Hope by Diane Neilson, cloudy lemonade

"What would you like for Christmas this year?" The gentleman asked the child.

He watched as the child's eyes lit up, just for a moment, before dulling at the memory of his reality.

            The child spoke, carefully, for this was important. "For safety," he said with certainty. "For a home I can be sure I will be returning to. For a bed of our own, my brother and I. For quiet, all through the night."

          He thought again and spoke slowly, deliberately. "That my father will return and my mother stop crying. That there will be enough food and clean water. That the fighting will stop.

" I miss my school, my friends, the books. New things for my mind to wonder at. Knowledge of a world where things can be different, where we are all accepted."

 

The man asked, "What about gifts? A new toy, clothes?"

          The boy was incredulous, unbelieving of the man's naivety."What is the point of new shoes when there is nowhere to walk in safety? Who would play with a toy when there is no playfulness in their heart? What good are things when there is fear and hunger?"

 

The man looked at the boy, wise beyond his years. "What you say is true, but you must always have hope. There may not be a way for you, but you can be the difference, the way forward, to forge a better future for your people."

The boy contemplated the man's words."You are right. I don't know the way forward, but I will look for the path. The future starts with me, and people like me, who will believe in a future of safety, peace and humanity. That is what I want. Maybe not this Christmas, but one Christmas. Maybe not for me, but for the children of the future."

 

About the author 

 

Diane is building momentum as a writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She likes to experiment with a range of genres including poetry and short stories, and has released three books, a travel memoir, a book of poetry and short stories, and a children's picture book. 

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.)

Hope

 

by Elaine Barnard

still water 

 She was sprawled on the gym floor next to my favorite stretch machine, a towel beneath her buttocks. Couldn’t she pick a less obtrusive spot to exercise? I used the stretcher at the culmination of my workout. I was usually exhausted and needed that rejuvenating stretch to recover. I was never in a mood to tolerate interruptions in my schedule, in my cool down phase before I drove home to a hot and cold shower, some chilled chardonnay and a dinner of sorts.

          She did not move as I approached. She lay there like she couldn’t her hair a shaggy blonde mess, her skimpy gym shorts revealing several pounds of extra flesh. What was she doing hiding in the stretch room anyway?  This was a gym for God’s sake. Lying on the floor was only acceptable if you could spring back up which she obviously could not.

“Am I in your way?” I asked in my sweetest manner rather than telling her she was in mine, that she was blocking my stretcher. If I used it, I might conk her head, knock her out or something equally alarming.

She stirred. “You’re okay,” she murmured. “I checked. It’s close but we’re safe.”

I’d like to be a little safer, I thought, but said nothing just proceeded to wipe down the bed of the stretcher as a sanitary precaution.  Can’t be too careful in a Pandemic.

 In the process of protecting myself, I couldn’t help but notice the mesh brace on her knee.  “What happened to your knee?” I asked out of habit not really that interested in her knee. I could be here all day listening to knee, hip, and back complaints. I usually tuned them out.

She patted the brace. “It’s holding my knee together, until…” she winced. “Until I-I” … She took a deep breath. “Have surgery. Tomorrow’s the day.”

I climbed on the machine, locked my ankle in place and started to invert the stretcher only half listening to her as my tense muscles relaxed into the reclined position.

“My problem is I-I can’t afford the therapy, home care and everything else that my health plan won’t pay for.” She sat up slowly. “We spent all our money on my son’s knee therapy. He was eighteen. He healed. He didn’t need surgery. But me, just look at me. I’m too fat and I know it. Doctor says that contributed to my knee problem.” She winced again. Sweat stained her shirt. “I’d have to take off work. I can’t afford to take off work.”

I adjusted the lever on the machine. I was up to one hundred now.  It felt good to stretch tight muscles, to relieve the tension that I could never resolve.

“My kids have tried to help me around the house. Maybe they’ll even cook dinner tonight. I mean a real dinner, not a frozen Marie Callender’s or a Papa John pizza.”

Suddenly she doubled over with pain. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. Against my better judgement, I lowered the machine, slid off and held her. “It’s all right,” I said, knowing it wasn’t.

She calmed a little as she struggled to stand. “I asked my doctor to give me a local. I don’t want to be knocked out. I don’t want to lose control, I told him. He-he refused. ‘That’s not the way I operate,’ he said.”

“Being knocked out isn’t all that bad,” I told her, helping her to stand straight. “You wake up and it’s all over. You’re ready to start a new life.”

She looked at me, her faded blue eyes glimmering. “You think?”

She leaned on my arm. I smiled with reassurance even though I had no knowledge that anything I said was true, but I hoped it was.  

About the author 

Elaine Barnard's collection of stories, The Emperor of Nuts was published by New Meridian Arts and noted as a unique book on the Snowflakes in a Blizzard website, She won first place in Strands International Flash Fiction Competition. Elaine has been nominated for the Pushcart prize and Best Small Fiction.

 

         

 

Hope

L.G. Flannigan



Espresso Romano



The bruises and cuts have gone, but I see the scars, still feel the pain, the shame and five years on I still question if I’m to blame. The jeering refrain of his words, a lingering hint of his breath, a mix of stale cigarette smoke and ale when I inhale, his taste on my lips, his hands touching me, holding me down…memories of it make me retch. From the pit of my stomach I purge but the hurt remains, stains my soul, no longer whole.

I have to believe I will survive, carry on, otherwise why am I here, why do I exist if not to persist and see it through? I need to resolve the anger I feel burning deep inside, the rage he unleashed…inflicted, filling me up making it impossible to eat, to breathe, to believe that I will heal.

The overwhelming fear I feel is real; his evil lurks in the shadows of my mind, outside my flat, at dusk I think he waits. He haunts my sleep, darkening the circles under my eyes. Deeper he taunts me; taking me to the brink of…I dare not utter that word…besides I must not sink, he cannot win. My skin crawls at the thought of his grin as his blows rained down, his satisfaction at my pain, how he laughed at my vain attempts to fight back…the pleading he unheeded, his lack of respect leaving me worthless at his cold heartlessness.

I trusted him once…a long time ago. I fell for his confidence and charm, his smokescreen hiding what harm he could, would enforce on me. Had he been honest, admitted he’d tear me to shreds leaving me for dead, would I have believed him…walked away instead? His ever shifting track fuelled my excitement, running in my heart I foolishly remained; my compliance may be partially to blame. His stronghold stifled my breathing, strangling my very being until I was dying in pain. His rage, a flaming forest fire, scorched my life turning it into dust, ash, treating me with contempt, disdain.

My embers, glowing scarlet and golden needing to resurrect, rejuvenate, live again but to move forwards I have to let go of the past else it’s all fake, a show, I won’t last. On my own, alone, desolate…I do not grow; taking only faltering steps upon my life’s path so consumed by the aftermath that was him. I’m not sure I can do it by myself and whom do I ask?

The heavens answer my call, my screams of desperation, sending someone to catch me as I fall. I am drawn to his unconditional love and there is something heavenly, something unearthly about him, the way he sees through my facade to the emotional scars, with his strawberry blond curls kissing his neck and his sapphire eyes sparkling stars. He sees the sadness, the pain, the hurt, the lilting gentle tone of his words washing away the ingrained dirt. I can tolerate the touch of his delicate hand, as tender as his words, wiping away my tears of emotion and healing the wounds of my soul broken…his wings envelop me and my soul sings. The warmth of his heart, his essence, his very presence brings comfort to my spirit, quiet, calm, rids me of the alarm which has invaded every part of my existence for too many years, causing countless tears. He helps me forget, reverses the regret, absolves my blame, the shame, the nightmares…the night sweats, he turns the sunset into sunrise, sorts truth from the lies, breaks the very ties…that bind me to the past and with that, at last I look to the future, now brighter, with my heart lighter knowing he holds my hand, walks by my side, as my guide, our hearts beating together, forever with me.

My angel…he gives me hope.