Purple Shadows / Wrought Streets – by SHEIKHA A.

 Purple Shadows


Dark flecks of a dry year erupt

on the moon’s radiant face,


there is no death of memory

that hasn’t been conceived


by various rotations of a black

rimmed sun


in a cosmos where your myths exhort

supremacy around shimmering bodies

of water that glides in the sky,


I created light in that part of reality


and pushed the dagger of your heart

deep into my body so it became

locked, the stars cast a dark


to where my shadow stood, my mouth

compressed like a key


jammed in thin metal lips

of an opening not its fit,


and my voice sank in its lake

of still white walls,


prayers that were no more a beam –


dank brown meadows

of desire growing as pale

purple tulips –



 Wrought Streets

 (after Oscar Wilde)


It’s a frozen road: the colour of the light on my cell’s screen. Between the cleaves that have formed on my walls from perpetual nights of drenching in seep water from top floors, my house still stands like the last leaf of an autumn’s wind shuddered rage. There is you being wanting, there is me being evasive. I have lost count of all the stars I watched fall to find Narcissus’s pond. But there is you promising, and then there is me speculating. Wrought my streets with the greenest dreams, the lanterns will still be cluttered by moths. This isn’t a new story: these aren’t new words: now isn’t tomorrow. There is you with reasoning, here is me squirming. Why can’t this be easy? Why can’t you be a grownup and disappear?




Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and United Arab Emirates. Her work appears in over 80 literary venues both online and print, along with several anthologies by different presses, the history of which can be accessed on her blog sheikha82.wordpress.com. She has edited and co-edited two separate anthologies released by Poets, Artists Unplugged , and has had her poetry recited at two separate reading events in Greece. She edits poetry for eFiction India.


*Header photo courtesy of contributor C. C. O’Hanlon*

*Flower photo courtesy of Brian Michael Barbeito*





























(after Oscar Wilde)


This sight has condensed like the summer frost on a poor man’s windowpane. In my story Wilde’s prince would give the gem to his swallow – be selfish, unstirred and immersed in the poetic ghastliness of her leaden face. I am no wise: I see forests as a waste. On one of the boughs there where the forest burnt blaze hilts over the highest cloud, the sky seared its skin off in brackish chunks. It was right out of the story books: the stars clumped in lustful pain and the ice of the winter moon fell like cragged shards of a broken crown. I am the god of my sky. I will de-statue you after sculpting your form by the rights of my vision. There will be no aftermath, no battle, no glory. It will end in a happy place – a garden in Eden, your soul embalmed and held on a pedestal for me to admire at whim.




My Paper Memories / The Train – by S.E. SANDERS

My Paper Memories

S. E. Sanders

The sporadic bursts of wind coming through the open terrace door lifted the old letters spread out around me on the floor. Their pages glided in the air like white-winged butterflies. Those written on finer paper rose higher and hovered above, reshuffling my memories from many different lives.


The only spectator of the quaint scene, I watched the words blend into the atmosphere in different sequences, forming new sentences, thoughts and stories, as the authors exchanged words, making a jigsaw puzzle of my past. The wishes, the events, the consolations, all in a jumble like the ones mixed up in my head. My past flowing into my future, shaped by the gust of the moment.


Letters, nostalgic mementoes of the past, no longer written on paper with words flowing from a pen, their curves and strokes exclusive to the hand. From a time when things moved at a gentler pace, to tapping on the tedious keys of the computer, networked to the virtual delivery chain, not requiring an envelope, a stamp or a postman. They had evolved from tangible to ethereal, just like the photographs, now floating in the digital jungle, a mass of pixels.


My attachment to papers and photos is something I’ve inherited. I have burned them in my stories, shredded them to pieces in my dreams, and in my thoughts, flung them into the face of the writer or the photographer. Yet, I never had the courage to do anything to destroy them in reality. I’m a hoarder of souvenirs, a guardian of memories from my grandmother and my mother who gave me theirs for safekeeping. Maybe, I’m just about ready to deal with mine, but what about theirs? Will I betray them if I do?

Shall I cut them up into tiny bits and throw them into the air like confetti, and let the wind carry the remains to wherever fate takes them? Or simply toss them in the garbage and let them travel to the dump, and maybe take off from there, once more, when the disposable bags give in? Perhaps, they’ll take wing again and end up on the corner of a high-street, like the black and white instances of a life I saw, lying neglected next to a bin.


I remember feeling sad for that life, devoid of any carers, or due respect for the journey concealed within. I refuse to let my paper memories, or those from my legacy, be left to their own fate, adrift within the moment, and wandering into the future on the whim of the unpredictable wind. I must take a rational decision on this. Do I dare?


I have no guardians to leave them with for safe keeping. Those closest to me would not care. I know they will be dumped without further consideration. Rather than allowing strangers into my private world to make up their own stories after my love letters and photos of ghosts, I must return the documents of my secrets to where they came from. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, back to decorate the tree trunks and branches with haphazard glitter from an unknown source, outside the seasonal touch.


A cremation ceremony for the past, a life full of memories shrouded with respect, merging into the future from that moment, in a form undetected by the naked eye. Still present, though, but unperceived, to endure forever like the recollections in my head.


I take the ashes to the forest and blow them in the wind. Finally, I have done it. Some success, yet a bitter-sweet one. I feel lighter.
The wind carries the dust in the air we breathe, filling us with thoughts and ideas we never know inspired from where. Ether is eternal, able to travel everywhere in the universe. Stardust to stardust, to begin a new journey from the end …



 The Train


I get angry at the train, my love. The one that stole you away from me. Its whistles piercing the night stab further into my incurable grief. I bury my head under your pillow till the sinister screams fade out. Maybe I should move somewhere away from the tracks. Somewhere I’m not constantly reminded of that moment when you left. Yet, I feel I may lose your presence, the smells and visions that still linger in the air.


I see your reflection in the bathroom mirror as you shave your face, half-covered in foam. Sitting in the chair by the window, reading while you sip your tea. You lift your eyes from the paper and give me that smile. The smile that touches my heart, brighter than the sunshine flowing in through the drapes. The smell of lavender cologne still fills room, each time I dare to open the doors of your wardrobe. Though I have changed the sheets so many times since you left, my head lying on your pillow, my body on your side of the bed, I am carried to those moments of bliss spent in your warm embrace and tender kiss.


My love, I get angry at the train that took you away to foreign lands. Jealous of what we had, I fear they might not let you come back. I avoid the railways and take the bus instead. Keeping my eyes off the tracks and the gloomy dark fumes that threaten my dreams, I go to the seaside and make a wish. Only one. You, and only, you. Because I know I’m not whole without you in my life.


1915445_10153465176369102_2521593046859383529_n - Copy  (2)

Sebnem Sanders is a native of Istanbul, Turkey. Currently she lives on the Eastern shores of the Southern Aegean Sea where she dreams and writes Flash Fiction and Flash Poesy, as well as longer works of fiction. Her flash stories have been published on the Authonomy Blog, and recently, on The Drabble. She has a completed manuscript, The Child of Heaven and two works in progress, The Child of Passion and The Lost Child.  Her collection of short and flash fiction stories, Ripples on the Pond, will be published this year. More information can be found at her website: https://sebnemsanders.wordpress.com/ where she publishes some of her work.

Follow her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/sebnemsanders

*Featured image courtesy of Brian Michael Barbeito*


Faith in Eternal Stars – by SARA CODAIR


Faith in Eternal Stars


We said, “Save the world or die trying.”

Most of us did the latter.

Things like extinction or total annihilation were never certain. We just knew the demonic alliance used their fire and magic with no regard for the destruction they caused.

We tried to preserve the earth. She was our mother. We couldn’t bear to harm her, even in her own defense.

They won. We lost.

For a long time, I thought I’d died and gone to Hell. I floated in cold darkness, never quite awake, but never fully asleep. I couldn’t get warm. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream.

The Christians had said Hell was hot, but I’d fought too many ice-demons to believe it was all fire and brimstone. Even as I floated in stasis, I wondered, if this was Hell, where were all the demons? Had they all abandoned their home realm for earth?

My answer came when the kids dragged me from the slushy surf. As they hauled me across icy sand, I realized I’d never died. The earth had swaddled my wounded body in her coldest waters and healed it before spitting me out whole and new.


The kids sat me down beside a blazing fire and covered me with a blanket. Their language had evolved too much for me to pick out more than a few words: hope, force, rebels, it, Mother, her and saved.

My throat hadn’t thawed enough to speak, so I observed. Their skin was smooth and their eyes were bright. Some had pointed ears; others looked fully human. Their clothes were rags, but it all had the same emblem sewn onto the right shoulder. I recognized it from Star Wars.

Confused, I opened my mind to the world around me. Raw, untamed energy and burning heat surged into my head. It overwhelmed me, ignited my sluggish brain and flowed downward. My limbs shook, my skin seared and my hair danced around my head until I opened my eyes.

The kids were staring at me with their hands raised in a Vulcan salute. Apparently, the rivalry between Star Trek and Star Wars had not survived the test of time.

Laughter poured out of me. At first, it was harsh and grating, but once my body warmed up, I felt as light as seaweed floating in a tide pool.

I mentally reached out to the kids. They were one with earth, each other and with me because they had no shields or walls around their minds. I let my spirit whirl through their memories.


The demons had done their best to eradicate religion and the human need to believe in a higher power. Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism and Wicca were not words in the new generation’s vocabulary, but their faith never died.

When their ancestors found forgotten video files on an ancient hard drive, they believed they had found a sacred text. The language was too old for them to understand completely without linguistic training, but what they deciphered explained the power they felt when they let their minds be still. The files were lost, but the transcriptions known as The Book of War and The Book of Trek prevailed.

Along with those books were savior stories that were orally passed from one generation to the next. They told of a copper skinned warrior-prophet with fiery red hair and feline green eyes. Some believed she was a decedent of the Skywalker’s while others believed she was an android.

Of course, both theories were wrong. Star Wars was fiction, and human technology had never advanced far enough to create truly sentient artificial intelligence. The new generation had no words to explain what I was. The demons had eradicated any literature that mentioned angels, so it never crossed their mind that I was a descendant of one.


Contemplating what I gleaned from their memories, I stared at orange flames writhing across blackening driftwood. The kids had stopped talking, and in that silence, I heard the whoosh of angelic wings. My uncles seldom spoke in words. They sent visions. In this case, it was a psychedelic tunnel of violent failures, compelling me to relive every mistake I made in my attempt to repel the demon invasion.

When it was finally over, I laid on the cold sand, gasping for air. I knew exactly what went wrong, but I didn’t understand why they were mistakes, and how now, three centuries later, I was supposed to take the earth back.

“Helpez usses, u wilz? Waznt feezdom does weez,” said a girl with spiky white hair.

“I’ll try,” I said, reaching for their minds to see if they understood the two words.

I felt amusement and heard a riotous storm of laughter.

A boy with pointy ears and seaweed green hair put a clammy hand on my cheek. He wrinkled his forehead, squared his shoulders and quoted Star Wars like the sacred scripture he believed it was. “Do or do. There is no try.”

Then I understood why my friends and I failed. We said “save the word or die trying” when we should have just saved the world.



Sara Codair writes because her brain is overcrowded with stories. If she doesn’t get them out, she fears her head will explode. When she isn’t making things up, she is either teaching college students how to write essays, digging in her garden or just enjoying the beauty of nature. Her short stories have appeared in or are forthcoming from Foliate Oak, Centum Press, Sick Lit Magazine, Fantasy Crossing and Mash Stories. You can find her online at saracodair.com or @shatteredsmooth.

*Featured photography also courtesy of Sara Codair*

The Music of Our Youth – by GENE FARMER

The Music of Our Youth


Gene Farmer


Evan first encountered the man in the Panama hat nearly one month ago. Their last meeting may have been today; it’s hard to say for certain. On that first occasion he’d been standing out the back of the research centre taking a smoke break, one he knew there was barely time for. His batch of lab samples was in the spectrometer – on schedule for once – and he really ought to have been closely monitoring the automated electrospray process. But his need for a cigarette was absolute. Besides, how many times had he run this process without a single glitch? Fuck it, have a sneaky fag, he told himself.

Taking cover in the narrow passage between the two giant bin sheds – a universally acknowledged hidey hole for those in thrall to nicotine – Evan lit up and sucked down the smoke, his brain immediately basking in the dopey glow of his first few drags. He pulled a copy of Mojo from his back pocket, plugged in his earphones and hit play. But, immediately sensing another presence in the alleyway, he removed the earphones and turned to see a man sporting cream linens and a matching Panama hat. Without introduction, the man addressed him.

“I expect you want to tell that Solanas where to stick his fucking pen and clipboard, don’t you?” he said. “But I wouldn’t recommend it, even though it would be a good thing if you stood your ground once in a while. I don’t like to see people being pushed around.”

“Er . . . right,” said Evan. “You made me jump there. Anyway, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m Evan” he said offering a cigarette. “And you’re . . ?”

“Warner” he replied, accepting the cigarette and a light.

“Warner. Okay. Do you have a first name?” asked Evan.

“Just think of me as Warner.”

“Right,” said Evan. And they fell silent for a while, concentrating on their smoking, Evan fidgeting a piece of loose brick with his trainer.

“Are you a decent sort, Evan?” said the man, grinning.

“Well, yeah, I guess so,” replied Evan.

“Good. So that’s my advice, anyway, stand your ground once in a while.”

Evan nodded vaguely while considering this advice. He leaned around the corner to stub his cigarette out against the low brick wall. “It’s just not that easy with Solanas . . .” he said, turning back to continue the conversation. But the man in the hat had gone. Not knowing what to make of the exchange Evan shrugged and went back to the lab. He returned to the unrewarding routine of batches and formulae, to the collation and evaluation of results and findings, to his quotas and quality targets.

How strange it seemed to Evan that a dozen or so years ago this very grindstone was the scene of his first, happy days in work. He found it hard to credit that he’d once had good times here, had made good friends. Jackman, Satch, Rosey, Quill, Dougie; an insuperable gang of inseparable friends. Life was a joyful blur of football and pubs, video games and banter, an incessant cycle of pow-wows, get-togethers, gatherings and sessions – each in the name of youthful abandon, a reaffirmation that they could, and always would, revel in their callow freedom.

Except that’s not how it turned out. This notion, which he returned to every day, consumed him because he couldn’t understand how it had crept up, casting him adrift from a never to be recovered heyday, his prime. Where were those fellow graduates nows? Evan felt these days as though he beheld the good times through the wrong end of an ever-lengthening telescope, each memory dwindling to a dust mote, and then to nothing. Everyone else had disappeared along the way. Apart from Solanas. Adam Solanas: workshop despot, lab bully, petty scourge of the research wing. The Spanish Inquisitor. Adam Sore-Anus. Now it was just Evan, Solanas, and an ever waning number of charisma-free itinerant worker bees.

Evan reflected on these random, pitiless inequities. He became gripped by a familiar, thick coil of regret, its coarse yarn chafing at his mood. And now he forgot about Warner, yielding to his workload and to a tired, lonely helplessness. He toiled wordlessly, grinding out the hours, the minutes until – long after everyone else had left – he was finished for the day. Only then could he welcome the long drive home, a brief purgatorial interlude before the next wave of demands.

Evan’s opinion of this slow, stop-start commute, skirting London’s congested, dirty rim was neither conventional nor fashionable. Not for him the stock conversational piece about too many cars on the road, a lack of investment in the traffic network or public transport infrastructure. No, here was solitude, a refuge from all his assailants, in a space of his own. For forty, maybe fifty, minutes he was alone with his thoughts and his music. He started the car, tuned into Nothing But 90s! FM and pulled out of the car park, relishing a blissful catatonia in the knowledge that, soon enough, he’d be home and the respite would be over.

One week later Warner reappeared. And he continued to turn-up most work days while Evan was taking a smoke. They would talk vaguely, in the way men gathered by chance always do, of work and life, skirting around any true nub of the matter, trading generalities. Evan would have liked to find out more about his new acquaintance. Which department did he work in? Where did he live? Did he have family? But Warner would always seem to steer the conversation along paths permitting no such intimacy, would step in to fill any pause with a decisive word or an intriguing thought. In this way any possibility they might become intimates was snuffed out.

In the third week after they’d first met he bumped into Warner in a café. Evan had needed to run some chores in town during his lunch hour, cramming in a visit to the post office, the bank and a couple of hardware stores to track down the right washer for a leaky tap at home. It was not an especially hot day, but he’d been in a rush – the last thing he wanted was to get back to work late, have Solanas on his back for something else – and now he was out of breath and hot, the wick of his garments heavy with a moisture that cleaved them to his skin.  He was, though, ahead of schedule and there was just enough time for some lunch in town. Evan decided that a toasted panini and a proper cup of coffee would make a welcome change from the usual soggy cheese and tomato sandwich and the scorchingly hot, caffeinated cups of bitterness served from the machine at the research centre.

The café was busy: professional looking people tapped away at laptops; younger adults in outsized headphones were locked-in and swaying to some irresistible groove; kids, opposing thumbs working in unison, drummed at devices, defeating deadly adversaries; there was one lady reading a book. The scene was overlaid with a musical backtrack which, through the shrill blasts of spouting steam, Evan vaguely recognised as something contemporary and, while it was not unpleasant, it left him feeling slightly disappointed.

Sitting in their midst, doing nothing more than drinking a cup of tea, was Warner. On seeing Evan, he tipped his Panama and, with a curt smile, indicated the empty seat at his table. Evan ordered and paid for his lunch and returned to the table with his drink.

“Coffee man, eh?” said Warner, removing his hat and arching an eyebrow. “I had you down – rather hopefully – as a tea man. Still, not really my business I suppose.”

“No . . . well . . . of course. It’s just that I don’t really get the chance to ever just sit down and have a coffee,” said Evan. “Could do with the kick, to be honest, keep me going. Bloody knackered.”

“Busy then?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Christ! When aren’t we these days? Wasn’t always like this though, was it?”

“Probably not, no,” said Warner. “Though I don’t have that problem, myself.”

“You don’t?” said Evan, blurting a shocked guffaw. “Lucky you! You’ll have to share your secret.”

“There’s no luck involved. And it’s no secret either.”

“Really? Wish I could bloody work it out, I really do,” said Evan. A waiter brought over his toasted sandwich. He had on him a look of inquisitive concern, but did not ask Evan any question, just said he hoped Evan enjoyed his meal and went back to the counter.

“And what makes you think you can’t? Work it out, that is,” continued Warner.

“Well,” said Evan, pausing to consider, “it’s all so bloody complex these days, isn’t it? So many things to do. Obligations. Things were just better in the past. More simple, straightforward.”

“Really? Or are you just being nostalgic?” said Warner. Before Evan had a chance to answer, he added: “I fucking hate nostalgia. It’s dangerous shit, is what it is.”

“Whoa! Dangerous shit? . . . What do you mean? Why?”

“Look, there may be a little truth in what you say, some things were better in the old days. And I can’t deny there’s more bullshit around today. But lots of things were worse too. You just need to be more selective these days, less acquiescent.”

“I still don’t follow.”

“Take control of the things that matter,” replied Warner. “But you’ll need to work that one out, fella. Look, if you ask me, it’s a big mistake to go about thinking you were born in a goldmine and that you’ve ended up at the coalface. Were you born in a goldmine? Probably not. Are you at the coalface? Who the fuck isn’t?”

Evan sat, thinking for a moment. “Yeah, you’re onto something there. So, my current situation . . . what did you call it? The coalface? Where I’m at right now, how did I get here?”

“But that’s not really what matters. Wouldn’t you be much better off looking where you’re going?”

“But don’t you need to look back at the mistakes you’ve made to know where you went wrong, to help you take the right turns going forward?”

“Sure, there’s nothing wrong with what you’re saying there,” said Warner. He leaned forward with his elbow on the table, and fixed Evan with his eye. “But is that really what you’re doing?”

“God! If I had a time machine and, and I could just go back . . . well . . . I’d do things differently, I tell you.”

“Now there’s a dog-eared old Sci-Fi trope,” said Warner, frowning.

“Oh, come on! If you could just go back and do things differently, not make the mistakes you made, it’d have to be better, wouldn’t it?”

“Maybe. But let’s say you could do it; let’s say you could go back to a former self, knowing what you know today,” he said. “What makes you think you still wouldn’t fuck things up?”

Evan thought for a moment, and was about to reply when Warner cut him off: “Look, before you answer that, have a think about it. I need to go now.” He put on his panama hat and, making to leave, paused and said “Take heed, Evan, nostalgia’s a trap. Now I’ll have to say goodbye to you.”

Evan watched him leave, and then sat a while longer in the café and finished his lunch while pondering Warner’s parting lines. They all felt a bit cryptic, though Evan sensed a finality, a certain specificity, to Warner’s spiel that seemed odd, troubling. What, he wondered, did he mean? Evan checked his watch. Shit, he thought, I’m going to be late!

Evan scurried back to the lab and slipped in unnoticed. He knuckled down, intent on recovering the lost time. But he couldn’t do it. And he never would. Each attempt to hasten his progress brought errors, inefficiencies, breakages. Each mistake was a multiplier, adding orders of magnitude to his daily tenure, piling up the misery. He was snared and his struggling only made things worse. Deluged, Evan forgot all about Warner, and his message – if there ever was one – remained encrypted.

A week passed since the café encounter and Warner had not since been seen. It was Saturday and Evan was at work, doing overtime. He was, as usual, under the cosh, feeling the pressure, as he stared at the sample batches, then back to their exacting specifications, each one to be finished before he could leave for the day. Solanas appeared with his clip board.

“So . . . Evan. RO-TH_151015_00-92 to -99 . . . we’re on schedule with those, are we?”

“They’ll be done by close of play.”


“Bit later, actually. I just had to rerun a synthesis cycle on -93 and -94, so I’m a bit behind. Maybe 12:30? One-ish?”

“Right. But you’re not leaving till you’ve finished them, are you?”

“No, Adam, I won’t be going till they’re done.”

“Good, good,” he said, pausing, then adding: “You know, Evan, if you ever applied yourself, gave your work its due diligence, you’d do a better job. And I can’t help but think you’d make things easier for yourself. Get on a bit at work. Who knows, in life, even?”

Being told what to do in the work place is one thing, but advice about how to live his life – from Solanas of all people – irked Evan, and he now stood tense, anger welling, set against anything else his supervisor had to say. I’ll show you and your shiity little job, he thought.

“Look, I know we’ve never seen eye to eye,” said Solanas, “but I take no pleasure in seeing you struggle. You’re in a redundancy pool, for God’s sake. You should remember that.” Solanas shook his head and, leaving, he added “If it’s not too late.”

What does he mean, thought Evan, if it’s not too late? Christ, he can’t be serious. He can’t mean I’m for the chop. Jesus! He felt his anger deflate and, in its place, a gnawing worry had taken over. He returned to his work, though his heart was no longer in it, even less so than usual. He could not think straight, was making mistakes.

It had gone past two o’clock by the time Evan finished for the day. As he removed his lab coat, slumping into the staff room sofa, massaging his temples, trying to expel the stress, to de-pressurize, he remembered that he was supposed to take his eldest boy to a party this afternoon. He knew he had no chance of making it home on time but, frantic, still he rushed from the building to his car. Leaving the car park Evan found the barrier down and he realised he’d left his security pass in the building, in his lab coat. He buzzed the intercom for Security. He waited for a minute, without response, so he buzzed again, maybe a dozen times or more. He was beginning to think that he’d need to park up again and go back to get his pass – even though he was sure that the guard had been sitting there all the while, just letting him buzz – when the intercom crackled into life.


“Yeah, Hi! Can you lift the barrier, please?”

“You haven’t got your security card?”

“Of course I haven’t! Would I be buzzing if I had it?”

“Sure. Where is it, then?”

“I forgot it. You gave me a temp card this morning, remember?”


“Evan Critchley.”

“One minute, please.”

Evan waited. One minute became two, then three . . . four, then five. Evan understood that the security guard knew who he was, had no reason not to just raise the barrier. So why didn’t he? Was there red tape to be processed? Had Evan done something to upset this man? No, Evan thinks, the security guard is keeping me here because he can. A knot of anger rose in his chest, compelling him to give the guard a mouthful but, as he reached out to press the button, the intercom sputtered once more into life.

“Thank you Mr.Critchley,” said the guard as the barrier rose. “Have a nice weekend.”

Evan grunted and drove off, turning on the radio. But this time he barely registered the music, Nothing But 90s making little impression. He switched stations to Sensational 70s Radio, but could still take no solace from it. Maybe Solanas is right, he thought, maybe things could be better. But why do things keep fucking up for me? At work. Christ, at home even. If I lose this job I’m shafted, he thought. It’s not fair!

He raced home, scrambled to the front door, unlocked and opened it. He waited for the onslaught, the clamoring son, the irate wife, the mad dash to get everything together for the party – perhaps they’ll only be thirty minutes late, he thought. But there was no onslaught. Apart from the distant ticking of the kitchen clock there was only silence, and Evan wondered if – hoped – he’d avoided the barrage, at least until later. Perhaps, he imagined, Juliette knew he’d be late and had taken Thomas to the party with the baby in tow too. He felt a slight relief, relaxed a little, decided to make a cup of tea. He went into the kitchen where Juliette, sitting silently at the island unit, catches him by surprise, holding his gaze with an implacable, glacial hatred. She sighed theatrically.

“Where’s Thomas?” asked Evan.

“What do you care? If you were so concerned where he was, you’d have been home on time to take him to the party. Like you promised?” said Juliette.

“I’m so sorry,” started Evan, before he was cut short by Juliette’s raised hand.

“You’re sorry, Evan?” she said, her brow deeply trenched. “Are you? Well I’m sorry too. This is the last straw. Mum had to come round and take Thomas to the party. Lucy’s asleep at the moment, but I’m going to get her and take her round to Georgie’s. When we get back I expect you to be out of the house. I don’t want you back.”

Evan stood, speechless. He was overcome by a gelid weakness that left him shaky and immobilized. He watched Juliette leave, his heart pumping furiously, blood rampaging through his temples, stomach tightening uncontrollably, his bowels twitching, loosening. After a while, he went to the fridge, took out a can of beer, opened it and gulped it down in one long draught. He took two more beers, downing another on the spot then, propelling a defiant belch into the silence of the kitchen, he slumped to the floor. Hollow, he tried to make sense of what had happened, to figure out whether the punishment matched the indiscretion. He poured over the events and Juliette’s reaction, and could make no conclusive sense of it. He drank the third beer and fell asleep.

He awoke, briefly unsure where he was, and checked the time. It was past six o’clock. He gathered his thoughts and remembered what had happened, feeling hope capsize and descend to the well of his stomach. Juliette would be back soon with the kids and he didn’t want to be here for that. He needed to think. He took another beer from the fridge and sat, considering his predicament. But far from feeling resentful, or confused, Evan felt a dawning sense of relief, a giddy contentment, even. The worst was over. He finished the beer, took the last can from the fridge, fetched his keys and cigarettes from the sideboard in the hall, pocketed a pack of sweets that Juliette must have dropped on the floor (Fruit Pastilles, which had been a favorite as a child) and left the house.

Evan strode along the tree lined avenue where he lived and into the park. He used to come here with his parents as a boy. How old was he then? Five? Six or seven? He remembered feeding the swans and the ducks, kicking a plastic ball around. He recalled picnics of liver sausage sandwich and sweaty processed cheese slices. The park seemed so much bigger back then, a whole county with its own rolling hills, towering banks and vast lakes circumnavigated by wandering tribes.

Now, like everything else, he regarded this world without wonder, an absence of awe, knowing every nook and cranny to the point of contempt. He understood the science behind the flora and fauna, the discipline of landscaping, the placement of structures, monuments and horticultural features for their desired aesthetic, behavioral and ecological outcomes. But Evan found that today, in spite of this familiarity, he was connected with the magical place of his childhood, as though he were feeling the same sun on his skin, smelling the flowers, feeling the gentle warmth of the breeze for the first time since he was a child. He tuned in to details he’d long since ignored: to the harmonious drone of insects, the inquisitive quacking of ducks, to murmuring radios and the susurrant rumour of scattered conversations. Each sound was woven intricately into what it meant to be in this place, at this time, to belong.

He strolled around the pond’s perimeter then cut through clusters of picnickers, past parents with toddlers, secretive youths, across an expanse of grass towards the Italian Garden. Here he found a bench backing onto a red brick wall, sat down and cracked open the beer. A low evening sunlight soaked Evan and his surroundings with an amber warmth. He swigged the drink, bathing in the moment, taking in the kaleidoscope of flowers, the fleshy, spiky plants, the swishing, rustling grasses, the aroma of lavender, rose and cut lawn.

But most of all, he wallowed in the sun, gave himself over to the experience of doing nothing. He thought that this might be a Zen moment, but wasn’t sure what one was. As each nerve relaxed, as his knotted muscles unwound, Evan lay poaching in the day’s last warmth and the alcohol’s effects. A bliss closed in around him, took control, relaying a soft focus cine loop of childhood scenes played out in these very grounds.

Evan was pulled deeper into himself by this reverie, towards the warm memory of a former self and, just before he was finally lulled to sleep, he thought he saw what looked like a man in a cream Panama hat crossing the park in his direction. But Warner – if it was him – faded from view as Evan dozed off.

In Evan’s version of events, his next recollection is that he had just finished feeding the ducks and was walking back home. He was so absorbed in the act of kicking a knot of soft wood as he went, reenacting a move from The Big Match, a fancy bit of trickery by Stan Bowles or some such long haired footballing maverick, that he did not at first notice the girl walking beside him, nor that she was talking to him.

“Evan? Hello? Earth calling Evan?” she said. And Evan felt happy to be interrupted because this was Michelle Revilla, emanating a force which attracted Evan in a way that he did not understand. Although he does not like girls, he is often consumed by thoughts of Michelle, thoughts that he does not understand, that swell in his breast like the radiating heat of a hot coal. He’d often pictured them running away, living together, doing simple grown up things like shopping and cooking. Kissing. Secret thoughts that he dared not share with anyone, that he felt a small shame for having.

“Michelle, hello,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a park,” she replied, not unfriendly, dipping her shoulder into his arm. “It’s for walking in. I’m just taking a walk. Actually, I’m on my way over to my Grandma’s. Wanna stroll with me?”

“Yeah, sure.” This is the best thing ever, thought Evan. At the same time, though, he felt under pressure: he didn’t want to blow this chance with Michelle, but he had no idea what to say, no real experience of talking to girls. What should you say to them? What did they like? He remembered the sweets in his pocket. “Fruit Pastille?” he said, offering the opened pack. Michelle smiled – a smile that, in itself, marks the greatest possible reward for Evan – and took one.

“Ooh, blackcurrant! My favourite.”

They walked on, Evan in rapt silence while Michelle talked about her Grandma, her house, and how she’s going there today because her mum and dad are both working this afternoon. Evan was not really listening. He was consumed by the thought that this could be his lucky day. They arrived at a bench, the same bench that Evan would be sitting on so many years later, but now it’s a glossy green, the paint so fresh and thickly laid that it’s soft to the touch.

“I don’t have to be at Gran’s for another ten minutes,” said Michelle. “Do you want to sit here for a bit?” Evan wondered what they could do, just sitting here on the park bench, what he could possibly have to say to Michelle Revilla. It filled him with dread, a panic, but still he couldn’t understand why there was nothing in the world he would rather be doing.

“Yes. Let’s,” he says.

They sat, swinging their legs, looking across the park, and every time Evan, speechless, turned to look at Michelle, she was looking straight back at him, smiling. He wanted this to last forever, was dreading the moment when it would end, and he felt powerless to prevent it. He realized that he loved her, and knew that if he didn’t take his chance now, he would never have it again. And somehow he knew he would regret it for the rest of his life, that there would be no turning back, no return to this blissful state, this Eden.

He stared ahead, frozen, noticing with some relief that Warner was still walking in his direction, now closer. Except there was something different, it was no longer a Panama hat that he wore, but a flat white cloth cap. And, closer still, he saw that the drooping moustache was gone, that Warner was younger, the cut of his suit different, and the shiny black loafers were now two-tone spats. But Warner would help, Evan was sure of that. He’d give him the advice he needed. With his approach came a swell of music, a saccharine falsetto building to a crescendo over a mantra of repeating bop-shoo-wadi-wadi vocal harmonies. The man in the white cloth cap stopped in front of them, swaying his arms and hips, dipping his knees in time to the four-four signature. Evan turned to Michelle, wondering if she can see what he sees, but she was still just smiling at him.

Turning back to this new, younger Warner, Evan asked “What do I do now?”

The music played on in the background but Warner brought the microphone down to his side, stopped singing. He planted his feet at shoulder width, pointed to Evan, and said “Sonny, take my advice: if you love Michelle, don’t think twice.” He winked, then took up the microphone and began to wail his ode to lovers, before retreating back across the park to where he came from.

Evan now felt fortified, certain. He was surer than ever that he and Michelle were destined for one another. He knew that this was the time to make the right choice, to reset his life, a chance to redeem himself, to be happy.

He turned back to Michelle, who still smiles beatifically, and declared: “Michelle, I should have told you this before. I love you!”

“Well I love you too Evan Critchly,” she replied.

“And I want to be with you forever,” said Evan.

“I . . . wow!”

They sat for a moment, eyes locked, and Evan felt an exhilaration driving him on. He leant in and started to kiss Michelle. She stiffened. But Evan was sure, and pressed on. It must be that she’d never kissed anyone before, he thought. Well, nor had Evan, and that wasn’t going to stop him. This was the path to happiness. He pressed on, wrapping her in his arms, holding her. He’d never let her go. But now she was crying. Tears of joy, thinks Evan, and he started to cry too.

He was holding her tightly, rocking back and forth to the rhythm of their sobbing, when his reverie was broken by angry shouting. His shoulder was jerked, and he was wrenched back to the here and now by a shower of painful blows. There was a young girl, whom he had never seen before, being led to the safety and comfort of a relieved looking mother, while the men who had apprehended him kept him restrained, calling him the vilest names, until the police arrived.

Evan found himself handcuffed and led to the awaiting police car, unable to make sense of what had just happened. He turned to take one last look back to the bench and saw only an abandoned cream panama hat.



Gene Farmer lives in East Anglia, in the UK, with his wife and children. He is an IT Consultant and puts aside a microscopic amount of his spare time for short story writing. His stories have previously appeared here in SickLit Magazine, and in flashfictionmagazine.com and are said to be ideal for insomniacs.


Another theme that hits close to home for me!

At times, I feel as if I live my life looking through the rear-view mirror, wrapped up in the past, mentally stuck somewhere in between nostalgia and reliving an unfinished moment. 

That being said, it’s sort of implied that nostalgia is unique within each person.

Remember when I wrote another letter about us, as human beings, as a whole becoming a sum of our experiences? We are. Plus, what about perception? My God! That makes a world of difference. My dad saw Germany and France through vastly different lenses than I did when I was just a grumpy mop of red ringlets, wearing white tights and plaid dresses to school.


You can grow up in the same household as someone for your entire child-teenager life, yet recall different fond memories.You’ll also inevitably remember the same events in a different light than one another.

When I came down with food poisoning in Paris, my dad remembers taking me to a French doctor’s office, where he spoke fluent French for the first time in years with the staff, accessing a dormant part of his brain. I just remember the stomach pains and being a crying lump on my dad’s shoulder at The Louvre.

And that, SLM readers, is why I love this theme so very much.

Laughter, adversity, friendships (both good and bad) all have a purpose somewhere in our lives.

We’re each walking pieces of art, being sculpted and molded by these things every day.

I hope you enjoy our pieces.


Kelly Coody

Kelly Fitzharris Coody