Saturday Sample:Something Very Human by Hannah Retallick , cola

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A Long Line of Plastic Straws

 

 

Carter, a nine-year-old who had recently moved to 4 Woodland Road, compensated for everything by trying to connect the longest line of plastic straws in the world. The obsession started at McDonald’s, where his grandma took him every Saturday. She sat Carter down at a booth while she queued for the Happy Meal. It was a box of food and a boring toy; what was Happy about that? He did like his frosty chocolate milkshake, but not as much as the paper-covered straws. He blew the wrappers across the room. Grandma couldn’t ask Carter to pick them up, so she did it herself and tottered to the bin. Carter scrunched one end of a straw and inserted it into the other.

He started the project in the garage, which smelled like cardboard and dust, on a long folding table; judging by its rickety groaning joints, it had been unloved since Grandpa died. On a hot day there was even a lingering hint of his musky aftershave.

Each week, Carter picked up more and more straws, grabbing them from the McDonald’s dispenser while Grandma Chrissie supported his arm. She never told him to stop stuffing them into his hoodie pouch.

Their house was the first of a three-house terrace, right at the edge of the village. Their garden was overgrown now Grandpa wasn’t there and had a low-lying fence separating them from the neighbour. The garage soon became too small for Carter’s venture; he asked Grandma Chrissie to help by taking the straws outside.

Carter tucked his good leg underneath him and stretched the other out. He missed being able to feel his foot and sometimes woke at night, thinking he still could, but then he remembered. Working in the garden, it was too easy for his mind to wander. He tried to focus on other things, like the dampness of the grass and the rustling sound from a hedge, which was trimmed neatly on the neighbour’s side.

‘Quite a project you have there,’ his grandma said, shielding her eyes from the stark cloud-filtered light.

And then she returned to the house. She hardly left it, apart from to check on Carter. She didn’t do her own food shopping now; what was the point when the Tesco delivery service was so obliging? Carter had to ask what obliging meant. She said, ‘Obliging is when people make things good for you.’

He glanced at the house. His grandmother was obliging, and calm. She never talked about any of it.

‘Hello,’ came a voice.

Carter jumped. The voice came from the next garden, the direction of the sun. All he could see through looking at the light was a shadow above the neighbour’s fence and the red specks and dark patches in his own eyes.

‘Hello?’ Once Carter had shielded his eyes with his hand, he could see a boy about his age who was leaning on the fence, making it creak and groan.

‘What are you doing?’ the boy asked.

He felt silly when he told him. ‘I’m… I’m making the longest line of plastic straws in the world.’

But Billy didn’t seem to think it was silly. ‘Cool. How long does that have to be?’

‘Erm, long. Really long.’

‘Why don’t you do it underground?’ Billy suggested.

Carter bristled. ‘I can’t, it’s plastic. That’s bad for the earth.’

Billy climbed over the fence, landed softly, and darted over to where Carter sat. He joined him, mirroring his position, with one leg stretched out in front and the other tucked under him.

‘What happened to your foot?’ Billy asked, in the matter-of-fact voice that no one else used with Carter. ‘I’ve seen you…’

‘It was trapped in the car.’ Carter touched one of his crutches. 

‘Okay…’ Billy nodded slowly. ‘You know, my mum has a big box of straws in the cupboard for when we have parties. I could ask her?’

Billy’s mum was a nice lady called Tara. She smelled like roses and felt soft and plump when she hugged him, which she did as soon as Billy made the introduction at the doorway of their house. Carter’s own mother had always been a hugger too and helped him with his homework and took him to play football at the Green, back when he had two proper feet to use and… but he didn’t have to worry about that at the moment because the adults decided he should have time to ‘process everything’.

Tara was happy to help and presented a box of straws that were a mixture of colours, to make a change from the white ones with thin coloured lines.

‘Actually,’ said Carter, holding the box of straws. ‘I think I’ll stick with the McDonald’s ones.’

Billy’s mother just smiled and told them to have fun.

Billy helped Carter connect the straws. It was not long before the line stretched over Carter’s whole garden and under the fence. Tara provided cans of Fanta and Grandma came to say hello, perhaps checking if Billy was ‘suitable company’.

‘Where are your parents?’ asked Billy, dragging a chipped terracotta pot to pin down a section.

‘I’m living with Grandma.’

‘Oh.’

‘Where’s your dad?’ asked Carter.

‘Mum says he scarpered when I was little.’

‘What’s scarpered?’

‘Ran away cos he didn’t want us.’

Carter tried to imagine what this would be like. ‘Oh…’

‘Yeah.’

Carter’s dad hadn’t ‘scarpered’. He’d held his mum’s hand and his whenever he could. Dad said it was to make sure no one got lost, but Carter didn’t think that was it; he just liked them being connected.

      The straw line progressed quickly; Billy’s kind mother started taking Billy to McDonald’s at the same time as Carter and his grandma, doubling the number of straws they were able to sneak out.

‘We really shouldn’t let them,’ said Chrissie, on their second visit.

‘No, we really shouldn’t, should we…’ Tara chomped into a Big Mac and put her hand under her chin to stop the trickle of sauce in its tracks.

The two women smiled at each other and said no more. They had never really talked before Carter came to stay, but now they often had a cuppa and chat together, initially over the garden fence. Then they started going inside, especially on rainy days. Grandma and Tara would sit downstairs while Carter and Billy played in each other’s rooms – video games, mostly, though they also liked to construct big Lego towers. Yet their ‘great big straw line’, as Tara called it, was their favourite thing to do together. The plan had been going so well; they had nearly reached the other side of Billy’s garden.

Then one Saturday, everything changed.

 

Carter knew something was wrong the moment he felt the straws at McDonald’s; they were lighter, flimsier. He unwrapped one, slowly, put it into his Coke, and after only a few minutes, the straw began to soften and his heart thumped harder.

‘Billy,’ he whispered. ‘Billy, look.’

He drew out the straw, which made a screeching sound as it left the claws of the plastic lid. It was limp and starting to break.

*

Carter’s crutches swished through the overgrown grass until he was just a couple of feet from Billy’s neighbour’s fence. They had discussed only earlier that morning how they would knock on the old man’s door, ask if he would let them carry on in his garden, but now it wasn’t possible: McDonald’s had changed their straws from plastic to paper.

‘I guess that’s it then,’ said Billy.

‘Yeah.’

‘How did your foot get trapped in the car?’ he asked, suddenly.

This time, Carter gave the real answer. His parents had told him many times not to squeeze his leg between the seat and the door.

‘And then the lorry hit us. And then I woke up in hospital. And then…’

They would never tell him off again.

‘Your parents died, didn’t they?’

It was the first time Carter had cried about it; it was the first time anyone had said ‘died’.

‘And now my foot doesn’t work. And I can’t do the straws anymore because of stupid Maccies.’

Billy threw his arms around Carter. It knocked the crutches out of his hands, but with Billy gripping so hard, he didn’t fall. Billy didn’t smell of roses like his mother and wasn’t soft; he was sticky and skinny.

‘It’s okay…’ Billy didn’t sound like he believed himself. ‘At least the paper straws won’t hurt the earth. You know?’

Carter nodded, banging his chin on Billy’s bony shoulder. He broke the hug, squatted to the floor on one leg, and wiped his nose, leaving a trail on his sleeve. ‘I guess so.’

‘It’ll be okay.’

‘You’re obliging, Billy.’

They sat there, silently. Carter glanced towards the house and wondered what the adults were talking about – maybe Grandpa, the car accident, or Tara’s man. Or maybe they were talking about plastic straws. All that potential.

‘Billy,’ said Carter.

‘Yeah?’

‘I’ve been thinking about towers.’

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About the author 

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

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

 

 

Saturday Sample: Golden Hair by Hannah Retallick, Orange juice

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tim.”

“You have a lovely voice, Tim.”

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

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

“Lovely golden hair.”

“Mummy says red.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get your copy here

About the author

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

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

Burnt Squares, by Hannah Retallick, honey and ginger tea

Mother burnt my squares. She had no choice; there was risk of infection. I was nine, same as you. 1943. I didn’t tell Mother at first because she always had some sort of medicine that taught you never to be ill. My throat was swollen and sore on the day we broke up for the holidays.

Yes, it does seem unfair. Why are youngsters rarely ill during school terms? God must have his reasons.

Diphtheria. No, my lovely, you don’t have it. Just a cold. Lie down, please, you’ll strain your neck.

‘Oh, my child!’ Mother cried when I finally went home to her. We played all day then – running along Porthminster beach, free as the sweeping gulls, and swimming for so long that our fingers were as wrinkled as mine are now. Until that summer. I wasn’t even allowed to sit out in the sun.

I hadn’t the strength. I was locked away in my room, not seeing a single soul apart from Mother. Even she covered her mouth whenever she had to enter the Den of Disease. That was my name for it.

Horrid. I felt like an outcast: no visitors, not even the doctor.

Because we couldn’t afford it. There was little anyone could do anyway; my life was in the balance. We had to wait to see what providence would bring.

Yes, I know. I cried more than I’ve ever cried before or since, cried my poor heart out. There was hardly anything in my room. Only my bed, bible, a small table, and a teddy bear knitted by my mother. Nothing like the things you have here.

We rarely thought about it. The war brought hardship for everyone, but the Lord provided. I had little appetite that summer, struggled to swallow, nearly faded away completely during the seclusion. I was a skinny thing. Hard to believe now – I have made up for it ever since!

Sorry, my lovely. Put your hand over your mouth. That’ll teach you not to laugh and cough. Are you all right?

Good. What’s that you’re reading? You have plenty up here. Goodness, even a television. No such thing when I was young.

Frustrated, but never bored. I had my knitting. Bit by bit, piece by piece. I had such a vision for what it would be. Some days the sound of needles was comfort; others it was torture. I dropped my work, leant back exhausted, and looked out of the window. Gulls swooped around in the wind, never crashing, plucking fish from the water. How free!

Indeed, like a cell. Every time I heard the clicking latch of the front door I wondered who was arriving or leaving. I lost track of time. I always knew when it was Sunday though. Mother had on her best frock. Dad went out to preach, saving souls, while I stilled my needles for the Sabbath. I read my bible, sometimes glancing at the red, blue, and green pieces building up on the floor beside my bed.

I was going to ask our local shop to sell it for me. With the proceeds, I intended to buy as many bibles and tracts as I could, to send to the mission. It was a way I could contribute. I’ve always had such grand ideas, you know. I used to write sermons and read them to Teddy, but I never showed them to Father or anyone in the meetings.

I heard them come to the house. They prayed. For our troubled world, for our country, for themselves. For me to be spared.

No, their words were inaudible. I tried, pressing my ear to the wall until my legs wouldn’t hold me, but they were being quiet for my sake. I’d sat there many times when I was healthy – knitting, or sewing, listening.

I wanted to, of course. I’ve always had a different way of looking at things, questioning everything, but from their perspective it wasn’t the done thing.

It means a point of view. We can look it up in the dictionary. What was I saying?

Ah, yes. Not in those days, not in the strict Brethren. I was never allowed to speak in meetings.

Because I’m a woman.

Because it says so in the New Testament.

Because that’s how things were.

Yes, I felt the same – the same perspective, do you see? Some days I couldn’t control my anger. I once flared up to Father, ‘You hate women; you put tape over their mouths and pin hats to their head!’

Nothing at all. He squeezed my shoulders, then sat down in his fireside chair. Funny when you think about it, choosing silence; I believe he understood.

Many weeks. It took a while to get my strength back and they couldn’t risk me around other children. Those were the hardest days, when I felt well. Click click click went the needles. I opened the window, smelt the breeze, the seaweed, watched people on the beach. Mother brought me food, tucked the sheets around me, slammed the window shut.

Are you tired, my child? Father used to say I could wear out the most patient ears. It’s my worst fault.

You have the gift of diplomacy.

It’s means sensitivity in dealing with people. Tactfulness. Let’s look it up later.

And ‘tactfulness’.

What other word?

Oh, ‘perspective’. Yes, that too. So similar, aren’t we? I pray that the world has changed enough to give you whatever you desire, or that you will have the power to change it.

I should let you get back to your book. You do love to read don’t you. Never seen so many books in a room that wasn’t a library. I didn’t read much until later in life, apart from the bible. Knitting was my hobby.

Mother and Father silently fed the squares into the fire. Enough for a whole quilt. They burnt Teddy Bear too. No one to cuddle me at night, nor hear my sermons.

Yes, my child, read.

  

Hannah Retallick is from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a First-class honours degree, BA in Humanities with Creative Writing and Music, before passing her Creative Writing MA with a Distinction. Hannah has gained recognition in many international competitions, including receiving Highly Commended in the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize 2022 and winning the £2000 Edinburgh Award for Flash Fiction 2024 – the biggest flash prize in the UK. Her debut short story collection, Something Very Human, was released by Bridge House Publishing in November 2024. https://www.hannahretallick.co.uk/about

 

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When We Watch The Lord of the Rings Movies Back to Back (Extended Edition) by Hannah Retallick, old-fashioned with popcorn syrup

We watched Frodo trudge to Mordor on one of the rare days he was with me instead of her. A bowl rested between us, crammed with popcorn, sweet and salty because he can never commit. Frodo leant on his faithful companion. I sucked my fingers clean, waved them towards the screen.

True love right there, I said.

He didn’t show he’d heard. Maybe he hadn’t. Still, we kept watching, silently, eleven hours straight, stopping only three times to refresh ourselves and shake our bodies awake.

My crossed leg switched sides every few minutes, proving it didn’t care either way. When it was towards him, I slipped into his sofa rut. The empty popcorn bowl was the only thing separating my hand from his burning arm. Summer or winter, his sun-speckled skin runs as hot as Mount Doom. I feel it, she feels it, we all feel it, drawn together in voiceless fellowship; a fellowship we pretend doesn’t exist, because we’re ‘not like other girls’.

He was yawning by the time the credits rolled. He checked his phone, perhaps looking for a message from one of the others, but who knows? He had made it none of my business.

I longed to watch the extra features, make a weekend of it, but I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. It would have thrown us straight into the lava, hurried our inevitable end. At least for now, he was here, and we were safe.

 About the author

Hannah Retallick is from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a first-class BA (Honours) Arts and Humanities (Creative Writing and Music) degree, before passing her creative writing MA with distinction. Her work has been placed and shortlisted in several international competitions.
Website: https://www.hannahretallick.co.uk/about
Blog: https://ihaveanideablog.wordpress.com

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dashed by Hannah Retallick, cold water with a bitter pill

 

uncle peter said hed take me to the zoo on friday to see the tigers – we tried months ago when i was really really little but the zoo people at the door said there was an accident in the elephant pen and it was shut that day sorry – even the tigers – when we got home uncle peter told mummy our hopes were dashed – he said next time it would be open and i could buy something from the giftshop and even have cake in the cafe if i was good and it wasn’t too close to dinner time and how did that sound – it sounded very very good

then he couldnt for ages and ages – he kept being too tired – i told him to sleep more – he must have listened to me because he got better and said fridays the day michael – ill make sure he eats lots in the cafe – hes got skinny – ill have four pieces of chocolate cake to help him be squidgy again

 

i thought hopes could only get dashed one time – im always right mostly – now im wrong – they can get dashed two times – i know that because its happening

 

mummy says uncle peter cant go to the zoo on friday – she says hes gone to A Better Place – i wish hed taken me too – it must be very very good if its better than the zoo – mummy says we can go anyway but doesnt seem happy about it and starts crying and saying im sorry michael im so so sorry – now shes snotting on her sleeve like she always tells me not to do – she knows how excited i was to go with uncle peter – now shes leaning on the table with her elbows like she always tells me not to do – i touch her arm – now shes shaking and feels like uncle peters shaver that i wasn’t meant to use on my eyebrows – i told him he shouldnt have used it all over his head either and he said I was a cheeky little and then stopped

i think mummys upset because she really really doesnt want to be near the tigers – i tell her she shouldn’t be scared because there are fences to keep people safe and if we don’t climb over them we wont get hurt and make our hopes dashed – now shes crying more – i give her a bear hug and tell her its okay and she doesnt need to take me if she doesnt really want to – now her nose is dangling a snot tail so i pull lots of tissues out of the box for her before it can drop – she says thank you – it sounds like ank ooo –

its okay its okay i tell her lots of times – i can wait until uncle peter comes back from A Better Place if she doesnt want to go to the zoo – maybe hell be back by Saturday

 

About the author 

Hannah Retallick is from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a first-class BA (Honours) Arts and Humanities (Creative Writing and Music) degree, before passing her creative writing MA with distinction. Her work has been placed and shortlisted in several international competitions. https://www.hannahretallick.co.uk/about 

 

 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.)

His Hand by Hannah Retallick, rose cordial

You ask for his hand. Either one, it doesn’t matter. He offers the left, which had been tucked into his dark jean pocket. You hesitate and say, May I? like it might mean something different this time. He pulls up the sleeve of his hoody and presents his hand at the correct angle for stamping. Thank you, you whisper. You don’t say that to anyone else; your burning cheeks can feel the difference.

He’s taller than you, a year or two older, his hand is smooth, almost hairless, a warm caramel shade. Now you’ve held it too long. Stamp! You’ve defaced it with, Anglesey Agricultural Show.

Off he goes to watch the jumping horses and parading sheep. Perhaps he’s eating candy floss, tearing it with long pianist fingers and placing it into his mouth, crystals resting on his lips like the sugared rim of a cocktail. Perhaps he’s thinking about the straggly girl at the gate who marked him with approval. Perhaps he can still feel her thumb pressing into his wrist.

Your dream evaporates. Oblivious showgoers trudge through like the cattle they’re here to see. You twist their hands to the right angle, too impatient to wait, and stamp them carelessly; each person wears an unreadable print over their vein ridges. They enter the grounds and inhale cow pats, straw, and greasy burgers from dirty vans.

The boy with the beautiful hands will go home tonight, place his shoes in the hallway, and enter the bathroom. He will look into the mirror absentmindedly as he lathers his mother’s rosy soap, smooths it over his palms, massages between his fingers; then the backs of his hands, focusing on the left and scrubbing it red. Soon no trace of ink will remain. And just like that, you are erased.

About the auhtor 

Hannah Retallick is from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a first-class BA (Honours) Arts and Humanities (Creative Writing and Music) degree, before passing her creative writing MA with distinction. Her work has been placed and shortlisted in several international competitions. https://www.hannahretallick.co.uk/about 

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.)