took over; third miracle, the Cardinals – all in jail – elected me as Pope. Three miracles… so I’m a saint!!!” The crowd chants, Laudate Papa Jaydee, Laudate Sanctus Hillbilly Jaydee... “Cool…,” Jaydee chuckles. Myrna addressed her friends. “A new knitter is joining ‘Knotty Knitters.’ My sister called and asked if her friend Patsy would be welcome. I couldn’t imagine anyone objecting. She’ll be here any minute.”
On cue, the doorbell rang. Gracie, being closest, opened the door to a tall, bulky man dressed in biker’s leathers holding his helmet in one hand and a yellow pannier with what appeared to be the tip of a metal knitting needle peeking out. She stared. “Hello, I’m Pat See. I hope you are one of the naughty knitters.” Gracie recovered. “Pat See? Not Patsy. Welcome indeed.” |
