Pantry Prose: Tulip Mania by Susan Dean

The year 1636 saw the Netherlands in the grip of an enormous and unlikely demand for all things tulip bulbs! So great was the demand, that people were making fortunes on the stock market; the rarest of bulbs could fetch as much as the cost of a house, each. Every day the stock market was bursting at the seams with brokers and buyers all shouting, pushing and shoving in the fight for tulip bulbs. A number of people believed they would make their fortunes overnight. Hubert van Meissen was one of them. Now middle aged, he had been born an opportunist and was convinced that tulips would be his future, the gateway to the aristocratic lifestyle he had always dreamed of living.

Indeed he had already purchased a large, airy, spacious house in one of Amsterdam’s most exclusive areas; now to complete his show of new found status in the world, he needed a wife. It was after another hectic morning in the stock exchange and while in a coffee house with some of his friends that he noticed an attractive and very young woman preparing to leave the coffee house with two older women, her chaperones. Before leaving the coffee house himself, Hubert made enquiries regarding the young woman, and the proprietor informed Hubert the young woman’s name was Anna-Marie Helzing, a frequent visitor to the coffee house. Van Meissen decided he would like to meet this Anna-Marie Helzing and planned to frequent the coffee house more often and find a way to contrive an introduction.

About a week later Hubert van Meissen’s luck was in while walking down the strasse heading for the stock exchange, when he spotted Anna-Marie Helzing and her chaperones entering the coffee house. He hesitated for a moment then made for the coffee house. A little brass bell above the entrance tinkled as van Meissen opened the door and stepped inside. Then, seating himself at a small circular table covered in a bright red, chequered cloth close to the three women, he ordered coffee.

For some time Hubert sat sipping his coffee and eavesdropping on the conversation of the three women until it became obvious that they were preparing to leave. Then, he suddenly moved his chair backwards as if to stand up and bumped into the back of one of the elderly ladies. As Hubert had planned, her coffee cup from which she was about to drink the final drop tipped forward and spilled down the bodice of her gown.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ gasped the surprised elderly woman as a small brown stain began to spread over her bodice. Pretending concern, Hubert began apologising profusely and quickly produced a handkerchief for the lady to dap at the stain with.

Hubert began introducing himself and offered to purchase cakes for the ladies by way of an apology for his clumsy, foolish behaviour.

‘Cakes,’ replied the second older woman. ‘I’m afraid, Meneer van Meissen, that is out of the question, although kind of you to offer, but we are about to leave as miin man has business associates arriving for luncheon and we are expected to attend.’

‘But I insist,’ pressed Hubert. ‘We are yet to be properly acquainted and I will also pay for a cab for you ladies. Now, how does that sound?’

‘Oh, very well. I suppose one little cake won’t hurt,’ replied the woman who now introduced herself as the young woman’s Moeder and her dochter as Anna-Marie. The second older woman was the young woman’s Tante. Hubert pulled up a chair and sat down. Indicating for a waiter, he ordered cakes and soon found he had the two older women eating out of the palm of his hand, particularly when he emphasised his wealth and status in the community. The dochter, Anna-Marie, seemed a little less interested at this stage.

The result of this meeting was a number of accidental brief encounters, and before long Hubert had asked permission of Anna-Marie’s parents if he may ask her to go walking through the parks and along the canals with him, which were soon added to by way of dining out, theatre and concert evenings.

By the time Anna-Marie’s birthday came around, Hubert had discussed marriage with her parents, who had agreed with enthusiasm as van Meissen was clearly wealthy and had a more than suitable home for a bride. So Anna-Marie was not only delighted with the gift of a puppy, but acted surprised as young ladies were expected to at the marriage proposal and engagement ring purchased at great expense from Amsterdam’s diamond quarter.

Arrangements were hastily made and the couple were married within the month, with Anna-Marie moving into the beautiful spacious house with a servant to do the cooking and chores. On arrival Hubert surprised her with a gift of a beautiful green and blue parrot in a cage, which had been suspended from the ceiling in the hall of the great house.

Shortly after Hubert and Anna-Marie had settled down to married life, Hubert invited a friend to dinner who was familiar with the thriving art community in Amsterdam to discuss with the couple Hubert’s wedding gift to Anna-Marie. She was to have her portrait painted, and the three of them sat round the table discussing this intention while waiting for the artist to arrive.

Anna-Marie was the first to notice a tall young man approaching the house, and shortly afterwards a knock was heard.

‘Ah, that will be Matteo,’ laughed Hubert’s jovial friend as the servant opened the door. The moment their eyes met, Matteo and Anna-Marie were attracted and could barely keep their eyes off each other throughout the discussion to arrange for Anna-Marie’s portrait to be painted, and a considerable sum was agreed. Almost simultaneously as the young couple met for the first time, the parrot flew from his cage, which had been carelessly left open, and disappeared through an open window. Matteo, who couldn’t wait to be alone with Anna-Marie and get to know her better, wanted to begin immediately and suggested the following morning; Hubert having noticed nothing agreed.

At ten am the following morning, Matteo arrived with his artistic accoutrements in a cart and was shown to an upstairs room that had been prepared for use as a studio and he began setting out his materials. First the easel, then one or two canvases were propped against one wall and a table beside the easel was spread with paints and brushes. Then he set about a nervous wait for his subject to arrive.

Twenty minutes later two pairs of footsteps were heard on the stairs, and both Hubert and Anna-Marie entered the room. Matteo’s eyes lit up at the sight of Anna-Marie, as did her eyes at the sight of him. The sight of the lovely Anna-Marie this morning, a little more scantily clad than the previous day, excited him, and as he indicated for her to sit down on a chaise longue, then picking up charcoal and paper, he asked her to lower her pink silk dressing gown to reveal her slender long neck and sculpted shoulders. He felt the merest trickle of perspiration slide down his torso. Feverishly he began to sketch, trying hard not to spend too much time gazing at the way her neat, small, pert breast swelled slightly while resting on the weight of her arm, as the silk dressing gown slipped a little lower causing her white cotton chemise to fall from her shoulder.

Just as Anna-Marie raised her dark smouldering eyes towards Matteo, her lips parting slightly, Hubert gave a short cough and dropped his watch back into his pocket, which brought the couple back into reality with a sudden start.

‘I think that will be enough for today. We have a ball to attend this evening and I do not want my wife to tire herself. Anna-Marie, get dressed, please. I want you to rest now so you will enjoy the evening more.’

‘Perhaps, Meneer van Messien, you would care to inspect the sketches before I transfer them to a canvas?’ gushed Matteo.

‘Very well,’ replied Hubert. ‘You go ahead, my dear. I’ll ask the servant to bring lunch to your room and to you here,’ instructed Hubert turning to Matteo.

‘As you wish, miin man,’ replied Anna Marie, pulling both her chemise and dressing gown up around her shoulders as she moved towards the door and left the room.

‘These are very good drawings,’ murmured Hubert thoughtfully. ‘Yes, begin work. My wife will sit for you again tomorrow.’ And with that van Meissen left the young artist to his work.

A short time later van Messien was heard leaving the house. Moments later a note slid under the studio door. Matteo left his work, picked up the note and read:

come down to the lower floor

my boudoir is the third door on the left.


Without a moment’s hesitation, Matteo left the studio and descended the stairs only to be met by the servant on her way up with his lunch.

‘Oh, Meneer Matteo, I was just bringing you your lunch. Don’t you want it?’ questioned the surprised servant.

‘Yes, of course,’ replied Matteo, ‘but I need some air first so I thought a short walk. Please leave the meal in the studio for me.’

‘Certainly,’ replied the servant who continued on her way upstairs.

Careful not to attract attention Matteo knocked softly on Anna-Marie’s door.

‘Come in,’ a soft female voice bid.

Matteo opened the door and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and locking it. Anna-Marie was stood beside the dressing table still wearing what she had worn for the sketches.

‘Matteo,’ she gasped and a moment later they were in each other’s arms, each searching for each other’s mouths, kissing passionately, exploring each other with their tongues. Matteo’s hands moved towards Anna-Marie’s waist and untied her dressing gown, which slid down to the floor; then, with arms raised, her chemise came off revealing her naked body. Matteo began caressing her small perfect breasts while Anna-Marie tore at Matteo’s shirt, which he quickly pulled off. Turning Anna-Marie around, he lifted her onto the bed and, still kissing and caressing her body, teased her legs gently apart and slid his hand between them. Anna-Marie gasped and tore at the lacing on Matteo’s pants, aware of the stiffness beneath the fabric. At last her hand caressed his cock and she guided him inside her. Their skin glistened with sweat as they moved together in perfect synchronisation, both enfolded in ecstasy. Peaking at the same time, they then lay breathlessly entwined and fell into a deep slumber.

It was late afternoon when they both woke. For a few moments they lay still, listening to the patter of rain drops on the window pane. Then a clock chimed five pm from somewhere in the house.

Anna-Marie gave a start. ‘We must part, my love, for now. Miin man will be home soon and I must be ready for the evening.’ With a lingering kiss, Matteo reluctantly left.

Regular love-making afternoons began to take place, meaning the portrait did not come along as quickly as expected, and the servant began to grow suspicious, then so did van Messins. With Matteo making feeble excuses, such as the paint being a problem, it was taking longer than expected to mix it to the right colour and consistency he would often claim, but van Messiens kept life normal.

Then, as the weeks passed, the air grew cooler as the seasons began to change, leaves changed from green to brown and began falling from the trees. Then came the day van Messeins returned home to find the servant standing waiting in the hall for his return.

‘She’s packed her things and left with that artist this morning,’ the servant sniffed. Van Messiens just shrugged, poured a glass of wine and waited for supper. This would be the start of his downfall, although he did not yet realise it.

The following February 1637 just one year after van Messiens dream appeared to have become a reality, the mania for tulip bulbs came to a dramatic end. Overnight the stock market crashed, leaving a number of newly wealthy people destitute. Shattered and numb with shock, van Messiens returned to his beautiful house, which would soon be lost to him in a daze.

As when his wife left, the servant was standing in the hall waiting for his return. When he walked in, he looked straight at her and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know the whole of Amsterdam knows,’ the servant replied solemnly. ‘It was the least I could do to wait for your return.’

With tears in his eyes van Messiens gazed about him at the large spacious rooms and antiques, then he looked at the servant. ‘I’m sorry I can’t pay you, I’ve nothing left to give.’

‘I know, Master. It will be fine,’ she gently answered.

‘Before you go, you know the silver chocolate pot?’

‘Of course,’ replied the servant.

‘Then find something to wrap it in. Don’t let anyone see you with it. Take it. You should get something for it to feed your family,’ instructed van Meissens. ‘Then go before the bailiff’s arrive.’

Alone now, van Meissens took a bottle of wine from a cupboard. He sat at the table and drank until the bottle was empty. He then left the house, leaving the door open for the bailiffs, and walked dazedly down first one strasse then another, gradually filling his pockets with stones. When he reached the canal he stood for a few moments looking at the gently rippling water reflecting the blackness of the night sky; then, sitting on the canal wall, his feet dangling in the water, he gradually eased himself down further and further into the dark water, feeling the weight of the stones pulling him beneath the water’s surface, until only one or two air bubbles could be seen. Then nothing but calmness.

Two days later a farm labourer walking along the canal noticed a body floating face down in the water and raised the alarm. Several people came hurrying to the scene and with some effort pulled the bloated body of van Meissens free of his watery demise.

Pantry Prose: King Melvin and the Green Castle by Andrew Williams

It’s hard work being a king. At least, that’s what kings would have you believe. All those heavy crowns and the repetitive strain injury from all that royal waving. I imagine at least one king must have met his end after toppling from a balcony, too (though it’s quite plausible that some assassin gave him a push).

Yet, somehow, I think kings have it easier than they make out.

Kings are lazy. That’s all there is to it.

Even on the chess board, the king is the laziest of the bunch. Those bishops and rooks are zipping all over the board. The knights are the champions of jumping. The queen – well, she’s the busiest of them all. Even those slow moving pawns can be forgiven, as they march slowly into the jaws of certain death. But the king? Not him. He’s skulking at the back, hiding behind his army, never moving more than one square at a time except for darting into the shelter of his castle.

No. The average king is only interested in doing the least he can get away with. Work? That’s for the peasants. The occasional gala event, perhaps opening the odd library or hospital, and spend the rest of the time on hunts and at balls and feasts. No sense doing anything that might upset the people.

Once in a while, however, a king breaks the mould. A king takes power with energy and enthusiasm and some downright bizarre hobbies. They inspire their subjects, terrify their enemies and put all the other kings to shame. They don’t tend to last long. Regal duties soon crush their outgoing spirits and leave them as bitter, twisted old men, if they don’t get assassinated in the meantime. That balcony is looking particularly tempting tonight, your majesty…

And sometimes, cruel irony alone is enough to bring them down.

One such go-getting, unusual king went by the name of Melvin. I know, I know. You can’t believe there could ever be a King Melvin. The history books do tend to overlook him, it’s true. They tend to skip over the gap between Henry XVIII and his uncle’s wife’s grandson, Henry XVII (what can I say? I think the scribes lost count – it was a confusing century) and declare that either one Henry ruled longer or the other started earlier, or even that the kingdom spent three years in anarchy. Perhaps historians prefer it that way. Trying to explain King Melvin is… difficult.

For one thing, Melvin refused to wear a crown. He had the most magnificent hair, which he kept on a stand by his bed at night so he wouldn’t crush it in his sleep, or vice versa; a bouffant wig some six feet high and home to three birds, a family of dormice and a small butler that could attend to his every whim should the regular butler be off on holiday. A crown, he said, would be taking things too far. On royal occasions when a crown was demanded, the royal potato wore the crown instead. (Sorry to disappoint you, but the potato was a Maris Piper, and not the King Edward you might expect. That would just be silly.)

King Melvin was a kind and friendly king, often throwing gold from his castle windows to the starving peasants below. This went a lot better after the first attempt, when he started first taking the coins out of the sacks that held them in his vault. Three peasants were crushed in that first deadly display of generosity.

He also had a fondness for nature. At the start of his reign, it was not uncommon for King Melvin to be seen going for a gentle jog in the forests around the castle. This was brought to an equally gentle end after three bears, two wolves and a confused badger had to be executed for threatening the life of the king. Melvin was sad about all of these, especially the badger, and he proposed an alternative – he would live in a brand new castle, made entirely from nature, and he could smell the fresh grass and the woodland flowers without ever leaving his home.

It took two years, but the finest architects, weavers, forestry experts and farmers found a way. The new castle was not so much built as grown. The walls were a light frame of saplings strung with ivy, the carpets were the freshest of spongy forest moss and the walls were clad with tall reeds and grasses from the river banks. The entire castle was a living sculpture, every blade and petal still living and growing. Birds nested in the parapets and insects buzzed happily over the canopy of leaves that formed the roof. The people were immensely proud of the Green Castle. Even Versailles could not compare to the grandeur of this bold undertaking.

And perhaps all would have been well, if it were not for King Melvin’s unfortunate hobby.

I said before that these more… active rulers pursued pastimes that were a little strange. King Terence III held yodelling contests during his reign. Queen Alfreda was so fond of cake that she ate six cakes for breakfast every day. When she finally died of her outrageous obesity, collapsing with simultaneous liver failure and heart failure just as she was walking down the aisle to marry the Duke of Pembrokeshire, even the wedding cake was in tiers. Compared to the knife juggling King Michael IV or the Elvis memorabilia so loved by King Phillip IX (not the singer Elvis – this was long before his time – but Elvis Cooper, the bawdy jester), King Melvin’s obsession was positively tame.

King Melvin loved to collect thrones.

Small thrones, large thrones, gold thrones, silver thrones, bone thrones, lone thrones, twin thrones, trombone thrones, moaning thrones, groaning thrones, home thrones, work thrones, thrown thrones, lost thrones, found thrones, thrones of swords, thrones of skulls, thrones of games… he didn’t care. Whenever he found a new throne, he had to have it.

Soon every visiting dignitary or merchant looking for a favour knew what to do. Buy the king a new throne, and he’d shower you with gold, and he’d even take it out of the sack first. The floor of Green Castle was packed full of royal seating. The annual festival’s game of musical chairs could last for days as there were far more chairs to take than people to sit in them.

As the throne count went up, Green Castle grew ever more cramped. Finally, something had to be done. The king summoned the architects, the forestry experts, the farmers, the weavers, the thatchers and told them that the castle needed expanding. They needed more throne room.

A quick survey of the surrounding area ruled out the land to the north (too rough, too rocky) and the south (arable farmland, vital to the kingdom). The western expanse was no use – that’s where the old castle still stood, and several armies over the last three centuries had failed to take it down, so demolition seemed unlikely. To the east, the old forest still called Melvin for a last jog. He didn’t have the heart to cut it down.

There was only one direction left to build, and that was straight up.

Construction work began that very day. An old weeping willow, spiralling up from the floor, served as a staircase to the upper level, where two lines of young oak trees provided a second floor via a network of branches. A carpet of foliage covered these branches. With space to move at last, King Melvin ordered his collection of thrones moved to the upper level. Downstairs, the business of ruling the kingdom could finally proceed – and the next game of musical chairs would be over in less than four hours.

Perhaps, in hindsight, they should have known. The King of Monaco, on a flying visit from his homeland, was so impressed by Green Castle that he gifted King Melvin with the largest, most extravagant throne that had ever been built. Mahogany framed, lined with gold and jewels, cushioned with the finest down from the fluffiest of pipistrelle bats, it was a dazzling and irresistible gift. Twelve footmen were needed to drag it up the curving willow to the upper level, where it was given pride of place in the very centre of the upper floor.

There was a lot of ominous creaking, and then came a mighty crash. The new throne had proved too much for the delicate natural timbers of the castle. As it came crashing down, so too did dozens more thrones of all kinds. The castle groaned and shivered, and then the sapling walls and the grass cladding folded in on itself. To the horror of all who watched, Green Castle collapsed inwards. King Melvin, along with his retinue, was crushed to death beneath his own throne collection.

King Henry XVII took over the kingdom, moving back into the main castle. He didn’t collect thrones, or indeed collect anything – aside from dust, and taxes. He lived another fifty years before falling off his balcony, but he was one of those boring kings that never did anything special beyond that. He’d learned a valuable lesson from his predecessor.

People living in grass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.

Pantry Prose: Cherry Scones by Sally Shaw

Once there was a slip of paper, folded into four. It sat in the pocket of a heavy green overcoat.

Dorothy hurriedly fastens the large buttons on her heavy green overcoat. The click of the lock signals a release. She slams the front door of the detached house.


Dorothy flinches as she eases the white turtle neck jumper over her head, and down the contours of her shoulders and back. She picks up the black stirrup pants from the bedroom floor and sits back onto the bed. He turns towards her; opens his eyes before drifting back to sleep.


The kitchen welcomes him with the smell of freshly cooked: eggs, bacon, baked beans, and fried bread. One place set; one napkin, Daily Mirror, one cup and saucer.


Dorothy is on her knees scrapping a mixture of smashed plate, eggs, bacon, baked beans, fried bread and blood into a dustpan.

She holds her breath as he dips the fried bread into the yolk of the egg, he pauses: “Perfect, now why couldn’t you do that the first time?”

She pours the tea as he swallows his last mouthful of breakfast; removes the plate and places the cup and saucer before him. Her grip intense on the plate – as he slurps the tea she closes her eyes – waiting “Spot on.”

A silent sigh as the plate sinks beneath the Fairy bubbles. She watches as the grease floats to the top. If allowed to smile, she would at this image, as it impersonates her underlying feelings.

The chink of his china cup alerts her to be swift. A neatly wrapped package swops places with the china cup and saucer. He picks up the greaseproof paper package, held together with string and smells it: “Salmon?”

Dorothy nods. She hands him his flask of tea. He places the flask on the table; unwraps the neat package to reveal two perfect white triangles. In silence he selects one triangle; peels the bread apart, exposing the pink flesh. He rises to his feet; takes four deliberate steps towards Dorothy. He throws the triangles at the toes of her suede boots and places the heel of his black Oxford shoe onto the pink flesh and twists: hissing through clenched teeth; “It’s Monday.” A fine shower of spittle shocks her eyes. He turns around hesitates glances at the clock, puts on his collar and leaves.


“Ladies it gives me great pleasure to introduce you to Mrs Darby our speaker this evening and judge for the best scones competition.” Dorothy stands up. “Thank you, madam chair…my talk this evening; ‘Life as a vicar’s wife.’


“In third place Mrs Blackburn, in second place Mrs Smith’s cherry scones and in first place Mrs Green.”

“Thank you, Mrs Darby, a delightful talk and I hope you will join us for tea and scones.”


She closes the front door and leans against it. A shard of light glows under the parlour door, her body is frozen with dread, a moment to realise. She hangs her green coat next to the black overcoat with the velvet collar and goes to make a pot of tea.

He grabs her wrist as she sets the tray down, his eyes seeking what is not there. Once released she sits down and drinks her tea. The mantle clock chimes ten, Dorothy clears away the cups and goes to bed to wait.


Dorothy waits in the Little Blue Café on the high street staring out of the window, she thinks to herself, what secrets are the people that pass by hiding. Gentlemen hurrying along in their over coats and trilbies; are they kind to their girlfriends or wives? Young ladies laughing and chatting rushing to work; are they truly happy?

The waitress brings, her toasted teacake and milky coffee. “I thought it was you, it is isn’t it…Mrs Darby?…you probably don’t remember me, I bet you meet loads of real ladies being married to a vicar and all…”

Dorothy recalls that evening of course she remembers her, it’s the cherry scone lady; Mrs Smith who should have won first prize if she wasn’t the vicar’s wife and it wasn’t the WI.

She remembers, she remembers him coming up the stairs, his dark shadow over her and then she felt the heaviness of his darkness.

Mrs Smith orders herself tea and toast and tells Dorothy about little Billy and his verrucas and Nellie and her nits. Then she stops and asks: “So, how are you?” No one has asked Dorothy this for so long it takes her breath away. She finishes her coffee and starts to talk.

Mrs Smith listens, she does not try to make Dorothy feel better, she is not shocked. Dorothy knows she is not alone. Mrs Smith has lived the same life. She understands the fear that stops her fighting back, keeps her in check. Mrs Smith does not question; she writes her name and address on a slip of paper and carefully folds it into four. She takes hold of Dorothy’s hand; pressing the paper into her palm. Mrs Smith pays her bill and leaves.


Dorothy hurriedly fastens the large buttons on her heavy green overcoat. The click of the lock signals a release. She slams the front door of the detached house; hesitates, then runs towards the Underground Station. She takes the Northern Line not knowing where she is going.

She slides her hand into her coat pocket; pulls out the slip of paper – unfolds it and reads the address. Dorothy steps from the train at Warren Street.

Sally Shaw is a full-time MA Creative Writing student at the University of Leicester. She writes short stories and poetry, gains inspiration from old photographs, history, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros and Liz Berry. Her short prose, A School Photograph, has been published online by NEWMAG. She worked as a nurse for 33 years and lives in North Warwickshire with her partner, three Pekin Bantams and Bob the dog.

Pantry Prose: Happily Ever by Marty Carlock

Bad enough that he left me for another man, but I’m told the blighter is still gorgeous. Slim, dark-haired (no doubt with a touch of grey at the temples), with that winning smile, almost bashful, but certain of himself.

And I am not. Gorgeous. I look a good deal like my mother, who in her day looked like the dowager queen. Queen Mary. They had a lot in common. They liked their little tot of gin at the end of the day. They liked dogs. They wore rather outrageous hats. My mother didn’t ride, though I’m not sure the old queen did either. The queen herself, today’s queen, did, as a girl. No longer. I never rode.

So I’m obliged to see him for the first time in twenty-two years. Melinda was two when he left, Priscilla four. Left me high and dry with a pair of pre-school children. Didn’t care.

I just realized, he said. When I met Henry. I was sandbagged. Instantly. Something that has never happened to me before.

Not with me, you’re saying.

He had the grace to colour a little. I fear not, he said. Out you go, I said.

We were schooled to pull up our socks and do whatever we had to do. Duty. Whatever was expected. That was what made it hard to deal with. He was refusing to do what was expected. There he was, a golden boy at Chase, and he threw it all over to go follow his dick.

Sorry. I try not to use improper language. But I also try to speak honestly.

Oh, it’s a good deal easier now than it was then. We were the talk of the club, I’m sure. I made sure I got the club membership, along with everything else I could. I never rode, but I had tennis lessons early and often. I’m moderately good. I’m always in the running for the club singles championship. I have won sometimes. Even though I don’t cover the court as easily as I once did, my game enables me to play on a high level.

In all respects I’m a competent woman. Except in retaining a man, and I don’t consider that my fault. I’ve had a spectacular success in selling real estate. Something about the English accent dazzles Yanks. My clients trust me, and the sellers are inclined to cave in to whatever terms I propose.

I’ve made sure word gets back to him. As I said, I haven’t seen him since that last court date. But the girls have. He hasn’t been too insistent. Clearly his love life is far more important than his progeny. But I have insisted. You need to know him, even though he has done this to us. He’s your father. You need to know who your father is. And what, I suppose. Although it was some years before they realized what.

But now I have to see him. I asked Priscilla, Is your father coming? She looked down before she answered, Yes. No need to be dodgy about it, I said. I’ve always said he’s your father. It’s right that you invited him. She looked up, relieved. Have you asked him to give you away? She glared rather angrily at me, shook her head. Give me away? What right has he to give me away? I’m not a possession of his. I’m scarcely a daughter of his, for god’s sake.

Well. And is his friend coming?

Husband, she said. He and Henry got married when it got to be legal in Massachusetts.

I exhaled at length. You should have told me.

I didn’t know until now. When I invited him. He asked whether his husband was invited. I said of course. I said, any invitation always includes one’s spouse.

Good, I said. Thank god he didn’t invite me to that wedding. Did he invite you and Melinda?

Not me, of course. Or I would have known about it. I don’t know about Melinda. I don’t think so.

And do you want anybody to give you away? Or is that concept so passé?

I’ve thought about it. If anybody did, it should be you. But I don’t know.

If I have a choice, I think I’d rather not waddle down the aisle.

Mu-ther. You do not waddle. Your posture is absolutely perfect. Enviable. She paused. But you might think about trying a different hair style. Something a bit more contemporary.

Yes and lose forty pounds, shall I?

She blushed a bit again. The hair style is doable, you know.

Damned if I’m going to be one of those women who goes on a killing diet for a month just to fit into some fashionable sort of garb for a wedding. Or gussies herself up in some unsuitable way. Nobody looks at the mother-in-law anyway.

Except you know he will. Just to ask himself what he’s missed.

And be damned glad. You know, darling, you’re too smart for your own good.

Tears started. Oh mum. I hope the same thing doesn’t happen to me!

I was startled. You don’t think…? I took a big breath. But Brian is such a hunk. Macho.

Yes, but who would have thought Daddy…? Now her face crumpled and the tears fell in plenty.

We do not give in to emotion, ordinarily, so for a moment I hesitated. Then I pulled her to me, awkwardly, I suppose, and let her cry. I didn’t know what to say to her. At length I murmured a litany, repeating, It’s all right, darling, really.

Twenty years dead, whatever existed between him and me. And this was the first time anyone has mourned it.

Marty’s fiction has been published, or is forthcoming, in the American Literary Review, Carbon Culture Review, Crack the Spine, Edison Literary Review, Evening Street Review, Fiction Fix, Glint Literary Journal, The Griffin, Halfway Down the Stairs, Hawaii Pacific Review, Inscape, The MacGuffin, The Madison Review, MARY: A Journal Of New Writing, Menda City Press, Minetta Review, Moon City Review, Old Red Kimono, Pennsylvania English, riverSedge, Phantasmagoria, Sanskrit, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and The Storyteller.

For almost 20 years Marty was a regular contributor to The Boston Globe, over 30 newspapers, magazines, some 1,600 articles, is author of two editions of A Guide to Public Art in Greater Boston, writes for Sculpture and Landscape Architecture magazines, and reviews fiction and nonfiction for the Internet Review of Books.

Pantry Prose: Trash Day by Orit Yeret


(Image by Orit Yeret, taken in NYC)

Orit Yeret has a Master’s degree in Comparative Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Haifa in Israel. She is a lecturer in Modern Hebrew and is currently employed at Yale University. In her spare time she enjoys photography, painting, and writing short prose and poetry in both English and Hebrew. Her work is forthcoming in Borfski Press and Drunk Monkeys.

Trash Day

Monday morning, 6:00 a.m.

The sound of a garbage truck backing up in the alley underneath Prince’s window.

Prince jumps out of bed in a panic. Without putting on shoes or pants, he storms out of his fourth-floor apartment window and climbs down the fire escape. As he makes his way down, he catches a glimpse of his own reflection—his hair is messy, his face unshaven, and there’s a fresh cut above his right eye that, for the moment, has stopped bleeding.

The city that never sleeps seems to be under some kind of spell—half-dazed, half-awake—much like Prince’s current situation, only he is on the move. Skipping the stairs, two at a time, he waves at the sanitation workers who have already started loading up the truck.

Wait! Wait!” he shouts, begging, as he makes his way down.

Please!” His pleas become louder as he approaches them.

The two workers stare at him, puzzled. They are wearing long, dark-green overalls with reflective lights. Prince is wearing a white T-shirt and pinstripe boxers. He is now in front of them, trying to catch his breath, crunched down, resting his palms on his knees.

Whew!” he exclaims as he inhales heavily.

That was quite a run,” says one of the sanitation workers.

What happened? Lose something?” the second worker says and starts to laugh.

As a matter of fact…” Prince begins to talk, slowly. “Yes! Did you happen to see an old bedside table…red wood…sort of vintage-looking…only has one drawer…” Prince looks around.

Haven’t seen it,” one of them says. “Anything inside, Marco?” he calls out to the other worker, who goes to check the truck.

Nope!” Marco replies.

Sorry, man,” the worker says, and starts rolling the trash bin toward the truck.

Hey!” Prince stops him. “Wait a minute…” He notices the worker’s nametag. “Luke.” Luke and Prince now stand on opposite sides of the trash bin.

Yo! What’s the holdup?” Marco yells from the truck.

You have to help me out, man.” Prince holds his head with both hands. “I don’t know what to do!” He stares at Luke with a desperate look in his eyes.

What’s the problem here?” Marco steps out of the truck and approaches them. He examines Prince from top to bottom and then turns to Luke. “Junkie?” Luke throws his hands in the air.

Prince is now pacing back and forth, barefoot, in the dirty alley. Marco signals Prince to calm down. “We’re not looking for any trouble here; just let us do our job.”

You don’t understand!” Prince says. “It was in there… It was in there and now it’s gone!”

Luke and Marco exchange a confused glance.

Sorry, man.” Marco then says, “Whatever it was, there’s nothing we can do.”

Luke and Marco start rolling the trash bin toward the truck again.

Please!” Prince cries out. “You have to help me!” He falls on his knees.

Oh, shit…” Marco says. “What the fuck, man?” He turns to Luke. “Get the fuck up, man!” he says to Prince, but Prince doesn’t move and keeps saying, “Please.”

Marco backs up and changes places with Luke.

Calm down, man,” Luke says to Prince in a soothing voice. “Get up. Come on.”

Prince listens to Luke and stands up.

What’s so important about that table?” Luke asks, taking off his gloves.

My dad’s watch… It was in there…” Prince stifles his tears.

And?” Marco intervenes.

Prince stares at the two of them for a moment.

This is a waste of time,” Marco says to Luke, but Luke continues to look at Prince without moving.

And…” Prince finally says, “He died a year ago, and that’s all I have of him…that watch.”

Pshh,” Marco makes a noise and averts his gaze.

Sorry to hear that, man,” Luke replies sympathetically.

So why would you throw the table away?” Marco jumps in again.

I didn’t!” Prince replies angrily. “My…” he hesitates, “…boyfriend did.”

Okay.” Marco holds his hands up. “To each their own, that’s what I always say.”

So why would he…?” Marco starts again, but Luke signals him to be quiet.

We sort of got into a fight last night.” Prince paces in place and rubs his forehead. He accidently touches the cut above his eye and makes a face as he feels the burn.

And that’s his handiwork?” Luke points at the bruise on Prince’s face.

Not intentionally,” Prince explains. “He threw a book at me—my book, actually—and it hit my head… Anyway, it’s all my fault.”

Oh, good…more to the story.” Marco taps on his wristwatch to indicate to Luke they need to get moving. “We’re on a schedule, you know,” he says to Luke.

What happened?” Luke asks Prince, curious.

I…cheated on him…during my latest book tour.” Prince looks away, embarrassed to meet their eyes. “It’s not like I planned it… It happened. He found out and…as you can see, all hell broke loose.” Prince points at the trash bins, which Marco and Luke notice are filled with clothes, broken dishes, and a shattered mirror.

Marco fishes out the pieced mirror from the bin. “Seven years of bad luck,” he mumbles. Luke nudges his arm as a sign to keep silent.

Prince comes closer to the bins. “What a mess…” he sighs. “Truth is, I don’t care about all of this,” he points at the bins, “but the watch—it’s all I have…all I had. He knew I kept it there.” He begins talking to himself angrily. “He knew it, and that’s why he did it…to hurt me.”

Like you hurt him,” Luke says all of a sudden. Surprised the words came out of his mouth, Marco and Prince stare at him.


Luke mumbles, “I can deduce things too.”

Hey, buddy.” Marco turns to Luke with a smile. “No one said you can’t.” Marco tosses the broken pieces into the bin and comes closer to Prince.

Like I said,” Marco puts his right hand over his heart, “there’s nothing we can do… It’s Monday morning, after the weekend…” Marco wipes off his forehead. “There’s lots of trash, lots of trucks around town… Sometimes we do three, four rounds before noon.” Marco turns to look at Luke, who nods at him in approval.

But you have to,” Prince begs again and, in a desperate move, clutches Marco’s overalls. Marco removes his hand with a swift move.

Like I said, sir,” Marco continues, “there’s nothing we can do. Start loading up,” he says to Luke, turns his back to Prince, and walks away in the direction of the driver’s seat.

Please,” Prince tries to appeal to Luke, who is now wheeling the trash bin.

You shouldn’t have done that,” Luke says to Prince.

I know,” Prince scratches his head. “I didn’t mean to…” Prince points to Marco’s direction.

Not that,” Luke explains, “your boyfriend—you shouldn’t have hurt him like you did.”

Prince looks at him, shocked. “You’re right, I was an asshole. Shit, I am an asshole.” Prince paces back and forth, just now realizing his feet are cold and wet.

Luke stops wheeling the bin and lifts his head to locate Marco. “This watch,” he then turns to Prince, “why is it so important to you?”

I told you, it was my dad’s…” Prince explains.

And he passed away, yeah, yeah,” Luke intervenes, “but it’s not just that, is it?” Luke comes closer to Prince. “See, if it were just that, you wouldn’t be running down the street in your underwear at 6:00 a.m., probably suffering from a concussion, by the look of this bruise, digging your feet in yesterday’s trash, now, would you?”

Prince’s face tightens. “What on earth do you mean? It’s the memory, of course.”

Luke stares at him severely.

All right.” Prince finally breaks down. “You got me. It’s worth a lot of money, like a lot, a lot…the only good thing I got out of that man. You know he disowned me when I told him I wanted to be a writer? Yeah…and when I came out? He told me I was not his son anymore.” Prince pounds his chest.

That damn watch,” Prince continues, “worth a couple of grand…enough to get me by for a while…I need it!” Prince recites with fire in his eyes.

Now, now,” Luke steps away with a satisfied grin. He attaches the trash bin to the truck’s metal arms. There is a loud noise as the bin is mounted and the trash piles on the truck. There are sounds of glass and china being further reduced and crunched together into tiny pieces.

So, what do you say?” Prince shouts over the noise toward Luke. “Will you help me? I’ll split the profits with you, promise.”

Luke smiles at Prince as he lowers the empty trash bin.

You know, people look down on us…because of what we do…” Luke wheels the bin back to its location. “But what they don’t realize…is that we know all their secrets.”

Luke winks at Prince and walks over to the truck. He grabs hold of the metal arm and jumps up; he taps the back of the truck twice.

You have a good day now, sir.” Luke salutes Prince as the truck pulls away from the alley and into the city street.

More Than Words: Orit Yeret

Pantry Prose: The No-Show by Robert Steward

Lisbon, Portugal 2003

I examine my watch; it’s ten past eight in the evening. My student should’ve
been here by eight. Maybe he’s just late. I check my watch again just to make sure, and that familiar feeling takes hold: he’s not going to show up. I can’t be certain, but with every minute that passes, it becomes more and more apparent. That’s when I start praying – praying to the teaching gods – for a no-show.

My student’s Spanish, from Valencia. He has his own business here in Lisbon and works all the hours God sends. He’s pale, serious, with black Brylcreem hair, which matches the colour of his suit. He always looks tired and stressed and has a five o’clock shadow. Sometimes I wish he’d go home to his wife and relax instead of coming here.

It’s now twenty past eight.

Come on, please!’ I say under my breath.

I might get to watch the football after all.

I sit at my desk, hoping. My eyes wander round the classroom. Among the posters of smiling students is a microphone sticking out the wall.

I wonder if Berlitz ever use that,’ I ponder. ‘Maybe they check to see if you use the method.’

I close my coursebook, International Express, which I borrowed from another school, but then re-open it again not to tempt fate.

Oh no – footsteps!

I hold my breath. The footfalls come closer and closer, louder and louder, with purpose. I try to prepare myself for the worst: the false smile, the Hi!, the Sorry I’m late, the That’s okay, don’t worry, the –

Phew. It’s the cleaner!

Olá,’ I say with a pang of relief.

Olá.’ He smiles and walks past the door.

In our lessons we talk about business, usually with the radio on. I find the background music creates an ambiance. But sometimes I lose myself in the song. I try to be present and conscious while he talks about his work, shuddering efforts to repress a yawn. But my attention wanders to wherever the music takes me: a beach, a road trip, meandering through an old city. I find myself nodding occasionally and feigning an expression of interest.

Oh my gosh. It’s half past eight!

I go to the reception.

Laura looks busy behind her computer – probably surfing the Internet. Behind her, five clocks show the time in different parts of the world: New York, Rio, London, Moscow and Australia.

He’s a bit late today, isn’t he?’ I tell the receptionist. ‘Did he call or leave a message?’

Er, let me see.’ She bites her lip. ‘No, he didn’t.’

That’s unusual.’

Maybe he’s stuck in a meeting.’ She pulls back a curl of blonde hair behind her ear.

Yeah, maybe. Are there any other classes tonight?’ I scratch my head.

No, just your one.’

Right.’ My voice tails off, collecting my thoughts. ‘Could you call me when he comes? I’ll just be in the classroom with the television.’

You want to watch the football, eh?’ Laura smiles.

Yeah, it’s the UEFA Cup final tonight.’ I grin back.

Força Porto!’ she lightly punches the air.

I didn’t know you liked football.’

Everyone loves football in Portugal.’ She smiles and shows me her Porto Football Club coffee mug.

I hurry down the corridor into the other classroom. On the table are a Shrek DVD and a baseball cap, and in the wastepaper bin a McDonald’s Happy Meal carton – evidence that the manager and the head of studies were here earlier. I reach up to switch on the television. First, there’s a fuzzy, grainy image, then the football comes on. The volume is high.

Deco toma la bola de volea pero su tiro se va abierto,’ the commentator yells, as Deco volleys the ball wide of the Celtic goal.

I grab the remote control from the table and turn it down. Then, I take a chair, turn it round so it faces the television and sit down.

I can’t believe my luck. All I need now is a bifana steak sandwich and a bottle of Super Bock!

What’s the score?’ Laura pokes her head round the door.

It’s nil-nil.’

Sorry?’ she frowns.


Ah!’ she says, coming into the classroom. ‘Which team is Porto?’

I thought you said you supported them. Porto are wearing the blue-and-white striped shirts and Celtic are in green and white.’

Just then, Deco chips the ball to Alenichev, who volleys it from ten yards out; the goalkeeper parries the shot, but Derlei reacts quickest, slamming the ball into the net.

Derelei!’ the commentator yells. Goooool!’ he continues for about half a minute.

Goooool!’ Laura joins in with her arms in the air. Força Porto!’

She makes circular motions with her hands as if she were a Hawaiian dancer.

I don’t believe it!’ I say with my head in my hands. ‘Just before half-time as well.’

Derlei jumps over the Carlsberg advertising hoarding and runs behind the goal with his arms out-stretched, his face beaming. The Seville stadium becomes a sea of blue and white, bleached by the floodlights. The fans jump up and down and hug each other.

English teams are rubbish! English teams are rubbish!’ Laura sings like a child.

Celtic aren’t English, they’re Scottish.’

I didn’t know you were Scottish?’

I’m not, but –’

So why do you want Celtic to win?’

I don’t know,’ I say, scratching my head. ‘I just do. Anyway, I like their manager, Martin O’Neil. Is that the phone ringing by the way?’

Oh merda!’ Laura says, and runs out the room.

To be honest, I’m not sure who I want to win. I secretly like Porto – especially Deco, their creative midfielder. And I like their manager too – Mourinho. He’s so arrogant that he reminds me of Brian Clough, one of the best English football managers of his time. But, I still find myself supporting Celtic – maybe I do have Scottish blood.

In the second half, Celtic start brightly. Agathe crosses the ball into the penalty area from the right-hand side, and Larsson heads the ball, looping into the far corner of the goal.

Goooool!’ the commentator yells, a bit shorter this time.

Yes!’ I shout a little too loudly.

This time the stadium becomes a sea of green and white. There are scarves, flags – Scottish and Irish, big green hats.

What’s happened?’ Laura asks, running into the classroom.

Celtic have equalised! ‘It’s one-one!’

This is confirmed by the action replay: the ball slowly hitting the bottom of the post and going into the net.

Then five minutes later, Deco avoids a tackle, cleverly slips the ball to Alenichev, who beats the goalkeeper from close range.

Alenichev!’ the commentator yells. Goooool!’

Goooool!’ Laura mimics the commentator. This goes on for a full minute.

I don’t believe it. Every time you come into the room, Porto score.’

Laura laughs, but suddenly her face changes: ‘Was that the intercom?’

I didn’t hear anything.’

I’ll just check and see,’ she says, and leaves the room.

Celtic have a corner.

Thompson crosses the ball into the penalty area, and Larsson, unmarked, powerfully heads the ball into the net.

Larsson!’ yells the commentator. Goooool!’

The crowd erupts in the stadium.

Get in there!’ I shout, fist pumping the air.

I hear something above the din.

Robby! Robby!’

It must be Laura.

I crane my neck round the classroom door. Laura trots down the corridor, holding her beige cardigan together, her shoes making a light clapping sound on the vinyl tiles.

What’s wrong?’ I frown.

It’s your student,’ she says, slightly out of breath. ‘He’s just called on the intercom, and he’s coming up right now.’

What?’ I reply, incredulous. ‘But it’s quarter past nine! What am I supposed to do – teach him for fifteen minutes?’

She nods sympathetically, then pauses for a moment. ‘I know,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll tell him you’ve already gone.’

What? You can’t do that!’ I say in a low voice, a little tempted by the idea.

Yes, we can,’ she says. ‘You’re only supposed to wait half an hour for a student, and then you can go.’

Really?’ My voice rises up nearly into a falsetto. ‘But, he’s coming up now and he’ll see me.’

Go and hide in there.’ She persists, pointing to the classroom with the television.

Hide?’ I protest, knowing this will be a new low for me.

Come on, quickly,’ she says. ‘Then we can both go home early.’

I half-reluctantly go into the classroom and turn off the television.

I don’t believe it – hiding from a student, so I don’t have to teach them. What depths have I sunk to?

I try not to make a sound and find myself cowering behind the classroom door, my breathing shallow.

What if he finds out? I fret. It would be so embarrassing!

Boa tarde, Laura.’

It’s my student. Hearing his voice makes me feel even worse.

Boa tarde, senhor. Desculpe mas…

I can just about hear Laura apologising to my student, and I cringe with guilt. I bet he knows I’m here hiding from him. I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again!

I catch my reflection in the glass panel of the door; my teeth clenched together as
if I’d just dropped a precious vase on the floor.

The voices stop. But I daren’t move.

What’s going on?

I wait in silence; it’s almost deafening. My stomach is clenched, my mouth is dry; my heart beats so fast.

Boo!’ Laura pokes her head through the classroom door.

Oh!’ I jump. ‘You gave me a fright.’

Laura starts laughing.

Your face!’

Very funny.’ I frown. ‘So what did he say?’

Nothing much,’ she replies. ‘But, he did seem a little disappointed, though.’

Oh well,’ I say, feeling a pang of apprehension, but that soon goes as I turn the television back on to see if the match has gone into extra time.

Pantry Prose: Company D by Steve Carr

We stand at attention as the hot wind stirs up the dirt and blows it in our faces. Out of some vague notion of self-discipline, we will ourselves not to cough or sneeze as our mouth and noses are filled with grit. The sounds that enter our ears are muffled; the drill sergeant’s voice seems to come from a distance. In this heat sweat runs down our spines and from under our arms in rivulets. Our shirts are darkened with sweat and stick to our skin. Our helmets are weights that add to the tension in our necks caused by keeping our heads up, facing forward.

I stand behind Adams. He has a first name, but I never call him by that, and I don’t call him Private Adams. We’re all privates. He was an amateur boxer before he enlisted. He stands as if he’s about to pounce on someone, like a coil ready to spring. The skin on the back of his neck is sunburnt. Its pinkness stands out amidst the colours of drab olive green and mud brown that surround it, surround all of us. I always stand behind Adams when we’re in formation. I know the shape of his back and the shade of colour of his blond hair so well I see them in my dreams, as attributes of a human figure always seen from behind.

Through the haze of heat and dust, my eyes sting and water as I try to keep them open and facing front. “Eyes front,” the drill sergeant yells enough times to make me always wonder who among us dared to glance away, and how did the drill sergeant notice something so small as an eye movement?

Peripherally, I see Bodey at my left. He grew up on a farm and enlisted to make something of himself. Sweat is pouring down his rotund face. He sways back and forth very slightly as if being gently rocked by the wind. Among the stillness of the rest of us, his almost imperceptible movement is hard to miss. I imagine reaching out my left arm and placing my hand on his shoulder to steady him, but it’s only an imagining.

A sudden gust of wind, stronger than the other, sweeps across the field and blankets Company D in a new layer of dirt. We remain steadfast against this new assault except for someone in the front of the formation who breaks into a hacking cough.

The drill sergeant’s bellowing voice suddenly echoes through the swirling dust. “What’s wrong with you, Porter? There’s no coughing while you’re standing at attention. Drop and give me twenty.”

Porter is from Norfolk where he waited tables before enlisting. There’s a hairline purple scar across his right cheek. Not that he has to, but he mostly keeps it a secret that he’s gay.

There’s a reprieve from the blowing dirt but the late afternoon sun beats down on Company D.

“At ease,” the drill sergeant calls out.

Dirt falls from my shoulders as I relax them. My boots that had been so polished before the day began have lost their sheen. Everyone is looking around, at those standing around them, as if to make sure everyone has survived. We spit out the dirt, clear it from our ears and noses, and brush it from our faces and clothes.

In that moment I look around at the rocky hills that surround us. We’re in a geological bowl.

At times even our whispers are echoed.

“Get cleaned up before chow,” the drill sergeant yells. “Dismissed.”


The barracks is built of wood with practically no insulation, and the accumulated noise of the forty recruits inside is a cacophony of echoes. We’re called recruits unless the drill sergeants have more unsavory names for us. The two-tiered bunk beds are lined up along the walls. A broad aisle down the middle separates the two rows. The aisle is a busy highway of recruits going to and from the bathroom or shower at the end of the barracks. This is the second time in the day that showers have been taken and the barracks is scented with steam and soap. The boisterous voices of the recruits in the shower echoes out. Because of our close proximity more than anything else, Adams, Bodey, Porter and I became friends. Our bunks are next to each other. Bodey and Porter have the bottom bunks and Adams and I have the top ones. By the tenth week of boot camp, Adams especially has become like a brother to me. Sitting on the bottom bunks facing each other we shine our boots and polish our brass belt buckles.

“I thought I was going to throw up,” Bodey says about the day in the sun.

“I’m just glad we weren’t in full gear,” Porter says as he unconsciously runs his fingertips along his scar.

“Only two more days and we graduate,” I say.

The drill sergeant enters the barracks and stands at the head of the aisle with his feet planted on the bare wood floor as if staking that part of the floor as his. All of the recruits stand at attention, arms at their sides, chests out, chins up.

“Adams,” he yells.

“Yes, drill sergeant,” Adams says as he runs into the aisle.

“Move it, recruit. On the double,” the drill sergeant says as he turns and goes out the door, followed by Adams who runs barefoot down the length of the barracks, his feet slapping on the wood.

It’s the middle of the night when I hear Adams climb into his bunk.


“Ain’t no sense in going home,” Company D sings in cadence. The stomping of our boots on the path between the corrugated tin supply huts generates a resounding metallic echo.

The drill sergeant sings out melodically, “Jody’s got your girl and gone.”

“Jody’s got your girl and gone,” we repeat.

“Your left, your right, now pick up your step,” the drill sergeant sings.

At the open door of a hut, we stop and stand at attention as two corporals flip sheets of paper attached to clipboards. One by one the recruits hand their helmets, pistol belts and canteens to one of the corporals, who makes a check mark by the recruit’s name and then puts the items in the hut.

I lean forward and whisper to Adams. “What did the drill sergeant want last night?”

He turns his head slightly and whispers back. “Some money was stolen. They thought I did it.”

“You didn’t do it, did you?” I say.

“Of course not.”

“Shut it back there,” the drill sergeant yells. “You haven’t graduated yet.”


In green dress uniforms the men of Company D enter the barracks, no longer recruits following the graduation ceremony, but soldiers. After handshakes and back slaps, with their wallets stuffed with the last pay as a recruit, most pick up their duffel bags and depart the barracks to go home for a brief leave and then onto their assignments.

At my bunk with my duffel bag open, the last things yet to be packed into it lying on my bunk, Bodey and Porter are standing nearby. Adams is sitting on his bunk fiddling with his cell phone.

“Keep in touch,” Bodey says. “Maybe we can all get together at my folks’ farm sometime for leave.”

“Sure,” the rest of us say with the same earnestness we said to our high school classmates who we’ll most likely never see again.

He and Porter turn to go.

“Porter, will you finally tell us how you got that scar?” I say.

He smiles and says, “It was really no big secret. I fell on a rake while I was playing army when I was a kid. The scar gives me an air of mystery.”

They leave the barracks, their laughter trailing behind.

Adams looks down at me, a somber expression on his face. “I’m going to miss you,” he says. “While you’re home on leave, give that kid of yours you always talk about a good tickle for me.”

There’s a sincerity in his voice that surprises me. “I will. I’ll miss you too.”

I shove the last shirt into the duffel bag and close the clasp. My hat, wallet and bus ticket are all that are left on my bunk.

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I need to take a piss.”

The bathroom is sparkling clean and smells of floor cleaner.

When I return to my bunk, Adams is gone. I look at my bunk. My wallet is gone also.

Check out Steve’s Inky Interview

Pantry Prose: The Young Man and the Sand (a contemporary homage to Ernest Hemingway) by Joseph S. Pete

Nick gnawed rubbery chicken and mushed soggy green beans in the chow hall in Iraq, a country that was hot in a way that could break the stoutest of men. The climate was unforgiving, and so was the chow. The food in the D-Fac was either leathery straps of meat or slop spatulated on his Styrofoam tray, a far cry from the succulent oysters bathed in briny cold liquid he once slurped out of rocky shells in Paris, or the warm, meaty pasties he wolfed down as a boy in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Some food gave delight, while other meals were truly lost, just a way to shovel nutrition into the maw.

Nick gnashed the tough strands of chicken and deposited stripped bones back on the disposable tray, which he ultimately cast off as one would toss the rib cage of a deboned marlin. He nearly gagged on the sour broth of the day’s soup, wished he had a strong drink to wash down the tasteless mash of the watery green beans. But when the chow was gone, it was gone, like any other meal.

Dusty and sweaty after a long hike on patrol, Nick would enter the D-Fac after clearing his M-4 carbine in a burn barrel. He’d file into the long chow hall line, mechanically request the standard ration of protein, carbohydrates and vegetables, and make his way to an empty seat at an isolated table in the great circus tent where the soldiers congregated for chow.

Nick spent his days marching on patrol through the dust-swept streets of Iraq, past crowds of stern-faced men in sweat-stained dishdashas and steely-eyed women in gravely driveways. They strode past glowering young men camped out in Opels, trying to earn a living as taxi drivers with no fares in sight. No one seemed to want these American interlopers there. The unwelcome soldiers strode past all the scowling and resentment, hoping no one would start taking potshots from a distant rooftop.

Bedraggled under a scorching sun that left the land arid, the men just wanted to return to the relative safety of post, where they had gyms and shops and computer labs and all the approximate comforts of home. But the work there could be long and grueling too. Nick drove a flimsy e-tool into the earth to fill sandbags, cinched them and chucked them onto the pile until his back spasmed and his arms noodled. He sat in a guard tower through the wee hours of the night until his eyes weakened and eyelids sagged, dipping tobacco and instant coffee to try to keep them aloft. He worked midnight shifts guarding detainees, fighting off sleepiness, repeating mantras like ‘Stay alert, stay alive’.

Nada, nada, nada. All for nada.

The harder he fought, the less his efforts yielded.

The deployment was an unending blur. Nick was a man in a foreign country that did not want him, had no place for him. He pined for something as simple as casting a line into a clear pond, watching a sinewy boxer’s glove slap into an opponent’s jaw, or biting down into a freshly grilled burger.

The chow hall was a clean, well-lit place that evoked warm memories of home, or his occasional sojourns to Europe. It was a respite in a distant desert, at least until it wasn’t.

One day, a blast tore through the tent, submerging everything in thick black smoke that blotted everything out. Nick’s heart jackhammered, and he couldn’t breathe right. He could hear. That was it. That was all that was left of his senses. The screaming would haunt him. Nick heard pain and wailing as he flailed about.

The third-world nationals KBR shipped in to Iraq to spoon out overcooked food, they were the ones who bore the brunt of the explosion. It was quick and brutal and senseless.

Nick staggered through the smoke, plodding a step at a time, plowing into chairs and tables. Having cleared his weapon before entering the chow hall, a safe space where soldiers faced a greater risk from an accidental misfire than from the enemy, Nick fumbled around with a pouch on a flak vest and eventually extricated a magazine that he jammed into the rifle. He slid back the charging handle, chambering a round.

His heart palpitating, he held the carbine at the ready, as he had been trained by drill sergeants back in basic training on that red Georgia soil, and stepped forward into the blackness that enveloped everything. He trained the gun ahead of him and moved toward the screaming.

Nick slipped on blood underfoot, came crashing down on a fallen cafeteria worker. The man was pale and wheezing and bleeding profusely out of his thigh. The man needed help. He could die within minutes if his femoral artery bled out.

After wheeling around, scanning for threats, Nick thumbed the safety on his rifle and cast it down so it clattered on the concrete floor. He fiddled with the cargo pants, pulled out his gloves and pressed them into the gaping wound, applying as much pressure as he could muster to staunch the wound.

‘Medic!’ he called. ‘Medic!’

No medic emerged from the ashen haze.

He hunched down toward the man, keeping pressure on the shrapnel wound, whispering that he would be okay, everything would be okay, they were going to take care of him and make sure he would get home. He would be okay; he would make it.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Myanmar,’ the man coughed. ‘Myanmar.’

Blood trickled from the man’s lips, streaked down his cheek. Colour drained from his ashen face as he shuddered. His clammy skin was all gooseflesh and flopsweat. Nick moved aside when the medic arrived so he could see and assess. He grabbed his rifle and swept around again.

‘What the hell happened?’

‘Suicide bomber, posing as an Iraq policeman. Damn, put pressure back on that wound.’

Nick grabbed his bloodied gloves, pressing them back into the oozing puncture. The medic readied a bandage, affixed it and started tying a tourniquet. He twisted the stick around to stop the hemorrhaging.

The air suddenly wafted with the pungent scent of manure. The dead man’s intestines emptied themselves as the last vestige of colouring blanched away from his waxen flesh. It was all for naught, all their hustle, all their effort. He was gone. He would never return to his wife’s embrace, to his children’s clingy hugs.

‘You can be destroyed,’ Nick said, genuflecting and saying a quiet prayer over the dead man, ‘but you cannot be defeated.’

Nick later realized the man was never defeated, but only in the sense that he had never been fighting for anything in the first place. As Nick rested in a plush library chair one brisk fall day, it occurred to him all that bluster and bravado led to young men, bystanders really, bleeding out in puddles where they had dished out mashed potatoes. There was nothing to romanticize. There was no nobility in scooping mashed potatoes for soldiers of another country, and there was certainly no nobility in such a senseless death.

He could hear his dying platoon sergeant later telling him only a fool would believe you couldn’t die if you didn’t give up, which was the best bulldung he could come up with while trying to comfort the bloodied, bullet-ridden man.

The epiphany that they all died for little purpose still hit Nick in the gut even though it occurred many years after he returned home, married in an old barn and sired children of his own, who grew up strong and sturdy like tree trunks, went on to study law and medicine. He made a career for himself, strolled the leafy streets of Oak Park, and dined on pan-seared trout at white-tablecloth restaurants that prided themselves on elegant continental cuisine.

He renovated his stately brick home several times, and one morning, while stepping out of the glass shower, collapsed onto the bed with a brain hemorrhage.

In his dying moments, he thought not of his wife, his daughters or his son, but of that dying man he failed to save in the chow hall. He wished he could have tried harder, got there faster, pressed harder, done something differently. He wished the medic had been more skilled or that the chow hall bomber struck at a different hour, when he was out on patrol. He wished he had never seen that man’s glassy eyes, which haunted him for years in the ash ends of late nights when he was dulled by drink. He wished it had been him instead of the thirteen who died that day, but then figured that in the end the relentless crush of time defeats every man. Whether you stalked through sandy streets with a belt-fed machine gun or helped your child build a rudimentary castle in a sandbox, time would destroy you just the same in the end.

Pantry Prose: A Taxi Made Of Mouths by Lavinia Murray

The sister tore a wisp of smoke from the fire and blew her blue nose on it. Her hindquarters fluttered with the effort.


Then she took out her latest phone, dropped it and smashed it with brass door knockers (shaped like hermitages) which she had glued to the soles of her shoes. Everyone in her address book died quite expressively on their doorsteps.

The sister said, ‘Hello, I’m’ – (checks) – ‘in the middle of Memory in a taxi made of mouths. Just pulling into Spring.’ She spoke to no one since all those she had previously spoken to were dead, victims of the Winter Cull.

The sister had opinions about Spring, and they were these: Winter wears Spring like an ill-fitting prosthetic limb. Cumbersome. Made of chipped ice and lumpen sugar. Cumbersome. The sun, cumbersome. The sky is wet rubber, bliss blue. Birds oodle along flight corridors like the tweaked sweat of athletes. Lambs straddle the green glass conveyor belt and they are pitched about for being too sweet for this life. Their fleeces show immortal, mother-of-pearl cracks.

The sister took an apple and lifted a tree from it with a movement like tugging matted hair from a brush. And another tree from the apple, from the apple core. She dotted the place she was standing in with trees. A whole orchard. Above them the wind carried the delicate rattlings of the cosmos, mostly wet plopping sounds.

Spring. The greengrocer was seated on his nest and was busily hatching-out horses and impressionists. The impressionists were so good they were impossible to tell apart from the horses. Spring was doing its thing with things.

The sister watched the Spring Ritual man dance in his great dapper clobber. Spring Ritual Man stopped and laid shadows at the base of the street lamps the way people laid wreaths at cenotaphs. All showy deference. He laid them respectfully; small ones, larger ones, teeny like crossed fingers. He bowed his head and the sister imagined he was updating his prayer profile. Then he moved on with a swish like a mermaid might do in the doldrums. A Spring Ritual woman followed him with the Nervous Paint, she crept out of the edges of his broad costume and painted shadows stretching from the street lamps, and these shadows shifted a little; they fanned out; they shut tight; they slewed and swelled and rolled themselves right up around the sister’s passing door-knockered feet. They were loud-banging uncertain shadows.

The shadows were painted on every season, the old ones (these would be Winter’s) scraped up by a machine that recycled them, spewing the shadows into the night like a wood-chipper macerating a felled tree. Sometimes, and only in Spring Time, only out of sheer high spirits, the sister tore off a wisp of shadow and wiped away her tears with it.


Pantry Prose: Sundae by Matthew Waldron

Mum and Sandra wear wide-brimmed, white hats, sun-blessed swirls; floppy folds like just-set meringues. Their long, summer dresses feature small floral print designs; leaves and flowers cascade, stall, twist upon tension points and light bodily sweat, pinch into something new, origami, fabric-style.  

Ian and I walk across the car park with Mum and Sandra, who both giggle conspiratorially behind us. Occasionally they speak in drawn-breath voices; rub-squeaked balloons, or amp up North-Western accents, drag vowels out; musical words on heavy chains tied to a rock. The tarmac reveals tiny oily pools, which bleed brown-black, erupt randomly upon the surface with lightning-strike cracks and filigree fissures; an over-baked cake. Steam rises in genie-lamp coils and question marks; school kids in back of bike shed tradition, exhaling from hesitant drags, laughter-gasping on Mum and Dad’s missing cigarettes.      

Minutes ago, James and I peered inside the glass domes of an ice cream parlour, as though the contents were precious jewels in a museum case; new, to us, a range of potential ice cream flavours to stimulate our senses. An accumulation of sweet scents combined in strip-light, hazy atmosphere; an opened, rust-rimmed honey jar; finger-squashed overripe raspberries; traces of cheap chocolate, tanged by silver paper wrapper; cardboard-y vanilla.  

Wall`s Vanilla Ice Cream was rare luxury for us at home; ice cream, much harder then, in both consistency and availability. Occasionally, I recall chocolate ice cream with a questionable cocoa content; Neopolitan, tricolour flavours suggested, rather than submitted authentic tastes. But now, right in front of us, Tutti Frutti – really? Rum and Raisin – what? Toffee Fudge, chunks embedded in marbled dessert, gold nuggets ready to chisel out with tiny teeth, teased by tantalised tongue, new for trial taste, lick delicately, rapidly, as though prompted by drought-dry mouth.

As well as a helter-skelter, ice cream run escaping from his castellated cone, Ian is entranced by cars. ‘Red TR7, Matt. Seen it?’ He points a Mr Men plaster-wrapped forefinger (always with the Mr Bump, my brother) towards the sharp wedge sports car. ‘Look, there’s a Capri over there. Bit like the one in The Professionals.’ Images: criminals, arms twisted behind backs, garage-greasy hair, stubble chins greeting bonnet, mouths of chip fork tine teeth, tar-stained tongues, post-watershed retort; traffic cones, dustbins, cardboard boxes, bags filled with mystery (air) struck by car-skid arcs, gravel spraying out like residual shotgun blast towards the stand-back camera crew member. Most of James’s excitement, however, was reserved for the quotidian: ‘Matt? Matt? Look! Blue Ford Escort…white Cortina…brown Vauxhall Chevette…orange Allegro!’ His relentless flicker eyes behind NHS spectacle-glazed daze; two electric blue damselflies sparkle, each trapped in their own oval of lapis lazuli.

I carefully lick at the ice cream, nibble initial taste of nothingness from chocolate nibs, crunch melt fragments on my tongue to produce a taste just shy of cacao gone vague, just a sugary representative. It doesn’t matter; it feels so good. My eyes blink, trap light, fuel fantasy to bliss, as I tease out a deep embedded chocolate chip; jutted, a loose brick from the remaining igloo shape of decadent dessert. The extra weight in my hand almost disappears. I open my eyes. The ice cream has fallen away from its soggy-edged host, leaving only a mint-green ring as a reminder of our brief, beautiful marriage.

Loud laughter emanates from Mum, Auntie Sandra and James; explosions from popped paper bags. I stare at plop dome-melt on road. My eyebrows arrowhead down, shoulders, hunch, fold; a rain-soaked Rook. I walk away; kick at the stick with scuffed-toe trainers, embarrassment and disappointment.  

Auntie Sandra unclips click-y, gold metal twins to search in her handbag. She picks out a credit card with her lightly freckled fingers, holds it up to us briefly, emphasises intention with a makeshift tool. Sandra kneels on the ground; I see thin, white lines radiate, send signals across her tanned ankles; imagine melted tar and hot gravel touch her knees; unwanted sticky kisses. Sandra carefully scrapes, lifts the mini-mound of dark chocolate chip-dotted, pale green ice cream, a melting sugary transfer left behind. I watch Sandra place the ice cream back on my cone, which, unaware, I still hold entrenched within my suntanned fist. Still angered with shock, cherry-pied with embarrassment, I freeze in sympathy with the remaining scoop of marble-melt flavours. Eventually with incredulity at Sandra’s action (is this grown-up behaviour? It’s not hygienic, is it?), reluctance relinquishes to acknowledge the gesture; I submit. Result: a broad, mint-choc-chip moustache, cold-lipped smile. My laughter like the last nestling, coaxed by an adult to fledge, soon joins them; a chorus of mirth.  

The first voice of rain, whisper-filled balloons appear, polka dot-pattern our path, shiny drops of satin, which sing quietly, evaporate, sigh; disappear.