Tag Archives: marriage

Shooter Flash: “Extramarital” by Dana Harris

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They were sitting around the patio table beneath the fawning summer trees: Phil, his wife Manda, and her lover Dom Traynor, who had come over for dinner while his wife was away. Manda had prepared a sumptuous meal, as ever, and kept the conversation bubbling, topping up the lulls like champagne flutes. She was always in her element when entertaining. 

Phil was well aware of the true nature of his wife’s “friendship” with Dom. As long as it didn’t disrupt their marriage, however, he saw no reason to confront her about it. He worked hard, they had three kids, he liked his life. Why ignite a bomb fuse? He knew full well he’d neglected Manda emotionally over the years, so he was fine with turning a blind eye now. She always maintained the utmost decorum, outwardly.

Having served the coffees, Manda settled back into her wicker armchair with a satisfied smile. While all three admired the garden view, Dom extracted a cigar from his blazer and cut the end. Fireflies danced in the night air; moonlight glinted off the oily surface of the swimming pool. Dom leaned across the table to offer Phil a cigar.

“No, thanks,” he said, waving it away. “I don’t smoke.”

“Go on, darling,” Manda said. “You could have one this once.”

“I don’t smoke,” Phil said, bemused. Manda’s lips tightened. Dom leaned back and lit his cigar. Smoke curled away and melted into the darkness.

“Can you help me with the plates,” Manda muttered to Phil. As she had already gathered up the china and silverware from her side of the table, Phil picked up his plate and followed her into the kitchen.

“Why couldn’t you just take the cigar? Just to be sociable,” she hissed, rounding on him.

“Manda, I don’t smoke,” he said again, incredulous. “I don’t want one.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about being sociable.”

Feeling the heat rise in his chest, Phil turned and went back outside to the patio, Manda hot on his heels. Dom was flicking a thick end of cigar ash into the shrubbery, his feet up on a neighbouring chair.

“Go and find an ashtray,” Manda instructed Phil, who wandered back into the house and returned with a heavy crystal bowl from the library. The scent from the cigar was thick as woodsmoke. Phil cleared his throat as he settled back into his seat and wondered how long he should wait before excusing himself to watch the evening news. Even Manda couldn’t help but give in to a restrained cough.

Behind Dom, a grey plume of smoke thickened from within the ornamental hedge, becoming fully apparent only when a crackle of flame leapt out of the darkness, quickly licking at the drooping foliage of the surrounding trees. Manda shrieked as Dom lurched from his chair, knocking it over, while Phil snatched up his phone to dial emergency services.

The fire truck arrived in minutes, blaring its horn down the sweeping semicircular driveway and screeching to a halt beside the tower of burning pines. The trees beside the house now formed a single flaming torch, wrathfully licking the clapboard siding while Manda wailed and clutched her face. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dom muttered repeatedly, looking stricken, while Phil stood by grimly and watched the firemen swarming between their truck and the inferno, yelling and training their hoses upon the blaze.

“Well,” Phil said, turning to his wife. Ash, floating around them like snowflakes, had settled on her coiffed hair and turned it grey. “This is sociable.”

*

Dana Harris has published short fiction on Quick Brown Fox and recently completed the University of Toronto’s Creative Writing Certificate. Alongside her day job as a paralegal, she is currently working on a post-apocalyptic romance novel. She lives in Toronto.

Shooter Flash: “A Good Son” by Sarah Macallister

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Peter couldn’t come home for Christmas because his wife dragged him to her family. Susan always played the victim, but she was no wilting flower; she was a parasitic weed.

My son used to be an easy child. No tantrums. Other mothers had to tear themselves away from their children at the school gates, from guttural sobs that made your ears bleed. I pitied those mothers, who’d failed where I’d succeeded. 

I remember the first parent-teacher meeting. Mrs Forsyth sat across from us, wearing a frown and short hair. She reported that our son had stamped on another boy’s head. Peter never behaved that way at home. I knew it must be a mistake. At other parent meetings, we heard that he pulled hair, hit, stole food, and peed on a girl’s coat. Mrs Forsyth clearly didn’t like him, so I moved him to another school. After that, there were no bad reports. 

I started as keys jangled in the lock. Harold whistled and threw open the front door. 

“Something smells good! Baked a cake?” He squeezed around the table and pulled me into his stout stomach. Fruity hops blossomed from his mouth.

“Been at Dopey Does?”

“Don’t you mean The Staggering Stags?”

We snickered together, as if this was the first time we’d made this joke. After I knotted my pinny, I glugged oil into the frying pan and ignited blue flames. Bubbles frisked in the oil and I slid raw meat to sizzle. I laid the table with chutney and a vase of dried honesty. We tucked in. Harold drank another pint and the amber beer glowed while he tipped back his head.

“Heard from Peter today?”

“No, he’s too busy. Working late, poor boy.”

Cake for pudding. Harold poured custard over his bowl. Steam spiralled while he rummaged for a spoon, clanking the cutlery, and shaking the table as he shuddered the drawer shut. I ate mine with a dessert fork.

Not long after Harold climbed into bed, he was foghorn snoring. The harder I tried to ignore it, the more frustrated I grew, until tears streamed into my pillow. Rain lashed the roof and windows, the wet whipping of a cat o’ nine tails. The doorbell rang. 

I swiped my cheeks and flurried downstairs in my nightie. I clicked the hall lamp. My neck shivered as I reached for the handle. It was so late. Who could it be? An outline blurred in the pebbled glass. A man’s height.

“Mum?”

Only Peter. I fumbled to unlatch and clasp the handle, ready with my welcome smile. My thoughts drifted to the kitchen. I opened the door and threw a glow into the seething chattering darkness, which swallowed it whole.

Rain-dark hair plastered his scalp and he looked white, sick. As I fell back to let him enter, my smile fixed, he planted himself on the threshold and leaked on the flagstone floor.

“Peter, are you alright?”

He shook his head and shuddered within the sodden coat. His eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

“You’re cold,” I said, desperate to shut the night out, but Peter only stood by the door and twitched.

“Come in, love.” He shuffled forward and I sealed us safely inside. I trundled off to the kitchen and flicked the kettle to boil, tipping bags into red cups. I wondered whether to give Peter some cake.

“I made a mistake.” Peter spoke slowly, each syllable dropping like the rain. He hovered under the kitchen doorframe, coat on and dripping wet. I could not make the kettle boil any faster. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I turned and smiled.

“What?” I asked, but I didn’t want to hear. “Wait, let’s get you dried off first.” I wanted to scurry for towels and clothes, but Peter was blocking the doorway as he answered my question.

“I made a mistake.” His voice broke and a croaking, throaty gurgle slithered into my kitchen, raw like uncooked meat.

“Oh, everyone makes mistakes, darling. Now let’s get you warmed up with a nice cup of—”

He looked me right in the eye.

“A mistake,” he spat back at me. “Susan’s gone.”

Something unfamiliar crawled across Peter’s face. A sneer. He was sneering at me. 

Boiled water steamed from the kettle, its innards raging with bubbles, until the dainty click snapped it off. I turned my back on Peter and poured the tea. 

“Would you like your bag left in?” 

He didn’t reply, so I took a teaspoon and squeezed the bag against the side of the cup before fishing it out. I was meant to say something. My pathetic mother, he was thinking, who can’t face reality, whose eyes are cross-stitched shut. I didn’t know what to say. 

I held the scalding cup against my palm, so the handle faced Peter. He could either take it, or watch my face strain to remain calm as hot china burned my skin. He took it like a good son.

*

Sarah Macallister has a Natural Sciences PhD and is now embarking on a second PhD in History of Art. Besides academic publications, she has had short stories published by Impspired, Flora Fiction and Literally Stories.

Shooter Flash: “In the Wake Of” by Elizabeth Vidas

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She caught Stan coming out of the bathroom, one hand down his pants as he fumbled with his shirttails.

“Stan, come with me,” she said. “I have something to show you in the hydrangeas.”

Not the most seductive line, but Stan was her second-to-last target, she was tired, and he would certainly follow her into the bushes or under the kitchen sink if she asked. Sure enough, in five minutes she had undone his carefully tucked dress shirt, and he was grasping at her breasts with puffy palms.

Stan was the twelfth man Louisa had kissed that night. Most had been easy marks, though the professors were suspiciously self-assured: they grabbed her waist or hiked up her leg as if used to younger, suppler limbs. Only one – a grad student – had seemed ill at ease. He’d stammered, acting calm, but there was sweat on his mustache. She’d reconciled herself to a quick peck.

She crossed the lawn to the bar, a fold-out table draped in white cloth. Pouring a martini, she glanced around. Her garden looked well, of course. The Cambridge wives chatted vigorously next to the hydrangeas, determined to play at normality. Their husbands stood beside them, subdued. The pockets of guests had thinned out – Louisa smiled into her drink, thinking that soon she would be in a Manhattan studio. She would call Hannah from social-work school, and they would meet at Café Figaro. Maybe she would even look up some Sacred Heart girls; she assumed they were still on the Upper East Side. Scrutinizing their perms and reminiscing about Sister Margaret’s mole might be a laugh. 

She eyed her final target. David was standing by what she called the baby fountain, a cherub holding a bird bath. She stepped from stone to stone on the garden path until she reached him. He looked down as she approached, giving his Dark and Stormy a swirl. They watched the amber tornado settle in his glass.

“This is one of your better parties,” he said.

“Well. It’s not every day one’s husband retires from teaching and married life.”

He sighed. “Louisa.”

It was petty, but she wouldn’t admit it, so she looked towards the garden instead. The last of the guests were leaving: some gave fake, cheery waves while others walked determinedly towards their cars. 

“I kissed all your friends.”

“You did what?”

“I kissed all of them. Paul and Jared were a little gropey – I think they’re used to a student set. And Aaron was mechanical. He’s been handsome for so long, he must rely on muscle memory now. Stan was greedy—”

“You kissed Stan?”

“That’s what shocks you?”

“Louisa, what are you doing?”

“I’m kissing all the men. Because after twenty years, I don’t owe anything to anyone. I didn’t join the wives’ book clubs or go to your colleagues’ asinine lectures—”

“So I’m responsible for that? Twenty years ago you were so prophetic you thought you’d save yourself the trouble?” 

“I didn’t save myself from anything.”

The porch light went on, and Louisa glanced over automatically. Inside was the sofa bed where he’d been sleeping. Each morning he was gone by the time she woke up; seeing his reading glasses on the wicker table always gave her a stomach cramp. Just two round lenses, but somehow they conjured the arc of his lips, the hair between his eyebrows he refused to pluck.

“I’m going to kiss you, David.”

He said nothing, looked at the porch lights. It amazed Louisa that he was leaving her for an older woman – an unattractive one, no less. She’d seen her at the university, gray bob and blue blazer. Louisa put a hand between his shoulders and turned his face towards hers. His mouth was motionless, his eyes unfocused; she suspected he was parleying with Elaine in his mind. She kissed him, and they were back at the café in the Village, where she’d leaned across the checkered tablecloth as he’d described Plato’s chair. Where he’d confessed how he’d been scared of the man-sized monkeys in Wizard of Oz. He was squinting through his glasses at the opera; he was folding them into his pocket before grabbing her by the vest, kissing her in front of the Washington Square Arch, and she knew she would follow him to the end of the earth, into any hydrangea bush, or onto the porch bed, as she did now.

*

Elizabeth Vidas is a writer and teacher living in Montpellier, France. Her short story “Smoldering” will appear in the upcoming issue of Western Humanities Review.

Shooter Flash: “Drifting Apart” by Gordon Pinckheard

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You can’t get very far away from each other on a 33-foot sailboat. Graham was sitting in the cockpit, Linda on the foredeck. There were about twenty-five feet between them. They both wanted more.

There was a bump against the hull.

*

Out in the middle of the Atlantic, there was not much to think about. Only one person to talk with, to relate to, to be irritated by. Graham knew the right way to do things on a boat; he had taken courses, Linda had not. He carefully explained what she was doing wrong, but she ignored him. Her knots came undone, the sails flapped; they were not making the progress that he expected.

With only the two of them on board, watches were tough. Neither of them got much sleep. Alone in the cockpit at night, sliding between dreams and dark night, Graham had fantasies. Fantasies of freedom. The company of another woman, a younger woman, a better woman. Sometimes, a naked woman.

Linda was seasick. Pills did prevent vomiting, but she complained of stomach cramps and headaches. She refused to cook, unable to keep her balance down in the swaying interior.

“I’ll be glad when this is over,” she said.

“Over? Don’t say that. After this crossing, there’s the coast of Europe to explore! Wandering port to port. It’ll be great!”

“No,” Linda spat. “We’re using my money, and I say no. Once we’re across, we stop, settle down. Stop moving.” Her face was pale, taut.

Graham clamped his mouth shut. After a pause, he said, “OK, if that’s how you want it.” Looking away from her, he scanned the empty horizon, the ridges of endless waves. Freedom, he thought. 

That night he couldn’t entice any naked women out of the darkness. “My money” occupied his thoughts. He had shackled himself to such a wife! They had only spent a fraction of her wealth. What was to happen to his big adventure? An adventure he had dreamt of since childhood. Freedom was sliding out of reach. Linda wanted to trap him in a “normal” house. Was he man or mouse? No way! Feeling reassured, he smiled as he dozed, conjuring satisfying fantasies. Fantasies of unfettered freedom, spending money. Without Linda.

*

There was a bump against the hull. Graham looked astern, expecting to see something floating away in their wake. There was a partially submerged buoy, but it was following them, attached by a short length of rope. The rudder must have caught a drifting buoy. He turned off the autopilot and moved the wheel, hoping the rope would slide off the blade. The wheel was stiff and hard to turn; the rope must have jammed between the top of the rudder and the hull.

They dropped the sails and, using a boathook, Graham tried to pull the buoy and its tether loose from the boat. Failing, swearing, he lowered the inflatable dinghy from the foredeck. Maybe the rope could be freed working at sea level. He really didn’t want to have to swim beneath the boat. The oars were stored away down below; he’d manage without them. He was about to get into the dinghy, still swearing, when Linda said, “I’ll do it.”

“No, I’ll do it,” he said. “I do everything else; I’ll do this too.”

“Piss off! You don’t do everything. I’m fed up with you making a martyr of yourself. There’s no one else here to impress. I’ll be glad to get off this damn boat, even if it’s only for ten minutes.”

“OK, let’s see you do it then.” He sat down in the cockpit and watched her clamber over the lifelines, down the steps on the transom into the grey inflatable.

She caught the buoy’s rope and looked up at Graham. “You’ll have to move the dinghy forward,” she said. “I have to pull the rope forward, not back.”

He untied its painter from the stern and dragged the dinghy forward along the hull. He tied the line around a stanchion.

In the dinghy, Linda pulled at the buoy’s rope. It came loose, and she dropped it in the water. The partially submerged buoy and its rope drifted away from the boat.

“See? I got that done. I don’t need to hear any more of your crap. Now move me back to the stern.”

Graham looked down at her.

“Not hear more of my crap? Fair enough. Goodbye, Linda.” He bent down to the knotted painter.

Briefly, she sat frozen. Then she rushed to the front of the dinghy, balanced precariously on the inflated tube, and reached up to grab him. Her left hand caught his jacket while her right struck at his head. Ignoring the blows, he remained leaning forward, working at the knotted painter. With all her weight, she pulled him down towards her, pummelling his head. He toppled into the well of the dinghy, landing awkwardly. She fell onto his back, striking at him with both fists. He rolled over, protecting his head with his forearms while they struggled.

“For God’s sake, quit it!” The fear and desperation in his voice stopped her. The painter was caught around his arm – the loose painter.

They looked towards their sailboat, across clear water; wind was blowing the boat and dinghy apart faster than either of them could swim.

Silently, Graham moved to the stern, leaving Linda alone at the bow. The endless sea surrounded them, the horizon broken only by a single receding sailboat. There were about three feet between them. There would never be more.

*      *      *

Gordon Pinckheard lives in County Kerry, Ireland. Retired from a working life spent writing computer programs and technical documents, and encouraged by Thursday Night Writers (Tralee), he now writes anything he likes to entertain himself and – hopefully – others. His stories have been published by Daily Science Fiction, Gemini, Page & Spine, Allegory, Every Day Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others.

Shooter Flash: “The Cleaner” by Sam Szanto

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Carys attacks the master bedroom with a Henry hoover, tucks the sheets – ‘hospital corners’, her mother whispers from beyond the grave – and changes the pillowcases, one of which is streaked with what appears to be spray-tan. She also picks up a pair of frilly knickers and worries a stain on the carpet until two pairs of latex gloves are ruined. Then she takes two white towels from the ensuite and folds them into swans to go on the bed; she saw it done in a film about Japan and regards it as her special touch. It eats into her limited time but makes her clients feel special. 

The kitchen is next. Deflating helium balloons bob, including an ‘18’. It must be for the daughter, Isla. She was 13 when Carys first came here. Carys was employed by an agency then called Mrs Mop.

Carys is blitzing the work-surfaces as the client, Morgana, appears. It’s the first time she’s seen her today: Carys was given a key after two years’ weekly service. Morgana is wearing purple Lycra and carrying her iPhone in its glittery purple case. She looks tired, yellow skin under her eyes.

‘I’m making coffee if you’d like one?’ she asks.

Carys has a rule not to accept hot drinks from clients, so declines as she always does. Morgana turns on the coffee machine. Carys brushes away food scraps, takes the plastic and glass recycling to the bins outside, sweeps and bleaches the floor. Morgana drinks her cappuccino and talks about Isla’s party at the weekend. Carys makes appropriate noises in response. Morgana is one of only a few clients who talk to her while she’s working; she suspects the others hide, or pretend to be very busy at their laptops; but she has seen games of solitaire on the screens. Once, at the end of a shift, she passed a café and saw the client whose house she had been cleaning sitting in front of their laptop.  

Kitchen finished, Carys takes her cleaning supplies to the family bathroom. Morgana follows to the threshold.

‘Hey,’ she says, ‘you’re married?’

Carys starts; had she talked about her husband? She had a dream about him the night before and its cobwebs have clung to her all day. Then she follows Morgana’s gaze to her ring finger; her hands are usually concealed by latex gloves but she’d just run out.

‘Yes,’ Carys says, ‘married for fifteen years.’ 

Morgana doesn’t need to know that her husband died three years ago, after the black tentacles of cancer latched onto him.

‘Ahh, quite the stretch.’ 

Morgana wants to hear more; Carys doesn’t want to say more.

After a pause, Morgana starts talking about her husband. Now that the lockdown rules have been lifted, he is in the office almost every day and out a lot in the evenings.

‘It’s like he doesn’t want to spend time with us,’ Morgana moans. ‘I’m sure people aren’t meant to go back to work full-time in offices even now.’

‘I’m sure he’s very busy,’ Carys says meaninglessly.

She removes the plastic bag from the bin, stuffing the tissues that were on the floor into it. Her hands brush against a plastic stick. She shouldn’t look, but she does. There are two pink lines on the stick. It could be a Covid test, but the ones she has used have C and T on them. Morgana is looking at her phone, so hasn’t noticed. Carys wonders whether to tell her about what might be a pregnancy test, but what if it is Morgana’s rather than Isla’s? Despite the amount of time she has spent listening to her client, she doesn’t know how old she is: she could be anywhere between 35 and 45. 

Carys ties the handles of the bag and places it outside the bathroom. She washes her hands for twenty seconds, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ twice in her head. Then she sweeps up the hair on the floor, sluices water, scrubs sink-grime and tackles shower-mould. Morgana’s phone rings, and she walks away to answer it.

In the hall, Carys feather-dusts photos of Isla at various ages. She sprays glass cleaner on the wedding photo of Morgana and her husband Al. In the photo, Morgana is wearing a surgical-white gown with a sweetheart neckline, which Carys knows was handmade in London, and clutches a bouquet of deep-red roses; Al wears a matching red tie and button-hole rose. Carys and her husband don’t look like that in their one wedding photo. They married on a trip to Scotland, witnessed by two registry office staff, one of whom had taken the photo. She wore a pale blue dress, her husband a checked shirt. Their daughter was born nine months to the day later. Has she ever told Morgana she has a daughter? Clemmie is the same age as Isla; Carys cannot imagine her daughter with a baby.

Carys’s final task is the living room. They have a cat the colour of Morgana’s wedding dress, and Carys lint-rolls its hair off the sofa. She feels a pang as she does it – her fingers are a bit arthritic now.

The four hours (plus ten minutes, which she won’t be paid for) are up. Carys calls to Morgana that she is leaving; Morgana shouts goodbye from upstairs. The cat gives a sad-sounding miaow.

Carys wipes her sweaty face with a piece of kitchen roll, lugs her bucket and brushes to her car, and drives away. One more client to go, and then she can clean her own home. 

As she drives down Morgana’s road, she passes a car parked at the far end. She recognises the man on the driver’s side from the wedding photo she has just dusted, but not the woman. They do not see her.

*

Sam Szanto lives in Durham. Almost 40 of her stories and poems have been published or listed in competitions. In March, she won second prize in the Writer’s Mastermind Story Contest. She was a winner in the Literary Taxidermy awards, won second prize in the Doris Gooderson Competition 2019, and third prize in the Erewash Open Competition 2021. She won the 2020 Charroux Prize for Poetry and the First Writers International Poetry Competition.