The Geography of Smoke by Atif Nawaz, black coffee

The first call to prayer had not yet risen when the factory siren sounded.

It was not a long sound—just a fractured cry that cut the morning into two unequal halves. Those who lived near the river woke first. Those on the hill heard it only faintly, like something breaking far away.

By sunrise, the smoke had already found its direction.

From the courtyard of his small house, Imran watched the grey column bend toward the old bridge. He did not move at once. The kettle hissed behind him. His daughter, Sana, stood barefoot in the doorway, her hair still loose from sleep.

“Is it ours?” she asked..

He did not answer immediately. The factory had belonged to his father once, before it was nationalized, then leased, then forgotten. Officially, it belonged to no one now. Unofficially, it belonged to the men who still showed up each morning.

“It is the river’s,” he said finally. “Smoke always goes where the river tells it.”

Sana accepted this. Children often accept metaphors as truth.

By midmorning, the town had gathered near the iron gates. The paint had peeled long ago, exposing rust that spread like an old wound. Fire engines from the district headquarters arrived late, their hoses too short to reach the back storage units.

Inside were bales of cotton and barrels of solvent.

Inside was also Hamid.

Hamid had been the night watchman for eleven years. He had once been a schoolteacher before the school closed for “renovation” that never began. At night he walked the perimeter with a wooden stick, tapping the metal sheets as if reassuring the building that it was still there.

No one had seen him come out.

Imran stood at the edge of the crowd. He had worked beside Hamid as a boy, sweeping lint from the spinning machines. They had shared bread in the shade of the loading dock.

A district officer arrived in a pressed uniform. He spoke first to the factory supervisor, then to the police constable, then to no one in particular.

“Electrical fault,” he said. “Preliminary report.”

“There was no electricity after ten,” someone replied.

The officer adjusted his cap. “Then perhaps a candle.”

Hamid did not use candles. He carried a flashlight with failing batteries.

Sana tugged at Imran’s sleeve. “Why are they saying things they don’t know?”

Imran looked at the smoke thinning above the roof. “Because knowing is heavier,” he said. “And they have to carry it back with them.”

By afternoon, the fire had eaten what it could. The back wall collapsed inward, folding like paper. The crowd stepped back as one body.

When they found Hamid, it was not dramatic. No cry rose. Two men carried him out on a door pulled from its hinges. His face was darkened but strangely calm, as if he had fallen asleep between one round and the next.

The district officer removed his cap.

“There will be compensation,” he said.

“To whom?” asked a woman from the crowd.

The officer consulted his notebook. “Next of kin.”

Hamid’s wife had died three winters earlier. His son had crossed the sea in a rubber boat and not written back.

The supervisor cleared his throat. “We will form a committee.”

The word settled poorly.

That evening, the town gathered again—this time in the mosque courtyard. The men stood in rows. The women watched from the gate. Sana stood beside her father, though she had never attended a funeral before.

After the prayer, the district officer approached Imran. He had learned by then that the factory had once belonged to Imran’s family.

“You understand these matters,” the officer said carefully. “The report must be simple. Accidents happen. “We cannot afford investigations that suggest negligence. Investors are already cautious.”

Imran studied the man’s face. It was not cruel, only tired.

“Hamid locked the solvent room every night,” Imran said. “He used to joke that even fire needed permission.”

The officer’s jaw tightened. “What are you suggesting?”

“I am suggesting,” Imran replied, “that smoke has a geography. It begins somewhere.”

Silence passed between them, thin as wire.

The next morning, a notice was posted at the factory gate. It bore an official seal and three signatures. It stated that the fire had resulted from outdated infrastructure and regrettable oversight. It promised an inquiry.

No one believed it fully. No one rejected it completely.

Imran returned home before noon. Sana was drawing on the courtyard floor with a piece of charcoal. She had sketched the factory, the river, and a long line of smoke stretching toward the hills.

“You forgot the bridge,” he said gently.

She shook her head. “The bridge is behind the smoke.”

He sat beside her. For a long time, they watched the river move past its own reflection.

“Baba,” she asked, “who will take Hamid’s place at night?”

Imran looked toward the factory roof, now blackened and open to the sky.

“Someone who needs the wages,” he said.

“And if it burns again?”

He considered this.

“Then someone else will say it was a candle.”

The evening wind rose from the river, carrying the last faint scent of ash. The town resumed its small sounds—pots against stone, bicycles on gravel, a radio murmuring news from somewhere distant.

Above the factory, the sky cleared without apology.

About the Author:

Atif Nawaz is a Pakistani writer whose fiction explores the human cost of political upheaval and shifting borders. His work centres on ordinary lives caught in extraordinary historical moments, rendered through restrained prose and emotional subtlety. Alongside creative writing, he engages deeply with history and education, bringing a reflective and analytical lens to his storytelling. He writes with a quiet commitment to witness and nuance.

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Saturday Sample: Torn by Sharon Overend, Bitter lemon

I snap to attention as my teenage daughter charges toward me, a pair of garden shears clutched in her hand. Head spinning tantrums are nothing new in our household, but the introduction of sharp objects is new.

Blood rushes from my limbs and my hands tingle like when I wake from a nightmare. I’m on my knees. Two bags of black soil and a bouquet of four potted chrysanthemums crowd the flagstone walkway. I’ve just finished raking the first of the autumn leaves and pulled out the last of the summer flowers.

Her charge stops inches from me, her weapon held waist high, parallel to my face. She’s breathing hard, her chest rises and falls in quick spastic jerks. Her cheeks are blotchy and tear-stained, her eyes wild.

“What’s wrong, Cassie?” I ask. My left hand grips the side of the empty planter, my right hand curls around the handle of a semi-submerged trowel. I’m surprised not only because of the shears, but also that her face is tear-stained. She doesn’t like to cry. Even when she was little and fell, her chin would quiver and her Adam’s apple piston up and down as she fought to swallow back tears. I’m a crier and nothing drives her crazier than when my voice chokes.

“I want my phone back. If I don’t call them, my friends will dump me.” The autumn air is cool, but she’s wearing shorts. Her leg muscles are tight, and like a horse in the starting gate, she shifts her weight from side-to-side.

“Your friends aren’t going to dump you,” I say and bring one hand to my forehead to shield my eyes from the glint bouncing off the blades. A halo of yellow surrounds her head.

Her eyes narrow and the shears follow my movements. “How would you know?” she asks. Her right eye turns in, the way it does when she’s tired or manic. The scents of her lavender shampoo and a freshly turned garden hang in the open air between us. “You don’t know anything about me, or my life.” I stare at her in disbelief. I know this child, my dramatic child, my middle child, the one we planned, the one who hadn’t been an oops. I know each of my daughters. My eldest is quiet, studious, a deep thinker. The youngest is an athlete, the golden girl. And this child, the one wielding garden shears, the one always on the verge of hysterics, is the difficult one.

I leave the trowel upright in the dirt and push up from the ground.

“Put the shears down,” I say. She’s three inches taller than me, and I’m forced to look up into her face.

 

 

The tantrums began in her first months of life when colic robbed her of the comfort suckling at my breasts should have provided. Maybe her baby mind had concluded it was my milk, my breasts, her mommy, that made her belly cramp.

“I bet you wish I would.”

Brat. Drama queen. Manipulator. Mental. Wounded. Words others have used to describe her, words I’ve used to grab her attention, needles pushed through a pincushion.

My fingers coil into a fist. Loose, dirt-encrusted garden gloves fold and bunch inside my palms. I’ve been working in the garden, the early autumn sun beating on my bowed back, for a long time. I’m tired and thirsty and definitely not in the mood for yet another of her over-the-top outbursts.

I lower my voice and speak slowly. “Someone’s going to get hurt.” It sounds like a promise.

“That’s the point, Sue.” She never calls me Mom anymore. I’ve told her if she doesn’t want to call me Mom, then she doesn’t get to call me anything. She knows where the button is that makes my arms, legs and mouth flap. I inhale deliberate, measured breaths – one Mississippi, two Mississippi. She angles the blade tips toward me. “It’s your turn to be hurt.” Heavy chunks of strawberry-blonde hair hang outside her chaotic ponytail.

I stagger back. The pain I’ve tried to hide from her kicks back against me. So that was it. She needs to hurt me, her protector, because she doesn’t know, because I’ve hidden my true feelings too well. I’ve never told her how it felt to find her blacked-out drunk on the living room floor, what it was like to hide her shoes each night so she wouldn’t sneak out, or that I vomited when a police officer knocked on our door to say she’d been found beaten and raped the one night I forgot to hide her shoes.

A muscle twitches beneath my eye.

A gaggle of geese squawk overhead, a feathery platoon of drones. The rumble of a postal truck reaches us, and I worry the mail carrier, or a neighbour, or the geese have clued into what is happening. What would an assault charge do to her future?

“This isn’t the end of the world,” I say.

“Oh my god!” Like a toddler, she stomps her foot. “Give me my phone.”

“No,” I say.

 

The smartphone had been a peace offering, her reward for surviving three weeks with underage prostitutes and drug addicts. As we signed the admission form, the director of the youth treatment centre held my shoulder and suggested Cassie’s problems were bigger than her father or I could manage. As though we were leaving her at the babysitter, he insisted our goodbyes be quick. Except these babysitters would not be taking her to the park, or reading her Dr Seuss books. Her chin trembled and she battled me away when I tried to hug her. I cried for twenty-one days, but not during parents’ night.

If she breaks your house rules, use a currency she understands, we’d heard at our parent support group.

Less than twelve hours into her phone prohibition, and she has already resorted to physical threats, to garden shears. I square my shoulders.

“Dad caught you texting at two this morning.” Violation of house rule #26 – no phone calls or texting after eleven. “If you pass your math test, you’ll get your phone back.”

I chase a look up the street. Although I pray no one is watching, I hope to see one of her sisters coming home.

“I need to talk to my friends.” She points her hip at me. The cold look on her sullen face slips and the lines around her mouth soften. For a fleeting moment the little girl who played dress-up with her cat is back. “I won’t text after bedtime. I promise,” she says, deep dimples appearing on her cheeks.

I sigh and my fists unclench. I’d thought we were good parents. I gave up my career to stay home with my girls. Their father worked sixty hours a week to provide a good life for us. She never had refined sugar before her first birthday cake.

She doesn’t get it. “I’m not giving it back. A cell phone is a privilege, not a right.” Maybe she’ll never get it.

The sweet child vanishes. “It is my right.” Oversized hoop earring bang against her neck. “I have every right to say goodnight to my friends.” She kicks at a chrysanthemum pot, the red one, and it topples. Blood red petals and moist black earth splay away from us.

“They’re your friends, not your family,” I say, my voice louder than I intend. Last night, I knocked on her door and she told me to fuck off. I put my mouth to the door jam and wished her goodnight. She threw a shoe and the wood panel bounced against my face. I turned the knob and she braced her body against the door. I pushed back. Her feet slid and a sliver of space opened. I sandwiched myself into the gap, and she pressed harder. I avoided looking at the line of bruises on my torso when I showered this morning.

“No, they’re my family. You’re the people I’m forced to live with.” When the therapist asked her younger sister what would be the one thing about our family she’d like to see change she’d answered, that Cassie wouldn’t hate her. Her father stays late at work most nights, then every weekend disappears downstairs. He says if he gets too close to Cassie, he might say or do something he’ll live to regret. “Give me my phone.” She stretches her free hand toward me.

I shake my head.

Her hand and the shears wave between us. “Give me my goddamn phone, right now.” My gaze fixes on her and my heart pounds, not because I fear the waving shears, but because I realize, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she really and truly doesn’t trust me. I reach for her.

“Don’t.” She drops her phone-empty hand and jabs her weapon at me. “Don’t you dare touch me.” I pull the garden gloves off, drop them to the ground and surrender my palms to her. Cool air brushes across warmed skin, and the hairs on the

back of my hand stand on end.

“Why not help me tidy up this flowerbed?” I ask. “You don’t think I’m serious. You don’t think I’d

cut you, do you?”

“I think if you hang out here with me, we can talk through what’s bugging you.”

“I told you what’s bugging me. You’ve got my phone, and I want it back,” she says but does lower the shears to her thigh.

I pull the trowel from the dirt and sweep it over the garden. “I thought I’d put these flowers along here, but if you’d rather, you can help me turn over the soil.”

“I’m not touching your disgusting muck.”

I again stoop to the ground and gather up the gloves. “Put these on,” I say.

She considers me a moment, then the gloves. “Then can I have my phone?”

“Maybe,” I say.

She places the shears next to her foot, the blade tips pointed away from both of us. Our fingers touch as she takes the gloves. I watch as her doughy soft hands fill first one, then the second deflated glove. “I hate this shit,” she says.

“Gardening can be cathartic.” I hand her the trowel. When she and her sisters were younger, I’d squared off three sections in the garden and let each girl decide what to plant in their plot. Cassie asked if she could plant a peanut butter tree. She sulked when her father laughed and told her peanut butter didn’t grow on trees. I crouch beside her and begin pulling weeds. The sky changes when a cloud passes above us. With the sun blocked, the air feels more authentic, cooler, more like fall. I tilt my head slightly, just enough to watch her as she works, but not enough that she knows I’m studying her, a sly sideways look. She pays no attention to the goosebumps that have appeared on her arms and legs. She digs a hole, then raises the nearest chrysanthemum, the orange one, out of its pot. The plant leans away from her. The hole is too small, and half the root ball rests above the ground. A groan gurgles in her throat. She brushes

loose dirt toward the flower and stands. “There,” she says. “I’ll take my phone now.”

“You can do better than that. Just set the plant to the side and make the hole a bit bigger.”

“I did what you told me to do. I helped you plant your stupid flower. Now give me my phone.” The trowel clatters to the ground.

“I’m not giving you the phone unless you finish what you’ve started.” I’m on my feet.

 

“You lied. You said I could have it if I helped.” “I don’t lie.”

“Ha,” she says. Like an enraged hockey player, she shakes off the gloves.

“Cassandra.”

She notices me notice the way her hand is shaking. Fresh tears swim across her eyes.

“You’re not perfect. I’ve heard stories. I know who you really are. I know you did drugs, and I know you were a slag. You’re not better than me.”

Her words echo through me. I’ve been found out. When I was seventeen, I’d run away from home. Booze and drugs, plasters to help stop the bleed. Sleeping with every boy who groped under my t- shirt, the only way I could convince myself someone wanted me.

I raise my hand shoulder height. I want to slap her, to stop her from saying anymore, to stop her the way I’d been stopped. My mother had used a wooden spoon, my father a leather belt, an ex-boyfriend, his fists.

She steps closer. “Try it,” she says. Her breath puffs into my face, coffee and peanut butter.

I lower my hand. I’ve never slapped any of my kids.

“Wonder what the neighbours would think about you if they knew the truth?” she asks. Gleeful satisfaction sways across her face. She knows she’s rattled me.

 

My throat tightens. She’s too young to understand. She’s had an easy life. All the bad that has happened to her, happened because of the poor choices she’s made, not because we ever mistreated her, not because we ever rejected her. “I’ve never used drugs, and I sure never let any boy use me.” One day, when she’s older, I’ll tell her what kind of man her granddad was.

“Liar.” Her voice is loud, her words wild again. “I’m done talking.” She grabs the rake I’ve rested against the house. “You don’t give a shit about me.” A flip of her wrist and the rake is upside down, each metal tine aimed at me. I don’t want her to think I’m scared, but for the first time that afternoon, I am. I’m scared for both of us. “You sent me away and I hate you,” she says.

She doesn’t hate me. “I love you.”

A moment of stillness. The point of return. “Bullshit,” she hisses. My gaze remains steady, unwavering. “Bullshit.”

Her facial features twist together, her brow, her lips, her jaw, her eyes. She moves, urgent, crazed, frenzied, a dog lunging for a rabbit.

The point of no return.

My feet won’t move, but my torso does. I curl away and fold into myself.

A low whoosh of air as it separates and bangs back together. The tines of the rake catch my sleeve. The tearing sound stops her.

 

Inside the split-second pause, I glance over my shoulder to see where she is, where the rake is, then it’s coming toward me again. Hot pain sears my cheek. My hand covers the opening gashes each tine has made. Her face unfolds and my pain flashes in her eyes. Sticky red seeps between my fingers, blood red. Then a moan, outside of either of us, ascends.

The sound of metal and wood explodes against stone.

She drops to her knees. I drop to the flagstone.

 

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About the author

Sharon Overend is an award-winning author whose fiction, creative non-fiction and poetry have appeared in Canadian, American and UK literary journals and anthologies. Originally from Toronto, Sharon and her husband now live on a 156-acre property where she has found inspiration for many of her latest writing projects.

www.sharonoverend.blog

Why aren't you calling 911? by Zoé Mahfouz, matcha

 My mom and I decided to go to the countryside for vacation to get a breath of fresh air, since exposure to air pollution can cause stroke, ischemic heart disease, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, lung cancer, pneumonia, and cataracts, and everything went just as planned: the tourist attractions we wanted to visit were closed until summer, which isn’t such a bad thing considering that’s where people usually put their unwashed hands, spreading cold and flu viruses, a mechanic told us the wheels of our car were assembled in the wrong order, which I’m pretty sure isn’t true, but I wasn’t about to accuse him of having dyscalculia, especially knowing his constant exposure to carcinogenic dust could cause him respiratory complications like lung cancer and mesothelioma, a group of partner-swappers invited us to join in while we were eating pizza, as if we were tempted to catch human papillomavirus, chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes, trichomoniasis, or HIV, an old man tried to steal my mother’s purse in the middle of a bakery, which really triggered my hypertension, especially when I realized he peed his pants in the process and could transmit leptospirosis if he got too close, a random guy who shared the communal pool at the spa with us smelled like he hadn’t showered in months, which usually leads to dermatitis neglecta, my mother accidentally swallowed the communal pool’s water, the vaccination center was fully booked for cholera shots, the pharmacies told us that drinking Betadine "preventively" was not a thing, the emergency room made us eat charcoal even though we are obviously not barbecue appliances, social security refused to reimburse us, I’m almost certain my moles multiplied in the meantime, and on the way back, not only did I see a tiger mosquito drink my blood, but a feisty field mouse also bit me when I dropped a fry at a motorway rest area, and I swear I heard her whisper a list of global diseases and threats in alphabetical order before handing me a tiny knife and telling me to go back in time to kill baby Hitler, so I’m pretty sure my days are numbered. 

Bio :

Zoé Mahfouz is a multi-talented artist—an award-winning bilingual actress, screenwriter, and writer whose works span fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, featured in 40+ literary magazines worldwide. Her comedic scripts, including I Follow You and Commercial Actress, have garnered recognition at festivals like Hollywood Comedy Shorts, Filmmatic, Scriptation Showcase, and Toronto International Nollywood Film Festival.

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The Sugar Plum Fairy by Sarah E Das Gupta, hot chocolate and marshmallows

Martha had packed most of the boxes in the old attic above the kitchen. Much of it had been junk left by previous owners: an old black ballroom dress which looked positively Victorian, a pair of children’s slippers, a broken table, a hideous green coffee set, a pile of odd socks, an empty bottle of Chanel Number 5. Then, at the very bottom, a worn but probably much -loved teddy bear. He had only one boot button eye, his stuffing had been escaping through a hole in one arm and the red satin ribbon round his neck had certainly seen better days. His one eye seemed fixed on Martha with a sad, appealing look. He looks lost and abandoned. Perhaps we have something in common. Thethought struck Martha. She and the bear needed somewhere to truly belong. Martha climbed slowly downstairs carrying the last of the rubbish. She had left the bear on the top  of the box. She would rescue him later.

 

‘About time too. You’ve been long enough clearing that attic. I told your mother to get professionals in to do the job.’

 

Martha knew better than to argue. She never won and it only upset her mother. ‘I’ll just leave them in the yard with the others.’  As she piled up the boxes in the dreary cobbled yard, Martha took the chance to rescue Archie. It was odd, why had she called him ‘Archie’?  It had a sort of friendly ring to it. Years ago, it must have been in kindergarten, she had befriended an anxious little boy called Archie who always stood on his own in the corner, sucking his thumb.

 

She opened the door back into the kitchen. Ken was deep in the evening paper. His feet stretched out in front of him, a mug of tea on the table which he seemed to have forgotten about. Martha slipped quietly past her step-father but just as she had her foot on the stairs, she froze.‘What have you got under your arm young lady?  You know the auctioneers will sell anything valuable.’

'Oh, it’s only a tatty old teddy,’ I took pity on him. It seemed a shame to put him with the rubbish.’ ‘Teddy bears can be valuable. I saw one of those programmes on the telly the other week. An old bear sold for a couple of hundred.’  Ken took the bear but after a trail of sawdust had fallen from Archie’s arm, he tossed the toy back to Martha. 

'Anyhow, what’s a fifteen-year-old girl like you want with a scruffy old bear?’

 

Martha didn’t reply as she hurried up to her room. Things had become more difficult since Margo had moved in with her boyfriend. At least her older sister had been on her side. Martha sighed as sheopened the bottom drawer of the dressing table and took out her sewing box.

  

By dinner time, she had found a button to match Archie’s remaining eye and patched up the hole in his arm. There were odd pieces of ribbon lying at the bottom of the box with buttons and reels of cotton. As she went down to dinner, Martha looked back at the bear lying comfortably on her pillow. He was a new toy with his second eye and his shining red satin bow. Dad would have approved of saving Archie. He had never been happier than recycling and restoring things. She looked in Margo’s empty room with its Hollywood style dressing table. Dad had spent months making that.

 

Next morning before college, Martha went up to the attic, Archie in one hand, her school bag in the other. She just wanted to have a quick look round before the cleaners came up, before it was converted into Ken’s office and workroom. Now it looked bigger with the bare floor and skylight visible. Now, for the first time, Martha noticed a door in the far wall. Odd, where does that lead to? It can’t go to the Browns next door, surely? She dropped her school bag and Archie on the floor, then lifted the latch of the small door. It opened into a dark passageway. As Martha crawled a few yards, she heard the door behind her slam. No choice now but to go on.

 

Martha could see light ahead. The passage had opened out and she was able to stand up. She had lost all sense of direction crawling in the dark and had no idea what might lie ahead. Whatever Martha might have guessed, she could never have been prepared for the scene that greeted her. At first, she thought she had arrived in an exotic garden. Roses trailed over a golden trellis and white lilies filled large earthenware pots. It was certainly not the Browns’ muddy patch of grass with football posts at one end.  Then, she realised this was not a living garden, but rather an elegantly painted one. In fact, she was standing on a stage beneath a dim light. The backdrop and the wings depicted a summer garden. Martha had never before stood on a stage, staring out into an empty auditorium which looked different from any theatre she had ever been in. A gallery stretched right round the theatre supported by gold barley twist poles. Down the middle of the auditorium on either side long tables were already laid for drinks and refreshments. Looking down, she realised her black trousers had been replaced by a long woollen dress, with leg-of-mutton shaped sleeves. Her usually untidy hair was swept up into a neat bun.

 

Suddenly, Martha heard heavy footsteps at the back of the stage. A tall man with an impressive handle bar moustache and a splendid white tie appeared. He strode towards Martha, holding out his hand, a wide smile on his face.

 

‘Now you must be Miss Martha Grange our much- needed understudy for Gracie Brewer?’ He shook her hand so powerfully that Martha felt it was in real danger of being broken or dislocated.  

'Yes, I am Martha Grange but I‘ve never heard of Gracie Brewer. What type of performer is she?’

Martha was feeling decidedly nervous. This man was clearly under the illusion that she was ready to take Gracie’s place in that night’s performance. Surely, he couldn’t expect her to sing? Martha was the only pupil in her class specifically asked not to sing. Her voice had been so out of tune, it had carried the other children’s voices with it.

‘But everyone has heard of Gracie, the most momentous, magnificent, magical, marvellous dancer ever seen on the London stage.’ As he declaimed the talent of the prima donna who was Miss Gracie Brewer, Martha became ever more nervous.

 ‘Don’t worry, Leon will soon be here. All you have to do is follow his lead.’ Martha resolved to ask no more questions. Her head was spinning. She didn’t think she could bear another ringing endorsement.

Her attention was suddenly drawn to the arrival of two brightly dressed performers. The man, tall and thin, wore white tights and a glittering top of gold lame that sparkled in the footlights which had now been switched on. His English was limited. Whenever he spoke his partner would quickly translate. Martha guessed, from his dark hair and expressive eyes, that he was Italian.

'We practise now, a little time,’ the girl explained. Petite and elegant she looked like the fairy on the Christmas tree with her white tutu and gossamer wings. They began to assemble the equipment which suggested they were trapeze artists and tight rope walkers.

Martha was distracted by a voice calling her from the wings, ‘Where is Miss Martha Grange? I’m looking for Gracie’s replacement.’

 

Martha raised her hand. The slight, elderly woman in a while apron beckoned her to come. Martha followed the woman through a maze of narrow passages backstage which twisted and turned like a rabbit warren.

‘From the audience, you would never guess there were so many rooms and passages at Wilton’s.’

The woman stopped a moment for Martha to catch up. 

'Wilton’s? Where’s that?’ Martha’s breathless voice echoed in the old corridor. ‘Only, the most famous Music Hall in London’s East End. It’s on Cable Street, Shadwell. Is this your first visit to the East End?’ ‘Eh, yes I guess so.’ Martha barely had time to recover her breath before they were off again.

At last, they stopped in front of a door labelled ‘Room 25’ in faded white letters. The woman knocked loudly. The door opened to reveal a handsome young man in white tights and an elegant brocade waistcoat, over a shirt with full, white sleeves and an open neck.

‘Mademoiselle, you must be the new Gracie Brewer. Delighted to meet you.’  He stretched out an elegant hand, with a delicate lace cuff, towards Martha, as he bowed before her.’ I am Leon De Saint- Pierre.’ ‘Hello Leon, I’m Martha Granger. She quickly added, ‘I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.’ Too late! The door had already shut. The sound of footsteps faded away.

 Leon pulled up a shabby wooden chair, inviting Martha to sit down. ‘Don’t be nervous we still have time to go through the routine. The wardrobe department is excellent. Besides you are about the same height as Gracie.  The costume and make up will help you feel the part.’ 

‘What do I have to do?’

'We are dancing the par de deux from the ‘Nutcracker’ ballet. You of course are the Sugar Plum Fairy, I am your Prince. He bowed elegantly.’

Martha was speechless. Ever since she had started ballet classes at the age of three, she had dreamed of dancing that classic role. Dad had made her a glittering wand and tinsel wings. He had played a recording of Tchaikovsky’s iconic music. Martha could feel the tears welling up. Leon must have noticed the emotion in her voice as she explained, ’I have been dancing since I was three. I always dreamt of dancing the Sugar Plum role. Things have been hard since …’ her voice broke. ‘Since Dad died, money’s been tight. I couldn’t afford regular lessons.’ Martha pictured her mother’s pale face explaining, ‘Ken thinks dancing lessons are an extravagance we can’t afford. You see it’s not my money now,’ she had added sadly.

Leon turned to a strange old- fashioned gramophone which Martha remembered seeing in Hollywood costume dramas. The room was magically filled with the beautiful music of the duet they were to dance. The soft descending notes of the cellos and the exquisite bell-like tones of the celesta conveyed all the magic and delight of Christmas. Leon insisted on playing the music three or four times before carefully going through the choreography with Martha. 

'Next we will collect your costume and most important, your shoes.’

Later that night Martha stood in the wings. She had caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing room mirror. The tutu a delicate shade of peach, the bodice satin, embroidered with hundreds of sparkling ‘diamonds’, her dark brown hair, topped by a beautiful tiara – the perfect Sugar Plume Fairy of her childhood fantasies. The theatre was packed, many in the gallery leant over the balcony to secure a better view. Martha was entranced by the colourful dress of the audience. Bonnets with exotic, feather boas, silk top hats. Working men in cloth caps, the women in long cotton dresses and bright Paisely shawls.

She stood watching a succession of amazing acts, tightrope and trapeze artists, comics, strong men, culminating in the famous Marie Lloyd who brought the house down with a saucy rendering of ‘A Little of What you Fancy’.

Her heart had almost stopped, when the Chairman announced, in ringing tones, ’The stupendous, scintillating, scrumptious, duo of Monsieur Leon De Saint-Pierre and Mademoiselle Martha Granger, straight from Paris!’

The orchestra played the opening bars, the exquisite soft sound of the cascading cellos, the magic of the tinkling celesta. Martha forgot the expectant audience, the colourful performers, the mysterious passageway, even the nightmare of Ken. She was lost in the passion of the music, the excitement of the dance as she floated above the wooden boards, caught in the moment. She seemed lifted out of time and place. She was dancing with all those wonderful ballerinas who since that first performance in St Petersburg in 1892 had, for a few precious minutes, become the Sugar Plum Fairy herself.

 

Martha stood looking at a door in the side of the attic. She tried the latch but the door seemed securely locked. She picked up her schoolbag and Archie, just as she heard her mother’s voice from the kitchen. ‘Hurry up Martha, you’re going to be late.’

'Martha Granger, what’s your answer to number six?’ Martha stared blankly at Mr Blake and the maths homework on the board. ‘I didn’t get so far as number 6, Sir.’ ‘I’m not surprised. You seem to be away with the fairies.’

Martha tried hard to suppress a smile.  For some reason or other ever since she’d come to college that morning, she’d had the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy on her mind. Even in the maths class she had been twirling and spinning over the desks, out through the window and over the poplar trees by the tennis courts, instead of concentrating on the answer to number 6, or indeed numbers 5 or 7 for that matter. She knew that she had to go back to her ballet classes, somehow or other. Her friends all had weekend jobs at coffee bars, hotels or the local swimming pool. She should be able to manage if she organised her time and her money.  

 

On the way home, Martha noticed a beautiful bunch of very pale peach roses in the small florist’s, wedged between the baker’s and the dry cleaners. The delicate perfume surrounded her as she walked into the local cemetery. The huge iron gates were open and  hundreds of monuments stretched before her: crosses, angels, cherubs, Bibles stood guard over some of the Victorian graves. Martha walked down the neatly trimmed grass paths reading the inscriptions. She stopped by a tomb stone dedicated to a ‘Gracie Brewer’ born 1869, died 1912. It looked neglected and lonely. Martha removed the dead leaves and laid one of the peach roses across the green turf. As she looked back, a ray of Autumn sun transformed the peach petals to gold.  

 

At the far end of the cemetery were the more recent tombs. She stood in front of her father’s grave, simple, plain. Martha picked up a bunch of fading lilies and replaced them with the roses. She stood by the nearby tap, filling the ugly, regulation vase. Dad always liked roses. He would want her to go on dancing. He always said, ‘You’re not dancing alone, you belong to the music and all the dancers who have loved that music, dance with you.’

 

Bio:

Sarah Das Gupta is an ex- teacher, aged 83, who worked in UK, India, Africa. She is learning to walk again, after an accident. Her work has been published in over 20 different countries. She is a nominee for Best of the Net and Dwarf star.

 

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Shock by Daniel Day, whiskey sour

 

We had been free falling for longer than I could fathom. I opened my eyes; the rush of air filled them with a blur of tears. Our ragdoll bodies plummeted towards the green earth but the real panic was in not being able to breathe.

'Just sip.' Dr Grace shouted, demonstrating a tight-lipped sucking. 'Sip!' she emphasised. I remembered sipping water at my mother’s instruction – just sip some water, you’ll be fine in a minute!

I opened my mouth, choked on ice-cold air and went into a spin.

'Steady!' Dr Grace cried. Somehow, she reached an arm to me, grabbed the scruff of my neck like a dog and set me right. The spray of the waterfall soaked our faces, hair and clothes. A mirror the size of a coin glinted in the distance. 'Easy,' said Dr Grace. 'Follow the flow of the water.’ With practiced grace, she stretched an arm like the wing of a dove, allowed her fingertips to skim the fast-flowing water.

The mirror gleamed and rippled and grew into a little pool, foaming at one edge. Groping branches reached away from the density of the forest and into the shaft of sunlight in which we fell. Gleaming black rocks, polished like jewels, ran like a cobblestone road towards the ground.

The pool thundered in the constant fill. It shimmered in blue-green ripples, white with foam, black with unseen depths. It spread wide like a blanket, a mother drawing a child to her bosom.

'Breathe!' the doctor commanded. We gulped moistened air, ripped through the surface then sank to noiseless depths.

I hope you’re happy Emily

 

Hours earlier we had been in the surgery. I stared out of the open window, a lazy spring air drifted in.

'Are you sure…’ I covered my mouth, shifted in my seat trying to settle my stomach. ‘Are you sure it will work?’

'Sure?' the doctor laughed, threw her head back. 'No, no, no, no.' the syllables fired like pellets. I shot her a concerned glance. Her brown cheeks shone with a wide grin. A grin that was meant to reassure? I couldn't tell. 'You can never be sure of these things.' she chirped. 'You have to think of the risks...'

'Which are?'

'Well…' She went into another mad chuckle, coughed, pulled at her shirt collar. 'It will either kill you or cure you, it's the risk you have to take.'

'And if I don't?'

'Then live with it.' she spun on her chair and tapped at the keyboard.

'Live with it!' I cried, thinking only of Emily. I jerked forward in a sudden convulsion. 'But I can't live with it! Can you imagine?'

'No, I wouldn't like to.' she said without turning from her screen. Silence swelled with all my doubt, my concern, my anxiety until the air was thick with my unspoken answer.

'Fine.' The word spewed from my belly. 'I'll do it.'

'Good!' Dr Grace squealed. She clapped her hands, scooped her car keys from the table as she stood. 'Shall we?' she held the door open.

'What – now?'

'No time like the present!' she laughed.

 

I sat in the passenger’s seat of her minivan, kicking paper cups and empty wrappers at my feet. I still had the leaflet which she had given to me. Why does my diaphragm hate me? written in a pink bubble font. I flicked through the pages. It was all surgeries and shock treatments; I had opted for the most extreme of them all.

            I hope you’re happy Emily

            ‘Listen, if you don’t get it cured, I just can’t see a future for us.’ Emily had said, her lovely eyes ringed with grey, her face stern and beautiful. ‘It isn’t just you that feels it. How do you think I feel being woken every night by your shakes and jerks?’

            ‘I can’t help it!’ I said, wounded.

            ‘But you can help it!’ she yelled, slamming the TV remote into the arm of the sofa. ‘You could help it if you got some help!’ she left the room cold and empty.

            After a sleepless night, a bottle and a half of white wine and a desperate online search, I ended up at Dr Graces surgery, a specialist in extreme treatments.

           

I gazed anxiously out of the minivan window. The square grey buildings of the town gave way to open fields then the forest fell like a shadow about us. My involuntary spasm raised a chuckle from Dr Grace.

            ‘Now, now, now, now.’ she pulsed. Her hand found my knee and squeezed. ‘You must try to relax.’ I didn’t protest; I couldn’t speak now even if I’d wanted to.

            We parked in a dirt layby, walled by the dense trunks of pines. We set out on a winding path, steadily climbing, the air thick with sweet forest scents. I breathed deeply through my nose then gasped as the spasm took me once again. Dr Grace smiled, pulling at the tall grass, casually plucking the seeds and tossing them over her shoulder.

            ‘Not long now.’ she said.

            We wound on through the forest until a faint trickle led us beneath a clear band of blue sky. We followed the stream. The dense trees gave way to an open plain above the lower canopy. The water swelled, foamed and rushed towards a circular edge just ahead.

            ‘There!’ said Dr Grace.

            My body shook in a stuttering gulp. We neared the edge and peered into the shaft. Rocks, trees and white-water thundering into endless depths. The doctor gripped my shoulder.

            ‘Ready?’ she grinned.

            ‘No.’ I hiccupped as loud as ever.

            ‘Well,’ she laughed. ‘The shock will either kill you or cure you, but either way…’ she wrapped impossibly strong arm around my chest. ‘Either way, you’ll never hiccup again!’ with that, she flung both me and herself into the abyss.

            I hope you’re happy Emily

 Bio:

Daniel Joseph Day is a writer and musician, living with his wife and  two children in Yorkshire. He has had short fiction published on CafeLit, East of the Web, Literally Stories and Fiction on the Web.

 

 
Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)