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!”.