by Steve Lodge

Willing is a beautiful area, but lonely and inaccessible. My wife, Clarissa, went out for some ingredients to make her famous Renaissance Stew five days ago, so I expect her back any minute.

Local winter fruits keep me going. I can pick flundermokers and red limp near the house. At Wasted Yawn frozen lake, flen wibble grows to an enormous height.

Later, I’ll use the phone at Barney’s place near the disused forest. I should report Clarissa missing. Police will start at Vincent’s place, where she stayed last winter, while seeking comfort and solace, presumably two main ingredients for her stew.

I had many quiet moments during this time where I searched for peace in the inner recesses of my mind, but I only found a disturbingly vivid wartime memory of receiving a kiss from a camel by an oasis near the deserted Silvermoon Airfield at New Southport. It was a truly defining moment for me. That jolted the memory of the time I had been captured and tortured by monkeys who licked my toes as I was tied and suspended from a tree and later teased by a frisky rhino.

We used to walk the 5 miles from the airfield to the delightful Fox And Tuppence pub. All the remaining airmen at Silvermoon, Bimmer, The Guffler, Sid and myself, would spend a lot of our time in the pub, you see, because no planes landed at Silvermoon anymore. Even the Home Guard based in nearby Broken Biscuits had disbanded. There was barely a living to be had for the husband and wife team who ran the pub, Eliot Fox and his wife, Tuppence, but this was the end of the war and anyone with an opportunistic streak could stumble on a way to make some money.

I was in the company of three of the most fearless men I’d ever met, but we knew it couldn’t last. Thoughts of forming a band and touring the area were quickly scotched as none of us could play an instrument or sing. We were all considerably rhythmically challenged and none of us could be described as talented in any artistic area. I did once know a guy called Bernard Sangster who juggled broccoli and played tambourine in a church band, but I felt his talents would be of little use, since he had died in the war.

When the Ministry finally closed the airfield, Bimmer and The Guffler joined a band of mercenaries led by Jobbie Dobbs and his brother, Squalid. They propped up a puppet regime on the island of Expatria for many years.

Sid and I headed for nearby Willing, where he joined the local police force. I failed the medical to join due to my worsening overactive jiggles and unhappy bowel. I opened a small trading store briefly but my bestsellers – fake alibis and tree scampi were very seasonal.

Marrying Clarissa, my mail order bride, had been a huge mistake. For both of us. I learned subsequently that she was a very active nymphomaniac and I still had recurring dreams of that camel. I suspect that to keep up appearances, I will need to ask for Sid’s help again soon in locating my wayward wife. It may be easier, of course, when the lake thaws.

Steve Lodge is a wandering minstrel from London, now based in Singapore. He has written short stories and poems, plays/skits for theatre groups and also lyrics for a band he shouts in. He does stand up comedy, improv, and some acting.

by Heather D Haigh

So, I was totting up the cost o’ tangerines, beef burgers and custard powder—eee and, the bloomin’ prices in Grimethorpe Museum o’ Nostalgia—even steeper than when they used to sell such things down the Co-op, and I had to mention to that uppity madam at the till that ye-olde price list’s a bit tricky to read when you’re knockin’ on, and she had the temerity to stare down her nose—over them wire-rimmed spectacles, while patting that oh-so-tight bun on the top of her ‘ead—with a right-old knickers-up-your-arse expression, while I was stretching to reach the Lurpak—two for five quid would you believe—I was ‘avin plenty o’ that—but she’d piled the stuff way too high, and she said, “bit short as well as blind, huh?” Right at me.

Now before I could reply, this naked geezer came in swinging the evidence of his well-endowment, as you might say, in a jolly old fashion, and he remarked, “how rude!” 

And I thought, you’re not wrong, mate. 

Then, the naked fella climbed a long-long ladder up towards the ceiling—and I was thinking how nice peaches are on a hot summer’s afternoon, then he climbed through the loft-hatch—which I hadn’t noticed until that point was open and waiting—and he hauled himself through and banged it closed with a right good crack. And the whole museum trembled. 

Now, you tell me, Mr Browne, which part of that doesn’t fit the homework brief this week? You asked for metaphors. You wouldn’t know one if it bit you on the proverbial, and you’ll notice my piece isn’t full o’ cliches.  You asked for surrealism—have you checked the price o’ butter, lately? 

Steaks? You think I can afford steak on my pension? There was a time, back when my Stan was here—God rest his soul, when we’d treat ourselves on special occasions. His birthday, Valentine’s day, that sort o’ thing. 

He used to love a good book my Stan, and he used to say, “You should learn to write Gladys; you spin a grand yarn,” and well, I’m rattling ’round these days, and it’s nice to do something he’d approve of. I like to think of ‘im watching over me while I’m scribbling away in the wee hours.

Oh. Risk factor. You don’t think climbing a fifty-foot ladder with your schlong waggling around is a tad hazardous? Luckily, the chap had a good rhythm. Swing to the left—swing to the right. Brought to mind that Grandfather clock Stan found at the flea market. He never did manage to fix it properly.

Conflict? Well, pennies being tight, I was torn between plums and a nice bit o’ polony. 

Focal character? I happen to think that naked fella was quite a character.  I was certainly focused on him for a good while. Eighty-seven rungs. Lovely repetition. Had me humming to myself—that song by Chuck Berry. So, there you go—musicality as well.

Goal? Well, I started out wanting somethin’ nice for me tea and to pick up a few other bits and pieces but, in the end, I right enjoyed that character arc, I can tell you. Swing to the left—swing to the right. My Stan would be proper proud o’ me gettin’ it all down. Tell it like you see it, our Gladys, he’d say. Tell it like you see it.

Course it’s a story. Anecdote my left bunion. Can you not tell when sombody’s stringing you a tale? 

Meta, Mr Browne—I think it might be meta. But anyway, fancy joining me at Salsa class on Saturday? 

Heather is a sight-impaired spoonie and emerging working-class writer from Yorkshire. Her work has been published by Fictive Dream, The Phare, Free Flash Fiction, WestWord, The Timberline Review and others. She has won competitions with New Writers and Globe Soup and was runner-up in this year’s Kay Snow Awards for Fiction. Find her at https://haigh19c.wixsite.com/heatherbooknook

Eight-year-old me circled Auntie’s bad words with a red pen. 

—long words, foreign or fancy words, words beginning with X or V or with too many vowels, backsliding words, even words sometimes wondering why in bed late at night. 

To earn my supper, I underlined the sentences that’d upset her.   

—sentences about ill-fated marriages and earthly troubles, with women in skirts not below the knee, with children not fair or flaxen-haired and, therefore, prone to pick-pocketing.  

On the pages of stories indecent, I had to make an X in the top right corner. Left and low was wrong. Auntie intended to raise me righteous despite my dark curls and my father.  There was cherry pie and a pat on the head if I frowned, tsk-tsked like she did, slapped my little unwashed hand over my mouth as I read.  

—stories in which a man cried and a woman didn’t or something other than church happened on a Sunday, stories set in a far-away city more good than evil or in any heathen time. 

I piled what Auntie made me do on the kitchen table. Under a big yellow bulb, she’d tear it all up, and fill a basket beside the woodstove. I fed it her approved disapproval.   

When the cabin would fill with smoke, I blamed my tears on it and choked, No, Auntie, not crying. Nope. Not. The chimney must’ve been blocked. 

So was her heart. Never red-hot, she was just grey and iron sure, her voice rusty like the little door I stuffed paper through.  

Sifting through the morning ash, I’d compose fairy tales with the unburned bits before sweeping them into a bucket for Uncle. Then he’d say he was sorry about it, sorry that he and the last mule in the county had to plow my princely rescues and happy-ever-afters, witches and ancient children into the field. No giant beanstalk ever grew. 

When the book shed was empty, I’d drive into town with Uncle. Brave the library—the staring and the whispering; had Auntie borrowed and never returned?—for its free book rack. We went to yard sales and charity shops, into dumpsters for anything that’d make Auntie smoulder and warm the cabin.   

—books of poems that refused to rhyme and bundles of letters in handwriting that shook but told the truth no matter what, encyclopaedias—no one should know more than God, Auntie said—and old maps. Don’t try to run away. 

I did.

How awful wonderful it is now. I write with a red pen. I write in a far-away city on a rooftop where there’s smoke and crying without excuse.  

—a dystopian drama; set on a cold farm after all the paper has been burned; a man as tired as Uncle; every day, he searches the woods for a widow-maker to stand beneath so it’ll crash down and end him; doesn’t find such a tree; returns to his brittle wife with armfuls of twigs and dryly says, Maybe tomorrow; one day, he bursts into flame, saves the little girl;  or perhaps it’s the wife who catches fire and the girl who saves the man.  

Karen Walker (she/her) writes short in a low basement in Ontario, Canada. She has two tall dogs. Her most recent work is in or forthcoming in New Flash Fiction Review, Exist Otherwise, Misery Tourism, The Hooghley Review, Switch, and Does It Have Pockets?  

by Gill O’Halloran

The day Maeve told me she was leaving to become a nun I vomited. We’d been friends since primary school. When the bullying began in secondary school, Maeve was the one who pulled me through.  We’d dated each other’s exes, got drunk on her dad’s homemade wine, danced in houses without doors, once even kissed each other ‘to see what it felt like’; Maeve said later that I’d made her, but it’s not true, it was her idea. We applied to different universities, but I gave up an offer from Cambridge to follow her to Birmingham, wrote half her finals’ papers when she was too sick to care. We’d been flatmates ever since. When we were older, we’d buy houses next door to each other, stop to lean over the fence, and moan about our husbands while we hung out the washing. 

We were atheists. Not woolly agnostics. Out and proud heathens. But during the pandemic, God slipped in the back door when I wasn’t watching. When Maeve’s mum nearly died she’d prayed; she said it helped. I said nothing, imagined it a one-off. But it wasn’t. Maeve came back to the flat one night, told me she’d been going to the local church, had bought a bible. I pulled a face. There had to be more, she said, she was searching. A month later she announced she’d had a calling from God; it came to her in a dream. God’s plan for her lay in a Benedictine abbey on the South coast and she was moving out in two weeks to become a nun. I turned to the sink, vomited.  Maeve thought it was disgust, but that wasn’t why. I felt her warm hand on my back, heard her say she barely understood it herself, but she trusted God’s intent. You’re running away, I said, you must be unhappy, do you feel ugly?  She smiled. No, she’d never felt happier, more beautiful, and she hoped I’d be happy for her too even if this were something I could never, ever, understand.

“Try me,” I said, standing my hot cup on her illustrated bible, watching her wince as the tea stain spread out from Jesus’s head like a dulled halo. But I didn’t want to understand. The person who left a week later was not Maeve. Not my sparkle-girl. When she moved the final items out of her bedroom I shoved my grief into the spaces left on the shelves and shut the door. 

Two months on, as the summer waned, she invited me to come and visit her one evening; to take supper with her and her sisters. Which is how I came to be standing here at the gate of the convent, peering through the iron railings. 

Wisps of Vespers drift over to me on the feather of an evening breeze. And then, as they exit the chapel, I see my girl, her slight form enveloped in the beneficent sisters that surround her. Her robes are loose on her like her body’s gone on holiday. Red hair aside, she’s identical to the other black-robed figures, weaving down the winding path towards the gate, a murmuration of nuns silhouetted against an apricot sky. They pause, stand in a circle on the lawn, hold hands. They’re laughing. I didn’t know nuns laughed. Maeve’s not seen me, doesn’t know I’m here.

In my pockets I’ve stashed treats, things she’ll be missing: a compact mirror, her favourite Charlotte Tilbury Love Bite lipstick, a bottle of Hendrick’s gin. But suddenly I know she hasn’t missed them, that she’ll say the Lord doesn’t want her to have these tokens, these trifles. She’ll press them back into my shallow pockets with some godawful homily: bless you, Shona, you know not what you do. 

I force my clenched throat open, pour her gin down it, pout into the mirror, coat my lips with her lipstick. I call her name again. This time she hears me, walks towards the gate, puts her fingers through the railings to touch my face.

“Slag,”  I say.

“I forgive your anger,” she looks me in the eyes. I can’t look back at her.

“You’re an ugly bitch without make-up!” I try.

“You’re beautiful with or without it, Shonie.”  

“Selfish cow, I gave up my degree for you.”

“And I’m forever in your debt.”   

I want to fall on my knees, say I’d do it all again, I thought we’d always be together, say I miss you; I love you.

“Fuckwit.” 

She grins, sticks her tongue out. “When you come inside, maybe you could leave your rudeness outside with your shoes?” she says. “Supper’s ready, all the vegetables are from the garden. C’mon, the Lord says always offer a place at the table for a prodigal daughter.”  She opens the gate, and I fall onto her, all the seething greedy need of me collapsing in her arms. She holds my hand, my bride of Christ, and we take the path towards the abbey. 

“Come into the house of God,” she says. And I do.

Gill’s poetry book ‘This Seven-Year-Old Walks Into a Bar’ was published in 2009. She loves running poetry workshops but has only recently discovered the thrill of squeezing small stories into tight spaces. Find her in Bath Flash Fiction Anthology 2024, Trash Cat Lit, Underbelly Press. As her mum would say, “I’m a girl like you, just a bit older.”

https://twitter.com/poetrypleases

by David Margolin

At Monolingual International Airport, Terminal B, everything appeared to be in order at The Tower of Babel Café. There was a cashier, a cook, and a customer, but there was a crucial limiting factor: they shared no language in common.

New customers attempted to place their order verbally, only to be thwarted by The Cashier’s stare, a combination of bewilderment and recalcitrance that froze further attempts at conversation.

Pointing at the desired item on the menu was an obvious strategy, but the menu choices were displayed on a digital monitor incredibly briefly (a hair above subliminal), before being replaced by a series of commercials, news bites, and interviews with local celebrities and former customers of the cafe. Also, the monitor was out of reach for everyone except for customers who were exceptionally long-armed, and athletic enough to leap over the counter and point at the same time.

Even if the target item could be pointed at, the cutesy idiosyncratic names (e.g., “Airiel,” “Standby,” and “Landing Gear”) offered very limited insight into the contents of the offerings.

The most successful–and by far the most entertaining–strategy for ordering was creative pantomiming. One patron accurately drew an outline of Italy in the air to communicate his choice of the “Godfather” Italian sub sandwich. Another patron offered an impressive performance of a fish being caught and laid out on a sandwich in hopes of landing the “Mariner’s Delight.” The hot dog “Big Frank” was not ordered frequently, because few people could think of pantomime options that did not risk a slap in the face.

Although imaginative, and occasionally successful, these strategies were very time consuming. Frequently the line to order snaked out of the confines of the restaurant space and into the main concourse. The congestion was amplified by curious passersby who stopped to watch the would-be diners’ pantomime show. The best performers drew a round of applause and cheers.

Experienced customers knew the unwritten rule to not ask any questions of the beleaguered staff of two. Violating the rule led to awkward exchanges.

Naive Customer asked: “Is the ‘Beefy & Cheesy’ served hot or cold?”

The Cashier stared blankly.

Naive Customer: “The temperature…of the sandwich…the meat and the cheese inside, is it hot or cold?”

The Cashier nodded vaguely in the affirmative.

Finally realizing that words would not suffice, Naive Customer shifted to the pantomiming strategy to discover the temperature of the sandwich. For hot, she simulated a person dying of thirst under an intensely-beating desert sun. For cold, she portrayed a person trapped in a deep freeze experiencing body-racking shaking chills.

Reluctantly hinting at a smile, The Cashier hugged herself and shivered.

Energized by the thrill of victory, Naive Customer activated the laser pointer on her smart phone with lightning speed, just in time to choose “Beefy & Cheesy” as it flashed on the menu monitor for a semi-instant.

There was still a formidable bridge to cross. How was The Cashier going to communicate this order to The Cook? As a cost-saving device, the cafe owners had chosen not to invest in any type of electronic communication between the cashier and the cook. Through a process of trial and error, the two had developed an elaborate communication scheme that relied on a combination of subtle and not so subtle body movements, including shrugs, nods, twitches, and facial expressions.

Between the customer-cashier and the cashier-cook language gaps, it took a minor miracle for a customer to receive the correct order. A hoody was designed with “The Tower of Babel Cafe” logo on the back (an ancient-appearing tower reaching high into the sky, with diners on every floor, and airport activity in the background, including modern traffic control towers), and “I GOT WHAT I ORDERED!” in raised gold lettering on the front. These successful orderers became known as “Brilliant Babblers.” Sales of knock-off versions of the hoodies went viral.

The Cook and The Chef were enjoying the notoriety. Autograph and selfie seekers became increasingly common. People began arriving two hours early for their flights to see the show in Terminal B. The inter-terminal shuttle bus fleet had to be doubled and then tripled as Terminal B became a destination spot, even for travelers departing from other terminals.

The cafe’s notoriety skyrocketed after the reality TV show What’s My Order? began airing. The viewership increased exponentially and within six months it surpassed all of the other reality shows in popularity. There was a spin-off dating show—Brilliant Babblers Make Better Lovers. In addition to their looks and physique, contestants were judged based on their ability to court by pantomime.

A group of cultural anthropologists was assembled from leading academic centers around the world; they got permission from airport security to set up shop in Terminal B. Their team included linguists, transcriptionists, and a camera crew. That crew and the “What’s My Order?” camera crew were constantly elbowing for locations that offered the best camera angle.  

The fame was fleeting. Within six months The Cashier left the café to work full time as a subculture social-media influencer. The Cook became a celebrity chef on the local food channel. The café space was converted to rent out sleeping pods. The crowds died down, but the café has not been forgotten.

At the Troll & Roll in Terminal B, some customers insist on pantomiming their orders for the $37.00 four-small-bite lobster roll ($38.00 with a squirt of lemon). This usually involves claw snapping and rolling over at the same time. At the former site of the café, people still come to take selfies and pantomime their favorite menu items. Some leave partially eaten sandwiches in homage.

It is also common to see travelers watching reruns of What’s My Order? and Brilliant Babblers Make Better Lovers on their devices as they wait to board their planes. There is no doubt about what they are watching, as they pantomime along with the contestants, and mouth or whisper, “Airiel,” “Standby,” “Beefy and Cheesey!”

David Margolin lives, works, and writes in Portland, Oregon. During his career as a Neurologist he has done a lot of medical/scientific writing. Now he is enjoying the relative freedom of creative writing. He has published in Friday Flash Fiction, Five Minutes, R U Joking?, Little Old Lady Comedy, Bright Flash Literary Review, Memoir Magazine, and Witcraft.

by Chris Cottom

Mum isn’t interested in cars. 

‘They’re giving your Dad a new one,’ she says. 

‘What sort?’ 

‘Brown.’

It’s a Cortina Mk II in Saluki Bronze.

‘Bigger engine,’ Dad says. ‘I’ll be taking her up as far as Kirkby Lonsdale.’

On Saturday, in my wellies, I help him with my junior chamois leather, and waggle the dipstick like a real mechanic. Mum’s in the kitchen, jabbing little sticks into cocktail onions and cubes of cheddar. 

The party starts after my bedtime. I watch from the landing while Dad talks to a lady with a long cigarette holder. 

‘I’m in the motor trade,’ he says.

The lady leans her head back and blows a smoke ring over his head, where it hovers like a halo. 

‘Specialising in two-seaters, I imagine,’ she says.

Dad has the best job in the world, selling Dinky Cars to toyshops from Barmouth to Burton-upon-Humber. Sometimes he’ll bring me one from the factory, like a Morris Oxford in Clarendon Grey or a Singer Gazelle with a sunroof.

Hopeful for a Twiglet, I lean over the banisters, but Dad’s heading for the lounge, his hand on the lady’s back, steering her one-handed through the crowd of grown-ups.

In the morning, I can’t find Mum.

‘She’s gone to see your Gran,’ Dad says. ‘Rice Krispies or Corn Flakes?’ 

After making me a Banana Nesquik, even though it isn’t a special day, he clicks open his briefcase and hands me a Hillman Minx Series III saloon. I take it to Sunday School and hide it under my jumper during prayer time. I wonder what car Jesus would choose if He came again today and didn’t have to rely on donkeys. It’d have to be a convertible – like a Triumph Herald – with Peter driving so Jesus could wave from the back. 

Later, I line up my cars along the windowsill while Dad bends over his Bartholomew’s Roadmaster Atlas, listing towns and toyshops on his company jotter.

On Monday, Mum huffs and puffs while she makes Dad’s ham sandwiches. She wraps them in greaseproof paper and snaps on a rubber band.

‘Give this to your Dad.’

‘What about his Penguin Biscuit?’

‘We’ve run out.’

Dad pulls on his driving gloves and goes off for another week, lodging in a boarding house in Kirkby Lonsdale or somewhere, where I suppose an aproned landlady will make him his evening Ovaltine. 

On Wednesday, after Zoo Time, Dad rings from a telephone box. I hope he has enough sixpences to test me on the engine size of a Mini Cooper or the length of a Ford Corsair. Instead, he says, ‘Don’t you be giving your mother any trouble.’ 

Later, I’m playing with my Rover P4 Drophead Coupé in Connaught Green when Mum explains it’s the boarding houses that are causing the trouble. She starts emptying jars of cocktail onions, so her eyes go a bit funny.

‘I’ll need my own car now,’ she says.

I hold out the Rover. ‘How about a green one?’

Chris Cottom has spent the better half of his life near Macclesfield, UK. One of his stories was read to passengers on the Esk Valley Railway between Middlesborough and Whitby. He’s packed Christmas hampers in a Harrods basement, sold airtime for Radio Luxembourg, and served a twelve-year stretch as an insurance copywriter. He liked the writing job best.

@chris_cottom1 chriscottom.wixsite.com/chriscottom

by Cole Beauchamp and Sumitra Singam

In the car, chubby thighs fart on leather seats. Five children in three spots, the ripe smell of cousins and siblings on holiday, left to go feral. Sandhya keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon, grateful Australians drive on the same side of the road as back home in India, that her sister is such a confident driver. She keeps her hand on her belly, trying to quell her nausea. Hopefully the sea air will help. 

The Commodore sputters to a halt. Hands scramble for door handles, push slow-to-move bodies, and stretch to the light. Heat slaps them, burning melanomas into the crowns of their heads.

The mothers hand out straw bags, towels, stacked containers of food, buckets and spades amid protests and squeals of laughter.

Sandhya grips Vidhya’s hand as they step onto the beach, her balance off in this new country. She shouts a warning to her daughters, but a gust snatches it away. 

Vidhya calls out to her oldest son to look after the little ones. Naren nods. 

Sandhya exhales. Her nephew is a capable boy, like his mother. And a worrier like her. He won’t get distracted. 

* * *

Naren leads the jubilant children who scuttle like crabs behind him to the shore. Staring at the headache-white sand, all Naren can remember is the last time he was in the ocean, his balls shrivelling to raisins in the shock of the bracing cold. 

He’s been crowing to his sisters and visiting cousins about the majesty of the sea, running on baking sand, ice cream melting onto your wrist. But he’s only been once, with his father, and has forgotten the brutal heat, the icy water. 

He watches the roiling waves, panic gathering in his throat. His father warned him of hidden rips that suck you under, gulp you down and spit you out miles from shore. A rogue wave catches his toes, cold as an injection. He snaps his foot back.

Five-year-old Leila laughs at him, “You’re scared, Naren Anna!” She rushes in, splashing her sister and her cousins. 

 * * *

The mothers snap a sheet into hot air, lay it down, anchor the corners with bags.

“Akka,” Sandhya begins. Not quite sure how to start this conversation with her older sister. Vidhya continues to unpack the bags – plastic plates, napkins, cups, bottles of lemonade.

Sandhya watches the waves surge in the distance while the children squall in the water. An answering tide pulls the ocean within her. “Akka,” she repeats. 

* * *

Cold water foams over Naren’s foot while the other is buried in scorching sand. His twelve-year-old body holds these dualities tight, as if a sacred duty. 

He keeps his sisters and cousins in sight as they shriek and splash. His mother and aunt are further up the beach, laying out the picnic. His head swivels between the two groups like he’s at a tennis match.

Overhead, fragments of conversation float, the gulls snapping at them like they are insects.

A squealed “Don’t!”

A half-whispered, “It’s too much…”

“Throw the ball to me!”

“…gift from God.”

 “Naren Anna, watch me!”

His name whooshes inside his skull. The moment builds, the weight of responsibility threatening to engulf him. “Leila, not so deep!”

The surf swallows Leila’s tiny body, a swirl of white. His breath comes in gasps, mouth dry as the salt in his hair. He wades in, cold water sloshing against leaden legs, his father’s words echoing in his head. He imagines Leila’s tiny, limp body. Hears his aunt’s fury. 

Hours later – a minute later – Leila emerges, spluttering. He scoops her up but she wriggles away, skin slippery as a fish. “I don’t need you! I can do it!” 

In his relief he scolds her, more harshly than he intends. Tears well in her eyes. He clucks his tongue, fetches the ball, says, “Come on, kutti, let’s play.”

* * *

Sandhya asks about doctors here in Australia. About what might be possible.

“It’s too much with the girls. I can’t go through this again…”

But her sister is not looking at her with sympathy or understanding. There are no arms around her, no soft mutterings or pats on her arm.

She had forgotten how Vidhya can be. This is the Vidhya of I’m going to tell on you, of this is not how you play the game. This card does not belong. That is my marble. It is my turn. 

It’s not enough to travel thousands of miles with nausea backing up her throat, rejecting food, rejecting liquids. It’s not enough to have the girls bickering over every toy and item of clothing and sign of favour. It’s not enough to have her husband pressing against her at night, oblivious to the new tenderness in her breasts, the watery swish of her insides, the squirm of a tiny life multiplying and multiplying. Now she must bear this moment of Vidhya’s tight mouth, her eyes of judgement, telling her it is a gift from God. 

* * *

Vidhya calls the children out of the water. They form a circle, sand coating their bare feet and shins, gathering in soft piles on the sheet as they jostle each other for prime position, closest to Naren.

The mothers dole out plates of biryani for their children in silence. The earthy smell of slow-cooked meat, the sweet-musky fragrance of fennel and cinnamon spices the air. Naren feels the rice catch in his throat, sharp as a fish bone. 

Sandhya refuses the plate Vidhya offers. No point pretending. She sits down on the blanket by Naren, nudges him and says thank you, gesturing towards Leila. He swallows a gulp of lemonade fizzing like the surf and feels his stomach relax.

The two of them share a smile, watch the mighty ocean splintering in the sunlight, think of the waves lapping their homeland on the opposite side, sharing a single body of water. 

As Naren feels the terror subside in his belly, Sandhya feels the mighty succussion in hers, an echo, an answer.

Cole Beauchamp and Sumitra Singam met on an online writing course and became friends over WhatsApp despite their incompatible time zones (UK/Australia). Neither of them live in their country of birth. Their late night/early morning convos on WhatsApp run the gamut, from infertility and menopause to growing pineapples in England to rejection bingo. They wish they could invent a time machine and go back to 2002 when they both lived in London, so they could have real-life chats over chai. They are both widely published, including collaborative pieces with Icebreakers Lit and New Flash Fiction Review, and hope to produce many more stories together now they have met in real life and sung a few karaoke duets.

Our thoughts on collaborating on this story: 

We’ve worked together on four stories now, and it is such a rewarding process – it frees each of us up to try things we might never do solo, because we know the other has us. This story came from a series of ‘what if’s, and we just surrendered to the process. We love what we’ve come up with, and hope you will too.