Saturday Sample: XY by Shanta Everington, 1, cola

 

Jesse watches through the smeared kitchen window as Randy plays football in the back garden with Zeus. Her brother's face is red and shining with perspiration and concentration as he tackles Zeus, before skidding on a muddy patch and ending up sprawled across the grass.

“Yes! Yes! Come on!!!” shouts Zeus, grinning as he punches the air, shaking droplets of sweat everywhere. He bends over laughing and then he looks up at the window, catching Jesse's eye before she looks away into the washing up bowl full of suds, feeling heat creeping across her chest.

“He's a proper teenage boy your brother, isn't he?” says Jesse's mother, Ana, smiling to herself as she hands Jesse a tea towel. “All rough and tumble. I'm so pleased for him that he has finally become himself.”

Jesse feels her shoulders tense up as she fingers the green checked cloth.

“Thanks for dinner, Mum,” she says, not meeting her mother's gaze as she starts drying the dishes. “The lasagne was lovely. I should go upstairs and do some revision once I've finished this.”

“I can teach you how to make it if you'd like?” says Ana, beaming at her daughter. “Maybe at the weekend, when you've not got so much school work to do?”

Jesse doesn't want to learn how to make lasagne. Or shepherd's pie or pasta bake. She doesn't want to learn to cook or study needlecraft or budgeting skills or any of the Female Life Skills on the syllabus. She doesn't want to play football either. She doesn't know what she wants. It was so much easier before. When she wore white and yellow and green and grey and played with trains and dolls at home, when Randy and Jesse shared everything. When they were the same. Before Ana took them to see Maya and they moved into their first flat, next door to the old man who smelled of urine. When she didn't have to pretend she'd made a decision. She feels the corners of her mouth quivering as her mother stares into her face.

“Oh Jesse, don't worry,” says her mother, rubbing her shoulders. “Your turn will come when you are ready. How are you feeling about things now, darling?”

Jesse shrugs her shoulders and tries hard to smile but somehow she can't quite manage it. Her mother takes the plate Jesse is busy drying out of her hands and places it on the scratched wooden work top.

“Don't worry, darling. I only ever want you to be happy. You've got to be ready, Jesse. Remember what happened to George.”

Jesse nods. She has heard the story of Uncle George so many times, it is etched on her brain, like a recurring nightmare.

“I think Zeus might have a crush on you,” says Randy over breakfast the next morning.

The family are in the kitchen, sitting around the big, old, oak dining table, a hand-me-down from one of Ana's friends. Most of their belongings are cast-offs. They are used to relying on the charity of others connected to Natural Souls. Ana has set the table with cereal, orange juice, toast and home-made preserves.

“Shut up,” says Jesse, spooning muesli into her mouth.

“Seriously. Didn't you notice the way he kept watching you yesterday when you came out into the garden with your tight top on? I don't think it was just your lemon ice lollies he was drooling at!”

Jesse feels her heart beating a little faster. Zeus is nice, she thinks, but nothing can happen. Zeus is one of the Nine Per Cent. He wouldn’t want her. At least not until afterwards. If she goes through with it.

“I know you like him!” continues Randy in a sing-song voice. “Don't worry, I won't tell him your secret!”

“Randy,” says Ana sharply, pouring milk into her bowl. “Don't wind your sister up before school.”

“I'm not!” protests Randy, rocking his chair backwards and stuffing toast into his mouth. “I'm just saying!”

Jesse carries on eating, feeling her cheeks burn.

Randy gets up from the table and whispers to Jesse on his way out of the kitchen, “He likes you, he likes you!”

Once her brother is out of earshot, Jesse turns to her mother.

“Mum, can I ask you a question?” she says, playing with her spoon, turning it over and over and watching her reflection morph into something grotesque.

“Anything,” says Ana.

“How old were you when you had your first boyfriend? I know it was different for you. You weren't born like us but...”

“I was fifteen,” replies Ana without hesitating. “The same age you are now. His name was Jack. He was a friend of my brother's too. He was born like you but he was a boy by the time I met him. It didn't last, of course.”

“What happened?”

“You mean why didn't it last?” asks Ana, absent-mindedly picking crumbs up off the table. “We were just kids. First love. It wasn't even love. When George died, well...  Jack's family moved away. It's just as well or I wouldn't have met your father and there would have been no Randy or Jesse.”

She looks up at Jesse  with a bright smile. Sometimes Jesse wonders what lies beneath her mother's happy face.

“I wish Dad was here,” says Jesse. “I wish he hadn't left  us.”

“I know, darling, but we have to be strong for one another. Think about what I said about seeing Maya again soon. Now, you don't want to be late for school, do you?”

Jesse gets up and takes her plates to the sink before grabbing her school bag and heading over to school. Today she has history, biology, religious education and sex education. It will not be a good day. Her bag weighs heavily on her shoulder. She thinks about the text books it contains and what they are teaching her.

 

“Ah, Jesse, so glad you could join us,” says Mr Hope as she slips into her biology class five minutes late, after a last minute visit to the toilets to make sure she looks right.

“Sorry, sir,” comes her feeble reply. She feels her school dress stick to her back as she finally removes the heavy bag and sits down at her desk.

Jesse looks around the classroom at the other girls. Debra Simmonds is painting her fingernails under the desk. But she isn't like Debra, is she? All the boys want Debra because everyone knows that Debra was born pure. She is one of the Nine Per Cent like Zeus. Jesse isn’t like Debra. She isn’t like the other girls, either. The assigned girls. What if they find out what she is? She wonders how Randy is getting on over at the boys' school. It is all right for him, now he's had the operation. But Jesse is scared. She doesn't know if she can go through with it.

Artemis smiles at her, through her spidery black fringe. They weren't friends before. But since Randy started going out with her it seems that Artemis wants to hang around with Jesse all day.

“Everybody turn to page one hundred, please,” instructs Mr Hope.

Jesse knows what is on that page and she doesn't want to look at it. The human reproductive system. But she has to. It is the same in the other classes; lessons all tell her she is wrong. Her mother is wrong. She wishes it had been done to her when she was born, like everyone else. Why did her mother make her have to choose when?

“Hi,” says Artemis, as they walk to the lunch hall.

Chairs scrape along the floor and the cutlery clatters. The air thick with the smell of over cooked food and teenage hormones. Jesse isn't hungry, not after looking at those diagrams all morning.

“Randy says Zeus likes you,” says Artemis, flicking back her long, black hair as they queue up for their food.

Jesse can see four tiny holes in Artemis's earlobe, where she has taken her studs out for school.

“I dunno about that,” mumbles Jesse, wishing she could be on her own again, as usual. She normally avoids conversation whenever she can, sits in the corner gulping down her lunch, pretending to read a magazine, flicking idly over the fashion pages full of celebrities that all look the same and scanning the problem pages to see if there is ever a question from anyone like her. But there never is.

“No, he really does, he told Randy and everything. He wants to go out with you. I know he looks confident and everything but he's really quite shy. So, he's sort of asked Randy to ask me to ask you out for him.!”

Jesse freezes as the dinner lady with luminous blue eye shadow spoons vegetable curry onto her plate.

“Don't you like him?” persists Artemis, grabbing an orange juice and passing one to Jesse.

Jesse shrugs and picks up her cutlery.

“He's gorgeous and really clever. What's not to like?”

“Maybe I'm just not ready for a boyfriend,” says Jesse, as Artemis follows her to her usual table in the corner and sits down.

“Oh, I get it,” says Artemis, waving her hands about. “You're scared! You're scared about having your first boyfriend. What, have you never kissed a boy before or something?”

Jesse bites her lip and slowly shakes her head.

“What, never?” asks Artemis, holding her spoon mid-air. “Not even with mouths closed? What about at the youth club disco? Come to think of it, I never saw you dance with anyone. Gosh, girl, I've got some work to do with you! Stick with Auntie Artemis and I'll soon have you coming out of your shell. I like a challenge.”

Artemis beams at Jesse as she tucks into a piece of naan bread. Jesse smiles and picks at hers. It would be good to have someone to talk to. She can see why Randy likes being around Artemis. She's bubbly and warm and seems to know what to do. Randy was inexperienced like her before Artemis but now look at him. 

“You're right,” says Jesse. “I am scared.”

But not for the reasons Artemis thinks. She must never find out the truth.

Find your copy here 

 

Cyril’s Story by Dawn Knox, lashings of lemonade

 ‘Who’d win in a fight between a T. rex and Bigfoot, Roger?’ asked Cyril.

‘Have we got a T. rex or a Bigfoot?’ Roger asked.

‘No. But I like to think ahead. When we’ve got them, who d’you think would win?’

‘Dunno. Who do you think?’ asked Roger.

‘Well, I think if the T. rex managed to—’

‘Cyril! Who are you talking to?’ Mum flung open the door of the office in the wooden cabin at the end of the garden. Her eyes swivelled back and forth.

‘No one, Mum,’ said Cyril with an angelic smile.

‘You’re not talking to that imaginary friend again, are you?’

‘No, I was just saying my times tables. Four nines are…um…thirty-six.’

‘Well, if you’re sure, Sweety-Pie,” Mum said. “I’m so glad you’ve grown out of that nonsense with Robert.’

‘Roger! His name’s Roger.’

‘Cyril! We’re ten years old, so we’re a big boy now. And big boys don’t have imaginary friends, do they?’

‘Five nines are…um…forty-five.’

‘Good boy,’ Mum said as she closed the door.

Cyril threw in a ‘Six nines are…um.’ as she walked up the path to the house.

The kitchen door slammed shut.

‘What are six nines, Roger?’ Cyril asked.

‘Dunno,’ said Roger, ‘I’m just imaginary. If you can’t remember; how d’you expect me to?’

‘So, back to the important stuff. Who d’you reckon would win, T. rex or Bigfoot?’ asked Cyril.

‘Who do you think?’ asked Roger.

P’raps Cyril was getting too old for an imaginary friend. It wasn’t like Roger ever answered anything. But then again, he never disagreed with Cyril either. School had been one long argument. The others had picked on him or had got him into trouble for picking on them. And as for the teacher…

‘That woman blames our Cyril for everything,’ Mum had told Dad. ‘He’s a sensitive boy, so I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to home-school him.’

Cyril had punched the air in triumph, and so had Roger. Of course, Cyril had to work now and again, but Mum spent a lot of time chatting with her friends, giving him time to go to his den behind the rhododendron bush next to Mr Johnson’s fence. If Mum discovered he’d left the office, he usually claimed he was studying flora and fauna. He wasn’t sure what flora and fauna were, but Mum was thrilled, so it didn’t matter.

‘Comin’ Roger?’

‘D’you think I should?’

Cyril slipped out of the office without replying. He knew Roger would be there for the world’s first battle between a Stegosaurus and an alien army. The size of the army would depend on how many marshmallows remained in the bag he was clutching, by the time he reached the battle site.

Luckily, Mum bought huge packs of snacks, so with cheeks stuffed full, Cyril tipped the rest out and saw there were enough for an alien army. He pushed a Cheesy Wozzler into each marshmallow.

‘Laser guns?’ asked Roger.

Cyril nodded.

Now for the Stegosaurus.

Cyril nibbled the edges of several crisps until they were the right shape, then pushed them into the top of a large, jam doughnut, to give rows of pointed, armoured plates.

He placed the Doughnut Stegosaurus on the tea tray opposite the pink and white Marshmallow Alien Soldiers armed with Cheesy Wozzlers, and surveyed them.

Once, Mum had almost caught him mid-fight, but the den was sufficiently inaccessible that he’d had time to sweep the Swiss Roll Crocodile and Liquorice Python into the carrier bag and shove it under the bush before making a show of inspecting a leaf.

‘Look, Mum, you can see it photosynthesising,’ he’d said.

She’d squealed with delight, although she’d added that you couldn’t actually see photosynthesis take place, but well done for looking. He’d then suggested she give him a spelling test. Mum had almost expired with joy.

By the time Cyril had got back to his carrier bag, it had been invaded by a swarm of ants.

‘Ants beat Crocodile and Python,’ Roger had remarked.

Cyril checked his watch. He had plenty of time for Doughnut Stegosaurus and the Alien Marshmallow troops to fight.

‘Who d’you think’s gonna win?’ he asked Roger.

‘Dunno. Who do you think?’

‘Stegosaurus,’ said Cyril, dropping the doughnut forcefully onto the marshmallow cohort.

The aliens fought valiantly but were all squashed to oblivion by the Stegosaurus until he was wounded by a Cheesy Wozzler. Gushing jam, he died, but not before Cyril pronounced him the winner.

‘You were right, as usual,’ said Roger.

‘Mmm,’ agreed Cyril through a mouthful of doughnut.

‘Want some?’ Cyril gestured to the mess on the tray.

‘No thanks.’

‘Oh well, I guess I’d better eat the lot.’

‘Yeah,’ said Roger, ‘well, you usually do.’

 

Lunch had been cut short by the arrival of Mum’s friend, Florrie.

‘You’ll never guess what Mr Johnson’s been doing…’ she stopped when she spotted Cyril.

‘Take your lunch to the office, please, Sweety-Pie. I’ll be along shortly to mark your history essay,’ said Mum.

Florrie was hopping from foot to foot in anticipation of sharing her news, so he knew Mum would be occupied for some time discussing boring Mr. Johnson.

‘Of course,’ he said, grabbing his sandwiches and closing the back door behind him.

‘Right, Roger, follow me. I’ve had an idea. You know you were saying we need to find some new challengers?’

‘No, I don’t remember that.’

‘Well, if you’d have thought about it, that’s what you’d have said.’

‘Yeah, I guess I would.’

‘I’ve thought of two new opponents.’

‘Who?’

‘Man-eating Tiger versus Killer Wolf.’

Roger nodded. ‘Good choice. Do we need to go to the supermarket for more supplies?’

‘No, these are real fighters.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Follow me.’

 

Mr Johnson’s cat, Horatio, eyed Cyril warily.

‘Here, kitty.’ Cyril peeled a sandwich apart and dropped the salami on the grass.

Horatio rose slowly and ambled to the meat. He sniffed it delicately and then turning his nose up, he was about to saunter off as fast as an overweight cat can saunter when Cyril grabbed him.

‘You weren’t much help,’ Cyril said to Roger later, as he inspected the scratches and bite marks on his hands and arms.

‘I thought you had it under control,’ said Roger.

‘Well, at least we know he won’t need any training. He’s combat-ready and can obviously look after himself, so we’d better train the Wolf.’

 

Cyril was gasping for air, by the time he’d climbed over Mr Johnson’s fence, crept across the end of his garden and clambered into Mrs. Winterbottom’s. On the way, he’d had the strangest feeling he was being watched. It had unnerved him and for a second, he thought he saw a grey face appear in the window of Mr. Johnson’s shed.

‘Rubbish,’ said Roger, ‘you’re just chickening out of finding the Wolf.’

‘I’m not! Look, I’ve got my training weapon. I’m ready!’

‘That’s a fluffy duster on a stick.’

‘Watch and learn,’ said Cyril.

 

Robert Louis Stevenson’s overgrown fringe might have obscured his vision, but it hadn’t hindered his sense of smell and he’d homed in on the meat with which Cyril lured him to the end of the garden, like a salami-seeking missile.

‘You call that a wolf!’ Roger scoffed. ‘He looks like a bit of fluff on steroids.’

Cyril waved the duster in front of Wolf.

‘What’re you doing?’ asked Roger.

‘I’m going to train him to attack. The duster looks a bit like a cat. Aargh—’

‘He’s a quick learner,’ said Roger as Robert Louis Stevenson pounced and pinned the duster to the ground. ‘Why’s he bouncing up and down on it like that?’

‘Beats me,’ said Cyril, ‘but he looks like a pro. I don’t think there’s much I can teach him about fighting.’

Cyril was beginning to doubt he’d ever get the pink, fluffy duster out from beneath the quivering Robert Louis Stevenson. Finally, he prised the dog off with his foot and made it back to the office, seconds before Mum came to check up on him and mark the history essay he hadn’t done.

‘Seven nines are…um…’ he said hopefully.

 

The following day, Cyril rose early and copied something from the Internet into his history book, ready for Mum when she got back from driving Dad to the station.

‘Where’s the fight gonna be?’ asked Roger.

‘In Mrs. Winterbottom’s garden. She’ll let Wolf out soon and then we’ll have to encourage Tiger over there.’

Cyril cut the bacon he’d saved from his breakfast into small pieces and laid a trail from the office, across Mr. Johnson’s garden and into Mrs. Winterbottom’s. Again, he had the strange feeling that someone was watching him and he was glad to get back into his garden. But all thoughts of the weird face he thought he’d seen were pushed from his mind when he received a text from Mum saying she would stop at the supermarket on the way home. Brilliant! Now there’d be plenty of time for the fight.

‘Look, there’s Horatio!’ whispered Roger. ‘He’s found the bacon.’

‘I wonder if he can save his!’ said Cyril.

‘His what?’

‘His bacon, stupid. Keep up, will you.’

Cyril crept after Horatio and watched over the fence as he progressed across Mr Johnson’s garden, daintily picking up the bacon pieces. He paused momentarily and stiffened with his ears pricked up.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ asked Roger.

Cyril shrugged and then, inexplicably, the world of normality imploded.

From somewhere behind the bushes in Mr. Johnson’s garden, came the stamping of feet and the rattling of beads, followed by rhythmic chanting.

‘Who’s that?’ whispered Cyril, his eyes wide in alarm.

‘Dunno,’ said Roger.

Through a gap in the bushes, Cyril could see Mrs Winterbottom and her friend Miss Scrivener excitedly bobbing up and down behind the fence.

‘Grown-ups!’ said Cyril. ‘They’re all barking mad.’

And as if on cue, Robert Louis Stevenson started barking madly, while Miss Scrivener screamed.

‘If Wolf doesn’t calm down, he’ll exhaust himself before he’s even set eyes on Tiger. We’ve got to do something,’ said Cyril.

‘We’ve lost Tiger,’ said Roger.

‘There he is,’ said Cyril, pointing at the ungainly cat perched in the pear tree. ‘If you ask me, he’s a coward. He ran off when Wolf started barking. So, the Wolf wins.’

‘Listen!’ said Roger.

‘At what? I can’t hear anything for all the noise.’

‘I think it’s your mum calling.’

Cyril burst out of the rhododendron bush, taking both Mum and Horatio by surprise. There was the splintering of wood and frenzied barking in Mr Johnson’s garden, accompanied by shrieks, yells and shouting.

‘What on earth… Oh no! Cyril! Cyril! Watch out!’ yelled Mum as Horatio teetered sideways and stepped onto a dead bough.

The blow of the branch and cat knocked Cyril down, driving the air from his lungs, and he lay on his back, struggling for breath.

‘Get that cat off my Cyril,’ shouted Mum at Mr Johnson, who’d suddenly appeared at the fence. He climbed over and picked up the dazed Horatio, cradling him tenderly.

‘You should keep that young whippersnapper under control,’ he said, pointing at Cyril. ‘He’s a menace.’

‘It’s your cat that’s the menace…’

Clutching his chest and wheezing, Cyril crept towards the house.

‘Where were you when I needed you?’ he asked Roger, but there was no reply.

Once in his bedroom, he surveyed the madness taking place below. Mr. Johnson and Mum were still arguing, as were Mrs. Winterbottom and Miss Scrivener. Robert Louis Stevenson was yapping hysterically. And as if there wasn’t enough racket, a grey figure with swinging dreadlocks leapt into view, shrieking and wailing. He scrambled over the fence and crossed Mrs Winterbottom’s garden in a few bounds. Hurdling into Mrs Didcott’s garden, he swerved and bounded over the wall into Mr Pegwell’s, finally slipping into the shed.

‘Let’s never grow up, Roger. Grown-ups are bonkers.’

‘Well, I won’t,’ said Roger, ‘but you might have to.’

The arguments below were subsiding. Mr Johnson had climbed back into his garden and was now talking to Mrs Winterbottom over the fence. Miss Scrivener, Mum, Horatio and Robert Louis Stevenson were nowhere to be seen.

But the interesting thing was that Mr. Pegwell’s shed was rocking.

‘You know what?’ said Cyril. ‘I reckon there’s a fight going on in that shed. I saw that Zombie bloke go in there and I bet he’s battling Mr. Pegwell.’

‘Yeah,’ said Roger.

‘Who d’you reckon’ll win? Zombie or Mr Pegwell?’ asked Cyril.

‘Dunno,’ said Roger. ‘Who do you think?’

 

If you’d like to read the previous stories:

Glady’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/03/gladyss-neighbourhood-watch-by-dawn.html

Minnie’s Story is here - https://www.cafelitmagazine.uk/2024/04/minnies-story-by-dawn-knox-milk-shake.html

About the author

 Dawn’s three previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’ and 'The Crispin Chronicles' published by Chapeltown Publishing. 'The Post Box Topper Chronicles' is coming soon. You can follow her here 

on https://dawnknox.com 

on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls 

Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox 

 

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The Island by Gill James, motorway service station tea

 

The Island

 

"This do for lunch?" 

"Fine."

I'm stiff. I've sat still for mile after dreary mile. There is a suggested walk at the motorway service station.

"Shall we try it?" I say after we've eaten.  

He shrugs.

"We're doing well for time. I'd like to enjoy some fresh air."

"Fresh air? Near the motorway?"

"But it goes through the woods, look."

He's as grumpy as ever. And I really resent this trip. We're on our way to his great-aunt's funeral. I've never met her.

"We've got to go to the funeral. She's left us something in her will," he said when he told me about her death.                      

I hated waking up this morning. Not just because of the journey but because I've dreamt about the island again. Every time it seems a little less real and I just have to accept that it's only a dream. But why do I keep dreaming about it?

Has it ever been real? The memory - if it is a memory - is of a place that only a few people know. That I discovered by accident. That is our secret. Mine and the children's. And every time I go there in my dreams it’s an oasis. A place of peace and tranquillity. I'm sure it’s somewhere we used to visit when we lived in Holland. There is a little red Renault on the edge of the dream and our children, when they were quite small.

The dream is vivid enough. It's not a dessert island. It's a garden within a garden. You cross over to it by one of four narrow bridges. Then there are little pathways, rose bushes, a fountain that gurgles in a pond and inviting benches. Butterflies flit from flower to flower. Bees buzz. No one but us ever seems to find the little bridges. I am so sure I've been there several times with the children and even a few times on my own. But the more I dream about it the more I think I'm just remembering a dream.

We follow the path through the woods. It takes us into a park. My heart thuds into my chest as I recognise the garden. It's that one. Here are the little bridges.

"Let me show you a secret," I whisper.

"What?"

I take his hand and lead him across to the island. For once he doesn't resist. We sit on a bench and listen to water gurgling in the pond.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" he murmurs. "But how did you know?"

I tap the side of my nose.

 

The funeral is bearable after all. Six weeks later we receive a letter from his great-aunt's solicitor. She has left to each of our three children thirty percent of her estate and my husband ten percent. We also inherit her little red Renault and a painting of a formal garden with a fountain. The painting is called The Island.         

About the author 

 Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing. 

http://www.gilljameswriter.com 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE 

https://twitter.com/GillJames 

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Sibling Love by Leonie Jarrett, a glass of crisp, cool Chardonnay

“Do you always have to be so annoying?” yelled Sarah as she glared at her younger brother, Tim. “Stop changing the TV channel you little pain.” Sarah snatched the TV remote from Tim and changed the channel back to the show she was watching.

 

“Muuuummmm. Tim is being a pest and fiddling with the TV again. Can you make him stop?”

 

The kids’ Mum, Chloe, called out from the study. “Tim, stop fiddling with the TV. Sarah, stop shouting. I am trying to work here.”

 

Eight year old Tim looked at twelve year old Sarah and smiled at her with the typical smile of a sibling who has aggravated his older sister. A gappy, self-satisfied smile as he was currently missing his two front teeth. “You’re always hogging the TV Sarah. It’s my TV too and your show is boring.”

 

With that, Tim snatched the TV remote and changed the channel again. Sarah shrieked and snatched the remote back and Tim retaliated the best way he knew how – he grabbed Sarah’s long, brown ponytail and he pulled it. Hard.

 

“Owwwww,” yelped Sarah as tears sprung to her eyes, “You little menace.”

 

Chloe appeared in the doorway thundering, “What is going on? I am trying to draft and schedule my social posts so that we can do some fun stuff together tomorrow but I can’t concentrate. All I can hear is you two fighting.”

 

Chloe was an influencer. A single mother, she had cottoned on to a sweet spot blogging about solo parenting. She was happy that she made enough money to manage without having to ask ‘Deadbeat Dad’ for anything.

 

“He pulled my hair Mum. He’s a bully.” Sarah was trying not to cry (she didn’t want to give that pleasure to Tim) but her eyes were moist.

 

“Tim,” admonished his mother. “You can’t pull people’s hair.”

 

“She never lets me watch the TV Mum. I live here too. She acts like I don’t exist.”

 

“Wish you didn’t,” spat Sarah.

 

“Sarah! Don’t say that. Go to your room,” ordered her mother.

 

“But,” spluttered Sarah, “I didn’t do anything wrong. That little weasel did.”

 

“You should know better Sarah,” replied her mother. “You’re older. And don’t call Tim a weasel.

 “Now, I need to go back to work. I better not be interrupted again. It’s hard enough trying to work from home with you two under my feet during the school holidays.”

 

Sarah stomped off towards her room. As she passed her brother, she hissed in his ear, “You’ll get yours later.”

 

Chloe walked back to the study and posted her afternoon Insta update to her followers - a sweet photo of Sarah and Tim snuggled on the couch, reading side by side. The photo was a year or so old but that didn’t matter. Chloe captioned the photo, “The joy of reading together to while away the school holiday hours #siblinglove #friendsforever #bonding.”

 

“Instagram versus reality,” Chloe mused wryly to herself for the umpteenth time that week. 

About the author 

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie has variously been a lawyer and a business owner. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

 

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The Girl in the Photograph by John Saunders, mojitos

 Judith and Steven live in the flat next to us although you'd never know. They are rarely seen or heard and when they are it's when they are going out in the morning or coming back in the evening. They keep themselves to themselves and if you pass them on the stairs, the best you get is a cursory nod of the head or a momentary glance as if they are hiding something. They dress like young professionals. They might be doctors, solicitors, architects, who knows? There is something stand-offish about them, reserved, or perhaps they are just shy. The only reason we know their names is from the nameplate at the street door. When they are in, you'd never guess it. No music playing or even the whisper of radio through the thin plasterboard walls of the duplex. They seem to be away every weekend. Most likely they visit their parents or maybe they have a country retreat. Whatever they do, they have a very quiet life. They mind their own business.

We, on the other hand, are party animals, always looking for an excuse to go out or invite friends in. There's rarely a quiet night with us. We work hard and play hard as the saying goes. We are young and sucking at life like hungry calves. And why not? When you are in your early twenties that’s what you do? You attack life without fear or worry. Consequences don’t exist. You take risks because it's always someone else that shit happens to. Not me, not us.

Pam and I have lived here for the last twelve months. We’re serious and not serious if you know what I mean. We work for iPoint, the new tech firm. Both of us are in Sales and Marketing, so lots of big bonuses when we score hits. Our job is to sell online adverts at an astronomical cost to the big multinationals who want to take over the world. We’re happy to serve them. So you see we have little in common with Judith and Steven. They are boring late twenty-year-olds, probably planning to get married and saving for a down payment on a house. Wage slaves if ever I saw them. Pam and I might get hitched, we don’t know. For now, it's party time.  The weekends are best, late nights at our favorite nightclubs, lie-ins to let the hangovers evaporate, lounging around with friends over good wines and craft beers. If you're ever looking for a party night, Pam and Jimmy’s is the place to be.

It's a Wednesday night in June when there is a knock on the door, a gentle tap. Judith is standing there when I open it. She is dressed in a dark knee-length dress, her brunette hair tied back in a tight bun. She’s in her stocking feet. She looks at me sheepishly.

“Hi there, I'm Judith, from number fourteen next door; I hope I not disturbing you.”

“Not at all, come in,” I say.

Pam is in the kitchen and steps into the sitting room to meet Judith, now standing between us. There is an embarrassed silence.

“Judith”, I say to Pam, “from next door."

“Hi, great to see you, we've met in our comings and goings, I'm Pam, this is Jimmy.”

Judith looks around the messy flat, the table still has dinner leftovers, and the armchair is piled with laundry just out of the dryer.  Pam quickly moves it, I turn off the TV. Pam and I sit on the sofa, Judith on the armchair. She sits upright in the chair with her hands on her lap gently clasped. A regal pose or maybe like a model. I note the silver jewelry, rings, earrings, and a light chain around her neck. There is an air of calmness about her, a self-assurance as if she is an honored guest and she is about to be presented with an award. But she’s not, instead, she is here to ask us a favour.

 

The following Saturday, we both checked in on number fourteen. They are both away in Budapest for two weeks, a sort of holiday mixed with work. It turns out Steven is a professional photographer and he's got a gig there with a tourism company. A step up from the usual weddings, and baby portraits. She's a secretary in a medical clinic.  They have asked us to keep an eye on the flat and look after Gretta and Sarah. They're guppies, both about four inches long and multicolored with the most stunning fan tails. They are rather beautiful as they swim about the lit-up tank in the sitting room. It is a simple job. Feed them every other day, be careful not to overfeed, and check the temperature is stable. That's all.

The following Monday, I drop in, feed the babies, and check the water temperature. All good and they look good. I stand for a moment mesmerized by them swimming like underwater ballet dancers through the tepid water, peaceful, unconcerned about the world around them. My eyes wander to the wall behind the tank, drawn by the photograph. A portrait, framed in wood, head and shoulders. A beautiful woman, with long dark hair flowing about her face, her skin, perfect ivory, her eyes bright stars shining from dark circles of mascara. The look is sultry, her lips parted in a half smile. It's Judith, but it takes a few seconds to connect the picture with reality. The background is subtly lit, a professional shot of course.  I look around and notice other photographs, on the walls, sideboard, and desktop. All of Judith but all different in pose, lighting, and dress. They have one thing in common. She is beautiful in all of them. There are a couple of small ones of both of them but clearly, they are amateurish, snapshots taken on the hoof at some event. The room is a photo montage of Judith. That evening, a rare night in, I cannot get the pictures out of my head. Pam is making mojitos for us and a couple of friends who have just dropped in. I join in the crack but my mind is distracted. Never before have I seen such beauty captured and I keep thinking about how she looks in reality, how she keeps her hair tied up, uses the minimum of makeup, and wears dowdy dresses that a nun wouldn’t even wear.

I volunteer to feed the babies. Pam doesn't mind since I’m always home from work first and she thinks tropical fish are not the most exciting pets and are a little bit creepy. They swim in silence for most of their lives, in a glass tank with no interaction with the rest of the world. She can live without seeing them. After doing the necessary, I wander around the flat staring at the photos, mesmerized, as if they have a magnetic force that draws me in. It is the eyes that catch me, the lips that call my name, and give the invitation to stay. It's as if she is posing to please me, to satisfy my every desire conscious and unconscious. I feel an inner urge. I'm curious about other rooms and against my better judgment, I explore, the kitchen, and the bathroom and find myself in their bedroom. The curtains are drawn and I can just make out in the half-light, the bed, wardrobes, dressing table, and a chaise longue strewn with clothing. I scan the walls and sure enough there are more photos. Some head and shoulders ones similar to the sitting room. But there is one other, a larger one, and guess what, there she is, in full pose, lying naked on a chaise longue, most likely the one in the room. She is stretched out full length, her hair draped over the velvet headrest fanned like a guppy’s tail, her arms extended over her head and her legs spread to reveal all.  A reclining goddess. Her face has the same warm, inviting look that takes me in. By now I am flushed with the rumblings of desire. I sneak out of the flat quietly, as if the fish might hear me.

 

I was almost glad when they arrived home. I had fulfilled our commitment dutifully and had taken my time with each visit. The babies Sarah and Gretta are warm and well-fed. Judith and Steven dropped by with a present to thank us for our baby minding. We invited them in for a quick drink. Judith had a wrapped parcel. Pam said that I was the main minder so Judith handed me the gift and smiled at me in that warm and inviting way that I had not witnessed from her before, at least not in real life. 

 

About the author

 John Saunders is a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group. His collections are After the Accident (Lapwing Press, 2010) and Chance (New Binary Press, 2013). He is one of three featured poets in Measuring, Dedalus New Writers, 2012. 

 

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