Words by Andie - Fiction

  *** TW: The below story contains reference to pregnancy loss *** The door slams. On one side of it, the other side, Leonora’s entire life. Chris has evaporated from their life together, that much is clear. The pregnancy she was carrying is now over. Her head feels full of crushed ice. Leonora sits on the chocolate brown couch, purchased because it was unlikely to show stains of a future child doing childish things, dropping ice creams, spilling drinks, smushing playdough into the sides for fun. She sits on the edge of the couch, perches, hands clenched into fists on her knees, as if she were a young rugby player waiting for a team photo to be taken. She stares blankly ahead. After a moment, reacting to the sound of a quiet engine starting, Leonora looks to her right, out of the large bay windows, at the grey Mitsubishi Outlander reversing out of the driveway. A car chosen for its high safety rating. It doesn’t matter now. “Look, Leo,”  she can hear Chris in her head, feeling...

  Ted lowered himself slowly into the old, rickety chair, arranged as one of about 20 in a circle. Posters had been lovingly set up at the front of the room, with irritatingly uplifting phrases on them. One banner embarrassingly loudly proclaimed “The Twelve Steps”. Ted glanced around his periphery, not wanting to appear to stare, not wanting to accidentally draw someone else into conversation. This gaggle of misfits was about the sorriest sight he’d ever seen. Though – some of them looked, somehow, normal? A banker looking type, a Mum whose young daughters quietly played with their Barbies in the corner of the room, a woman wearing the outfit of a librarian and the pained expression of a woman badly in need of a drink. Across from Ted glowered a tall, solidly built bloke, who had clearly left his Patch at home but had not forgotten his face tattoos. Ted avoided eye contact with this bundle of joy the most. He breathed through his enormous nostrils, reminding Ted of being nose to n...

  “Love is a verb” she repeats to herself, taking deep breaths, desperately trying to regain emotional control. “So act like you love her”. Her hands, balled into fists, cover her eyes as the tears of frustration start to fall in the darkness and privacy of her grandmothers spare bedroom. She silently conjures her mother, memories faded after years of not physically seeing her, separated by death. “Make me be caring like you. Make me like you. You can do this, I can’t. She’s your mother”. This version of Nana, it turns out, can’t hold onto a piece of information for longer than a few minutes. The repetition. The confusion. The question marks around the state of the house and car. None of us knew how bad things had gotten. This is the woman who baked shortbread and Afghan biscuits because her grandchildren loved them, and it made them smile to see the familiar burnt orange coloured Tupperware’s, with layers of the precious biscuits beneath wrapped in crinkly baking paper. Who hand k...

  Kathy paused outside to take a deep breath. Who has a pool party after 40? She had debated wearing her swimsuit and sarong to the event, rather than awkwardly getting changed on arrival, and had then decided her yellow sundress over the top of her black one piece would be sufficient. To think she used to go to pool parties in those silly little triangle tops and barely there bottoms, now the infrastructure needed to hoist her breasts up could power a small city. Not to mention the price required for said infrastructure in a swimsuit. She sighed, again. Focus. We’re not here for a pity party. We’re here for Tina’s birthday. She could smell the chlorine from outside the house mixed with the sea air wafting from over the cliffs she had parked next to and wondered, not for the first time, how Tina and Michael had managed to afford this house. As she approached, she recognised the literal white picket fence that surrounded the house, the gloss on the paint seeming luminous on the hot ...

  The door groaned as Rupert pushed it gently open. The eerie creak sang out into the darkness, foreshadowing what was to come. He called out, “Daniel?”. His apprentice wasn’t usually so hard to find. Rupert groped for the oil lamp that was always positioned on the stout bench next to the fireplace, a deep and foreboding sense washing over him. This wasn’t like Daniel. He was always in his quarters at this hour, where the two men would meet before heading down to the local public house for a swill of mead. The horses in the stables outside began to whinny, high pitched and deafening. Something was wrong. As Rupert crept around the corner, a growing sense of dread and repulsion snaking through his veins, had a deep sense of knowing immediately what he would see. Could smell the strong, gag inducing stench of vomit, acidic and nauseating. There lay Daniel, on his back, pale faced with a twisted expression. Rupert, despite his large size and intimidating physique, wanted to flee. Disg...

  Huddled under her brown overcoat, she shivered. Clinging to her camera, thankful for its waterproof case, she aimed and pointed it at the couple inside the Italian restaurant, their table helpfully positioned close to the gigantic windows. She grinned. It was so helpful being friends with the matitre d for these kinds of cases, her bread and butter – infidelity. There was always some suspicious wife at home, wanting someone to follow her husband around and figure out what he’d been up to. And this husband was a big fish – working in New York in the “Waste Management Business”, in this end of town, meant one thing. And it wasn’t waste management. The streetlamp overhead provided a little light, but it was no match for the downpour cloaking all of Melanie’s senses. She breathed in the smell of wet leaves in the gutters, of rain on concrete, and the pleasant wafting scent of garlic and truffle oil melting over from the restaurant. Her tummy growled, she’d been standing here for...

  Elegant, sweeping fabric draped the walls from floor to ceiling, pinned at strategic places, the colour a luminous and sultry slate grey. The fabric appeared to shimmer in the late afternoon sun, the effect further enhanced by an overhead chandelier, approximately a metre wide at its largest point, dripping with thousands of tiny crystals. The chandelier reflected the light source from within its centre, not visible to the naked eye, but its power magnified, reaching far beyond its source. Heady perfumes of jasmine and sandalwood wafted through the room, designed to relax and calm the attendees, as was the gentle strumming of the sitar from the corner of the room, conducted by a short man who bent his face away from the group, towards his instrument, focussed entirely on his music. The shisham table was elegantly set in the British style, a nod to one particular attendee. Upon the table, the bone China plates and scrupulously polished silverware were positioned at almost mathemat...