Ghost Fire by Lingjuan Fan, espresso

I cradle a soft, chubby baby in my arms. I take a close look at its face and realize the baby is not mine. My baby is a chubby, cute boy—though I have no idea where he is now.

‘Where is your mom?’ I think, tempted to leave but unable to bear the thought of her alone.

Then she speaks, her voice clear and insistent. ‘Mama left after I was born.’ I remember a woman in red who appeared briefly, then hurried away from the hospital. I know her mom will never return.

I glance around at the patients slumped in their chairs, the nurses gliding like shadows against the white walls, the fluorescent hum bathing everything in stark white.

‘I have to leave,’ I murmur.

‘Take me with you,’ she begs, her tiny body now lying on the cold metal bench, my hand touching her soft head.

‘Okay,’ I whisper, rising. ‘Let’s get out of here.’ She stands up and turns into a toddler, following me on unsteady legs.

We soon find ourselves walking through the hollow darkness of night streets—not completely dark, but dotted here and there with red glimmering light. From a distance, I see incomplete corpses frozen in eerie gestures. They are scattered about; some trunks are piled up like debris, ghost fire flickering around the shapes.

The limbs of the corpses seem to rise from the ashes. My chest tightens with dread, a strong urge to flee clawing at me. Just as the words ‘This feels like hell’ form on my lips, the baby tugs my sleeve. ‘Please, get me out of here.’

We veer left toward a lone illuminated shop where a few shopkeepers seem alive, then dart right to the bus stop. A double-decker has just left, its windows aglow with passengers we envy.

The next one soon arrives. The baby scrambles aboard first, clutching my wallet. She hands it back as I face the driver. I search every pocket and find my thousand yuan gone. I stand petrified under the driver’s glaring eyes.

Then the alarm blares, loud enough to drive me out of that hell-bus and land me back in the bright, dull dawn of the waking world.

I wondered what happened to the baby girl I adopted in the dream. Had she found a good household to be reborn into? Had she made it to the terminal?

I wished I hadn’t wound the alarm. There was a dark charm lurking in that deceased world. It felt like a rehearsal—to have been there before I actually go there.

I sat up in bed and spat on the floor. A baby in a dream signals a petty schemer lurking in the real world. 

‘Spit to dispel!’ my mother taught me when I was little.

About the author 

Lingjuan Fan is a scholar and teacher whose writing has appeared in Life Writing, The Translator, Translation Studies, and elsewhere. She lives near the Canton Tower in Guangzhou, China. 

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A Christmas Countdown by Julie Blaho, cappuccino

Five Christmas cookies under my highchair. I squealed with delight as I hurled your careful creations. You handed me another with a smile and let me enjoy it my own way.

Four long minutes to tie my shoe in the parking lot before Christmas mass, but you didn’t try to do it for me. You crouched in the cold snow with the hem of your dress dragging in slush, and sang: “Over, under, pull it tight. Make a loop, but not too light.”

Three red diaries tucked under my Christmas quilt. Filled with friend drama, crushes, and copied homework confessions, I didn’t ever worry. I knew you wouldn’t peek if you found them.

Two tender earlobes pierced for my sixteenth Christmas, even though you hated the idea. And when they got infected, you never once said, “I told you so.”

One Mom. A thousand ways to love. There’ll never be enough Christmases with you.

 

About the author

  

Julie Blaho is a creature-crazy country girl who divides her free time between teaching kids to ride horses and writing. She writes in Italy and has work published in Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 Words, and The People's Friend. www.julieblaho.com / Instagram: felicione_farm 

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In His Shadow by Shenelle Letourneau, green tea

Sarah clutches her mug in their silent apartment, steam brushing her chin as she glanced 

over at the  table, her notebook stale underneath a pile of Coffee-stained mail.

            Lucas enters the kitchen, gazing at his watch intently. He takes a breath with volume louder than the rusty furnace. “Why aren't you dressed yet?” asks Lucas.

            “I want to start writing again,” says Sarah.

            “What are you talking about? We’re late for my investiture ceremony, I need you to get dressed,” says Lucas.

            “Honey, I–I don’t want to go out tonight. I’ve been reminiscing –”

            “What do you mean you don’t want to go out? I need you to be there with me, otherwise I will look like a failure of a husband to the other professors.”

            Sarah places her mug of green tea on the table, the taste of which still lingers on her tongue, and stares at her notebook. “It’s been a really long time since I was able to have moments for myself, outside of your shadow. I need… no, I crave the ability to be me again, whatever that is now.”

            “I—I just—I have to sit down.” Lucas sits himself on the sofa and begins to tap his foot rapidly, “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Sarah, you act like I’m sucking your life away like a fucking vacuum cleaner!”

            “You are sucking my life away, I haven’t written a single idea down about what I want to do with my life since I’ve been supporting your career, just to keep a roof over our heads!” Sarah’s hands are damp now, trembling from internal sources fighting their way out.

            “My career supports our living expenses; it’s important and you’re not even supporting me. I need you to be here at my ceremony for appearances, otherwise my peers will think differently of me.”

            “See! This is what I’m talking about. You can’t even acknowledge my feelings right now; it’s about you. I feel like I’m living in Lucas’s world and there’s no room in there for me. I am only an extension of your success to show off.”

            Their cat, Darcy, walks into the room, stares at Sarah and does a long stretch. Darcy walks over to Sarah and rubs against her leg. She bends down and pets his soft fur.

            Lucas stands up quickly, lets out a sigh and then walks to the bedroom, in such a speed that a gust of wind can be seen on a nearby plant. A door slams.

            “Never mind him, Darcy boy, he’s just offended that I’m trying to get some self-respect around here, I hate when he talks to me this way. At least you love me, my handsome boy,” Sarah says to Darcy.

            Sarah moves her legs toward the bedroom, counting the tiles on the floor. She approaches the door to the bedroom and turns the handle to open the door. The door won’t open.

            “Babe, let me in so we can talk about this.”

            “No, Sarah, I don’t care what you have to say anymore. If you don’t want to support me then you should just leave. Women want a successful husband, and I shouldn’t feel guilty for my success.”

            Sarah slides her body down to the floor and leans back against the door. She sees herself in his shadow. “I just wanted someone to love me, I thought I was doing right by supporting your ambitions. I didn’t realize I would create this resentment between us. I think you’re right; maybe I’m not women enough for you anymore.”

            “Maybe you’re not.”

            “Maybe you’re right.”

About the author

  Shenelle is a student at Full Sail University pursuing her bachelor’s degree in media communications. She’s enjoyed video games and movies since childhood and has an appreciation for impactful trailers and storytelling.
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Bluebird by Eline Tuijn, creamy. comforting eggnog

 

Celebrating 80 years of liberation – originally written by me in Dutch for a Dutch writing competition and translated by me into English

Lieke walked down the corridor with a heavy heart, the sound of her heels muffled against the sea-green linoleum. The warm air was thick with the scent of old people and soup. Gently, she opened the door to room 5-25.

‘Gran?’ she whispered.

No response.

Afraid that she was too late, Lieke hurried into the room and over to the bed. Her grandmother lay calmly, her face turned towards the window. The sun cast a cruel light across her wrinkles. The corners of her mouth were etched downwards, her lips slightly parted. Her eyes were closed, sunk deep into their sockets. The once-striking cheekbones—that had made men weak at the knees—now jutted sharply from beneath the sagging folds of grey skin. Her skin looked as thin and fragile as paper.

Lieke sat down beside the bed and gently stroked the fine grey hair. The old woman turned her head, opened her eyes, and looked straight at Lieke.

‘Lieke, darling,’ her voice was hoarse. Lieke reached over to the bedside table for the glass of water, and carefully held it to her grandmother’s lips. Gratefully, she took two small sips.

‘How was Canada?’ she asked. Her nan never ceased to surprise Lieke. Her sharp mind, how engaged she still was. Lieke was so glad she was able to talk with her and share her news.

‘It was amazing.’

‘You’re glowing, sweetheart. Have you found yourself a beau?’ 

Lieke chuckled, partly at the old-fashioned word, and partly because her nan was right. ‘Yes, he’s called Brian. And you know, Gran, I even met Brian’s grandfather. He told me he’d been to the Netherlands during the war.’

Her grandmother nodded. ‘Ah, in 1945, I expect?’

‘That’s right,’ Lieke replied. ‘Do you still have many memories from back then, Gran?’

‘Oh yes, I remember a lot from that time. Not all of it pleasant…’ She paused. ‘But Liberation Day—yes.’

She made a move to sit up. Lieke got up to get a pillow from the cupboard and slipped her arm under her gran’s shoulders to gently lift her. It barely took any effort—she was as light and delicate as a bird. Lieke placed the pillow behind her and eased her back down.

Her gran smiled in thanks and continued,
‘We still lived in Apeldoorn then, you know. I can still picture it so clearly—those Canadian troops driving into the streets.’ Her eyes drifted, focused on distant memories.

‘There was barely room for them to pass. We were overjoyed. So happy to finally be free… And weren’t those Canadians a handsome bunch.’ A smile spread across her face.

‘I was still young, just fifteen, but I was quite a sight…’ With a slight tremor, she raised her arm and made to fix her hair. In her mind, she was that girl again—with thick blond locks she used to run her hands through. Her mother would scold her: Stop fiddling with your hair, it’ll get greasy.

‘Gran! Did you have a fling with a Canadian?’ Lieke asked in mock outrage.

Her gran chuckled quietly. ‘No, nothing like that.’ She gazed into the distance, her dull eyes brightening at the memories. ‘But it was my first kiss.’

Lieke beamed.

‘I only remember his first name — Jack. Dark hair, good-looking, the picture of health…’

Lieke giggled at the thought of her elderly gran kissing a stranger.

‘What happened afterwards? Did you stay in touch?’

‘No, my dear, they all moved on. It was just a special moment.’ Her voice was hoarse—whether from emotion or from talking so much, Lieke wasn’t sure.

Her gran closed her eyes for a moment. Concerned she might be tiring her out, Lieke began to gather her things to leave.

‘I gave him my embroidered handkerchief as a keepsake,’ her gran said softly, eyes still closed, sunk deep into the pillow.

Lieke looked up. ‘Not by any chance one with a little blue bird embroidered on it?’ she asked, half-joking.

Her gran opened her eyes and looked directly at her. ‘How do you know that?’

Lieke stared back. Without saying a word, she reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope. She handed it to her gran.

‘Brian’s grandfather gave me this just before he passed away. He said I reminded him of someone he’d once known.’

Three days later, the nurse found the old woman just passed away. The ghost of a smile still on her face, she was clutching a handkerchief yellowed with age showing a blue bird perched on a green branch, carefully stitched by the same loving hands.

About the author

 Eline is Dutch but lived in the UK until her early teens. She began writing later in life after a pivotal event that sparked her creative writing journey. She writes columns, short stories and poetry in Dutch and English, often with a wry sense of humour. 

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A Man Named Bernie by Dawn DeBraal Drink, egg nog

This special man used his time

and money, spending every dime.

To work with wood, making toys

Trains and tops for girls and boys

Painted reds, blues and greens,

This generous man behind the scenes.

They don’t know he’s Santa Claus

In every way he is, because.

His generosity knows no bounds.

Working nights, his hammer pounds.

And then he serves the children, poor,

Leaving gifts at each child’s door.

And on the day their gifts arrive.

The spirit of Christmas is still alive.

 

About the author

  

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, Red, a rescue dog and a stray cat. She has published over 700 stories, poems, and drabbles in several online magazines and anthologies. 

https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991 

https://linktr.ee/dawndebraal 

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Saturday Sample: A Most Amazing Zoo by Linda Flynn and Linda Laurie, lemonade

 

 

 

 

Find your copy here 

Short Sharp Friendship Exit by Nargis Lal, a Hanky Panky cocktail

Hayley’s a bit of a martyr. A people pleaser, to be polite. A self-centred bitch, to be honest, and isn’t that what most of us think of our friends? It depends, of course, what stage you’re at in the friendship. The bitch part comes when you’re bitter, usually at the very end. Jaya got the people pleasing part when Hayley welcomed her to Spanish class and leapt at the chance to own her. They struck up a classroom friendship and Hayley took to Jaya straightaway, sharing from the very start uncensored details of her life and why she lived alone. Her husband had taken his own life. He’d jumped in front of a train, on the track from Didcot to London. He’d been caught with a girl of fifteen and been suspended from teaching. He and Hayley had two grown-up sons.

 

    Hayley spoke openly and constantly about this, so much so that it seemed remarkably recent. It turned out to have happened in 2010 but talking to all and sundry was Hayley’s therapy. Her husband’s betrayal, his crimes and cunning, had crushed her. Jaya, naturally, was horrified and wished to help Hayley lance this wound. She listened to her for hours and checked in on her often. Jaya was empathetic and Hayley tunnelled into empaths’ brains, using passive aggressive techniques to demand time and attention.

Make sure that I’m not forgotten.

 

    Hayley had worked as an accountant and was skilled in maths and statistics. Like many woman of her age she’d never reached the heights she deserved. She was seventy-five, nearly two decades older than Jaya. Though she no longer worked she was much too bright to be retired. Her network of local friends and family was wide. She had never once lived outside Oxford. Compared to her Jaya was a newbie who’d amassed very few friends.

 

    Jaya and her husband Alex were not couply and their children had left home. Being married did not prevent Jaya from taking trips with friends and she invited Hayley to accompany her to Madrid. A short sojourn, sufficient for two local dinners and an art tour. Hayley left matters of choice to Jaya. I’m happy to go anywhere, see and eat whatever you want. Jaya chose the restaurants and at dinner Hayley complained that her family was not stepping up. That her sons neglected her for their wives. Though Jaya was ready to listen, and to sympathise, concrete examples of neglect were not proffered.

 

    The trip was a success and Jaya felt she finally had a new friend. Being in need of friends, as only children often are, she valued Hayley and hoped that this feeling was mutual. She got on with life in Oxford and her job in a science laboratory. But then she Subverted The Trend and left the Spanish class! With this one action Jaya fell from Hayley’s Roster of Active Acquaintances, the list that helped Hayley’s brain to rank and organise friends, and the rules of friendship changed. Jaya’s continued texts indicated that she did not get the updated rules. What should Hayley do now with Jaya, who no longer belonged? There was no file marked Random Friendships, or Floating Friends. Jaya had missed the script and wanted to remain on Hayley’s roster. She did strange, unexpected things. She sent texts to see how Hayley was and invited her for Christmas Day. And Hayley was in no doubt that this invitation was genuine.

 

    Hayley experienced mild panic. She’d complained for months that she feared being forgotten at Christmas but she was used to complaining. It was quite an imposition to be invited. Hayley lived in the past and Jaya was not even an old friend. Hayley opted not to reply; she must push Jaya out gradually. Jaya, for her part, hoped Hayley would respond. Her own South Asian family unit had vanished as people died. Friends had moved on, leaving her floundering. The rules of friendship, of interactions in general, seemed to have changed. It never used to be this hard. She feared appearing needy and did not press Hayley to RSVP, even as Christmas approached. She’s English, after all, and a little uncomfortable.

 

    It emerged later that there’d been a near-miss: Hayley had nearly spent Christmas on her own! She accepted a coffee from Jaya and recounted the supreme self-obsession of David, her locally-based son. He never even asked what I was going to do! Didn’t stop to wonder where I’d go for Christmas, or even to confirm his own plans. Well his wife had just proposed leaving the country to work on her own in Dubai. And I think they had a row and forgot about Christmas but I did think he could spare me a thought, you know. Hadn’t he even wondered what I’d do on the day? In the end I phoned my brother and he invited me to join his family, and oh goodness it was such a long drive to get there but they were so kind and next year I shall damn well make sure this never happens again and I shall book a trip away to avoid wanting my sons to take care of me because they obviously find it a terrible chore and how selfish of Mark to go with his wife and girls to Finland (where my daughter-in-law’s family lives) though actually they did originally invite me but somebody messed up on the Finland end and the property was too small for us all so I couldn’t go. By the way I do hope you’ll stay in touch now you’ve left the class. We must continue to meet up.

 

    Jaya and Alex invited Hayley to dinner at a local Thai restaurant. So glad you asked me. I never get invited out on a Saturday night! Alex spontaneously covered the entire bill and Hayley pretended to protest. I’ll buy you lunch in a few weeks, she offered. Weeks later (not wishing to seem pushy) Jaya texted to check that Hayley was alright. A jaunty reply zinged back. I’ve been thinking of you but I’m snowed under with David and Caroline’s new puppy. Love to see you (but I won’t do anything about it because honestly I’ve forgotten all about you and I know you like to have friends but you don’t come to Spanish anymore and I can’t think of anything to say when I see you and I’m not keen to plan lunch and think about where to go and in any case I’m so busy!)

 

    But do text. It’s so lonely when you don’t hear from people.

    No one ever seems to care. 

About the author

  

Nargis Lal is a new writer. Her achievements include: Short-listed for Cranked Anvil Flash Fiction Prize with ‘VIRGINITY’ Long-listed for Fiction Factory Short Story Competition with ‘MATRICIDE’ and ‘WALTHAMSTOW VILLAGE’ She is British Indian. Her stories deal with sex, race, politics, and relationships. 

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