The start of a day by Jane Spirit

 

Disturbed by dreams, I rise at dawn to put the kettle on. I cannot help but stare through the chinks of the kitchen blind, seeking you out amongst the uncut grass that has encroached into the old flower beds. And there you are, like a giant stone, well- polished, smoothed by the years, though no-one seems to know your actual age.  I inherited the richness of you when I moved into this little house. You are there, just present, apparently unnoticed by a passing robin. I cannot linger to watch you as you start to stretch your neck out and to fix your beady eyes upon the world.  I cannot wait the hour or so, perhaps, until you shift your scaley legs and propel yourself at speed towards discarded lettuce leaves from yesterday. I simply have no time to waste, must rush to do the things I know I should, and tick the lists I made to help me function long gone midnight. Yet now I pause, for just another moment. I see you, stalwart tortoise, statue-still and still existing in the barely morning light.

about thh author 

 

Jane lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK. and has been writing stories for some time, some of which have appeared on Café Lit. D

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Saturday Sample: Golden Hair by Hannah Retallick, Orange juice

 

Six children in high-viz jackets visited the care home. A young woman and two men held their hands, and a carer ushered them into the conservatory. It was a hot Saturday afternoon. Sun shone through the glass roof and landed on two old men who were seated there. Other residents tottered in, assisted by sticks, walkers, or supportive arms.

An old lady was wheeled in by a nurse, in a big armchair. She was a small hunched body, a burgundy cardigan, and a fluff of short grey hair which curled over the twisted collar of her white blouse.

The three girls and three boys clustered around a linen bag, picking out of it brightly coloured percussion instruments. There was an attempt to manoeuvre the children into a straight line. The young woman quickly counted to four and they began to sing, Old MacDonald Had a Farm, accompanied by maracas, rattled in a chaos of rhythm.

The old lady’s face stirred, as though she recognised something and strained to remember what it was. The young woman handed her a blue plastic tambourine. The old lady laid it on her grey-skirted lap, running her fingers around the small metal discs. She began to tap along – at the right speed but a little behind the pulse of the music.

Most of the children had gentle, lyrical voices, but one of the boy’s was loud. He became fidgety after the fifth song, seeming to have no wonder in twinkling little stars and what they are, and no patience to pretend. A fidget chain began. The adults exchanged looks, released the boys and girls from the untidy line, and asked if they could please put their instruments back in the bag more gently, please. The fidget-instigator rubbed his mess of hair and looked at the old lady in the big armchair.

“And what is your name, my lovely?” she asked, taking him by the hand.

“Tim.”

“You have a lovely voice, Tim.”

He rocked back and forth, heel to toe, balanced by her grip.

“Such lovely hair,” she said. “It’s golden, isn’t it?” “Ginger,” said Tim.

“Lovely golden hair.”

“Mummy says red.”

“The light,” she said. “Such a lovely voice. I had a lovely voice. Well, that’s been a while.”

Leaning forward, she touched the boy’s hair, finger curling loosely around a lock. Tim stared, as though trying to work out what she was. “Such a lovely voice.”

“Right, I think it’s time we made a move,” said one of the men.

Tim adjusted his high-viz jacket and allowed his hand to be taken by the one who had led him in.

"My name is Amelia,” said the woman. “Such a lovely voice, Tom.”

Tim’s eyes didn’t leave her until he had stepped over the conservatory threshold and into the dark living room. The old woman’s hand remained suspended for a moment before coming to rest on the peeling faux-leather arm of her big armchair. The tambourine slipped from her lap.

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About the author

Hannah Retallick is a twenty-seven-year-old from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a First-class honours degree, BA in Humanities with Creative Writing and Music, before passing her Creative Writing MA with a Distinction. She was shortlisted in the Writing Awards at the Scottish Mental Health Arts Festival 2019, the Cambridge Short Story Prize, the Henshaw Short Story Competition June 2019, the Bedford International Writing Competition 2019, the Crossing the Tees book festival competition 2020, and the Fish Publishing Short Story Prize 2021.

https://www.hannahretallick.co.uk/

Views from the canyon by Héctor Hernández, Flying Bird Cocktail

The latest cancerous tumor is proving to be problematic, which seems like an understatement, but as the pulmonologist explains the details, I see what he means. He's young. Doesn't even look old enough to shave more than once a week. He previously told my wife that blood vessels were leaking within the gelatinous mass cancer had created from one of her back ribs. The pooling blood is filling the space between her chest wall and lungs and exerting pressure, restricting her breathing—in effect, suffocating her.

But now, the drainage tube that had been put in place has clogged. The young doctor is back to explain the pros and cons of switching to a larger-diameter tube. I can tell by the way he's carefully choosing his words that he's trying not to influence my wife's decision one way or the other, but it's obvious he thinks her case is hopeless. I silently curse him. What happened to hope against all odds? He's far too young to be so damned pessimistic.

After he leaves, my wife shakes her head, lets out a great sigh, and says,‘I can't take anymore. I won't. This all ends now.’ Those words are a complete surrender, and I'm more saddened than shocked by her abrupt decision.

I know the terrible pain she's suffering. During our consultation with the oncologist the week before, my wife had been reluctant to prolong that suffering with chemo and radiation. The oncologist and I, together, had persuaded her to at least try a few sessions.

‘Look. I know you're exhausted,’ I tell her, ‘emotionally and physically, but don't you want to take some time to think about this? It's such a big decision to make, and I don't want you to rush into it. Okay?’

But she's adamant. No treatment

x

We're in a cabin near the south rim of the Grand Canyon, my daughter and I. She's sleeping peacefully in a bed next to mine, but I, on the other hand, am wide awake—another bad dream. I was a bird flapping my wings furiously to deliver an important message when suddenly my wings turned back into arms, and I found myself desperately flailing the air to stay aloft. I dropped from the sky like a rock. But just before I hit the ground, I jolted awake. My heart is still pounding.

I don't know what message I was delivering or who it was for, so I really don't know what meaning to take from that dream—or if there's any meaning at all.

I reach for the clock on the nightstand and squint at the time: 6:17 a.m. Too early, plus I'm in no mood to get up—I rarely am these days. I close my eyes and try to force myself back to sleep, but it's no use. The morning light has found its way between the curtains and into the room, so I get up, change into my hiking clothes—quietly so as not to wake my daughter—and leave the cabin to go for a long, solitary walk.

My daughter invited herself on this trip to help scatter her mother's ashes, but I know she had another reason. She's worried my depression over our mutual loss may be getting worse with time—not better—and she hadn't wanted me to travel such a long distance alone. I wish I could tell her not to worry, that I just need more time—time heals all wounds, right?—but time isn't what I need. It may eventually heal my wound of grief, but I doubt it'll do anything for my nagging burden of guilt. I know it's irrational, but I feel I was partly responsible for my wife's death in some consequential way.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm back at the cabin, awash in a blue mood of melancholy. The alarm clock has sounded, and my daughter is reluctantly rolling out of bed. Our plan is to scout the canyon rim and find a secluded spot for my wife's ashes. They're in a water thermos bottle stowed in my backpack. You're no longer allowed to scatter ashes here, so we have to be somewhat creative. The good news is tourist season is over. Fewer prying eyes. Less chance someone will report us to a park ranger.

Before we begin our scouting mission, my daughter and I decide to visit Mather Point, a popular lookout spot. I know the view won't be as spectacular as when the sun rises or sets over the canyon like the last time we were here—as a complete family—but it will still be a view to remember, considering the occasion, and I'm pretty sure my daughter will appreciate the memory in later years.

We take a quick drive from our cabin to the Visitor Center, park in the nearly empty lot, unload our backpacks from the car, and head out. It's a short walk to the extreme northernmost projection of the observation point. The place is nearly deserted, only a scattering of people here and there. We step up to the railing. My wife and daughter and I had witnessed the morning sunrise from this very spot some twenty-two years ago. I wonder if my daughter remembers.

As she gazes looking outward to the northern rim of the canyon some ten miles away, my attention is drawn downward to the depths of the canyon. With my hands on the top metal rail, I lean out. I feel a deep loneliness when I look down the steep sides of the canyon, a heavy loneliness that stretches thousands of feet down, pulling me, drawing me forward, over the railing, into the void.

This isn't how I remember the canyon. Before, it had been an open space filled with an awe-inspiring vista. Now it's just a depressing and meaningless space that echoes my emptiness—and on a grand scale, no less. I no longer feel the warm embrace of melancholy, but the crushing squeeze of regret. But regret for what?

‘I remember when we watched the sunrise from here,’ my daughter says. ‘It was magical.’

A thought occurs to me. This is the perfect spot for my wife's ashes—a spectacular sunrise every morning and a glorious twinkling of stars at night. I ask my daughter what she thinks.

‘I guess. I mean, this is probably the best spot in the whole park. And it was such a magical moment for me. I'm sure it was for mom too.’

‘Okay, then. This is the spot.’ I slide off my backpack, pull out the thermos with my wife's ashes, and tell my daughter to hand it to me after I climb over the railing. ‘I'll scatter mom's ashes into the crevice of those rocks over there.’

I point to a spot only a few feet away. A wide, level area stretches between me and that spot, reaching it will be as safe as walking on a city sidewalk—zero chance of my falling over the edge of the canyon—but my daughter still cautions me to be careful.

I scan the area to make sure there are no potential prying eyes. Satisfied, I hop over the railing. My daughter quickly hands me the thermos, and I dash toward the spot. But a funny thing happens when I do, I find myself veering to the right. And the harder I try to go straight, the more I go right. I become confused and think, What the hell? It's only when I notice a ringing in my right ear and find myself at the edge of the canyon rim that it dawns on me I'm experiencing a case of vertigo. My daughter screams ‘Daddy!’ just as I stumble and fall over the edge.

The morning air is unusually cold. Our warm breaths rise and mix in the waning twilight. My wife, our eight-year-old daughter, and I huddle together to wait patiently for what I hope will be a momentous event. We move as little as possible, not wanting to disturb the reverent mood that has settled upon us.

We had camped overnight near Mather Point. This morning, my wife had wanted to get a jump on the crowd that she knew would form in the observation area to watch the coming sunrise, so we rose early, at an ungodly hour—4 a.m.—but apparently not ungodly enough because when we arrived, a mass of even earlier risers were already here. Our late arrival, however, hadn't deprived us of a choice vantage point, and we watched as twilight gave way to sunrise. We saw the sun, that bright light, begin its slow ascent. We stood in awe, transfixed.

Vibrant shades of reds, rusts, yellows, golds, and delicate greens and pinks—colors I hadn't expected—slowly revealed themselves from the canyon walls, top to bottom. Each color, one by one, cast off its cloak of darkness and stepped into the brilliant light, timidly at first, then boldly, exposing its raw, natural splendor with sudden confidence. The canyon was truly grand to behold.

Even my daughter, who had resented the early wake-up call, was awestruck by the beauty unfolding before her very eyes. ‘That's so pretty, Daddy.’

‘Prettier than mommy?’ I tease.

She scolds me. ‘Daddy.’

‘Okay, not prettier than mommy.’

‘Daddy!’ she replies more forcefully. I see her face contort into an angry frown.

‘Daddy!’ she shouts at me.

I'm confused. Why is she shouting? Why is she angry? I was only teasing. I see her take in a deep breath and open her mouth so wide I could be looking into the depths of the canyon itself. The sound of her voice explodes in my head.

‘Daddy!’

I wake startled and confused.

‘Oh my God, Daddy! I thought you were dead!’

I struggle to focus. My head is pounding.

‘Up here. I'm up here, Daddy!’

I shift my body to look up, and it triggers a starburst of pain, colors radiate from the backs of my eyes like knives into my brain. I howl like a wounded animal.

‘What's wrong, Daddy! What's happening!’

I can't talk. My mouth is clamped shut, and I'm gritting my teeth with all my strength. The pain in my legs is unbearable. I'll go crazy if it doesn't stop soon. Mercifully, the pain lessens to just an angry throbbing, something I'm only too grateful to tolerate.

I take in my surroundings and find that I'm on a narrow ledge. I twist slowly and look up. My daughter, thirty feet above, is peering over a rocky cliff. I can't see the fine features of her face without my glasses—I've lost them somehow—but even without glasses, I can see her desperation and fear. It takes me a couple of seconds to remember what happened. I fell over the edge of that cliff above and landed on this ledge below.

‘Oh, Daddy! Please don't jump! Please, please, don't jump!’

I'm taken aback. My daughter thinks I intentionally tried to kill myself. ‘I didn't jump! And I'm not going to!’ I reply more forcefully than I intend.

I suppose I can't fault her for thinking I deliberately jumped. From her vantage point it certainly looked like I ran straight for the edge of the canyon and willingly flung myself over.

In a calmer voice, as if speaking to a suicidal jumper standing on the outside ledge of a tall building—a jumper she doesn't want to spook—she asks, ‘How badly are you hurt, Dad?’

I assess my condition. My left foot is wedged in a crevice. I try to free it, but those colors start to form in the backs of my eyes and prickling needles of pain race down my legs, so I stop. I'm pretty sure I broke both legs. My back hurts. It may be broken, too. There's a nasty gash on the back of my hand. My wrist may be broken or just sprained—I don't know. All in all, I'm pretty banged up. I relay all this information to my daughter.

‘Okay. Stay still. A rescue helicopter is on the way. They'll get you out.’

Rescue helicopter? So soon? I wonder how long I've been unconscious.

‘Just please don't—’ she hesitates, ‘move.’

‘Don't worry, Sunshine. I couldn't move even if I wanted to.’

‘The park rangers want me to come back over the railing, but I won't. I'll stay here with you, but first I need to tell them your condition. I'll be back in a second. Okay, Dad?’

‘Okay,’ I reply.

While she's gone I decide to bandage my left hand. It's a bloody mess—raw flesh and tendons exposed. In a little pouch attached to my belt, I have a Swiss Army knife. I remove it and pull out the small pair of scissors fitted inside. I cut off the left sleeve of my shirt and wrap it around my hand several times, tucking the loose end between the wrappings and my palm.

I reach under my thigh to remove a nagging rock. It's the thermos.

My daughter is back, but a thin pane of silence now separates us. Finally, she breaks it.

‘Dad, I know you're sad about Mom—I am too—but I didn't know you were this sad. You should have told me. You should have talked to me.’

She still thinks I'm suicidal. I wish I could convince her that I'm not, but my depression since her mother died and the lack of energy for me to even leave the house tells her otherwise.

‘You're right, Sunshine.’ A deep sadness swallows me. ‘I'm sorry.’

More silence.

Suddenly she shouts with excitement. ‘Daddy, I can hear the helicopter! It's coming! Can you hear it?’

I hear the distant thump, thump, thump of the blades as they cut rapidly through the air.

‘Yes, Sunshine. I hear it.’

‘I can see it! It's over there!’ She's pointing across the canyon. ‘Can you see it!’

I squint my weak eyes and see what looks like a bird in the distance. I remember my dream, when I was a bird flapping my wings furiously to deliver that urgent message.

‘Yes. I see it,’ I shout back to her.

‘I love you, Daddy. You're going to be okay.’

And just like that, the source of my guilt for my wife's suffering—for her death—reveals itself. I know what the message was that I struggled to deliver: I-love-you. Three simple words.

How many times had I spoken those words to my wife? During the early part of our marriage, I can say with confidence they flowed in a torrent. But in the last years of our marriage was there even a trickle? If I'm to be honest, the answer is no. And even during my wife's final days, I offered not a drop.

I don't know what caused that flow to stop, but it did, and I struggled to restart it, but it was never due to a lack of feeling—I did love my wife—the problem was there just never seemed to be the right moment to re-express those words, not without having them sound hollow and forced. And the longer I delayed, the harder it became.

A park ranger shouts to my daughter to clear the area before the helicopter arrives. Gusting air from its rotating blades could cause her to lose her balance and fall over the cliff. She doesn't want to leave me, but I persuade her to do so, and she reluctantly makes her way back behind the railing to join the curious bystanders who have no doubt gathered by now.

When her chest tube clogged, my wife refused to have it replaced. Would her decision have been different if I had allowed those three magical words to caress her ears? Would they have given her the strength—the desire—to do everything possible to prolong her life, a life worth living because she would know she was loved not just by her daughter but by her husband as well?

The rescue helicopter moves cautiously into position and hovers steadily above me. From its open side door, I see my rescuer step out into empty space. He swings slightly side to side as he's lowered slowly and carefully on a steel cable attached to his body harness.

What magic could those words have performed had I spoken them in the months, weeks, even days before her cancer was discovered? Could those magical words have stopped the cancer's spread, perhaps even prevented it from appearing?

Question after question crowds my mind as the helicopter hovers. Eventually one question, the most damning one of all, makes its way to the front: Am I responsible—even partly—for my wife's death?

Deep down, I know the answer.

My rescuer inches closer. I imagine he's confused when he sees me struggle with my boot, sees me cut the double knot of the laces with my knife and wrench my foot free, leaving the boot wedged in the crevice. I know he can't hear my screams of pain. Even I can't hear them. The roar of the helicopter swallows them whole.

With great effort, I drag myself across the rocky surface of the ledge, one elbow in front of the other. When I come to the edge, I unscrew the cap of the thermos bottle I'm holding and pour out my wife's ashes. They dance wildly in the turbulent air created by the helicopter's blades, a dust cloud which will eventually settle onto the canyon floor far below, my wife's final resting place.

I peer over. The view gives me the illusion I'm a bird poised to take flight. How do you say, ‘I am sorry’—three more simple words—to someone who exists only as a memory? I close my eyes. I feel the wind in my face. I feel the pull of the canyon.

Bio:

Héctor Hernández received a bachelor’s degree in civil engineering. He is now retired and lives in California. His short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, After Dinner Conversation, Bright Flash Literary Review, Five Minutes, and Literally Stories.

 

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What we endure by Neil C Weiner, Blue Bazar

 I board my flight out of Mobile, still vibrating from three days with my mother and sister. Old grievances clawed back to the surface, things I had spent years burying. All I want is altitude, silence, and the mercy of sleep. I slide into my usual window seat.

The captain’s voice crackles overhead, announcing a full flight. I observe the restless choreography of strangers stowing bags, and a baby crying in the seat in front of me. The only empty seats left are the two beside me.

As the door is about to close, a large man lumbers down the aisle, flushed and breathing hard, dragging a carry-on that bangs every seat it passes. The overhead bins are jammed. The plane waits while attendants check his bags. A murmur of irritation ripples through the cabin.

He drops into the seat beside me like a collapsing wall.

I’m petite. The instant he sits, his shoulder spills over the armrest, pinning me toward the window. One long leg crowds into my space, trapping my knees. Then the smell reaches me, stale cigarettes and sweat.

My chest tightens.

Cigarettes and leaving.

My father’s smell the night he walked out when I was eight years old, saying he was going for cigarettes and never coming back.

Why doesn’t he take the aisle seat? It would give his shoulders room, his legs somewhere to go. Doesn’t he realize half his body is already in my seat, that each breath presses me harder against the plane’s curved wall?

I study him from the corner of my eye. Thick through the chest and stomach. A neck swollen above a wilted collar. Damp gray curls pasted to his temples. His face shines with sweat.

I want to say something simple: Sir, could you move over? Could you take the aisle seat?

The words stall in my throat.
x

My mother’s voice lives there. Be pleasant. Be gracious. Don’t make a scene.

I smile. Reflex.

I live now in New York City, where women speak up, where no one apologizes for taking space. But the old Southern stitching holds. Manners sewn into the skin don’t come out easily.

He turns toward me, cheerful and winded, as if we are beginning a pleasant trip together.

“I’m Dr. Richard Gumm. Phew. Didn’t think I was going to make this flight. I bought two seats. I hate inconveniencing people with my size.”

He hands me a business card: DR. RICHARD GUMM, Oral Surgeon.

I take a breath. Count to three. Three hours. I survived a weekend of family interrogation and casseroles; I can survive this. I arrange my face into neutrality and practice being unbothered.

The captain’s voice returns.

“Folks, we’re delayed. A severe thunderstorm has veered into town. We’ll be waiting on the tarmac.”

My stomach drops. A short flight could stretch into hours of being trapped

Patience. A book. A song. Wait it out.

“Hope you don’t mind me talking. You look like a good listener. I’ve been trapped in a conference for three days, nothing but room service and boring talks.”

Every instinct screams no.

I nod anyway.

“You have no idea—no idea at all—what I paid for this excursion into this backwater city. Mobile. Nothing here but a submarine and a lot of ghetto. Food’s terrible…”

He doesn’t stop.

The words pour out in a steady stream. Hotels. Towels. Waiters. Food. Prices. Everything wrong. Each complaint another drop, another torturing drip

I hover at the edge of listening. My mouth produces the right sounds. Wow. That’s crazy. That must be hard. My fingers curl into my skirt.

His cheerfulness is its own violence. A bright, oblivious rain that drowns everything.

Outside, lightning splits the sky. Rain hammers the fuselage. Inside, his voice is a buzz saw.

Each remark lands, ripples outward. My father, my hometown, the weekend I just endured.

“Sorry folks. Sit tight. Still waiting for clearance.”

The captain tries to soothe. It lands like a match.

I stare at the rain-streaked window. The pressure builds.

For a moment, he pauses. Pulls out pictures of his wife, his children. A brief, fragile quiet moment.

I compliment them. A small reprieve.

Then—

“I just trained in robot-assisted oral surgery. Incredible system. Cost me a fortune, so I’ll have to charge more…”

And we’re off again.

He drinks the complimentary liquor. With each swallow he grows louder, looser, more certain of his grievances. Soon I know far more than I want about crowns, lasers, and incompetent colleagues.

I would happily rearrange his teeth myself.

I smile anyway.

Three hours pass.

The storm clears, but the cabin resentment is growing. Babies cry. Seatbelts click. Voices rise.

At last, the captain again:

“We’ve been cleared for takeoff. However, there are sixteen planes ahead of us.”

A collective groan.

He seizes it.

“You can’t trust anybody. Patients cancel. They ghost. They don’t pay. Insurance is legalized theft—”

He rants himself empty. Mid-sentence, his head falls back. Mouth open. A wet, grinding snore.

Silence.

I stare ahead. Jaw tight.

For a moment, I think I’ve been spared.

Then—

His hand drifts across the armrest and settles on my thigh. Casual. Certain. As if it belongs there.

Something breaks.

Years of being agreeable collapse in a single instant. Every silence mistaken for consent. Every polite laugh. Every swallowed word.

Gone.

My pulse hammers. I slap his hand off me. Hard. The crack echoes.

“I was sleeping!” he snaps, eyes flying open. “Why would you do that?”

I’m on my feet, forcing past him into the aisle. I turning back.

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not your listener, your armrest, or the silence you’ve been talking into for three hours. I should have stopped you an hour ago.”

He stares, stunned into silence.

The baby screams. Call buttons flare across the cabin. Flight attendants rush forward.

At the jet bridge, airport police meet me and snap cuffs around my wrists.

For the first time that day, I smile and mean it.

Bio:

Dr. Weiner has published a variety of professional articles and fiction in magazines. His psychology books include Shattered Innocence and the Curio Shop. Non-psychology publications are Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining.

 

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The Keystone Blend by Samya Jayachandran, martini

The mist in Kalimpong does not fall; it rises from the Teesta valley like the breath of something buried alive. It creeps over the ridges, thick and smelling of damp limestone and rotting cedar, until the pine trees are nothing but charcoal sketches against a grey canvas.

Nima sat on the rusted railing of the shortcut path leading to Dr. Pradhan’s estate. She liked the cold. It was the only thing that felt sharp enough to penetrate the layer of cotton wool that had occupied the inside of her skull since the "accident."

They called it an accident. A "slip" on the wet shale during the monsoon. But Nima remembered the sound most of all. Not the scream, but the crack. It was the sound of a dry branch snapping in winter. It was the sound of her own architecture failing. Since that day, the world had become a series of structural errors. Her mother’s face was lopsided; the school’s blackboard was tilted three degrees to the left; the very air felt too heavy for the mountains to support. She felt the dent in her head, she had named it “the cup”. Sometimes she imagined water collecting in it, penetrating her skull and swirling through the grey matter.

She opened her notebook. It was filled with geometric proofs and sketches of skeletal systems. She wasn't studying for the boards anymore, the school had "strongly suggested" she take a year off to recover, but she was obsessed with the physics of the human frame. The sphenoid bone, she wrote, her pencil lead scratching harshly against the paper, is the keystone. If the keystone is bruised, the cathedral of the mind leaks. "Nima? You’re going to catch a fever." It was Deepa. The Doctor’s daughter. She was wrapped in a soft, cream-colored pashmina shawl that looked like a cloud. She stood on the other side of the black iron gates of the estate, her skin glowing with the kind of health that only comes from imported vitamins and a life without damp walls.

Nima looked at her. She didn't see a friend. She saw a squatter.

"The density of your femur is higher than mine," Nima said, her voice flat, devoid of the melodic lilt she used to have. "It’s because of the calcium. Your father steals the calcium from the village children and injects it into your breakfast." Deepa flinched, pulling the shawl tighter. "You’re talking strange again. My dad says it’s just the trauma. You need your meds, Nima." "Your father," Nima whispered, standing up. Her movements were jerky, like a marionette with tangled strings. "He knows the truth. When I fell, the impact was so great that the vibrations traveled through the earth. A displacement occurred. Physics demands an equal and opposite reaction. I left my rightful place, and you slipped into it."

She pressed her face against the cold iron bars. The blunt force to her occipital lobe had done more than scar her scalp; it had rearranged her soul's geography. She was convinced that the girl in the cream shawl was a glitch in the universe. Nima was the Doctor’s daughter, the one meant for the grand piano and the tea sets and the future in Delhi. Deepa was the interloper, the daughter of the woman who washed clothes until her knuckles bled.

"I can see the cracks in you, Deepa," Nima said, her eyes widening until the whites showed all around the irises. "I can see where the bone isn't set right. You’re wearing my life, but it doesn't fit you. It’s sagging at the shoulders." Deepa backed away, her eyes filling with a mixture of pity and genuine terror. "I have to go. My tutor is waiting."

Nima watched her retreat up the manicured driveway. She didn't feel anger; anger was a soft, fleshy emotion. She felt a cold, calcified certainty. She turned back to the valley. Below, the town of Kalimpong clung to the hillside like a fungus. She saw the tin roofs of the bazaar, the smoke rising from the shanties and the tops of the pine trees that swayed like they were whispering secrets to each other. Nima reached up and touched the indentation behind her ear. The bone was jagged there, a permanent topographical error on her map. If I hit it again, she thought, the logic appearing in her mind as a perfect, golden equation, perhaps the displacement will reverse. A second strike to correct the first. She looked at a heavy, moss-covered stone at her feet. It was granite. Dense. Final.

She picked it up. It felt wonderful in her hand, the weight of a solution. She imagined the architecture of her skull vibrating, the plates shifting back into their original, divine alignment. She imagined the mist clearing to reveal the life she was owed. In the distance, the bells of the monastery rang out, the sound muffled by the fog. Nima began to hum. It was a high, thin sound that mimicked the wind whistling through a hollow bone. She sat back down on the railing, the stone resting in her lap like a pet, waiting for the moment when the geometry of the world would finally make sense again. She opened her notebook to a fresh page and drew a single, perfect dot.

Zero, she wrote. The point where everything begins and ends. The point where the pain becomes a shape.

The mist swallowed her then, turning the girl, the stone, and the notebook into a single, grey shadow.

 

Bio:

Samya Jayachandran is a school student based in New Delhi. She has lived across Arunachal Pradesh, Uttarakhand and Delhi. Her writing is informed by these shifting geographies, as well as by vacations spent in her paternal and maternal villages in Kerala and Kalimpong .

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Writing and All That Stuff by Michael Barrington, French martini

 Three rejection letters last week. That’s 409 since 2022. I’ve been keeping a spreadsheet since Covid. And yes, there’ve been successes too. Fourteen short stories published last year. But it raises the proverbial question, “Why do I write?”

I really don’t have an option, I used to say to myself. “I write because I have to,” and moved on. But is that really the truth? What is driving me to spend an inordinate number of hours each day putting stories onto paper, agonizing over word choice, and where failure to find the perfect phrase causes insomnia? Or am I just a dreamer, a gentleman of leisure without the inconvenience of an income, calmly squandering the hours as if the world had arranged itself solely for my amusement?

So, I had my astrological profile analyzed. Perhaps I could learn something there. Eureka! Yes. Among many other traits, Leos have a propensity for writing. And there’s good company out there to prove it: J.K. Rowling of Harry Potter fame, James Baldwin, Emily Brontë, Ray Bradbury, Suzanne Collins, and Alexander Dumas. Wow! But me?

My Ancestry profile shows that I am more than 50% Irish, and maybe that’s a place that might be worth exploring. After all, the Irish have the reputation as “story tellers,” and I have both maternal and paternal Irish connections. The genetic connection! But what is all this writing stuff?

Neither of my parents were writers, but both were avid readers, which they did every day of their lives. They ensured that from a very early age my sisters and I were enrolled in the local library. They were both gifted musicians— any writing relationship there? And both had beautiful penmanship. It was only late in life that I discovered my mother had kept a secret journal for years. Ahah. So, I can check that box; she too needed to write!

I have a sister who is a published author and writes both fantasy and poetry. Another is the family archivist and a journalist. I have a niece who writes poetry and has published a novel (romance). Another is a well-known local historian and researcher with several publications. My grandniece is a magazine editor and has also published several short stories. Does it all come down to genes?

I am convinced that my maternal grandfather caused this family epidemic. With just an eighth grade, rural education, and speaking English as a second language, he left Ireland and sought his fortune in Manchester, UK. Determined to be a gentleman, he took advantage of educational opportunities, attended night school and became a voracious reader. But here is where the genetic connection gets interesting. He was the landlord of The Shamrock Inn for thirty-six years, and while serving the local communities including huge numbers of Irish immigrants, he became known as a “storyteller,” a “Shannike,” (my poor translation from the Gaelic)!

So, is this what has been driving me—genes?

When I sit down at my computer, the room is quiet, but my mind is anything but. The moment my fingers hover over the keyboard, the voices begin. Characters press forward from somewhere just beyond thought, each one impatient, insistent, indignant almost, at being ignored. They crowd around the edges of my imagination, talking over one another, each trying to tell me who they really are. One wants to explain the wound he has carried since childhood. Another interrupts, eager to confess the secret she has hidden for years. A third laughs loudly, pushing his way into the scene, declaring that the story is really about him. Their voices overlap and jostle like people in a crowded room, each demanding to be heard first, each certain their history matters most.

I sit there, listening, half amused and half overwhelmed, trying to decide which one to follow. Sometimes I feel less like a creator than a reluctant host at a gathering I did not entirely plan. They arrive with their past already formed—their disappointments, their triumphs, their small, peculiar habits—and all they want is the chance to step forward and live on the page.

At moments like that, I feel as if I am two different people. One of me sits quietly at the desk, practical and deliberate, arranging sentences and choosing words with care. The other moves freely among these restless figures, hearing their whispers, sensing their moods, and letting them unfold their stories. Yet somehow the two selves work together. One listens; the other writes. And out of that strange partnership, the voices slowly become characters, the characters become stories, and the empty page begins to fill.

And yet there is a third person in the room.

Just when the voices are at their loudest—when a wounded soldier is trying to confess his past and a defiant young woman is insisting the story belongs to her, her child crying in the background—another presence clears his throat with quiet authority.

It is the practical one.

He reminds me that the dishwasher is finished and needs emptying. The garbage should really be taken out before it smells. There are errands waiting, ordinary duties that have nothing whatsoever to do with tragic heroes or secret histories.

He is unmoved by the urgency of fictional lives.

While the characters protest and try to drag him back to the glowing screen, this third self stands firmly in his imagination’s doorway and points toward the kitchen. He has a schedule, a sense of order, and a belief that life must continue in its sensible rhythms.

And he always has the last word.

“Later,” he says to the characters crowding in his head. “I’ll come back later.”

So, I take care of my chores. I step back into the simple machinery of daily life. Tonight my wife and I will go out for hamburgers. Tomorrow I will play golf. And all the while, somewhere behind the ordinary business of living, the voices will still be waiting—patient, persistent, prepared, ready to pounce the moment I sit down at the computer.

I never met my grandfather, yet I feel his presence in a way that is difficult to explain. He was, by all accounts, a genuine Irish storyteller—the sort of man who, after serving his customers a beer, could hold them there with nothing more than his voice and a well-spun tale.

I know him only through the stories others have told about him, but there is no doubt his influence lives in me. Perhaps it is simply the inheritance of blood. I carry his genes, after all. Or perhaps something less tangible travels quietly through families—the impulse to shape events into stories, to notice the small human moments that give life its color.

It may be a coincidence, or something more deliberate, that I bear my grandfather’s name. Sometimes I wonder if that alone carries a kind of quiet expectation, as if a fragment of his voice found its way forward through time.

I never heard him tell a story, yet when I sit down to write and the characters begin their clamoring, I cannot help but feel that somewhere in the background there is an old Irish storyteller smiling, leaning on the bar, a pint of beer in his hand, pleased that the tradition—however faintly—has continued.

So I continue to write my stories, not out of habit, but out of something closer to necessity. Along the way, I founded a small gathering for short story writers. Once a month, we come together simply to read, to listen, and to enjoy. There is no dissection of sentences, no weighing of merit—only the quiet, generous act of sharing. Voices rise and fall, some tentative, some assured, each carrying its own rhythm and truth.

At the same time, I am shaping my second collection of longer stories, a body of work that has taken years to gather itself into form. I plan to self-publish it this summer—a decision born not of impatience, but of resolve. These twenty-two stories have already traveled far. I sent them out into the world, one by one, to magazines and journals, each submission carrying a quiet hope. Most returned with courteous rejections—carefully worded, professionally distant. Others vanished altogether, slipping into that familiar void writers come to know too well, where no answer arrives. Not a single story was accepted. And yet, strangely, that absence of recognition never felt like the end of the journey.

The stories themselves refused to disappear. The characters continued to speak. They lingered in the background, interrupting, reminding, urging me forward. They did not care for rejection letters or editorial silence; they demanded only to be heard. There is a certain responsibility in that, a quiet obligation to give voice to what insists on being heard.

So, I return to the page, again and again, listening carefully, taking note, shaping their words into something that might endure. Whether published or not, these stories exist—and that, in the end, is reason enough to keep writing.

Bio:

Michael Barrington, has published 13 books, and more than 60 short stories. His most recent novel, Colourblind, recounts The Battle of Bamber Bridge. In 1943 the village welcomed 600 Black US soldiers but the army tried to impose segregation and violence errupted. He blogs on his website, www.mbwriter.net

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