I arrived home before dusk, anxious in case the four new chicks a friend brought me earlier in a cat box wouldn’t know where to sleep. Little orphans, barely feathered out, rescued chicks, released into a strange flock that morning and pecked into their order. No clue where the bedroom was and no idea which perch was theirs. As darkness wrapped itself around us, they became blind, running erratically into bushes and corners and driven by instinct, peeping to each other in fear. The cats stalked them, I stalked them. All was terror. I cornered each bird one by one, capturing them in a flurry of feathers and squawks, their skinny feathery bodies trembling in my hands. The cockerel tutted inside the dark coop, he wasn’t coming out for a few tearways. The last one caught, I shut them all in safely, cussing softly, relieved at their capture. I waited in the dark until their peeps subsided. Turning, I caught the Hunter’s moon rising behind me, mellow, yellow and calm. My little drama was a scene the moon had witnessed millions of times before.
Like a Marie biscuit divided in half. That’s how I described the moon to myself the other night.
Even though it was the big half, I did think my little phrase bordered on the maudlin.
And then I became so, as I imagined a world without Marie biscuits, and only the big half of one to look at every now and then when the night sky is bright.
©2019 Allison Wright
In front of the house there had been a dead tree. Its bark had long scaled off, leaving it white and bare and raw. A rosebush had fancied it the spot to make its new home and entwined itself around its tall stature—spawning myriads of bright pink blossoms every year, imbuing the air around the house with the scent of summer. There were so many of them that every visitor would get a bouquet of roses, should they want one, and sometimes I would feed one or two flowers to the iguana.
I turn around the corner and reluctantly step onto the street. I used to live here. This is weird. Nothing has changed. The narrow street is lined with the same neatly cut hedges, behind which the deceivingly friendly dwellers of this village lurk. It’s quiet, eerie, just like it had always been, back then. I keep walking towards the house, each step slower than the one before—
…and there it is. A low, wooden fence, and behind it the cowering, red brick stone structure, a lonely, garishly green watering can, and a bench that wasn’t there before. The dead tree must have had to yield to a neatly mowed lawn, and the scent of summer has long since faded away.
(c) 2019 Anett Enzmann
I had an errand in the village and then the perfect espresso coffee. I drank in the fine blue sky. All around, promises lapped at my confidence saying yes, today would indeed be productive.
The coffee was so good, I wanted more.
Always wanting more; just a little bit longer. Wait! Stay with me!
But more would have been too much, and perhaps it would have taken away the blue sky lining my soul.
I scraped the sugar from the bottom of the cup. Life is sweet like that.
©2019 Allison Wright
Hornets. There are about 15 of them, buzzing fussily in and out of the hole in the wall they have recently chosen as their dwelling. Unfazed by the voices and the life behind the crumbling bricks they simply go about their day. Every day.
I was scared of them, at first. A strange, primal fear of one of them unsuspectingly exploring its environment, getting trapped in my room. What is this place? What are all these smells and things? Who are these furry creatures staring at it with their preying eyes? It buzzes around, disoriented, panicking, lashing out.
I’d better keep my windows closed.
(c) Anett Enzmann 2019
Ladies having tea and cake in the garden after playing tennis. They’re the ones who used to say it was sweltering. Flashback to when I was a little girl, and not old enough to play tennis with the adults, but old enough to serve them tea and cake.
The only reason the word popped up was because I was trying to think of a polite way of saying that it’s effing hot without using the F-word. Though of course, it is so effing hot that you bloody need an F-word to make sure everyone knows just how effing sweltering it is.
©2019 Allison Wright