All stories

Lost friends

by Claire

On the wall opposite me was a childs poster. If I pulled my hair around my eyes I couldn’t see anything else, just the cute puppy and happy kitten as they nuzzled each other, all fluffy ears and doleful eyes. I could almost feel their fur under my finger tips and hear them purr and snuffle. There were times when I could fall asleep like this and sink into a warm soft dream where they had names and we played together. Sooner or later though an awakening always came. The sound of barking from outside, the bang of a car door or the rattle of a chain would slide into the dream, changing its tone and flavour until it was no longer warm and soft, but damp and hard like the room I was in.

Then my eyes would open, always against my better judgement and the first thing I saw was the poster, but also its edges and the crumbling wall it was attached to with peeling crispy sellotape. The perspective widened as sleep withdrew and I would became aware of the black plastic bucket in the corner, the bare floorboards and the greasy sacking laid over them. There was a chink of light through the boards nailed across the window, a pathetic notion of the outside that I craved, like the tendril of burnt cheese aroma that sometimes came creeping under the door and made my mouth water. As the last hint of warmth from the dream drifted away I would curl onto my side, pull some sack around me and whisper the names of the puppy and kitten over and over, waiting.

It didn't happen every day, but sooner or later the drum of boots on concrete would begin getting closer. Next the scrape of metal as the bolt was drawn, the click of key in lock and then the sudden in-rush of air as the first door opened, followed by the creak of the hinges as it shut again. These sounds had a rhythm I knew so well, they were the theme music to this recurring scene in my story. For a moment there was silence, the time when I held my breath, focussed on how thirsty I was and ran my tongue over the ulcers on my gums, because the pain distracted from the anticipation. Shortly came the sliding of the bolts on the door to my room and the handle turning.

This would have been the time when I would cry and scream, but I learned that singing was better, albeit quietly, under my breath. I didn’t know many songs other than lullabies and eventually they became confabulated into my own composition. When the shadow stood over me and the hand stroked my hair, I would stare at the poster and moan my strange song to the puppy and the kitten. But like traitors they always just sat there, looking at me in silence until the boots left again.

I see them now, still there on that wall, hating me. They don’t even play in my dreams anymore.

Each, Other

by Dan

24: A blind date. He had steak, She had something made of Tofu and made cooing sounds when it arrived. He thought it looked disgusting. He finished with cheese, She loathed cheese. “Mmmm Roquefort” He teased, waving it at Her. She was Green, He was Labour. She wanted a puppy when She had a proper house. He pretended to like kittens to make safe conversation but She hated them. “All fur and no fun” She said. But they both liked red wine. He had sex and She made love but they did it together, it wasn’t much good. They didn’t keep in touch and retreated back into the shadows of each other’s consciousness.

39: it took a few minutes for them to remember and recognise. Then She made an announcement to the whole dinner party “Everybody listen! This man and I had the worst sex ever on a blind date 15 years ago and haven’t seen each other since!!” She’d recently got divorced and was drunk in celebration. His wife, sitting beside him, went frosty.

She was now Plaid Cymru and was intending to vote for them despite living in Hendon. She sang the Welsh National Anthem whilst standing to attention on her chair. He hadn’t even picked up her accent before. He was still Labour. She ate ratatouille, He, ox cheek. After a nudge from his wife, He made excuses “Must free the babysitter”. He swiped some manchego on the way. They smiled at each other as He passed. The host then called Her a taxi. She passed out in it.

At home, He had sex to demonstrate to His wife how little he could remember the “hysterical, drunk woman who smelled of puppies”. There was something of Her scent and memory in it. She meanwhile, somehow made it into Her own bed and indulged in a masturbatory fantasy about the dinner party host, a handsome, sociopathic doctor, before puking on the floor. The next day they mildly regretted not taking each other’s numbers.

54: A cheese stall in Borough Market, She tapped him on the shoulder, He was happy to see her and avoid instinctive purchase. They went somewhere less smelly and talked to each other excitedly. She had a small dog (a wire wool terrier). He was now a Labour councillor, She was RSPB with Lib Dem lapses. He wasn’t supposed to eat cheese because of his furry arteries and was sadly “largely plant-based these days”. She was eating a suspiciously meaty looking hot dog. His kids were grown up. She had none, in fact as he told his wife, “She’s some kind of polyamorous cheese-hating Lesbian now!”

A year or so later they stay in touch on facebook and have met twice more. Once She brought him a refuge kitten for his birthday. He had to refuse it. His wife was allergic and besides He didn’t like kittens. “You used to love them!” She said, looking crestfallen. Overall, they are amazed to know each other and only bring up their youthful sex to joke about it. “The most mismatched couple of all time!” and “What were we thinking?”

And sometimes that’s it! The only and best happy ending possible is the magic of becoming two old friends who like, respect and can tease each other.

Something is wrong with Abigail

by Jenny

Something was very wrong with Abigail.

Alex knew it, she wasn’t fooling him. Mrs Parry-Jones’ happy little tabby kitten disappeared all on its own did it? The ginger hairs on Abigail’s pillow came from Jemima’s cat?

Unlikely.

And the new puppy from next door, all waggy-tailed and adorable, threw itself onto the train tracks?

Alex had seen Abigail’s face when the puppy had muddied her new white frock with his dirty paws. It was an expression terrifyingly out of place on a six year old - one of cold, calm fury. No tantrums here, no. Her expression weighed all things in the balance, calculated and promised a slow, exacting revenge.

He shook his head to clear the imprinted image of crimson blood, rainbow viscera and soft white fur, all torn and grimy in ghastly smears over the tracks. The mass of fleshy matter that had once been a puppy. The little guy had never stood a chance.

He tried telling Mam, but a swish of those blonde curls, a flutter of those baby-blues and all suspicion was wiped clean away.

“But Mam, I saw her with Tom Cat the day Mrs Parry Jones put the posters up. And Jemima doesn’t even have a cat.”

Mam was distracted, slicing cheese for their sandwiches. Mornings were the only time Alex could be sure he could speak to Mam alone. Abigail was still safely in bed. He’d checked. Twice.

“Alex, what do you think your sister actually did to the cat? Isn’t it more likely that he just wandered off somewhere?”

He could still nod and accept it and walk away from this. He didn’t have to fight this battle.

Then he remembered the splatters of puppy, the distant screams of other tortured neighbourhood pets as he’d lain, half wakeful, half dreaming alone in the room he shared with his sister.

“Please mam, I don’t know what she does to them, but I know she knows something about what happened to Patch. I found his collar and lead in her wardrobe…”

For the first time, Mam put down the knife and looked at Alex. Really looked at him, like she was listening to what he was saying. Her eyes were kind, concerned, he opened his mouth to say more when the door swung open and Mam’s eyes flicked instantly up, away from Alex, away from the horrible stories she didn’t want to hear and over to the kitchen doorway.

Neatly dressed in her tiny school uniform, blonde curls clipped prettily back, Abigail had even contrived to step into the puddle of sunlight streaming through the window. A perfect angel. Alex watched Mam’s concern drain away. Watched as all thought of him slipped from her mind as she went to her youngest child.

“Delicious cheese for your sandwiches today Abi - how’s that?” Mam gestured at the pile of neatly prepared sandwiches.

“I don’t like cheese Mammy. Can I have ham instead, please?”

“Course you can. Alex, you don’t mind having the cheese do you?”

He did. He hated cheese, but he shook his head and looked at the ground. The was battle lost.

But not before he had seen Abigail’s face over his mother’s shoulder. Her cold, blank expression was brushed with the faintest hint of a sadistic smile as she looked him straight in the eyes.

Dashed Dreams

by unknown....

Her name was Gianna Golds. She was in her thirties, tall, with curly brown hair and a long nose. She liked grey sweaters. She stood in the large bay windows of a one-story home, sipping liquid out of a red coffee cup, staring out at the world. I was delivering three envelopes into her red mailbox with the wooden post. I waved at her as I drove off, just like I did every time I saw her. She smiled and waved back.

There were no other signs of life at Gianna’s house that I could see while delivering her mail. No boyfriend or husband. No children. No large dog to worry about.

I drove by her place at night too. Nobody ever came over, except for one night, when she came home with a young man. I was parked down the street, lights off. I fell asleep around 4 a.m. and when I awoke with the sun blazing in my eyes, Gianna’s date was gone. I went home to dream.

I called in sick to work the following Monday. Gianna was always home on Monday, sipping her coffee or tea, gazing out the window like she owned the world. I donned my red ball cap and dark sweater and pants and arrived in my grey Nissan at noon, just a few minutes before I would be delivering the mail in her neighborhood. I parked one street over and walked to Gianna’s place, just another neighbor strolling about on a crisp November day.

Her house had a side door that led to the garage. The door was unlocked. The garage was silent. I put my ear to the door to the inside and heard a rumbling sound. I cracked the door open and found myself peeping into a laundry room. The dryer was on. I closed the door behind me and opened the inner door to the house. I was in a hallway with two bedrooms on the right and one on the left. The smell of freshly baked bread and delicious cheese wafted through the home. My stomach rumbled, just like the dryer.

I took out my black hunting knife, let it float in my fingers, the nylon blue rope ready in my back pocket, when I heard a thumping sound from one of the bedrooms on the left. It must be the woman, rummaging around in her bedroom. I was ready. I slowly opened the door, ready to pounce. What I saw surprised me.

A black kitten and brown puppy were playing in a large gated pen. Newspaper was thrown about, shredded, toy balls rolling around, the cat jumping off boxes as the puppy bounded into them. They froze when they saw me. The cat then ran under a propped-up shoebox. The puppy put its paws on the gate and barked, tail wagging. I picked up the puppy, petting its soft blonde fur. He sure was a good doggo. A noise from behind. I turned around, just in time to see a flash of a baseball bat flying toward my eyeball and realized that my dreams of raping and pillaging were dashed by my fondness for cute, furry animals.

the juggler

by James

Brie. Gouda. Roquefort.

Cheddar. Edam. Red Leicester. And now he was stuck. Maybe it was the numbing drone of the night’s conversation - was that why he couldn’t name more than six cheeses?

Cream cheese. Did that count? What about the light version? He found himself smirking. On the other side of the table the little birds paused their twittering to look at him as though he was an interesting worm. He had tried to talk to them but he had nothing in common with a triple set of stereotypical partner’s wives, all chiffon and pearl, pecking the expensive cheese into crumbs on their plates. All of them raised their beaks when he stood with the wine bottle.

He took what was left to the other side of the dining room where his wife was sitting with the other lawyers from her firm, deep in conversation on topics she had promised would not come up. He was a top sport and he was old boy for bringing the wine. At least they made eye contact. His wife squeezed his leg but didn’t break flow for a split second.

He collected the cheese slate on his way to the kitchen. It came with a set of small cheese knives, six different knives, all with bulbous handles and differently shaped blades. All of them sharp. Razor tipped.

He selected the three most awkward looking, ran fresh water into the sink and then washed them carefully, drying them quickly to prevent them spotting. Now he stood in the middle of the kitchen cradling these blades gently, getting a feel for the weight, relishing the cold of the metal against his skin.

He tossed the blades quickly, one after the other, all of them in the air before he plucked the first, tossed it, then plucked the second. The blades shimmered as they danced, and his face split in delight as the circle of spinning blades grew higher and grew wider.

The washed blades were safe in their velvet lined case when his wife entered the kitchen.

He said, ‘How’s it going in there?’

She approached him slowly. She looked at the knives in their box, then she looked at him.

She said, ‘You’re not a bloody juggler anymore. You promised. You know I’d never live it down with those pompous fools – that I married a street performer?

‘I wasn’t! I was just washing the-‘

‘Please! You had that look, and the look on your face right now.’ She sighed, then softened. ‘Let’s take the kids to the park on the weekend. You can ride your unicycle…’

Upstairs the kids were sleeping peacefully, Molly with her new puppy cuddled to her chest, and Dean with the ball of streetwise fluff that Cat’s Protection had still charged them fifty quid.

He missed his days at the circus, juggling flaming brands and chainsaws, but come to think of it, this life wasn’t such bad one after all.

Happy Ending

by Lewis

Nadia really thought it would last. When they had met Happy told her that her name translated from Chinese as Happy Kitten, but it would take Nadia almost two years to learn her real name. By then of course, Happy would be dead. Happy was tall, an endless stretch of smooth, asian skin that seemed to run on and on for miles. Her neck curved gracefully upwards. Her cheeks were sharp and feline, with piercing narrow eyes that were always watching. Nadia had never loved anything or anyone as much as she loved Happy Kitten.

Nadia’s parents had tried to do their best, but she wasn’t interested. So she was raised free to be her own rebel, unaware or the benefits of her normal upbringing, which allowed her to rail against it so fiercely. She didn’t ‘do’ Instagram, or Facebook, which she judged was too judgemental. She didn’t buy fast fashion and she only drove to get to protests. She wrote letters about climate change on paper not email because she wouldn’t sell her identity to Google. She wasn’t interested in boys, or girls, she was interested in the mind and if that came with a body then so be it sex, like gender was immaterial. She was stubborn, difficult, proud, determined, passionate and deeply unhappy.

Until she met Happy, in the park, aged 17, in a modern day cliche; drawn in by a cute puppy. Happy walked Casper, her Cockerpoo, every morning when she finished work. Nadia would not find out Happy did for work for another 22 months; 1 day before Happy’s death.

Happy stood out from everyone else in the park, her pale, delicate towering presence, like a lone birch tree. Nadia was cautious with new people, but she had felt instantly at ease and they chatted for an hour. One was finishing work as the other started. It grew from there. A few weeks later it was Dinner at Happy’s apartment, some delicious cheese and more than enough wine, saw them sleep together for the first time. No-one had ever made Nadine feel like this. When she came, her breath stopped, everything froze for an age, until it would hit her in an explosion of pleasure. They would talk for hours, politics, art, literature. They shared a disillusioned view of the broken world that was so perfectly in sync, it was at odds with itself.

After 12 months, Nadia moved in. Her parents were strictly against the idea, but she was 18 and Happy who was 29 assured them she would take care of her. Three nights of the week Happy worked her night-shift. They never discussed what she did. Three days of the week Nadia worked in an independent book-shop cafe. The rest of the week they lived in a world of bliss.

It was Nadia’s father who told her what Happy did at night. A ‘colleague’ of his had told him about this woman he had met at an event that matched Happy’s description. He rang Nadia. She didn’t belive him and they argued. That night Nadia asked Happy about it. Happy didn’t argue, she didn’t deny it, she didn’t say anything except that ‘it was just her job, it wasn’t her’. Nadia cried all night. The next day Happy was found dead in the park. She had been stabbed in the chest multiple times, by a small blade, probably a kitchen knife or penknife. Nadia didn't find out her real name until the police informed her.