Fallow by David Streader

Morphine and IV drips. Catheters and hospital food. Dark grey skies, cold wind. Nicotine and Xanax. Heartbreak and restrained tears. A headache that comes after work, throbbing, until the tablets take their course. Self medication and disassociation techniques. Glazed eyes and plastic plants. A life under fluorescence, subconscious green, tinting the skin of the patients. Subtle insults, patronising compliments. A constant electrical buzz. Anxiety, anti-anxiety, anxiety. Vague sense of filth and bacteria, the overwhelming stench of bleach and chlorine. Cheap coffee, rushed cigarettes. Time races and stands still simultaneously. Mild heart palpitation, traffic fumes. Junk food and sadness. Morning coughing, yellowing teeth. Someone smiles a sweet pitying smile. Brief conversations in the break room; an uncle who had a stroke, a grandparent’s recent death. Valium and caffeine pills. Memories of a suicide, a mother of four hanging in the family bathroom, no note left - a commentary on the rest of us. The pills they say, the doctors gave her the wrong ones. Rubbing eyes, the sun sets again. The sad cold day turns to a sadder colder night. The veins in her temple, they pound. Then TV, then a fitful broken sleep, sweating, shaking. Dreams of death and forgotten friendships. And work. Dreams of work. Until the 5pm alarm goes off. Snooze for nine minutes, snooze for nine minutes more. Coffee and cigarette, peak hour traffic once more. The morning radio, play advertisements and insincere odes to love. Traffic accident, everyone slows down to look. To see if maybe they can catch a glimpse of a corpse, of their own mortality. She won’t look, she’s seen enough death already. She takes the offer of overtime. Mopping up the fluids, watching the clock. The trip to is as exhausting as the trip from. Mild paranoia. Nausea and tremors. Someone’s fucked up. You don’t seem very happy these days, someone says. She stoops over to pick up a discarded magazine, its cover of upset celebrities reminds her of her own divorce. Bring the kids back on time or they can’t see daddy next weekend. Make a phone call. A lingering feeling that she is standing on the edge, about to fall in. It’s the people they say. The people around you will pull you back. She wonders if the doctors have given her the right pills, runs in the family they say. God this place hasn’t changed in thirty years. She sighs, and tries to imagine a time when it wasn’t this bad…

Suggestions for a Newborn by Guido Martini

Wine turns into vinegar so be weary of whom you choose to trust with the rest of your life. A partnership can only be defined as such. When the spark is gone together with the looks, there had better be something else. Don't be stuck pedaling the tandem, solo.

You probably won't make a difference to the world, but it doesn't matter. You are living in YOUR world, so by default, you are making a difference.

All rules must be broken. The square shape can fit into the star opening, if you want it to. The end justifies the means.

Oh yeah, stay away from clichés; they are so passé, and try to avoid pompous French words when writing in English.

Most of all be true to yourself. Never let anyone get in the way of achieving your dreams; or tell you what to do.

Sharing by Neve Chalmers

Caitlin breathed deeply as she turned off the ignition and peered through her smudged windscreen. The kitchen light was on, and a dark shadow moved inside. “She’s home”, Caitlin sighed. She paused for a moment before bundling up her bags for the nightly dance to the door: groceries in one hand, worn briefcase in the other, and hand bag perched precariously in between.

A note met her in the hallway: “Caitlin, I’ve gone to Nebraska for the weekend with Joel. Just thought I’d let you know that the shower needs a good scrub. Electricity bill attached xo”. Caitlin winced. She could hear Sarah’s verbose southern twang, “Don’t forget to the pay the electricity bill, sweetie pie!”

The kitchen sink heaved with the remnants of Sarah’s life: three coffee cups, orange peel, fry pan with complimentary burnt eggs, empty tin of beans, two Tupperware containers and a used pot of bikini wax. “Shit.” Caitlin breathed out and leaned against the sink. She created a new list in her mind of “things to do tonight”, with Sarah’s rank dishes and mess coming in at number one. Behind her, a shadow moved.

Within an hour Caitlin had de-contaminated the kitchen and prepared a tasty Japanese salad. She had even poured herself a glass of pinot noir to celebrate her empty nest. She knew that she had put far too much mirrin in the salad dressing, but was pleased with her attempt nonetheless. She contemplated her toe nails as she sat in front of the blaring television, realizing that it had been at least three months since she’d last paid them any attention. The peace was a welcome gift, Caitlin thought, as it gave her the time and space to indulge her most inane thoughts. Every now and then, she thought she could hear Sarah moving in the bathroom. Caitlin giggled, “one single glass of wine and I’m imagining she’s back.”

After falling into a brief dream on the couch, Caitlin lazily opened her eyes and found that her salad bowl and wine glass had been moved. She gazed up at the ceiling, straining to remember if she herself had moved them. “Must have”, she mumbled. The television screen stared blankly at her. “Did I turn off the T.V.?” Caitlin mused, feeling an underwhelming unease that she knew was a direct consequence of her over-active imagination and seeing “The Ring” many more times than was necessary.

She lifted her heavy bones off the couch and moved towards the hall. In a moment, voices filled the room. Caitlin turned to find the television back on, roaring as its volume steadily increased. A blonde southern belle yelled at Caitlin to try a new feather duster, “with four times more dust grabbing power!” “Where the hell is the remote control?” Caitlin cried out, desperately scanning the room for an answer.

*****

It wasn’t until exactly one month later that Caitlin and Sarah’s elderly neighbour, Jennifer, decided to call the police. She hadn’t seen either of the two young girls come in or out of their home for weeks. The bins hadn’t moved. A pile of damp newspapers was starting to form on their front porch. The first snow of winter had enveloped Caitlin’s car. “I know she didn’t care much for that old thing”, Jennifer explained to the police, “but there’s no way she wouldn’t have moved it into the garage for the first days of winter”.

Sergeant Gidon was assigned the task of inspecting the share property on Hayley Street. He was relieved to escape Headquarters, especially in light of what was regularly referred to around the traps as winter’s “bureaucratic avalanche”. When he arrived at 28 Hayley Street, he was surprised to find that the door to the unit clicked open with ease.

The atmosphere inside was stale. All of the windows were covered, making the place feel and smell like a dank hovel. Gidon moved into the living room to pull back the heavy curtains. His eyes soon adjusted to the light. Peering at the floor, he suddenly confronted the wide eyes of a dead woman. Caitlin lay in a contorted tangle: a television remote control between her limp hands, a full bowl of Japanese salad beside her head and a glass of pinot noir splashed across her body and the white carpet.

Moments later, a panicked Gidon found Caitlin’s housemate Sarah, sitting dead in the base of their shower.