She is across the world and for him, it isn’t love.

Standing on the steps of a small restaurant, on a crowded street in Chinatown.

Watching the car drive away.

If it were her in that car, she would trace the raindrops on the window with the tip of her index finger.

Following their path.

No. If it were her in that car, she wouldn’t have left.

She began crying before he said goodbye and now, now she’s sobbing uncontrollably.

Really, she’s still just a little girl. Eighteen years old is not a woman.

She is a child, alone and across the world.

For him. It isn’t love. For him it isn’t love.

She hasn’t cried like this since she lost a loved one.

Oh. She sees,

Dead means gone.

Shaking, cold and wet, crying. This moment defines alone.

Her entire body is crying. Each organ is bawling.

Her bones are aching, the marrow in them shaking. Her heart is pounding, so fast, her ribs could be breaking.

It’s pouring now, she thinks the sky is crying for her too.

She’s caught a cab, between gasps for air, she tells him the address of her hotel.

Hugging the seat, shifting her body.

She cannot sit still, she cannot stifle her cries.

He says nothing. Maybe he doesn’t have daughters.

Arrived, so far across town, she reaches out her shaking hand, grip slipping.

He holds up his hand and shakes his head, their eyes finally meet.

His eyes finally speak.

When it rains in Australia this time of year, it’s magic.

His heart aches.

Because. For her, the rain isn’t so.

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

free cab ride for a broken heart by Heather Schutmaat

A cloud passed over the wavering sun, obliterating murky reflections at the canal’s edge but enhanced four grey chimneys that stood belching out industrial smoke beyond waste ground. The swan floated closer. Damp and chilled, Fern shivered. Drew a musty blanket up around her shoulders. ‘On the river’s current.’ Fern’s voice sounded croaky as she accompanied the duet from her car’s CD. ‘One hand reaches, reaches for the bank.’ She extended fingers towards the bird. ‘Ah, calling us together.’ She closed her eyes as the pure notes of two sopranos faded.

‘Lakme committed suicide by eating a datura leaf,’ James had explained after a concert at the Albert Hall.

‘How sad,’ she’d replied, hooking her arm into his. It had been her first concert and she’d hoped it wouldn’t be her last.

Now Ella Fitzgerald sang, Every Time We Say Goodbye. If only James hadn’t stepped in front of her that night in the bar. If only he hadn’t tried to defend her against a drunken female stranger who’d sworn Fern had taken her seat. If only she’d taken the knife’s deadly thrust instead of James. If only they’d stayed in their flat that night listening to their favoured music.

The swan drifted closer and appeared to eye Fern’s left hand. ‘Not datura leaf,’ she said to the swan. ‘Just a bottle of vodka and a shed load of painkillers.’ She picked up the vodka lying on a clump of grass beside her and waved it at the swan before unscrewing the top. The swan flapped its wings and rose high out from the water and sped, hissing, its long neck stretched towards Fern.

Fern let out a cry of shock and surprise as the swan’s beak, like a small, yellow spatula snatched the packets of tablets from her hand and dropped them into the water where they sank in lazy circles down into an abandoned, rusting shopping trolley. ‘God!’ Fern leapt to her feet, grabbing handfuls of her unwashed hair like a demented woman. ‘Bloody bird! Look what you’ve done!’

Then, as she yelled those angry words, the swan glided to the middle of the canal watching her and, as they eyed one and other, the face of James seemed to morph onto the swan’s features.

Fern sank to the ground. ‘I only wanted us to be together,’ she whispered and the swan drifted away taking with it a vague, familiar scent in its sedate wake.

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

Flower Duet by Jennifer Walmsley

She hovered for the briefest of moments, casting a dark curious eye across the cacophony of sugar coated confectionary, before stopping slowly to pin a small hand-penned notice to the trunk of the grand copper birch that stood, naked of its leaves in the centre of the small town.

For Sale

One pair of shoes, heel trodden, curled up and wrinkled like owners face.
Condition of shoes put down to weight of expectation and over use.
Any price accepted, and can deliver. However near, however far away.

The writing was looped and faded grey, as though it had been written some time ago, and kept, folded until now in the pocket of her heavy brown coat.

The frisky autumn wind that blows nobody any good whispered at the corners of the paper, making it billow then press flat against the bark of the tree.

She peered at it, expelling a sigh as her memory recalled the time when those shoes had walked out. Pretty shoes, ruby shoes, wrapped around sixteen years of ambitious feet.

All the men that had mattered to her, she had met in those shoes. But, one had no heart, one no brain, and the other no courage.

Now she was old, the thrill seeking spark within her had dwindled, and her dark hair had lost its shine, and had paled into a soft grey.

And those shoes, those ruby slippers no longer fit, now they strained against her swollen feet and pinched her toes.

But how much had rested upon them, how long ago it was now that those ruby shoes had danced carelessly upon golden cobbles.

However, the time had come to leave those days behind, and when she left of the tail of the carnival, a sense of freedom painted a smile onto her thin lips, and the smell of candied sweets and handsome treats pranced on the wind, like a dose of warm honey, creeping through the veins.

She walked with purpose, short meandering steps, thoughts wandering in the vague way of children.

The cold wind had started to blow harder now, and the dream of friends yet to meet, and challenges yet to face flicked at the tail of her skirts, teasing the hem of her imagination, tempting her with the dream of adventures yet to come…far off places yet to visit…

For someone else next time.

Natascha Tallowin is a writer and poet from Suffolk, England. Whilst most of her time is spent writing poetry and sitting in patches of sunlight on the floor listening to David Bowie, she is also working on a magic-realism novel entitled ‘Guylian’s Magic’.

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

For Sale: Dorothy’s Shoes By Natascha Tallowin

Because I’m going, because I’m going, because I’m going!
She’s on her tippy toes now.

Where are you going?

She’s going where the sky is a blue that can only be described as Barcelona blue. She will drink coffee in plazas at wobbly tables with her hair down and curly and careless because Barcelona is her unconditional and has been since she was lost and found there within her heart when she was nineteen. At the wobbly tables, she will be writing letters and thoughts, and holding the thin air in her lungs longer, breathing Barcelona. A Spanish boy with a sharp jaw line and messy black hair will ask her for un cigarillo and light it and then ask her where she is from. She will tell him the world and smile, and by her Spanish he will guess she is Venezuelan and she will shake her head and smile some more. When he leaves, she will be by herself again but not alone. She will be surrounded by characters in her book, old women talking about the weather and children chasing pigeons and a lazy waiter asking her if she needs algo mas.

Where is she going? She’s going to the deep blue of the Mediterranean, that took her breath and heart and tears that afternoon when she was twenty, standing on top of a mountain on la costa brava. The mountain top where she saw France and breathed in the sea and felt so small and so big all at once. Where she felt like she could reach the sky and sing and God would hear her.

The Mediterranean where she lays on the beach and the sand brushes right off and the water is so cold that going in waist deep makes her feel like she’s gutsy and doing something brave.

She’s going where she walks to el café, where she will buy un bocadillo con tortillas de patatas and the man that serves her will call her cariño and she will tell him that’s what she calls her son. He will talk, his accent will be heavy, she will have a hard time understanding him. He will know and speak slowly and sweetly and make her feel so very young.

She’s going where she will drink canned beer that she buys from the men in the streets after eleven p.m. Where she will go from plaza to plaza, meeting musicians and other wonders, talking and laughing, smoking and drinking, singing and living. Where she will sit in circles and someone will sing a Dylan song with a Spanish accent and she will smile so hard her eyes squint because she is surrounded by constant reminders that she is across the world, but her heart is home.

She is going where walking down the street is like seeing a million masterpieces all at once. Where clothes hanging from lines on terraces are a painting not yet painted and looking up at the clouds between the beautiful buildings is a photograph not yet taken. Where walking down the street is stopping in her tracks and looking around and breathing deeper and thanking God for the overwhelming beauty around her and within her and the freedom of being alive.

She is going to Barcelona, and her heart is going home.

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

Her Heart is Going Home by Heather Schutmaat

“Never heard a that one.”

“Yeah, well. There you go. Guy’s a dick thesaurus.”

Scalisi fumbled through his suit pocket and came up with a small notebook. He downed the rest of his now watery scotch on rocks, signaled the bartender with a gesture that was second nature. He found the page he needed.

“Package,” he said. “Unit. Tool. Power Drill. Jack Hammer.”

“Dick,” Morelli said.

“Sure. Dick. Schlong. Weiner. Franfurter.”

“Ok. Yeah. Jack-in-the-box.”

Scal considered it. It worked.

“That’s a good one. You’re a quick learner. Not like that last guy I had. Believe you me. Caught a bullet in the skull not listening to what I had to teach him.”

The bartender placed a new drink on the bar. Took the spent tumbler. Knocked on the wood and walked away.

Morrelli said, “Noodle. Magic wand.”

“Ok. See? The snake. Mr. Johnson. I mean this Francisco knows ‘em all. He also knows I know he’s stalling, I got three of his fingers broke already. And I know this guy ain’t gonna roll over. He’s in a lose-lose. He gives up to me, Valantropo buries him. He doesn’t, I do. But it’s amusing. Fascinates the hell outta me, what a guy will say he’s under the gun. So I listen. Take notes. Hose. Magic wand. Joystick. Salamander. I’m thinking he ain’t gonna run out.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“The Snake… But then he does run out. I see he’s thinking, but that’s it. I can tell. Just like that. Fresh out. And he says, ‘Well? don’t you get it?’”

“Get what?”

“That’s what I said. ‘Get what?’” Scalisi drank deeply.

“Well?”

“What’s in a name.”

“What’s in a name?”

“That’s what he says. ‘Same thing, whatsyou call it. But giving it so many names, makes a thing bigger than it is.’ See? Philosophizing, this guy. Says Americans got more fucking names for dicks than Eskimos got for snow.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. And he asks me I think that means something about American Society? Lotsa dicks walking the streets, he means maybe. Least how I take it. Then he asks me, he says, I- me we’re talking about- he says I must feel pretty fucking special cause I got more names for me than the Eskimos got for snow and they’re buried in the shit.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning he’s calling me a dick. Fancy-like.”

Scalisi gave Morelli a few seconds for it to settle in.

“That’s pretty good,” Morelli said.

“Yeah, pretty good. I thought so.”

“Whachyou do?”

“Eh. I lit him on fire.”

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

American Society by Joseph Christiana

It is the older style of bus; the fabric on the seats is orange, shot through with geometrical shapes in a mustard yellow. The paint on the hold bar flecks off in his palm as he grabs the pole to steady himself as the bus jerks into the stream of traffic. They always bring out the old fleet of buses for this nothing period of the night, where the only people likely to be traveling are too drunk or too tired to care about the damp smell and abrasive seating.

Rory swings off the hold bar into a seat towards the back, where he can feel the rumbling of the left rear wheel under his feet. He is just settling himself, wedging his knees against the seat in front, when the bus eases into its next stop and a girl gets on.

She presses her Oystercard holder to the reader and then twists to slip it into her handbag as she moves down the aisle of the bus. He cannot see her face, but her hair is straight and blonde, her figure trim in a short black jacket and jeans. Her fingers are long and thin, pianist fingers, with chipped pale pink nail varnish. She tosses her damp hair over her shoulder as she swings her bag into a seat, and slides in after it.

Three rows ahead of him, she is hyper-real, each strand of hair haloed as the fluorescent tube bulb overhead picks up the droplets of rain clinging there. She fidgets – can she sense his eyes upon her? – and pulls her phone from her bag. The screen lights up as she flips the phone open and closed. No messages. She tosses her phone back into her bag and turns to face the window.

Her face thrown back by the dark window is what Rory expected; she is pale and strong featured. The rain on the outside of the glass gouges across the reflection of her face in streaks as the bus hits a straight road and moves up a gear. The two sit in silence as the bus trundles on through sleeping London. If she does sense his attention, she makes no sign of it.

The bus slows once more, but passes the next stop without pausing when the driver sees no passengers waiting there. The blonde girl pulls her phone from her bag again, distractedly. No messages. Who was she expecting a text from at this time of night, Rory wonders.

Another stop, this time to let off a passenger who had been sitting on the upstairs deck. The drunken woman lurches off into the night, and the driver hesitates at his wheel as he peers into the darkness after her, willing her home safely. The blonde girl shifts restlessly in her seat; she is eager to get home herself and there are only a few stops left to travel.

Slowly, slowly, the bus pulls away onto the road again. It is the darkest point of the night; moon and stars have set, but there is yet to be even the slightest chink of light in the eastern sky. The streetlights cast the world as orange and dull, reflecting hazily off of the wet humps of parked cars. The bus headlights shine straight, illuminating the rear of the night bus ahead.

The penultimate stop; the driver slows and carries on past when he sees that it too is empty. Rory knows that time is short now, minutes only. But he does nothing but watch the blonde girl as she checks her phone for a third time, and, once again, is disappointed. She places it back into her bag and zips it up.

Preparing for the short walk ahead of her, the girl pulls her hair back and rotates her shoulders as she inches towards the edge of her seat. A quick dash through the rain and she would be home; it had been a long day. Rory too, is preparing himself for leaving the close shelter of the bus, for braving the dark and the rain awaiting outside.

This bus terminates here. The blonde girl stands before the bus comes to a stop, clutching the pole by the exit doors as she adjusts the weight of her handbag on her shoulder. The doors slide open with a hiss and the blonde girl hops down. He hears the loose tarmac of the bus bay crunch under her feet as she lands somewhere in the darkness beyond the doors.

He is mere seconds behind her, but he knows now that however quickly he follows her, she is always gone by the time he reaches the doors. He is left with nothing but the shadows in the bus station. Behind him the bus gives a shudder and the lights die. The driver, shift half over, hops down from the front entrance. Giving Rory a perfunctory nod, collar up against the rain, he stalks off in search of a warm drink in a polystyrene cup to see him through till dawn.

Rory’s feet are aching again. He turns down a cobbled mews road, the shortcut home, out of habit more than anything. It only saves about three minutes. He stops suddenly; the streetlights refracting over the tops of the buildings are playing tricks on him, conjuring up the light of a pale face, of blonde hair tossed over a shoulder. She stalks ahead of him, leading the way home; surely it is just the pattering of the rain that is drowning out her heels clicking against the cobbles?

For the sake of three minutes; for the sake of an empty purse – Emma never trusted herself with cash; for the sake of a few extra hours sleep on his part, she was left like a rag doll there in these narrow mews, the blood soaked deep into the darkness of her jacket but oh so red against the paleness of her skin, of her hair, of the suede bag she clutched so fiercely to her chest, even in death.

Rory walks on, following the lights. He always picked her up from the bus station after she finished a night shift, but that night he had been irritable, tired. He’d needed the sleep. And so now, that sleep denies him is a justice that he welcomes. And so night after night he walks the rainy streets, following the sheen of her hair in the dark.

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

The Night Bus by Erin Lawless

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

Ira Glass On Taste and Storytelling

“How quickly can you get down to London tonight?”

“Tonight? I can’t get there tonight; the last train has gone.”

“Ok, tomorrow, then?”

“Err… maybe just after lunchtime?”

“Ok, the job’s yours. Get there as soon as you can.”

And that was it. My first job out of Uni. Mum ran around like a maniac that evening: washing, drying, ironing, packing. A blizzard of activity, looking after her chick. Early next morning, Dad took me to the train station and put me and my case onto the London train, and then I hustled him off, afraid he’d get stuck on the train too. After I’d waved him out of sight, I jolted down the carriage to find a quiet seat.

They got on at Crewe; a youth with two children. The three wandered down the carriage, looking for seats, and stopped when they came level with me. I’d never seen anyone up close dressed like that before. He was all in black, ringlets dangling in greasy strands, bum fluff on his chin – his signet ring bit into the soft white flesh of his hand. He was dressed beyond his age. He slithered a glance at me, and then muttered something to his two charges who sidled in after him. He sat opposite me. We nodded, then disengaged our eyes. He took out a battered little book and began to read, muttering silently to himself.

I can’t say when I actually realised what was happening. At, first, I thought it just chance. Then I became convinced there was an unruly dog under the table. There was a pressure on my legs, which followed my limbs about, when I tried to keep out of the way. Then I noticed his eyes. Staring, unblinking, over the rims of his thick glasses. At me.

You know those icy fingers that are talked about? Well they played up and down my spine right then. I realised the “dog” was actually his legs pressing onto mine; chasing me around, under the table. And I knew he wanted to see my reaction; see me cringe and disintegrate, right there for his delectation.

But I decided differently. I leant back in the seat and uncrossed my legs and crossed then again; quickly and very firmly, catching my stiletto on his shin.

He winced.

I watched.

We stared eye to eye. I uncrossed my legs again, and crossed them again. Deliberately. He winced once more and looked uncertainly at his companions. They were oblivious to his pain.

I repeated my actions, connecting again; beads of sweat appeared under the black rim of his hat. He muttered disjointedly, and got up – shepherding his party further down the carriage.

I smiled; I knew I’d be able to look after myself then.

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

Rite of Passage by Avis Hickman

“It’s nice,” I lied, knowing she knew it wasn’t but not wanting to give offense.

“Sit,” she said, pointing to an ancient sofa with springs poking through the dirty brown fabric. I sat avoiding the sharp metal springs and the worst of the dirt. I acted as if I were sitting in a mansion, my smile as ever disarming.

“How long?”I asked. She flashed a smile and corrected an errant strand of dark brown hair.

“Not long enough,” She answered, ” I’m sure you’ve heard that before.”

“Many times,” I agreed. We sat for a moment in silence. Then she looked up.

“What do I get?” She was all business this one, there must not have been much time left.

“What do you need?”

“My daughter… she only has me to look after her.”

“She will be cared for.” I smiled, “I will see to it personally.”

“You won’t… my daughter I mean, no catches?”

“No, you need not worry. I realize my reputation is poor but that is the doing of others. I assure you I am an honest… man.”

She seemed comforted, I continued.

“As for you, there is no denying it won’t be pleasant but you will have the knowledge that your daughter is safe and her future her own. That is more than most. No strings. No tricks.”

“When… when will it happen to me.” She asked, bravely.

“Sometime within the next three days.”

“I would have thought you more precise, timed to the exact minute.”

“Oh it is,” I said, “but… better for you if you don’t know.”

“I see,” she said and smiled.

She then stood and held out her small thin hand. I took it gently and turned to leave. I moved slowly to give her a chance to change her mind. She didn’t. We had a deal. So many others had seemed strong until this final point then faltered. This one was strong. I stepped out into the fresh night air and started off towards my next visit without looking back.

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

The Visitor by James A Ford

“Sweetie, you already paid for the ticket. You should go, it’ll be fun.”

“Come on, you have to go.”

I don’t know how much fun it’ll actually be though without him. I attended the same formal last year. It was okay at first. The three of us arrived, them with their boyfriends and me alone (I already knew I would be alone, so there was no disappointment). We had our pictures taken, and danced to pop music while the guys looked on. The food was terrible, but we enjoyed complaining about it together. It was all fun, until the slow dances began.

I grab my towel, and head for the shower. Tears still threaten to pour out, but I stop them. I don’t want to seem like the type of person who seeks attention. I ponder whether I should let it out in the shower while no one is looking.

If only he was able to come, I thought. If only his bosses weren’t such jerks! I thought. A fire starts in my chest when I think of them. There was a 50% chance that he’ll be able to come and still keep his job. His tone though, already told me that it was impossible.

The water starts. My hair begins to drown me. My hands move the same way they do every night, but my soul is hundreds of miles away. I don’t know where it is. One minute, I’m in the past, then the future, then outside of my body watching a soap opera. I know no one is around to hear me, so this would be as good a time as ever. I stop myself though.

This is stupid, I thought. I’m just creating more drama than this needs to be. I hate drama. I went out of my way in high school to avoid all the useless drama. All the ‘he hates me’ and ‘she’s so annoying’; I don’t need it. I don’t need it outside and not inside my mind either. I know he wants to come as badly as I do, and making him feel guilty or anyone else feel bad won’t make things better. Even if I really begged him, and he quit his job to rush to my side, I would be one of those selfish preps who have disposable boys. It would be so selfish! He works so hard to help pay the bills in his house and raise whatever he can to go to college, while I’m here watching stupid videos on my stupid computer in between homework assignments. How can I even ask him to spend so much just to come to me for one weekend when that money can go somewhere useful? I’m pathetic. If I worked half as hard as him, then I might be worthy of being selfish.

I make up my mind; I can’t cry. It’s ridiculous high school drama that has no business in the Real World. It’s only a dance and it’s only one weekend. I don’t need the tears. I’m better than that. The emotions soon pass on as I continue to wash my hair and then my body. I think about happier moments in life, and my soul returns to my body by the time I finish by washing my face.

I turn the nozzle. None of the water on my face came from me. I grab the towel off of the rack and cover my face to dry. I try to lift it away, but it sticks. A movie starts and in an instant I hear soft music. I’m transported to a dance, watching so many happy couples dance in the dim light. There’s my roommate, my neighbors, and all my other friends. Our song is playing. I return to the present. One drop from each eye is reflected on the towel. Drama is not for me, so I won’t have it. I step out of the room, all wrapped up. My body is cold, and my heart is frozen.

Kristine Guadagno is a college sophomore from Boston. This is her first piece for Backhand Stories

Backhand Stories, the creative writing blog.

Useless Drama by Kristine Guadagno