A Frail Nest by Eric Dogini, Earl Grey tea

A pigeon sits on my steel windowsill, fussing over a pile of sticks. There’s six of them, maybe seven, lying in strange disarray around a couple of eggs. An attempt at a nest, I suppose. But who am I to judge? Humans once domesticated pigeons — they were our messengers. But humanity found something better, and we left the poor birds behind. We were fine, but they’d forgotten what it was like to be alone. That’s why they struggle to build nests. It’s not their fault. I’m sorry, pigeon.

 

She continues to peck at her mess of twigs. Mrs. Pigeon, I’ll call her.

 

Rustling. A key fumbling in a lock. He’s back. Now it’s going to be me, Mrs. Pigeon, and him. But Mrs. Pigeon will leave. Birds don’t stay in one place very long, do they? Then again, she’s a mother. Her children are on my windowsill. She’s anchored here; I think she’ll be back.

 

The door opens. I shift on the couch, facing the now open doorway. There he is, dressed in his closed black overcoat with his bright red tie. His neatly combed hair, and a beard trimmed just right. He’s got his coat clenched tightly: something in there he doesn’t want me to see.

 

Mrs. Pigeon, I wonder who got you pregnant. Does he hide things from you, too?

 

He takes a right and goes into our bedroom. If he’d gone forward, down the hall, he’d have run into me. Behind him, the door closes. I think I wanted to greet him. I mean, I was supposed to. But he isn’t supposed to hide things, so neither of us have acted quite right.

 

The door opens. He’s not wearing his coat anymore. White shirt, and a tie. Does he think that he’s deceived me? I mean, perhaps he has; I know what he did, but not the specifics. The specifics are what matter. I would know that, because I should be an author.

 

‘Heather? How are you?’ He sounds unfazed. Tries to. Underneath his voice, there’s a slight shakiness. The weight of deceit.

 

‘I’m fine, dear. How was work today?’ I ask.

 

‘Same old. I’m just glad to be back here.’ No eye contact. He can’t tell a straight-faced lie, and he knows it. Why don’t I just go see what he’s hiding? Really, why don’t I?

 

‘I’ve been bored today.’ I sigh, leaning back into the couch. 'There’s nothing to do around the house.’

 

‘I thought you were working on something. A novel this time, no?’ He holds his hands together, rubbing the two indexes against each other. Fidgeting.

 

‘It’s not been going well. So I stopped.’ I look back to Mrs. Pigeon. ‘You can’t force it, Elliot. If I don’t feel creative then I won’t be. I’m stuck.’

 

‘I’m sorry.’ Apologizing. But for what? ‘There’s something I got for you. It’s a ... um. I should just show you.’ He gets up and motions toward the bedroom. Still can’t look me in the eyes. His head is pointed down. My heart pounding. Really, I don’t want to know.

 

When I come back, Mrs. Pigeon, you better be there.

 

He leads me in and gestures to the bed. There’s something there. A bundle of roses. But it’s not right. They’re —

 

‘I know you hate flowers. You think they’re wasteful. And I agree. So I got you wooden roses,’ he says, scratching his neck. ‘Just as beautiful, but they, uh. Sorry.’

 

‘Why are the flowers black?’

 

‘The sculptor put too much dye. And they already took a month to make. If I ordered another, they would’ve come so much later. I’m sorry. I really am.’

 

Forgive me, but am I supposed to be flattered by a bouquet of dead, black roses? Is this how he celebrates me? I mean—it's not that I don’t love him, but—what is it, then? Why does he seem so far away?

 

‘Thank you. It’s the thought that counts, you know,’ I say. Should I hug him? Maybe. But I don’t feel like it.

 

He smiles at me, then walks back to the kitchen. His eyes never met mine. I wonder if he loves me still.

 

I follow him back, and Mrs. Pigeon is sat waiting. There was something else, don’t you think?

 

She chirps. I’ll assume that was a yes, because an interjecting 'no' wouldn’t make sense in that context.

 

I think I have to ask.

 

‘Elliot, earlier — was there anything else under your coat? Other than the flowers.’ I bite my lip.

 

He gazes at me, an eyebrow raised. 'What are you talking about?’

 

‘Is there something I’m not being told?’

 

‘I—I don’t understand,’ he says, his voice wavering.

 

I sit down next to him, my breaths shallow. ‘You were avoiding my eyes. Why?’

 

‘I’m looking at you right now, Heather. I hope that’s enough.’ His hands clasp around his knees.

 

‘You know it’s more than just eye contact,’ I say. ‘There’s a connection that isn’t being made. And it bothers me.’

 

‘You’re accusing me of something, and I haven’t done anything. Please, don’t make up an issue where there isn’t one.’

 

‘I’m not accusing you of anything. I just want to know, Elliot; what is it that’s between us?’ My heart stops.

 

He sighs. ‘I’m not sure, Heather. I don’t feel anything.’ There it is. For a moment, the world freezes. His words echo in my head, unraveling all the knots tying up my thoughts. I want to be sad, or angry even, but my heart is numb. If there’s anything at all, maybe it’s relief.

 

‘Neither do I,’ I respond.

 

There’s nothing between us. Nothing at all.

 

Outside, Mrs. Pigeon flutters away, leaving behind her mess of sticks. Fly far, my friend. Spend some time away from this nest. You deserve to be happy.

 

‘If that’s how we both feel, then why are we still talking about it?’ says Elliot, his eyes flickering. He doesn’t get it. Or he doesn’t want to. I furrow my brow, because I should be frustrated, but my heart is left empty. I see his restless hands move to his thigh, tapping as they go. I wonder when they stopped reaching for me.

 

There’s nothing else to be said, so I go back into our room. One of the petals on my faux bouquet is chipped. I didn’t notice that before, but I suppose a dent in an already ruined carving won’t do much. Outside, Elliot clicks away on his laptop. Somewhere, someone needs him. How magnificent.

 

Now, here I am once more, sat with my journal open and my pen in hand. I’ve written so much, but I’ve said nothing.

 

What a pigeon I have made of myself.

 

About the author

            Eric Dogini is a novice writer looking to break into the literary world. He lives in the United States, near the Appalachian Mountains. His pastimes include writing and spending time with his dog, Lucky.

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Sunshine Enters like a Hesitant Guest by Steve Gerson, Earl Grey tea, weak from not steeping long enough

 

I’m alone in the room’s darkness. A hint of morning sunshine is seeping through the east window like a hesitant guest, but shadows surround me as I sit at my sewing table, shadows that bow me in doubt, in want, in need.

 

I’m focused on bobbins, thread, patterns, minutiae, my life small, as repetitive as the sewing needle grinding within its guard, Sisyphean.  The bobbin has bunched again, from too much tension, too many threads balling and knotted, and everything is uneven, unwinding.

 

It’s hard to forget what’s been said . . . or remember words I never stated.

 

I sipped my weak Earl Grey and stared at the fallow field outside my window.  Kudzu vines are reclaiming the land, once verdant, once plowed and fecund, once worked by loving hands to secure a future.  We planted soybeans and corn, set out scarecrows with vibrant colors that waved in the spring breezes, and reaped and sowed and savored.  Then.

 

Where are they now, my family from once? 

 

Dan’s gone, of course, disease reclaiming our past, like the kudzu coiling, suffocating.  His cancer was a needle’s prick in my love, a scar that won’t heal, now bandaged on my arm like old age scabbing, failing to heal.

 

The kids are displaced, Dan Jr., wife Molly, and his children to Chicago, Sue Beth and her son (her ex-husband disclaimed, barely a mote sifting in stale air) to Seattle.  They write, now and sometimes, maybe Christmas or Thanksgiving.

 

“How’s the farm, Mom?”  “Abilene still hot in September?  Still cold in May?” 

 

No one visits. 

 

“It’s so far, Mom, especially with no direct flights to Kansas.”  “We’re pretty busy with our jobs, you know.”  “Money’s kind of tight right now.”  “Molly’s still peeved at what you said.”

 

Mostly, the house is quiet, except for crows cawing blackness in the fields and my sewing machine whirring like mice nibbling memories in dark corners. 

 

I could make little Georgie a cap for Seattle’s winter.  I could sew Mary a white blouse for her confirmation.   I could mail the presents, but I don’t have their addresses.  The clothing would sit on my bedstand with other loose threads.

 

The sun is rising outside my window, but I’m still alone in the room’s darkness, bowed by nothingness. 

 

About the auhtor 

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in CafeLit, Panoplyzine, Crack the Spine, Vermilion, In Parentheses, and more, plus his chapbooks Once Planed Straight; Viral; and the soon to be published The 13th Floor: Step into Anxiety from Spartan Press. 

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Anna and Ethel by Christine Clark, Earl Grey tea

‘I’m so bored, stuck inside,’ Anna groaned as she heaved herself out of her armchair. She wandered over to look out of the window. ‘It’s still raining.’

Anna’s friend Julia looked up from her book. ‘At least in the first lockdown we could get into the garden. And if there was no gardening to do, we could sit in the sun and read. We were so lucky with the weather. But now, autumn’s here and it’s raining cats and dogs.‘

‘Yes, the garden never looked so good as it did this summer! But, seriously, I need to find something to keep me occupied or this winter’s really going to drag. How long can this pandemic go on for? There seems to be no end in sight.’

‘Well,‘ said Julia, ‘the Spanish Flu pandemic went on for over two years so I guess this one’s only just getting started.’

Anna groaned. ‘I like to read, but not for hour after hour … I need something new to do.’

Julia reluctantly put her book aside. ‘How about starting a new cross-stich project? Oh no, that’s no good - we can’t get to the craft shop. How about you find your sketch pad and do some new drawings?’

Anna didn’t seem attracted by either of these ideas. Then suddenly her face lit up. ‘I know! I’ve been meaning to do something with those old family photos I found in the attic. I’ll sort them out and stick them in my album. I should be able to identify most of the photos and if I can’t, I’ll ask Mum.’

The next day it was raining again so, fired up by her enthusiasm for the new project, Anna found the box of photos and settled down to look through them. Most were of family members and friends, some from the early days of the twentieth century, although most were later. Trying to be organised, Anna grouped them into piles, based on the date taken or who the subjects were. Many were not labelled and she had difficulty guessing who they were, although a little detective work usually paid off.

One photo particularly attracted her attention. It was of a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, although it was difficult to tell with her old-fashioned hair style and serious expression. She was wearing a dress that might have dated from the nineteen-twenties and on the back of the photo it just said ‘Ethel’. She was looking straight at the photographer and although serious, her eyes seemed to dance with supressed humour, almost as if the next minute she would burst out laughing. Entranced, Anna gazed at the photo.

She wondered who Ethel was and if there were any other photos of her. She looked through the box and came across some more photos, but she wasn’t sure if they were the same woman. Fashions and hairstyles changed and, of course, she’d have aged. But after a while, she came across another photo that caught her attention. It was a more recent picture of a very old woman proudly holding a baby. On the back is it said, ‘Ethel with Anna, 1988’.

‘That’s me!’ said Anna. ‘I was born in 1988. She’s holding me!’

******

That evening Anna’s mum Trish rang for a chat. They’d not been able to meet for several weeks, due to the lockdown, so there was plenty to talk about. Anna told her about the photos of Ethel.

‘Oh, that’s my granny, your great-grandmother,’ said Trish. ‘She was lovely. It’s such a pity you didn’t know her - she died when you were six months old. I’d forgotten we took that photo of the two of you, it’s probably the only one of you both together.’

*******

The next day the rain had cleared away and although it was windy, Anna decided to go for a walk along the cliff path. Julia thought she was starting a cold and was feel a bit rough, so she opted to stay at home by the fire. Anna wrapped up well and set off along the path. The wind was quite strong but it was invigorating and after several days of enforced staying in, Anna relished the opportunity to stride out.

She’d been walking for half an hour or so when she found the wind was dropping and there even seemed to be a little warmth in the weak sun. She found a bench with a good view of the coastline and decided to sit down for a while. She was drinking in the wonderful view – she loved this stretch of coast and felt so lucky to live close to it – when she was surprised to see a woman walking along the path towards her. She’d not seen anyone else out that afternoon and was a bit disappointed to find she wasn’t alone. As the woman approached, Anna realised she was a stranger, not one of the locals, most of whom she knew. It was difficult to tell her age as she was wearing a rather frumpy dress and coat, but Anna guessed she was similar age to herself. Without greeting Anna, the woman sat down on the other end of the bench.

Anna wasn’t sure what to do. If she got up and walked away it would look rude so she decided to stay where she was and see if the woman said anything. After a while the woman, who had been gazing at the coastline, said, ‘How are you finding the lockdown? Find staying at home getting on your nerves? I know I did.’

Anna immediately felt as if she could talk to this woman. All her pent-up frustration poured out as she described how she was bored yet restless, wanted to get out yet felt home was the only safe place to be.

The woman smiled. ‘I know just what you mean, I felt the same. Had to stay at home … this so-called social distancing.  Had to wear a mask if you went out. Mind you, lots of people didn’t like that, so most didn’t bother. And if you did go out, there was nothing to do - no cinemas or theatres open. Couldn’t even go to church!’

Anna was puzzled. The woman was speaking as if the lockdown and restrictions were a thing of the past - but here we are, still in the middle of it, with no end in sight.

Her companion continued. ‘With us, they kept the pubs open. They would do, with men in charge! And the football matches were allowed to keep going. Funny, that.’

Anna was beginning to feel confused. She was sure the pubs had had to close and no football matches were being played, with or without crowds.

She was about to ask the woman what she meant when her companion went on. ‘They said it was spread by the troops coming back from the war. Them and the medical staff.  All that mixing with other soldiers over there and then coming home. Bound to spread, wasn’t it?’

Anna was starting to feel this conversation was getting surreal. War, what war? She desperately tried to bring it back to something she could relate to. ‘But at least the NHS has been marvellous, hasn’t it? The hospitals have really done a great job, once the PPE supplies - you know, aprons, masks and other protection - got through. And once we have a vaccine, life can get back to normal.’

The woman smiled. ‘Well, you’re lucky to have the NHS with all your healthcare for free! In my day most of us were nursed at home by the family. People like us couldn’t afford to pay for a private nurse or go to hospital. But you’re right about the protective clothing, that was in short supply for quite a long time. And this vaccine that’ll soon be available for you - that took a long time to come for us.’ She sighed. ‘It would have made all the difference.’ 

She stood up. ‘It’s been lovely talking to you. I hope you find ways of getting through the next few months. But take heart – it won’t go on for ever and in a couple of years, you’ll have forgotten what it was like - it will all be a distant memory.’

Anna was still trying to work out who she was and how she knew these things. As the woman started to walk away, Anna called out to her. ‘Oh, excuse me, but I feel as if I know you. What’s your name?’

The woman paused and looked at Anna fondly. ‘We have met before. I’m Ethel.’

About the author 

 Christine is fairly new to creative writing. As a publishing editor she is far more used to messing about with other people’s work than writing her own. But she finds she loves writing and it is now her go-to creative outlet. Christine writes features, short stories and researches local history.

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Cookies Fit for the Magi by Mary Daurio, Earl Grey tea

 Twelve-year-old Gayle Middleton set a thin volume, Gift of the Magi, on the librarian’s returns counter.

 Gayle had read O. Henry’s tale for Mother, whose listless eyes brightened when the storybook husband secretly sold his watch to buy his wife a hair ornament. And she, all the while, was peddling her hair to purchase a watch fob for him—such selfless love.

It was a joy to get such books for free at the library, provided you brought them back on time. Gayle had no money to spare, nothing to waste on tardiness. Her books were never overdue, even now when she had more responsibility with Mother ill.

Gayle wished she had something to sell to give Mother a cheery Christmas. If she could pick out the Bethlehem star in the sky, she’d wish on it.

A soft voice drew Gayle from her reverie. ‘On time as always.’  It was Mrs. Lawrence, the village librarian and mother’s friend, who was like a plain brown wood thrush. And like a wood thrush, she went unnoticed until her voice sang out in beautiful music. ‘I’ve had requests for it, and it’s nice to know I can always count on you,’ she said in a tone Gayle had grown to love.

Mrs. Lawrence pointed to a new fountain pen in the glass display case beside the poster for the school story contest. ‘This award is for the winning writer when the judge picks on Christmas Eve. With your gift of storytelling, it could be you. I hope so.’  

 

‘Thank you.’ Gayle, a grade eight student, appreciated the sentiment. She’d entered a story called The Voice with no expectations, as high school students could also enter. But a fountain pen, how wonderful not to have soiled fingers from the inkpot.

  Gayle’s eyes travelled past Mrs. Lawrence to a large display of glossy-coloured baking magazines.

‘I’ll drop by for a visit with your mother. I hope she’s up and about soon.’

‘She’ll look forward to that.’ Mother would enjoy the company but out of bed soon—doubtful.

‘Don’t they look delicious?’ Mrs. Lawrence said, turning to the arrangement that had drawn Gayle’s attention. ‘I thought people might need to make their own treats since the bakery closed.’  She held up a baking journal. ‘Easy Peasy Christmas Cookie Recipes’ blazed in gold on the cover.

‘I’m sure you could make some of these.’ Mrs. Lawrence handed the magazine to Gayle.

That was it! Something to sell. Gayle’s mind raced. She could bake some cookies with ingredients already in the cupboards. Buy more fixings with the profits. Repeat as often as possible from now to the holidays.

Gayle practically skipped out of the library, the magazine tucked in her bookbag, dreaming of Christmas.

The Middleton house became a makeshift bakeshop. Gayle sold what she had prepared. Word of mouth spread throughout the village, and her gingerbread men practically walked away on their own.

 Gayle worried about Mother’s pale cheeks and bought meaty soup bones to simmer a hearty broth. Mother sat upright in bed and said between sips, ‘What a feast, my darling.’  

  Broth a feast? Gayle smiled at the thought of the Christmas celebration she was planning. She had enough for a small turkey and a gift, perhaps.

Her enterprise put Gayle in a festive mood. She brought evergreen branches from the yard and arranged them with ornaments around the mantle. Their fragrance filled the air with holiday cheer.

On mother’s bedside table, Gayle nestled the nativity scene. Her eyes often settled on the wise men in their colourful turbans.

 Christmas Eve Day, Gayle answered a knock on the door. Mrs. Lawrence said, entering, ‘Smells delightful. You did save some for me?’   

‘There’s a box on the counter.’ Gayle put her hand up as Mrs. Lawrence started digging in her purse. ‘They’re a Christmas Present.’

‘How generous.’ Mrs. Lawrence placed coins on the table. ‘For ingredients.’  She clasped Gayle’s hand and pressed an embossed bookmark into her palm. ‘For the runner-up. If I were judge, it would be the pen, but I love your smudged fingertips signalling a new story.’

Gayle ran her fingers over the raised Nativity scene on the slim but thick gold marker and smiled. ‘I’ll be inky soon.’

‘Is that you, Lydia?’ Mother called.

Mrs. Lawrence made her way to Mother’s room, and Gayle served the two women tea there. She turned the chipped creamer to the back of the tray to hide the flaw as best she could.

With Mother engaged, Gayle took this time as an opportunity to sneak out to buy groceries for Christmas, leaving the two women visiting. Happily walking along the sidewalk swinging her arms, she sang We Three Kings.

That night, after Gayle stowed her shopping away in the larder, unaccustomed to such wealth, she stood smiling, beholding the splendour of all the plenty. Her eyes twinkled as she wrapped a tiny rose-coloured cream pitcher in tissue, thinking of hairclips and watch fobs. No worry about the teapot and sugar bowl; they were home on the shelf, not sold.

 Later she sat with her mother and read the nativity story. She thought of the Magi’s gift.

 O. Henry’s ‘Gift of the Magi’ mirrored the Bethlehem Magi. Give your all, find love, and find salvation.

True wealth is love. In giving, we receive.

Christmas morning, she prepared her gift of a meal. It roasted, filling the whole house with the savoury odour of turkey and sage stuffing. 

Setting the table, Gayle heard a rustling. Mother was standing in her bedroom doorway.

 ‘You’re up!’  Gayle hastened to her side.

 Mother’s eyes shone as she passed a tiny package to Gayle. Through the tissue, Gayle felt ink nibs, the lovely long ones.

 Standing arm in arm, they turned to gaze at the nativity scene, and the spirit of Christmas enfolded them in its majestic mantle of love.

           About the author

 Mary Daurio is a grandmother who likes to fiddle with words when she isn’t playing her flute, walking the dog or spending time with family and friends. Her work has appeared in print and online, and she was surprised a friend found one of her stories by googling Mary’s name. 

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Marriage and Other Fairy Tales (Volume One) by Betti Patterson, Earl Grey

 

Once upon a time, they said, 'I do'.  The lie went on forever.

 

About the author

 Betti (BJ) Patterson is a fiction writer, reporter, produced playwright, and unwilling morning person. Her work has appeared in the Sunday School Publishing Board Baptist Curriculum Series, the Chicago Defender, and the Oak Park Journal. BJ lives in a suburb Southwest of Chicago.

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