The Smell of the Air was Sweet

Sugar work takes place in the basement kitchen, a long, dim room in the bowels of the old house. The others are apt to complain of the gloom, but I like the severe wooden paneling and wrought iron fittings. For it seems to me that any material as dour as walnut wainscoting must surely know how to keep a secret.

This Future Was Always Coming Sometime

You will go for long walks leaving your son’s small face in the crevice of the front door.

You will see a balding man sound asleep in the passenger seat of a parked car. That’s how he’ll look when he’s dead, you’ll think before he jerks upright.

You will see a man on a mobility scooter crest a speed bump and carry on, whizzing along the centre of the road.

You will see a man clutching a walking cane as he scatters breadcrumbs for the ducks. The sun will go. The wind will stir the trees. The grass will be bursting with white clover.

You will hear, ‘It’s not your fault.’ You’ll squeeze the hand holding yours while secretly shredding the inside of your cheek.

You will make To-Do lists with words like,

Lung bank

Executorship

Another will?

Urn

And stay up until the dawn chorus peeps through your open window.

You will drink soup.

You will see a photo of him from the years before you were born, all white-toothed grin and beautiful eyes beneath a dead straight fringe.

You will smile when people say how much your son looks like him.

You will see men with silver hair,

men with silver hair,

men with silver hair.

And each time you will have to remind yourself that it’s not unfair they should still be alive.

You will replace your home screen wallpaper with his smiling image. Each time your phone comes to life, you’ll be jolted into the past where hugging him still exists.

You will hold your son close in the top bunk. Mummy and daddy won’t die for a very long time, you’ll say to soothe his tears. You will marvel at his peaceful breathing, knowing that you can only know one thing about the future for sure.

How I Became A Guardian Angel

Members of the congregation circled us with polite wedges of cake on cheap paper napkins, their button-up shirts littered with crumbs. They had big smiles but eyes that darted away. The minister approached, emptying the last of his tea into the grass beside my foot, a sudden motion for a man with such rosy cheeks. I folded my arms in front of my exposed midriff to hide my navel piercing. But I felt like God couldn’t be too picky. In fact, I thought we were exactly his type.

Second place in The Cambridge Short Story Competition

Published by TSS Publishing, September 2021

Pink Rectangles

The internet is a treasure trove of sad things when you know how to look. A popular online video player is quick to learn my tastes and starts feeding me video after video of missing children, teen suicides and people whose loved ones got swept away by natural disasters. I sob. My tears are genuine but my motives unclear. Each time I click on the little white triangle in the centre of the screen, I know I am doing more harm than good. 

Published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, April 2022

What I’ll Do Tomorrow

Something is going on with the birds. I’ve been standing at the window, tea going milk skinned, unable to tear my eyes from the shuddering acer, now a battleground of fluttering bodies.

Air Bubbles

We meet at the shore, where white horses fling themselves onto the grit. The water is ill. Grey-green. Like the sea is a wheelbarrow in which some god is churning quicklime. I wish you wouldn’t stare at the sky like that; we won’t find any love up there.

Published by Tiny Molecules, March 2022