“I don’t like Wanda,” I told my partner Paul. “She’s so disapproving of everyone. Like everyone is going to hell, and she’s the judge.”

Paul laughed. “Don’t be like that, she’s not that bad.” He reached down to pat our dog, Rusty.

“Yeah, she is.”

“Well, you’d better wear a smile because they’re coming over for dinner tomorrow night.”

I rolled my eyes as I grabbed a shopping list. My partner Paul worked with Wanda’s husband Joe. Wanda also knew my aunt from church. Maybe it was their connection that Wanda had already decided she didn’t like me. To put it mildly, my aunt was difficult to get along with.

Roast chicken: check. Salad: check. Dessert: check. Wine: check and double check.

The next evening, Paul tidied the house while I prepared dinner. Roast chicken and a salad isn’t too difficult. I’d deliberately left out roasted potatoes because try as I might, I could never do them properly. They were either uncooked in the middle or burnt on the outside. It’s my superpower.

The lettuce leaves came off nicely. I washed and ripped them roughly to create a rustic salad. Add Roma tomatoes, cubed marinated feta, cucumber, salad onion and just a splash of dressing with more in a tiny jug should people want it. The chicken was just right. Tender, moist, lovingly seasoned with the secret ingredient: a cut lemon inside. Perfect. Rusty sat at the edge of the kitchen, watching intensely should a scrap fall to the floor. She was our vacuum cleaner, devouring food scraps from the floor often before I even noticed I dropped something. But she knew her manners: don’t get underfoot, don’t come into the kitchen while we’re cooking, don’t beg for food.

We didn’t often have people over despite Paul loving dinner parties. First, I’m a terrible cook. Secondly, we don’t know that many people. Due to lack of well, everything, I didn’t own a tablecloth. I cleaned the dining table thoroughly, using the least-chipped plates and the new cutlery we’d bought to replace the mismatched ones received when we moved in together. Salad in a fruit bowl because that’s all we have, a single daffodil in a tall vase, and old bamboo placemats was the best I could do.

I was watching TV when Wanda and Joe knocked on the door. Paul excitedly let them in. I liked Joe. He always wore a smile and had a dad joke at the ready. He was witty, full of puns, which their teenage kids didn’t appreciate. No one had ever seen Joe in a bad mood.

Rusty bounded around the living room while Joe and Paul joked and Wanda inspected our humble abode. It badly needed a coat of fresh paint, but as it was a rented house, it wasn’t our problem. I loved our front window; it was bay-style. People often sit there in movies, but I had my collection of crystals displayed there. My favourites were the rose quartz zoo: a rabbit, elephant, penguin, dolphin, and tortoise all carved from blushing pink rose quartz. I also had a clear crystal pyramid, a green fluorite pyramid and obeslisk, lapis lazuli bracelet and a few other assorted pretty things that I liked just because I thought they were cool.

“So these are the crystals,” Wanda said disapprovingly. I noticed she’d tucked her hands closer to her as she walked past, as though my heathen symbols would reach out and grab her, damning her to the fires of Hell. I stifled a groan and resisting an eye roll, choosing to sip my win and stay silent.

Once we were seated at dinner, Rusty sat politely next to me hoping I’d drop something tasty. She’s not wrong. I’m a messy eater. Normally she sat under the table but it was too crowded there tonight.

“This lettuce is quite chunky, don’t you think?” Wanda said, spearing a leaf. “It’s so much nicer when it’s chopped nicely. Fits better on the fork, and also in your mouth.” She used her knife to cut all her lettuce into small pieces. I blushed, feeling shame flood my face. Only Wanda would complain about how lettuce was served.

“Lettuce today our daily greens,” said Joe, breaking the tension. Paul laughed while I could only manage a small smile. In defiance, Joe stuffed a whole piece of lettuce into his mouth, showing Wanda she was being silly.

“I don’t like the way that dog is looking at me,” Wanda said a minute later as she cut into her chicken, even though Rusty was looking at me.

Paul didn’t say anything. He just grabbed Rusty’s collar and dragged the poor dog outside. “Sorry about that,” he said when he returned.

“She lives here, you don’t,” I mumbled. Only Paul heard me. He shot me a warning glare. “What?” I whispered. “If she doesn’t like it here, she shouldn’t have come. It’s not like she didn’t know I have crystals and a dog.”

“Once our dog dies, we won’t get another one,” Wanda said, spearing another piece of cut lettuce along with her chicken. “The kids are too old now, they’ll be moving out. And a dog is just like family, but a dog-part of the family. They’re still wild animals, bred to live outside.”

I was fuming. Rusty was about as wild as a baby. She slept on her own bed next to my side only because Paul had ‘allergies’ and didn’t like her sleeping on the bed. Already I could hear Rusty whine at the door, gently scraping her paw against it as she tested to see if it was properly closed.

I refused to serve dessert, but I cleared away the dinner plates, angrily dropping one when I shoved it too hard into the dishwasher. I hoped it was Wanda’s plate. Paul refused to speak to me as he dished out custard tart with ice cream. I’d wanted chocolate to offset the vanilla custard, but Paul argued vanilla would be best. This, along with Wanda’s attitude, defeated me. All I wanted to do was retreat into my bedroom with Rusty and cry.

“That was a great dinner,” said Joe as they were leaving.

“Wish I could say the same,” said Wanda with a fake smile.

“Screw you, Wanda,” I blurted. Everyone glared at me but I was beyond caring. “If you don’t like my house, my crystals, my dog, or my cooking, you’re not invited back.”

Paul attempted a laugh. “You’re on candid camera!” he said awkwardly. Even Joe had nothing to say. I turned on my heel and went to bed, letting Rusty in the back door.

Fifteen years later, I am slicing lettuce for my lunch salad when Wanda’s words filter into my head: “You’re doing the lettuce wrong.”

Screw you, Wanda.

Screw you, Wanda was originally published in Quick Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My two best friends are Selena and Ashby. They’re identical twins, but if you know what to look for, you can tell them apart. Selena’s ears are a little bit more sticky-out than Ashby’s, and Ashby has a wider smile. But if you really want to tell them apart, ask them to say “vodka”. Ashby always says it in a Russian accent.

We became best friends when they moved into my street and we walked home together. Ashby is the only one of us who has ever had a boyfriend, and that only lasted a month. Maybe he didn’t like the way she said vodka.

“Where’s Selena?”

Ashby shrugged. Already I could see sweat marks in the armpits of her shirt, which said DRAMA QUEEN in gold glittered writing.

“We were supposed to go to the movies,” I said. “And she chose the movie.”

“We don’t always have to do things together,” Ashby replied, tracing the outline of her lips with a pencil.

“Except that we do, and we always have.”

Ashby applied cherry lip gloss and turned to stare at me. “Well, today we don’t.”

“Fine, I’ll just text her.” I touched my finger to the phone. It lit with enthusiasm.

Ashby knocked it out of my hand. The phone slid across the tiled floor, stopping just before it hit the wall.

“What’s your problem?”

Ashby smacked her lips together, wiping a stray smear of lip gloss from around her mouth.

“I don’t know where she is and I don’t care either.”

“So you had a fight,” I said, reaching down for my phone. “You could have just said that.”

Ashby shrugged again.“Let’s go. I don’t want to miss the beginning.”

The film was boring. I think I dozed during it, waking when Ashby poked me in the ribs and whispered that I was snoring. We grabbed frozen drinks and some hot chips before taking a shortcut through the bushland on our way home.

“I still can’t believe we’ve finished school,” I mused, taking a slurp of my drink. “Mum wants me to get a proper job right away, but it’s hard unless I want to work in a supermarket or McDonald’s.”

“Oh boo hoo! Must be hard, not having parents who want you to work as soon as you’re old enough,” Ashby said, her foot crashing down on a large twig, snapping it in half. “Me and Sel have been supporting our parents since year eight.”

I sighed. Ashby was in a mood today. “I know that! I’m just saying…”

She stopped. Hands on hips. Eyes locked onto mine. “Your mum has money, you don’t have to keep rubbing it in my face.”

“Screw you,” I snapped. “Just because you had a fight with Selena doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me!”

“Hmph.”

“Fine. You go home and me and Selena will go someplace. I’m not going to get caught in the mid-”

A flash of red caught my eye. In the brownish green landscape, red did not belong. I reached out to touch it. It felt silky. I scanned the bushland, hoping to see something that would lead me to whatever had left this here. Ashby walked on without me.

“Hold up,” I said. “I’ve found something weird.”

“It’s just a bit of fabric. Someone tore their shirt while bushwalking. See ya,” she said, already several steps ahead.

“Text me later,” I called after her. The only acknowledgement was a wave of her hand. She didn’t even look back.

Years ago, when I was just a kid, my brother and I went bushwalking and found torn scraps of cloth. We ignored it. Later on the news, we saw that two people had fallen in the bush. One had broken their ankle and the other went for help but got lost. By the time they were found, they had both died. If my brother and I hadn’t ignored that torn cloth, we might have found them and been able to get help.

I fingered the material. It was soft, silky. “Hello?” I called into the trees. Only bird calls answered. I left the path, not sure what I was looking for, only knowing that I wasn’t going to ignore this again.

“Hello?” I called over and over. “Can anyone hear me?” I strained my ears. A soft moan might be all they could manage.

I walked in a zigzag pattern until I could heard the creek running over rocks. “Hello?” If anyone was lost down here, surely they’d head towards the creek.

Still no response. I dropped a pin in my location, just in case. With a sigh, I headed back the way I’d come, found the path, and went home.

Leaving Ashby to cool her mood, I didn’t bother texting her for three days. It was actually Selena who texted me first, replying to several messages I’d left. We met up at a cafe three streets over. I ordered my usual caramel latte, she ordered her normal Americano with a dash of hazelnut.

“Where have you been, anyway?” I asked, sipping the coffee. “I’ve been texting like crazy, and your sister wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Selena rolled her eyes. “She’s upset because I apparently used her foundation and didn’t put it back. Chloe licked it clean,” she said, referring to their cat. “As if I’d use her stuff. That colour doesn’t suit me anyway.”

“Well, you’re here now,” I said cheerfully. “Wish you two didn’t fight though, it’s so inconvenient.”

“Yeah.” Selena paused for a minute, holding her drink, staring into the dark liquid. “It’s so weird, right, I went for a walk, and I completely lost track of time. I went home and everyone was so worried. It was like I’d been gone for three days!”

“That’s not so weird. People worry when you go out and don’t contact them.”

Selena shook her head. Her blonde hair straggled over one eye. “No, that’s not it. They actually think I was gone for three days. And look at this.” She tapped her phone and opened up photos. Her perfectly manicured nails flicked through to the end before handing it to me.

I tapped the first photo to enlarge it on the screen. It was a selfie; sunlight dappling through her hair, creating shadows which made her face look sharper than it really was.

“I like your hair this way,” I noted.

“Scroll through,” she instructed.

I swiped to the next photo. She was lying on the ground, but she wasn’t holding the phone. Her eyes were closed, both arms beside her body, ankles neatly crossed.

“How did you press the button, resting it against a rock?” I said, turning the phone to another angle. “You kinda look dead…”

She leaned over and tapped the picture. “Look closer.”

Using two fingers to enlarge the pic again, I scrolled around. “I can’t see anyth-”

My fingers froze a millimetre off the screen. Hard to see, but there was a blur just off her stomach, like something was standing on her arm. Everything else was clearly focused. I scrolled further. Three blurs were around the top of her head.

“What is that?” I asked.

She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t know, but look at the next picture.”

It was a face. Right in front of the camera. Obscuring the still body of Selena behind it. It kind of looked like those trolls from the movie, the ones with bright hair who sing a lot. This face smiled. A peaceful smile, if I were to describe it. A cheeky smile. A I’m-not-going-to-hurt-you smile.

“What…”

“There’s more.” She took the phone from me, flicked through a few more photos, and handed it back.

This time, Selena was standing. She was awake, laughing. Little blurs danced around her feet. Rather, tiny people danced, their backs were blurry.

“Wings,” Selena said quietly. “I think I was taken by fairies for those three days.”

I laughed. “Yeah, OK. Great joke. Does SnapChat have a new filter?”

Her face fell. “No. No, you don’t understand. I actually think the fairies took me for those three days. I don’t remember anything.”

“But you’re dancing with them,” I said, not believing a single word.

Selena bit her lip. “I know. That’s what worries me. I don’t remember anything and somehow they got into my phone and took pictures.”

I handed the phone back. “OK, so you were taken by fairies…”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. No one does.”

“Oh come on! Fairies? Really?”

Selena stood abruptly, scraping her chair across the floor. “I’m going home. I’ll see you later.” She grabbed her scarf from the back of the chair: it was silky red material.

Alone with two untouched drinks, I pulled out my own phone to search for ‘fairy abductions’. I found pages of stories from all over the world- including several from the bushland near our own houses.

The three of us searched many times for fairies, but never found any evidence. We made fairy houses, left gifts, and eventually opened a Fairy Tours business. Several customers have claimed to see fairies, some even have photos. I never quite believed Selena’s story… maybe she licked a mushroom… but if others believe, what choice do I have?

Pixie Dust was originally published in Quick Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Within the old wooden building, a group of men were drinking. They had gathered for the pub’s bawdy night, washing down their fatigue with draughts from the bar. It was a rowdy crowd, usual for a Saturday night.

“That’s a nice watch you got there,” Jack told his neighbour.

“Aye,” replied Dan in his thick brogue.

“How much you want for it?”

“A night with your wife,” said Dan, and the crowd roared with laughter.

Saturdays were the most popular night of the week. Tonight was an extra special night: the talent was rumoured to be the loveliest Helene, fresh from a tour of Egypt and Persia where she had undoubtedly learned exotic moves to entice any red-blooded male. As the rowdy group continued their drinking, the lamps suddenly dimmed, leaving a small ring of fire in the middle of the room. Men scraped their chairs backwards, allowing room for the mystical woman to appear.

The noise level dropped in anticipation. There was a tangible energy rising with expectation of something special.

A jingle. A prolonged rebel yell. A soft coo. More jingles. A bare foot stepped into the circle, illuminated by lamps on the floor. The men’s eyes lingered on that foot before slowly eyeing her smooth legs, covered knees, gyrating hips, undulating waist, full breasts, dancing arms, long neck, lips longing to be kissed, eyes beckoning one into her sacred space, hair long and flowing.

The men yelped. A few men reached into the circle, hoping to brush just a finger against the mystical Helene. She smacked their hands away, empowering herself with nothing but the rhythm. No one noticed the piano in the corner nor the steady beat of a home-made drum, but they felt both.

Helene moved around her circular space, giving each man just a hint of her scent. Heady vanilla lingered just out of reach, while orange blossoms danced from her flowered tiara, wafting in the wake of her body.

Starting with her knees, she carefully lifted her skirt just enough to allow a glimpse of her upper leg; not quite the thigh, but definitely more than knee. More than one man swore they had seen her undergarments, frilly pink lace the kind their wives wore on their honeymoon.

Helene peeled her shawl from her shoulders, allowing it to fall gracefully to the floor. The men howled at the sight of her pale, creamy skin. Their howls sent Helene into a literal spin. She fixed her eye on a crack in the wall behind the bar, then pirouetted quickly. Transfixed, no man noticed she was disrobing as she spun.

She slowed to a stop in the middle of the circle. Her clothes, everything except her lingerie, lay in a pile on the floor.

Exactly sixty seconds after Helene had stopped her pirouette, she danced out of the circle, leaving the hungry men attacking her clothes like a pack of wolves.

“Why?” the men cried.

The bar keep shrugged. “Regulations,” he offered. “Anything more than a minute and the cops’ll be here faster than her twirl.”

Sixty Second Stripper was originally published in Quick Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

“Where are my keys?”

Ron sighed as he turned over couch cushions, tossing them on the floor, then lifting them to check the floor. He lifted one edge of the couch, peering under it using the light from his iPhone. Everything on the coffee table also ended up on the floor with one sweep of his arm.

“You could help me,” he said, pushing my feet off the coffee table also.

“Yep. I could.” I went back to swiping the icons in the game I was playing on my phone.

“Bitch.”

He emptied the kids’ toyboxes. He looked under their beds. He opened all their drawers, chucking carefully folded clothes all over their floors. I heard the commotion.

“You’d better put those back!” I called. He swore in reply. I grinned. No, I didn’t know where his keys were, but him actually getting off his arse and looking for them amused me.

“Have you tried looking in your car?”

He appeared, red faced and sweating. His eyes narrowed. “If you’ve put them anywhere…”

“I haven’t touched your keys. I’m just trying to help.”

“Get up and help me look!”

I scratched my ear, my eyes never leaving my phone screen. “Uh, nope. You’re on your own.”

He mumbled something I can only guess at.

An hour later, I was hanging out some washing and he was still looking for his keys.

“Call your mates, maybe one of them took them home by accident.”

His eyes pinged open. Without replying, he tapped on his phone and I heard Derek’s deep voice on the speaker.

Derek didn’t know anything about his keys either. Tommy, the usual group’s joker, claimed not to know the keys’ whereabouts either, but something in his voice made me wary.

“I think Tommy probably does know,” I said casually. “Did you guys go anywhere the other night?”

Ron shrugged, his mind ticking over the group’s meanderings a few nights ago. Ron and his mates had congregated at our place to watch the footy while I went to Derek’s house to meet up with the wives club. We’d done nothing but drink wine and watch The Notebook. Evidently the guys had been up to many more shenanigans; when I returned the house was in shambles, with empty beer cans littering every horizontal surface in the house. Even the kids’ rooms were affected: how the heck did ketchup get dripped down the walls?

“I dunno. We didn’t go anywhere and the boys called Ubers to get home.”

“Well then, you’ll have to keep looking.”

Three days later and the keys were still missing. Ron had been using my car even though he disliked it so; my car was too small for his height. Every time he used my car, he grumbled about it almost non-stop. Luckily the kids were old enough to catch the school bus by themselves. Forcing him to leave the car for me while he went to work… well, that would be fun.

That same afternoon, I walked down to the shop on the corner because I really felt like some chocolate milk. I also needed bread for the kids’ school lunches, but I was willing to wait until the following morning to pick that up from the supermarket. Still, since I was here craving chocolate milk, I bought some bread and a few other assorted items to tide me over until the kids’ school bus arrived.

On my return, my eye caught a glint of sunlight hitting something tiny and shiny. With bright spots still dancing in my eyes, I bent down to pick up a brown leather walllet; the metal clasp button had caught the angle of the sun. If the wallet had been there when I left, I hadn’t noticed it. I popped it into the plastic bag carrying my other items, and wrangled the house keys from my back pocket.

Disappointingly, the wallet’s ID had been taken, giving no indication of the owner nor their address. It could have come from anywhere. A jogger, someone walking their dog, thrown out of a car window. I assumed the wallet had been stolen, since the ID and debit cards were not inside.

I was outside waiting for the school bus as it dropped off my kids.

“What are you doing out here?” asked Brendon, stepping off the bus with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“I need the bus. Move, you’re in the way.”

“But mum, this is a school bus. You can’t just get on like a regular bus,” Brendon said, his face beginning to flush.

“I’m not embarrassed.”

“Ma’am, I’m gonna have to ask you to move,” the bus driver said, one hand on the lever to close the door.

“I’ll go with you, mum,” offered Joe, the younger of my two sons.

Aboard the bus, with Brendon safely at home lest his mother embarrass him in public, I showed Joe the wallet I’d found.

“Can’t you wait til Ron gets home?”

“The police station will be closed by then. And he’ll leave early tomorrow with my car. If this was your wallet, you’d want it back, right?”

“Sure, I guess.”

The bus stopped three blocks from the police station. Close enough. Joe told me about his day and the homework he was expected to do over the next month.

“Well, I can’t help you. I never did my homework,” I said, breathing heavily from the walk. I was more unfit than I cared to admit.

“I like homework,” Joe replied. “If I’m going to be a journalist, I won’t be restricted to work hours. I’ll have to be on the ball all hours of the day and night. It’s good practise.”

A young lady with waist length brown hair was behind the desk at the police station. I’d only been in once before, about four years ago when the license plates were stolen from my car. There were signs everywhere: Do Not Bring Weapons Into the Station, If you’re reporting for bail, please wait in the green corridor on your right, Domestic Violence is NOT OK, If office is unattended please ring bell once.

I placed the wallet on the counter. The young lady looked up, her fingers still writing furiously.

“Just be a moment,” she said.

Joe looked around, choosing to sit in a faded blue plastic seat whose legs were attached to the floor.

“Sorry to keep you, how can I help?”

“I found this wallet…” The forms she filled out took little time. I signed the receipt and she handed me a yellow copy.

Just as I turned, motioning Joe to follow, a lady about my age entered the station, holding the hand of a toddler, who was sucking on a lollipop.

“Hi, I found these keys…”

I looked at the set of keys she had put on the counter. A flash of green caught my attention. I walked over next to her… Yep, Ron’s keys.

“Hi, excuse me. Where did you find these?”

“In a tree at Sailor Park. They’ve been there a few days. I left them in case someone came back for them…”

I smiled at the lady behind the counter, who was looking quite confused at this turn of events. “These are actually my husband’s keys,” I said.

“Oh, well, um, lucky you came in when you did!”

Ron called Tommy that night. He admitted everything: Having had a few too many, he thought it would be hilarious to hide the keys in a tree at the local park. Ron remembered Tommy going out to take a leak, and thinking he was taking a while.

Men eh?

Keys was originally published in Quick Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My husband is cooking dinner, singing loudly and off-key, punctuating the chorus with rhythmic farts.

My twin boys are playing trains, arguing over who gets to be the red one.

My youngest, Molly, is playing with a big yellow truck, mashing purple playdough into the tray part and squishing her Barbie’s feet into the soft dough in order to make her stand up.

And my mother is sitting on the couch next to me, crossword book on her lap, pen tapping against her forehead as she tries to think of a 6 letter salad vegetable starting with E.

“Why are you watching this crap?”

“My TV, my choice of show. And the word you’re looking for is endive.”

She grimaced before scrawling the answer in the little boxes.

“Dinner in ten!”

The twin boys race to the table, knocking over the rail bridge in their hurry. My daughter removes Barbie from the playdough, peels off the remaining goo, and, holding Barbie’s hand, toddles off to the bathroom to wash her hands.

I flick the TV off.

“I was watching that!”

“You just called it crap.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to find out who Desiree was calling the cops about,” Mum pouted.

“Are you having dinner with us tonight?”

She continued scrawling answers onto the crossword. “No. I think I’ll take myself out for dinner.”

“Fine. Don’t bring anything back for the kids.”

I set the table while my husband drained the spaghetti. Mum took her purse and before my kids could ask where she was going, she was out the door, her car headlights shining through our glass front door.

“Is grandma gonna bring us back something good?” Tim asked.

“No, now eat your pasta,” said my husband Cam gently, shooting me a look. “When is your mother leaving, anyway?”

I shrugged. “We’ll have to talk about it when the kids go to bed.”

“Ohhhh but mum! We want to know too!”

“Sean, just eat your spaghetti. Your father and I will talk about it later.”

I know Cam gave the boys a glare, because they muttered, “Ooooh” to each other before flicking their spaghetti at each other and throwing a meatball at their sister while she was trying to feed Barbie.

We had almost finished when my mother returned, a takeaway bag in her hand and a cardboard tray with ice creams in the other.

“ICE CREAM!”

All three kids ran to Grandma, who laughed and said it was a treat for after their baths. It must be the only time in history that all three of my children tore off their clothes and scrambled over each other to get in the bath first.

I helped Cam clear the table and wash the dishes while my mother supervised the kids in the bath. I could hear a bubble fight and crying from my daughter while Grandma threatened no ice creams if they didn’t calm down and clean themselves.

“So, are we going to talk about your mum?”

“What do you want me to do? She’s got no money, or so she says. No place to live while her unit is waiting for the lease to do whatever the hell they’re doing. She needs the bond back from that first place before she can get into another place.”

He didn’t say anything but I saw him scrub the pot harder than it needed.

“Look. I know this isn’t ideal. But, she is giving the kids a bath.”

“Yeah, because she bribed them with ice cream! Tell me, how can she cry poor when she’s buying ice cream for the kids every time she goes out?”

I dropped the tea towel on the rack and twisted to face my husband.

“I don’t know. I can’t just kick her out.”

“Why can’t your sister take her?”

“Gina? Ha! Gina’s husband will probably divorce her. You know what they’re like. Mum’s always been closer to me than to Gina.”

“Hon, she’s not your problem. She’s a grown woman -”

“- who can’t manage her money. I know, I know.”

Bathing finished and three children wrapped snugly in bathrobes, Cam and I had also finished the washing up. I noticed Mum’s takeaway bag on the counter, grease stains seeping through the paper to create windows of heart disease. Because that’s what we needed: a dead grandmother.

“Isn’t it funny how your mother always complains about being allergic to everything yet has no problem with the Colonel’s eleven herbs and spices?”

“Shush you.” I playfully slapped his thigh with my sodden tea towel, leaving a wet mark on his pants that, of course, the kids then teased him about.

“Look, daddy wet his pants!”

The littlest kiddo danced around her daddy, poking the wet patch and saying daddy needed to wear a nappy like she did.

Five seconds later, our three children flew into the lounge room screaming out catchphrases from their favourite superheroes, followed by Grandma waving three sets of pyjamas.

“Well, goodnight you lot. I’m going to my room.” Without waiting for good nights from the kids or us, she went straight to her room and closed the door. I could hear the crinkling of takeaway paper bag above the screaming kids and through her door.

“ICE CREAM!”

“Fine, just get your pyjamas on,” said Cam. He looks at me. “What? Bribery works.”

All three children sat on the couch and ate their ice creams. Our daughter drank some milk and then I shoved them into the bathroom to brush their teeth.

“Aww, no fair!” Tim cried as I smoothed toothpaste on his Spider-Man toothbrush.

“You eat food, you need to brush your teeth. Especially after all that sugar Grandma feeds you.”

“But sugar’s good for me,” said Sean. “Miss Davis told us so. Yep, she did. She said we need sugar for our brains to grow so we can learn stuff!”

“Well, it’s still bad for your teeth and you need to brush them.”

Too early the next morning, even before the kids were awake, I saw Mum walk past our bedroom door and leave the house.

“Where do you think she’s off to?”

“Hmm?”

I poked Cam. “Mum. She’s just left the house. It’s just gone six,” I said, checking my phone charging on my bedside table.

I sent her a text. No reply. Nothing, not even two hours later. I tried calling but she didn’t answer.

“Maybe our wish came true,” joked Cam. “Did we rub a genie lamp the right way?”

Just after dusk, mum returned. All three of the kids swarmed to her.

“Where have you been?” I snapped. “I’ve been calling you all day. It’s really rude to not answer your phone.”

“Just around,” mum replied, her face crunched into a sour look.

“You barely leave your room, let alone the house, and you’re ‘just around’ all day?”

Without answering, she went into her room and emerged a few minutes later with a suitcase packed. “I’m staying at your sister’s tonight. And every night.”

“Why?”

“There were mice on my bed last night and I refuse to sleep there,” she said, and left the house without even acknowledging her grandchildren.

Confusion on his face, Cam gave me the look. He jumped up from the couch and went to her room. He swore loudly and returned, his face beetroot red.

“No wonder there were mice in her room,” he seethed. “Go take a look!”

Naturally, the kids wanted to come too, but Cam held them back. Inside Mum’s room, there were empty chip packets, biscuit wrappers, and lolly bags littering not only the floor but her bed as well. Any mice who found their way in there must have thought they’d died and gone to Heaven. It was a total mess.

I called my sister Gina, my anger bubbling just below the surface.

“Hey,” I said, “Just a heads up, mum’s coming over and she’s in a really bad mood.”

Gina groaned. “Well nice of her to call me herself. I suppose I’ll get the guest room ready. Thanks Bel.”

“I don’t know why she doesn’t stay with Gina,” Cam said. “She’s got a proper guest room, not just an inflatable mattress like we do.”

I shrugged. “Who knows why mum does anything.”

She was only at Gina’s a few days before. a property became available and she was free to move in straight away. Both Cam and I sighed with relief. My mother was finally out of our hair!

…For a month.

The new place was small, next to a communal carport where some guy also living in the complex liked to work on his car all night, pouring noise and smoke into mum’s unit and causing her much stress.

One morning, the kids and I were leaving the house for school when I saw mum’s car on my front lawn, mum asleep inside, covered in her bathrobe as a blanket. I quickly texted Cam, who sent back an angry face emoji.

I held back tears as I drove the kids to school. The boys asked why Grandma was in her car. I had no answer.

Every morning afterwards, I woke to find mum asleep in her car. She was always gone before I returned from the school run.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I sobbed to Cam more than once. He had no answers either. Eventually the stress became too much for mum, and she moved in again. The room she’d been in was now a games room for the kids, so she chose to sleep on the couch every night. It meant that she was always in our space, having no room of her own.

“Are you alright?” Gina said to me one day as I popped over for a coffee and lunch.

“I’m really not.”

She placed a hand over mine as I cried into my latte. “I just don’t know what to do anymore. She only eats junk, so the kids love her, but she’s not doing anything. She doesn’t cook, clean, well, I mean she does the washing up, but that’s it. Oh, and rent-free, did I mention that? She’s too poor to pay board.”

“How does she afford rent?”

“She’s still paying rent on the unit, they won’t let her break her lease.”

“So… she can’t afford to pay board but she eats McDonald’s and KFC every night?”

“Yep.”

“She’s insane. I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

“Do you want her for a while?”

Gina chuckled. “There’s no way she’d stay here. She’s convinced Harvey hates her.”

“Does he?”

A wicked grin. “Maybe a little.”

At home again, mum had a list of places to inspect. “Can you take me to look at these places?”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“I don’t know where they are.”

“Give me your phone.”

She unlocked her smart phone and handed it to me. Within a couple of minutes, I handed it back to her.

“You now have a GPS app. Have fun.”

“But my car isn’t like yours. I can’t look at the phone while I’m driving.”

“Mum, it talks to you.”

“How do I make it do that?”

The day she moved into her new home, Cam and I sipped chilled champagne. The house seemed lighter, fresher, spacier.

The kids had been asking all day why Grandma couldn’t stay here. I just smiled.

“I’m not my mother’s keeper.”

My Mother’s Keeper was originally published in Quick Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

You can call me Chloe. I like that name. You can’t be a bad person if you’re named Chloe.

I was eleven when I discovered my father was a serial killer. It was my ears that gave it away, believe it or not. A kid at school, a couple of years older than me, teased me about my ears constantly. Every day at recess and lunch, each morning before class, each afternoon on the way to the bus stop, this kid would call me unkind names and comment about my ears.

One day, this kid told me I had the same ears as Sam Kearaway, the serial killer. I defended myself the only way I knew how: “I do not!” When my mum came in later that night and found me crying, I told her everything. She was silent.

“It’s silly, just forget it,” she finally said. But I saw her lip tremble. At the time, of course, it didn’t mean anything. Mum was just upset for me. The next day at school, I looked up Sam in the library and we did seem to have the same ears.

Still, I couldn’t come out and ask mum right away. That happened when I was fifteen. We’d had a huge fight; about what, I can’t remember. Afterwards, I yelled at her that she’d lied to me about my real father. She broke down. She admitted it was all true. We hugged. She told me she was sorry. She didn’t know. Not until he was arrested. She never felt in danger. He was nice.

Nice?

“Well, yes,” Mum replied. “I honestly had no idea. I know that’s hard to believe…”

“When did you know?”

She lowered her eyes, ashamed. “The trial. There was just too much I couldn’t ignore anymore.”

So there you have it. I am the daughter of a man who raped and murdered at least 32 women. Some of those women were younger than I am now. It’s not right that I should outlive them.

I’m sitting in a restaurant, waiting for a man I met on a dating app. He looks nice. Professional. Polite. Nice smile. I clink my spoon and fork in turns against my wine glass. White wine. Red looks like blood.

He’s wearing a long black coat, the kind lawyers wear on TV. He’s even carrying a briefcase, which amuses me. I stand up to shake his hand as he approaches.

“Firm handshake,” he notes. “Powerful.”

I smile, and sit. He clears his throat and drags his chair towards the table as he sits. I cringe.

“I’m glad you agreed to meet me,” he says, smile still plastered on his face as if painted on.

“Likewise.”

“Tell me about your childhood,” he says, looking away from me to catch the attention of a waiter.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“No dark skeletons in the closet?” He’s joking, of course. He couldn’t possibly know. It’s been years since I’ve had my ears surgically fixed.

“Not in the closet, but there were several incomplete skeletons under the shed,” I say, sipping my wine.

He laughs as a waiter brings him the same wine I am drinking.

“Regular childhood, huh? Mine too. Nothing at all interesting. Although we did go to Bora Bora when I was twelve.”

“How ‘bout that?” I say with practised indifference.

The rest of our lunch was pleasant enough. I ordered spaghetti. He ordered scallops and mussels, slurping the contents from their shells and tilting his head back as he swallowed. I knew what he was doing. His tongue was doing the same dance he hoped to do to me later.

At the end of the meal, he paid despite my insistence that I pay my share. I do not mind when I pay my own way, but I do like that someone is willing to pay for me. Who complains about a free lunch with two glasses of wine?

I invite him for drinks at my place later that evening, knowing we both have to return to work right now. He checks his smart watch, one that links to his phone. He grins, taps his phone and sets up a reminder. I punch in my address, and tell him I will see him at 8.

At 8.01pm, the intercom buzzed and I tapped the button to let him in. I smoothed my skirt (a different one than I wore to lunch), slicked my hair and opened the door.

I could tell he was impressed by my apartment. “You can rent it, look it up on Air BnB,” I say. He thinks I’m joking and laughs.

“Hmm, something smells delicious,” he said, throwing his jacket on the chair by the door.

“I assume you like pizza?”

He grinned. “Name a red-blooded male who doesn’t like pizza.”

“Well, I’m cooking pizza. Handmade, from scratch. You’ve got the works, but I’m a simple woman. I like just plain cheese.”

“You promised me a drink,” he drawls, moving closer.

“Indeed I did. Do you like tea? I have a selection of herbal teas. Peppermint, chamomile, fruit…”

“Mmm, I was hoping you’d have scotch.” He reclined on the couch, crossing his legs and spreading his arms along the back.

It was a lovely evening. I won’t go into too many details – I’ll leave that to your imaginations – but it was about midnight by the time he left. I always sleep alone.

Before I left the apartment in the morning, I cleaned. I had a booking for a week-long stay starting that afternoon. Before I left, I made sure to take the box of deathcap mushrooms with me. My date from last night should be feeling food poisoning symptoms right now, but by the time he dies in about a week or two, he’ll think he’s better and no one can trace it back to me.

People named Chloe don’t do bad things. However, I am not named Chloe.

Call me Chloe was originally published in Quick Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The man stood on tiptoes, one hand both resting on the bench and holding a walking stick. I couldn’t see what he was reaching for.

Meow.

He didn’t hear me. He stretched as far as his elderly body could, finally pulling a blue mug from the very back of the cupboard.

“How did that get there?” he asked himself.

Meow.

His head turned towards the door where I sat, but he didn’t see me.

Only when he was sitting with hot tea, buttered toast and a newspaper did I catch his attention.

Meow.

“What the dickens are you doing here? Go away!”

I lifted my claws to scratch the screen.

“Don’t you rip that, you little flea ridden git!” He moved his hand to shoo me away, ineffective as I was still behind the screen door.

Undaunted, I sat and watched the man all morning as he went about his business. When I thought he would hear me, I meowed. He ignored me. As the day progressed, I scratched louder on the screen door, increasing both the frequency and the volume of my calls. As the golden sun dipped low in the sky, casting my long shadow onto the kitchen floor, he stood in front of me.

“You still here, you silly cat? Well, come in then. I can’t have you starved to death on me back porch.”

He opened the door, I slinked against his legs and waved my tail.

“Hmph,” the man replied.

I jumped onto the bench, sniffing around for supper. I knew this was where the food was kept, I’d seen him eating it all day. A delicate scent called me to the large plastic container where I’d seen him put rubbish. The lid was stuck open. A swift paw went in and fished out an empty tin that smelled deliciously of sardines.

My tongue tasted the salty delights from the edges of the tin, careful not to cut myself. I’d done that more than once before. When the man saw me, he snatched the tin, shooing me away.

“That’s not for you! I can spare some mince meat, but after that, you’re on your own.”

He placed a small amount of ground meat, something I didn’t recognise, onto a saucer. I ate eagerly.

When I finished, I licked the plate and watched him as he cooked some of the minced meat, added vegetables, and piled it on some toast for himself. Watching me watch him, he scraped some of the cooked meat from his own plate and sat it on my saucer. I sniffed, but it didn’t smell particularly appetising so I left it alone.

Meow.

“Didn’t like it, eh? Tough.”

After his supper, he settled onto a reclining chair in another room, with the television turned up loud, and fell asleep. I was comfortable on his lap.

The next morning, I awoke with the sun, finding a strand of drool on my fur. Stretch. My claws accidentally pricked his legs, which woke him. With a start, he shooed me off and, grumbling, stood up.

He opened and door. Clearly he was expecting me to go outside.

Meow.

“Well, I ain’t feedin’ ya no more.”

Meowwwww.

He picked up a curved thing on a small table by the doorway, twisted his curled fingers to press some numbers, and started talking.

“Has anyone called about a missing cat? … No, I can’t bring it in…”

He looked at me while I cleaned myself.

“She’s… well, I think she’s a she, white face, gingery coat… Is that what you call it? … No… Look, you told me that already and I told you that I can’t bring her in! … How do I know if she has a microchip? There’s no collar… Just tell me if anyone has called about a missing cat! How hard can that be?”

He slammed the handset into the cradle. I jumped from my spot on the bench and rubbed my back against his legs. Partly to comfort, partly to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere, and partly because I had an itchy spot near the base of my tail that I couldn’t quite reach with my paws.

Meow.

He picked me up, opened the back door and threw me outside, slamming the door behind me. I meowed loudly, scratched incessantly. He did not return.

Every morning, I returned to his back door, resuming my routine of scratching and meowing. I saw him inside going about his day, but he never even glanced at me.

Finally, on the eleventh morning of my routine, he opened the door with a sigh.

“You don’t give up.”

He scooped me into his arms, placing me on the bench where there was already a saucer of water for me to drink.

As I sniffed around a bit more, I noticed the man had left out some biscuits for me. Why was he suddenly so friendly? Had my incessant noise broken through his hardened exterior?

I felt warm after my meal. I was sleepy when he picked me up again and placed me on his lap. The past few days had certainly taken their toll on me, so I was happy to curl up and have a nap while the man watched television.

Later that afternoon, the man and I woke up and stretched.

“Your name will be Helen,” he said. “And you can call me Richard. Well… you canna speak… but my name is Richard.”

He spoke to me quite a bit now. He was trusting me. I allowed him his space whenever it seemed he needed it, and he was more than happy to leave me alone whenever I wanted to nap. I did so love sitting with him though. As our friendship grew, Richard began talking to me about everything.

And I’d never break that trust. I pooped where I was supposed to, I was careful not to knock anything over, and when I explored all the interesting nooks and crannies of the house, I was careful not to leave paw prints.

“That’s me wife,” he said one day, pointing to a framed picture. “She died last year. Her name’s Christina. You heard me, Chris-tie-na. Scottish. She could be quite brusque.” He chuckled to himself. I meowed in reply.

“Yes, well, you would say that.”

When he left the house, to have lunch with his daughter, say, he would give me a big hug and tell me he was going to miss me.

I didn’t like this alone time. There was nothing to do except nap and explore. Once I had sniffed everywhere and found all the sunniest spots to sunbathe in, I was bored.

When Richard was home, I listened while he talked about Christina. There was a particular show on the television which made Richard sad. He told me it was Christina’s favourite programme. The show featured people dancing; I liked the music. It was different to the music Richard normally listened to, which had no words. Sometimes, Richard cried when the show came on. I would snuggle closer, his gentle hands with curled fingers would stroke me softly until I purred. We were both comforted.

Richard and I lived together for several months. I knew I was a great friend to him. One morning when I woke, I nudged him and he didn’t move.

I won’t deny I was sad. I’d come to quite like Richard. But it was time to move on. It wasn’t long before I found myself scratching at another door, meowing loudly, waiting for the old lady inside to let me in.

The Cat’s Tail was originally published in Quick Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

This story is written in UK English and set in Australia.

August 29

We’re here! It feels like a very long trip even though it was only a 16 hour drive. I guess since it was spread over a weekend with an overnight rest it feels longer. I bought this little notebook at a souvenir place that we stopped for breakfast and a stretch. Do you like the frangipanis on the front? I think they’re super cute.

Susanne has been so much fun. On the way up, we played travel bingo on laminated cards that I made up. I won :) We spent the whole drive listening to dad’s CDs of 70s music.

“How do you know the lyrics to Cathy’s Clown?” I asked Susanne.

She shrugged. “I thought everyone knew the words,” she replied.

I don’t.

Dad’s house is quite close to the Bay. The waters are completely flat because there are two islands which lie just offshore, and are easily seen when the weather is clear. There’s a lovely sea breeze and when the wind is just right, you can smell the salt. The house itself is a typical suburban house. Susanne is sleeping in the room right next to the bathroom and I’m in the room up the back. I can’t complain, it’s quiet and far enough away from Susanne’s room so when her boyfriend Tom flies in tomorrow, I won’t be able to hear them haha.

August 30

Woke up too early to pick up Tom from the airport. I jokingly asked him if he brought any aeroplane peanuts for me. He said no. I’d forgotten he’s allergic to peanuts. Susanne complained that I was purposely making Tom feel bad. I sulked all the way home. Later, we went to the Bay and walked along the foreshore for about two hours. I am sorely overdressed! It was freezing at home but so warm here. I asked dad to stop at Kmart so I could get a pair of shorts; these jeans are way too hot. I love it here!

Susanne shouted us lunch. She said everything is so cheap here compared to New Zealand. I can’t believe she’s been living there for five years already. I’m happy that she and Tom are moving back, but sad that they’ll still be so far away. I don’t think I can convince Paul to move up here.

August 31

I feel like shit today and I’m not sure why. Dad woke up early and was making a lot of noise, but I think it’s more than that. I think it’s because of Tom. Susanne focuses all her attention on him and I get that he’s her boyfriend… but that doesn’t mean she needs to ignore everyone else. We were having so much fun before he turned up. Argh.

This morning we went looking at display homes, getting an idea of what Susanne and Tom want to buy when they move. It was like I wasn’t even there. No one was interested in my opinions. Susanne took dad’s advice and they talked colour schemes and landscaping, but no one heard me say the bathroom was impractical or that the stairs would be difficult to navigate with armfuls of groceries. Why was I even there?

When we got home, Susanne asked if anyone wanted a drink. We all said yes. She gave dad and Tom a drink but just handed me a glass and told me to get it myself. What a bitch! Just now, I heard the washing machine stop so I went to get the clothes out. It was all her stuff even though I’d put mine in… My clothes are now in the basket, still wet.

Dad bought a new lawnmower and I suggested to Susanne we go halves in it as an early Father’s Day present.

“I think he’d like a new kettle,” she said.

What? A kettle? He already has a kettle. You don’t need anything fancy to boil water for coffee.

I feel like a fifth wheel. A completely deflated, stuffed-in-the-boot fifth wheel.

September 1

Today was amazing! Dad and I went to visit some family friends whom we haven’t seen in about twenty years. Tom and Susanne stayed home because Susanne doesn’t remember these people anyway. I guess she and Tom want alone time. Dad and I got to see some million-dollar houses in a very posh area. It was cool to see.

When we got home, I ate dinner quickly and went to my room. I don’t want to deal with Susanne right now. She offered to make dinner, which was fine, but put avocado on my nachos when I asked her not to. I hate avocado.

September 2

Really missed Paul today. We went to the beach and I scrawled “Paul” into the sand. But because the sun glinted off the phone screen, I couldn’t really see what I was taking a photo of. I sent the photo to him and he answered, “Who’s Aul?” Even though I talk to him every night, it sounds like his heart just isn’t in it anymore. He doesn’t sound like he misses me at all.

Susanne and Tom pretty much did their own thing today. I didn’t mind spending time with dad but I know Susanne has always been the favourite. Dad and I just don’t have that much in common.

September 3

Susanne and Tom chose some houses from the local paper to look at. I didn’t like any of them and when I said something aloud, Susanne just rolled her eyes at me.

“Good thing you won’t be living with us, then,” she said.

Yep, I guess it is a good thing.

We went out for dinner last night. Tom complained about the food so Susanne fed him from her plate! She makes sure she doesn’t order anything with peanuts. She told me once that if she ate peanuts and he kissed her, he could die. I didn’t know allergies could be that sensitive.

Also went shopping for a Father’s Day present. I bought some shoes and a CD and Susanne forced me to go halves for a stupid $70 kettle. I don’t know why any kettle needs to be $70. Does it boil magic water? Susanne was stoked with her choice but I just felt like I’d wasted $35 and Paul was going to be really annoyed with me, spending that much money on a dumb kettle. Susanne has plugged it in, ready for dad’s morning coffee. I hope he can taste the difference of water boiled in a $70 kettle.

September 4

Spent the afternoon by myself watching TV. Dad went to the supermarket and was gone 4 hours. Tom and Susanne went for a walk, then came home and had a nap. I tried to call Paul but he didn’t answer. Even though I love this place, this is definitely the worst holiday ever.

September 5

We went for a long drive today, and I got carsick even though I was sitting in the front. Naturally, Susanne and Tom were in the back. We ended up in a lovely National Park, where we went for a walk and saw a magnificent waterfall. Susanne said it would be awesome to get married on the rocks right near the waterfall and Tom laughed nervously. Maybe all is not well in their paradise?

We stopped for lunch at a little cafe. Susanne ordered for dad, Tom and herself then told me I had to order my own. My food came out ten minutes after theirs. Susanne was impatient; she had already finished hers and was itching to go back outside. Finally I told her to go already, I’d catch up. She and Tom left, dad stayed with me. I didn’t bother catching up. When I finished eating, I sat in the car and cried.

September 6

Susanne and Tom wanted to go shopping. Dad decided he needed some things so he tagged along and because I didn’t want to stay home by myself, I went too. I was hoping to find some summer pants because I really only have jeans or one pair of shorts. The pants were either expensive or hideous, so I came home with nothing. When Paul rang last night, he chastised me for spending too much. I cried myself to sleep, thinking about how Susanne paid for everyone’s meal except mine.

While Susanne and Tom shopped, dad and I caught a movie. It was okay, but I liked the book better.

After dinner, I washed up. I called out, “Who’s drying?”

Susanne replied, “I’ll do it later.”

That’s funny. A couple of nights ago when Tom was washing up, Susanne threw me a tea towel and ordered me to help dry. Now she thinks it’s alright for her to ‘do it later’? Argh!

September 7

While dad was in the council office enquiring about subdividing his land to build another house, Susanne and I looked at the council info. It was interesting. We discovered that quite a few famous people grew up around this area. It was so nice having her to myself; Tom was tired so he stayed home. Susanne is like a totally different person when he’s not around. She and I had so much fun today!

This afternoon, I went for a walk by myself. I didn’t have anywhere specific in mind. I found a supermarket and bought a few things. Not too much, I still had to carry it home. I hoped I’d remember the way back!

Susanne and Tom are flying home tomorrow. She’s been over here a month now, staying with me for most of it until we came up here so she and Tom could look at houses. I’ll miss her when she’s gone.

September 8

Today was horrible.

Tom was taking a really long shower, much longer than usual. Susanne assumed it was relaxing him for the flight home, he’s a nervous flyer, apparently. The bathroom door was locked. She convinced dad to break open the door… Tom was lying on the floor of the shower and he wasn’t breathing. Susanne yelled for someone to call an ambulance. By the time dad had phoned triple zero, Susanne had shut off the water and put a towel over Tom. I know CPR from work so I started that until the ambulance arrived.

The ambulance took Tom to the hospital, hooked up to all sorts of machines, sirens blaring. Susanne and dad followed in the car. I stayed here for when the police came; apparently it’s procedure when someone dies at home.

In the quiet few minutes before the police arrived, I poured the peanut oil I purchased yesterday into the garden and replaced Tom’s shampoo bottle so no trace of peanuts would be found.

The Edge was originally published in Quick Fiction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.