Saturday Sample: Angels and Devils by William Wilson, clean drinking water

 

ANGEL OF MERCY

 

 

'I don't know what I'm doing here,' she says. 'It's not as if I can make any difference.'

She is standing by a bed. It has a rusting cast-iron frame, a thin mattress and a red-cross blanket. The woman in the bed, not much more than a teenager, with livid burn marks across her face and arms, is moaning and trying to remove the bandages around her eyes. Outside there is the thump of artillery and the occasional crack of rifle fire.

      'You always make a difference,' I say. 'Look at me.'

      She faces me, a mask over her nose and mouth, her hands gloved, her eyes cast down as if looking for a hiding place in the floor. I place my hands on her shoulders.

      'Look at me.' I shake her shoulders gently. 'Come on.'

      Slowly she raises her gaze, large soft eyes tilting upwards, tears rimming the lower lids, bulging outwards, waiting to fall. She angrily scrapes them away with the back of a sleeve and blinks a couple of times.

      'You just have to get through this,' I say. 'Think about your place here. We cannot manage without you. Really. If you give up, then we might as well all go home.'

      'But there's nothing we can do to help these people,' she says. 'They may as well already be dead.' She gestures towards a tiny baby with its huge head and staring eyes and little twigs of arms, its withered legs drawn up to its belly in a tangle of pain.

      'There's not much I can do for this little fellow,' I say, 'but you will give him love, you will help him in his final moments, and this woman here.' I look at the old lady in the bed behind us, curled up asleep, breathing evenly. 'We have saved her. Remember the story of the starfish?'.

      'What's the story of the starfish?' she asks. She knows I love telling stories.

 

'There was a man walking along a beach after a tidal surge on the Massachusetts coast,' I begin. 'There was hardly anyone about. There'd been warnings the day before to stay away from the shore, but the danger was over now. Among the flotsam and the stinking seaweed there are thousands of starfish washed up above the tideline. He sees a young boy, tousle headed, rough clothing, no shoes, picking up one of the starfish and preparing to throw it into the sea.

      'Whatever are you doing?' says the man. 'There are thousands and thousands. You can't possibly save them all.'

      The boy doesn't answer, just looks at him as if he is stupid, then he takes a little run forward and throws the starfish as far as he can out to sea.

      'I saved that one,' he said.'

 

'Hmmm. And what about him?' the nurse says, removing her mask and pointing to a bed beside the wall, her pretty mouth downturned in distaste. The rebel soldier is propped up on pillows, bloodied bandages binding his chest, a deep cut across his right cheek carving an ugly 'V' across his ear, a crazy paving of stitches and sutures. 'What are we saving him for?'

      'We must not take sides,' I say. 'We are all God's creatures. We must have compassion for everyone.'

      'But when he leaves here, he will go on to kill and rape and maim more than we can possibly save,' she says.

      'We must not take sides. You know that.'

      I can see her looking at the soldier. He is strong despite his wounds. He looks back at her, eyes narrowing. There is another rumble of artillery fire, getting closer, and he grins. She is thinking, chewing her lip. She looks brighter; suddenly a new perspective has opened.

      'You're wrong,' she says to me, very matter of fact; there is no argument; she is very sure of herself. 'We cannot stand and watch. It's a bit like the starfish. We have to act.'

Smiling now, the nurse strokes my arm as if to comfort me, to reassure me, and takes the key from her apron pocket and picks her way between the beds to the locked cabinet near the operating table. She unlocks the cabinet, takes out a ridged green bottle and loads a syringe from it, enough to kill a horse. She looks back as if daring me to make a move. She goes over to the soldier and holds his hand, caresses his forehead and makes soothing noises in his good ear. He closes his eyes. She takes his arm and pushes the needle deep into the muscle.

 

Published in anthology Twisted Tales,

 Ragingaardvarkpublications 2016

Find your copy here  

About the author 

William Wilson pursued a business career and travelled extensively before retiring in 2003. He subsequently took a BA Fine Art degree course, graduating from Brighton University in 2010, followed by Creative Writing Course with New Writing South. He is a widower with two daughters and four grandchildren, and lives in Hove.

 

 

Winds of Change by Jenny Palmer, lime cordial,

Kate hadn’t even noticed the beech trees an hour earlier when she’d been on her way to the doctor’s. Her mind had been elsewhere. All she could think about then was getting there on time. The appointment was at 8.30 a.m. It was unfortunate timing because it clashed with the arrival of the school buses which were offloading pupils all down the road, making it difficult to overtake.

As it happened there was time to spare, time to read the paper she’d bought on the way in. It was full of news about the Cop30 climate summit taking place in Brazil. The world’s biggest polluters weren’t even there. Trump had long ago withdrawn from the Paris climate agreement, and India and China were conspicuous by their absence.

‘Typical,’ she said out loud. The woman next to her seemed to be nodding in agreement.

‘Just as the Secretary General of the United Nations announces that the world is about to miss its target of reducing temperatures to 1.5 degrees Centigrade above preindustrial levels, Bill Gates sees fit to step in and claim that it’s time to stop worrying about carbon dioxide emissions and focus instead on relieving world poverty.’

There was no response from the woman this time, but it helped to vent so she carried on.

‘He’s no better than the other tech oligarchs, who want to further their own interests and increase their profits by prolonging the use of oil and fossil fuels to power their AI data centres. They seem to think that climate change can be dealt with by technological solutions, rather than by garnering political will.’

The woman’s name was called out, and she left in a hurry.

It had been a long wait for this appointment. Kate had tried not to read too much into it, but her anxiety had only increased in the meantime. It felt like her world depended on the results. But it was good news. The doctor had reassured her there was nothing serious to worry about. She was elated. All she wanted to do was get home, have a coffee, take it in.

On her way back, she was struck by the sight of beech trees just past where the old community hospital used to stand, before they knocked it down and turned it into houses. The leaves on the other trees in the vicinity had been blown off in heavy gales the weekend before. Only the beech leaves remained. They were floating down to join the carpet of leaves on the road. The colours ranged from auburn to burnt orange and were set against a grey, cloud-ridden sky, giving the impression of a Pizarro or an early Van Gogh.

Who’d had the foresight to plant beech trees in that particular spot and for what purpose? She wondered. Were they put there as a windbreak, or to obscure the ugly cement works across the way? But the hospital was originally built as a workhouse, and it was unlikely that anyone had been considering the sensitivity of its inhabitants. Hopefully, the residents in the new houses appreciated the trees. They would have to go a long way to find anything quite so resplendent.

Once home, she sat down with a coffee. The news was all doom and gloom. She didn’t want to become a doomster. That was what climate change deniers had taken to calling climate activists these days, to try to minimize the seriousness of the problem, and make people think there was nothing they could do. It was important to stay optimistic. She’d go for a walk in the afternoon, up to the crossroads to sit on her bench. That would do the trick.

She’d first started calling it her bench  during Covid. It was in the early days when the population was being fed all sorts of misinformation about the virus. The bench was just past the crossroads in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest town. After a mile uphill it was always a relief to have a sit down, until that day when she’d been unceremoniously turfed off it by an over-fastidious policeman in a patrol car, who was adamant that the virus could last up to seventy-two hours on a hard surface. Ever since then it had served as a reminder of just where a lack of scientific knowledge got us.

Kate plonked herself down on the bench. Sitting at 1,000 feet above sea level, looking across a beautiful valley, gave her a different perspective on life. What was needed was a sea change in society, she thought, like the one that happened in the 60s, when Harold Wilson enacted Macmillan’s ‘winds of change’ speech, which he’d made to highlight  the end of the British Empire, or the sea change in Europe in 1989, made famous by the Scorpions’ song, when the Berlin Wall came down, heralding the end of the Cold War and the demise of the Soviet Union. 

But which way would the winds blow this time? These climate change deniers and minimisers couldn’t keep ignoring the scientific evidence, or the evidence of their own eyes when it was staring them in the face. You only had to look at the forest fires burning in the Amazon, or Australia or California, see the floods and storms increasing in Europe and the Philippines. In Jamaica, Hurricane Melissa was a testament to the danger of rapidly rising temperatures at sea level, that could whip up a colossal tropical storm and wreak devastation in minutes.

Thankfully, she wasn’t the only one who thought so. A host of Indigenous leaders, scientists, environmental activists, and forest defenders, along with representatives from 195 countries from around the world, had gathered together in Brazil to discuss how to preserve the planet. They weren’t giving up.

As she walked back home, the sun was just setting. The sky was streaked in pink and white clouds and there was a rosy glow spreading across the valley. And in the West, there was a golden globe, as the sun disappeared behind the horizon. The colours reminded her of the beech trees she’d seen in the morning. 

About the author

Jenny Palmer writes short stories, poetry, memoir and family history. Her collections 'Keepsake and Other Stories.' 2018, and 'Butterflies and Other Stories,' 2024, were published by Bridge House, and are on Amazon. 'Witches, Quakers and Nonconformists,' 2022, is sold at the Pendle Heritage Centre, Barrowford. 

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Disclosure by Rob Molan, Pinot Grigio

It’s feels so good to get it out there. It feels a bit unreal though as I’ve been thinking about it for so long but never found the courage until today to pull the trigger.

I re-wrote the final paragraph several times.

‘My experience at Hamilton’s was not an isolated case but a reflection of the culture of misogyny and bullying in the company. Many of my colleagues were also victims of harassment and intimidation and were threatened with dismissal if they complained. I hope sharing my story will encourage others to come out and say what they went through and Hamilton’s are held to account for their mistreatment of staff.’

It was painful writing that stuff. I lost two stone in my last year there with all the stress I suffered. That so and so Mr Welsh thought it was amusing.

‘Are you planning to be a model, Carol? That prisoner of war chic suits you.’ The big fat git enjoyed trying to get a rise out of female staff.

But now it is out there on social media for all to read about. I’m going to have glass of wine and put on some music. I get a bottle of Pinot Grigio out of the fridge, grab a glass and go into the lounge where I’ll put on Abba’s greatest hits, pour myself a large one and flop on the sofa.

A few glasses later, “Voulez Vous” is playing at full volume and I’m up on my feet singing along. I’ve got a rubbish voice but I don’t care who hears me. When it finishes, I head unsteadily towards the little girls’ room and spot a letter lying on the door mat. I pick the envelope up, wander into the kitchen and tear it open. It’s from a firm called Smith and Hibbitt.

‘I am writing to remind you of the terms of the Non-Disclosure Agreement (NDA) which you signed when you left the employment of Hamilton’s on 31 May 2023.

In return for a severance payment, you undertook not to disclose to any third party information either related to (a) the circumstances relating to your departure from the company or (b) its management practices.

I must reiterate that my clients will not hesitate to take legal action in the event of you disclosing such information and will seek damages in court.’

I don’t remember any NDA but I recall Mr Welsh walking into the workshop on my last day waving a piece of paper with his sausage fingers.

‘Sign this, Carol, before you go. You don’t need to read it. It’s just a formality.’ He stood over me breathing heavily as I autographed it.

Lying bastard. But Hamilton’s can go whistle if they think they’re going to get anything off me. I spent their lousy payoff ages ago and don’t have any savings.

I scrunch up the letter and throw it in the bin. I’m going to crack open another bottle and put Gloria Gaynor on.

About the author

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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Paradise Beach by Anne Georg, Corona beer

 Tanned, toned Madison snaps photos of beach flotsam, a dead bird, a stray dog, a lavatory, sunbathers, beach umbrellas: random minutiae that catch her eye. Having exhausted her photographic curiosity, she sits in a shaded corner of the beach in the breeze-scattered scent of roasted coconut and sunscreen mingling with the waft of garbage.

Nostalgia has brought her here—a fond memory of a solitary day spent with her parents decades ago. She’d worn her first bikini. Her hair was bleached blond from the sun. Now, wearing a white cherry-imprinted flared sundress, greying hair with blonde and rust highlights skewing from under her straw sunhat, Madison longs for her imagined past.

A boy, loud and boisterous leaps into the air to catch a beachball someone has thrown, spraying sand into Madison’s face. She sputters and rubs grit from the corners of her eyes.

‘Disculpame. I’m sorry Miss,’ the boy stammers. She gets up, suppressing tears of self-pity that sting behind her eyes; ignores him, and moves down the beach. Is it too much to ask for silence and reflection in nature? The beach is alive with the chatter and shrieks of exuberant Mexican families, a pandemonium of parrots.

She remembers another beach, Paradise Bach, nearby, but further from the road where fewer people are likely to venture. She’ll find respite from this crowd there. Madison sets out, stopping at a popular kiosk selling coconut water, joining the dozen or so people waiting in line under the shade of palm trees. They shout to one another, joking, raucous.

Madison barges through the line-up ignoring the grumbles from others. ‘Perdon señor.’ She assumes her most commanding voice. ‘Cuanto tiempo necisito para llegar a la playa Paraiso? Pero sigiendo la costa, no a la calle.’

The vendor, a grey-haired Mexican man, looks at her bemused, answers in English. ‘You can’t go to Paradise Beach by the coast, señora. You must take the steps over there, then follow the sidewalk to the beach.’ He points to a wooden staircase along the cliff edge. Madison resents the merry parade of Mexican beachgoers climbing it, no doubt crowding onto Paradise Beach.

‘I don’t want to go up there and walk on the pavement with everyone else. I want to follow the coastline.’ She has perfected her Latina whine.

‘It’s not so far, señora. Not even ten minutes. This is how all the people go. It is the only way to Paradise Beach. You can’t get there along the coast.’

Madison hears her father’s voice. ‘This guy sells coconuts. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Of course she can get to Paradise Beach following the coastline. It’s a beach—ten minutes away from this beach—on the same coastline!’ She is an egalitarian but confesses to inheriting her father’s disdain for the meek and mediocre mainstream, to which most Mexicans belong, like people everywhere. No prejudice there. She is from a Germanic tradition of adventurers. Not inclined to follow the beaten path.

‘Gracias, señor. I’m going to go along the coast. If it doesn’t work out, I can always turn around. Maybe I’ll buy a coconut from you. Hasta la vista.’ Madison dismisses the vendor and brushes past the others waiting in line. The vendor shrugs his shoulders and points to his head. He and his customers watch the gringa as she is swallowed by shadow. They continue their banter.

Madison walks through the shade and into a shock of bright. She pulls her wide brim lower over her eyes and observes the landscape spread in front of her. The scene exhilarates her: a tumble of strewn boulders piled one on top of the other, bordered on one side by the cliff rising from it and on the other by the ocean cracking against it. Even if Paradise Beach is crowded, at least she’ll have an adventure getting there.

After living under the constraints of her chastising father, enduring a domineering husband till she couldn’t anymore, then shouldering the yoke of frugal single parenthood, she relishes this feeling of freedom. She needs a physical challenge to clear her mind, take power and move forward with her life, which lately has taken a dark turn: estrangement from her daughter, getting fired from her job, losing her best friend to cancer.

She hops over one pile of boulders, then another and another. She loves her agility. All those years of yoga have paid off. She feels like a kid playing hopscotch, breathes in the salty air, marvels at the ruggedness of the moment.

Her father would be pleased to see Madison stoically alone on the rocks. She remembers a woman he’d disparaged, a solo traveller, who’d briefly joined some people for companionship. ‘How can she say she’s independent when she’s hitching her horse to their cart? Anyone can do that.’ His contempt has reverberated through her life. Madison purposefully lives alone and travels alone, proving her courage and independence on jaunts such as this coastal hike, even though loneliness is her constant companion and her father long dead.

She carries on, rounding one bend then another. She believes the beach must be around the next one. Which is a relief. Her able legs are tiring under the rigour of boulder hopping.

A blast of heat billows as she rounds the corner: more boulders piled on more boulders, a ribbon of toppled towers as far as she can see. Which comfortingly, isn’t that far. Madison’s gaze follows a lone crab skittering around the rocks scrabbling for existence, a kindred spirit. Aren’t we all a bit like that crab? Alone and scrabbling? Ah, this landscape is so profound. Madison tingles with nature’s inspiration.

‘Ouch!’ She slips on the treacherous slime that carpets the boulders and tweaks her knee, sucks air between her teeth, wincing with pain.

‘Damn it.’ How inconvenient.

Thankfully, Paradise Beach is only ten minutes away. But it’s been much longer than that. She’s sure of it. Madison doesn’t wear a watch: as a savvy traveller she knows it would invite pickpockets. Nor does she carry a cell phone, which is for the fearful tourists who abound these days, like amoebas, always needing to merge with friends, family, just a text away. Not her. She snubs her compatriots, influenced by her father’s judgement: ‘They travel to Mexico to be with each other. They need each other. We need no one. We’re real travellers.’ Her father didn’t like humanity in general, whether they were tourists or Mexicans or Germans. He didn’t much like Canadians, either, or his kids. Madison was one of a large brood, now scattered around the globe, letting their shared history disperse into the years lapsed since their collective childhood.

How much time has passed since she’s been on the rocks? The sun burns a perfect round hole into the atmosphere, radiates heat that makes her scalp prickle. Paradise Beach has got to be around the next bend. She stops to lean against a boulder, takes off her hat and wipes the sweat from her forehead with her forearm. No wonder Mexicans follow the well-worn route. This is not for the faint of heart. Ah, the trials of an independent spirit! Madison chuckles thinking of tricky situations she’s been in and escaped from.

Her mouth feels like it’s stuffed with cotton balls. As she’s twisting the lid off her water bottle she fumbles and loses her grip. The metal container slips from her hand, ricocheting down an abyss between boulders, its banging echoing and fizzling into a slender tang, then a sliver-thin ting followed by a chasm of silence. Except for the ringing in her ears.

Madison peers down the crevasse into a deep darkness drenched in pungent sea odours. She broods, elbow on thigh, chin in hand, lifts her gaze to the horizon and wishes herself to be drinking cerveca on Paradise Beach. Stubbornness clings to her like a sea urchin to these rocks. She wont’t admit she might have been foolish. She continues through the boulders along the coastal route to Paradise Beach.

She rounds the next corner. Nothing but endless rocks, sky and sea, a vista she would normally breathe in, exaltated. Now, the intensity of the sun pummels her, an overload of sensation depletes her. ‘Where the hell is it?’ Doubt ripples into Madison’s thoughts. Why had the man at the kiosk said you couldn’t get to Paradise Beach following the coast? In retrospect, she had been foolish, perhaps, not to heed the advice of a local.

A maverick gust of wind swirls around her, lifts her skirt Marilyn Munroe-style and grabs her sunhat, lofting it into the air. She watches it shimmy in the air, all whimsy and lightness, and sail toward the ocean. The gust ends as abruptly as it began, mocking her as if it arose just to steal her hat.

Her gaze follows the brief and rapid descent of the hat plunging to earth, tumbling among the boulders, disappearing. She releases a wail, raw, like a wounded animal. Gasping at this new indignity, she limps a detour to fetch the hat, spies it tucked in a gash between two rocks. She lies on her stomach, attempts to reach it, sliding her torso into the crevasse. The hat is so close, but her grasping fingers flail futile mere inches above it. A failure, she heaves herself from the dank cleft, slumps onto a boulder, lowers her head onto her knees and clasps her shins with her arms. She imagines the effervescence of a Corona slaking her thirst, the luxurious repose of swinging in the hammock under the shade of a palm-thatched roof, the savoury drift of fish frying—on Paradise Beach. She squints to survey what lies ahead. A sea of boulders as far as her eye can see. A limited horizon, yes, but she’s become wary of what lies concealed beyond the next bend.

It can’t be far now. Ten minutes? Why did he lie to her? She deflects blame for her circumstance at the vendor, her father, the elements, even though she knows she herself orchestrated this. Madison’s folly heckles through the string of tiny coastal undulations she is consigned to follow. Each has gulls flying overhead, crabs, snails and the occasional colony of sea urchins. All of them creatures of this environment. Unlike her. The prideful certainty of her infallibility crashes down, crushing her belief in herself.

She inhales through a parched throat. Her tongue is thick. Her legs tremble. The bells in her ears clamour. She needs to get off these rocks. Should she turn around? That would be admitting defeat. She’s already come too far. She couldn’t bear the vendor’s knowing look.

She hears her heart’s throb as it pounds her every cell with dread, flushing blood into her fingers, swelling them sausage-like—and into her face, which pulsates like a broiling tomato.

Another corner rounded. More rocks. More sky. A large bird circles above her. Is that a vulture? How long has it been up there, witnessing her struggle, anticipating her demise?

For the first time her death on these rocks seems possible. Wouldn’t that be ironic? Imagine what the vulture will do. Imagine what the vendor will say. What if her father were still alive? He himself made many mistakes. He was a prideful, hurtful man, strident and clumsy. At least she doesn’t have to face his judgement. She pushes away thoughts of him, hauls herself onward to the elusive Paradise Beach. She dreads endless boulders ahead. Fears the vulture’s purpose. She promises never to be prideful again. To be better. Humble. If only she can extract herself from this situation.

Her last angry conversation with her daughter pounds in her memory. Why did it bother her that the girl loved other girls when Madison had a series of unsatisfying relationships with men. It didn’t make sense. She promises to reconcile with her daughter.

Madison rounds another corner, running her dry tongue over the tiny blisters forming on her cracked lips, limping through the stabbing pain in her knee. She peers into the distance. The landscape has opened! Cupping her hands over her eyes she spies three distant figures undulating through the heat waves.

She dares to hope. No matter how reckless she’s been in the past and what life-threatening situations she’s entangled herself in, she has always managed to survive. Today, the pattern would repeat. Hope’s adrenaline sends her sliding and stumbling over humping rock. She’d almost given up. She’s giddy with her luck.

She stops. She’s reached a gaping inlet. The humidity and heat have distorted space. The figures are across the inlet, farther away than they looked. ‘Señores, I’m here! Help!’ She flails her arms above her head. The breeze snatches her pleas like feathers, scatters them syllable by syllable, weightless, feeble. The bodies move away without having seen or heard her. Her road ends here. No water, no hat, a sore knee. How will she get back?

She sits on a rock. Shudders at the vulture still circling, cringes at the crabs carrying tiny mollusc corpses, recoils at the pungent stink of decay, despairs at the punishing waves pounding the boulders, ponders her plight. If only she could press the rewind button, taking her back to the kiosk where she would follow the vendor’s wise advice. If only she could hear her daughter’s laughter again.

She’s read the stories about hapless adventurers who ‘died doing what they love’ and has cast derision on them. At least she’ll be dead and will not feel the judgement of the living. She hopes she is dead by the time the vultures land on her body and crabs scrabble over her to feast on her eyeballs.

She lifts her head, casts her eyes across the landscape and searches for escape. Over and over and over she examines the cliff. She used to be good at scrambling. Maybe she could scale this formidable wall, even though a fall onto the rocks would probably kill her. That or retreat. Which comes with its own set of dangers.

She stands, limps toward the cliff and searches for a route to her salvation. Nothing but a sheer wall of rock probably thirty metres high. Desperate now, her eyes jerk from shadow to shadow. There must be a way.

On the periphery of her eyesight is a cement runoff channel extending from the tip of the inlet to the top of the cliff. ‘Oh my God!’ She’s going to get out of here! Madison scrambles over the boulders, slipping on rock slime, splashing though the shallow water, arrives at the mouth of the culvert.

It’s practically vertical, too steep to walk up. ‘I’ll crawl if I have to.’ She has to. Madison crawls on all fours, using her arms to haul herself up the narrow, scum-sour trough, smearing fetid muck on her pretty dress. The cement scrapes her knees, pebbles and debris embed into her chafed palms. From beyond the grave, her father’s laughter goads her onward, the way he used to mock her physical awkwardness. ‘Fuck you, dead man!’ His laughter fizzles and dissipates. That was easy. Why hadn’t she done that years ago? She is making progress.

Quivering with fatigue, she drags herself to the top of the cliff and hauls her bruised body over a low stone wall. Her knee aches and her ankle pulsates with an injury she didn’t even know she’d acquired.

Madison leans against the wall, scans the scene. She has arrived on a cobblestone walkway shaded by an elegant arc of large trees dripping voluptuous trains of spicy-scented yellow flowers. Jolly vendors sell refreshments from brightly coloured carts to Mexicans who meander in couples and family groups, breezily chatting and laughing, eating ice cream, and drinking Coca Cola in their crispy clean beachwear.

She wants to weep with joy at seeing them. Instead, a demented cackle escapes her lips.

Her presence has cast an unease on this oasis of good humour and cool. Frightened children point, gasp and move toward their parents, grasping their hands. Adults eye her suspicious, alarmed. Who is this bedraggled gringa? She looks like she’s just crawled out of a swamp. She acts deranged, eyes darting about, squawking and panting like a captured animal; stinks of the sweat of desperation brewed with seaweed and rock slime. Her thin hair is plastered to her head, her face sunburnt and streaked with dirt; hands, forearms, shins scraped, muddy and bleeding; sundress filthy and torn, the imprint of cherries unappetizingly mushed. Parents, shield their children’s eyes with their hands as they manoeuvre around her, trying not to stare at her themselves.

Diminished and battered, repentant and relieved, Madison peers back along the walkway. About one hundred metres behind her is the exit from the beach where she declined the vendor’s advice. Ahead of her a wooden arrow reads ‘Stairway to Paradise Beach 100 metres’.

Madison limps towards it, humbled and grateful to join the flow of fellow human beings heading to Paradise Beach.

About the author

 

Anne Georg lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. She has published journalism, travel writing, a graphic non-fiction (with illustrator Jaye Hilchey) four flash fiction stories and a novelette. Anne is a volunteer judge for the Alberta Magazine Awards and a member of the Alexandra Writers Centre Society. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Bleeding Hearts by Kate Twitchin, oak-aged Chardonnay

Being the eldest, Ben’s suffered the longest, so he usually comes up with the best lines.

Ellie, our little sister, struggles a bit. Ben and I have always tried to shield her; she hasn’t been quite so deeply wounded.

“Who’s turn is it?” I ask, as I refill our glasses.

“I don’t know, I mean, shouldn’t we be coming up with more, you know, appropriate, conventional stuff?” Ellie asks.

“Boring,” Ben groans.

“I mean, she might not survive the surgery, so then we’ll need to…” Ellie continues.

“She’ll survive, just like she did the heart attacks, out of spite. Besides, Dr Choudhury is a brilliant cardiologist,” I remind her.

“He is, but 3D-printed hearts are relatively new and Mother is 87; who can say how her miserable old body will react to a change of heart.” Ben snorts at his unintended pun.

We’re playing our game, the one that we kid ourselves keeps us sane. We’re writing brutally honest eulogies for our brutal mother’s funeral.

“I went to see him today…”

Silence. Two pairs of eyes searching mine.

“He’s developed an upgrade. The basic model…”

“Hardly basic,” Ellie mutters.

“Agreed. The technology is mind-blowing. Anyway, the basic model beats and pumps just like the real thing…”

“And?” Ben prompts.

“The new model is programmed to be compassionate, empathetic and loving, and…drum-roll…is devoid of narcissism!”

“Way to go, Doc!” Ben raises his glass.

“Will it work?” Ellie asks.

“Dr. Choudhury is confident. Imagine it, a lovely new mum, a real mum, and, when the time does finally come, writing a beautiful eulogy for her will be a bitter-sweet privilege.”

“Will she remember being a narcissist?” Ellie asks.

“I hope not, think how guilty she’d feel,” I say.

“My heart bleeds,” Ben says, and pushes his empty glass towards me.

About the author

Retired Administrator Kate is enjoying sitting around and making things up. She’s had short stories, Flash Fictions and poems published in print and online, and has been placed in a variety of competitions. She thinks she’d like to write a novel but can’t seem to stop writing shorts. 

 

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