Publihe in June were:
Jim Bates,Sharon Boothroyd, Florentina Caliman,John Carswell, : Jacqueline Chou, mark Connelly, Barry Garelick, Sarah DAS GUPTA, dawn DeBraal.A. Dunn,Renee Ebert,Peter Hardman Héctor Hernández,Norton Hodges, Gill James,Keith Mckibbin, Bonnie Meekums, Henry Lewi, David Lyons, louisa Prince, Rob Molan,Dipti Ranganathan,, Paula R.C.Readman, Judith Skilleter, Swatridge, and S..Nadja Zajdman
TOtl; hits 95692but My was439000
Dandelion Clock by Paula R C Readman, dandelion wine (981)
You do know you can make three wishes with that?’ A deep, earthy voice pulled me from my thoughts as I sat on the stone step of a gothic folly in a beautiful garden. I looked up to see a tall, dark, handsome man smiling down at me. I frowned, not recognising him as one of the guests since he hadn’t followed Sally’s strict dress code; he wore jeans and a white shirt. The man pointed to the dandelion clock I had just picked, the only weed in a perfectly manicured garden. Like that dandelion, I felt out of place at the party.
The man repeated his question about making wishes. I stared at the dandelion clock unaware that I was rolling the delicate stem between my thumb and forefinger. ‘Oh, I thought it was for telling the time,’ I said, not interested in making wishes. After all everything I had hoped for had been taken from me.
‘Well, I would rather check my phone for the time,’ he replied, holding up his mobile. ‘I think they are more accurate than a dandelion clock.’ Uninvited, he sat down beside me. ‘Are you with the party at The Barns?’
‘Sort of,’ I said studying the delicate clock. So light, so fragile; a single puff could destroy it. I needed to escape the pitiful stares and whispers behind my back as I wandered among the party guests with a smile plastered on my face. I finally sought peace in the beautiful garden, full of perfume, birdsong, butterflies, and bees.
‘If you don’t mind me saying you don’t sound too sure.’
I met his stare. His brown eyes, the windows to his soul, were gentle and questioning, and I felt my anger begin to dissipate. I let my breath out slowly, unaware I had been holding it.
‘It’s my baby sister’s party— engagement party,’ I finally said the words aloud.
‘Aren’t you happy for her?’
‘Of course, I am.’ I forced a smile instead of voicing my true feelings. In reality, I was pleased that my ex-boyfriend had hit it off so well with my sister that my parents were glad he was still part of the family. Instead, I said, ‘It isn’t my scene— big crowds, lots of drinking, and a mountain of food. To be honest, I wish I could be anywhere else but here.’
‘Well, that’s your first wish,’ he said.
Paula is Not Moving by Judith Skilleter, gin and tonic (649
aula thinks she ought to move house. No, that is wrong. Paula’s three children all think she ought to move house. Where she currently lives is too big for one person; it requires too much upkeep and with bills going up all the time her utilities costs are huge and Paula is not getting any younger – as climbing the stairs two or three times a day reminds her. But Paula is not convinced that a move is for her. She can afford the extra costs and if she shuts doors the rooms unused are forgotten.
Her home is one in which she has lived all her married life of fifty happy years. She and her husband Gordon, who died some years ago with prostate cancer – long before they know what they know now about that dreadful disease - had saved and saved to be able to put down a mortgage on their detached three bedroom house. The cost of the house was £5000 and their mortgage was high.
Paula’s dad who, had always lived in rented property, said on a number of occasions to the young couple
“I don’t know how you sleep at night taking on such a huge debt”
But Paula and Gordon were determined; they knew it would be their forever home, and they were successful. Not once did they miss a mortgage repayment and their house was now worth many times that initial valuation of £5000 and had become a nice inheritance for their three children. Yet it was these same three children who were encouraging Paula to find somewhere smaller.
Paula went along with her children’s plans – as she always had – but not with the enthusiasm they had hoped for.
“Anything to keep them happy,” she thought, “and off my back”.
Dante Writers’ Circle by Paula R C Readman, a glass or two of Champagne(341)
Oh, please Mandy, come with us. You’ll have a good time.’ Jan, dressed in her Friday night finery, begged from the doorway. I sat on the sun-lounger, outside the French windows, book in hand. Once Jan’s best friends, the twins, Anvi and Diya had arrived, they would head into town for the evening.
I shook my head. Clubbing wasn’t my thing. Ever since I moved into the flat to share with Jan, she’s tried to fix me up with a date. At first, out of politeness, I had joined them.
‘It’s a great way of making new friends by meeting mine,’ Jan had said. Until I noticed, most of the people she introduced me to were single men she hardly knew. The doorbell rang, heralding my escape. After greeting Jan, Anvi and Diya popped their identical brown heads around the door and said in unison, ‘Are you coming with us, Mandy?’
‘Not tonight, I’m busy.’ And held up my book. ‘Girls, I’ve already tried to persuade her.’ Jan said.
‘Mandy, you’ve got to forget all about him, and live a little dangerously.’
The twins giggled and said, ‘You’ve read enough books to build your own library.’
‘We’ve offered her the chance for a night out and she’s made her decision,’ Jan said from the hallway. ‘We’re off now, Mandy.’
‘Have fun,’ I called back.
‘We will,’ they said closing the front door behind them.
To Build A Fire,, byJim Bates, Hot Black Coffee (239)
he wind howled down the canyon. Above the granite walls, the leaden sky leaked snowflakes that swirled around the two figures huddled on their knees against the cold. They needed to get a fire going. Fast. Before it was too late.
"Jerry, how are those matches holding up?" Steve asked. He had his gloves off and was blowing on his frozen hands. His fingers were turning white, and he was losing all feeling in them. "Can you get that kindling lit?"
"Shit, no," Jerry swore, his frosted breath immediately turning to ice, adding to the cake building up on his beard and moustache. "I've got three left, and I can't feel my fingers to hold them. Can't feel a damn thing." He blew on his fingers to emphasize his point.
Those were not the words Steve wanted to hear. It was twenty degrees below zero. If they didn't get a fire going in the next few minutes, hypothermia would set in, and they'd begin the slow, agonizing process of freezing to death. He blinked to keep his watering eyes from freezing shut. It didn't help, and he rubbed at them to clear his vision.
Next to the two men, the rushing water of the Yellow Knife River cascaded over ice-covered boulders on its way to Lake Superior ten miles to the east. Steve and Jerry had been on a winter hiking trip along the trail that ran high above the river when the ledge of snow they were on collapsed, and they tumbled thirty feet down the steep slope into the frigid water below. In just seconds, their heavy winter clothing, Jerry's dark blue thermal pants and parka, and Steve's tan Carhartt overalls and insulated jacket were soaked through to their skin. The wet clothing and the numbing cold was a dangerous combination.
Dreams of India Sky A glassbyPaula R.C.Readman of freshly squeezed apple juice (221)
What was your Nana like?’ my granddaughter Sophia asked pointing to a photo of a tall, slender woman, with long hair smiling into the camera, as we flipped through an old photograph album. Nowadays, most people use their phones instead of albums. We were sitting in the summerhouse sipping freshly squeezed apple juice made from the fruits of trees my grandfather had planted many years ago.
‘When I was sixteen, my Nana caught me admiring myself in her wardrobe mirror while wearing her blue and gold kaftan dress—’ I began, as memories flooded back. I could almost hear her voice called to me over the years.
‘Gwendolyn, are you in my old wardrobe again?’
I adored the vintage clothes Nana kept there. When I was little, she would tell me the clothes once belonged to an Indian princess, and I believed her.
‘Goodness, at sixteen, you’ve nearly grown into that one. I was twenty when I bought it in India,’ Nana said, leaning against the door frame with a brightly coloured towel wrapped around her and another around her head. ‘Remember Gwendolyn, my friends will be here soon.’ Nana disappeared from view. ‘I’ll need to be ready before they arrive because we can’t be late,’ she called from her bedroom.
I slipped the dress and long, brightly- coloured glass-beaded necklace onto its hanger and returned it to the wardrobe. I dropped to my knees beside the guest bed, lifted the bedcovers, and dragged out a dusty box from beneath the bed. I remembered seeing the old red leather photograph album with an embossed Indian elephant on the cover that Nana kept there.
‘What are you doing now?’ Nana called, but before I could answer, the sound of her hair dryer starting u, silenced my words. Since discovering the album as a child during a school holiday, I’d wanted to ask Nana about the photographs, but she was always so busy.
‘Gwendolyn, come here,’ Nana called.