The Teapot

Once when I was young and naïve I destroyed a green teapot with a black lid by putting it down the rubbish chute of the flats I lived in. It was a blameless item, existing its little heart out from home to home, its final place that flat in a boxy brick estate lit by round streetlights, the bushes below the window precipitating hordes of small green flies up through the windows  on summer nights when the blue sign of the Cunard Hotel glared sullenly across the void at us. The windows faced westwards; so no sunrise to greet our morning egg and toast and marmite, if there ever was such a thing. But sunsets, over the bend in the river a mile away, roaring in silent sheets of flame.

I once wondered how large a sunset actually is. Is it the size of a memory? Does it have a real extent? The Northern Lights show up on film when invisible to the eye.

Although there were no stars in our night sky, there were robins singing their hearts out as we walked from the Tube station, across the sullen dark of the main road, up the street of Victorian houses and into the flats like a rabbit turning tail and darting down its burrow to safety from the drifting hawk, the prowling fox.

Home. Where I felt safe. Home.

http://chramies.typepad.com/

Chris Amies was born in south London and lived for many years in Hammersmith, which still appears in much of his fiction. He is the author of one published novel (“Dead Ground”, published by Big Engine and reissued by Clarion), one non-sfiction book (Hammersmith and Fulham Pubs, published by Tempus) and about 25 short stories, and has reviewed fiction for the BSFA and Tangent Online. He recently diversified into anthology editing (“NeaDNAthal” available from Fringeworks) and full-length translations from French.

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Going Home

Tammy wished she hadn’t bothered going home for her father was still drunk and ranting at the television and her mother still faffing about in the catastrophe of the kitchen and the green Atlantic still heaving at the end of their garden.

There was no milk for tea so she went to the beach. A lone row-boat slapped against the sea-wall. A puppy lay immobile in the bilge-water and Tammy picked it up, thinking it was dead, but its limp body stirred. She put it inside her coat for it was ice-cold and hurried home. She didn’t care what they would say; she was keeping it.

Her mother filled a basin with warm water and put the little creature in it. It began to mew and Tammy looked for something to feed it with but there was nothing in the fridge but a piece of hard cheese. Then her mother pressed her finger to her lips and took out a glass of milk from the cupboard. ‘Don’t tell your father.’

Alison Marr

Alison Marr is a musician and poet, originally from Northern Ireland, who now lives in London. She writes short stories and poetry.

https://oldclock3.wordpress.com/

 

Going Home

She leaves the house, carrying a dark red leather luggage and a small handbag. She is wearing the perfect tan colour coat for Autumn weather. It is 1941. Another war has begun and she has decided to end her own. She has left a two page letter for Frank. She made sure no essential words were left out. She sliced her heart open in explaining her reasons. The ones he would never understand. She walked by the river and remembered the many times she wanted to make everything silent, to cool down her incandescent feelings for her girlfriend Susan. But today, she passed the river in the direction of the train station. She has decided for once and all to find her home, where her heart belongs. She must go. London and Susan were expecting her at 2pm. The train window framed the country landscape that she has to escape. The city is the ticket for her freedom. Susan is the one for love. She is now going home.

Alessandra Salisbury

Alessandra Salisbury is a Brazilian journalist, actress and creative writer. She lives in Australia with her husband and their 5 year old daughter Isabella, who was the inspiration for Alessandra’s first published kids book Naughty Nana, for sale on Amazon. Her works appeared and are forthcoming in the American literary magazines, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Borfski Press, and BlogNostics.