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.

League of his own by Wayne Stewart

Another early morning and he had found himself in the same familiar place on unfamiliar ground. The wasteland of the unconscious, where the nonsense makes perfect sense. A desperate glance at a past love and the unexplainable presence of an acquaintance. Slight manifestations of childhood torment with the added comfort of bare thighs. This was a world where hue was undefined and everything sounded like it was under water. It was comfortable. Then a sound approached through the tide, like a passing siren only not as flamboyant, “You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you…”.  He writhed and pulled the bed sheets closer, trying to claw his way back into the dream, but it was time to get up. He dragged himself the short shuffle to the bathroom and positioned himself in front of the mirror to inspect the damage. “Don’t, don’t you want me…”, the radio played on. He was scarred by the folds of duvet, his eyes were red, and his tongue was white, resonating remorse for the  “just one more glass”. The taste was vile, but this was nothing he couldn’t handle. He took a deep breath and bellowed at his reflection, “…we will both be sorry!”.

a train

she sank back into the rusty red felt covered seat and watched as trees sped by across a crimson sky. alone in the carriage she listened to the rattle and thump of the wheels beneath her. she cupped a sleeve in her fist and passed a forearm across the yellowed glass to clear the condensation. winter crept in through a crack at the edge of the window and she pulled her scarf tighter around her chin. the carriage door opened and a barrage of outside noise filled the solitary space. an elderly man pulled the door closed behind him and crept down the carriage, clutching at the felt of every seat with gloved hands as he moved. she pulled her scarf up over her nose and turned to follow the speeding landscape.

he chose a seat across from her and bent to sit, gripping the armrests. he creaked with the seat as he sat and he sighed. she felt him face her. she turned her shoulders towards the window and pulled the scarf higher up her face. she stared at the sky streaked white and pink and followed the clouds with her eyes. the old man coughed into a handkerchief and wiped at the corners of his mouth. they passed into a tunnel and her ears dulled.

in the reflection on the blackened glass she watched him surveying her, chartering every inch of her body. she pulled her thick coat around her a little tighter and tensed her jaw. the old man coughed again and she arched her gaze towards his in an irritated glare. light passed over his paper face and cold white eyes stared at the space between them.

a tree

he bent to tighten his laces and shook the cold from his fingers. he jogged out across the moor as a mist settled over the surrounding hills. the air scratched at his cheeks as he ran and he rubbed at his eyes with the knuckle of a fingerless glove. his breath bellowed out in front and wrapped around his chin. he could feel the laboured beating of his heart in his toes and his heels hit the wet grass with a sigh.

he approached a leafless and lifeless tree, its branches spread like the antlers of a beast against the grey sky. knots in the darkened bark glared at him as he passed under the skeletal canopy. but as he looked towards the sky he noticed drops of clear water hanging from the ends of every branch like ornaments. the tree took on an unexpected beauty that slowed him to a walk. he passed the tree and looked back. the crystal droplets gleaming in the dull morning sunlight. he stopped. his heart tapped at his ribcage and his breath was coarse against his dry throat.

as he stared back at the tree mist closed in around him unnoticed. despite the cold, a warmth built up in his throat and for a moment there was nothing else but him and this tree. its silhouette burnt on his retinas as he blinked away the cold air. the edges of his vision darkened and soon he heard nothing but the steadied drum of his heart. the tree stood, unmoved, its clarity slowly obscured by tears.

a queue

she shuffled her feet forward never once removing her eyes from the second hand of the white wall clock as it chugged around each minute. she could smell the putrid leather of the jacket in front of her and the sickly sweet tang of the perfume behind. she adjusted the shoulder strap of her handbag and bent the strap buckle back and forth with her finger and thumb. Leather Jacket shuffled forward a few paces and she followed close behind, sliding her feet on the waxed linoleum. an elderly lady clutching a bundle of paper hovered to one side, shifting from one slippered foot to the other as she considered her chances of winning enough sympathy to slip to the front. every pair of eyes she met glared back in defiance.

another few steps forward and the perspex shield of the desk at the front of the line was visible through the greasy curls of Leather Jacket's matted hair. specks of dandruff laid like fresh snow across his shoulders. she creased her nose and checked the time on her watch against the wall clock. another few steps forward and Leather Jacket bent forward to speak into the perspex. Perfume pressed against her back and she moved forward slower than necessary, turning to meet the eyes of the face behind. heavy eye-shadow, garish lipstick and a thick coat of cream foundation. the lips pursed at her and with an eyebrow raised she turned back to see Leather Jacket picking up whatever had been pushed through the revolving draw and turn to leave. carried forward by Perfume she pushed her numbered ticket into the draw and met the eyes of the cashier. he looked back with a half smile and she blushed.

a bundle

pigeons flirruped and twirtled against his bare toes. he woke with a start and kicked at the flurry of grey which scattered to surrounding trees. he dragged his dirty fingers across his bearded face and shielded his eyes from the sunlight with a khaki sleeve. laid across concrete steps he listened for the bustle of morning commuters. hearing none he figured it to be a weekend. maybe a sunday.

he half rose and rolled towards the upper stair and picked up a carton and shook it. liquid swilled and sploshed and he drew the plastic spout to his lips. he threw back is head and drained the last few drops of wine. it tasted sour against his dry tongue and he spat past his sleeve. laying back against the cold stone he rasped a groan which trailed into a long sigh.

a rustle behind his head and a noise like the whine of a cat. he started upright and swivelled on his hip, almost falling from his stair but catching himself. he glared at the alien package neatly folded not three feet from him. a parcel of cloth tied with rough twine. the parcel coughed and rustled. he approached on all fours. the deep red face of a new born baby winced at him. his eyes fixed on the strange gift his hand reached for the carton which he shook absently.

a new shirt

a cotton fold between a finger and thumb he pulled at a pearl button and drew the shirt closed over his chest. he looked down from the mirror and watched his wirey fingers work at the buttons over and over without meeting. his leathered hands trembled and he pulled a dry lip between his teeth as frustration and impatience wrinkled his wrinkled forehead. after pulling and fiddling for several minutes he paused and sat carefully on the edge of the hotel bed. he moved his toes around the confined space of his new leather shoes and rested his hands on pressed trousers. he drew a long breath and looked out towards the night. he met his reflection and looked deep into his tired eyes.

a short knock at the door broke his thoughts and a voice from beyond announced room service. he lifted himself from the bed with one hand, the other across his chest, and crossed the coarse carpet towards the door. he stooped towards the keyhole. "just, um, just, could you leave it outside a moment thank you". the small voice beyond the door agreed and a clatter and chink of porcelain was heard. he rose and glanced down at his open shirt. "actually would you mind terribly, um". he struggled with the latch on the door which he turned both ways and then both ways again. "do you think you could possibly, um". he turned and pulled and tugged and heard a trolley being wheeled away.