The channels of wet sand meandered like stretch marks towards the sea. They considered the patterns, wondered whether to follow one of these transient lines to its conclusion, walk together into the incoming tide. Behind them a dog barked and a man’s voice sliced through the stiff breeze. Under the sea they would be safe, no more explaining and paying, a haven from bailiffs and creditors. The man and his dog were making their way back to the high tide mark. Around their feet the lines in the sand began to glisten.
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The party is fun right up until the moment she sees Brandon laughing and joking with his latest conquest. From then on, she feels herself unravelling and not in a good way. Not like a present being unwrapped to reveal a delightful surprise, or like a stubborn knot in a shoelace finally giving way. Not in any of those ways.
She escapes outside, where she sees Brandon’s BMW parked by the kerb. For some reason, she feels that the air in the car’s tyres is crying out to be set free. Who is she to ignore a plea for emancipation? Lisa's Choice Once upon a time, in a land of sweet youth and innocence, there lived a little girl who heard music. She heard music in birdsong, in spring-time buds, in autumn leaves, in blades of grass, and in a kitten’s meow.
Years passed. She heard music in her friends’ laughter, a baby’s cry, a child’s giggle, in words of love, and in her own sobs. Finally, she became the rhythm of her creaking bones, the counterpoint of her deepening sighs, the pounding of her pulse against her eardrums, the fading soundtrack of her life, and at one with the universal song. Gordon's Choice Dear Alex, I know you left me and Memphis for New York, trying to make it there after winning a local talent show at Central High School. But I’m writing you this letter to tell you I can’t live without you no more. You have to get back to me once-a more. Anyway, get yourself a ticket for an aeroplane, you ain’t got time to take a fast train. I don’t care how much money you got to spend. Please come home, so lonely days will be gone. You don't have to be a Big Star for me. Love, Laura Take your pick from the original Box Tops (1967) or Joe Cocker (1970) versions.
The members of the book club were meeting at the library. John, their newest member, took a seat next to Barbara.
"Interesting book, wasn't It?" he shared giving her a warm smile. "Quite eye-opening," she replied. He asked about her family. She was a widow, children far away. John's eyes lit up. "I had a great experience recently. I invested in Goldlie and boy, did I get great returns." "I wish I could afford a cruise," Barbara sighed. Kaching! The next day, Barbara was poised to invest. John's eyes glowed with pleasure. Then she showed her police badge. The temptation took over. I was alone. Both parents were at Auntie’s house. The green Impala called out to me, “Do it now!”
Parents back in an hour—time to test my driving skills. I'm almost 17, after all. OK. Let's go now! And there I slid into my familiar spot, behind the steering wheel of the Impala. Windows open. Marvin Gaye, Jackson Five, and Credence Clearwater blasting from the radio. My hair floated out the window, free again, relishing the wind. Turn right on Alvin, left on Laurel. Oh-oh! The police siren. My rear window glared, flashing red lights. You can’t stop it or replace it with something less painful. It hammers a hole in your heart and settles down for the duration.
Maybe a cookie will help. But it doesn’t and you vomit quietly in the backyard. Anger replaces the dark pain. Fist against door frame, foot against top stair. Maybe you broke your toe. The small house with a red roof is still there. You crawl in, pull the old blanket with “My Doggy” hand stitched in blue thread around you. Maybe you can dream together of the best wild days with the Frisbee in the park. Mark turned the smooth pebble over in the palm of his hand. When Mum had given it to him, it had filled his fist.
Now he was a big boy. Well, a bigger boy. Not a big boy, because they didn’t cry. Each night after Dad kissed him and turned his light out, the pain of losing his mother washed over him afresh and Mark’s tears flowed. “It’s a magic pebble,” Mum had said, “throw it far into the sea and wish.” Mark closed his eyes, kissed the pebble and whispered, “Come back, Mum.” He hurled it into the waves. Orphaned, the little girl is being led down a crater-filled road towards safety. Her guide, and last remaining friend in the world, is a Catholic priest. All around, buildings are in ruins. And it’s noisy: explosions nearby, sirens blaring, rockets and drones occasionally whiz low overhead.
She turns to the priest and says, “Father, if God is in His Heaven up there, why does he drop bombs on us?” The priest shakes his head. “It’s not like that, my dear. God and Heaven are all around us, not just up in the sky.” Then he steps on a land mine. Sharing was a mug’s game, George thought.
He sipped his orange hot chocolate, opposite Isobel’s empty recliner chair. He wasn’t being a mug again. George closed the lounge curtains as dusk fell. He’d promised Isobel he’d banish the darkness. She broke her promise. She shouldn’t have gone first. George looked into the hall mirror, the edge of which Isobel decorated with shells. What would she say now? Something like George Gosling, will you always moan or will you smile before the next Ice Age? He cried. He smiled. Somewhere he knew, Isobel approved. It would do for a new start. My son’s friends are bigger than me. They pound into the kitchen ransacking the pantry - dropping mud clods from their shoes and crumbs from their PowerBars. They’re a pack of gym-obsessed; hormone-fueled scavengers.
I go to the gym more now too. I'm desperate to keep beating Henry at arm wrestling for just a while longer. We both laugh as our biceps strain and our eyes bulge but he’s gaining ground. My wife thinks Henry will be at least 5’ 11’’. A good height we agree and think of the weeks we watched him hooked to tubes in the NICU. The moonlight falls in strips across the gaping toilet. I stare down at the tooth shapes on the porcelain rim, at the dark hole in the basin. My bladder is bursting.
I turn and sit, exposed and exhausted. The lid hits my back. I reach behind and push it away. I sigh as half a litre of white wine exits my body. The lid hits me again, hard. It presses down, folding me. My thighs are pierced, and again. Something wet caresses from below, catches my liquids. It masticates. I scream, then gurgle, as I descend into the dark whirlpool. Laura shrieked as Jordan staggered through the farmhouse doorway, flushed and panting.
‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he spluttered, ‘I almost got mauled by a bull! Came at me out of nowhere in that field with the short cut.’ ‘He’s servicing the cows, babe. But Dad said he’d put a warning notice up.’ ‘There’s no notice. Oh God, my Gucci jeans are ruined—look, the rips don’t match now! And my hair’s a total disaster!’ Down in the valley Farmer Williams chuckled as he screwed the sign carefully back onto the gate. ‘Cocky blighter can run, I’ll say that for ‘im.’ They call everyone into the main office. Even the skirt from reception has to stand with us welders. Howard walks in. His swanky shirt is creased and sweat drips from his wrinkled forehead. He removes his glasses.
"There is no easy way to tell you this. We have been screwed up the wrong-un by Barclays. We have ceased trading." Before anyone can argue, he clasps his hairy chest and moans loudly. The factory loses power. A mass of pencil pushers descend over the yard, their clipboards clattering in unison. We grab our heaviest hammers, and run downstairs to face them. She watched him hem and haw, then pace and fume, making disturbing noises through his nose, apparently showing his utter disdain for the whole thing.
She said, “What are you doing?” “Huh?” He turned a vacant stare toward her with little effect. She asked again, “What are you doing?” “I’m venting. Isn’t it obvious?” “Yes, but why?” “My eighty-eighth birthday.” “What about your birthday?” “No one has called or sent a card, text, or email. No one cares.” “I’m sure they will on the proper day. You’re looking at last month’s calendar.” “I knew that. It was only a test.” The lad stared at me through the diner window. Then I realized he was watching my fork lifting the corned beef hash.
“Hi, there. Do you need a breakfast?” “Yeah, man. But I don’t got any money.” “Come on inside, I’ll get you something.” “You’re really great, man”. He ate a double order of scrambled eggs. “I know this won’t change your life, but here’s twenty bucks.” “That’s really great, man. I won’t waste it.” He gave me a hug and said, “Bless you. See you later.” I went to pay the cashier. Hmm. Where did my wallet go? “That's all?”
The cashier looked at Ed. Three eggs looked pitiful, and he anticipated her displeasure at the sight of the coins. Ed often delayed spending them, unable to ruin the beauty of the precise numbers. He also saw no reason to buy more eggs then he needed for his breakfast. Enthralled by the sound of coins, Ed dove into one of his enchanted states. “You are five cents short, “ the cashier said. Ed grabbed the counter for support. “That couldn't be,” he muttered, but the cashier busied herself and Ed left the shop. “He’s got a snowball’s chance in Hell of getting a fair trial,” heard as I strolled along the boardwalk soaking up the sunshine and sweet breezes with my happy little dog.
I arrived home to my husband screaming at the television, the squawking newscaster reporting from outside the courthouse, huge flag waving behind him. In another room, the radio blared in competition with the TV. I slipped back outside and headed to the beach. I sat on the warm sand and allowed only the sound of crashing waves to enter my ears. It was going to be a long week. The Ambulance arrives.
He's confused, on the floor. EMTs ask if he's hurt. “No.” Did your wife push you down? “Not this time.” They pick him up. His blood pressure is fine but sugar level low. They mainline some glucose, leave when he refuses to go to the hospital. “I absolutely cannot take this anymore,” she says. “Terrific headache... need... to lie... down...” Her vision is blurred, tongue is uncontrollable, voice is stalled. He realizes she is having a stroke and whispers, “I have always loved you. Forgive me.” She barely struggles when he presses a pillow over her head. Outliving her husband was one of the unintentional ways in which Vanessa had met society’s expectations. Despite lacking human company for the first time in forty years, however, she found relief in the cottage she purchased during her first winter of widowhood. The unkempt garden bore wildlife like a volcano yielding larva. One particular source of joy was the lyrical conversing of blackbirds among the ivy berries.
But spring came, and civilization’s will acted through Vanessa once more. She decimated the creeping plants and tamed all wildness. Next winter, the birds voted with their wings, and Vanessa knew only darkness. We stand in the yard, mouths agape, eyes wide, trying to find the origin of the piercing cry. The screaming stops as quickly as it began. We move closer together, huddle in a knot, arms intertwined, heads swivelling to and fro, trying to spot something. Anything, really. Trying not to catch one another's eye, lest we see our own fears reflected and then amplified, fear building and running away with us. Minutes feel like hours and then like seconds, folding and unfolding in time with our ragged breath. Just as our grip on one another loosens, the scream comes again.
We all know the story of “Hey Diddle Diddle,” but what came after is not so well known.
After jumping the moon, the cow went into orbit around it and is still there, circling every 10 hours; the little dog discovered his uncontrollable laughing needed medical treatment (and received some prescriptions for it). And after the dish ran away with the spoon, it didn’t last (no surprise there), and the playboy dish had a cute little saucer on the side until the spoon found out and cracked the plate a good one. The cat? He became a successful country musician. He saw her across the tracks. But why had she chosen to wear that pale mauve dress with a thin brown belt. And flat brown sandals. On a day with a hazy grey sky keeping the light low she blended in. Her hair in a loose plait over her shoulder. There was no spark of colour, no intensity, only a stillness on a muggy morning.
"Good morning, sis" he called as he crossed to her. "I lost the baby. Again" she stated as she raised her pale eyes to him. “Daddy’s tired,” Mom said, “don’t wake him.” She repeated this mantra like a looped recording.
He slumbered during our days at school and throughout our fatherless evenings, never leaving his room. His absence swelled into years. On her deathbed, Mom took my hand. “There’s something I must confess. Your dad passed years ago. I couldn’t afford to bury him, so I mummified him and kept him upstairs.” “What?” I cried, horrified. “Why did you wait until now to tell me?” “Because,” she said sadly, “I knew it would upset you, and because . . . he comes with the house.” Marie and Max were visiting their friend, the painter. "He'll be here soon, please wait at the studio," they were told. The floor was wet and on the easel stood a painting with exquisite strokes of blue and green. Max started explaining to Marie, "See the furry pattern at the centre? That must signify fauna. The green around is... obviously flora. The brushstrokes indicate..." Just then the painter entered, "Sorry about the mess. I had laid the blank canvas on the floor and Henri rolled all over the paint and the canvas. Naughty cat! I was just cleaning up."
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"Classic"
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