Category: Creative Writing

By Matthew Dodd

He’d put on a collared shirt for the occasion, knowing as he did that Debby liked him best in collared shirts. He was sorry he didn’t wear them more often but, to his great shame, he never quite mastered the art of ironing. This one was pale blue and dotted with, in the words of the charming and vaguely European shop clerk who’d sold it to him, ‘orbs like the stars at night.’ It was more expensive than he’d hoped but Willard had let him pick up an extra shift on Tuesday night, so it wasn’t too bad. Trouser-wise he was hoping Debby wouldn’t notice that these were his bowling trousers and might simply take him as the kind of a man who would naturally own and habitually sport navy chinos. They were good because of the give around the thigh; he lunged deep when he bowled, that was the secret to his success. 

The phone rang while he was plucking his monobrow. ‘Uh-huh,’ he said with a solitary hair caught between the tweezers. ‘Don’t say uh-huh like that Herb, it makes you sound like a slob.’ He tore out the hair in shock and stood up straight, as though his handset might judge him the worse otherwise. ‘Ah, sorry Deb, I didn’t know it was you.’ A grumble from the other end of the line. ‘Well, that’s just the problem, isn’t it Herb? You never do know who could be on the phone, do you? I might be Bobby Kennedy for all you know.’ The line stayed silent for some few seconds as Herb percolated this. ‘You’re not, are you?’ No response. ‘I don’t mean to be difficult, I just sorta hoped we could keep politics out of the bedroom is all.’ A crackling hiss that might’ve been laughter: that was good enough for Herb. ‘What time did you make the reservation for? Paula wants me to stick around until close tonight, I’d say no but what with Gail sick and Murph bailing on us, I can’t bear to leave her on her own.’ Herb had put the tweezers down and stood cradling the telephone like he’d seen the Virgin Mary do with the baby Jesus in some of those pictures at church. ‘You’re calling from the bakery? Say, you got any of the brioche lying around that might be unfit for consumers, if you know what I mean?’ Another grumble. ‘Sorry. The reservation is for 8, but I can call and move it if you –‘she didn’t let him finish. ‘No, that’s fine, I’ll see you at 8.’ She appreciated the drama inherent in the urgent putting down of a telephone. Herb smiled and reset the handset before returning to his tweezing. 

On the subway, Herb saw four dogs, two cats, a baby, and a saxophonist: he gave one of them a quarter, but planned not to tell Debby which. Debby worked at a bakery called Loaf at First Sight. At first, Herb was attracted to the pun moreso than the woman behind the counter, but after watching her delicately assemble a ham and cheese croissant in a little under forty seconds, his opinions became inverted. The bakery was two stops from Sal’s Own, the second-rate restaurant Herb had booked – he usually opted for third-rate establishments, so this was something of a treat. Debby got to Sal’s two minutes before Herb, but waited a few paces out of view so that she might spare his feelings by appearing, as if by some miracle, a matter of seconds after he eventually arrived. He offered her a polite kiss on the cheek, she obligingly accepted.

‘Some place, huh?’ Herb observed as they took their seats at a table by the front window with an ample view of the passing traffic and an old man asleep on a park bench. Debby agreed in her usual way, a curt nod which landed somewhere between approval and condescension. They both ordered spaghetti with marinara sauce and decided to split a bottle of the second most expensive wine. An hour or so later, as the dishes were being taken, Debby made the face Herb recognised as her important point expression. She swapped her purse between her hands a few times before speaking: ‘Herb, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.’ This time, Herb cut her off. ‘Say, I got you something!’ He reached around for the messenger bag his dad gave him when he turned 17 and produced a 12-inch vinyl record. ‘Well, Ralph spotted me the money, but it was me who picked it out – thought that counts right?’ He passed it across the table to Debby, who examined it with a tender care: Waltz for Debby, Bill Evans Trio. ‘You get it?’ Herb began. ‘Waltz for Debby! It’s a waltz for you! I heard Willard and his buddies talking about it – intellectual jazz types y’know – and knew I had to get it for you.’ Debby smiled down at the record and, after a few moments, up at Herb. ‘Thank you, Herb,’ She started, before, ‘I’ve been offered a job in Chicago, and I’m afraid I’m leaving tomorrow.’ In his head, Herb heard the sound of an empty telephone line. 

‘Tomorrow?’ Debby nodded. ‘Chicago?’ She repeated the action. Under his breath he murmured a half-formed joke about the deep-pan style pizza he’d heard from someone at work say that they had over in Chicago, but gave up before he reached the punchline. A silence marinated between them. Herb tapped a rhythm with his knife and fork. 

‘What do you say you come back to mine and we give this Bill character a spin?’ The ends of Debby’s eyebrows sunk; her mouth folded into a half-frown. ‘I’m sorry Herb, I’ve made up my mind. I can’t stay here forever, spinning my wheels. It’s a good job, a real good job. It’s not that I don’t love it here, or that I don’t – ‘. She cut herself off. ‘It’s just that I can’t stand still any longer.’ Herb smiled. ‘Is that yes, then?’ Her frown intensified. Before she could get out an affectionately scolding ‘Herb…’ he’d interjected. ‘Look, I won’t ask you to stay. I’ve been losing you ever since I met you: that’s just the way of things. But.’ He grasped around in the air for the words. ‘Won’t you just listen to this record with me? I hear it’s really good.’ They sat for a second in silence; outside, the old man awoke and set off towards a nearby bar. ‘You don’t need to love me forever Debs, just let me have the song. Can’t you stand still one more night?’ Behind the counter, a young waiter dropped a bowl of olives and swore loudly. Head downturned, Debby’s head rocked back and forth, a negotiation between agreement and dissent. ‘Oh, Herb. Why’d you have to go and buy me a present?’ The corner of her mouth curled upward as she caught Herb’s eyes: ‘you never know, I might just give you a dance as well.’

As they got up, Debby noticed a stain of marinara sauce across Herb’s collar. He scoffed: ‘and I tried my best to look all refined.’ Debby laughed slightly. ‘Ah well’, she said, ‘it’s the thought that counts.’

They walked to the subway arm-in-arm, how Debby saw them do in the movies, and made the 8.15 train. The couple were in Herb’s sitting room by 9. Debby sat and giggled as Herb awkwardly tried to drop the needle on the exact start of the album, a fool’s errand that lasted about as long as the record itself. Once it started, he emphatically cast his hand out towards Debby and, with slightly overambitious energy, pulled her up to him. Together, they shuffled across the room with all the soaring romance of Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron, only lacking in some of the grace. In a moment of special closeness, Debby looked up at Herb with a warmth he remembered from their early days. He made a point of not looking down to meet her eyes; he didn’t want her to see him cry. After what felt like a moment but must have been some forty minutes, the record spun out and was replaced by a dry hiss of static. They remained unmoved for a moment before Herb released Debby from their embrace and, with a voice just shy of cracking told her she ought to be on her way. She didn’t want to miss her train, after all. Debby agreed and set off to move. At the door, they shared a polite kiss and a quiet goodbye. 

As she left, Debby could hear Herb reset the needle on the record and start it over. She could still hear it outside, as she looked back up at the apartment. Through the window, it looked like he was dancing.

Photo Credit: Constantine Manos

By Toby Dossett

The mug was one I hadn’t seen in years, pale blue, its glaze a faint crackle I remembered from childhood. It sat on the kitchen counter as though it had always been there, waiting for me in the thin morning light. I reached for it out of habit, expecting warmth, but the porcelain was cold to the touch. Colder than the room, and colder than the rain ticking at the window.

When I lifted it, I almost dropped it. It was far too heavy. Not full-heavy, not the usual weight of tea or water, but a dense, gathering heaviness, as though the mug contained something larger than itself. I peered down into it. Inside, the liquid was dark at first, then glassy, then trembling: ripples widening into lingering silver ovals. Something moved beneath them. A small bottlenose rose slowly through the surface.

It did not belong in the mug, and yet there it was: slender, blue-grey, gleaming as though lit from somewhere under the water. It pushed its nose above the liquid and held there, watching me with one black, polished eye. Then it nudged upwards again, gently at first, then more insistently, as if it wanted the brush of my hand.

It kept rising, breaking the thin surface over and over with an impatient, pleading motion. Touch me, help me, and love me enough to lift me out. The wanting in it was unbearable.

I glanced toward the doorway, seized by the absurd thought that someone might see. Not the dolphin exactly, but me with it—me cradling this strange thing in both hands, pretending tenderness for a creature I didn’t entirely trust. Its little clicks quickened and the mug grew heavier still. In one sharp movement I carried it to the sink and tipped it out.

The creature slid free with the water, struck the metal basin, and changed instantly. No longer sleek or living, but hollow, bright, ridiculous—a plastic bath toy with a painted eye and a seam along its side. It spun in circles, tail flailing desperately, each turn slower than the last until the water spiralled away in a thin, dirty whirl. Its final clicks were softer now, mechanical. The toy tipped, caught the pull of the plughole, and vanished.

Featured Image – Toby Dossett

By Bel Kelly

Midge had not been in the church for longer than five minutes when she felt that familiar hot slickness between her thighs. Immediate relief, then panic. She checked the date: yes, it really was that time of the month, how could she have forgotten? Of course, there were no tampons at the bottom of the tiny purse she had brought with her, and no time to go buy some. She looked around at the other attendees for someone to ask, but most were strangers, and Midge was still the kind of person, at twenty-five, to be ashamed to admit she was free-bleeding.

Shuffling out of the pew, she stumbled to the bathroom at the back of the church, her heels on the cobbled stone floor making it an embarrassingly loud journey.  As she found her way into the boxy stall, vaguely traumatic memories of periods past came to her. She was a young teenager again, on a school trip or a first date. Stuffing her underwear with toilet paper, she remembered the horoscope she had read that morning on her astrology app: “Your body is conditioned unconsciously over a lifetime.” It really, really is. Yet, God, what an awful time for this to happen. Looking in the discoloured mirror, she checked her front and back. In the clear. Even if the next hours would be uncomfortable, she at least wouldn’t have red ruining her blue dress. Count your blessings. 

Midge hurried back to her seat in the front row, on the end, next to Emily’s mother Irene Maitland, a gentle yet fretful woman who was all pearls and perfume. The two had tussled in the past: to this day, Midge remained quite unsure of if Irene had ever truly forgiven her for the time she spilled a glass of cranberry juice on their white sofa at the age of seven.

“Where’s our favourite lady gone?” Midge asked.

“She’s outside, trying to calm the baby.” She paused, and added, “You look well put-together, Miriam. Thank you for making an effort. The photographs are sure to come out very nicely.”

Midge felt a jolt, unsure of what feeling. She had known before, deep-down, that Irene did not see her fit for the role of godmother, but the comment confirmed it. Did it? Was she misreading it? There seemed to be judgement there. Shock, at least, that she could scrub up well. She suddenly wanted to tell her there was blood gushing out of her vagina like violent murder in her underwear, that she was going to haemorrhage all over her dress-skirt and stain the pew and ruin the photos too. 

How crass. Was that the kind of godmother she was going to be, a godmother of messy blatant womanliness? She imagined the baby enamoured with her, an antithesis to mother Emily and Acqua di Parma grandma. Teach the kid swear words, sneak the kid treats before dinner. Midge had had an aunt like that, and what a thrill that lady had been.

A sharp cramp sent ripples of pain through her. ‘Messy blatant womanliness,’ she turned over in her mind, cringing. Go for ‘mess,’ perhaps, and leave out the rest. Irene was right to be nervous; she was a woman who polished silverware for fun, read Russian novels in the original Russian, could identify what country a bottle of wine was from with one sniff. She had raised Emily, a daughter who had excelled in everything she did: every sport, every job. And these two fantastic women were ready to leave this baby in Midge’s useless hands? Midge, who could not even keep track of her own period?

Imagine a gas leak in the family home, a hurricane on a holiday, a tragic twenty-car pile-up. Lifeless eyes, limbs everywhere. A accident so great it wiped out all the Maitlands, leaving Midge as the only one left to raise this baby. The cramp twisted and contorted in her gut. A knife with a jagged edge inside her, slashing up the lining of her uterus. 

“Irene, you don’t have any painkillers on you, do you?” She didn’t clarify it was for cramps. It felt so school-trip first-date to admit a little vaginal bleeding could still incapacitate her. 

Irene looked up from her phone, and nodded. Of course she did. Retrieving them from her bag, she said, “There is a water cooler by the bathroom. I’m in correspondence with Emily, the baby is really upset so we shouldn’t be starting the ceremony for a bit longer still, so you have time.”

Midge took the pills from her, popped two, dry-swallowed them, handed the box back. Irene looked at her, slightly appalled, and then turned back to her phone. The judgement was becoming irritating. When was the last time Irene had had to deal with menstruation anyway? As soon as the thought came to mind, she regretted thinking it: it felt mildly ageist, or misogynistic, or something, she wasn’t sure. 

When was the last time Emily had had her period, Midge wondered. She always got it around the twelfth – that was something Midge learnt when they briefly shared an apartment at university – and was real hard work when she was on it. Crying, craving, cussing, the works. And yet those memories of managing her bleeding best friend around the twelfth in that scummy flat remained fond. Whatever made Emily cry, they would laugh about later. Stupid commercials, sad Facebook posts.

Things had changed so much since then. Midge now lived alone in a flat the size of a postage stamp, while Emily and her husband Robert were just one stop away in a cosy two-bed. Now, they saw each other for a pint every so often. As exquisite as these meet-ups were, it was clear that the days of stroking each other’s hair as they moaned about cramps were long gone. Still, with the pain in her tummy ballooning, Midge could go for some hair-stroking now.

Midge wished she had been there when Emily missed her period on the twelfth, when she tested positive. She wished she had been the one to drive her to her first doctor’s visit. Instead, she had found out about the baby like everyone else: a post on Instagram. A chalkboard inscribed with “We’re pregnant!”, blue and pink balloons. Very Pinterest, very Emily.

She had asked Emily, on one of their pub nights, why she hadn’t told her first. We wanted everyone to find out about it at the same time. There was a time when Midge wouldn’t have been a part of the everyone bracket – she would have been the one helping Emily draft the post. Looking around the church, it’s not like everyone is on Instagram anyway. Great Aunt Lily in the third row could barely hit ‘call’ on an iPhone, let alone download a social media app. It felt like an excuse. But count your blessings: she still asked her to be the godmother.

Emily hadn’t needed Midge’s help in those first few weeks anyway. From the outset, she had seemed to handle pregnancy with professional flair. She was good at it: all the exercises, a squeaky-clean diet, a regimented sleep schedule. She was prettier than she had ever been. Perfect picture of femininity. Midge looked for an image of Mary for comparison, but couldn’t find one. Vaguely ironic, she felt: Shouldn’t Mary be present for a Christening? She imagined that conventional picture: A young woman with black hair in blue garb, passively smiling down at her marvellous tummy. The Virgin Mother with Emily’s lovely round face.

The painkillers had turned the sharp feeling in Midge’s tummy dull. She looked down at herself, imagined that same swelling. A couple years ago, she had been repulsed by pregnancy. No way could her body do all that. Now that she was older, she was less disturbed by it. She instead regarded it with the same curiosity and fascination with which she did abortion. It seemed rather thrilling to be able to hold life in one hand, and death in the other.

Life in one hand, death in the other. She’d said that to her mother several years ago, when they found themselves in a dinner-table debate about abortion. Midge’s mother had called her sacrilegious and inconsiderate. You don’t get to decide who lives and who dies, she’d said. Then who does? Someone has to, Midge had shot back. Looking back at that night, she felt ashamed to have spoken so lightly of it all. Her mother had been a girl, too. She had gotten periods at awkward times, and stuffed her underwear with loo roll, too. She had looked in the mirror and imagined a little girl with her own features, too. She had also sat on a toilet somewhere waiting for a pregnancy test result, shuddering with anxiety. Midge wondered what she had felt when she’d seen those two vertical lines. She wondered if she was what she had pictured, when she had looked in the mirror and imagined a daughter.

“Well, Emily is truly taking the mickey now. It’s half past,” muttered Irene, a sudden brick wall in front of her train of thought. “I ought to go talk to the priest.”

“You do that, Irene,” Midge responded, aiming for supportive and landing on somewhat condescending. Why was it so impossible to talk to this woman she had known all her life?

Irene narrowed her eyes. “You might make yourself useful, Miriam, in going to check on Emily. I’ve no idea where Robert has gotten himself to. Such an ineffectual man.”

“Such an ineffectual man,” Midge repeated with a laugh. She stood, happy to be given a task. 

Again, she made the awkwardly loud journey to the back of the church, and stepped out into the cool October air. The church grass, peppered with golden leaves, shivered in the wind. Emily sat on the steps, in a pink tea-dress. She held the baby, cooing gently to it as it cried.

“Hey, Em, what’s going on?” Midge came to sit beside her. Emily jumped, not expecting her, and the baby cried even harder. Both mother and daughter’s faces were red and streaked.

“I can’t get her to stop crying. She just won’t stop crying. I don’t know what’s wrong, and she can’t tell me what’s wrong, and everyone’s inside waiting, and I don’t know what to do.”

Midge looked at the creature in her best friend’s arms. That was a whole human girl. That was her best friend’s daughter. How absurd, that we all start out as weepy rosy little blobs.

“Take a break. Give her to me,” Midge heard herself saying. Here was life in her hands. It didn’t feel good, but it didn’t feel bad either. The baby wriggled a little as she held her: was she doing something wrong?

“I don’t really know how to do this,” she told Emily.

“Neither do I,” Emily said with a dispirited smile, and put her head on Midge’s shoulder. “I could really go for a cigarette right now.”

Midge replied, “I passed a corner store on the way here. When this shit’s over, we’ll run by and pick up a pack. It’s on me. Christening gift.” They laughed. Midge ran her hands through Em’s hair. “I just got my period too. We’re both really having a morning, aren’t we?”

“God, I remember periods.”

“Babe, you know you still have to have them for like another couple decades, don’t you?”

Emily groaned, and they laughed again. The baby’s crying had subsided. 

“I don’t think it matters if the baby’s crying, anyway. She’s going to start crying again when we dunk her in the water anyway.”

“Midge, we’re not dunking her, oh my God, it’s just a little water.” She paused. “But you’re right. We should head in. Let’s go.” 

Her best friend next to her. The warm soft autumnal sunlight. The gentle swaying of the trees. Irene’s perfume. A promised cigarette. Blessings, counted. Midge looked down at the strange pink little thing in her lap, a little girl. She thought of the blood between her legs. She felt no more compelled for one of her own. But, God, this kid was beautiful. Just like her mother.

“Let’s go, Midge,” Emily repeated, without moving.

“I’m ready when you are, Emily.”

Featured Image: Wikipedia, Public Domain

By Robertha Green Gonzalez

Leopold was a Russian brown bear. Precisely how he came to inhabit the welfare rooms of the Sergei Rachmaninoff Conservatory remains an enigma, one of those strange realities people come to accept not through understanding, but through quiet resignation. It was said, simply, that he was there and there wasn’t really much one could do about it.

He was not, by nature, an objectionable tenant. Leopold bore himself with a certain melancholy dignity. He did not roar, nor did he disturb. To put it frankly, he wasn’t much of an inconvenience to anyone, unless of course you needed to use the welfare facilities, in which case, to put it rather bluntly, you were stumped.

Curiously, Leopold spoke excellent French. How a bear acquired such eloquence is unclear. Rumours abounded. The most persistent of them claimed he had learned the language in the 1970s in order to woo a violinist named Arabella. She, poor soul, never saw his face. She heard only the voice, low and resonant, emanating from behind a half-closed office door. And how could she have known? Leopold

was, if anything, a hopeless romantic though hopeless more in the sense of being ill-fated, or even morally adrift. He delighted not in love itself, but in its illusion.

In stringing Arabella along the path of imagined passion, he seemed to reach the outer edge of some dimly recalled humanity. But love requires flesh, and presence, and truth and Leopold, alas, was still a bear. When Arabella graduated, she vanished

from his life. There wasn’t much Leopold could do about the matter and since, Leopold has seldom spoken French.

I think the last noted occurrence was rather tragic really, as it was used with rather malicious intent – luring a visitor, an oboist if I’m correct into the welfare room and … well truly, no one saw her again, though the sound of her oboe – of the melody Gilles Silvestrini’s Six Etudes Pittoresque is apparently often heard in the quiet of the night.

There was, however, one particular occasion that stands out. Perhaps it even explains why Leopold is still allowed to reside in the welfare rooms at all. It was to do with his fondness for jazz. 

Naturally, jazz wasn’t something regularly heard in the conservatory reality, almost improper. Yet from the room below Leopold’s, it drifted upward now and then—the work of a saxophonist, a quiet prodigy. Lived mostly in major thirds and Chopin études. But jazz, that was where his heart sat. He kept his passion for it hidden, a

secret. Only late at night, when he was certain everyone else had gone home, would he indulge. Quiet at first, then freer, more wild. It was beautiful, really.

Leopold listened. Night after night, he’d sit in the welfare room above, unmoving. He assumed, based on the playing, that it was a “he” down there. He never checked. Leopold didn’t like leaving the welfare room. What mattered was that anyone who tried to interrupt the player, anyone who thought they might barge in or critique or ask politely for the practice room, was met with a rather unpleasant surprise the

following morning. A large, unmistakable one. Left just outside their door. It was, to put it plainly, Russian brown bear shit.

It didn’t take long for word to get around. Soon, no one dared interrupt the saxophonist. And a kind of understanding formed unspoken but very real, that if the bear liked your playing, then no one else had the right to question it. In a place filled with judgement, that kind of endorsement was priceless. Leopold and the saxophonist never actually spoke. Not once. But their silence said enough. A strange sort of friendship. One that didn’t need to be acknowledged to be deeply felt. In some ways, it may have been the thing the saxophonist needed most.

The following year, he quit the conservatory. Went off to play jazz full-time. In an interview, he was asked why. He said, simply, “It was the bear.”

And that was that.

Featured Image: Daniel Diesenreither

By Nicole Ruf

Victoria places her plate on the kitchen table and sits across from him. He lifts his gaze slightly, just enough to see her, and enough for her to see him do it, just not enough to hold it. With that same caution, he brings his fork to his mouth. They eat scrambled eggs, with thinly chopped onions and tomatoes. Where Victoria comes from, they call them huevos pericos, but he does not know this; he has never asked. Victoria’s eggs are cold. She eats them anyway, more out of habit, and to give her hands something to do, than out of hunger. 

It had been a while since she had felt real hunger, or perhaps she felt it all the time, a low ache so constant she no longer knew how to recognise it. She stares at her plate, fork held between palms in a gesture on the verge of prayer, praying, perhaps, that the eggs on her plate might confess something to her, that something, anything, might happen, that her gaze could pierce its ceramic, or the wooden table, or even the tiled floor beneath her feet. Break apart this kitchen, this apartment, this life she was never meant to stay for. With the same intensity Victoria fixes on her plate, he fixes on her. Probably with similar intent: to provoke a reaction, any reaction. He watches the stubborn line of her mouth, the brief crinkle of annoyance at her nose, studying her the way one studies a closed door, searching for a way in. Victoria can feel his eyes on her. She refuses to return them.

“My eggs are cold.”

“I told you to give me the first ones.”

Victoria opens her mouth to say something, but does not. For a brief second, she thinks the gesture makes her look a lot like a fish; the thought amuses her.

“What are you laughing about?”

She says nothing. 

“What are you laughing about?”

Victoria looks at him then, for the first time. One eyebrow raised slightly, eyes hovering between scolding and something close to pleading; see me, they might say. He cannot tell which she means, perhaps she cannot either. She simply shakes her head. It seems to satisfy him; maybe he lacks the will to insist further, maybe it is indifference, probably a bit of both. Victoria lowers her gaze to her plate again, and he to the crown of her head. He can see the roots of her hair, the newest bits of her; they make him think of the first time he saw her. He had liked her hair so much then. He follows each strand with his eyes: those intertwined shades of brown and copper, the curls forming at the ends. He thinks of how well he knows this hair, how many times his hands have… and then stops. Some things it no longer helps to remember. It occurs to him how beautiful she looks. 

“Are you crying?”

The sound of her voice catches him off guard. He straightens too quickly, shifts his gaze to Victoria’s eyes, but she has already returned hers to her plate. Victoria furrows her brow. His tears make her angry, in fact, they make her furious. That her heart will not yield at the sight of the man she loves crying across from her, and yet it refuses to. She bites down on her tongue, hard enough for it to show on her face. The gesture draws another tear down his cheek.

“I shouldn’t have stayed.”

She does not know, quite, why she says it. Her words have a tendency of arriving before she does. He sets down his fork. Her words come slowly, like furniture moved between two. Then anger; at what she said, but mostly at her eyes, still fixed on her plate. He wants her to look at him. Even knowing that he will no longer find in them that same tenderness that once lived behind her pupils, reserved for him only. He knows she has already left in every way that matters. He looks at her anyway. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed.”

Victoria’s eyes flick to him, just briefly, just half a second before she intends them to. She lets out a small laugh.

“Are you agreeing with me?”

He laughs too, but it sounds hollow even in his own ears. They allow themselves to look at each other, and they smile. For a moment, elapsed time collapses, and the room is dim and orange, and she is in his shirt, sneaking back into bed with a plate of scrambled eggs, the window full of sunset. She was happy then, or thought she was, or was just not yet unhappy. Just as quickly, Victoria looks away, back to her plate. She is the one to do it; she notices this. They both miss it, though not in the same way. He misses her, and she misses who she was before. The eggs are colder now.

Featured Image: Pinterest

By Robertha Green Gonzalez

The idiom goes: there are plenty of fish in the sea. 

But things were never that simple, because Frank was a snail. 

Not just any snail, either. Frank was a store-bought snail, living in a fish tank in Gary’s flat. Gary was a university dropout whose primary contributions to the world at that point were an overwatered spider plant and a lingering cloud of cheap marijuana smoke. 

Frank believed in love. He tried for love. But love, as a snail, is a difficult thing, prospects being what they are: limited and slippery. Not that Frank had nothing to offer. He was a hard worker, possessed a respectable shell, and came from a fine background. By which I mean he’d been raised in a rather high-end pet shop, the sort with clean glass tanks, with no yellow mould creeping in at the corners. He wasn’t your bargain bin £3.25 snail, oh no. Frank had cost £4.75. As far as he was concerned, he was top dollar. 

The trouble was, the tank was small. Too small. And the other inhabitants, those fish he admired from across the plastic castle, never seemed to stay long. He couldn’t understand it. Each time, he would notice one, admire them, imagine a future of quiet companionship at the bottom of the tank – and then gone. Off to somewhere else, somewhere bigger, somewhere freer. 

Frank didn’t know why. He only knew that, time after time, the fish he loved refused to stick around. And so he stayed, watching the water ripple, telling himself there were plenty of fish in the sea, even as the truth pressed in on the glass walls around him: 

There was no sea. Only Gary’s tank.

What Frank never understood, what no one ever told him, was that fish love fish. Always have, always will. And no matter how polished his shell, how steadfast his devotion, how utterly sincere his slow, circling affection… he would never be a fish. He would always, always be a £4.75 snail.

Featured Image: João Costa

By Edward Clark

We woke up at five and walked to the beach. The sea was cold, cold to the touch as I strode in first, feeling the cool, slippery rocks beneath my feet. I brushed the glossy surface of the pebbles and the smooth wrack as I plunged, plunged my right foot into the water, listening to the sound of the waves washing over the burnished stones skipping on my left, the sound of the first seagull squawking. The water was dark; calm. I braced myself and 

                                                                     my teeth chatter with perseverance. My knees, waist – deep breath – stomach. There is a certain peace in the dark: the sky sunless, the water cold, cold to the touch of my collarbone. I look into the void, but all I hear is the sound of splashing feet behind me, the sound of my heart beating higher and higher in my chest as the heat of my heart warms the ocean as I raise my feet up, away from the slimy stones as my left pinky toe narrowly misses an urchin sleeping on the pink granite teeth bared ready to fight. My words stop. My shoulders, chin, eyes submerged and merged invisible in the deep. I surface, laugh. My hand grazes my naked chest and feels the braille on my skin 

                                            my body was so cold my teeth chattered uncontrollably my soaking hair in my eyes my fingers pitch purple my arms lilac. A wave broke over my head. I laughed the sea out of my nose as we walked home towards the sunrise.

Featured Image – Honor Adams

By Charles FitzGerald

We first met Joanna and Mark when we moved into Crowley Avenue, nearly thirteen years ago. We sent  our kids to the same school, where my wife was introduced to Joanna at pickup time. Playground  pleasantries turned into play-dates, play-dates turned into dinner parties – and lots of those. Through  Joanna and Mark, we met Paula and Neil, Eileen and Andrew, and Tessa and Adam (since divorced). I  quite like Joanna. She can be very good company after a few drinks, albeit a bit loud. And she was very  helpful with the kids when my mother-in-law passed. 

Problem is, I think Mark’s a cunt.  

He’s pious, boorish, drinks too much, pretends to laugh at Shakespeare, drives a new Aston Martin and –  for some reason – reminds me a lot of my step-father. I haven’t a clue what he thinks of me. Nor do I really  care. On the surface, you’d be excused in mistaking us for firm friends. Our civility’s pretty unwavering.  Curry nights with Andrew and Neil on Wednesday. Golf every other Sunday. I used to regularly give him  lifts back from the pub, in the days before he was partial to drink-driving.  

Reluctantly, we’re indebted to Joanna and Mark. It’s sort of an unspoken truth. They’re responsible for  the friendships we’ve entered since arriving here, and we’re pretty unsocial otherwise. I think my wife feels  this a lot more than me, so I’ve resigned to keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, I’d have no problem with  never speaking to Mark again – or suffering through his stories from Harrow, or pretending to give a shit  about his new TV (one of those ones which transforms into a painting when idle).  

It seems, nowadays, ‘disliking someone’ is not a good enough reason to cut a friendship short. I used to  dream of the day Mark, or even Joanna, might execute some inexcusable faux pas – something which  would immunise our radio silence from criticism. No such luck.  

We were hosting last Thursday. I cooked one of my braised ducks. Joanna and Mark arrived forty-minutes  late. He quickly entered into a relentless recounting of something he’d heard on LBC. I was alert to even a  slither of boredom from Andrew and Neil, but they actually seemed pretty interested. Even my wife  played ball. I tuned out until they left, far too late as per.  

I could tell my wife was bothered by something. Just in the way she dropped plates into the dishwasher. “I  think Joanna’s holding secret PTA meetings”, she eventually cracked.  

“Really?” I felt a delightful opportunity brewing.  

“She’s planning some sort of coup. Y’know when you just get that… I dunno, that feeling?” I didn’t really  know ‘that feeling’, but I nodded along. “Can you do me a favour?”

“Of course” I suppressed a smile.  

“This is gonna sound really weird, but… Would you mind popping over, after work tomorrow? Peering  through their window or something. I’m just… I’m sure she’s holding them on Fridays. Sonia let slip the  other day…”

“Absolutely, no problem at all”, I interrupted. “I’ll swing by tomorrow. You know me. Discreet voyeur”.  

The next day, I took the scenic route home. I felt a bit like Taggart. Snow Patrol on the stereo. Joanna and  Mark live in an end-of-terrace on the other end of town, which they routinely describe as “semi-detached”. I pulled up beside their empty drive, where I had an unrestricted view into the kitchen.  

Joanna stood alone beside her kitchen-island, pouring a large glass of red wine. I could just about make  out her eyes – certainly glazed, perhaps even watering. It wasn’t unheard of for PTA meetings to end in  tears. She lifted the glass to her lips, as her eyes caught mine. I jolted into gear and drove on.  

I stopped off at M&S for some oven pizzas. I honestly didn’t know if I’d gathered the sort of evidence my  wife desired. But, I reasoned, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to play it up slightly. I parked in a nearby cul-de-sac and prepped my forthcoming dossier. Rounding the corner into Crowley Avenue, I nearly collided  with Mark.  

“Ha, look what the cat dragged in!”, he spat. “Tell you what… Christ, Jo left her bloody gloves at yours last  night. Somehow it’s my fault, so…”

“Ah, that’s… Bad luck, yeah”. I attempted a smile. “You get ‘em, then?”

“Yeah, yeah, all fine”. Mark patted his gilet pocket. “Lovely duck, by the way. I’m still full”.  

“Cheers, yeah, s’just… Good fun, wasn’t it?” I suddenly remembered locking eyes with Joanna. Oddly,  the significance of this hadn’t occurred to me until then.  

“Great fun, yeah, erm… I was meaning to text you actually. Might have to sack off curry next week. I’m  meeting some old Harrovians for a bit of a piss-up. Go ahead though, by all means”.  

I smiled, genuinely this time. “No worries. Have fun”.  

“Yeah, yeah… Not too much fun, not too much fun”, he smirked. “Anyway, look… You take care, mate”.  Mark held out his hand. As I shook it, I caught the scent of my wife’s perfume.  

Featured Image – Matthew Dodd

By Lenna Suminski

I wish I had grown up with you. I imagine us both sat in the back of a Catholic private school, two continents and an ocean apart. Pleated skirts below our knees and His Holiness all up and down our stocking hoses. I imagine us both tip-tapping in black leather Mary Janes, humming to the same choir bells, sat at mass head bowed and ponytail coming undone in a few whiskers. I imagine us both muttering our Hail Maries in the same breath, clueless to Eves and evenings spent at an underground wine bar in Central–Plume It was appropriately decorated with bird fixtures and feather ornaments crowding its walls. Did we both look out and see the same bird, its wings far more interesting than the Spanish or Latin splashed across our desks? 

I could’ve watched you play with your hair and maybe put a braid in it, or two. I could sit in the very back row and write about you all day. Across my spinal-cord notebooks would be starry stories of your freckles and the way you drew birds, maybe you would have asked me what I was reading on my lap and we could get taller together reaching for Plathian trees. 

Instead I learned about your netball practices and family estates in the line to the National Gallery, over tea in Covent Garden you told me about your friend that was a duke and the dead ferrets you shot. In the wine bar we talked religion and love and blue mascara because what else is there to talk about? Another pub where a poorly performed Ed Sheeran wannabe sat on a high chair and we got drunk over lager. You beat me at scrabble and I fell in love with your annoying habit of never taking anything seriously. 

I never sent the letter. 

Eight months later we are sitting in the corner of a student bar and I try to explain why I’ve traveled across the country to give you a few pages of my messy cursive. An hour ago I leaned against the back corner of the room, wine glass in hand, and imagined what my face must’ve looked like to your closest friends as it changed from admiration and awe to the sincerest wave of grief I’d ever dawned. I was scared to touch you from this uncomfortable distance on this angular sofa. I could watch you forever I love you I want to remember you. 

But I am not here, I am not there, nor everywhere. There is so little of you that I can remember. I don’t want to only occupy your life in intangible mythical ways. I want to know how you sneeze and how often, I want to paint your nails and bite them off. To know how you take your tea and which mug is your favorite? Put candy in your stocking and pick daffodils from our back garden, sunrise in the Alps, sunsets in Paris, midnights in Vienna. I want to see you spin to Jazz and take you home after too much muddy red wine. Win at family charades and fill the grill up with charcoal. A pie by the window, mow the lawn, a jar of honey. 

I want a life with you in any boring place at all. 

There is nothing wrong about us. No logic or star crossed fortunes for us to be bending down pleading and crying. 

Can I ask you, what is more true than how I look at you across this crowded place? 

What could be less real than the memory of us rising in coffee steam and first class Queens’ postage stamps? What is more definite than carefully chosen flowers and how we speak to each other like Ophelia did the waters? You’re my favorite person and I think our souls are made from the same color. I could stitch us back together and embroider our initials on pillows, socks, collars, something blue. I’ll knit us a family tweed. If I could look at you from across this room forever I think I might just be okay with never touching you again. If I could hear you laugh and your lashes flutter I might just be okay with never talking again. 

I try not to let my mind wander of our future, utopian illusions envisioned by someone who is not used to not getting what she wants. My spoiled temperament makes me stupidly stubborn and all entitled but I swear I am not asking for much. 

Last Saturday I found myself not nearly drunk enough to handle the small talk of a university house party. Tequila rose chasing vodka, 3 pound XL Tescos lemonade, purple glitter on eyelids and button down polo shirts flooded my peripheral. Girls overcompensating for their boyfriend’s dissatisfying performances with speech-lists of things that he’s given her, we all stand in a circle in the smoking garden and allow them to convince themselves all the way from uni to a surrey estate with golden retrievers and worn down waxed jackets . 

When I excuse myself to the restroom I look back twice and almost expect to see you across the room, smiling at me behind your fringe. I wanted so desperately to burst out laughing at a clever remark you’d make all cloaked with sarcasm about that boy’s misuse of “sesquipedalian” or reference some Baroque musical piece and I’d be the luckiest man in the world. 

When I’m caught in these unnecessary conversations and excessive alcoholic consumptions I wish you were here. 

I could half listen to a friend’s story about their summer trip to Mallorca or Ibiza and look up lazily at you standing next to the fireplace, wine glass in hand, telling a joke that makes the people around you laugh. I’d move around everyone because you’re just my person, there would be no more loneliness if I could just exist next to your holiness, witness your life. 

Instead I let my eyes drift off away from the lit houses and towards the dark of the night. Outside, rain is puttering perilously against the pavement and the slugs have come out. My nailbeds are picked at and slowly bleeding, my hair is damp from rainwater and vodkawaters. 

(I never told you about how I used to brave the streets after a summer storm and carefully rehome all the lost snails and slugs and worms. I know you’d have found the image endearing: me waddling in wellies and talking to the cicadas.)   

The slow sway of the seasons and the city’s descent into an undeniable autumn brought about a great sense of becoming, an atonement of fog that seemed to me followed along all the students of the university. A likened quietness began to come over me as well, manifesting itself in a complete disinterest in the practicalities of romance. Its very essence bored me terribly, the lethargy of conversation, the exhaustion of rehearsed intimacy, going through the motions of physicalities. It is a dull chore. It is dull to be doing the things one does when in love: thumb brushing against my knee, dilated pupils in pub gardens, holding hands down cobblestone. It had not been that long since I managed those motions with sincerity, the only forgiving aspect about these foolish courtships are when they do not happen through compliance. The ridiculousness of running your fingers through my hair! But when you see it in their eyes all doubts cease… how unoriginal we are as a species, moved by the heart to proceed along the same old same old same old endearments. 

The cold frigidity of northeast England will forever be enchanting to me, something to be adored, something to be abhorred. To watch the seasons fade and river water run wild, color appearing on passersby cheeks and noses and ears, the instinct to retreat. 

I smoke and drink and smoke even more, mostly. I feel classless and petty and vengeful. But I try to do good. 

I think about you today like I do any other. In reading the letters from Hildegard and Heloise and their declaratory devotion to the living light I let myself stare out the window and towards the red orange and yellow trees. If my letters to you were ever retrieved and ascribed I can say with confidence another group of eagerly bored pupils would elaborate on my longing just as I did this morning. Nothing is good without you, not much of anything is anything away from you. 

Damn the soul. Alma, you are in my blood as you are in my bones. 

Featured Image: Toby Dossett

By Lenna Suminski

In the escape of answering the what-am-Is that dawned on me and dauntingly demanded, over an extra-dirty, extra-wet gin martini, I gave the perfect answer that I would oh-so-love to be the love interest. This response satisfies, excites, and disarms whichever man it is that is threatening me with a good time and a ring to follow. It is true, though perhaps cowardly. Determinism has governed my life since before my conception. The consummation of my idealisation appeared in the fantastical imagination of my father’s head. His first and only novel was written in a language I don’t understand but is his mother and mother’s tongue–one that he refused to teach me. We have that in common, cool terrains that are our own and solely our own. 

The love interest in his book, one that that 2000s blog posts describe as erotic, erotically dark, erotically masculine, erotically romantic. 

I often feel as though I had no choice but to become her. But I can never know her. I cannot read it. He will never let me know her. 

I was never meant to be a scathing self-empowered person. My gift of performance and beauty and witty intelligence is far too polished to give autonomy any space. 

Every time I fall in love it begins tragically. The only time I have ever been honest was with someone that really did not deserve my confessions: 

I can only be imagined. I can’t exist without other people. 

Why? 

I don’t know. 

We were staring at each other and he had the look that men get when they smell a woman’s vulnerabilities. Sense and Sensibility are what they hate. I imagine his mouth watering at the same time my eyes did. I must have been insatiable. I started to cry and went to my kitchen to make Lady Earl Grey tea from a dashing silver can. He followed me and tried to fuck me on the counter. I let him. I cried and smelled the rose petals in the tea leaves. I didn’t cum, I never do. 

I stopped seeing him because I was too much of a lady and frankly my disgust for him overrode just how much I needed his attention, his obsession. I was the best thing he could ever call his own and we both knew it. And I didn’t let him. I stopped falling in love with him when I had to pay for his oysters at a restaurant he thought to be fancy and he ordered two more spritz after I said I would pay. Talk of money and any anxiety always freaked me out. I don’t like to be aware of it. The fact that he didn’t know how many shells to order revolted me. Men that try to impress without the allocations and importance birthed into them made me nauseatingly abhorrent. I found him embarrassing. Some revolutionary that was being taken out to dinner by a woman he saw as an archetypal aristocrat. 

He didn’t know how to eat oysters and he never bought hard-cover books. He farted in my bed and I couldn’t take it anymore. It felt like the most apt violation a man could do to me. I told him to get the fuck out of my house. He slept with someone much uglier than me the next night. I felt pity. 

And then I felt sad. No matter how much I dislike a man, they will always make me hate myself more. 

I write it in a letter that he would never have the privilege of receiving: 

When I see you again, I will greet you with warmth and loveliness. And I will look gorgeous and feminine and ephemeral. You always liked the fleeting nature of my essence. Though you always did correct me like a child when I would misidentify a philosophical essence. 

I resent the way you’ve reduced me of all my complexities, I used to be able to feel so much more in all the possible worlds and now all I have is resentment. My inside writhe when I think of how you will package and deliver me to a group of self-proclaimed individuals as one of your stories that will reconfirm your eccentricities. At one of your dinner parties, like the last wine and cheese night you invited me to, where the flute players outnumbered those who actually know you, or like you. You confuse admirers for friends. And you confuse the wise with the loud. You confused me as everything else and as God and as a virgin and the whore. I am really none of those. I am really just a woman with a past and present and sometimes I am not even that, merely a person that hopes to have a future as well. 

It is like you’ve stolen me away, to be an anecdote. And it feels like rape though it isn’t, like you’ve taken my insides and my innocence and left me to rot. 

And then I am reborn again and again, euphorically leaping from the heads of Zeus’ except every man wants to have the taste of creation, if only for the sake of squashing that very life anyways. So I am born again and again for you to take me on. 

I can only be imagined. I can’t exist without other people. 

Why? 

I don’t know…Wanna go for another round?

Featured Image: Saint Peter at The Grand National Hotel