I can hear
the folk next door
through triple glazing,
across the open space
of our gardens
and a field of cows,
munching.
I never liked
the fuckers
anyway.
Susan Howe‘s stories and flash fictions have been published and placed in competitions many times. A proud but displaced Yorkshirewoman, brevity is in her DNA.
I hang on the wall
exposed and flagrant,
listening to the echo
of culture vultures’
feet.
Some stroll quickly
by but have a sneaky
look:
art in an instant.
Others linger with
nervous coughs;
office girls giggle
and wiggle by
on precarious
shoes that clatter.
Monday to Friday lunchtime
lovers meet.
‘…and that’s disgusting,’
she says,
‘why can’t we ever meet
by the Pre-Raphaelites?’
Bill Allen lives in West London and writes in retirement. Worldly wise, a wicked sense of humour, he often observes the darker aspects of life as well as the curiously funny. Likes old films, modern plays, wine mixed with a pinch of conversation. Bill has published a few poems and short stories.
‘I do not ride.’ I shook my head. ‘I want one that is slow.’
I couldn’t speak the lingo, but I’d watched ‘’Allo ’Allo’.
I felt the French girls sniggered and had masterminded fatwas.
‘You take ze ’orse zat’s at ze back. ’E’s young . . .’is name is Matoise.’
‘But what about a chapeau?’ I pointed to my head.
The girls threw back their têtes and laughed. My fate was viande dead.
Matoise was their accomplice; his eyes betrayed a smirk.
An entertaining novice! How he loved to taunt a berk.
Unladylike, I threw a leg and landed in the saddle.
My rump, untethered, slid about. I was up the creek, sans paddle.
The group set off in front of me in the languid summer heat.
I heard their chit-chat fade away as Matoise stopped to eat.
I kicked my heels as jockeys do and flapped the stringy reins,
but Matoise was on hors d’oeuvres and had yet to start his mains.
Finally, he raised his head and, like a bull, he stamped,
then took off like a thunderbolt! My muscle-mode was CLAMPED.
I yanked his reins to slow him down, but he raced with nose to sky,
and dragged me under branches which, of rider-height, were shy.
‘Stop, Matoise!’ I bellowed as he galloped t’wards a trench
. . . then changed it to ‘Arrêtez-vous’, recalling he was French.
Finally, our leader cut through my line of sight,
raised her eyes, snatched my reins and, muttering, pulled tight.
She led us to the trekkers, still plodding at their leisure,
and she and Matoise shared a wink of pure sadistic pleasure.
The day was done, the dismounts made, my hair was in a mess,
my face was scratched, my shoulders ached. I feigned a lack of stress.
I waved adieu and thanked them all, despite my dreadful pain,
and for the next three awful days, I walked just like John Wayne.
When life throws up the unexpected, Helen Laycock casts it in rhyme (much to the embarrassment of her Muse/husband). She writes serious poetry, too, as well as fiction. Details of her short stories and flash can be found here and information about her children’s books can be found here.
Intimidated
a beautiful young lady
Tim was surprised
to learn
that men and women
live and love
inside him
Thread for her:
Time was, I’d pander to your whim.
Though recently the bruin’s been more grisly than teddy.
This panda watched you. See?
This cuddly love-token you accepted in your boudoir,
my cutesy Chinese bear with webcam eyes.
He saw you fuck my friend.
That knowledge morphed me to the fiend that I’ve become,
more Frankenstein than lover, frankly,
Thread for him:
Friendship, love, hate,
what should you sacrifice to mate? Old Mate,
my erstwhile friend, perfidious cuckolding stallion.
She was my mate; I gave her everything, my life, my love, my hope.
I should have smelt the coffee. Dope.
Never the angel I believed, I was deceived. Oh, not by her: by me.
Yes, I created her. I made that woman fit an ideal in my brain.
In truth, she would fuck anything in trousers. And she did.
‘What you see you get,’ she said: to me, to them, no doubt to you.
Hey, sauce for goose is sauce for gander.
Take another gander. Many have.
But then, of course, you can’t, Old Friend,
Duct-taped to the body you’ve enjoyed.
So, you desired her tits? Well, you shall wear them,
her bits for yours; slot for manhood. Good?
That’s fair exchange in my book. Synergy.
Dead needle:
She wanted cock. I’ll give her yours, Old Pal.
Wear it proudly, Sweet Thing, may it bring you joy.
What’s that you’re mumbling Sweetness? ‘Stitch-up?’
If you say so, Darling — Suture self.
With this rusty scalpel I’ll excise your faithless hearts—
(where some move on – forgive, let live – I’m going to up the ante)
—and scoff them, braised with fava beans, your livers,
and a nice Chianti.
A version of this piece was first published in Infernal Ink Magazine in 2013.
Some say Andy Mann is the dark alter ego of an octogenarian Anglican vicar. Others believe he was once the white-clad nemesis of Jeremy Clarkson. The only facts known for certain: he has conned enough gatekeepers to get fiction, creative non-fiction and non-fiction published in diverse places, in print and online and was once, falsely, accused of poetry. Andy’s hobbies include baroque music, embroidery and taxidermy. He is currently underpinning his sagging creative writing pursuit on a degree course at Birkbeck, University of London, where lecturers and fellow students insist he is kept under maximum physical restraint at all times.
My shrink says that when I feel blue
what I need is a deep breath of green –
that there’s “truth in the beauty of nature”,
and besides, it’s a nice change of scene.
Problem is, I’ve got issues with trust.
I’m suspicious of people (and things)
who pretend to be something they’re not
to cover up lies, thefts and flings.
So when I went out in the country
with a guide to show me this from that,
I soon realised most plants were liars,
and their fraud sparked a panic attack.
Lamb’s Ear, Monkey’s Nose and Bear’s Foot
do not pass for the organs of beasts.
Bat’s wings are not green with red berries –
I was the fool in yet another deceit.
Cupid flies, so his car is redundant,
if a hare had a bell he would ring it,
I’m yet to see a fox wearing gloves
or a cow tease a bull in her slip.
Like hell is there truth out in nature –
plants lie just as well as the rest.
Stuff my shrink and his deep breath of green,
a stiff gin’s all I need when depressed.
Emily Koch is a writer and journalist living in Bristol. She writes short stories, flash fiction and poetry and recently finished her first novel.
I just adore the realness
of dust. Kyrgyzstan never
goes out of style. We always
use fur for holiday meals. You
can’t have too many pearls in
a kitchen. This year’s color is
hand-knotted Turkish carpets.
I simply can’t say enough about
napkin rings. Small pots of chartreuse
enliven any room. Don’t underestimate
the power of vetiver candles. Nothing
personalizes a space like lapis lazuli.
Invest in the very best-quality
curtain rods you can afford.
Pat Tompkins is an editor in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her poems have appeared in Confingo, The A3 Review, bottle rockets, and other publications.
The sun revives,
sea refreshes;
and the sand eventually realises
I’m on holiday.
Old energy saps away
replaced by new
with its unguarded optimism.
I take two cigarettes from an imaginary pack.
I light them both together
and offer one to you 3000 miles away.
You take it
inhale
and glance quizzically in my direction.
I didn’t know you smoked you seem to say,
sitting at your office desk.
Peter Yates is a playwright who has his own Theatre Company Random Cactus. He works with various charities and is a Theatre Critic at London Theatre 1.
If I were suddenly twenty years younger
Yes, at first it would be a bit weird
I’d ask myself – why this new hunger
To grow a lumberjack’s beard?
But I’m sure I’d soon get the hang of it
I’d be a good little hipster indeed
I’d eat pulled pork in artisan pop-ups
Ride a bike with only one speed
I’d tweet selfies from the roof-tops of Peckham
Though haters might mock me and sneer
I’d come up with an app to sell you some crap
I’d micro-brew a craft beer
But alas I am twenty years older
And thus far too old for that shit
Instead I have Midsomer Murders
And a pain in one knee when I sit.
We bought a bar
for the dining room,
to entertain ourselves
and non-existent
friends of the family.
We stocked up on mixers,
European lagers.
Stuck mirrored squares
behind the bottles
to catch reflections
of pretend barpersons.
Sunk muted spotlights
into cheap, beige wood.
Angostura Bitters
and grenadine
lent their cachet
to the gift-set tumblers
and clear plastic coasters.
The months passing,
novelty grew brittle.
And barely noticed
the bar went dry.
The optics glued.
And one by one
the upside down
empty spirits
revealed
their false glamour.
The ice bucket grew musty.
Even the maraschino cherries
unceremoniously
departed.
Mark Mayes has published poems in various magazines, including: The Interpreter’s House, Ink Sweat & Tears, Staple, The Reader, The Shop, and Fire, and has had work broadcast on BBC Radio. He has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize.
