'The Broken Areas' by Alan Beard

She stood in front of a house that looked bombed, at a quiet junction. She led him through a garden of nettles, then through a wavering ‘V’ of knocked out bricks, to fuck amongst the rubble on a coat laid down.

After she got her clothes together, accepted a lit fag from him. She talked about going home, a flat nearby, a whisky before turning in, pulling back her hair as she gave him details. Through the murk he saw her ears, tiny and concise, her fingers bringing the cigarette up and down to her mouth, the purse of her lips as she exhaled. A turning car lit her up briefly like a white flame and he asked could he come back with her, all the money he had, and she agreed to one last fuck there, in the warm, seeing as he had eighty quid in his hand, but that was it.

*

She took him down afterwards, in the silver lift, saw him out.

He didn’t know where he was in the city, tufts of grass outside the closed up building, pavement and tarmac scuffed with broken areas. He thought to lay down on it, like it was the frayed carpet of her flat, as if the warm cat might come and curl up by him, near enough to hear it purr.

He lay on the damp concrete, faint light breaking, birds singing, and imagined the earth, the world beneath the concrete, the huge weight of it suspended in space and slowly, slowly revolving. The trees in the street were feathery, the buildings soft like rubber in the dawn, he thought about getting up but didn’t want to before she’d opened the curtains and seen him there.

first published in Wufniks, 2010.

‘The Salesman’ by Hema Nataraju

"Ten rupees for this bouquet, didi. It's just as pretty as you.” A little hand, grimy and callused, knocked on the car window.

“I know you get flowers from the cemetery.” I put my sunglasses back on.

“But didi, what will the dead do with flowers?” The diamonds in his eyes twinkled.

'Cabin Fever' by Monica Dickson

My brother broke every plate in the house that day. Didn’t mean to scare me, just all got to him, I ‘spose. The endless prannying about with tubes and bags and contracts. Or maybe just cabin fever.

Bless.

He was always a fainter. And if he weren’t folded up with belly ache, he was puking his guts out ‘til there was nothing left to come up but bile that looked like cuckoo spit spiked with egg yolk. Enough to put anyone off their food. So he stayed in bed most days, tangled himself up in the sheets. A bag of bones and covered in sores; sticky, oval shaped, like half-sucked boiled sweets. He bruised bright greens and yellows if you pinched him.

I’ve always liked hospitals. The way everything outside stops existing. The doctors and nurses gave me Star Wars figures, explained X-rays, asked me what I thought. It weren’t just Desmond’s weird symptoms that made us interesting, it was the two of us, together – inseparable and technically identical, apart from I was thriving and he was wasting away. Our Dad used to call him ‘the runt of the litter’ and say, “Whilst Vincent, here, is the epitome of rude health”. Looking back I’m not sure he meant it in a good way. For some reason he always said it in the voice of Dick Van Dyke, which made it harder to tell.

Still; made me proud.

By the time we saw eighteen, Dad was dead. The cigs, the booze, the beatings. Go figure, as they say in America. Not much has changed, to be honest; I always was the responsible one. Like I say to the press, there are good days and bad days, he’d do the same for me, we have a special bond, yada yada. Sometimes he perks up, wants to go out but I usually persuade him it’s a bad idea. He needs his sleep. When we went to collect my Young Caregiver of the Year Award I had to give him a triple dose of sedatives just to calm him down; he can get very chatty. Gave me a chance to get a word in edgeways to be fair, those interviews are exhausting enough without having to talk over him. The cash started flooding in after that. Adapted the flat, learnt to drive, took him to Disneyland. We’ve had a bit more interest since then from the telly and agents – we’re talking misery memoir, you know the kind of thing. Working title: He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Twin Brother.

So he was upset about the book deal. I thought he’d be pleased for me, fucksake. It’s a wotsit, an anomaly, really, his little outburst but I keep a syringe handy now, just in case. And he’s strapped in the chair more or less permanently. It’s for his own good.

Bless.

'Escapism' by Munira Sayyid

I knew a man who dreamed with his eyes open.

Heavy-limbed, dirt-splotched skin; like him, his beard had seen better days. He wore knotted rags that guaranteed his unmentionables were hidden from the world. Every morning, I would find him under the traffic lights. He'd marked his territory with debris, discarded knick-knacks and things that festered when ignored. He was always busy, searching among the dirt and stone. The map in his mind played tricks on him and the spot marked 'X' flitted like a butterfly, always just beyond his grasp.

There were periods of exhaustion, when his bubbled legs gave out on him. His eyes would shimmer with visions from the past. Then he would slap his head and shake it off, like a bad dream that threatened to take control.

One day, I saw a policeman next to his slumped form. His sunglasses prevented his eyes to soak in the confused isolation and misplaced life. The man's lips moved, garbled words assuring how close he is to finding it - his diamond in the rough.

After that day, I never saw that man again.

His home was torn down and an abyss lay in its place. Perhaps, those who complained feared the filth on his flesh was a precursor to an undefined disease. Possibly, they interpreted his silence as volcanic rage that did not cease for kindness nor reason. Maybe it was simpler. They did not like absorbing the city's reality; this plight yawning wider and wider. Like a shameful secret, best swept under the rug.

Out of sight, out of mind. Ignorance is bliss. Maybe, they too preferred to reside in their dreams.

'Longing' by John Wheway

The dog is practising the piano. The click of his claws against the ivories, enhances rather than detracts from Bartok, he thinks, working through Book 5 of the Mikrokosmos. But before attempting Beethoven, or Chopin, he must find some way to get across to his human the necessity of clipping them.

In the kitchen, in her apron, the human reorganises meat and bones in the freezer, tidies the biscuit cupboard. She attempts a little dance to the Balkan rhythms, listing like a peasant whose one leg is shorter than the other.

Sometimes, while the dog goes out for a run, she sneaks into the music room and sits on the piano stool, glancing over her shoulder. She wishes she could play Claire de Lune, or another French piece, but she can’t even read music. She gazes at the keys, her fingers bunched on her knees like bananas.

What she can enjoy is lowering her feet onto the pedals, both pedals at once, and pressing down keys at random, building up an enormous layer of sound. The sounds shimmer like the memories and dreams that make up a person. She listens until they die away.

'Escalation' by Christopher Stanley

Six-year-old Jake Wilmot lurks in the doorway of a sitting room that never left the seventies. Burnt-orange shag pile carpet and wallpaper that’s a forest of overlapping ferns. Jake’s cheeks are spotted with tears to match the decorations on the standard lamp and he leaves them there, waiting for his parents to see. Against the back wall, his mum irons bedclothes in a shroud of fragrant steam, while his silver-haired stepfather hogs the sofa in front of the football. Neither of them notices Jake until he steps into the room.

“What’s up?” asks his stepfather.

“Carl from number forty-two took my dinosaur and won’t give it back.”

Jake’s stepfather nods as if this was inevitable—like bruises on a little boy’s knee. “You’ve got to stand up for yourself,” he says. “Watch.” He puffs out his chest, takes a firm hold of Jake’s shirt collar and forms a fist with his other hand. “Give it back!” he roars, spittle dancing from his teeth. Jake jumps and bursts into tears. “That’s all you need to do,” says his stepfather, calmly straightening Jake’s collar. “Now go and fetch your toy.”

Five minutes later, Jake tries to sneak through the living room but his stepfather is waiting for him. “I did what you told me to do,” says Jake, his face crumpled like used wrapping paper, “but Carl just laughed at me and I didn’t know what to do next.”

“You hit him!” says his stepfather, slamming his fist into the palm of his hand.

The next time Jake comes in, his left eye is ringed in purple and blue.

“How dare you come back without your toy!” says his stepfather. “Someone bought that for you. Someone spent their hard-earned money on that stupid bit of plastic. The least you can do is look after it.”

Jake is too upset to speak.

“Don’t be so pathetic,” says his stepfather. “Do you want me to hit you, too?”

Twenty minutes later, Jake bursts into the living room, clutching his dinosaur like it’s a winning raffle ticket. “Carl’s aunt helped me find it,” he confesses to his mum. “She told Carl off.”

His mum’s smile tugs at her crooked nose and reveals a missing front tooth. “Carl’s older than you, right?” she says. “And bigger?” She irons while she speaks, diligently removing unwanted creases. “You’ll never beat a boy like that head on. You need to use your wits.”

“What does ‘wits’ mean?”

“It means you wait for the right moment. Then you sneak up on him from behind and hit him with something hard.”

Jake’s mum stands the iron on its heel rest while she folds the bedding. When the steam has whooshed and cleared, Jake notices that the soleplate is dented and there’s a tuft of silver hair sprouting from the tip.

'Rules of the High Wire' by Stephanie Hutton

Don’t look down. Focus only on your feet. Yes, it is more challenging in high heels and the restrictions of a silk dress. Exhale.

You catch sight of movement beneath you. Free runners; barefoot and shameless. They act as if a straight line doesn’t give direction, backing up on themselves to chatter. Feel nothing towards them, they make their own mistakes.

Face forward. Try not to notice how the clouds around you form themselves into fearsome faces. They are merely raindrops clutching together before a storm. Up ahead, the birds gather. They swoop and circle as one. Do not take the shapes they draw in the sky as a message to you.

Carry that burden on your back as if it’s weightless. Straighten up, don’t show weakness. Counter the weight with a light smile, nothing too showy.

As the skies darken for another long night, keep onwards. Walk the wire that you know is beneath your feet. Do not become mesmerised by distractions of starlight and the calls of night creatures. They have no purpose, no journey, no glory to come.

Do not think about what happens when you reach the end of the line.

*

First published online with Flash Frontier