Nursery Rhyme by Emily Chadwick

At my mother’s funeral, we stood in a circle and sang nursery rhymes.

None of the toddlers she worked with at the pre-school could come to the funeral, of course – that would have been inappropriate. But working with those kids was her life, so singing nursery rhymes was the perfect way to honour that.

The priest had blanched a bit when we told him we’d rather sing ‘Humpty Dumpty’ than ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. But, of course, he honoured our request, though he looked rather pasty again when my Uncle Jeremy started to warble ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb’ in a voice caterwauling cats would have been proud of.

Once the service was over and we had buried my mother in a lovely ceremony in the churchyard, my great aunt came up to me and told me how disappointed she had been in the lack of ‘The Grand Old Duke of York’. I told her my mother had hated that rhyme, but she said it didn’t matter, it was one of her favourites.

Some people, it’s all about them.

Cuban Heat by Emily Chadwick

They say there comes a day in every man’s life when he deserves to smoke a Cuban cigar. A rite of passage, if you will.

My time came a short while after I had turned fifteen.

I was mowing Mr Henderson’s lawn. Now, that doesn’t really sound like a promising start to a story, but I swear it gets better. He came out into the garden to oversee my work, like he always did, standing on the decking like a general and smoking one of his fine Cuban cigars. A curl of dark smoke rose into the summer sky (that’s as poetic as you’re going to get, you know).

As I turned at the bottom of the garden, Mr Henderson fell to the ground. This wasn’t as dramatic as it seems, as he just kind of slumped as opposed to tumbled from the decking. But still, I was pretty shaken up. I abandoned the lawn mower (after switching it off, of course) and ran back up the garden, shouting, “Mr Henderson! Are you all right?”

There was no response.

I wasn’t really sure what to do – my lawn mowing expertise didn’t really cover elderly collapse – so I just rushed inside, grabbed the phone off the wall and called 999.

Once the ambulance was on its way and I had moved Mr Henderson into the recovery position (at the instruction of the nice lady on the phone), I noticed that Mr Henderson’s Cuban cigar was still smouldering on the decking. I was curious, which overrode any apprehension I might have felt about pilfering the half-smoked cigar. Was it really as magical and life-changing as my friends had made it out to be?

I scooped it up off the ground and took a long drag.

Then I coughed, choked, spat and tossed the cigar onto the ground.

Disgusting.

Grey Lace by Emily Chadwick

“You can’t get married in grey lace!”

I paused in my perusal of the wedding dresses on the rack. “Whyever not?”

“It… well, it makes you seem like…” My mother lowered her voice, in case someone might hear. “Used goods.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the dresses. “Mum, no one’s a virgin on their wedding night anymore. It’s 2012.”

My mother uttered a little shriek and stared around as though the world was eavesdropping. Her dreams of a huge white wedding for me seemed to be crumbling around her ears.

Just to see her reaction, I pulled out a gothic dress hidden at the back of the rack, a huge black monstrosity shot with red ribbons.

“What about this?”

My mother fainted.

Moonlight Bay by Emily Chadwick

The sound of gunfire cracked across the bay.

Before the fighting had started, it had been a quiet evening. The water was unusually calm, waves lapping gently at the shore as they glistened in the moonlight. The sky was a clear, inky blue, and the stars were scattered like glitter over the dome of the heavens.

It was a still night, a perfect night.

And then the guns shattered the silence.

The gunfire was followed by screams, panicked, frightened screams that rose in number. Every so often, there was another burst of gunfire, and the screams spread.

Then the docks caught ablaze. Dark smoke filled the sky, blocking out the stars, and the light from the fires swelled hungrily.

It seemed as though the whole world was falling apart.

Potato Cake by Emily Chadwick

The garden-variety potato cake is nothing to write home about. It’s basically mashed up potato, in a cake-patty form, fried until golden brown.

If you really want to make an interesting potato cake, you have to add other items to the recipe. This helps the potato cake from being bland and potatoverwhelming. My personal favourite is a tuna and cheese potato cake, but you can also add onion, chili peppers, bell peppers, chives, mushrooms… anything you want, really!

If you add an egg to the mix, it helps the potato to stick together whilst you’re cooking it. There is nothing sadder than a broken potato cake.

Soft Steel by Emily Chadwick

“Once upon a time, there was an evil queen. She had raven-black hair and eyes like soft steel.”

“But, Dad, steel is a metal.”

“Metal can be soft. Like gold.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Okay, fine. The evil queen had raven-black hair and eyes like hard steel.”

“That’s better.”

“Are you going to be quiet and let me tell you the story or not?”

“Okay, I’ll be quiet.”

Indian Ivy by Emily Chadwick

If someone had told Bryn that he would lose his husband before their kids were old enough to really understand, he would not have believed them.

Sure, Kane’s job as a policeman was dangerous and there was always a chance that he would get hurt, and Bryn worried, but… Kane was one of those invincible men. Strong, solid, tall and dependable. Hot-headed, sure, but always a rock. If Kane had died in some drug-raid shoot-out, Bryn reckoned that he could have come to accept it. There was always that chance. To watch his amazing, resilient husband slowly waste away due to an inoperable brain tumour had never even crossed his mind.

Yet, here he was, curled up on his side on their bed, straining his eyes to catalogue Kane’s every slow, painful breath.

The doctor said it would be any day now, but Kane still clung on, though he was only conscious for a few brief moments a day.

Bryn couldn’t help a smile that came out more like a sob. Stubborn until the very end, that was just like him.

To his chest, Bryn clutched a silk scarf that Kane had given him for their anniversary, just a few months before. Bryn had many of these scarves, knotted around the bedhead and the wardrobe and, well, everywhere, but this one was special. It was dyed many shades of deep green – Indian ivy, Kane had called it with his heart breaking smile. To Bryn, though, it was the colour of hope, the last remaining reminder of a time before the word ‘tumour’ entered their lives.

He still had an irrational, stupid, childish belief that, as long as he had the scarf, Kane wouldn’t die. Couldn’t die.

Squeezing the scarf close to his chest, Bryn glanced at the clock and made a face. Time to pick the children up from school. He leant over and pressed a kiss to Kane’s cheek, hoping that he didn’t imagine the flicker of his husband’s eyelids.

“I’ll be home soon,” he said, knowing Kane could hear him somehow. “Keep holding on until I get back, please.”


He tucked the scarf into his jean pocket, kissed Kane again, and made himself leave the room. On the threshold, he paused and turned to look at the pale, inert form on the bed.

“I love you, Kane.”

Cheeky Wink by Emily Chadwick

The first time I tried out my now-patented ‘cheeky wink’, I came away with a burning week. It turns out nuns aren’t particularly tolerant of flirtation.

Still, this experience didn’t put me off, and I began to practice my wink every day in front of the mirror.

“Hey, good looking,” I would say to myself, and then I would wink and toss my hair.

It’s a fool-proof tool any man should use if he wants to get laid.

Of course, it hasn’t worked yet, but I remain cheerfully optimistic.

Little Black Dress by Emily Chadwick

It was supposed to be the biggest night of her life.

She had been dropping hints for weeks now, both subtle and pointed. She had switched the plastic ring he had given her on their very first date to her ring finger, and had pretended not to notice when he’d smiled.

They had been ten the afternoon he had given it to her. It had been break time, and usually the boys and girls remained safely separate. But that day, he had crossed the playground to smile at her. After fumbling in his pocket for a moment, he had drawn out a plastic silver ring with a large blue jewel. It had been too big for her to wear, but she tucked it in her blouse pocket and carried it with pride.

On her sixteenth birthday, he had offered to buy her a proper ring, but she insisted that the one she had was enough.

Now, it was her twentieth birthday, and she wanted to marry him. To be his wife, forever and always.

She had put on her little black dress, the one he’d always admired because it showed off a little bit too much leg. She had tied up her hair just the way he liked it. On her neck, she wore a pendant he had given her the day she turned eighteen, with the matching earrings he had got her the year before.

The plastic ring remained on her ring finger, winking in the streetlights.

They had never made it to the restaurant. A car had veered up on the path as they were walking down the road, knocking him off his feet.
She knelt on the pavement, cradling his head in her lap as sirens screamed.

Wind Chime by Emily Chadwick

Coltan Kingshield stood on the balcony of his new room, looking out over the Summerstone estate. He sighed, raked his fingers through his dark hair and leant on the railing, reflecting. He still was not sure that he had made the right choice in coming here.

The room he had been given was light, airy and Spartan, dominated by a large bed with a soft, heavenly mattress. The pillows were plump and stuffed with goose-down and the sheets were crisp and white. A medium pine desk was crammed in one corner, in case he wanted to bring work to bed. Aside from the door leading out into the main hallway, there were two other doors set into the walls of his bedroom. Through one door was a medium sized room, for a servant to liv in, if he so wish. Through the other was an en-suite bathroom, with a large bath set into the stone floor.

It was not home, but it would do.

“Coltan?”

Startled out of his reverie, Coltan turned. Elery Summerstone, the young master of this estate, was hovering in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“Would you like a tour, or do you want to settle in?”

“I’ll settle in first, if that’s all right.”

Elery inclined his head and withdrew.

Crossing to the trunk at the end of the large bed, Coltan knelt and opened it. He searched through the pile of clothes his mother had insisted he pack, before finding what he was looking for. Carefully, he drew it out.

The wind chime was made of the finest crystal, carved into thin, dangling spires. He held it up to the sunlight. Rainbows scattered across the dark wood floor.

Coltan smiled and hung the wind chime from the roof above his balcony. It sung in the gentle breeze.

Perhaps this place could become home after all.

Golden Rambler by Emily Chadwick

The first time I laid eyes on him, he was lying in a clearing. The sun spun his blond hair into sunshine, dappling his fair skin with puddles of molten gold. He was like something out of an oil painting, the brush strokes that created him too perfect to be real. He had a stalk of grass held between his soft pink lips.

At first, he had his eyes shut, but, as I shimmied on my branch to get a better look, they flew open. I was so startled I almost fell out of the tree. Bright blue eyes blinked once, and then twice.

“What are you doing up there, little one?”

I didn’t answer, just cocked my head to one side and mustered my best attempt at looking puzzled.

The man smiled.

“I’m sorry if this is your tree. I’m just taking a rest, and then I’ll be on my way.”

I shrugged, and the man closed his eyes with another smile.

It shames me to admit what happened next. I should have left quietly and took care of my business elsewhere, but instinct took over.

And I pooped on his face.

The man leapt to his feet with an almost inhuman scream.

“Fucking pigeon!”

African Adventure by Emily Chadwick

The jeep trundled along the tired dirt track. Dust flew up from under its wheels, a conspicuous cloud in the vast wilderness of the African bush. A lion roared somewhere in the distance.

At least, that’s what should have been happening. The tin of paint was called ‘African Adventure’, after all.

Instead, I was kneeling on the hard floorboards of my mum’s bedroom, painting the wall a muddy orange colour. Yep.

I’m not entirely sure why this muddy orange colour made anyone think of an ‘African adventure’. There isn’t even the excuse of ‘well, it looks kind of like sunburn’, because who goes orange when they burn.

Perhaps fake tan, but who would bother fake tanning before going to freaking Africa?

I wish I could see a zebra.

Flamingo Fun by Emily Chadwick

“Do you want to say that again?” My father’s voice was like ice.

I sucked in a breath and ducked my head. “Dad, I’m gay.”

The slap came out of nowhere, so fast I didn’t feel it until it had already happened. My cheek burned.

“No son of mine is going to be a bloody fairy!”

I tried to look up, but my head felt too heavy to stare at anything but the floor.

“Look, Dad… I can’t change this.”

“It’s unnatural, that’s what it is!”

“It’s not unnatural,” I protested without thinking. “There’s been gay penguins. And gay flamingos! It was in the paper.”

My father ignored me.

“How am I going to live with this shame, eh? Did you think about that before you started bending over for random men?!”

I winced.

“Dad, I have a boyfriend. I wouldn’t have sex with random men. It’s dangerous.”

My father didn’t reply. After a long moment of silence, I dared to look up. A vein throbbed in his temple, threatening to explode.

“Dad?” I ventured. My voice cracked and broke.

“You’re not my son,” my father said, and stormed out of the room.

Volcanic Splash by Emily Chadwick

Volcanic Splash were the new hot ‘thing’, the band everyone and their mothers were listening to. The radio stations never seemed to play anything else, though perhaps I was just exceedingly unlucky. Ever since their appearance on Britain’s Got Talent, their faces were everywhere. Photo shoots, interviews, tv appearances, and even (weirdly) an advert for strawberry-flavoured condoms.

The five band members were, by boy band standards, extremely attractive. Like, seriously smoking. And their voices sounded ‘like angels had fallen out of heaven’, to quote a rather tearful Amanda Holden.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have minded. I’m kind of partial to boy bands, even if they’re nestled on my iTunes playlist amongst Slipknot and Black Stone Cherry.

But Volcanic Splash, well…

Every single one of them had been in my pants.

I don’t know what possessed my five ex-boyfriends to form a boy band, or how they even met. Was there an ‘Erin’s Exes Anonymous’ I didn’t know about?

Damn it, why did I have to fall for boys with smoky, sultry, sexy voices?

It didn’t help that the song that had rocketed them to fame was, you guessed it, all about me. Worse, it was catchy.

I’m expecting the press to figure out my identity any day now, and then things will really kick off.

Fml.

Liberty Blue by Emily Chadwick

The colour Mum chose for the walls is called ‘liberty blue’. I dunno why. Spose it’s meant to represent freedom or some shit?

It’s a living room. Doesn’t need to represent freedom or anything.

What’s wrong with fucking beige, Mum?

Blue is calming, apparently. But why some pretentious middle-class bullshit like ‘liberty blue’?

The name doesn’t matter, it’s a pretty colour.

Bullshit. Would you buy something called ‘shit brown’? Didn’t think so.

Liberty blue.

Sounds like something a celeb would call their kid, then we’d be stuck hearing about darling ‘Libby’ for years to come. Eventually, she’d go by blue, get hooked on cocaine, and we’d have a hundred pics of her falling out of nightclubs with her tits out.

Yep, that’s what you’re having on your wall, Mum. Drunken tits.

Liberty fucking blue.

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Note - this one did not come in late. I managed to lose it in the inbox. Apologies to Emily.

Russian Velvet by Emily Chadwick

Marie looked at the fabric swatches spread out on the coffee table, a frown marring her delicate lips.

“What about this one?”

The tip of one slender finger touched a deep red velvet.

“Ah, that’s Russian velvet.” Anton clapped his hands together. “Very popular in the upper circles.”

“Are Russians well known for their velvet?”

“I don’t really know, madam.”

“Never mind, then. To be honest, I find velvet a rather heavy fabric, don’t you?” She paused. “Do you have any Russian silk?”

“Ah, no. For curtains?”

“I don’t know, I think silk curtains would be absolutely marvellous. They’d practically dance in the breeze.”

Anton dabbed at his forehead with his handkerchief.

“I… I can make some enquiries.”

“Good. Whilst you do that, could you also find out if Russia is known for its velvet? I’m curious.”

“Of course, madam.”

Venetian Crystal by Emily Chadwick

The glasses were made of Venetian crystal. That was the first thing he noticed. Andrew Rainer wouldn’t be caught dead serving his guests wine in some substandard glass. His eyes then dropped to the rest of the dinner place, set out in front of him like some sort of code. The cutlery was made of pure silver with ivory handles. The napkins were Egyptian cotton, or perhaps somewhere that made even finer quality fabric. He wasn’t exactly a cotton connoisseur.

The last thing that caught his eyes – in retrospect, the most important thing – was a tiny white pill, positioned carefully beside his glass.

“You can take the pill, Davey, and this will all be over.” Andrew Rainer’s voice echoed through the empty dining hall. “If you don’t, I’m afraid you’ll have to endure my hospitality a little longer.”

Rainer’s ‘hospitality’ ached under his clothes. Davey’s mouth twisted, but he said nothing.

“Make your choice, Davey.”

After a beat of silence, Davey picked up the little white pill, rolling it between his fingertips.

Death was easy. Choosing life was harder.

Picnic Basket by Emily Chadwick

The picnic basket was packed for two.

Neatly cut sandwiches nestled in cling-film squares, alongside tiny pots of jam and honey, packets of crisps and shiny red apples. Home-made cakes were packed in rows, complete with swirled icing and chocolate drops, next to crumbling flapjack and shortbread biscuits. A large flask of hot water and a bag of teabags completed the ensemble.

The only thing I lacked was someone to go with.

My husband’s chair stood empty, and would remain so now, ever since that night I returned home from the hospital alone. Sometimes, I forgot that.

Letting out a breath, I started to unpack the basket again.

Mademoiselle by Emily Chadwick

Sir Reginald von Toastingham twirled his moustache as he surveyed the gaggle of pretty women outside the fine Parisian milliners. The ladies were crowding around a display of particularly flamboyant and vibrant hats, giggling and chattering as they vied for the best viewing spots.

There were tall girls and short girls, skinny girls and plump girls. Redheads, brunettes and blondes.

And they were all unchaperoned.

Sir Reginald tugged on his moustache with a smile.

There was an especially delectable French morsel standing a little way away from the others, She was blushing prettily as she bobbed on her feet, craning for a peek at the hat display. Her rich dark hair was twisted up in an elegant knot at the back of her head, held in place by a fine mother-of-pearl clip. Blue eyes sparkled.

Sir Reginald walked up to her, his fingers tight on his finely-carved cane.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle.”

Lunch Date by Emily Chadwick

She was late.

Eli tore his napkin into fretful strips, tossing anxious glances at the diner’s door.

She was late. She should be here by now. She had said so.

He took a sip of his water, his fingers trembling as he held the glass.

Why was she late? Was it his hair? His clothes? Did he smell bad?

He tried to give himself a discreet sniff, but stopped when he realised that a wizened old man was staring at him from the next table.

“Would you like to order?” The waitress tapped her pencil against her skirt, cherry-red lips twisted in a fake smile.

“I – I’m waiting for someone, thanks.”

“Okey-dokey.”

The waitress tottered away, hips waggling. Eli stared intently at the fingerprints on his glass, his cheeks red. The waitress was probably laughing at him in the backroom.

Maybe she wouldn’t come after all.

All he could do was wait.