'Soccer Mom' by Liz Milne

By -
I was walking to the shop, just, to get some bread for our tea. This woman was packing her three kids into the car, out for the day it looked like. She was holding a scooter in one hand – the foot-stand swinging and threatening to kneecap her; an inflatable footie goal in the other. Her smaller kids were already in, fighting with their seat-belts and swearing at each other (oh my god, move over, you prick; no dickhead, you move); the older lad was waiting, holding two footballs.

I’d slowed up to let a car pass before I crossed, so I saw it all.

The older lad was spinning one of the balls on the end of his finger but he dropped it. He tried to come forward to catch it, but it bounced slow and high twice. Once on the pavement, once on the road behind the mom. You could see the thoughts going through her head: little prat, told him to hold ‘em, oh that car, smash coming, it’ll be my fault – all in a split nanosecond. Then she twirled, flicked the other foot out, neat as you like, and booted the ball onto the back seat in between her other two kids as the vehicle passed by.

She looked up and I saw it as I stepped off the pavement. The pride in her eyes. Visions of Wembley, hoisting the trophy high, while the crowds whooped and cheered.

Then I was past, around the corner and at the shop, choosing between thick white toastie and medium sliced wholemeal.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

‘Honey’ by Patricia Quintana Bidar

By -
I knew a man who owned 150 items. One hundred of them were books. He was extremely specific about this number. Two plates, two bowls, one pot, one pan. One squeeze bottle of liquid soap he used for the counters, the clothes, his remaining hair. One Bobby Goldsboro record, but no turntable. He said one of the songs, Honey, had always moved him.

When his dog passed away, he replaced it. A plant; why didn’t I say plant? Although it is true about his dog.

I had the idea he was spiritual and wise. He was old. His sparseness was a turn-on. And the red rug on the floor beside his bed, so pleasing. I pleased him when I knelt on it. His framed, black-inked Eye of Horus lent the place a tang of the mystic.

It lasted seven weeks. One evening, I thought I’d pitch in and empty the garbage. He was out, walking the replacement dog. The bag was surprisingly full. I clocked the contents: the detritus of fast food wolfed when I was at work, eight squishy condoms (curtsy), and much-thumbed porn mag feat…
Read more

'How to Sacrifice Your Life in the line of Duty and Still Go Uncommemorated on War Memorials' by Jan Kaneen

By -
1) Sign up aged 18-25. Anytime between 28th July 1914 and 11th November 1918 will do.

2) Entrench yourself in dangerous back-breaking graft day after day, soldiering on in sulphurous gloom surrounded by barbed wire and unpredictable explosives.

3) Repeat for months/years until you’re dog-tired exhausted.

4) Never let up, especially at the eleventh-and-a-half hour of a twelve-hour shift.

5) Numb-finger fumble hair-triggered shells in biting cold whilst dreaming of sleep.

6) Let shockwaves rip you limbless so you’re already dead before body parts hit floor.

7) Make sure (and this is very important) that you’re female and a munitionette.
Read more

DEBUT FLASH: 'Come home' by Anne Chapman

By -
She sat on her sofa and listened patiently right up to the point when her Dad asked her to come home. She ended the call.

To go home would be to laugh together at terrible TV and lose together against quiz-show teams. They could direct all their anger at politicians ignoring interview questions. Dad would make her a cup of tea. She could cook him something she really fancied and he would eat it all and thank her and not mind the number of pans she’d used. And even wash them up. She didn’t move from the sofa.

Dad might not have asked her back if she hadn’t told him about the doctor. But Doctor Roberts sighed too much, too loudly, and she couldn’t keep that to herself. She’d gone to see him because she felt something had slipped in her mind, tipped certainty to mistake’s side of their usual divide in her thoughts. The two were becoming interchangeable. But apparently she didn’t need a counsellor. Nor antidepressants. She just needed to relax. Did she have any hobbies? When she’d tried a…
Read more