Tag Archives: childhood

Shooter Flash: “The Chemistry of Friendship” by Alison Wassell

Posted on by Standard Reply

It starts with us sharing a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps, and before we know it we’re sharing everything: sucking liquorice lozenges and laughing at our black tongues in the cloakroom mirror, buying an orange lolly every lunchtime from the ice-cream man who parks on the school field, figuring out that the vending machine outside the sixth-form common room dispenses hot chocolate for ten pence when it should be twenty. We giggle like a couple of conspirators, planning what we’ll say when our dishonesty is discovered, being almost disappointed when it never is. 

People describe us as joined at the hip, our names coupled like Tom and Jerry, Mork and Mindy, Starsky and Hutch. We meet up one Saturday to go Christmas shopping and buy cheap aftershave sets for our dads and stationery sets for our mums that will never be used. We watch Abba the Movie at the cinema and bump into Janice with her twin sisters, pointing at each other when Janice asks us who dragged who there. 

By the second year, the cracks are showing. We’re no longer we but you and I. Little things start to matter. The way you shield your work with your arm in class, the tall tales you expect me to believe about your dad being a Russian spy, the time you make yourself sick on the chocolates I give you for your birthday and blame me for buying them, the comments about my greasy hair, my crooked teeth, the spots on my chin. 

More divides us than unites us. When I come top in English you say the only thing I can do with that is teach. You’re destined for greater things with your science subjects. I secretly gloat over the way you use long words incorrectly. Hypothetical, lugubrious, lackadaisical, you haven’t a clue what any of them mean, but spit them out anyway. I start spending lunchtimes alone in the library.

We stop sharing secrets. When my periods start I don’t mention it. You cheat on me with Janice, go to see Kate Bush without inviting me, despite me having spent two nights copying out song lyrics from the album sleeve for you because all you had was a counterfeit tape. I  confide in my mother that I don’t think I even like you anymore. She says she can’t stand most of her friends, which doesn’t help.

I fantasise about breaking up with you, make a list of grievances and grounds for separation, imagine a blazing row, a stomping off, a slamming of a classroom door, everyone taking sides. You’re the one who ends it though, with a whisper rather than a scream, one Wednesday morning in the chemistry lab when I struggle to light the Bunsen burner. “Useless,” you mutter. Just that, nothing else. By the end of lunchtime you’ve emptied your desk and gone to sit next to Janice. That’s when I realise you’ve been making a list of your own all along.

 *

Alison Wassell is a writer of short and very short fiction from Merseyside, UK. Her words have been published by Fictive Dream, Does It Have Pockets, WestWord, Trash Cat Lit, Frazzled Lit, Bath Flash Fiction Award, FlashFlood Journal and elsewhere.

Shooter Flash: “The Escapologist” by Sherry Morris

Posted on by Standard 1

Dad didn’t wow crowds by bursting out of burning caskets like other escapologists. He didn’t wriggle free from straightjackets or emerge jubilant from chained trunks. Mom claimed he was a helluva Houdini anyway.

She meant his knack for disappearing whenever there were chores to do. Gutters stayed cluttered, grass grew high, the kitchen tap dripped constant as a ticking clock. Dad dodged other duties too: kissing boo-boos, reading bedtime stories. He vanished at the first sign of raging tears, monster-fears, or any kind of hug. Sometimes, Mom wondered aloud how we three girls had even been born. Then she’d smile and shake her head. 

‘Your father is a true magician. They never show their tell.’ 

Other times, when she thought we weren’t about she’d shout, ‘Marriage is more than smoke and mirrors, you know.’  

Dad would calm her with a kiss. ‘Shh, don’t break the spell.’

We loved our escapologist dad. Even when he evaporated from birthday parties, family reunions and long stretches of Christmas day. We kids would sit outside his locked study door. We’d chant all the magic words we knew – Abracadabra, Hocus Pocus, Bibbity-Bobbity-Boo – then wonder why our words took so long to work. Agreed the budding feeling in our guts was simply anticipation. And when he eventually reappeared, looking crumpled and spent, enveloped in a strange scent, we’d rush to him, ask him where he’d been. He’d sneeze. Look over our heads. Take in air like he had a long answer prepared. Then smile and shrug. In a rushed exhale he’d say, ‘Magic is complicated work.’

We got used to his non-appearances at our school plays, music recitals and high-school basketball games, but never that odd feeling in our guts. We accepted we’d never pin him down for photos and tried to engage him in other ways: asked for homework help, advice on boys, tips and tricks to pass our driving tests. We said, ‘Tell us about your day.’ In the middle of telling him about ours, we’d suddenly find ourselves alone – the image of his lopsided grin shimmering in mid-air.

We did our best to interest him in our lives and when Dad took early retirement, Mom said for sure we’d see more of him. Instead, he announced he was moving out. He’d found the love of his life – Janice – and planned to live with her, her cat Bunny, and Barnaby, her ten-year-old son. We looked to Mom to see if it was true – she looked like a lady cut in half. 

Things didn’t quite go to Dad’s plan. He developed a severe allergic reaction to Bunny. And Barnaby didn’t like sharing his mom full-time with Dad so he moved into a bachelor pad, temporarily, while everyone adjusted. Then Parkinson’s got hold of Dad. He couldn’t escape that.

Mom took him back to convalesce. She said she did it for us kids though we were nearly adults by then. She repeated what the doctors said – the disease made him behave the way he did. We couldn’t blame Dad, she said. We all nodded our heads. No one wanted to believe Dad was an escapologist at heart. 

We looked on the bright side: We still had time with Dad. But with the tremors and balance loss, he wasn’t up for much. We tried to reminisce, but our best memories didn’t include him. He shrugged when we asked what he remembered about us. We joked Dad was so skilled, he’d find a way to dodge death.

He didn’t, of course. And Mom shocked us all with a curse-laden outburst, shouting maybe Dad was finally f-ing happy now that he was free of us. We supposed this tirade was Mom’s grief speaking. Enclosed her in a group hug. Told her he’d loved us in his own way. Reminded her of his charm, his magic touch. We said all the things he’d said himself a million times. But from our mouths the words sounded hollow. Clichéd. 

Somehow, the words worked on Mom. She pulled out a smile from somewhere and ta-dahed it to her face. Said it was our duty to keep Dad’s memory alive. We went through his stuff (there wasn’t much) and found a cheap cutlery set he’d bought while living on his own. Mom announced we’d use it for our Sunday roasts, his favourite meal he sometimes ate with us. 

At first when we gathered around the table each week, it was nearly normal. We talked, laughed, reminisced. Dad’s empty chair was reinstated so it was almost like he was back. It wasn’t exactly the same though. Our voices were too loud, too rushed, ventriloquist-dummy high-pitched. We shovelled in mounds of food blink-quick as if we had both hungry hearts and empty bellies to fill.

Then one Sunday, instead of his face, all I saw was his shoddy fork and dull knife in my hands. The white plastic handles had already started to discolour. And yet, these bargain-basement utensils were more real to me than Dad. 

I listened to the clink, clatter and chatter that tied us to him. Wondered why we still worked so hard to maintain the illusion. Why we never allowed ourselves to be mad at our always-absent dad. And why we weren’t enough for him. 

I pressed the fork tines deep into the meat, securing it to my plate. Too bad we couldn’t use cutlery on Dad. I positioned the knife to slice but stopped. My appetite had disappeared. My eyes pricked as the world blurred. I wished we hadn’t shushed Mom’s rage. Or called the childhood anger resting in our guts ‘anticipation’. I took a deep breath. 

‘Dad was a complete shit,’ I exhaled. ‘I won’t be his complicit assistant.’

Into the speechless silence, I said the words again – louder this time, then once more. Something lifted; a spell was broken. I released my grip. Watched the cutlery fall to the floor. Opened the windows. Slid open doors. Walked outside to the sunshine-filled yard.

*

Originally from Missouri, USA, Sherry Morris (@Uksherka & @uksherka.bsky.social) writes fiction from a farm in the Scottish Highlands where she pets cows, watches clouds and dabbles in photography. She presents a monthly online spoken-word radio show featuring short stories and flash fiction on Highland Hospital Radio. Many of her stories stem from her Peace Corps experience in 1990s Ukraine. “The Escapologist” was originally published with The Sunlight Press. www.uksherka.com

Unsettling Tales Scoop 2023 Short Story Awards

Posted on by Standard

Alice Gwynn has won the 2023 Shooter Short Story Competition with her eerie, twisting tale, “The Ones Who Came Before”, while Edward Barnfield has come runner-up with his dystopian fiction, “Isolation”.

Shooter’s readers and judge, editor Melanie White, appreciated Gwynn’s atmospheric tale for its evocative descriptions and skilful handling of plot twists in a story with deeper undercurrents of identity and loss. Gwynn, a British ex-pat who lives in New Hampshire in the US, said via email that a trip to the UK last year inspired her piece, which is set in the grounds of an ancient castle. Gwynn writes flash fiction and poetry as well as short stories, and has previously published work in Prachya Review, Grey Sparrow Journal, Consequence Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Review, and elsewhere.

Barnfield achieved second place in the competition with “Isolation”, a subtle dystopian fiction with creeping menace that contest readers found particularly convincing. Barnfield, a researcher living in the Middle East, has had work published by Roi Fainéant Press, Ellipsis Zine, The Molotov Cocktail, Third Street Review, Galley Beggar Press, and others.

In addition to the contest winners, two writers gained honorable mentions for their stories: Bethany Wren, for “Rosemary, Patron Saint of Honey”, and Joe Wheelan, for “Unravelled”.

Both “The Ones Who Came Before” and “Isolation” are available to read on Shooter’s website, while Gwynn’s story also appears in the Autumn/Winter 2023 issue of Shooter, which is themed “The Unknown”. Print copies of the magazine can be ordered at the Subscriptions page.

The 2024 Shooter Poetry Competition will open early in the new year, while the 2024 Shooter Short Story Competition will open mid-year. Until then, prose writers are welcome to submit flash fiction and non-fiction to the monthly Shooter Flash contest on a rolling basis. General submissions for Shooter’s Spring/Summer 2024 issue will open to all in the new year.

In the meantime, happy reading, and happy holidays from Shooter Literary Magazine!

Shooter Flash: “Under the Rubble” by Lisa Geary

Posted on by Standard Reply

A chink lets in a shaft of dusty light. Irene, wedged inside, shifts her legs and shuffles her torso to turn around. Straining, she leans towards the gap to peer out: the land lies quiet. No-one on their way.

She settles back to wait, resting upon the hard ground. What if no-one comes? How long could she last? She feels achy already, and hungry. She listens for the thud of falling masonry, the crash of concrete in the distance. Right now only a thin thread of birdsong weaves its way through the cracks, into her dim crevice.

Earlier she’d been in school; a normal day. Her mother had picked her up, red-faced, a little late. Irene had whined to join her friends in the playground, but her mother hung onto her and marched her straight home. The grown-ups were always busy. Not wanting to go straight into the house, Irene had run away when they got home, out into the woods.

Now, Irene is bored of her game. She slithers out from beneath the pile of branches and brushes dirt from her pinafore. A few of the long sticks have become dislodged; she hauls them back into place, fortifying the entrance to her hideaway. She runs along the winding path, across the garden behind the house, and in through the back door. Her mother is making supper with the news on the telly.

Irene flops onto the sofa. “How long til supper?” she whines. Her mother is grappling with a steaming pot, hefting it towards the sink.

“Five minutes,” she says, taking in Irene and the television in one quick glance. “Let’s turn that off now. I can’t take any more.”

Irene rolls from the sofa and reaches to switch off the television, another evening of collapsed buildings and grey rubble upon the screen. Men babble in another language, hauling chalky debris. Other men pull a small body from the wreckage. The child in their arms, still alive, swivels a dark eye towards the camera. Irene meets her gaze. Behind the child, the edge of an arm juts from the jagged pile of broken concrete.

Within the mound, a chink lets in a shaft of dusty light.

* 

Lisa Geary has had fiction published in Wishbone, Sepia Journal, Spellbinder, Haunted Words, and elsewhere. She lives near Durham, where she is a member of the Durham Writers Group. Currently, she is juggling writing with the world of two new kittens and kitchen renovation.

Shooter Flash: Child’s Play by Sarah Masters

Posted on by Standard 1

Eight-year-old Becky is sowing seeds in yoghurt pots. She has sat on the garden step and laid out newspaper to keep her dress clean. She is using a dessert spoon to transfer compost from a sack. Unfortunately, the sack is rather deep, so Becky has to put her whole sleeve inside. She frowns, thinking that in six weeks these tubs will be brimming with salad. She imagines Dad putting dinner on the plate, and Becky saying wait, we need some greens, and then cutting the leaves which fill the plates with more to spare for the next day and the day after that. Becky knows from the news, which Mum watches all the time with the curtains drawn, that prices are rocketing, and she, Becky, is going to help. She’s going to save the family. She empties the seeds into her hand and makes her face serene, in case anyone above is watching. 

The back door opens and Becky closes her hand into a fist.

“What doing, Beck,” comes the piping voice of brother Billy.

“Stay inside,” Becky orders. Then she remembers that she’s going to save the family. “Okay. You can watch.”

Billy doesn’t want to watch. He wants to do. He plumps down beside Becky and this nudges her arm. Becky is no longer serene.  

*

Becky is examining a seed pot. Six hairy white commas are poking through the soil. Becky gives them a sprinkle from her child’s watering can. She hears a noise from the drive on the other side of the house and recognises her dad’s car. She hasn’t seen him for a few days and wants to tell him something, so she drops the watering can and runs inside.

Billy comes out and crouches down. He strokes the commas with his finger. He lifts the watering can, but it’s heavier than he expects and water pours out of the opening, flooding the plants. This isn’t right. There’s some gravel next to the house, so he stuffs a fistful into the pot. That’s better.

*

Becky and Billy are sitting outside. Becky has on her best dress because they’re staying at Nana’s tonight. Her eyes are pink. She’s holding a single pot containing a thatch of seedlings. This was meant to save the family. Becky isn’t going to save anyone now. 

Billy spots an empty yoghurt pot in the grass. There’s something else, which he pockets. Becky is staring into space when he returns. Billy puts the pot on his head and makes his face very solemn. He pokes her knee. She sniffs. Billy removes the pot from his head and hands it to her. She looks at it, then puts it on her own head. Billy giggles. Becky giggles too. Billy puts his hand in his pocket and shows Becky what he’s found: a brown snail. He offers it to Becky. She thinks a minute, then puts the seedling pot on the ground and the snail on top. They watch the snail slowly poke its head out of its shell.

Becky holds out her hand to Billy. “Shall we find it a friend?”  

*

Sarah Masters has had stories published in Slush, the National Flash Fiction Day Anthology 2022, FlashFlood 2022, Little Ms, and Serious Flash Fiction. She lives in York.