Washing Lines

“I’m just going out to hang the laundry, Mum. You stay here and watch your show.”
“I can help you, dear. No need to do it alone,” she answered. She started patting the arms of her chair, murmuring to herself. “Wheezy, have you seen my glasses?”
“I think you’re looking for your cane, Mum. It’s just behind you. Your glasses are on your chain, just where they should be. But really, Mum, I don’t need your help. I’ll just go hang the laundry by myself.”
“You’re hanging the wash? I love to hang the wash. Your father always said that a woman reaching for the washing line was a sight to behold. He claimed it did something beautiful to the line of her back. He should be back in time for dinner tonight. The ocean’s so calm today; he’ll pull all his traps in no time.
“Maybe so, Mum. You just sit here and watch your show, and I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“Where are you going, dear?” she asked.
I sighed. “I’m just going to hang the wash, Mum.”
“Let me help you. I’ve always loved hanging out the clothes.”
“Mum, it’s nearly time for Wheel of Fortune. You love that show. I’ll put it on the right channel and you just sit here and enjoy it. I’ll get you a cup of tea when I come back.”
“Where are you going, Louise?”
This time I didn’t answer. Luckily the Wheel of Fortune theme tune started and my mother’s attention turned to today’s contestants. I considered putting on the kettle for her tea before heading outside, but decided against it. Best not to leave water on the boil if I wasn’t in the house.
I tucked the basket of wet laundry under my arm and headed to the far end of the washing lines, as my mother had always insisted. I could just hear her saying, “To do it properly, start with the corner farthest from the house and work your way back, just overlapping the edges to save on pins. Then when you’re done, you’re back at the house and ready to move on to something else.” I stood, nightgown in hand, looking back across the empty lines towards the house. Through the open window, I could hear Pat Sajak saying, “Do you want to buy a vowel, Ethel?” I swept up the basket and headed back towards the lilac bush by the back door.
I liked to start by the house; “backwards,” my mother always called it. When I finished, I’d end up at the far side of the clotheslines, away from the house, hemmed in on one side by dangling sleeves and on the other by a stand of pines. I could smell the trees and the shaded earth beneath them on one side, and the damp cotton, on the other side, already giving in to the wind. And if I was lucky, no one could actually see me. It was like those forts my brothers and I used to build beneath the willow tree; they were only a success if we were completely hidden.
It was strange, really, her calling me Wheezy; she hadn’t done that in years. In fact, it was my brothers who called me Wheezy when we were all children. I finally insisted that they call me Louise when I reached high school. “I’m no longer a child,” I’d say. But even then they still called me Lou. Now I’d let them call me Wheezy all the time, if they’d only visit us more. They each came every few months and took Mum out for lunch. They’d leave me at home, saying, “Have a rest. Enjoy the break.” I always ended up doing those jobs I couldn’t manage when she was home. I’d be even more exhausted when they came back. They’d be anxious to leave having spent two whole hours making conversation with her. What I wouldn’t give for an afternoon to myself. I’d go to the bookshop in town and browse for at least half an hour before choosing a book, a mystery probably. Then I’d go to the café next door, order a cup of coffee and start the first chapter.
I reached the end of the first clothesline, filling the last bit with socks and underwear so that they were hidden from view by the garage. “No need for the neighbors to see your smalls. Better to leave it to their imagination,” my mother always said, laughing. Pat Sajak’s voice rang out again, “Bad luck, Eddie, bankrupt again.”
As I worked my way back towards the lilac, my mother called out from the kitchen, “Would you like some tea, dear?”
I hesitated and then ran for the door.
“Thanks, Mum, that would be lovely. Let me help.”
“Oh no, Louise, I insist. You do so much for me; let me at least get you a cup of tea.” She stood holding two empty mugs, gazing at the television in the other room. “That poor young man keeps losing all his money. He won’t win any nice prizes today.”
“Don’t worry, Mum, I’m sure he’ll get something.” I turned off the tap that was running into an empty sink. The kettle sat expectantly on the draining board. “That’s funny, I think I smell gas.”
I lunged for the knob on the stove. “You go on through, Mum. I’ll just open some windows.” I’d have to remember to turn off the gas at the wall before leaving her alone again.
Mum turned back into the kitchen, away from the television. “Are you making tea, dear? I’d love a cup.”
“Of course, Mum, I’ll just bring it to you.”
“You’re so good to me, Louise. What do you think about pork chops for dinner tonight? Your father loves them.”
“Perfect. Here’s your tea, Mum.”
“Oh thank you, dear, just what I wanted; a cup of tea.”
She turned back to Vanna White and her letters, and I headed back outside.
It was one of those days again, when he was haunting us. She’d keep mentioning him, waiting for him to come home. If I could just wait to tell her until after dinner, then she’d eat something before the grief started again. Sometimes I just wanted to tell her first thing in the morning, “By the way, Mum, in case you don’t remember, Dad died two years ago. Sorry.” But she wouldn’t remember more than five minutes anyway and I would have to go through the agony of telling her more than once that day.
I finished hanging the last of the clothes and stood, looking out to sea. The closing theme tune of Wheel of Fortune trickled from the window. Only another minute before I had to go back in. I closed my eyes and breathed in the salt air. A seagull flew overhead, calling for its lunch. I listened to the waves breaking on the rocks down in front. If I stood quietly enough, maybe she’d think I was back in my old apartment and she’d forget that I even lived here. Maybe she could manage without me. Maybe, just for tonight, she wouldn’t need me. Maybe she wouldn’t even notice that I wasn’t there.
“Oh dear, Wheezy, I’ve spilled my tea! Wheezy, where are you?”
I hesitated a moment, feeling the cool sea breeze blow across me.
“I’m here, Mum, hanging the laundry. I’m just coming.”
I stood a little longer, the corner of the sheets slapping greedily against my calves. Then, leaving my sanctuary, I turned and made my way through the lines of too bright laundry and went back inside to my mother.

by Sarah Merrill

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Who am I?

Alice clutches the steering wheel of her Hummer as she peers out at the Highway speeding beneath her wheels. Yes, she is sure-almost sure, she is perfectly safe in the Hummer. She lists in her head all the reasons why the Hummer is the safest car for her: It has automatic transmission-no need to worry about changing gears when there is traffic. It has a framework of steel-or something even stronger than steel-whatever that framework is made of-it is built like a tank. Yes, a tank. In this day and age, all women need a tank to drive around in-to feel safe, to feel really safe. Should anybody-and there were lots of crazy people on the roads now-should anybody crash into her, this framework of extremely strong metal-would protect her from being horribly injured. Then, the beauty of four-wheel drive! Should there be any kind of severe weather-snow, ice, blizzards, -she could drive through them all without hesitation, without fear, because the four wheel drive would give her traction on those awful treacherous surfaces at all times. Should she-heaven forbid-have to drive off road for any reason-to evade a stalker- (Alice glances up to look into her rear mirror. Her eyes narrow. Was that red car the same one she had seen back in Raleigh, an hour ago?)-The Hummer could drive off-road as easily as driving on the Highway.Yes; it could scale mountains, ford fiords and circumnavigate ravines. Her headlights, with the extra headlights mounted on the top of the roof racks, plus the fog lights (-don’t forget the four fog lights) could light up the night sky brighter than the brightest sunniest day, in summer. So there is no problem driving at nights, in the dark-no problem whatsoever.
Yes, yes, she is safe-as safe as she can be, given the state of the World as it is, now.
Her exit is coming up.
She thinks she might go off one exit early just in case-just in case the car behind her-the red one, has been following her. She does n’t want to lead the perpetrator to her door-right to her home- so she is going to swing through a gas station first, pretend to buy gas and see if the car follows her off the exit.
Off she goes-off the exit-into the gas station-oh no, this looks like a very bad station, the kind of place where people scatter nails and sharp things on the ground deliberately to try cause punctures and breakdowns…Luckily the wheels of her Hummer are set so high off the ground and are so tough, they are practically indestructible. She pulls into a parking space in the gas station. A little red car pulls in right beside her. Alice reaches down into her glove box and pulls out her nice, dependable colt 38.

by Jacqui Mehring

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Coulter's Candy

“Ally bally ally bally bee
sitting on her Mammy's knee
greetin' fer a wee bawbee
tae buy some Coulter's candy”
[bawbee = ha'penny]

Everyone in the family was partial to a nice piece of soft candy, so when wee Bobby Carswell from No. 21 shouted up from the street to the MacFarlanes' first floor flat: “Eh, Mrs MacFarlane, Mr. Coulter's up in the High Street!” she was soon flurrying around the house fetching her purse and filling her daughter's head with sound advice.
That day was Annie's sixth birthday and she jumped off her little stool and clapped her hands with delight when Ma declared that she was a big girl now and would be off on her own to fetch two wee bags of Mr. Coulter's fine soft sticky aniseed flavoured candy. Mr. Coulter and his very own candy were famous in all the Border towns – only he had the secret of the fabrication. He carried the candy in a big basket on his head and sold from street to street. Ma pressed just two ha'penny pieces into Annie's hand. Money was scarce in these hard times with Annie's Pa out of work. ”No talking to strangers. And no crossing the street, just straight there and back. One bag fer the pair of ye and one bag fer yer granny”. Granny looked up from her place by the fire and smiled, all wrinkles and no teeth, and gave Annie a wink. Annie's little sister Jessie just banged on the floor with her spoon.
Off Annie skipped. Down the stairs, through the hallway and out into the dusty street. If she hurried she might catch up with Bobby Carswell. Wouldn't he be surprised to see Annie so grown up! Eyes shining, feet skipping, so intent was she on clutching her two ha'penny pieces and already tasting the delicious toffee sweetness, that she forgot all about Mrs. MacLean's dog, Alexander. Alexander, for no less was the small dog's name, was a white Scots terrier. “That dog's a terror, no' a terrier.” often laughed Annie's father. Mrs. MacLean had a tiny front garden with a trimmed hedge and a pretty wrought-iron gate. Alexander's rituel was to hide behind the hedge and just when some unwitting person would pass in front of the gate, his joy was to leap out in a frenzy of yapping. He had in this way frightened the living daylights out of any number of poor souls. On a normal day Annie was ahead of Alexander and met him straight on, rosy face to black nose, and with as much sternness as she could muster into her trill voice: “that's enough of ye, Alexander. Ye should be ashamed of yersel' like that!” The wee dog would try a half hearted yap and then, through the bars of the gate, agree to receive a pat and a tickle between the ears.
Annie was known throughout the whole town for her way with animals. Some folk said “uncanny she is, that child”, and others “it's a God given gift that lassie has and no doubt about it”. While yet others would mutter darkly about sorcellery, strange powers and “it not being right”. Annie was, thank goodness, oblivious to all that.
Today Alexander, bristling with mischief, sensed that he had the upper on Annie. His yapping took her completely unawares. Annie, nearly jumping out of her skin, fell lengthwise into the ground. Her little fat fingers shot open, the two bright copper pieces flew right out, landed, rolled all the way out to the middle of the street and finally settled side by side like two faraway stars twinkling faintly in the summer night sky. Then, as if out of nowhere, in a thunderous beating of hooves and a mighty kicking up of dust, up the street came charging, hell for leather, Mr. Duthy on his big, black mare. Mr. Duthy was the richest landowner in these parts and was known as a dour man, well respected, if not well-liked, by the townsfolk. Faster and louder did that horse gallop up the street and charged right over Annie's two ha' pennies, obscuring them from view. Annie, still flat on her tummy, looked and blinked. One second those two bawbees were there and an instant later, they had vanished. Up in a trice, she squinted down the street after the receding horse and its rider and, right enough, she could just make out, on the underside of an upturned hoof, the flash of two glints of metal.
Annie felt as if her heart were filled with lead and her eyes brimmed with tears. No more bawbees, no sweet candy. She was covered with dirt, her knees and elbows were scraped, her dress was torn. She turned around to find Mr. Fergus the cobbler standing right behind her. He nodded to her, pipe in mouth, and said, “Ah seen whit happened tae ye, Annie. Come awa in. We'll soon have ye cleaned up and bright as a new spark.” The cobbler called to his wife and together they washed and wiped, mended and consoled and then finally, sucking thoughtfully on his pipe, Mr. Fergus said: “I tell ye what, wee Annie. If ye take this pair o' shoes that I've repaired back over to Mrs. Ross at the bakery, I'll gie ye this ha'penny piece fer yer trouble. And if ye're quick aboot it, ye'll still catch Mr. Coulter doon the street.”
Wide-eyed and grateful, Annie took the ha'penny and the brown paper and string package, said her thankyous and set off to cross the road. Well, at least there would be one bag of candy for Granny. And being as this was quite an exceptional turn of events, she considered that just this once she would not heed her mother and anyway had she not crossed the street many times holding on to her mother's hand. It would suffice to take great care.
The main thoroughfare of the town was more often than not full of people, animals and vehicles, pell mell in every direction. There was even on occasion one of these new contraptions that were becoming quite the fashion for those who had the means. It had a wheel at the front with handlebars and another behind, and a man, or even a woman, would sit astride a small saddle and by means of peddling could advance rapidly along any surface that was not too rough. Luckily, that day was a quiet day and Annie crossed safely to the other side and handed over the package to Mrs. Ross at the bakery. Mrs. Ross was all bustle and plumpness and she gave Annie a raisin scone “fer yer tea and fer yer trouble”, she said, “noo off wi' ye, and mind how ye cross that road”. Once again, Annie stepped cautiously into the thoroughfare. She was halfway across when, to her and all the passers-by's surprise, again came the great pounding and thundering and looking down the street she saw, this time riderless, stirrups and reins flapping freely and heading straight for her, Bessie, Mr. Duthy's black mare. Annie just stood, shock still, right in the middle of the road. What happened next was curious indeed and those that saw it are still talking about it to this day. Black Bessie gallopped right up to Annie and reared, front legs high in the air. Then, with a change of humour as fast as the wind blows a cloud away from in front of the sun in a Border sky, she put down those powerful legs and giant hooves and came nuzzling softly up to Annie's outstretched hand. “There, there,” murmured Annie to Bessie, “what on earth gave ye' such a fright, poor beast?” Then lo and behold if it wasn't Mr. Duthy himself who arrived on the scene, all dirty and messed up just as Annie had herself been. He was swearing and grumbling, “a damnation to those bicycles” and other such things. Struck dumb he was to find his Bessie as docile as a little lamb with this tiny lassie no higher than three apples with blond curls and serious blue summer eyes. “Mr. Duthy” said she, for Annie was quite beside herself and forgot that she was addressing the region's most powerful man and a stranger to boot. “You should take more care of this animal”, followed by “Your horse has my two ha'penny pieces stuck under her shoes. I'd be obliged to have them back!” Mr. Duthy stared for a second in disbelief. Then scowl changed to smile and so it was on this day of June 1893 that both mount and master fell under the charm of wee Annie MacFarlane.
The rest of this tale is not long in the telling. Of Mr.Duthy enquiring and Annie telling about the birthday, her granny, the candy and not least about the part Mr. Duthy himself had unwittingly played in Annie's tribulations. Mr. Duthy soon had Annie's ha'pennies picked from out of the mud stuck under Bessie's back shoe and he even wiped them clean with his very own handkerchief. Of the thrill of being hoisted high up onto Bessie's broad back with Mr. Duthy behind her and from this high and exciting vantage point setting off in search of Mr. Coulter. He was soon found further down the street in the market square by the fountain. With her three ha'pennies (the two returned and the one she had earned) she purchased three whole bags bursting with delicious candy. The very last bag in Mr. Coulter's basket was Mr. Duthy's gift to wee Annie. That made four whole bags!
Of how, minutes later Annie was helped carefully down to the ground in front of her house where Bobby Carswell stood gaping. With a muffled ”happy birthday, Annie” the boy shyly thrust yet another bag of Coulter's candy on top of Annie's growing pile and quick as lightning planted the tiniest of kisses on Annie's rosy cheek before dashing helter skelter back to No. 21.
Of Annie's home coming, of her placing on the table five bags of Coulters candy and one raisin scone. Of her family's beaming, expectant faces. Of that evening's supper being a merry affair and when the dishes had been wiped and dried, the candy tasted and the rest put away, Annie's adventure told and retold (Ma naturally scolded Annie for her disobedience but Pa smiled and said “that”s all right Elizabeth, let the child be”) she was finally able to kneel down and say her prayers. That night a special mention was given to all Annie's new and old friends and even Alexander the Terror was not forgotten. Then she slipped snugly into bed beside Jessie who was already fast asleep sucking on a sticky thumb, and she dreamt of riding on a fine horse with the wind in her hair and the soft dry brush on her cheek of the lips of a small boy with hazelnut eyes.

Louise Dykes

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Super Hero

When Poppy crept down the stairs of the home and stepped outside, the world slept. It was early, that was true; earlier than she’d ever been up before. Of course she was often awake at this time, such was the plight of life in the home; clinging to the occasional hour of sleep which floated past in her normal tumultuous nights thrashing around under suffocatingly thin sheets. But this was different. She was up, dressed, alert and ready to start her mission. Yes, Poppy True had a mission. Poppy True had been especially requested; chosen. Somewhere, today, for once in this big, pointless world Poppy True was needed. The feeling hung about her shoulders like a majestic cloak, an invisible shield of beautiful, empowering strength. Of course she’d help. Of course she’d take it – they needed her – she could do anything in the world. But now, faced with the heavy breath of night still sleeping in the shadows, she hesitated. Did she really know the way?
Hearing a slamming door and the rumbling of an engine from a car somewhere up the street she quickly pressed herself flat against the wall, her heart beat thumping in her chest. Entirely unaware of Poppy, oblivious to her mission it moved away from the kerb advancing slowly in the other direction. She sighed with relief feeling, for the first time, the soft whisperings of day time coming to life around her. She pulled her hood over her head, a further layer of protection from this unfamiliar outsideness, and stepped into the street.
Two days she’d estimated. Two days she’d boasted, when they’d asked her how fast she could make it; a new power coursing through her narrow, underfed bones as they’d looked her up and down. She was Supergirl, one of the X Men, Spiderman all rolled into one. How hard could it be to carry such a small thing for sixty miles? The old man had smiled, had nodded, had believed in Poppy with all of his might, with his seventy three years of wrinkled, stooped hope that this girl could do it, that she could deliver this thing and make things right. The younger man was different. He’d stared at her, stared into her, stared through her, an unbending face like cold steel but for a twitch beneath his left eye. Did he think she could do it? Poppy wasn’t sure, but she didn’t care. A memory in soft focus had sang in her head, golden edged and smelling of summer, of cut grass and of a granddad putting a warm, steady hand around her shoulders. She’d do it for the old man.
Her orders were to hug the coast line, to stay away from the major roads, from any roads at all where a twelve year old girl wandering on her own might arouse suspicion, arouse temptation. No, she was to follow the frills of rock and foam, the sands and hills and smaller villages all the way from Edinburgh in the hope that, at some point within the next 48 hours she’d arrive at a house somewhere in the North East of England, a big house, a house rooted into a cliff top, firm against the salty retaliation of the North Sea; a house that ‘she’d know was the one when she saw it,’ where she was to deliver her package. And then what? Melt into insignificance once more, dissolve into the sands she was about to tread, go back to how it was?
She pushed all thoughts of ‘afterwards’ from her head, and headed towards the sea, an unassuming secret agent in second hand jeans. An unsung super hero carrying the future in a purple rucksack with a fraying strap.
The body is an amazing thing. It knows how to act, how to react, how to intuitively take care of itself, often without our conscious input. When it feels threatened, exhilarated, ready for a challenge, a battalion of extra adrenalin is shipped in pulsating through the limbs providing almost cartoon Popeye strength. Maybe this is what made Poppy walk so quickly. Maybe this is how a child of twelve could march, relentlessly along the coast; sharp, wet rain cutting into her face, rocks slippery under foot, at such a tempo; such determination to complete her mission, to prove that she had been a wise choice.
Maybe this is why, in the soft yawning of dusk, when a white car broke all of the normal boundaries and drove slowly across the beach towards her, a tired young girl who had been walking all day found enough new energy sizzling in her legs to run, to head in land, to fight against the gluey pull of the sand dunes as she made her escape. Through a shrill, deafening heart beat she ran, the echoes of slamming doors, of masculine swearing and arguing like a warped, underwater cry swimming towards her. She wove through the dunes, tearing her legs on splinters of dried grass, running for the safety of the gorse bushes, tunnelling through their inconvenient pathways to find a dark, secret place that could embrace her for a couple of hours, to stroke her hair and tell her everything would be ok. ‘I am a super hero’ she repeated her sacred mantra to the beat of a frightened pulse, ‘I am Miss Invisible. Miss Invisible the Super Hero. No one can see me. The good guys always win. We always win. Always. In the end.’ Such had been the mantra of Poppy True throughout her entire life. Today, if only for today, she prayed that it was so.
How long Poppy sat, crouched in the gorse bushes, she wasn’t sure; long enough to feel the groan of walking in the soles of her feet; long enough to feel a pang of hunger in her belly; long enough for the two men chasing her to grow tired and even more angry, spitting shards of blame at one another as they trampled the dunes. But the sand had been kind to Poppy, pouring itself into her footsteps, masking her tracks, helping Miss Invisible to truly disappear.
‘I thought you said she was scrawny, wouldn’t make it past Aberlady! That’s what you said!’
‘Trust me. She is. We’ll find her. It’s just a matter of time.’
‘Well, time we don’t have my stupid friend. Time we don’t have. One more day, that’s all. Just one more fucking day. If she gets there, well – you’re history, I’m history, we’re both history.’
‘I’ll find her. Don’t worry. I’ll get it.’
That voice! It snapped against Poppy’s skin like a rough leather strap. It was him. The man with the twitch. The one who’d chosen her. But why? A sickening confusion whirred in Poppy’s head. And the other man? Who was that? It wasn’t the old man, that was certain; his grand father stature remained in tact, his sunny aura as yet unclouded. But the other one!
The icy realisation engulfed her. She was never meant to succeed. The man with the steely gaze had never intended her to make it, had never wanted her to make it. She was a pawn, a scapegoat he’d be able to throw away like an empty crisp packet. He’d tricked her, as he’d presumably tricked the old man. ‘Oh please, don’t let the old man be a bad guy,’ Poppy urged to herself, to whoever was out there, listening, penning the script to her super hero story; her fantastical escape from the cold, blunt reality which awaited her outside the gorse bushes.
There was nothing for it. She’d need to keep walking; to fight off the need for sleep and to keep going, through the night with only the waves to talk to and the stringent light of a half clouded crescent moon to intermittently guide her. Indeed, the foreboding darkness was not a tempting prospect, but the vulnerable exposure of daylight now seemed so much worse. Added to that the risk of being caught, as now she knew she could be caught; hunted and caught like a wild animal at the mercy of its hunters; the stealth of darkness offered a welcoming hand – an even bigger opportunity to be invisible. Miss Invisible would do it. Miss Invisible would succeed. Her thoughts clung again to the old man, to his pleading eyes. Surely he wanted her too. If not him, surely somewhere somebody did. Surely, after her mission was complete, there would be someone to look at her with pride and say ‘Well done Poppy – you’ve made it!’
Opening up her rucksack Poppy fumbled for the little food she’d been able to bring with her. As she searched, her hand stroked the surface of ‘the package’, sending butterflies fluttering into her hungry stomach. Had they even told her what was in it? No. They’d said it was better that way – just to carry it, not to ask questions, and not to look, just to do it. As quickly as she could. She pulled out her food parcel; a cold baked potato wrapped in kitchen roll, shrunken and less hearty than it had appeared on her plate last night. Enough to sustain her until sunrise? Until she could find a hiding place to sleep through some of the day, when she knew the search for her would begin again? More than enough – she was certain.
All through the night Poppy walked. Through the dark, ominous, twenty first century night; paying no heed to shadows, to cracking twigs, to imagined murmurings and stretching, twitching fingers trying to pull her into the darkness. Only when she neared a road, when the threatening dazzle of headlights filled the sky did her unyielding pace falter; only then did she look about her and call on her imaginary super powers to protect her from the potential danger behind the blinding light.
Blistered feet in broken shoes walked, marched, trampled, stumbled, over 40 miles – although she didn’t know it – before the screech of seagulls welcomed in the day time and the first rays of sun climbed out of the sea. With the sound of passing cars reassuringly distant, and the lure of an upside down rowing boat, swollen, and lichen covered before her, Poppy True knew, at last, it was time to rest. She crawled beneath the hull, wood worm and bugs seeming like welcome comfort, and slept.
So deep was her slumber, so surprisingly void of haunting dreams and restless movements, that it was only the sound of the waves lapping ever closer to her resting place that stirred Poppy. ‘Am I dead?’ she asked herself as she opened her eyes to the thick, damp darkness of her tomb, but as she moved her legs and felt the sudden ache of her exhausted muscles, she remembered. Whatever time it was, however long she had rested had to be enough – she had to finish her mission. Fumbling for her rucksack, and feeling reassured by the weight of the package still inside, she crawled from beneath the boat. The tide was in, the carpet of foam reaching almost to the boat wreck, and in the distance she could see the distant twinkle of street lights in some of the fishing villages she’d passed. She must have about 10 hours left to get to the house on the cliff. She didn’t have a moment to lose. With leaden limbs she started to walk, calling upon the energy she had earlier to come back and help her to complete her journey.
The familiar face of darkness was soon back to accompany her, as slowly her muscles warmed up, her stride regained its strength and fluidity of the night before and she began, slowly but surely to pull the house on the cliff towards her, inch by determined inch. Although walking in the right direction, she was lost in a sea of time and space, not knowing where she was, how far she had to travel and how long she had left. The only consolation was that the car had not re-found her, and had little chance of doing so along the route she took. It was only when she realised she’d reached Berwick upon Tweed that she knew she really could make it. Desperately sifting through her memory for things the old man had said, she remembered the house was only another few hours walk from there. Hope bolstered her step once more, ‘Poppy True, super hero – makes it’, she congratulated herself. ‘Poppy True saves the day’. Little did she realise that she was not the only one with such determination. That somewhere, closer than she could have feared, someone else was still looking for her.
Poppy recognised the house as soon as she saw it. It was just as she’d imagined it; to the point where she began to question whether it really was the first time she’d seen this place; the grey whiteness of the walls, the heavy slates of the roof, the old tree, sculpted into stooped submission by the wind which bullied it day after day. Her heart lunged forward, both with the pang of familiarity and with the final roar of achievement. She’d made it. She’d beaten everything – the distance, the darkness, the men in the car, not having any food. Her stomach was cavernously empty, her limbs were screaming in pain, her blisters burned the soles of her feet like white hot embers, but still, for those last 200 metres, she broke into a run. ‘Poppy True – you’ve done it’, she panted to herself, the package in her rucksack bouncing up and down against the notches of her spine.
She could only have been a mere 50 metres from the door when she caught a glimpse of whiteness out of the corner of her eye; when she heard a door slam and the yell of a man, like the howl of a wolf who hasn’t eaten for days. She dared to turn, to see him running towards her – the man with the twitch, his face twisted with hate, his body, undoubtedly fresher than Poppy’s, contorted into a vicious, lung bursting sprint, his hand clasped around something small and dark. She couldn’t quite make out what it was, until he pointed it at her, with clenched teeth, taking a desperate, uncalculated aim.
The thunderous echo of the shot reverberated across the cliff top as it ricocheted off the wall of the house, followed by another and another. Poppy froze, midway between the house and her predator, her legs shaking uncontrollably, suddenly unable to push them forward as she had for the last sixty miles. Was this it? Had she come so far only to be killed on the door step of safety?
‘Come on Poppy True,’ she whispered to herself, ‘You can do it Poppy True. You can win. The good guys always win.’ The man was fast approaching, his gun still pointed at Poppy as she turned her back on him for one last time and gathering every last ounce of energy in her tiny body, pushed herself towards the sanctity of the house. A final shot exploded into the air, and then there was silence; a slow motion silence where all Poppy felt was a bursting pressure at her back, as her body was thrown face forward into the grass at the steps of the house; a soothing, melting silence filled with white light as she felt herself float above it all to watch the man with the gun stop deadly still, and a woman – a woman she’d never seen before - standing on the steps of the house, over Poppy’s limp body, the glowing light emanating from her, and from the thing she was holding. A sea shell - a shiny, silver seashell, just the right size for a package in a rucksack. Poppy looked at what was now left of her rucksack – a heap of frayed purple fabric torn apart by the bullet? Torn apart by something.
The man with the gun stared helplessly at the woman, at the glowing sea shell she held out towards him, and sank to his knees, his body convulsing in sobs.
‘Please no,’ he wailed, ‘I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.’
The glow of the sea shell in her hand stretch forward in one solid beam of light until it covered the man too, wrapping his sobbing body in brilliance. It stretched beyond the man to the car, to the cowering figure of his accomplice hiding behind it, until both were wailing again, this time in pain, writhing on the ground, convulsing as their shape started to change, to mutate, to shrink until the only thing remaining were two fat, black slugs; one crawling across the cold steel trigger of a gun, the other crawling beneath the tyre of a car.
The woman on the steps turned to Poppy’s body, her serene expression unchanged as she placed the glowing shell back into Poppy’s rucksack, and Poppy felt herself sinking, the cool, salty air pulling her down from the sky and back into her earthly body, with tired limbs and aching stomach. A flash of blinding light from the sea shell was the last vision she had of her own body. Opening her eyes again, the vision that greeted her was far lovelier than she could ever have imagined – a woman’s face, almost identical to the one she’d seen from above, but warmer, not bathed in white light, more homely somehow. Poppy’s head was in her lap and she was stroking her matted hair away from her brow. The rucksack, which appeared to be completely in tact, had been unstrapped from Poppy and was on the step.
‘Did I do it?’ Poppy asked in a delirious voice.
‘Well done Poppy’, the woman smiled, ‘You’ve made it. Welcome home.’
‘I knew I would,’ Poppy muttered before falling into the deepest sleep of her young, turbulent life. ’The good guys always win. Fiona Dixon

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Second Helpings

If I went there a second time would anyone really notice?
THE UPSTAIRS ROOM OF A NORTHERN PUB. AN EVENING 'DO' AFTER A WEDDING THAT AFTERNOON. JANET IS THERE AS A GUEST OF THE BRIDE WHO IS A DISTANT RELATIVE. SHE IS ALONE AND DOEN'T REALLY KNOW ANYONE THAT WELL. THE EVENING IS IN FULL SWING. JANET HAS ALREADY VISITED THE BUFFET ONCE, BUT IS TRYING TO DECIDE WHETHER TO GO BACK FOR MORE.
It is a buffet, I mean, you're expected to go and get what you want aren't you? Mind you there'll always be some nosy sod watching, thinking, look at her, she's never stopped eating.
It's not my fault, there's so much black forest gateau, sherry trifle and cheesecake, they always overdo it at parties, putting temptation in everyone's way - especially mine.
Anyway, I deserve it, it's taken me months to get the weight off and it's been hard work. Size 10. ME. Size 10. Someone actually said I looked a bit thin. Jealousy, it's a terrible thing. She was huge, must have been a size 14 or 16, and if she thinks those trousers suit somebody HER size she's sooo wrong.
My mother says she's worried about me - 'you've lost so much weight love, you were such a bonny baby'. I said, I'm worried about you mother, you live in the past, crimplene frocks went out in the 70s, like your husband, my father, and they'll never come back!
JANET LEFT HOME A YEAR AGO, AFTER LIVING AT HOME WITH HER MOTHER FOR THIRTY-FIVE YEARS.
She thinks I'm not looking after myself since I moved into my flat. I can tell you it's wonderful. It's a five minute walk from work so I can pop home for lunch. There's a fish and chip shop, a chinese and a pizza place on the same street, so I can pick up dinner on the way home. There's also a laundrette, a corner shop that sells wonderful home-made cakes and a chemist that opens late - always useful.
The best thing about living on my own is the bathroom and toilet - privacy. No-one shouting 'hurry up' or 'what are you doing in there?'. Fantastic.
Another good thing about living on your own is you can organize yourself. I've got a routine now and I stick to it. Well it works for me.
Must go to the loo.
HAVING RETURNED FROM THE TOILET, JANET SITS DOWN AND CONTINUES TO VIEW THE PROCEEDINGS AND THE PEOPLE.
Tracy Jackson, haven't seen her for years, God, she's put some weight on. Someone should tell her.
Back to the buffet. I might as well have bit of everything, there's loads left and it'll only get thrown away. I love black forest gateau and cream. Heaven.
Everyone goes a bit mad at wedding dos. All the eating and drinking, the dancing and kissing, the arguing and fighting , Well at least there wasn't a fight until AFTER the ceremony at this one.
.................The happy couple, Damian and Kylie..........they looked very serious in church. Probably wondering what God thought of them. I mean they've been living together five years and have a boy four - Ronan(she was a big Boyzone fan) - and another on the way. If it's a girl they're calling it Britney.................I wonder if God minds tattoos and tongue piercings?
They're certainly enjoying themselves tonight, SHE'S definitely eating for two and he must have hollow legs the amount of beer he's put away. She's slim though, you'd never think she was five months pregnant. It was nice of them to invite me. Fancy mum telling them I never went anywhere.
1030pm, I'd better get off. I could get a taxi I suppose. No, I'll walk, the exercise will do me good.
JANET'S FLAT IS SMALL, CLEAN, VERY TIDY AND ALWAYS SMELLS OF BLEACH. IT'S 1130PM AND JANET IS UNDRESSED AND READY FOR BED.
Home Sweet Home.
I like to get to bed early because I'm always up in the night for the loo, which reminds me I must buy some airfreshener and mouthwash tomorrow. You see, the salt water acts almost straight away(yes I've tried the other way, but I once swallowed one of my false nails and it put me right off)but the laxatives take a couple of hours, so I like to get some sleep before they take effect. I can get back to bed after that and weigh myself in the morning. I think I'll have stayed the same.
JANET IS IN BED. IT IS 0430AM
You see, I know it's not good for me, but neither is being overweight. Sunday dinner at Mum's tomorrow. She does the most amazing Yorkshire Puddings.

Dorothy Christie

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Idol

It was the first time she’d had doubts about the plan. Since the day Eve and her met, Charlotte had decided to trust her, and just like she always did she’d followed her almost blindly into the mess they had put themselves in. Still, she had to admit it didn’t seem such a bad idea at first; it was an escapade, an adventure, a master plan to change their lives. And to be honest, at least to that purpose, it had worked.
She could hardly remember living with her mother three months before. Her mother’s life consisted in a chain of relationships with abusive men, drinking and the challenge to hold a job longer than a week. All that required a lot of time, so Charlotte was left to take care of herself, and she had easily learnt how to. She would wake up late in the afternoon, walk around the city aimlessly until dark and then meet her friends at The Hole. The Hole was a club were rock bands played almost every day and her so-called friends were those who like her, spent night after night there. Trite conversations, struggling to talk over the deafening sound of the loudspeakers, lustful glances through the smoke that filled the place, ending in alcohol-fuelled declarations of never-ending friendship and love.
She had met Eve there. She remembered the exact date because she had been waiting for that night to come for so long. The 10th of May her favourite band, Dementia, was playing at The Hole. She had been a fan since she was 13, when they’d first started playing four years ago and that would be the seventh time she’d seen them live. She was there early to be right in front, were she could get a good view of Rick, the lead singer. If Charlotte admitted there was such thing as the man of her dreams, it would definitely be him. Rick filled her thoughts, her dreams and her fantasies just like his pictures filled every space on her bedroom walls. He was tall, dark and very thin. A lifestyle of touring and taking every drug available was the explanation for his thinness and the shine in his eyes. It was also the reason why, after a hit single and a published album, the band was playing in such a small venue as The Hole. After continuous scandals on the tabloids, fights between band members and three years without any new material, everyone seemed to think they had lost it. Except Charlotte, of course.
Eve turned out to be as obsessed as her. They had met in the front row of the audience and spent the rest of the night commenting on just how great Dementia was, the best band ever, talking about how much every song meant, longing for Rick to look at them, to just notice them for a second. And that was how it all began.
They had started hanging out together after that night and one rainy afternoon as they walked around a supermarket to kill time Eve had told her about the plan. She had come up with an idea to kidnap Rick. It sounded crazy but she was convinced no one would take care of him like they would. It wasn’t your typical kidnapping and asking for a ransom, they would only hold him back until he was better, off drugs and writing new songs again. They would be helping him, there was nothing wrong about it and he would most surely thank them for it in the end. The more they talked about it, the more it seemed the best idea ever, and the girls hugged, happy to share such a great purpose. Shoppers walking by looked at them, intrigued by the two weird teenagers who were hugging each other so excitedly next to the milk cartons.
It was clear that weren’t going to do it by force. Both of them were small and thin and looked much younger than their age. Charlotte always wore a torn ballerina skirt and military boots which made her seem innocent yet mildly threatening and although Eve was much more womanly, she disguised her curves under layers of strictly black clothing. They would have to use their minds, and in the end, it turned out to be much easier than it seemed.
They pretended to be preparing an article about the band and contacted him for an interview. They asked him over to Eve’s apartment, which they had properly disguised as some sort of magazine headquarters, and after asking him about the long-awaited new album, Charlotte pointed a gun at him. It was a heavy old-fashioned gun her mother kept in the top drawer of her dresser. She never noticed Charlotte had taken it, nor could she imagine how natural it had felt for her daughter to point a gun at someone. It had really been as simple as that.
The first few days had been the hardest, getting used to Eve’s apartment, the room they had prepared to keep him in, taking turns to keep an eye on Rick. He was too resigned or too doped out to fight back at all, and they almost forgot he was meant to be their prisoner. He was probably glad to have an excuse to get away from all the troubles he was going through with the band. No one found him missing either, they were all used to him disappearing and leaving them stranded mid-tour.
After a few weeks he started to open up to them. He would tell them anything that went through his mind, and the girls would listen with their eyes wide open, like little children listen to storytellers. He had definitely lacked someone to talk to, and to be honest, these girls had paid more attention and cared more about him than anyone had in those last few years. Fame, although if it was only temporary and brief, had left him with a bittersweet feeling of loneliness and isolation under the spotlight, even while he was being surrounded by crowds.
Charlotte and Eve soon forgot that the plan had to end somehow and started spiralling down into an emotional well, trying to capture his attention with every word and every gesture. To please him, to feel approved by the person they had idolised and who in their eyes had turned out to be even more perfect that they could have imagined. It started turning into a permanent competition for his affection, to be the one who cared most, his favourite captor. Love or obsession is something hard to measure, but only one of them could win at that game.
And it turned out to be Eve. Charlotte would wake up after it was her turn to rest and find Rick in the other’s arms. Laughing, at their own jokes, in their own universe into which she was never invited. Once more, Charlotte was the one left out. But this time it hurt more than it had ever hurt before. She had believed he was the only one who could ever understand her. Every interview she’d read or heard, every newspaper clipping about him she had cut out and kept sacredly, had made her sure he had to be her soul mate. And those days with him, all those hours watching him, feeding him, feeling him so close, had only convinced her that she had always been right. Seeing him being taken by someone else in front of her eyes felt like a sharp pain in her chest, which travelled all through her body leaving her helpless and numb.
The situation got worse with time. Eve and Rick would act as if she wasn’t there at all. They would even sleep together while Charlotte, when it was time for her watch, had to sit awake looking at them. Their heads so close together, dreaming of worlds she wasn’t a part of, their deep rhythmic breathing drilling into her brain. Only then had Charlotte started to have doubts about the plan. She had been too naive not to realise before. Eve had used her and betrayed her in the worst way possible. And he had lost him forever.
Charlotte considered leaving, going back to her mother’s, to feeling miserable and forgotten, but it would be different. Until then, she had always had the comfort that he could be hers one day, that he would finally know they were meant for each other. There was no hope for her now and deep inside her, despair had started to take over. Jealousy is a blinding emotion; it leads us to things we would have never admitted to be capable of.
The gun felt cold and much heavier than the first time. A small ray of moonlight came in through a window and made the barrel glitter as she crossed the corridor into the room where they slept soundly holding each other. If she couldn’t have him, if they weren’t meant to be together, no one else should. Charlotte fired the gun twice and didn’t miss once. As blood trickled to the floor, still warm and bright red, she looked at the smile still on his face. The same smile he had on all the pictures in the posters she had daydreamed about. Thinking about it, she rested the gun on her temple and fired the last shot. She knew that she would never be alone anymore, that now he would never leave her.

By Anna Codina

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The Love Boat

The small boat lurched forward precariously. Its three inhabitants lurched too.
“Can’t he keep this thing still?” The disgruntled older woman broke off from her conversation with her daughter.
“Keith!” Megan looked accusingly to her husband, as if the jolt had been caused by him alone, “you know Mother gets upset.”
“There’s precious little I can do about it – tell ‘your mother’ that.”
“Well you might at least try....”
He shrugged and looked away. Conversation restarted without his involvement.
“Well, as I was saying, when I went to the shops on Tuesday, I met Mary no, wait, I’m lying it was Monday morning, it must have been Monday because she’d been cutting the lawn all morning.” The mother was in full flow. “Anyway she was telling me about poor Mrs James at No 22”.
“Isn’t that the woman with the artificial leg?” Megan asked.
“No, no, that’s Anne. Mrs James is the one whose husband died last year. He’d been ill for a long time and suffered terribly, although being married to her for all that time, he must have been used to it. They reckoned in the end that he’d had enough and gave up the ghost just to get away from her”
Keith knew exactly how he’d felt. With “mother” in tow, he’d often felt the same.
The gleeful announcement of his first day off in months had been met with the idea of an outing. The “We could take mother” that followed was less of a suggestion than a decision. No sooner the word, than he was being hectored disconcertedly into the drama.
After what had seemed an eternity of bobbing around, listening to the never-ending cawing of the gannets at the other end of the boat, Keith began to feel an icy chill across his back from the change in direction of the wind, as he pulled slowly on the oars of the rowing boat.
“Well, her son came back from college; from somewhere up north I think, she did tell me, could have been Manchester or was it Bolton? Anyway, he came back and caused havoc...” Machine gun like, the mother only paused to reload, “Seems he’s bought a new car, it’s an old one – big one, flash thing. Anyway, he left it on their drive and next morning woke up to find it’d been broken into – they’d smashed the car window and half-pulled the door off its hinges. They got away with his radio and a stack of things he’d left in the back”.
The endless, monotonous tirade washed over Keith like an annoying background throb, constant and loud enough that it couldn’t be entirely ignored.
“You should see the car door” she continued, Megan listening intently to her every word. “Of course, she nearly died of fright, well can you imagine, on your own drive?”
“For God’s sake shut up” Keith shouted silently to himself, without benefit of either a gap in the conversation or the courage to use it. “On and on and on, it’s enough to drive you mental – just shut up, why don’t you, give it a bloody rest”.
But Keith said nothing. Instead, ideas of “dying” and “car doors” jumbled and jostled around in his mind. In an instant, a flash of inspiration came to him. For one glorious second, he saw it all; the images crystal clear in his mind; her head carefully and deliciously positioned between the car frame and door, while he repeatedly slammed it shut with all his force. The sensation was exhilarating. The immeasurable pleasure of the bang, bang, bang brought tears to his eyes and a glow to his heart. Bang, bang, bang. Ten years of listening to this dross all relieved in a simple action. Bang, bang, bang. But still the voice continued; still the words, the unrelenting spiel. Despite repeating battering the head resiliently continued to talk. As if nothing at all had happened, words spewed forth like a fountain.
Keith winced.
“Ellen’s got her grandchildren down again this weekend. That Sophie’s such a lovely kid, really kind and polite as anything, but that Darryl he’s a tearaway”.
“He’s only eight mum” Megan added.
“I daresay but he’s old enough to have some manners. If it was left to me, I’d teach him some. Ellen told me she’s got no idea what she’s going to do with them; she doesn’t like to take them to the cinema, because it’s all blood and guts, so it’s probably going to have to be swimming, but that’s not ideal either, because Darryl just splashes everyone and Sophie doesn’t like to get her head underwater.”
Keith, who until then had been sulking about cars, road rage and vindication, caught just a snippet on the breeze. “Yes, yes” he mused, “much better and so much easier to do”. He saw himself in his mind’s eye reach forward, grab the floral scarf around the mother’s scrawny neck and pull her defenceless over the side. Clutching her by her hair, he succeeded in pushing her gabbling head deep under the water, so the words became mere glugs and bubbles. Then suddenly a reprise. The bubbles stopped. For sure this time it was over. He’d won. He’d silenced the Medusa for good. Triumphantly and with a flourish, he pulled her head back out of the water, to look her straight in the eyes.
As if reborn the mouth sprang back into its routine grinding. “Its Sophie’s birthday next week too, so she’ll have a lot more to think about with that as well.”
Keith sighed, incredulously.
“She’s a bit worried because she’s really not sure what she can buy. After all, it’s so difficult at that age.... He’s bringing them down for a couple of days while he goes gallivanting off somewhere. I don’t think it’s very fair. It’s not for me to say, but when all is said and done, she’s not been well and I think it’s a bit of an imposition; he should know better. She’s too old for baby sitting, especially in her condition, he should have more thought.” The mother broke for air.
“How is she these days?”
“She’s not been well, but then she doesn’t eat well enough. She barely eats anything from dawn to dusk. If you ask me, she’s not getting the nourishment, so it’s no wonder she blacks out. She went to the doctors, but he’s no good either - all ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ and tests and probes. That’s the problem these days; nobody wants to make a diagnosis, they’re all afraid to put their necks on the block.”
Like lightening, Keith’s mind sped there in a flash. Before him he could see the crowds eagerly assembled, in places five or six people deep, the muffled drum beating a slow march as the captive was brought to the stand. The executioner, masked and ready, axe gleaming, stood aside the wooden block, waiting. The prisoner was being led under escort, a hessian sack over her head, slowly up the stairs of the dais. The crowd stilled. Across the crowded square Keith stood dazed; he could still hear the faint mumblings from under the sack. No matter, soon all would be silence. He imagined the bliss, the peace. The drum stopped. The moment was at hand. Removing the sack, the Sergeant-at-Arms, taking a bible in his right hand, turned and solemnly asked “Do you have any last words..?”
“It was just the same when I saw her in Asda.” Unconcerned, the outpouring continued, “She darted into an aisle to avoid me. Ellen said she’d come to no good and well its looks like she was right. By the way, they’ve got some new bread in Asda, its got nuts and seeds in, I bought some last week – you should try it”
“Cut it off, just cut it off” Keith’s shouts could be heard loudly bellowing across the crowd, as he heard the non-stop vocal assault, the unremitting stream of words fanning out over the gathering, but it was too late. The dream was already broken. The crowd was dispersing and the image dissolving into thin air.
A cold breeze slapped across his face and brought him back to the boat.
He looked forlornly in front of him at the sight of her, brazen as ever, churning out nonsense like a factory line. The wind was rising again. A gust caught the boat. He pulled against a judder on the oars. The oars, that’s it. The very thing; quick, simple and effective. One massive swing at head height and it would all be over – the opportunity was too good to miss.
“Can we get him to go in now” the old woman asked her daughter, whilst pulling her coat firmly around her, “It’ll be the death of me, if we stay here much longer”.
Keith smirked and pulled for the shore.

Andy Cliff

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