the edge

wind screamed in his ears. a hollow cry.

he stepped out across the jagged grass and approached the edge. cold stone filled the arches of his bare feet and his toes gripped at the precipice. he spread his arms and stretched his fingers through the wind. cold air filled his lungs, his heart drummed in his throat and his stomach tightened.

wind carried his shoulders forward and his toes released.

his eyes tore open as he was lifted forward. blood filled his ears and his heart stopped. violent waves rushed at him and fingers of grey foam reached up, pulling him down. his shirt whipped at his back and his stomach pressed at his lungs.

wind whispered to him and sighed and the jagged rocks cracked an echo.

oranges

the wheels of the cart kicked at the dust as they rattled down the track. its cargo bounced and jumbled through pot holes and over loose stones. the driver sat, reigns threaded through his dusty fingers, squinting against the sun under the rim of his cloth cap. his eyes watched the thread muscles of the horses thighs sway. bright red poppies peeked from amongst long grass as they passed. an axle creaked and groaned and the weight of the cart shifted. oranges rolled and bumped under the tarpaulin, a formless mass of orange bubbles, ever changing shape.

a bump and a crack and a latch broken. an orange wave swelled and spilt from the back of the cart. the pool of orange seeped across the dust into the grass and the driver tugged at the reigns to halt the cart and turned. he lifted his cap, wiping sweat and dust from his brow with the back of his hand. he replaced his cap and lowered himself from the seat, his boots clapping the dust as he landed.

a few lost oranges still rolled and scattered but most lay in a bright pool that arched out before him. he sank his fingers deep into pockets and toyed with a loose orange with the toe of his boot. he looked across his shoulder at the shimmering road ahead as it snaked up towards the distant farm house. he sighed through his teeth.

a home

the soft wood of the bannister warmed her fingers as she moved down the stairs taking one last glance behind her. she paused at the bottom and looked across the empty living room. shadows of familiar furniture and familiar faces played across her memory. the space where his chair used to be pulled her forward and she slid her feet across the carpet. dust motes danced in a beam of sun that cleaved the room from an open window.

as she stood within the open space memories played out before her, circled her, sat before her and waited patiently by the door. they smiled, they laughed, they ran a warm hand across her cheek. she touched her face and fought at the knot in her throat. she smiled at the empty space. warmth rose in her chest and she turned.

she crossed the threshold into the morning air and turned to pull the door closed. the memories inside called to her and waved. the empty walls vibrated with longing and she hesitated as she breathed the warm scent of home. as she turned the key she lay her forehead against the panelled wood and the sun dried the path of a tear across her cheek.

by the pool

white sunlight glancing off wet hair, the slurp and gurgle of cool water in the filters and the spitter spat of children running barefoot across tan paving. a small girl shivering deep into an oversized towel, her lips pulled back over chattering teeth as she grins at the sky. she watches swallows flip and twirl and cleave the blue. other children shout and beckon from the water, wet hair pasted across their eyes, wet fingers gripping white at the edge of the pool. she emerges from her cotton cocoon and pads across towards the glistening blue, gripping her shoulders.

her mother aside, spread wide across a white plastic sun lounger, her shimmering limbs baking, her face hidden by a damp novel. her eyes peer over oily pages and she watches the pink splash and waits for her daughter's face to break the surface before finding her place in the print between her fingers. her thoughts trail and she drifts towards the brink of sleep. large heavy sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. a lazy hand rises to rescue them.

grandmothers escape the heat in the shade of trees, remembering. their pasty bodies folded inside faded swimsuits. they laugh through yellowed teeth and lean shoulders and point at the youth of today. a group of children waving bright plastic rings patters by and the sun lifts the wet prints behind them.

Nagging by Ella Stewart

Getting up from the couch he passed through the hall and bent to pick up the paper feeling the muscles in his back contract and his head pounded from lack of sleep.

That bloody old couch, the one she had nagged him for years to replace. Why should he waste his money, after all she was always telling him that he was a tight old git.

She would probably tell him that he deserved to feel like shit this morning and nag him yet again about last night.

He glanced at the headlines

‘EGYPT PROTESTERS UNMOVED BY TALKS’

Wrinkling his nose at the smell of burnt toast, he braved himself to enter the kitchen and sat at the table raising his paper like a shield against the barrage of words he expected. She poured his tea and pushed the cup towards him. He glanced under his paper at the burnt offerings, curled and crisp on the plate and pushed it away.

‘ASBO REPLACEMENT UNVEILED’

As he read the article the silence was broken by her whine “I don’t feel well, I think you should call the doctor”

He lowered the paper and stared at her grey features, her arms clutching her dressing gown to her chest as she lowered herself to the floor.

He smiled, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, and picked up his tea, slurping loudly and then looked at her face for a reaction. She hated slurping.

She stared imploringly at him

Scratching his crotch, that always annoyed, he raised his paper turning the pages noisily.

‘AUSTRALIAN FIRES RAGE NEAR PERTH’

He barely heard her slide to the ground, just the sound of her nylon dressing gown slipping on the cupboard door. But he did hear her breath, rasping, silence.

‘CHURCH DEBATES WEDDINGS DECLINE’

Stifling a giggle, he thought back to his classes last week ‘First Aid At Home’. She had nagged him about going “what do you want to do that for?” “You’re too old and stupid to learn anything new!”

She had stuff she wanted him to do at home. But he went anyway, anything to get out of the house. He had learnt something; he knew the signs of a heart attack very well.

He turned to the sports page.

‘ENGLAND SQUAD HIT BY WITHDRAWALS’

He would give it half an hour before he rang the ambulance, just to make sure.

Safe? by Ella Stewart

He opened his eyes to see the morning light breaking through the trees.

Pulling his damp coat around him, he got up stiffly, slipping his feet into the oversized shoes.

Folding up his cardboard, the decision was made, he could leave it, he wouldn’t need it any more.

Walking along the cobbled damp street, shuffling so that he wouldn’t lose the shoes, he moved in time to the heartbeat echoing in his ears, in the early morning silence.

The cold air made his eyes smart and run, his tongue flicking to catch the salty moisture, as his stomach rumbled in anticipation.

Warm breath swirled in the air and he began to let it out in gentle slow puffs, holding his fingers to his mouth, imagining the cigarette glow, just as he had seen the man do.

Dragging his sleeve across his running nose, he sniffed, feeling the catarrh slip down his throat. He quickened his pace.

Entering the church was done quietly, eyes darting into the darkness. It was important to watch your back.

Shivering he sat in a pew, placing his feet on the cushion.

He looked down at his dirty scabby knees, spitting on them, rubbing his fingers across them, smearing the dirt into swirling shapes.

Putting a fingernail under one of the scabs, he watched as the bright red trail trickled down his leg.

He began to hum as the silence deafened him. The beat behind his ribs hastened.

Churches were safe places, he knew that, he didn’t know where from, but guessed an adult had told him, they were always telling him stuff.

The door opened and he lay down quickly, holding his breath, squeezing his eyes shut, listening for the heavy footsteps getting closer.

He opened his eyes to see a large calloused hand held out to him. His small, thin hand disappeared into it.

dinner for one

he swallowed hard and reached his greedy fingers across his plate for the large glass of red wine. he swilled and slurped and swallowed again and set the glass back down, wiping the back of his hairy hand across the napkin draped over his shirt and tie. he bent his face towards the steak and resumed cutting, the back of his tailored suit jacket straining and stretching as he moved his gigantic arms. he bent his chin towards the plate with every mouthful and sucked at the fork. his gums clapped as he chewed and he breathed noisily through his nose. with a fist full of warm bread he sponged at the juices and pushed aside the accompanying vegetables. he shifted his weight in the small seat and looked round for waiters, as if to check that they would be ready with the dessert menu when he needed it. he splashed a chunk of fatty meat against his lips and mopped his chin.

she thumped her silk napkin down on the table in front of him, scraped back her chair and marched out of the restaurant, weaving through suprised and curious gazes. he look up from his plate and followed her out with is eyes and mouth open, a clump of chewed steak cradled in his cheek.