Passing of a Pet by Melissa L Vardy, MD 20/20

 

There are many situations in life that can make you feel uncomfortable. Farting during a job interview, for example or worse still, during sex. Here’s another one, bumping into an old friend and then congratulating them on their pregnancy, when in fact.......Well, we all know how that one goes.

Then there’s the old favourite, snogging a work colleague after a night of heavy drinking. Then, having to face them every bloody day at work until you manage to find another job. I have experienced all of these and more, but yesterday I found myself in an awkward situation entirely new to me.

At the time, I was on the 10.59 a.m. train from King's Cross to Stevenage. Two miserable children were sitting opposite, and a snotty woman in a red puffer jacket was next to me.  I could tell this ‘tutting woman’ didn't want to sit near me. I’m intuitive like that.  I sensed she was in a bad mood just by the way she sat down.  As for the children, well, they were mine and had good reason to be miserable.

This wasn’t a journey I’d been looking forward to, and being kettled in this hot, stuffy train wasn’t improving my mood any. It was so crowded that strangers were pressed up against each other and looked like they might snog at any moment, if they weren’t so agitated that was.

Impatiently, I waited for the train to pull out, now and then glancing over to see how my children were holding up.  The pair of them were sitting there silent with tears in their eyes and sadness in their hearts. It was all very ‘Dickens’.  I, on the other hand, felt more anxious than sad. Having to sit with a corpse on your lap will do that to you. Now, I realise straight away that sounds kind of bad, and I’ve gone from awkward to obscene in one sentence, so let me explain.

You see, two weeks previously, our hamster had died. Well, actually, Avril Lavigne, as she was regrettably named, died slightly before then. But for the first two days, I’d tried to convince myself that she was in fact hibernating. Then, for another day, I agonised over how I was going to tell Aaron and Esme, my kids. Luckily, in the end, I didn’t need to. On that very same day, they found out for themselves, which was fortunate, kind of.

They were devastated, of course, death was still new to them, for me, less so. It’s not that I’m a cold-hearted bitch incapable of loving a small rodent, far from it. It’s just that no sooner had ‘we’ got Avril than I found myself becoming a parent yet again. My children's cries of

“We’ll look after her, we p-r-o-m-i-s-e” flowed quickly into cries of.

“Mummy, I’m tired,”.

“Why don’t you just get the word mug tattooed on your forehead?” My husband had suggested. Yep, thanks for that.

Now, if you are fortunate enough not to know much about these creatures, then let me enlighten you. For starters, they smell, well, not so much them, more their cages, if you don’t clean them out regularly, that is. Obvious, really, it would be weird if they didn't. And have a guess who cleaned our hamster's cage out every week? Yep, you got it, me, me and me. Then there’s the noise. A hamster can run up to six miles a night in the wild.   And I’m pretty sure she ran that same distance on his wheel each night, that’s when she wasn’t gnawing on the metal bars trying to escape, I mean, who can blame her?

Now, to my next point. Whose room do you think the hamster lived in? Yep, me again. You see, Avril’s nocturnal noises had a propensity to keep my children awake. Whereas, obviously, for me, her racket was like whale music. You can see what I am getting at here, can’t you?

Finally, you know what hamsters don’t do? They don't live long; the average lifespan of a hamster is two years. In conclusion, hamsters make shit pets, Christ even rats live longer, and they can learn their name.

But still, I was genuinely upset when she died. I’d spent more time with Avril than anyone. Admittedly, most of that time was spent on my knees making elaborate treat-laden mazes. The ‘twist’ in my maze, though, was that the final exit was actually a dead end, leading directly back into her cage.  As you know, what else hamsters are fabulous at?  Escaping.  Honesty, I didn’t enjoy it, and sometimes I’d just let her have the run of the house for a few days.

In death as in life, it was the same; it was me that was left to organise the funeral.

Now you wouldn't know it to look at me, but I actually live in a council flat in Peckham, South London, and my flat, being on an estate, doesn't have a garden.  Oh, also, we are on the 5th floor, so having a garden would also be, well, weird and certainly unusual.

Eventually, we decided to travel to her mum's house in Stevenage for the burial; my mum's place didn’t have a garden either, but she did have a small allotment. This felt like the perfect resting place for Avril, after all, she’d always loved carrots.

As my place of work didn’t grant special leave for the pet funerals, it was a couple of weeks before we were able to make the journey. Until I’d had to store Avril's body at the back of the fridge. No, no, I know that sounds horrible, but she was in a box, her body wasn’t just lying there next to the Feta cheese. It was the only place she could think of that would work as a makeshift morgue. After a couple of days, however, her body was removed. I won't go into the reasons why.

I’d hoped to put Avril in my bag for the journey, but Aaron had said he was worried the body might be disturbed. Jesus, I thought, we’re not in an episode of Silent Bloody Witness. But still, he was upset, so I respected his wishes. I carefully wrapped Avril in tissue paper and placed her body in a Nokia phone box, which, if you are interested, makes an excellent coffin for a dead rodent, as well as a brilliant ‘sleeping quarters’ for a living one.

So, there I was, on the train, feeling extremely uneasy, convinced that the passengers could smell Avril's decomposing body. And I thought to myself, you know what, I'd rather be back there, farting my way through that job interview. But still the discomfort was brief, and less than two hours later we were at the allotments.

My mother was crying, of course; oh, she does love a good funeral. Next to her was my stepfather, towering over everyone and wearing his huge trench coat. Accompanying him were his Bible and his garden spade; it was all very apocalyptic. And opposite my parents were the kids and an overweight slobbering black Labrador. The dog belonged to my stepdad, you understand; it’s not like we just let some random dog rock up to the funeral.

Despite the weather, many hardy gardeners were still out, and our presence was attracting their attention. Turns out Avril's funeral was far more interesting than the harvesting of root vegetables, imagine that! Although huddled together in a circle and standing in the rain, we must have looked like some kind of strange religious sect performing a sacrifice.

Mrs Mad Bastard, as my mum called her, happened to be standing nearby, staring, weird as ever, with a pitchfork in one hand and a cigar in the other! A young couple in their twenties were also in earshot. I noticed both of them were wearing matching floral Wellington boots, and they had the audacity to stare at us.

By now, it was raining more heavily, and I just wanted to get the thing over with. But if I didn’t give Avril a proper send-off, I knew I’d regret it.  My children were looking at me expectantly, as was the dog, although it may have been that she just wanted to go home, and so I began. I started the ceremony by reading the goodbye note that my daughter had written. This was difficult, mostly because she’d written the letter in blue felt tip and cried as she’d done it. Esme's hot tears had washed away most of the words, and what remained were just some inky blue stains. In the end, I looked up to the heavens and ad-libbed. If she asked, I’d say the words came directly from God.  You learn to lie well, and quickly when you have kids.

After the reading, I recited the Lord's Prayer, at least the bits I could remember.  However, I could tell by the expressions on my children's faces that the service was inadequately short. It needed something more. That’s when my mum suggested we sing, Hallelujah’ by Leonard Cohen, Christ knows why. Still, no one would be complaining it was too short after this little number, and I did know all the words.  So, I began to sing, and this time everyone joined in, even, surprisingly, Mrs Mad Bastard. Finally, the coffin was placed in the ground, covered with peaty soil, and Avril was laid to rest.

She was buried just near the strawberry patch. A huge paving slab was placed on top of the grave to make sure the foxes didn’t dig her up. Esme inserted the obligatory lolly stick cross in the ground, and everyone agreed it was a lovely service.  I reassured the kids that Avril was now in Hamster Heaven. I mean, I can’t imagine how any hamster could end up in hell, can you?

Then it was time to go back to the house for tea, cake, and a packet of orange Chewits. Nothing eases the pain of loss for a child like chewy sweets.

It was my stepdad who suggested we sing a song to cheer us up, and I agreed. Esme walked slowly through the allotments, deep in thought once more. Her mournful steps gradually quickened, and soon they’d turned into a skip, and then she sang, and she sang loudly,

“I kissed a girl, and I liked it; I liked it. No, I didn’t even know her name.”

It was an unusual song for a funeral, but then it was an unusual funeral.

As my stepfather yelled for Betty to hurry up, I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the kids started pestering me for another Avril, and if they did, would I weaken once again?

Bio

Melissa Vardy is an up-and-coming standup comedian and spoken word artist who has performed at several venues across London. She also writes short stories and is currently attempting to write her first novel. She describes herself as desperately dyslexic, fiercely left wing, openly bisexual and proudly South London.

Mavis, Cuddles and the End of the World Alan Jacobs, Lambrusco

World War III started at 7:27 pm on 11^th May; it was a Thursday but, before I alarm you unnecessarily, dear reader, I should clarify that the cataclysmic events to which I refer, occurred, not in the real here and now, but in the virtual world that is Other Life.

“You haven’t really lived until you’ve lived your Other Life,” stated the announcer for the online ad that Mavis had clicked on.

“Be the person you always wanted to be,” it continued.

Up to a few seconds earlier, Mavis had been looking at videos of cute cats but had been side-tracked by one of those ‘clickbait’ links always present on web pages these days.

The advertisement from The Genesis Corporation was for a “Brand new virtual experience.”

The announcer went on to explain that, for a reasonable monthly charge Mavis could be one of the thousands of people worldwide who had already signed up to this twenty-first century phenomenon that was taking the world by storm – but to hurry as this was a once in a lifetime offer.

Intrigued, Mavis drank a few more mouthfuls from her second glass of red Lambrusco and watched on.

As soon as the video had finished, Mavis clicked on the link, signed up and purchased her new existence in Other Life.

Two days later all the paraphernalia: virtual headset, DVD, cables, controllers, password and documentation arrived by courier at the solicitors where she worked in the word processing department. With just a little bit of help from Steve in IT, Mavis had installed the software on her laptop and was ready to go.

Mavis Bracegirdle had lived alone since her mum died; alone that is if you didn’t include her seven cats. The wrong side of forty, and dress size twelve a distant memory, thanks mainly to a diet of junk food and chocolate, she appeared a lonely figure. She’d never had a boyfriend – well not since Colin when she was seventeen, and even he hadn’t been what you’d really call a boyfriend. They’d only gone out the once, to the pictures, where he’d tried to get his hand in her knickers in the middle of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. She’d stood up with a shriek, tipping most of a shared giant tub of buttered popcorn over a crestfallen Colin. Running out of the cinema, she’d never again set foot in one since that night.

Mavis finally got to see the whole film when it had been on the telly a few weeks back. Even after all these years, it had immediately brought back memories of that night: Harrison Ford, the smell of buttered popcorn and Colin’s short-lived fumblings; she’d idly mused that these days she might quite like a hand in her knickers.

The cinema incident had put her off men for a while and then her mother got ill; a mean spirited, self-centred person at the best of times, she had turned into a demanding, selfish harridan and it was a relief for Mavis to escape the house to go to work each day. The demands of her mother in the evenings precluded any sort of social life but, ill or not, the old witch had hung on for another twenty-odd years, and it wasn’t until she’d just turned forty-one that Mavis was finally free of her.

By the time she buried her mother, she’d just simply got used to not having a social life and, lacking in self-confidence, wasn’t even sure she’d know how to start one. The other girls in WP had always tried to coax her out for a drink on a Friday night and involve her in their out of work activities but Mavis had always cried off, citing her sick mother as the reason. Since Mum died, she’d started using the cats as her excuse for rushing home. She was affable and friendly enough with the other girls: joining the lottery syndicate, bringing cakes in on her birthday and sponsoring their charity walks – all the usual stuff of office life – but at going home time she had done just that and gone home.

 

The day the software was installed, Mavis travelled home on the tube, aware of a frisson of excitement as she felt the weight of the laptop in her bag. She arrived home burdened down with a takeaway pizza she’d stopped off for, a bottle of red Lambrusco and a family size bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. Struggling through the front door, she pushed it shut with her backside, narrowly avoiding tripping over two of the cats as they attempted to weave between her legs. Dumping her purchases on the kitchen counter, she made a fuss of the cats that were present, filling the bowls with dry food and, while a few more cats drifted in through the cat flap in the kitchen door, checked and refilled a couple of water bowls.

Cats fed and watered, she grabbed a wineglass and carried her evening meal into the living room. Shucking off her coat, she let it fall to the floor, where it was immediately claimed by one of the cats. She plopped onto the sofa and set about pouring the wine and pulling off a wedge of pepperoni pizza. Mouth full of pizza, she pulled her laptop out of her bag, opened it and switched it on.

Since placing her order she had avidly read the forums of other users and discovered all sorts of useful stuff. For instance, in the alternate reality world, all the usual laws of physics still applied, so, just as in the real world, no one could fly or have super powers and, when a user was not signed in, their avatar waited to be animated like some lifeless virtual puppet.

Before putting on the VR headset she went to the online store to pick out and personalise an avatar, which she named Emma Stone. Emma was a dress size ten and looked remarkably like Mavis herself had at the time of the cinema, knickers, popcorn episode. Avatar designed, Mavis followed the instructions to upload Emma into the system and, switching on the wireless headset, with some trepidation, put it on.

And from the very first time she hesitantly walked into the universe that was Other Life, she felt she had come home.

 

Over the next few years Mavis created in Emma Stone the complete antithesis of herself: a confident, attractive and gregarious twenty-something, world-class, (well, Other Life world-class), gymnast who regularly represented her nation in the sport. This gave Mavis the opportunity to live vicariously through Emma and experience a life she would not otherwise have enjoyed.

A keen and enthusiastic citizen of Freedonia (the fictitious country Emma inhabited), Mavis had crafted a much loved, admired and respected  member of the virtual community; indeed she had even pursued and now enjoyed an intimate relationship – as intimate as one could be in a virtual world – with Guy Manley. Guy had, in a landslide victory, just been elected President of Freedonia. In reality, Guy was Kenny Pratt, a flatulent, greasy, twenty-stone security guard from Rhyl with a dodgy comb-over.

Following Guy’s election victory, a huge inaugural ball had been planned and was being held at the virtual Government House. Naturally, as Emma was Guy’s significant other she’d been invited to sit alongside him at the main table while he gave his acceptance speech. She’d arrived early and was shown into the Round Office – Freedonia’s equivalent of the Oval Office. Mavis didn’t know it at the time but Guy was being briefed by his defence chief on the intricacies of their nation’s nuclear deterrent launch system. As this was a social function, the defence chief wasn’t in uniform, instead she was wearing a strapless black ball gown which barely restrained her enormous breasts. Freedonia was an equal opportunities nation after all so why shouldn’t the defence chief be a stunningly beautiful woman called Norma Stitz? As a side note, Norma was in real life a pre-op transgender sex worker from Dudley called Barry – but I digress.

To Mavis’s insecure eyes, the tableau that presented itself appeared to be a way too intimate tête-à-tête. Mavis’s self-doubt took over and, immediately leaping to the wrong conclusion, she experienced what can only be described as a crisis of faith in herself and the life she had created.

Back in the real world, sitting on the sofa of her ground floor flat, Mavis was in shock. Reaching up to snatch the virtual headset off, she accidentally knocked over the generous, nearly full glass of Lambrusco that had been on the arm of the sofa, emptying its entire contents over a soundly sleeping Cuddles, one of the aforementioned cats. Now, if ever a creature had been misnamed it was he. Cuddles was neither good-natured nor cuddly, in fact he was one of the most miserable animals one could ever have the misfortune to encounter, only tolerating Mavis because she fed him.

So, given Cuddles’ temperament, it would be something of an understatement to say he was not best pleased at being woken from a deep sleep, quite understandably taking exception to the entire contents of a glass being dumped on him. In a display of agility that belied his advancing years, he leapt up with a hiss and a howl and darted across the coffee table where Mavis had her laptop. Scrabbling over the keyboard, his feet managed to hit the precise key sequence required to propel Emma, at great speed, into the Round Office. Hurtling towards the two occupants, she hit them with such force that all three tumbled onto the floor where, in the resulting melee, one of Norma’s voluminous breasts unfortunately escaped from her strapless gown and accidentally pressed the launch button.

As this was supposed to be just a demonstration of the system, the missiles had been targeted on Gigantia, the largest nation in the whole of the Other Life universe. Gigantia had, up to this moment, been an ally and strong trading partner of Freedonia – indeed its ambassador was attending tonight’s inaugural ball.

Events took their course – Gigantia retaliated as did their allies, likewise Freedonia’s allies and, over the space of a very few minutes, the peaceful world of Other Life was destroyed.

 

Footnote:

The Genesis Corporation are currently creating Other Life II.

Mavis Bracegirdle’s application for membership has been declined.

 

Find your copy here:

Tales from the upper room

 

Echoes of a Father by Prof Rajeshwar Prasad, espresso

Rikha was born as a girl about eighteen years ago. Her father used to call her saying, "Dear daughter, come to my lap...and I used to run to him.

    She was born into a family which was economically and socially maintained by her father, Avarnath, who used to work in a small jewellery shop in my local city, Ghosi. She had not only one or two dreams, but innumerable, which always haunted her heart and mind.  She had her mother Sheelam, her brother Vayank, and her elder sister Vandini in her family, who had no fewer dreams than hers. Her father was the only person to earn and maintain the expenses of the family and fulfil their dreams.

    They used to eat, sleep, play and do together and enjoyed our lives as pleasantly as monarchs, as they were paragons of contentment.

    But a tragedy overwhelmed their family with the untimely and sudden death of her father due to cardiac arrest. With this, they lost everything in their lives – their hope, joy, light, patronage, and everything. He is no longer with them, and all her dreams have been shattered.

    After his demise, they suffered enough – a lot of problems they faced in their lives. Economic crises to maintain the expenses of the family, and the sense of loneliness and helplessness surrounded all around them. They pined even for a shower of human mercy and compassion – and in this condition, a few kith and kin came to help them.

    She sleeps alone and dreams, "...dad has brought toffees for us...biscuits for us...he is giving to us...he is playing with us..."

    But all this is a dream, and this will never be true in any situation in the world. Thinking about this, she pines...She sighs...She weeps..., but she regains much more power and ability to survive and do something for herself and humanity.

    Sometimes, she dreams at night, "...there are thorns all around me...I am sleeping on it. The roof will fall upon me, and some has come to fire on me...there are incurable wounds on my body..."

    This frequently happened to her. And her family members consoled her, saying, "This will never happen..."

    Then a series of social separations began. Her brother went to her cousin to study, and with his help, her sister also went with her cousin to study. Her mother always sighs over the loss of her father. And she alone lived in the same house, which was built by her father.

    Her mother, Sheelam, used to say, “You’ve to care for yourself, facing all the troubles. I’m not in a situation to guide you...”

    Thus, she remains lost in the tragedy which destroyed their dreams and future to prosper.

    Her sister also chose her own path in such a tragic situation, and she left her alone.     

    Her sister, Vandini, said, “I am going to live and study with the cousins with their help...”

    After some months of her departure, her brother Vayank also left home with his cousin to live and study with them. Hence, Rikha became alone and lived in the same state of loneliness, bearing all the troubles around her.

    While departed, Vayank consoled her, saying, “Don’t worry. Live at home and study here. You will be in my heart, and I will be in your heart as sister and brother...” 

    Some years ago, saying this, they, who lived, ate and played with her, departed from her, awarding tears in her delicate heart and leaving her at home. She felt agony but tolerated this because she understood their helplessness.

   When her sister and brother went for their studies with their cousins, multiple ideas began to haunt her mind, and I dreamt, "...I am sleeping alone on a barren land. There is none...all around me naked rocks and mountains and dried grasses...there is no way for me to return to my home..."

    Now, there is none to console her.

    Thus, her heart turned into stone. Since then, she has lived alone at home waiting for the final decision of her Fate. Sometimes, she sees stars at daylight and in the image of stars, I see the nakedness of the world, which lacks mercy and compassion in need. She frequently remembers the philosophic, thought-provoking and didactic lines written by Matthew Arnold to console myself:

 

Ah, love, let us be true

To one another! for the world, which seems

To lie before us like a land of dreams,

So various, so beautiful, so new,

Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,

Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;

And we are here as on a darkling plain

Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,

Where ignorant armies clash by night.

 

    The above lines show the reality of the world and give them the light to live happily in the same situation that Almighty Fate awards them. She lives in the same situation as the Fate register allows them and encourages all mankind to live in present, whatever one has. Everyone must know and understand that the world is not a bed of roses, but a dim and dark one where no formula is fully applicable to lead a happy life, and suddenly anything wrong may happen to anyone anywhere, whether one is a monarch or a beggar. 

    She frequently remembers the days and repents for some time, and later she stands alone with double power to survive and to do something for the betterment of mankind.

    These lines console her for some time, and again, she enters the same state of isolation and loneliness. She began to recall her past with her father, who used to come in every evening with toffees and biscuits for her and her brother and her sister:

    “... Rikha...Vandini...Vayank ...come and take toffees...”

    They ran towards him and clasped his feet with our hands, taking as much as we could as soon as possible, saying, “...Give us much more, my dad...”

    Her dad offered all the edibles with fatherly love and choice. She used to eat – and she eats now, but the taste was different, which he offered by his hands and love and choice. This is the difference which she obviously sees and feels. The joy, love and human bond which she felt in her life with him was never experienced after his demise.

    When evening comes, she waits for him, but instead of him, darkness comes and envelopes her in its realm for hours. She waits for him in the morning, when he used to get her raised, shrill whistles of the vehicles come, but not the voice of her father. Thus, she is enveloped in the darkness at night and during the day in despair and loneliness.  This is the cycle of the tragedy which she faces.

    How pleasant was the lap of her father! How tasty were the toffees and sweets offered by him! How fatherly was his love and passion for her! Whenever and wherever she feels or sees his voice or face, she is compelled to recall memories of bliss with him and the current miserable situation in lack of him, she finds only and only darkness all around her – and a sense of isolation and despair. The vent she tries to forget, but she is helpless to forget it. She is quite unable to see him back and sit in his lap for the fatherly love and passion.

    Whatever the situation is, however very miserable, she lives in it expecting that she is one of the luckiest persons in the world, who weeps and sighs but never bends to her aim to work for the betterment of herself and mankind.

    I feel isolated and despairing. It seems that there are drops of blood on the walls, furniture, garments, shelves, beds, and other things in my house. But whenever I am in the lap of Nature, I see letters of hope, reality, and the parts of Creation even in my tragedy. It seems that these are the necessities for the continuation of Creation.

    She wishes her message communicated to the world: "Every sorrow is followed by fresh joys – Every joy is followed by sorrows".

    This is the reality in which we all live, we all face and follow the laws of Nature. This is the law of Nature, and everyone in the world, whatsoever powerful and influential, has passed through this divine and natural process to live and survive. No one should look back to see sorrowful days, but to see a lesson, and everyone should work for the good of the common people. One’s welfare is hidden in these good deeds for the world by man.

    Now people used to say her a woman, but I feel and understand...she is a human...she wants to be recognised neither as a woman nor as a man because it limits us. So, it is better to be recognised as a human.

    Aha! She is sure and hopes the day of joy will welcome her the next morning, and she will live in the realm of heavenly bliss, surrounded by pleasures!

    Now, she wants everything changed within a minute – her sorrows turned into bliss and only bliss.

   It is night, and she is going to bed. She wishes the next morning, "Joy and joy all around her...her woes will be gone...bliss will overwhelm her..."

    What a great thing, if it is so!

Bio

Rajeshwar Prasad is a literary titan, acclaimed poet, playwright, novelist, thinker and philosopher, who pioneered Absurd Theatre in India, penning 14 thought-provoking books and 26 research articles brimming with philosophical depth. His dedication to teaching and prolific writing, evidenced by numerous awards and publications, elevates both mind and soul.

A Deal for Sweethearts by Leonie Jarrett, pina colada

 

A Deal for Sweethearts

We booked this trip months ago. The travel agent had been puzzled. ‘I’ve never heard of Song Saa Private Island in Cambodia,’ she said. ‘I’d suggest Tahiti or the Maldives.’

'No,’ I said. ‘Southeast Asia was where Steve and I first holidayed together. That’s where we want to celebrate our anniversary. We’ve seen Song Saa on TikTok. Barefoot luxury - exactly what we want. What’s more, Song Saa means sweetheart. Perfect!’

So, here we are; gliding across the aquamarine water to our luxury paradise.

 Our Island host guides us to our Jungle Villa. Built out of recycled timber and perched like a treehouse with an indoor/outdoor bathroom and a private infinity pool, it is amazing! Even better than the pictures online.

'Hey Steve, a bit different from our first trip together,’ I giggle.

 ‘I reckon. In those backpacking hostel days, I couldn’t have imagined that we’d ever stay somewhere as fancy as this!’ says Steve. ‘That daybed beside the pool has my name on it.’

'I’m just going to check on something but I won’t be long,’ I say.

'You’ll find me in Paradise honey,’ replies Steve.

 I wander down to Guest Services which sounds much more formal and hotel-like than what it is - a beach bure on the sand made of repurposed driftwood. I want to book a special couples spa day as a surprise for Steve.

No one is at the counter but I can see two staff in the little room behind the counter chatting so I wait patiently. The chatter gets a little more excited; a little louder. Their conversation wafts towards me.

'Yes, it’s really her. She’s booked in under a false name – Dorothea Mackellar. Funny name really. She’ll be here this afternoon. Coming with her daughters and her sister and some friends,’ says one person to the other.

Who are they talking about I wonder? They’re clearly starstruck. I listen a bit harder.

The other person replies, ‘And it’s really Nicole Kidman?’

‘Yep.’

I organise the spa day then go back to our Villa and tell Steve that we’re gaining a famous neighbour.

Just before sunset, we stroll down to the overwater bar and order cocktails. The brightly coloured fishing boats putt along as the sky turns all shades of pink.

We are gazing at the glorious sunset when someone appears at my side. ‘Hello,’ she says with an Australian accent. I turn and there she is – Nicole Kidman.

I am mute but, luckily, she continues. ‘I hear that you’re celebrating your thirtieth wedding anniversary. Well done – not everyone gets there.’ There is a wistful tone to her voice. ‘I wondered if you’d do me a great favour? I’d love it if my family and I could just roam around and not have to worry about photos popping up online. If you’ll allow me that, I’d be happy to pick up your tab for your anniversary trip.’

I find my voice. ‘Sounds like a sweetheart deal to me.’

Bio 

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than 3 decades, 2 of her 4 adult children and her 2 Golden Retrievers. Leonie loves to tell stories.  

 

Stratigraphy by S.M. Rosen, Limoncello Spritz

August 8th

It’s funny—in some ways, an archaeological excavation is just reading a story in reverse. That’s all stratigraphy is, really. The top of the soil is the end of the story, and the bottom is the beginning. And as we are digging up the past, the layer that we start with is the layer that the grave ends with. By removing each one, we travel back in time, further and further, until we finally reach the bottom. Until we reach the start. I think I like that.

Anyway, my plane leaves in three hours and I still can’t get my boots to fit in my suitcase. I have no idea how I got them in there in the first place! I think I’ll miss this apartment in the end, even with the roaches. Even with the blistering heat and cracked-tile floors. Even after everything that happened.

I better get moving. Still have to make my way to the city before my flight leaves, and I know firsthand just how tight the roads out of here can get. So, I suppose, dear diary, that this is goodbye. And if I make it home, I’ll burn you.

August 7th

Right. I think I’ve recovered. Touch and go for a second there. I swear, I’ve never seen anyone party as hard as the Italians. I don’t think any of them remember anything. And I don’t think any of them suspect.

August 6th

I have never been more hungover in my life. God, I feel sick just writing this.

August 5th

Early start, around 5am. We shut down the site today, had to return all tools and take inventory. They noticed a spade was missing. We tarpaulined the active digs, but the completed sections of the necropolis were backfilled. The site manager (thankfully) said that it would be a tripping hazard to leave Roman cist tombs open like that. New students will arrive next month to continue with the other graves, but ours is tidy and packed with the sifted soil. No one will dig there again. Pierre is safely tucked away in labeled baggies and has been taken to the lab. A skeleton in the closet—so to speak. It feels so strange knowing that it’s over. That it’s all over. Done and dusted.

The missing spade is a problem though. I hope they don’t jump down our throats about it. Or to conclusions. If they bring it up, I’ll just offer to buy them a round of drinks. That usually works.

August 4th

Okay, so, I have a plan. I have no idea if it’ll work, but I need to try. I only need to stick it out here for another few days, then I’ll be gone. Just a few days, then I can leave this all behind me. I have to leave this all behind me.

August 3rd

My hands are shaking. I don’t even know what to say. How can I say anything? I can barely hold the pencil. I’m supposed to be journaling my field notes right now. My supervisor is watching. But I can’t, how can I when I know he’s there? It’s nearly noon, the heat, the smell. Someone’s going to notice. Someone is going to find him.

—Supine individual in grave 6b fully excavated today, with skeletal remains packaged for transport to the museum laboratory. The individual is mostly complete, with only three distal phalanges, the left hamate, and hyoid identified as missing. This, alongside the pristine collection of 24 glass beads and golden bracelet excavated on August 1st, is an impressively complete find for the region. The in-field biological profile suggests—

Oh thank God, she’s gone. It’s like everyone is looking over my shoulder. I have to do something. I can’t just…leave him there.

August 2nd

Something happened. Something terrible happened. I swear it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything. He just fell. He fell and stopped moving. Stopped breathing. That’s what happened. He was standing, right there in front of me, and then he wasn’t. I didn’t touch him! I barely touched him. We shouldn’t have gone back out there, I know that. It’s way too dangerous in the dark, and the roads are awful. But he said we had to, that we had to finish the dig before he left. What was I supposed to do, say no? We put in all that work and the site manager was going to take it all away from us. That’s what he said, that the site manager was going to take all the credit for what we did. For what we found. Had they just let us dig the way we wanted to, then none of this would have happened.

I just wanted some credit. Is that so wrong? I wanted some credit for the work I was doing. I was the one who found the grave. I was the one who opened it. So, yeah, I went with him to finish the dig. And then he turns around and pulls the same shit as the manager, saying that this was his discovery? That he’s going to submit our find to a journal without me? I barely touched him. We were yelling, that’s all. I had the right to yell, after what he said. I barely touched him. Except to move him. Except to check if he—

What was I supposed to do? We were trespassing, we were fighting. I ran. I just left and ran. I’m surprised I could find my way back, I could never have found help in time! What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say? What is there to say?

August 1st

Unbelievable! I mean absolutely, awe-inspiring, jaw-dropping unbelievable. You think you’ll be ready. You see it in books and documentaries. You see artifacts in museums and archaeologists in movies. But to find something yourself? Oh man. When my brush slid across the surface of the first blue bead, nothing could have prepared us for that. And they just kept coming, Pierre was covered in them. I found 14 and he found 10. We think it’s unheard of for the area. The lab might be able to give us a more precise timeframe, but the beads date the grave to the 1st century CE. Incredible.

He kissed me behind the olive tree. I have never been kissed like that before. I hope I’m only ever kissed like that again. We only have one more day. What am I going to do without him?

In typical fashion, when the site manager saw the beads we were pulling, he told us to stand down. Said that he’d take over the dig from there, make sure that the context was preserved. And of course, that’s when he finds a gold bracelet on Pierre’s arm. Ridiculous. That was our find. We did the excavation exactly the same way he did. It can’t be allowed to stand.

July 31st

After several days of slow, meticulous digging and scraping, it finally happened. Our grave is now opened properly! From what we can tell, it contains a single individual lying on their back. We haven’t exposed much of the skeleton yet, so I can’t provide a sex estimation. But we decided to nickname the bones Pierre. He says he’s sure the skeleton is male, anyway. I’m not sure how he knows, but I trust him.

The site manager came by around lunch and seemed satisfied with our progress. But he did make a remark about us being distracted. Which seems entirely uncalled for, as we’re doing the best work at the dig, frankly. Who cares if we steal a kiss during our breaks? Not me, that’s for sure.

After the manager left, he tucked my hair behind my ear and said that he’d like to take me to Paris. That’s why he chose the name Pierre for our skeleton. His voice makes me feel like I’ve been filled with warm honey. Oh, take me to Paris.

Then we went out for pasta and wine. He didn’t like the ravioli but I thought it was simply divine. I think he must have better taste than me, or at least, a more refined palate. I’m glad we ate out at any rate because the apartment kitchen was a mess when we got back. I know it’s Europe in the summer, but I really struggle to understand why they tolerate roaches in the apartment. It’s like the field school doesn’t really care about the students’ wellbeing. Luckily for me, he squished it with the heel of his boot as soon as he saw it.

July 30th

Pathetic. I am absolutely pathetic. I had a dream about him. A good dream. A very good dream. The days are hot as hell, but somehow the nights are still cold enough to get into your bones. The field school only gave us sheets for our beds. No blankets. So, it’s easy to find yourself awake in the chilly apartment far earlier than you’d like, and before everyone else. But at least I had a good dream.

The men and women sleep in different rooms here. Seems ridiculous for university students, we’re adults after all. But, even so, I can almost feel him there, through the wall. It’s like I can feel his lips on mine at this very moment. We have so little time before he goes, I want to savor every single moment. Pathetic. I can’t wait until breakfast.

He’ll be at breakfast.

July 29th

Something amazing happened today. I was doing a surface survey of the north section of the necropolis and spotted an anomaly in the loam. The site manager thinks it’s a new grave and chose me to start the excavation. And when the manager asked for a volunteer to help me, guess who raised his hand! That has to mean he’s serious about this. About us. What else could it mean? God, how is this feeling even better than being chosen to excavate? How is this feeling even possible at all? I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so happy.

The grave we’ll be working on together is in a secluded part of the site. The only company we’ll have is a lonely olive tree at the edge of the necropolis. We’ll be able to hear anyone coming from a mile away. I’ve never felt so happy.

July 28th

Okay, okay, I have to describe today from the beginning. Because it was just so perfect. Not only did he grab me a muffin for breakfast this morning, and sit next to me on the bus to the site, he also carried my tools to the dig for me. I told him he didn’t need to, but he insisted. It was so gentlemanly, he went on and on about how my hands were too soft to do it myself and that he was happy to help. Of course this was silly, I mean, we’re on an archaeological dig together. I don’t care about getting my hands dirty. But it was so considerate. And he was clearly thinking about my soft hands, so who am I to complain!

And then, right before we broke for lunch, he came over to say hello and check out the work I was doing. He even noticed that I hadn’t kept my layers perfectly straight and offered to help smooth them out before the site manager came around. The manager is really nit-picky—like, too much so. It’s getting a little grating, actually.

Anyway, on our way back to the apartment, the bus got stuck on one of those narrow roads into town. We had to wait an extra hour before we could get towed out. And while we were waiting (he was sitting next to me again) he brushed my leg with the back of his hand. It was so quick, I actually wondered if it was by accident! I swear, I have never seen such attractive hands in my life. But it was definitely not by accident because, when we got back, he offered to buy me one of those little spinach pastries that he knows I like. We walked through town together, until we reached the sea.

And then he kissed me. He kissed me. He kissed me. He kissed me.

He even apologized for not doing it sooner. Apparently, he’s just a really private person and didn’t want anyone from the field school to see us. He likes to keep his personal and professional lives separate, you know? We’re all going out for drinks later tonight, and I’ll be honest, I have never been so optimistic about someone.

July 27th

I have no idea what to think. No, really. Zero clue. We have to wake up early to head to the excavation, right? Usually out the door and on the bus between 5 and 6 am. That way we’re not working in the hot sun—July in Italy is no joke. Blistering even. So, we’re usually out of bed and at breakfast by 4:30. He didn’t turn up to breakfast at all today, which was strange because he’s normally the first one there. He did make it to the bus on time, and smiled at me when he got on, but then he sat next to someone else. Which is fine, but I couldn’t help but think that maybe I embarrassed myself last night? Or maybe I’m overthinking things? He sat at the same table as me over lunch, and then again when we all went out for dinner. So, he clearly doesn’t mind being around me. But maybe he’s trying to keep his distance? Oh God, I really hope I haven’t messed this up.

July 26th

I can’t believe everything that happened today. I will be honest! I’m a teenybit tipsy. But I have to journal it down before I forget. We went to the dig this morning, which was awesome. But get this. After we got back, the beautiful, blue-eyed man was buying me drinks all night. Yes, that’s right, the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life was buying me drinks. Gin and lemonades. Delicious. And we talked and talked. Everyone else went back to the apartment before us, but he said we should stay out longer and get to know each other better. So I was like of course how could I not. Apparently, he is from the UK, which obviously. That accent! Somewhere called Exeter. I think it’s close to London. And he’s doing a PhD in Classics. I was like, wow, and here I am just doing my bachelor’s degree. He has to leave the dig early though, because he has his doctoral defence in August. He’s really just here as a fun break, which is so cool he can just do that. I had to apply for a whole scholarship to fund my place here, and I’m so lucky to have gotten it too, a lot of my classmates applied and they’re all incredible. So, it was super competitive. But imagine just being able to turn up for fun, so impressive. We walked back to the apartment together and I swear those floor tiles in the front, those cracked ones, are trying to murder me. I must have tripped or something, but guess who was there to catch me. The way his hands scooped me up like I was a feather sent butterflies flying in my stomach. You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that way before. Okay, right. I need to sleep now. Not long before breakfast.

July 25th

Before I left home, everyone warned me about the Italian men. The most beautiful men in the world, they said. They will charm you and flirt. Call you “Bella” and buy you limoncello. No one said anything about the British men.

And, oh, the British men. They should have warned me about the British men. How is it that a rolled-up button-down shirtsleeve turns the forearm into sexiest part of the human body? And why is it that I can’t stop staring at the forearms of a man I only just met? Oh yeah, I met a man. A British man with a glorious accent, incredible blue eyes, and just the sexiest forearms I have ever seen. How does one even do that, have sexy forearms?

He’s a graduate student, I think. We didn’t get to speak much. It was the welcome party after all, and there was always someone interrupting. The site manager and my supervisor were passing around drinks most of the night as well. Everyone here seems great. Some really smart people too. We head to the excavation for the first time tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be able to have a chat with the beautiful, blue-eyed stranger on the way.

July 24th

I love starting a fresh diary. And the timing is perfect because guess what? I have officially landed in Italy! It’s my first time out of the country and it is so beautiful. From here, I head directly to the archaeological field school. If I can find a taxi, that is. They’ve got a big apartment near the dig. I’m so excited for the next two weeks. It feels like—I don’t know. It just feels like anything and everything is possible.

About the author

S. M. Rosen is a poet, anthropologist, and award-nominated university lecturer, working primarily in prose poetry and lyric fiction. Her work can be found in the Ustinovian Magazine and her slim volume, Conjunction, published by Ellipsis Imprints in 2023.

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