Love You, Mummy

‘Love you, mummy,’ he said, and threw his chocolate-covered arms around that most favoured parent. It was snuggle-time – a time they both loved, chocolate arms or not.

Trudie tickled Alex’s feet, sang ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ a couple of times, and gave her son exactly what he needed and what her loving heart happily granted: time, attention, love and cuddles. And Alex spoke back to her as if she were the silliest but most adorable pet – a naughty puppy, perhaps, or a cat that had insisted on scratching the leather sofa. ‘Mummy, silly sausage,’ he gurgled. ‘Lalalala, mummy moo, mummy moo, mummy mummy mummy poo!’

It was mother/child bonding at its best. Trudie knew it. Alex knew it. But somebody else was not so sure. Trudie knew that because of the smashing sound that shocked mother and child out of their reverie. Shocked but not entirely surprised by the noise, Trudie turned and followed the eyes of her son to look towards the source of source of the smash – her husband, and Alex’s dad, Mark.

‘What’s going on?’ Trudie shouted. The vase he’d smashed against the sideboard was scattered in sharp and dangerous pieces all over the floor, and Alex had already jumped off his mum’s lap and was making his way curiously towards the mess. Trudie began to rise to retrieve the brush and dustpan, but Mark pushed her back down.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I was just… shocked.’ Mark scratched his beard and looked down at the mess, shaking his head.

‘Shocked? Why? Nobody was doing anything wrong.’

Why could this man never talk to her about anything?

Mark said nothing, just pointed to little Alex who toddled over to his daddy with arms outstretched.

‘What’s Alex done that’s so bad? What on earth could a little boy of two years old do that was so bad? I know I’ve not done anything wrong… so it’s obvious,’ said Trudie. ‘You just can’t bear to see us happy.’

He shook his head. ‘No. No, it’s not that. It’s just… inappropriate.’

You snowflake, Trudie thought. In what way was it EVER inappropriate to hug your baby, specially if he was gurgling happily in his loving mum’s arms, as Alex had been?

Mark was just so different. So irritable. So annoying and so incredibly annoyable – and a victim of his own restrictive thoughts. Nobody could get anything right. Not ever.

He didn’t like Alex’s bedtime routine. Apparently, it was wrong to give and receive kisses and hugs between parent and child. It was also not right to hold that child’s hand in public, or to affectionately ruffle his light brown curls.  

‘Why are you like this, Mark? It’s got worse every month since we got together. Is there something I should know?’

‘What do you mean?’ Mark turned his back to her.

‘Well, you know, some reason why everything about me and Alex irritates you?’ It was a question often asked and never answered, not even in part.

‘It isn’t you. It isn’t him. It’s just…’

‘Just? Just..? Come on man, look at him. He’s just a little boy. He needs his daddy to hug him sometimes. To play games. To laugh a bit. To tickle him. Why don’t you? Why can’t you?’

Mark walked back into the kitchen. Trudie glanced at their son who was transfixed by Cbeebies on the television, and made the decision that he would be safe from the broken vase for a moment.

She followed Mark and stood in the doorway, leaning against the raw, unpolished wood marked with the growth record of their home’s previous residents.

Her hand automatically went to her hip in a ridiculous representation of her own mother. ‘Well. Why can’t you? Why won’t you?’

Her husband stood, clearly shielding himself from her inquisitions with the fridge door. Nothing. Just a deep, agonised sigh.

‘Come on, Mark. Why? Please…’

The door was slammed, and for the second time that evening, Trudie jumped.  ‘Mark, stop slamming, and just talk to me. Talk to me. Tell me.’

And that’s when it all came out. After all their years together. Her big, tough man. Her sheltered, physically hung-up man. Her man without positive loving feelings towards either her or their child.

Mark cried. Trudy cried. Alex rushed to comfort them, and fell, cutting his knee, just a little on the shattered vase.

‘Mummy moo,’ he cried, and his mum scooped him from the floor, placing him straight into the arms of his daddy.

‘Do it,’ she said. ‘Feel it… Be the dad you know you should be.’

Mark’s body, overtaken by tremors caused by thirty years of backed-up tears, shook and near-collapsed, but Trudy gently guided him up to the wall, supporting the weight of her two loved ones.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Comfort him… your past isn’t your future.’

Mark looked at his ever-patient wife and then to his beautiful son. The pair of them slid to sitting position on the floor of the kitchen, and Mark’s arms wrapped round his little boy for the first time ever. Both sobbed quietly till the sobs transformed to giggles and tickles.

‘Love you, daddy,’ said Alex. Another first.

And somehow, something was healed.

‘Love you, mummy,’ he said, and threw his chocolate-covered arms around that most favoured parent. It was snuggle-time – a time they both loved, chocolate arms or not.

Trudie tickled Alex’s feet, sang ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ a couple of times, and gave her son exactly what he needed and what her loving heart happily granted: time, attention, love and cuddles. And Alex spoke back to her as if she were the silliest but most adorable pet – a naughty puppy, perhaps, or a cat that had insisted on scratching the leather sofa. ‘Mummy, silly sausage,’ he gurgled. ‘Lalalala, mummy moo, mummy moo, mummy mummy mummy poo!’

It was mother/child bonding at its best. Trudie knew it. Alex knew it. But somebody else was not so sure. Trudie knew that because of the smashing sound that shocked mother and child out of their reverie. Shocked but not entirely surprised by the noise, Trudie turned and followed the eyes of her son to look towards the source of source of the smash – her husband, and Alex’s dad, Mark.

‘What’s going on?’ Trudie shouted. The vase he’d smashed against the sideboard was scattered in sharp and dangerous pieces all over the floor, and Alex had already jumped off his mum’s lap and was making his way curiously towards the mess. Trudie began to rise to retrieve the brush and dustpan, but Mark pushed her back down.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I was just… shocked.’ Mark scratched his beard and looked down at the mess, shaking his head.

‘Shocked? Why? Nobody was doing anything wrong.’

Why could this man never talk to her about anything?

Mark said nothing, just pointed to little Alex who toddled over to his daddy with arms outstretched.

‘What’s Alex done that’s so bad? What on earth could a little boy of two years old do that was so bad? I know I’ve not done anything wrong… so it’s obvious,’ said Trudie. ‘You just can’t bear to see us happy.’

He shook his head. ‘No. No, it’s not that. It’s just… inappropriate.’

You snowflake, Trudie thought. In what way was it EVER inappropriate to hug your baby, specially if he was gurgling happily in his loving mum’s arms, as Alex had been?

Mark was just so different. So irritable. So annoying and so incredibly annoyable – and a victim of his own restrictive thoughts. Nobody could get anything right. Not ever.

He didn’t like Alex’s bedtime routine. Apparently, it was wrong to give and receive kisses and hugs between parent and child. It was also not right to hold that child’s hand in public, or to affectionately ruffle his light brown curls.  

‘Why are you like this, Mark? It’s got worse every month since we got together. Is there something I should know?’

‘What do you mean?’ Mark turned his back to her.

‘Well, you know, some reason why everything about me and Alex irritates you?’ It was a question often asked and never answered, not even in part.

‘It isn’t you. It isn’t him. It’s just…’

‘Just? Just..? Come on man, look at him. He’s just a little boy. He needs his daddy to hug him sometimes. To play games. To laugh a bit. To tickle him. Why don’t you? Why can’t you?’

Mark walked back into the kitchen. Trudie glanced at their son who was transfixed by Cbeebies on the television, and made the decision that he would be safe from the broken vase for a moment.

She followed Mark and stood in the doorway, leaning against the raw, unpolished wood marked with the growth record of their home’s previous residents.

Her hand automatically went to her hip in a ridiculous representation of her own mother. ‘Well. Why can’t you? Why won’t you?’

Her husband stood, clearly shielding himself from her inquisitions with the fridge door. Nothing. Just a deep, agonised sigh.

‘Come on, Mark. Why? Please…’

The door was slammed, and for the second time that evening, Trudie jumped.  ‘Mark, stop slamming, and just talk to me. Talk to me. Tell me.’

And that’s when it all came out. After all their years together. Her big, tough man. Her sheltered, physically hung-up man. Her man without positive loving feelings towards either her or their child.

Mark cried. Trudy cried. Alex rushed to comfort them, and fell, cutting his knee, just a little on the shattered vase.

‘Mummy moo,’ he cried, and his mum scooped him from the floor, placing him straight into the arms of his daddy.

‘Do it,’ she said. ‘Feel it… Be the dad you know you should be.’

Mark’s body, overtaken by tremors caused by thirty years of backed-up tears, shook and near-collapsed, but Trudy gently guided him up to the wall, supporting the weight of her two loved ones.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Comfort him… your past isn’t your future.’

Mark looked at his ever-patient wife and then to his beautiful son. The pair of them slid to sitting position on the floor of the kitchen, and Mark’s arms wrapped round his little boy for the first time ever. Both sobbed quietly till the sobs transformed to giggles and tickles.

‘Love you, daddy,’ said Alex. Another first.

And somehow, something was healed.

Viva Miss Merryweather – Politics Warning

Joanne Merryweather’s speech to the Republican-Democratic Party Conference in Blackpool, 2021, promised to be quite a spectacle. Not only because Joanne had triumphed brilliantly in her most recent commons speeches and had transformed the stubborn British electorate from a fragmented, angry mass into the most weirdly aligned voter-pool this group of countries had ever experienced…

Not only that. But also because it was to be her inauguration as party president (for life). Such was her reward for the reversing of the previous two years’ worth of both pro and anti-Europe decisions, in a way that each and every person on all sides of the argument could nod their head and say. ‘Well, well, well, that’s one hell of a solution. Of course. That Miss Merryweather’s a genius, for sure.’  

And as befitted such a major inauguration event, the like of which had never before been seen, the ceremony promised pomp and ceremony to exceed even the most jingoistic of American electioneering, with accompanying preachy speeches and crowds of overly-enthusiastic supporters. Two weeks before the event and Blackpool was already awash with slogan t-shirts, specially-written conference anthems, flags, posters, and banners. Even more unusually, there were no dissenting voices and no disrespectful slogans. The Indomitable Joanne Merryweather had managed to get her message absorbed by the inner souls of each and every Briton. All now met in the middle, yet nobody lost any ground.

Five days before the scheduled event, gigantic portraits of the dynamic Miss Merryweather appeared on every billboard in the Blackpool area, winning the universal approval of all residents and visitors. And every pole flew a flag of her face, overprinted with the words: Unity through Federalist Independence.

Joanne Merryweather’s speech had been eagerly awaited by politicians on both sides of the house – male and female, youngs and old, and both front and back benchers. The media in all its forms dedicated hours to detailed anticipation of the speech’s content, mainly during radio and television programmes usually more well known for pig-headedness and bigotry.

Historically, and internationally, no speech had been more theoretically dissected, and all political commentators were claiming insider knowledge of its contents. The broadsheets congratulated Miss Merryweather on the speech’s energetic intellectualism and analytical capacity. The tabloids simply stated ‘Jo’s got balls’.

The Republican-Democratic Party Conference was soon in full swing. Blackpool was buzzing, but for Danny Beacon, Miss Merryweather wasn’t just a well-respected party leader with an uncanny ability to entice compromise. She was his life. A long-term Republican-Democrat, Danny had never before allowed himself feelings for a fellow party member before, let alone an MP of such high-standing.

As was his usual practice, Danny had purchased his Party Conference ticket five months earlier, and had also booked his room in the Royal Hotel, where the curtains were referred to as ‘drapes’ and the bed linen wasn’t only  changed daily, but was also hand-sewn organic Egyptian cotton with a thread count of 1200, and was topped off with a high quality duck-down duvet. He’d advance-purchased his train ticket, and had booked a week off work. His boss asked ‘Where you off to, Danny-lad? Canaries again?’ – and Danny had nodded absently. Although the country was buzzing with Merryweather mania, he was reluctant to share his interest with his workmates. Why should he? Every person in the country seemed to have something to say about Joanne Merryweather, but nobody knew her as he did.

Danny had sat next to her at the bar twenty years earlier when she was simply a local party member who was considering taking baby steps towards a political career. And Danny had provided a sympathetic ear for her semi-drunken ramblings. He had walked with her along the sea front, and had even rescued her from being hit by a late-night tram. She became the reason why he retained his party membership card, why he attended each year and why he told all his friends he took a yearly trip to the Mediterranean. Each year they’d meet up, chat and enjoy each other’s company. Always innocent, and always intense. Perhaps she’d been a little busier in recent years, but she always made time for him. He knew she loved him, and this year was to be ‘their year’.

Of course, the key note speech was a rip-roaring success. Danny had been there to congratulate her, but was just one face amongst the crowd of acolytes. She scanned the crowds, but failed to notice his face. He watched her stand on tiptoes and saw her talk, knowing her lips formed the words, ‘Danny, where are you?’ He watched her brows twitch. He saw her shoulders hunch and noticed how she scratched her scalp. A nervous twitch that nobody else would interpret as he would. He knew more clearly than he ever had before – she needed him, and him alone.

‘Joanne, Joanne,’ he called, his voice lost in the melee of glib shouted questions and sycophancy.

That night was to be their first night together, and a fitting celebration of her untouchable victory against all she despised. And only Danny knew that night was to mark the end of her political career. He’d purchased tickets – one way to Tasmania. He’d found them a home and had arranged their marriage licence.

It therefore came as a shock when Danny found himself escorted roughly from the conference centre by a battalion of eight soldiers. He was forced to the ground in the delivery area of the converence centre, and whined at the large man who sat on his back. As the man brutally rummaged in Danny’s pockets, Danny moaned.

‘Mr Danny Beacon?’ came the man on top’s voice. ‘We know all about the tickets and the marriage licence. Oh yes, Danny. Miss Merryweather told us all about your stalking, your letters and your internet messages. Now perhaps you could tell us who you really are.’

The flattened man shivered. ‘Never,’ he whispered. ‘Long live the revolution.’

And the pistol held to the back of his skull was activated. The danger of Danny was no more.

‘Hot and Cold’ – short story by Lesley Atherton

Perfection. That’s what she was, and I was sure that today would work out just the way I’d planned.

I first saw her on the castle walls and our eyes met, just for a second.  I yearned to catch up and not to lose sight, but her tour party was turning the corner, and mine was five minutes behind and still being forced to listen to the John Major impersonator who masqueraded as a tour guide.  I knew the history of the King’s Tower as well as he did.  When you live in a tourist location and have a season pass, you tend to come every day, just for somewhere funky to eat your lunch. This is my place, and I knew she’d come today.

But I stayed with my group of misfits for a little longer: the elderly and the bored, the kids who wanted to be on the beach, and the mums who wondered if incorporating education into their annual vacation was necessarily a good idea.  As if to answer, a boy of about six elbowed his mother in the thigh. She turned to glare as he moaned ‘This is boring’ at the top of his little voice. Donald, the tour guide pretended not to hear, but I knew how often such things happened, especially to Donald.

It didn’t matter. She was the one, and today was the day. My shoulders hunched as the tour guide droned on about the monks who had built the castle’s brewery and had supported their order with the proceeds. I followed each word, and mouthed them along with him.

I adjusted the hoody around my face, then smoothed it down around my waist. It was of a snorkel style that wasn’t at all appropriate for a summertime holiday destination, but it suited my needs.

Pushing a black curl behind my ear I tried to disregard the heat emanating from beneath the matching fleecy black fabric of my hoodie. It was too bad that the day of her visit was also the warmest day of this Welsh summer, but I had coped with worse in my life, and for worse reason. 

Walking like a drunken crab, I followed the tour party, while poking my head round each gate and turret and wall to catch a glimpse of the girl and ensure I didn’t lose her.  I thought I’d been mistaken and she’d gone already, but no. We arrived at the second west-facing tower as the girl’s tour party was just leaving. She lingered, just a little, at the rear, and I took advantage of the crowds to change my tour group allegiance. It went without a hitch.

There were only two more stops to go on the tour. We’d just been to the north tower with views over the kelp-covered rocks of the defended coastline, and our group were passing in and out of the gatehouse dungeon, before being directed to the inevitable gift shop and tea shop. Never a café.  Always a tea shop.  I moved closer to the young lady, and we stood alongside each other at the entrance to the dungeon. I nudged her Indian-cotton-clad arm with intention.

She turned, expectant, and smiled at the face inside my hood.

‘You’re Tarim.’ More a statement than a question.

‘Marta,’ I said. ‘Shall we do it?’

She nodded with vigour. ‘I’ve built myself up to this for weeks and can’t change my mind now. It’s the right time.’

The tour party had already begun to move off, and I could see my original party leaving the north tower to walk over to join us at the dungeon. We didn’t have long but I was ready. My camera was ready. Marta was also ready.  Allowing the remainder of the earlier party to leave ahead of us, I stood with my back against the now-closed heavy wood door and sighed deeply. We’d be lucky if we got a couple of minutes. As agreed, Marta moved to the far end of the underground room – the end with the wonderful sunlit rays emerging through the skylights – and speedily arranged herself on the straw-covered stone slabs. She placed the chains next to her arms and legs.  With just a little Photoshopping, I could make it look just as it should.  I took photograph after photograph, as I walked over to Marta and gently pushed up her skirt.

‘Tasteful, Tarim,’ she said, posing as I clicked.

Suddenly, the dungeon’s door creaked open and a Scottish couple giggled about finding us alone in there.

Marta raised herself from the straw bed, brushed down her skirt, and in a calm, unflustered voice announced to the couple ‘Sex pics. For an art magazine. We pose somewhere different every day. You should try it’. She winked, and the bearded, anoraked man watched with clear admiration as she left the dungeon. ‘Lucky sod’ he said to me as I followed Marta out. For that he earned a slap on the head from his lady.

But I was not lucky. Things weren’t as Marta had said.

In 1998, precisely twenty years earlier, the body of Marta’s mother had been discovered in the dungeon, bloodied and beaten. Marta had been five then, and a little girl, but now, as a young woman, she was the spitting image of her lost parent. We’d met on a cold crime web forum and it didn’t take long before we got talking properly. Eventually I persuaded her to meet me, and she agreed to come to the castle on this special day. She’d wear her mother’s clothes, and style her hair just as her mother had. I’d dress myself in a black hoody because, on the murder day, there had been a man creeping about in one just the same.

The murder had quickly sunk to the realms of forgotten and unsolved, and not even into infamy – as not once had any of the tour guides mentioned the fate of Marta’s mother or responded to questions asked by the tour parties. A woman’s death had been forgotten and a little girl was forced to live her life without her mother. No cold case team had ever been assigned to discovering more. So it was down to us. The pair of us would make things right.

For the first time in years, I was putting my journalistic skills to good use. My article was written and scheduled for publishing the following day, and the reconstruction photos would be a perfect accompaniment to the headline: ‘Who Can Solve This Twenty Year Old Mystery?’

Marta and I walked together towards the exit, flushed with excitement at our recent activity and with anticipation of tomorrow’s headline . ‘Fancy joining me for tea and a scone?’ I asked. ‘A tribute to your mum?’ She nodded with enthusiasm. ‘I’ll pay,’ she said.

‘The Bridge’ by Rebecca Fraser

There once was a bridge that no one ever forsake to cross. It stretched across a stream that led in the direction of the nearest town. And within that town, everyone knew about the bridge. Tales would go around the town about how dangerous and terrifyingly haunted it was. Of course, no one had the courage to find out the truth, except one young teen who adventured out into the woods to find this monstrosity so called a bridge.

As they approach the bridge, the air is oddly thick. Trees are left bare without their leaves, the branches almost resembled long arms that made the teen feel distress. The grass is worn and dry, every step the young teen took made a crunch below their feet. Their eyes trail to a path of cobble stone which is connected to the bridge. The young individual looked upon the bridge to feel a sense of uneasiness all over their body. The barrier of the bridge has vines covering it of its mucky sea green leaves. From where the person is standing, made the bridge look endless from the foggy atmosphere that prevents them to see the other side. “Beyond the bridge would just be a continuous pathway of a lifeless forest but, what if it something so incredible that no one ever could imagine.”, the teen ponders to themselves. And with that thought in mind, a figure can be seen stumbling towards the teen. A wrinkly old man, with droopy, light skin, grins at the young individual. His back slouches, bending downwards ever so slightly, his long trench coat covers most of his body shape. He stares at the teenager for a while and then points at the bridge with his shaky, skinny finger.

“You wondern’ whas on the other side? Well, lad… dinny make those daft stories stop ya.” The man spits out.

“What do you mean daft stories?” The teen asks distinctly, the old man’s eyebrows rises, he begins to smirk at the young boy.

“Yer-r an outsider I see. Dis bridge hasn’t been walked on since when I twas a little boy.” His croaky voice answers as he tugs the teens shirt and turns them to the direction of the town.

“The town think dis bridge is haunted but nah it just those petty wee lies going a ’boot. I should keen, my own dad built it, best work he ever done,” He then looks over to the boy with the bright jade eyes. His hair was neatly combed back, his brunette hair complimented his green eyes.

“Whas your name? Gary? John? Scott, maybe?”

“It’s Harold, sir. Me and my mother just moved in about 4 weeks ago and I was informed about this bridge. I don’t understand why everyone talks about it, isn’t it just a bridge?”. The man laughs hysterically, before realising that the boy, Harold was being serious.

“The bridge has had its worst of times, ya know. Look at the state of it, rotting away just like ma self.” He exclaims before taking a second to think, he then reaches inside his trench coat and hands over an old journal to Harold.

“Here have dis, my dad wrote bout’ the bridge durin’ his lifetime and I tell you now lad, dis is worth it. Also, might as well you keep the journal, I no longer need it, fed up readin’ it repeatedly.” He jokes as he turns his back on the young teen. Harold places his hand on his shoulder, handing back the book to him.

“I can’t have this, it’s just awfully rude of me to take something that your dad wrote. Why do you want me to keep this journal?” The old man faces to Harold, his nose twitches ever so slightly.

“Read it and find out, trust me.” And then the old man strolls of with his trench coat dragging of the ground. He then disappears into the dark bushes and Harold can no longer see him. He felt like he should of ran after him and insist to give it back, but the old man’s words kept echoing in his head, ’Read it and find out, trust me’.  Harold then came to his senses and leans against the barrier of the bridge, opening the journal. The pages are sticky and has an aging brown colour to it.  He reads the first words on the page,

‘1923, Mark and his lass getting engaged’

‘Me and my wife decided to go visit the bridge and show her how well done it was. She was dead proud of me once we came by the stream and she told me that the bridge look like it belonged there. My attention was caught by my mate Mark, on the bridge with his lass, Laura. That boy knew exactly how to propose, that day was one of the best in summer. I never seen the water so reflective before and there were so many animals in one place. Me and my wife thought it be best to wait until Mark finished off proposing. It reminded is of my own proposing, although I just said it to Aimee that night. I saw Laura’s mouth open in surprise when the ring appeared up of Mark’s pocket. She was almost crying of happiness even my own wife started to bawl her eyes out. Woman are too emotional, but I told Aimee that and she just slapped is against the head, she canny take a joke, never has. While watching from afar, I remember saying to myself that I want my own child to grow up falling in love like this. Just the way they held each other after she said yes was too romantic, even for me. Aimee ended up dragging is along to congratulate the engaged couple. Her and Laura went off to see the ring on her hand as for me and Mark, we just nodded at each other. Even though it wasn’t much, I felt like if this bridge wasn’t here, they wouldn’t have the perfect day and perfect place to do this. I am the one who suggested the proposal to Mark.’

Harold flips over to the next page to see a new entry that the old man’s father wrote down,

 ‘It was a Friday morning and my son has come to age where he wanted to start exploring what was around him, so today I took him down to my bridge. I told him that I build the bridge with few of my mates and that I hope that one day he makes something that he is proud of. The boy just ran about up and down the bridge despite me telling him that he was gonna fall. And what did that stupid boy do? Fell on his knees, scraping the skin off. I told him to stop running bout ten times but kids these days don’t listen at all. He started to whine about his knee, and I told him to let is see it. The wee dafty’s leg was bleeding and I had no choice to wipe the mess with my favourite hanky. As I took the hanky out, Jason looked at me all worried. I asked him what was wrong, and he told is that I couldn’t use the hanky that his mum gave is on our first date. I said that it is was just a piece of cloth and cleaned up his wound. I wished I didn’t bring the hanky because I was trying to show the boy that he should care about the things he cares for. But I underestimated him, and he knew that I didn’t care about the hanky but that I only care about him and his safely. My wee boy is going to grow up a good lad, I just know it.’

The teen stops reading for a moment and glances at the bridge. He could see that it doesn’t look as scary, after knowing that there once were people living around here. But his question is that why they weren’t here now. What happened to make everyone hate the bridge so much?

‘I was told devastating news today, I couldn’t believe it at first. I never thought that Brian Watson would take his own life on the bridge that I built. I almost forgot about the bridge overall when me and my family moved down into Glasgow in 1967. I just remember my wife coming into the kitchen with her face tripping, and she held a note tightly in her hands. I asked her what was wrong, but she didn’t say anything, so I took the note off her and opened it. As soon as I read what his mum wrote about what happened, I told Aimee that we need to go back home. She fought about it for a while but then she finally came to her senses and came down with me. We thought it would be respectful to visit Brian’s family, and apologise about the incident that has affected them. I remember I snuck out later that evening and headed down to the bridge. Once I got down there, it was closed off and I remember the chills that went down my spine. Brian was a good lad, so talented with his music skills. He was never apart from his guitar, in my opinion he played it the best out of the whole country. I am sitting here thinking to myself that no one would want to walk on my bridge ever again. I don’t blame them-’

The words abruptly end, and Harold is left in confusion. What was the man going to say? Why did he stop writing? All these thoughts were in his head, but one stood out. What is on the other side of the bridge? He slowly closes the book and sets it down onto the barrier and look intently at the other side of the bridge.  He places one foot in front of the other and then he proceeds to walk faster. He was crossing the bridge, something no one wanted to do. He knew that it could be nothing on the other side but what if he was wrong. Soon enough the once thick air became clearer, and the presence of fear disappeared. Before he knew it, his foot landed on soft, lime green grass. Harold sees the most beautiful flowers scattered across the ground, and it finally made sense of what the old man’s father saw when he was younger. The bridge leads to one of the most beautiful forests that Harold has ever seen in his life. At that moment, the boy felt like he had to run back home and tell everyone of this place. As Harold ran across the bridge and down the path to the town, he left the bridge a different place from when he arrived.

‘The Snowflake Necklace’ by Rebecca Fraser

A car comes to a full stop, the sound of the engine becomes silent. A man with a scruffy beard and dark messy auburn hair, turns behind his seat where a little blue-eyed girl looks intently back at him. Her face remains still, blank like a white canvas. The man gives a grin to the little girl and then opens the car door gradually. The young girl observes the man walking over to her door to open it. She undoes her seatbelt and scatters across the seats where she climbs out the car. Father and daughter look upon a huge lodge in front of them. The walls are damp from the snow but remain a nice wood colour. The windows is a mucky brown from all the dust and mud, cobwebs are hidden in the corners of the frames. Snow laid on the roof like a comfy blanket. The father takes of hold his daughter hand as they approach the front door. He places a golden key into the key hole, the daughter imagines it as a treasure chest key that you would see a pirate with. The door gently opens, showing a dark and discreet room. The air is thick, and it felt like no one had been inside for years. But it’s only been months since they last stepped foot in the lodge.

As they make their way inside, the little girl searches her surrounds, they are so familiar, but she senses something different about it. And she knew why, something or someone is missing. And with that thought her eyes trails over to a picture frame. Her eyes focus on the photograph in front of her. It is a picture of the daughter and her beloved mother holding each other like they were never apart from one another. Her mother wore an enchanting snow-white dress that contrasted with her blue caerulean eyes. Her calm posture that wrapped around her child made it seem like you can feel the love through the photograph. The young girl eyes start to become heavy with tears, it streams down her rosy cheeks. She bites her lips to prevent crying out loud even though deep down she wanted to scream. A hand grabs the photograph out of the little girl’s palms and places it back in its original position on the cabinet. The daughter turns her head gradually to be met by her father’s chest. He holds her securely, stroking her back tenderly. The father kneels to face his daughter and moves his head closer to kiss her head. She intertwines her fingers with her fathers, and with that the father stands up, guiding her over to the lounge.

They enter, switching the lights on revealing a Christmas tree that was decorated exquisitely. A present, a small box with a tartan pattern wrapping paper, rests under the Christmas tree. The young girl gazes it from afar before glancing to her father who has a heart-warming smile on his face. He nods his head as she proceeds to go over to the gift. She picks the box up, staring at it intensely before tearing the wrapping paper off. She holds a navy velvet box, which she opens and her mother’s necklace rests inside. It is a beautiful, silver, chained necklace with a diamond snowflake, a handcrafted piece that her mother wore all the time. She takes the necklace and wraps it around her neck. Her father comes over and assists her putting it on. The diamond snowflake lays against her chest, it all most felt to her that her mother is right there with her. The father catches his eye on an envelope that is laying on the floor by the Christmas tree, he picks it up cautiously. He takes a seat on the leather couch and unseals the envelope. Inside is a letter which the father opens to read. He stares at the letter for a while, he has a bare expression on his face. The daughter looks at him curiously, sitting beside him to glance over to the letter. He knew exactly what it was, disappointed that he be unable to recall that the letter even existed. A hand-written love letter, of the father asking his wife hand in marriage. He was a very shy and timid man, and he remembers struggling to get his words out to ask her to marry him. And he recalls that he took a napkin from the dinner table and wrote the words that were trapped in his throat. He glimpses at the bottom of the letter, where his wife had written something that he hasn’t spotted before.

My love, I lived an unhappy life until I met you and I wanted to give our daughter a life that I always dreamed of when I was young. But I knew that my troubles from the past would catch up to me eventually. Please protect our daughter, Katelyn, from this horrible world, and I want you to know that I love you so much. I’m so sorry that I was selfish enough to leave you and our daughter behind, but I could never be able to continue with my life knowing that I was miserable. You are forever in my heart – Alessia’ The young girl didn’t understand what she is reading but she did understand the emotions on her father’s face. His eyes fills with water, they are red and sore as he is holding back the tears. He didn’t want his daughter to see him crying. But she didn’t think much about it and instinctively places her head on his shoulder. His mind fills with memories with the woman he loved, he thought to himself.

‘I just wished she held on a little bit longer for a goodbye that I never got to say.’ Is his body cold from all these feelings or was it the lodge? The only thing that is warm is his daughters’ body, he then relaxes and cuddles close with his child. The room is filled with silence but the only the heart beats of the two can be heard. It’s calming to their ears as their eyes drift off into a deep sleep. A sleep they haven’t had since the passing of their beloved mother and wife. Finally, they felt the grief that overwhelmed them disappear and they both knew they could move on without guilt. Alessia would want them to move on and not live their lives in such misery. She knew deep down that her daughter will live a life where she is happy, and that made her feel delighted knowing that. And with that the daughter and father together, can overcome anything in their way.

Short Story, 15/01/09

Mother Gracie

‘You have to eat your chucky egg everyday, don’t you, Raq?’ said Mother Gracie, affectionately gesturing with her one good eye towards her aged schnauzer. With opaque and rheumy eyes, Raq cocked his ears in the direction of the woman who had been an old crone even thirteen years ago when she first took him in. She was virtually blind herself nowadays, so they made a fine, though barely functional couple.

Mother Gracie shuffled over to her stove. Raq remained where he was. Long gone were the days when he followed at her skirt hems if she moved more than a few footsteps from her craggy watchdog.

On the stove were placed an eclectic mix of pots large and small. The biggest, Mother Gracie’s cauldron, was exuding a stench that even she herself disliked. But there was rhyme and reason behind the cauldron’s rancid contents. Frozen tripe, boiled with barley and vegetable peelings was to be Raq’s evening meal.

‘Chucky egg, then, little chicken?’ said Mother Gracie, and Raq the dog reluctantly rose from his ragged bed. Every morning for the last thirteen years, this old lady would use her precious firewood to fuel the stove and make Raq a poached egg, then rest it for a little, allowing it to harden as it cooled. She’d then present it to him on an ancient, cracked saucer, and Raq would devour it in one mouthful. This morning was different in only one respect. The new location.

As Raq chewed on his egg, the old crone refreshed the water dish he always sought straight after his breakfast. Mother Gracie replaced the lump of rock sulphur in his water and laid the bowl on the floor in front of him. She wet her fingers in the cool water and, encouraging him to lick the drops she led his bearded face to the bowl and the scraggy, grey dog lapped up the cool, grey liquid.

Mother Gracie turned off the heat to the back burner. Even though she had all mod cons in her brand new flat and all the bills were prepaid, she intended to make no real changes to her habits, and to live as if she was in her old house where every stick of wood had to be collected, brought home, dried and stored for fuel.

The front right burner of her new electric stove fired up and heated the contents of the pans above. The brown Pyrex pan burbled and bubbled with its watery contents and the sticks, leaves and dried seeds that would be stewed then infused for another 24 hours. Mother Gracie had made this particular concoction every two days for the last fifty-seven years, and moving to her new sheltered accommodation certainly wasn’t going to stop her from continuing her tradition.

Raq shuddered as he stumbled back to bed and almost collapsed into his ragpile, then let out a long and deep sigh. ‘You’re not sure of it here, are you boy?’ Mother Gracie said. ‘We’ll get used to it.’ Mother Gracie echoed her dog’s sigh and began the laborious process of removing some of the twigs and leaves from the Pyrex pan with a slotted spoon, while ensuring that those ingredients which required a longer steeping time remained in the pan. That way Mother Gracie could get her money, time and effort’s worth from them.

Dried turmeric root, acrid and yellow would heal her pain and reduce her swollen joints as well as keeping both memory and heart strong. There was no sign of the dreaded dementia as yet, but it didn’t do any harm to do a little bit of preventative therapy. Sage, both the leaves and the woody twigs, were included to assist in the expulsion of phlegm and to ease her regular coughing fits.

And cinnamon went in too, along with ginseng, lemon, garlic, gingko biloba. All would be strained and the resultant liquid would be mixed with equal parts of apple cider vinegar. The potent mixture had kept Mother Gracie alive to this wonderful old age, and the fumes from that same potent mixture had seeped into the steam-filled air of the tiny flat.

Mother Gracie sat on her easy chair with a sigh, and prepared for her morning snooze. Had she forgotten to turn off the heat under the hobs? She had not. Had she forgotten to eat her own breakfast? She had not. Had she said her final goodbye to Raq the dog? She had not. She had not realised it would be necessary. But it was. The old dog passed away, happy, content, warm and dry in a small flat with all modern conveniences, and with a tummy full of chucky egg and sulphur-water. His tripe and barley mix would not be eaten.

When she woke, Mother Gracie cried and wished for the thousandth time that she’d been able to get him to drink her own eternal life formula. Just the once.  

Photographic studio

Child and mother? Or sister and brother?

A photographic studio, in best clothes, matching mustard and apple green?

Or just two holiday-makers on the pier, forced to pose in uncomfortable fancy-dress in a shabby photo booth?

Charlotte unprised her hand from that of her brother, Peter, his puffy hot fingers, sweaty with the heat of the sunny day. Checking that her mother wasn’t watching, she wiped her own hand on the front of her best holiday cardigan – the pretty blue one with the daisy ribbons and yellow buttons.

‘Charlotte!’ her mother chided. ‘Charlotte, you must keep hold of Peter’s hand at all times. This pier is a dangerous place. Full of criminal types. We must trust none and suspect all.’

She looked at her daughter once again. ‘And, young lady, what on earth is that stain on your Sunday Best?’

Charlotte looked down at her own garment and the brand new sticky pink stain. She grabbed Peter’s hand and turned it over. Rock. He’d been clutching a broken stick of peppermint rock.

‘Oh Peter, you worm,’ scolded Charlotte, and Mother hurried her two children towards the water fountain, first pushing away a tousled urchin who was cooling himself. She forcibly rinsed the palms of both her children.

‘I have a wonderful surprise for you both, Peter and Charlotte,’ announced Mother as she recklessly dried their hands on the outside of her own artificial silk jacket.

Charlotte’s eyebrows twitched a little and her lips pursed.

‘Mother, please don’t make us go into the photographic studio, again…’

‘Oh, but darling Charlotte, you loved it last year.’

Charlotte shook her head and began to walk towards the painted carousel. There was never any point arguing with Mother, but she hadn’t loved it. She thought her behaviour afterwards may have given Mother the correct clues. It had been Peter who had loved every part of dressing up and posing. Hands dried, he scurried after his big sister with his thumb in his mouth, but started at the yawp of a far-too-close seagull then stumbled face-down. When his face re-emerged, his lips and thumb were covered with quickly bruising toothmarks and blood.

Charlotte scooped up her brother before he had the chance to begin with the almost inevitable tears. ‘Come on, Peter, let’s get our photographs taken,’ she said with as much fake jollity as she could muster.

‘But I thought you said…’ protested Mother.

‘I didn’t like it. But we’ll go for Peter. He loves to dress up, don’t you, little brother?’

Peter smiled up at her, bloodied face and fingers forgotten until Mother took her handkerchief from her jacket pocket, licked it gently, and proceeded to clean up her little boy’s already crusting wound, despite his vigorous, wriggling protest.

‘Come on Peter,’ said Charlotte, gaily, as she stopped him wriggle by tickling his armpit, ‘Let’s run to the photographer’.

The 15 year old girl and her 7 year old little brother ran happily to the studio. But, as soon as Charlotte neared the window and Peter began to shriek happily, Charlotte’s face fell as she viewed the heavy satin and silk clothes in the window mock-up. There was nothing she disliked more than being too hot and covered with very heavy clothing. Apart from being too hot, covered with very heavy clothing, and being forced to stand still for a very, very long time almost without breathing. Last year at Blackpool pier, the photographer had just taken the third picture of Charlotte and Peter dressed as an ancient king and queen of Britain, when she felt so faint that she fell and cracked her head on the tiled ornamental fireplace. She didn’t want to go through that again.

‘Charlotte, Charlotte!’ came Peter’s shrieks as he pointed manically towards one of the display photographs that had been framed for display around the shopfront: a photograph of a young boy, with mustard shirt and turquoise trim, and an older girl with a skirt of the same colours. Both wore black hats. ‘Cowboys, Charlotte. Please may we be cowboys?’ His big sister looked at the costume, all slinky and cool-looking, with bare arms too, then nodded and smiled and the pair of them walked inside.

Mother sighed momentarily and leaned against the studio’s window. She picked up a postcard. ‘Holidays by the Sea are Such Good Fun’. She sighed again and followed her children inside.