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.

 

 
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The Ship That Sailed by Patricia Feeney, cold brew

 Jack hadn’t been able to sleep, as usual. He’d had another night wrestling with Lorna’s unforgiving habits. With the air conditioner set at sixty-six degrees, they started the night with two blankets. Within an hour, Lorna wrapped most of them over her and left Jack shivering and tugging for his share. After another hour, she’d unload the bedclothes onto him, leaving him to wake in a cocoon of her sweat. As if this weren’t bad enough, Lorna took up snoring, a new habit: loud, congested huffs.  On the worst nights, Jack gave up and moved to the family room couch, taking half the dampened blankets with him. Goddamned menopause, Jack thought. He resented that he suffered its symptoms along with his wife.

At his weekly IHOP breakfast with Bud, Jack lamented his sleeplessness. “It’s menopause Jack,” Bud said matter-of-factly. “It’s not about you. I remember when Judy went through it. The last thing you want to do is complain. Believe me,” he said as he leaned across the table and lowered his voice. Bud’s white hair dropped over his eyebrows as he tilted his head in a conspiratorial gaze. Jack silently compared his dull gray hair and thinning pate to his friend’s hair, thick loose curls that made the ladies take a second look. If Bud weren’t his best friend, he’d resent him.

“So, speaking from your experience, Bud, when do things get back on track? You know, back to normal?” Jack asked.

 

Bud shoveled a large forkful of pancake into his mouth, the syrup dribbling down his chin.  As he dragged the paper napkin across his face, he spoke as he chewed. “Normal? If you mean like before menopause, you’re delusional.”

Jack cleared his throat and refined his question. “What I mean is, when do the symptoms stop?”

“Hmm. I can’t recall,” Bud said. He tapped his fork on his plate and looked to the ceiling as if he were trying to find that data point. “Nope. I don’t know,” he finally said, returning his attention to Jack. “But Judy’s not the same, even without the symptoms. Still Judy. But different.”

“How so?” Jack asked.

“Lemme think. One thing that sticks out: she started saying things like ‘you do you.’  I had no idea what that meant but got the feeling she was telling me she’d be doing Judy with or without me.”

“Jesus Christ, Bud. How long does this last?”

“I don’t know, pal. How long do you plan to live?”

***

A year ago, Jack and Lorna stopped using the bed for anything but sleep, and now he couldn’t even count on that. No sleep. No sex. This isn’t how he planned to spend his golden years. At sixty-five, his libido thinned along with his hair. But he wasn’t dead. He still had the craving, even though it was tempered by his stiff knees and the hip that cried for a replacement. But they could adjust their positions to work with these inconveniences. He printed options he found in a link from his AARP magazine. He slid the stack of papers across the kitchen table one Saturday morning. Lorna flipped through them as the lines in her forehead deepened.  “Really? We’d have to be contortionists to get into some of these positions.” She pointed to one of the illustrations. “I’m afraid this one would wrench your back, honey. And this? Oh, my God, Jack, you can’t be on top. Remember your dislocated shoulder? I really don’t want to end up in the ER again trying to explain the injury.” Lorna finished looking through the illustrations, then dropped them on the table as she closed her eyes and sighed. “Jack, you know what I’m going through. I’m so goddamned tired, I can’t muster desire right now. Let’s revisit this when I’ve regained some equilibrium.” Jack stared at the pages on the table, saying nothing. “When we get there, let’s take another look at the side effects of the statin, too. I know you’ve had muscle weakness, but I want to be sure there isn’t anything we can make worse with sex.” Jack gave a conciliatory nod.  He thought marrying a younger woman would extend his sex life, not turn his trophy wife into a nursing attendant.

***

Jack held up his coffee cup to motion for a refill. He pushed his half-eaten breakfast to the center of the table and watched Bud, who was fully engaged with his triple stack of pancakes. “Bud, I don’t want to pry, but I need a reality check,” Jack said quietly. “Do you and Judy—uh—do you still. Shit. Never mind.” The waitress arrived with a cheerful ‘there you go,’ as she refilled Jack’s cup.

Bud used a slice of toast to wipe his plate clean of the syrup and shoved the bread into his mouth, closing his eyes as he chewed. After he swallowed the last of it, he sighed. “Damn

 

that was good.” Jack nodded, hoping the breakfast was over. “So, where were we,” Bud said, as Jack slapped his credit card on the table. “You want to know if Judy and I still do the nasty. Hell yeah. Not as often as we used to, but yeah.” He punctuated his statement with a loud slurp of his orange juice.

“That’s what I figured. Glad to hear it,” Jack said as he leaned back and spread his arms across the back of the booth top. “Yep, it looks like we haven’t lost our animal magnetism.” He picked up his juice glass and raised it in a silent Bravo.

“Jack, I’ve known you since we were teenagers bragging about sex we didn’t have. Cut the shit.”

“What?” Jack said, anxiously waving for the waitress.

“I know you, pal. You asked about me and Judy because you’re having problems with Lorna. In the bedroom.”

Jack dropped his waving arm and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. But nothing I can’t handle.”

“Right. Sounds like you’re killing it.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bud. Besides, I’m the same man as I’ve always been, but Lorna. Well, Lorna’s changed.”

“Sure, Jack. Have your pity party if that’s what you want. Or as my wife would say, you do you.” Bud caught the eye of the waitress and gave the card-signing signal.

***

That night, Jack migrated to the couch. Once he got settled, he thought about Mary, the grocery clerk at Shop-N-Save. He was drawn to her salt-and-pepper hair, always pulled back in a high ponytail. Lorna kept her hair in a short, professional bob with blonde highlights. No ponytails for her. Mary’s hair bounced across her back as she slid groceries over the scanner. She always asked how he was. Jack lied, claiming he’d just come from a Pilates class or was on his way to the gym. Mary was impressed with his vigor, her word. Jack noticed she wore a Fitbit. He got one to have something else to talk about with Mary. When they compared their step counts, Jack lied and inflated his by many thousand. But he didn’t lie when Mary asked about his hobby building remote-controlled miniature boats. He couldn’t remember the last time Lorna asked about his World War II aircraft carrier.  As Mary shuffled his purchases to the end of the counter, she asked detailed questions, pausing for split seconds to look at Jack, her coal-dark eyes locked on his fading blue irises.

Jack stopped wearing his wedding ring and told Lorna it had gotten too tight. Once the tan line evened where the ring had been, he made a point of using his left hand as he pushed the bachelor-sized groceries across the belt: single-serving prepared meals, small yogurt cups, two apples, three oranges. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he couldn’t stop. Each trip to the Shop-N-Save left him more obsessed with Mary. Jack blushed when she smiled at him. Her imperfect teeth, the small gap in the front, the endearing lines at the edges of her mouth mesmerized him.

Mary responded with a gasping wow when Jack told her his replica of an aircraft carrier would be permanently displayed in the local World War II Museum. The Museum Foundation had taken photos as Jack’s work progressed, documenting the intricacies of the project. “My, tthat must be an amazing piece of workmanship,” Mary said as she moved his groceries across the belt and Jack gushed the details of his labor.

“You can come to the launch!” Jack nearly shouted over the beeps from the scanner. Mary smiled kindly as she nodded toward the payment terminal. Jack swiped his card, grabbed the bag of groceries and quietly said “I’ll let you know the date. No pressure. If you’re free, you can come by.” Mary smiled and quickly turned her attention to the next customer.

***

Two weeks later Jack met Bud for breakfast and told him the date of the ship launch. “You couldn’t do it on a weekend, Jack?” Bud asked. “More people could make it. Hell, half our golf group still works. Not to mention, your wife.”

Jack nodded sympathetically. “I know. It’s too bad. I tried for a weekend, but the park is booked along the lake for the next few months. And I had to coordinate with the Foundation. A Tuesday was the best I could do,” Jack lied. The park administrator had offered the single available Saturday, but Mary worked two Saturdays a month. She was always off on Tuesdays, and Jack wanted to be sure she could witness the culmination of his work on the aircraft carrier.

***

On the morning of the launch, Jack found Lorna in her robe puttering in the kitchen at 8:30, well past the time she left for the office. “Lorna, are you okay?” he asked.

“Of course, I’m Okay. I took the morning off.”

“Oh, honey, you didn’t have to do that. It’ll be amateur hour at the lake.” Jack restrained the panic he felt rising in his voice. “You’ve seen the ship in the garage for the last year. You probably can’t wait for the damn thing to get to the Foundation.”

“Jack, you know I would love to see it on the water. And no, I’m not impatient about getting the monster out of the garage, as much as I might like you to park your car there.” They smiled, acknowledging their ongoing dialogue about the wisdom of parking his hobby in the garage while Jack’s car endured winter snow and ice and the smoldering heat of the Midwest summer. Lorna took a breath, then said, “I’m sorry, honey, but I have a hair appointment this morning. I had to get in before I leave for New York this afternoon. This was the only time Joellen had.” Before Jack could respond, Lorna’s phone pinged a message. Her brow furrowed as she read the text. “Shit. I have to run. I need to put out a fire at the office before I see Joellen.” Jack placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.  Lorna kissed him on the cheek and raced to the stairs. “Take a video, hon,” she called as she neared the second floor.

Jack exhaled a long breath of relief. He settled into a kitchen chair and sipped his coffee. Jack was acquainted with his wife’s in-demand hairdresser’s reputation. Lorna called her a colorist magician, whatever that meant. She considered Joellen a friend, even a confidante. “Joellen was so sympathetic when I told her about Johnny’s DUI,” Lorna reported. “She knew by the look on my face I was upset about something.” Every month Lorna spent hours in a pneumatic chair gossiping with Joellen, a woman half her age. His wife came home drunk with dirt about Joellen’s other clients. Lorna seemed clueless that her personal business must be broadcast to any head of hair that entered the shop.

 

***

Mary showed up early to the launch site. Jack’s heart raced when he spotted her on a bench not far from the lake. She flipped through a magazine while several of Jack’s friends gathered around him. They discussed the best spot to put in and where Jack would stand with the controls. A man from the local World War II Foundation took photos of the aircraft carrier, then took shots of Jack standing next to it.

“This is the big day, pal,” Bud said as he gave Jack a man’s side hug.

“It is. I just hope I sealed it well. All I’d need is for the damn thing to sink,” Jack said with a grimace.

“Hey, hey, there’s no one better at this. It’s going to float. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks,” Bud said.

As Bud predicted, the launch proceeded perfectly. The group of onlookers clapped when Jack turned the carrier around to return to shore. Jack, laser-focused on the controls, didn’t see Mary until he turned to thank his fans. She’d moved to the edge of the lake and smiled broadly when Jack’s eyes met hers.

Jack raised his controls over his head and yelled, “Oh yeah!” his gaze locked on Mary. The crowd responded with another round of applauses. Jack took a theatrical bow.

“Okay, Jack, now say a few words for posterity,” Bud said as he pointed his phone at his friend. “For your kids. Your grandkids. And for Lorna, who had to miss today.”

“Oh my God, yeah!” Jack said, the adrenaline continuing to pump through his system. He thanked his family, especially his ‘endlessly patient wife, Lorna,’ for supporting him as he brought his vision to fruition. When he turned from Bud, Jack watched the group disband. He looked for Mary, but she was gone.

Men from the Foundation loaded the ship to a flatbed truck to deliver it to the Museum. Jack’s sinuses burned, a signal he might cry. He watched a year’s work pull away, taking his moment of glory with it.

Jack wanted to get away from everyone and for-Christ’s-sake, cry. He couldn’t remember being this let down since his wedding reception ended. All the planning, all the anticipation built through the engagement. Then within a few hours, it was over. He and Lorna convinced their best friends to continue the party at the hotel bar. They closed it down and retired to the honeymoon suite, too drunk to have sex. They laughed about this the next day when they woke with hangovers. “Good thing we weren’t saving ourselves for marriage,” Lorna joked.

“We saved ourselves for each other. That’s all that matters,” Jack said.

•••

“Hey,” Bud said, interrupting Jack’s memory. “You owe me a C-note.”

Jack dragged himself back to the moment. “What?” he asked.

“The bet. I bet you a hundred bucks the boat would float. And it did.”

“Con artist. I never took the bet,” Jack said. “Always working an angle, Bud. Good thing I know you as well as I do.”

The friends slapped each other on the back and walked to their cars. Jack turned on his car engine and idled for a few moments. When tears gathered in the corners of his eyes, he knew it was time to leave. 

***

“Jack, you did it!” Lorna declared on the phone that evening. “Damn, I wish I could have been there.”

“I do, too, honey,” Jack said and surprised himself. He meant it.

“No worries, though. Bud sent me the video. It’s fantastic. And you look ecstatic.”

“That’s how I felt, Lorna. Ecstatic. But then I was let-down. It was the wedding reception all over again.”

“What a bummer. I hate that.” The two listened to their breaths in silence. “I never told you this, Jack, but I felt the same way each time one of the kids got married. All that lead-up, and then pfft! It’s over.”

“Exactly,” Jack said.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Lorna said. “You won’t believe who I saw on the video.”

“Who?”

“Mary!” Lorna nearly exclaimed with glee. “One of Joellen’s clients. I only met her a couple of times when our appointments were back-to-back.” Jack’s stomach churned at the mention of Mary. His wife in-real-life knew his grocery-clerk wife. And their connection was the gossip monger Joellen.

 Lorna banged on about how Mary had three dead-beat ex-husbands—all who cheated on her. “When she had a kid with the second husband, he disappeared. Mary worked two jobs to put her daughter through college. She’s amazing,” Lorna said as her voice slowed. “But she hasn’t been in for quite a while. Joellen said Mary stopped getting her hair colored, so no need for Joellen.”

“Hmm,” Jack murmured.

“What in the world was she doing at the launch?” Lorna asked, abruptly returning to the moment.

“I have no idea, hon. It’s a public park.” Sweat gathered on Jack’s forehead. “Anyway, this Mary must have seen the group and walked over to see what was happening,” he said.

              “Of course. You’re a celebrity, honey. She’s one of your fans,” Lorna teased. 

***

Jack turned in early that night. He lay awake, staring at the digital clock on the nightstand as the numbers flashed the minutes, then the hours. He reached across the bed and touched the empty space Lorna left. He was still awake at dawn when the sunrise split across the room. That afternoon, Jack decided to make tacos, Lorna’s favorite, and he needed to pick up the ingredients. He drove down the main suburban boulevard and automatically turned into the Shop ‘N Save. He abruptly turned the car back to the main drag and headed to Aldi’s.

That evening, when he heard the key turn in the front door, he wiped his hands on his apron and hurried to greet his wife.  

Bio:

Patricia Feeney is a founding member of the Crooked Tree Writers, and is a member of the St. Louis Writer's Guild and AWP. Her work has appeared in Adelaide, Bayou (Pushcart nominee), biostories, Inscape, Persimmon Tree, Windmill, Grub Street, and elsewhere. She recently retired from teaching in Lindenwood's MFA program.

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.)