Crab Sticks

Grey waves of clouds lap though the sky and shield the summer sun. The wind tickles my hair as I watch you lift my brother, Michael, so he can aim at the targets with the pellet gun. Our fortnightly outings have become a succession of enforced fun activities, the park, the beach, the cinema. Anything to keep us occupied and away from your pristine Ikea clad home. You’ve yet to explain to Michael why your girlfriend’s tummy is getting fat, or why her patience with us is now unbearably thin. He’s too young to understand, but I’m not.



Michael hits the target, the pellet brushes the tin with a loud clang and both you and the stall owner cheer. I turn away, the red and white crabstick now warm in my hand. Attributing my silence as a by-product of my ‘funny age’, you had bought the seaside treat to tease a smile from me. In your eyes, I’ve been at a funny age all my life; your oldest child and a tepid experiment with parenthood until your anticipated son was born. I weave in and out of the crowd, walk over to the pier railings and rest my hands over the top. Above me seagulls spin summersaults in the sky, call to each other and swoop down in search of food. The sea stretches its vast body to the horizon, glinting silver as it catches the sunlight. I inhale and consume the sea air deep into my body.



I bite down on the crabstick and salty lines of processed fish fill my mouth. I remember how you used to buy me the treat in Asda, when I was very small as a reward for good behaviour. You would ruffle my hair and make jovial remarks about not telling mum for fear of spoiling my appetite, but it never did. It was just a little secret you and I shared, something just for us. I hear you calling my name and I walk over to you, remembering to wear a smile.

Stroke Signals

Immobilized, she tries to move her arms, her legs, her toes. But the messages sent from the synapses in her brain to her body are jumbled; somewhere the current is broken. Her eyes, at least, retain their motion, and flash around the kitchen in search of a phone, or a stool to pull herself up with. In the prismatic claws of paralysis, however, such an object’s functionality would be rendered useless, an ironic taunt to her physical state. Air hisses out though her clenched teeth and though she attempts to call for help, her words transpose into the nonsensical vowel sounds of a baby and are not her own.

Matthew’s words pierce through her ensuing panic. Living alone is not a viable option for someone of her age now. There are risks that became dangers if ignored. True to her stubborn nature, she dismissed the idea without due consideration. “People go into those places to wait to die.” She had told him, “I’m sorry darling but I wont do that to myself. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fit as a fiddle.” Now, with the curse of hindsight, it seems age is the only battle she was doomed to lose.

Her thoughts whirl as if caught in a maelstrom. She had had no chest pains, no tingling down her arms. But if not a heart attack, what else? An explosion in her brain, like a firecracker lighting the sky, was her only indicator, and in the grips of panic she couldn’t decipher its meaning. Skimbleshanks, her gargantuan ginger cat strutted into the kitchen and jumped on to the worktop. Her eyes follow his movements as the cat sniffs at the jug of milk and then bats it with a fat paw. A waterfall of white gushes over the counter drips on her face with metronomic rhythm. She closes her eyes and in her mind she began to scream.