'Rockpooling' by Sharon Telfer

“Look, Daddy, look!” She strains upwards, on tiptoes, arm, fingers, whole body outstretched, willing him to see. The black pebble gleams in her starfish hand. “I found some jet.” She plants it in his palm. “That’s not jet!” Her brother pulls at his sleeve, trying to get a better look. “It’s not, is it, Dad?” “Well, it does look like jet.” Unlikely, he thinks, and too heavy. “Let’s see what else we can find.” They lean their long shadows over the pool. He takes his daughter’s hand. Her sea-wrinkled fingers curl round his like suckers. Last summer, he had held onto her brother as tightly. Now the boy crouches at the edge, old enough to balance on his own. The green weed sways softly. A crab scuttles under the overhang. He names mussels for them. Barnacles. Sea squirts. They giggle at the words. Twice a day, he says, the waves come in and wash the pool clean. No one but them will ever see it just like this again. He glances up. The tide has turned, sooner than he’d expected. “I know what we should try to find now.” They look up, their faces like sea anemones, opening for what he will say next. “Mummy! And what was Mummy going to get?” “Icecream!” The boy is already away. Hoisting his daughter onto his shoulders, he strides after, calling warnings of seaweed and slippery rocks. The pebble, drying now to grey, lies forgotten, as the tide creeps in behind them. (First published on Faber Academy blog, Runner-up in weekly QuickFic competition, April 2016)

'Hell No It Was Fun' by Kath Kerr

Even though I had to share my table with a couple of guys who had a row about a girl and they almost started fighting and the beer was five pounds a bottle and someone spilled red wine on my silk jacket and I lost an earring and the ladies’ had flooded so my boots got wet and I found out right then that they leak and a girl kept staring at me and it was a bit scary and the music was loud and I don’t like rap or bluegrass much and the final episode of that series was on TV and the taxi home was twenty pounds and I only had fifteen so we had to go to a cashpoint and I couldn’t find my key and had to wake up my sister to let me in, at least my battery lasted long enough for me to receive your text saying you had been to football with your cousin and couldn’t make our date so not to wait around for you.

'Marks on a Page' by James Burr

The Writer-Who-Had-Never-Written-A-Word had read countless books on writing and on the walls of his bedsit were several large posters, structured outlines of novels he hadn’t written, stories he had not started, each scene linked to others with biro arrows, intricate manipulations of the most ingenious narrative structure of any work ever unwritten.

So he would read and research and plot and outline until one day, writing from life, he came up with the idea of a story about a writer who never gets round to writing anything.  He scribbled down character notes of the main protagonist, someone whose life and mannerisms were much like his own.  He pored through creative writing textbooks and outlined a potential narrative structure; it would be a tale of a writer who never got round to writing anything who has an idea that would be groundbreaking in its literary brilliance, yet the writer is tortured as he knows that he will never write it.

Excited, the Writer-Who-Had-Never-Written-A-Word scribbled down ideas on a piece of A4, linking ideas with arrows, adding others with creased Post-It notes.  He could start in media res, outlining the predicament of his writer who never writes, before flashing back to the past where he could lay the seeds of his theme and outline the anguish of the main lead.  Yes, the story could be about a writer who never got round to writing anything who has an idea that would be groundbreaking in its literary brilliance, who is tortured as he knows that he will never write it, who then writes a tale about a writer never gets round to writing anything who has an idea that would be groundbreaking in its literary brilliance, who is tortured as he knows that he will never write it.

The narrative possibilities opened up before him, as the Writer-Who-Had-Never-Written-A-Word excitedly imagined plots and sub-plots interweaving, a puzzle-box opening, a fractal narrative forming a tapestry of infinite repetition.  He spread sheets of paper across the mucky carpet, slapping Post-It notes between them as his work of outstanding genius developed.  Yes, his story would be one of a writer who never got round to writing anything who has an idea that would be groundbreaking in its literary brilliance, who is tortured as he knows that he will never write it, who then writes a tale about a writer never gets round to writing anything who has an idea that would groundbreaking in its literary brilliance, who is tortured as he knows that he will never write it, who decides to write a story about a writer who will never get round to writing it.

And so the Writer-Who-Had-Never-Written-A-Word feverishly manipulated sheets across the floor, an ever-growing spiral of ideas while on his desk lay his notepad and pan, not a single mark on the page, and ink that would never be used.

Adventure at the hairdressers by Chris Willis

 ' Be with you in a tick, Mrs Evans' said Alice, pulling her trolley across the room. ' Full works today then? I've got some new eye shadow in, it will bring out the colour of your eyes perfectly. I saw it in Boots yesterday, automatically thought of you. Mind, the cost of make-up is going up. I bought myself some new mascara, three and six it was. I couldn't believe it! We'll get your hair done first, oh, and I also got some new nail varnish, goes nicely with your outfit.'

 

  Alice had not been the best pupil at school, leaving at sixteen with no qualifications at all. This aside, she knew what she wanted to do, although her parents took some convincing, particularly her father. You would have been forgiven for thinking that she'd asked to fly to the moon, totally impossible!

  'Why can't you be like your cousin Edith?' he'd said, ' She could put a word in for you at Woolworths, I'm sure.'

The thought of standing behind a counter at Woolworths filled her with dread. Listening to women trying to choose between boiled ham or luncheon meat for Sunday tea, or could they just have a quarter of corned beef instead?

 'Beautician'  Her father grimaced, 'What sort of job is that for a young girl? You have ideas above your station, young lady.' The pleading went on until a compromise was reached. If she did the first year of the course and stuck with it, she could do the second year and the exam. If she failed, he would take her up to Woolworths himself.

  But she didn't fail, passing with flying colours, including a distinction. A fully qualified hair and beauty technician, the first in their family to go to college and achieve such good results, opening the door to a bright future. Her father wasn't moaning now! Quite the opposite, telling everyone what a talented daughter he had.

  As she promised, the new eye shadow made Mrs Evans' eyes look bluer than ever, and the soft pink lipstick and natural blusher completed the picture. Just the nails to do, a shade of red to compliment the two piece suit she was wearing.

 ' Almost done, I'll just take this fringe back a little more, so everyone can see those sparkling eyes of yours'

 She heard the door open, 'Just finishing here' she called, as she saw Mr Taylor standing in the doorway.

 'Another wonderful job, Miss Cooper, you are a credit to the firm. I'll just wheel her through to the chapel of rest, her family are waiting to say goodbye'.

  Alice loved her job.

Catechism by Emma Dykes

Father? I says, d’yer know my friend, Lou?

He doesn’t know her.

No, she don’t go to church. She’s protestant. Will she go ta Hell?

Hunky priest he is but mustn’t think that. It’s a sin. He says Yes. She don’t worship in the proper way but she’s my best mate and she’s comin to my Holy Communion. I got a white dress with a ribbon and an Aunty-knitted cardi. She should sit at the back in case she’s struck by lightning while I am received. She’s nice. She should stop saying Oh My Christ though because he’s not hers. I say Praise Peter God, cos that’s his name and I know him, cuz he’s in me somewhere. Sometimes her mum says Christonabike and I don’t know why and I feel funny when I laugh about it. We hang upside down on the metal bars and breathe creosote right up into our soft little brains. God can see our knickers. I won’t go to Heaven without Lou I don’t think.

'When Susan Died the First Time' by Christopher Allen

When Susan died the first time, the guys at the office filled a black leather book with 50 pages of heartfelt condolences. Back and front. That’s what they said: ‘heartfelt, back and front.’ I couldn’t open the book. It’s in the bedroom closet behind a big green box of yellowed tax receipts. Who has the steel for heartfelt, back-and-front condolences? From guys who never gave me anything but email porn jokes and MILF videos. Who wants to be reminded that she couldn’t keep Susan alive?

When Susan died the second time, I’d quit the office with the guys but I was a guy myself. This time, mourning Susan as a man, I was ready to seek the familiar, warm hands of guys—of buddies. I would unzip my grief to their affection, however they wanted it, but no one came. In the break room, averted eyes scoured the light green cement walls as I sat there, open; their silence left me wasting and wondering why Susan had lived at all.

The seventh time Susan died, I was so small that no one noticed. Hordes of Susans milled around me, ignoring my suffering with their oval, alien eyes, with their bared legs and teeth, with their laughing and ambitions and Susans of their own. To them—if they noticed at all—I must have seemed a speck. To them, I was just the droppings of a Susan, and Susans tended to leave the tiniest.

I was living in a little town called Susan on the outskirts of Susan when Susan died the ninth time. I’d just landed a job working for a man named Susan in a company named Susan. My name was Susan and when Susans spoke to me, they spoke a language called Susan because Susan was the only language I’d learned, and every noun, verb and adverb was Susan.

The sixteenth time it died, I refused to say its name. I sent two black suits to the cleaner’s and meant to wear them for a year, but when I went to pick them up I was told a man named Susan had taken them. So I dusted off the black leather book from the first time it died and read all fifty pages, each heartfelt condolence, back and front. The missives were strained and awkward; they were violets-are-blue and adaged—but also affirming of my insistent loss. Not one of them, not even once, had mentioned its name.

Originally published in Indiana Review; finalist in the 2013 Indiana Review ½ K Competition.

'Castle of Sand' by Chris Drew

My mum and dad take me to the beach every year for my birthday. When I get home I write everything down like a story and even draw pictures. Next year I’m going to ask for a camera so I can take photographs and start a scrapbook. This is what happened today: 1. Ice Cream I licked the dribbles of ice cream from my fingers and watched the seagulls soar in spirals overhead. My favourite is a vanilla cone with chocolate sauce and a chocolate flake and two wafers. My mum and dad sat on the wall either side of me until I’d finished every mouthful. 2. Shell I hung from their hands and rocked back and forth. The tide toppled over our feet and pulled the sand between our toes. I felt a sting under my heel but it wasn’t a jellyfish, it was just a broken shell that sliced the bottom of my foot. Did you know that shells are the protective skin of dead sea creatures? Like armour. When the animal dies, the shells wash up on the shore and sink into the sand. My dad lifted me onto his shoulders while my mum stuck a plaster on my foot. I looked down and saw the broken shell covered in blood before the waves scrubbed it clean. 3. Sand Castle We knelt in the shade of an umbrella. I collected a bucketful of wet sand while my dad scooped a deep ditch around my mum. The ditch is called a moat. It fills with water and stops invaders getting in. I started to build the castle around my mum while she looked straight ahead. Her eyes were mirrors that reflected the whole world. 4. Tide My dad stepped into the circle and put his hand on my mum’s shoulder. When he touched her she moved away and walked towards the sea. I ran to collect the sand before the tide reached us. I tipped my bucket over again and again and built the castle higher, wider, stronger. Water trickled into the moat and coiled around me. I reached up and tipped another turret. A wave scurried towards me and splashed my face. I grabbed fistfuls of wet sand and piled them into the towers, but the waves crashed over me and the walls crumbled between my fingers. 5. Sun I shielded my eyes and looked for my mum. She was in the sea, floating on her back. The sun throbbed like a heart and stained the water red. I screamed for her to come back, for my dad to save her, but she floated further and further away. 6. The End I stood between them as the whitecaps washed between my legs and devoured the castle. It melted like ice cream and disappeared, as though it had never even existed. It doesn’t matter though. Next year, I’ll build another one and take a photograph so I can remember it properly. So it will last forever.