Pandemic assents time and space for Drew to ponder. With stricter lockdown regulations and protocols, as Covid-19 cases soar to millions worldwide, Drew eventually finds comfort remaining home and works online.

Drew looks back to his younger days, remembering how he wanted to become an animator or illustrator. A passion meaningful to him than being an engineer. Ironic how the same youthful ambition keeps him going now.

At the start of his high school years, his family encouraged his options in a course that he did not particularly have a passion for, like law, business, or engineering. He could not forget the day the entire class laughed when he wrote to become an animator in his chosen career.

These encounters shifted him away from his formerly desired choice- and interest.

Eventually, he stopped doodling at the back of his notebook and filled them with formulas; filled them with scholarly words; filled them with the knowledge he did not find engaging at all. But everyone seemed to praise him for it. Although not the best, he tried to top the class each time. Acing his way through high school- but at the cost of his passion for the arts.

Forward some years later, in college, where he was taking up engineering. He sacrificed a lot already. He did his best- working hard for something that was not his joy. Drew ended up failing. Sure, he must sacrifice for it, but there is only so much hard work for him to do, at least for him. It honestly had not been working out for him since that college life. He succumbed to depression now and then, without everyone knowing.

At the moment, he seeks redemption through improving his art. He takes it seriously with enthusiasm and passion. He is making himself up for it because he knew people come and go. It goes the same for their support. He must learn to stand on his own. No denying people have been walking out of his life. If he turns back away from himself, it will be over. Young as he is, he has some handful of regrets in life, and the biggest one yet is not believing himself!

Not to mention the complexity of the current pandemic, politics, state of the entire nation, and the world. It prompts Drew to ask himself, what is to be my place under the sun?

That’s why he is clinging so hard to this career. It is quite a demanding job in terms of time and skills. Competition is tough. Drew doesn’t have enough income. But Drew hangs on and struggles for it because it’s like him telling himself not to give up on himself when everyone else does.

He feels delighted when somebody says they like his art. Or if they commission him. Or even if they request free artwork. Because then he acknowledges that there are still people who believe and fuel his hope.

Pandemic times are challenging enough. People all flock online to find jobs and opportunities, but Drew is fearless now. He is confident with some time he will improve and make that break as an artist.

Zea Perez lives in the Philippines. She writes children’s stories. But only now did she dare to share some of her writings. She has some pieces published at Flash Fiction North, Literary Yard, and soon at TEA. She also writes reviews for Booktasters and Goodreads.

Here lies Frank Ellis, ‘Who Died As He Lived: With Dignity.’ And not too far away is Gertrude Bishop, ‘The Devoted Wife Of Walter. A Long Life Of Loving And Giving.’

The town cemetery is full of these kinds of sentiments. It’s one of the main reasons I spend so much of my time here. Almost every day, I have my faith in humanity restored.

On the other hand, my religious faith, what little I had, has withered. One has only to walk around the Baby Memorial Garden to sense that a truly loving deity would not allow such tragedy. Such pain; such unnecessary pain.

I sense that most people these days feel the same. You don’t see much of this kind of thing in the newer plots: ‘His death is but a shadow cast across the walkway to the Lord.’

No, you’re more likely to find a simple commemoration like, ‘Irene Murdoch: A Genuine Lady. A Loving Mother And Good Friend To All.’

Bless you, Irene, though I never knew you in life. I hope I’ll be remembered in such a temporal and kind way. It saddens me though, to see that none of your loved ones lay flowers on your grave anymore. Everyone eventually becomes forgotten, I suppose. Time passes and the dead cannot mourn the dead. But don’t worry for now Love, I’ve brought you daffodils today. Sheila, your neighbour, is getting pansies. Sheila who was, ‘The Heart And Soul Of Her Family. She Filled Every Room With Warmth And Laughter.’ Ah, each time I read that, it tugs at my heart strings and brings tears to my eyes.

Of course, the cemetery can make you laugh as well as cry. That’s another good reason for coming. Check these out:

‘I Was Hoping For A Pyramid.’

‘Here Lies An Atheist. All Dressed Up And No Place To Go.’

‘Thanks For Visiting. Pardon Me For Not Rising.’

What a lark, eh? Cheeky devils!

However, my favourite headstone is one that poetically reminds us that there will come a day when leaving the cemetery will not be an option:

‘Remember Me As You Pass By
As You Are Now
So Once Was I
As I Am Now
So You Will Be
Prepare Your Way
To Follow Me.’

Nice. I do like a piece of verse. The ones in birthday cards are delightful but it’s hard to beat rhymes of remembrance.

All this talk of the life eternal might make you think I’m the morbid type; but no, not me. Not like Albert, over there, who visits his plot-to-be twice a week. No, I’m all for the here and now. I enjoy visiting my family and friends; and every Sunday an old acquaintance of mine comes round to the bungalow and we make merry, or whatever you want to call it, for an hour or two.

It’s just that the cemetery helps to keep me happy in the meantime. The positivity of the dead improves my daily living.

john e.c. is the editor for Flash Fiction North, which is devoted to publishing shorter fiction and poetry.

Find more of john’s work here on Ink Pantry.

Six feet tall and full figured, Lena is all stature and curves. Punctuated by stiletto heels. She sips her iced tea and sways to the music, watching lithe bodies aglow beneath spinning black lights.

Energy shifts in the club as the bartender announces last call; strangers begin the distilled process of coupling for the night. They suss out their options and then dangle the bait.

Can I buy you a drink?

Are you here on your own?

Do you need a ride home?

Lena turns around to settle her bill and discovers a torn slip of paper tucked between two twenties. A proposition, of sorts.

Thanks for the lovely view. Drinks on me. Meet you by the coat check in five?

She feels almost giddy – once again the bashful schoolgirl passing notes in math class, butterflies floating freeform in her stomach.

It occurs to Lena that she is playing a dangerous game, inviting disaster. What would people think if they could see her now? Clad in low cut halter and tight pleather pants, smoky cat eyes accentuated with red lips. Of course, she knows enough to be discreet, unlike some of her daft colleagues, posting pictures of themselves half naked and properly smashed.

A quick stop in the loo to refresh lipstick and plump cleavage, and she is ready to make her appearance.

Waiting beside the queue is a bookish fellow with light red hair and horn- rimmed glasses, more akin to giving advice at the pharmacy counter or approving loans at the bank; his distinguished appearance entirely out of context in these surroundings. She smiles in approval as he takes her hand and presses it to his lips.

“Hello there, gorgeous. I’ve never seen you here before. Do you live nearby?”

“I’m just passing through, actually. Only here for the night. You can call me,’ Lena pauses to select her handle ‘Veronica. Veronica Desmond.”

“Nice to meet you, Veronica. You remind me of a busty Cleopatra,’ he winks ‘I’m whoever you want me to be.”

Without further preamble, Lena follows him to his car in the parking lot and wordlessly begins to undress him. She attempts to manoeuvre within the confines of the backseat, feeling like an aging contortionist while still assuming the appropriate sounds and expressions of desire. How did she ever do this in high school? He continues to adjust positions, narrowly avoiding death by stiletto on more than one occasion. They make forced love in record time.

Afterwards, they both sit in silence and light up. Another dirty little secret. She hears a tropical ringtone and swipes to retrieve the text on her mobile.

“Well, pumpkin,’ Lena exhales ‘looks like we’d better head home now. The sitter expected us hours ago, and Max has soccer in the morning.”

“Yes, dear,’ agrees her husband, rubbing his aching back ‘and next time, let’s just book the hotel instead.”

‘Hold your hand still.’ Peter held the candle out.

‘I don’t want to,’ Kevin replied. He shivered despite the summer evening. He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. It was getting late and his mum would be wondering where he was. The afternoon spent playing in the field had slipped by. Peter had led the way through the twisted path to the ruined church at the edge of town.

‘Don’t be a baby,’ Peter said. He placed the candle on the bench and stared at Kevin. ‘Do you want the Stick Man to get us?’ He pulled up the hood on his parka jacket.

‘What’s the Stick Man?’

‘There was a priest that lived here, on his own, years ago.’ Peter touched the doll-like collection of branches that lay on the bench. ‘He used to catch kids playing in the graveyard and lock them in here.’ Peter picked the twig-doll up and held it close to the flame. ‘He used to punish them, by pouring hot wax onto their hands.’

‘That’s a stupid story.’

Peter put the doll back. ‘One day he caught two boys who fought back.’

‘What did they do?’ Kevin asked.

‘They pushed the priest, who fell back into the candles.’

Kevin looked at the rusted rows of metal around them and shuddered.

‘The wax from the candles fell onto his face, while he was knocked out.’ Peter tipped the candle, which dripped onto the head of the stick doll.

‘’Bloody hell!’

‘Don’t swear in church.’

‘Sorry, amen.’

‘The priest jumped up, blind and screaming. His gown was on fire.’ Peter kicked a piece of wood. ‘He chased the boys down to the door. The fire spread quickly.’

Kevin noticed the blackened walls and charred pews surrounding them. The air smelled heavy and musty. He tried to laugh, but his throat was tight. ‘As if,’ he said.

‘They found his body under this bench, covered in wax and splinters of wood from the rafters.’ Peter looked up at the shattered roof. The sky was an orange glow. ‘One of the boys was never found.’

‘Shut up!’ Kevin pulled away from the bench and turned toward the door.

Peter stepped in front of him. Streaks of wax lined his sleeves. ‘Where are you going?’ He pushed Kevin back towards the bench.

‘We need to keep the Stick Man away,’ Peter said. ‘It’s just a drop on each hand. Look.’ He dripped a bead of wax onto his skin. The wax hardened quickly. He rolled it into a ball and flicked it into the dark.

‘Your turn.’ Peter grabbed Kevin’s hand. He held the candle closer.

Kevin pulled free and pushed Peter’s arm away. Wax splashed onto the bench. The candle wavered, but stayed lit.

‘What did you do that for?’ Peter placed the candle back down. The stick figure was completely covered in wax.

‘You bloody weirdo,’ Kevin said.

Peter pulled his hood down, ‘It was just a joke…’ he paused.

They heard the tap, tap, tap, on the door.

Kevin glanced at Peter; who stared back, eyes wide, mouth open. He heard Peter’s ragged breathing, mingled with his own.

Kevin shivered. ‘Who’s that?’ He whispered. He heard the snapping sound of branches from outside.

‘It’s the Stick Man,’ Peter uttered.

‘Shut up,’ Kevin replied.

The snapping ceased, leaving silence outside.

‘I’m going home…’ Kevin said.

‘Who is it?’ Peter shouted, which made Kevin jump.

Then, thump, thump, thump, on the door.

Kevin stepped back and stumbled back over a piece of wood. The sickening twist of his ankle made him yell.

The thumping stopped. Peter took a step towards the door.

‘Don’t,’ Kevin rubbed his foot.

Peter ignored him. He pushed the door open. Dusky light flooded the church interior. The long shadows of the graveyard lay before them. Peter stepped out of the church. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll run for help.’

‘No!’ Kevin replied. ‘I’m coming with you!’

‘You’ll slow me down.’

‘Peter!’ Kevin leaped up on his good foot and grabbed the back of Peter’s jacket. Peter lurched out of his grasp. The door slammed shut.

Kevin pushed the door. It wouldn’t move. ‘Let me out,’ his ankle felt swollen.

‘You idiot. You ripped my bloody coat!’ Peter hissed from outside.

Kevin heard the snapping of branches.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, then the thud of something hitting the ground.

Kevin shivered. ‘Peter!’ he whispered.

He heard the snapping of branches. Then; tap, tap tap, on the door.

The door swung open.

Kevin saw the tear he had made on the back of Peter’s jacket, which flapped open like a crooked smile. The hood was up. Kevin looked down and saw the streaks of wax lining the sleeves of the parka.

He shuffled forward and grabbed a shoulder. ‘That was a really stupid joke…’

He stopped. He felt the brittleness beneath the jacket. The branches snapping.

The figure turned around.

Colin Gardiner lives in Coventry. He writes short stories and poems and is published by The Ekphrastic Review and the Creative Writing Leicester blog. He is currently studying a Masters in Creative Writing at Leicester University.

‘Apocalypse Now?’
‘His favourite film.’
‘Really? But it’s so damn long.’ A strangled laugh escapes from his lips. ‘Fasten your seatbelt,’ he says.
‘Ok.’
He looks at her. ‘Oh shit.’ It’s all he can think of to say.
‘He was pissed. As usual.’
He stares down at his hands, then runs them grasping through his hair. He thinks of her hands, how they move over his yielding flesh, then earlier – before he got there… He covers his open mouth with his hand and mutters through it: ‘Jesus. I never meant it to be taken seriously. I never thought… not for one moment, you know?’
‘Right.’
‘I can’t. She…’
‘Yes?’
‘You don’t understand. ‘
‘Oh, I do. Perfectly.’
He grips the steering wheel with both hands until his knuckles turn white. In silence he watches a petite tortoiseshell cat trot across the road, mouse in its jaws. It leaps onto a wall and over, into a garden.
‘Will you forgive me?’ he says.
‘Not yet.’
‘Are you going to say anything with more than a few syllables?’
‘Are you going to keep to your side of the bargain?’
Silence.
‘Well?’
‘I’m really, truly sorry.’ he says.
‘At least I get an apology. I suppose one should be grateful for small mercies.’ She gives a little shake of her head and leans into the passenger door, long unkempt hair silhouetted against the sunrise. The glow forms a halo and he can’t take his eyes of her. It’s been this way since first they met.
‘I couldn’t take it anymore,’ she says.
‘I know.’
‘They’ll be looking for me.’
‘I know.’
‘Take it off.’
He obeys.
‘Drive.’
He turns the key and the engine complains into life. They set off slow through the old town, content to be still, for a while. She rests her face on the glass, appreciative of the smooth cold against her skin.
‘We can never win,’ she says, the words barely audible.
‘But we will never lose.’ His left hand reaches out to her right, clasps it tight. She doesn’t resist his touch, or respond to it. Marks of history etched into his ring finger. He wonders if she can feel them, mirror to her own.
‘I’ve got nothing to prove anymore,’ she says.

Lauren Foster is a writer and musician based in Charnwood, and a recent graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester.

She was ushered by her uncle into the only room that was close to the front door of her grandparents’ spacious but very old house. He mumbled something in utter disapproval at her newly shaven head, which looked as a scraped potato in her grandmother’s pot. Clare felt utterly embarrassed though she had done nothing wrong. She thought that she must have looked too ugly to be isolated in her uncle’s private room. She stared at the open window behind which many butterflies roamed. She examined every inch of the wall, stared at nothing then inspected the pictures of a single man’s world, and although she could not then spell the dignified word, its letters loomed large on the ceiling and walls:

F grew gigantic and looked like a lamp-stand with no gold.

O was a circle that had no exit or door.

R restlessly roamed tripping on obstacles on the floor.

L heavily lagged looking lame and forlorn.

N knelt to pray for hair to quickly grow.

F,O,R,L,O and N must have come into the room the moment her uncle turned the knob. Time grew wingless and seconds and minutes crept on the floor. It was a tradition with some parents to have the heads of children shaven to strengthen their hair-roots, but she who recommended the hair chopping did not supply Clare with a cap or hood with which to hide her furless globe. Why was she not at home? Was a shaven head a stigma in any household?

Clare waited for her grandmother who with a hug would calm the heaving and scattered limbs of forlorn. She would ease Clare’s bewilderment and shame with a single kiss on her forehead, fastening a bouquet of violets to the sleek hair, behind the very tiny ear, regaling her nostrils with the soap-scented hand as she, with a snow-white towel dipped in lukewarm water, blotted every mark on an easily blemished slate, a child’s face.

Dr. Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of
Strathclyde. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Peeking Cat
Poetry, The Curlew, Plum Tree Tavern, The Ink Pantry, A New Ulster,
Down in the Dirt, the Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Mad Swirl, Leaves
of Ink, the Avalon Literary Review, The Opiate, Miller’s Pond Poetry
Magazine, WestWard Quarterly, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Grey Sparrow
Journal, The Blotter, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Crossways, The
Moon Magazine, the Mojave River Review, Dodging the Rain, River Poets
Journal, and Coldnoon.

The regular tap of my stick pauses as I lean over the stone wall and contemplate the swirling dark below. As my breathing steadies, I fumble in my coat pocket and locate the engraved hip flask, one of the few things I treasure in this world. A generous gulp sends the honey liquid coursing down my throat. By God, that’s the ticket on a night like this. I’m screwing the cap back on when a movement catches my eye. Someone is climbing onto the wall near the middle of the bridge, holding onto a stanchion, head bowed to the blackness below.

I limp towards them, calling out, making myself known. It’s a woman. She warns me to stop when I’m a few feet away from her. She’s not dressed for the weather.

I tell her my name. She doesn’t want to talk but I talk anyway, gentle, soothing, like she’s one of the kids with a fever, all those years ago. She wants me to leave her to it.

I ask her why? What can be so bad? Her body folds in on itself, her grip loosening on the stanchion. I’m nearer, asking her to hold on, asking her to come down. I’ll listen.

She shakes her head but then she speaks. Her child died. Cancer. She can’t go on without her. Her husband is broken, their family shattered.

Her pain is visible, radiating into the darkness and much as I want to take it from her, I know I couldn’t stand it. I’m nearer now, close enough to wrap my shovel of a hand around her slender one. I remind her that if she goes through with this, she’ll pass the same pain to her parents, already mourning the loss of their grandchild.

She frowns, then crumbles to a sitting position, her sobs covering the noise of the wind and fast-flowing river. She’s shaking uncontrollably as I help her off the wall, wrap my coat around her and give her a nip from the flask. She splutters, then has some more.

We talk quietly and finally she lets me call her brother. He arrives in tears and takes her in his arms. I decline their offer of a lift but take her hand through the passenger window before they leave. She thanks me. He can’t thank me enough.

The car disappears back towards town. I’m shivering from the cold or shock; I don’t know which. The rain comes, thick drops, right on the edge of sleet. I limp back to the point she was going to jump from and regard the inky depths she sought deliverance through.

At home, my wife drifts in a morphine fuelled sleep. She’s not long for this world and I don’t want to be in any world where she isn’t. My suicide note sits, neatly folded, on the kitchen side next to the kettle. Veronica will find it when she arrives in the morning. She’s a good girl. Comes to look after her mum two days a week to give me a break. If I go through with this, she’ll have to mourn me, then mourn her mother. Am I that really that cruel?

I take out the hip flask, drain it and watch the river flow.

Karen Rust is currently studying an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester. Check out her blog, Blooming Late.