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Fiction – Sudha Subramanian

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The sugary stickiness you scrubbed away 

She blinks behind the pink candy jar and giggles, leaving a mist on the glass container. You sidestep, angle your head to see the dent on her cheeks deepen. Your fingertips itch to feel the vortex, but you wipe the sweaty palm on your skirt and stand on tippy toes as she draws a fistful of treats and signals. You soft-walk on the red-oxide floor and follow her to the backyard. You both cup your mouths laughing before running towards the hideout under the mango tree, slippers slapping at our heels, skirts flapping between your thighs. With backs to the stump, you stuff your mouths when she brings her lips to the side of your face and kisses, leaving a mark of sugary stickiness. You jerk, wide-eyed, sensing the current carouse through your body and you shrink. All the films and TV shows had nothing about girls kissing girls. She is quick to wipe away the saccharine drool with her thumb, but you keep rubbing away the kiss on your cheek, causing a red patch that Amma suspects is an allergic reaction. You don’t tell Amma you have promised not to get these marks from your best friend anymore.

She leans across the table to grab your book. Her skin smells of sandalwood and sweat. Her fingers nestle in the crook of my arm and her well-oiled braided plaits dance on her budding chest. A black beauty spot has emerged on the tip of her brow. You look away and think of deep-sea animals on the Discovery channel to relax your racing pulse when she laces her arm around yours. You squirm as new hives break out in the pit of your palm where her sweet scent nestles in a beaded touch. A bell rings in your head. Your toes curl inside those black buckle shoes. “No!” You cast away her hand, her feet, her presence and declare her your enemy. Her eyes well up. She reaches out but crawls back her fingers, and you run home feeling the weight of guilt. You don’t speak to her for the rest of the school term.

She runs her well-manicured hand through her hair and rests her chin on her palm. The dots on her cheeks are faint but not invisible. You sit across from her at the school reunion while five others fill the space around the round table. Her voice is soft and honeyed, and she darts her kohl-rimmed eyes around the table, avoiding you. She talks about her kids, and you lean in to listen, play with the food and question marks pop into your mind. You chew your lips, wonder about her marriage, yours, her kids, yours. Soon, it’s time for goodbyes. You match your strides with hers to the car park, and muster up the courage for small talk.

“You want a ride home?”

“I can find a cab.” You play with your saree pleats to keep your hands busy.

“Don’t be silly.” She almost grabs your arm but closes her fingers. Your stomach twists. Her shoulders droop. You match your strides with her and settle next to her in the car. Inside the closed space, your tongue goes frigid and the racing of your heart can put an Olympic champion to shame. All the conversations you have imagined over the years dissolve in the hum of the engine. So, you listen to the tyres grate the tar road and throw an occasional glance at her. She fixes her eyes ahead and says nothing till you reach home. You don’t invite her in; you thank her with a simple nod and wave as a rock nestles in your chest, choking you. That night, you dream of candies, mango trees, succulent coconut scraps, and a stealthy touch.

She hunches over, taking sharp breaths in the local park where you go for your run. Sweat beads over her tiny beauty spot, which has ballooned into a mole. You adjust your ‘dry-fit t-shirt’ thinking of all the PE classes she skipped when you hear the candy-floss man ring the cart bell. She catches your eyes, smiles, winks, and you see the little girl with chubby cheeks. You glare as she races to the cart, buys two sticks — one for each of you. Your gut constricts as your fingers brush against hers. The dormant electric current re-ignites, jolts. You gasp as she pokes the cotton ball, scoops a pinch of wool, and pops into her mouth. Strings of pink stick out of her mouth, and cling to her cheeks, below the faint dent. You want to wipe the sticky residue off her face, lips. Her eyes are misty as she shakes her head while you search for something to hold on to. She grunts, rises.

“Wait!” Your voice is squeaky like a broken record.

She extends her hand. Her fingers are inches away. You want to grab, hold, kiss and feel the warmth of her skin. The lines in her palm blur.

“You can do this!” she whispers.

You hear your sobs, your heartbeat, as the world spins.

“Come!” she begs when the voice of the man breaks your trance. Her face scrunches, breaking your heart into a thousand pieces. You sniff away your tears, dust your sweatpants and hand her back the cotton candy.

She swallows her cheeks, lips, and blinks.

Your heart continues to decimate.

You want to reach out even as the warmth of your husband’s hand grazes the side of your shoulder.

She takes a bite from your candy stick, turns around and jogs away while you watch the dust rise from her heels, and wonder for the first time if you should have told your Amma about the marks your best friend gave you.

Sudha Subramanian lives in Dubai with her husband. She was a columnist in Gulf News for over fifteen years. Her words have appeared in many newspapers and magazines. Her stories have found space in anthologies and in many literary magazines. A complete list of all her publications can be found on her link tree : https://linktr.ee/sudha_subramanian
Sudha is an amateur birder and a tree hugger. Connect with her on X @sudhasubraman or on IG @sudha_subraman or on Bluesky @sudhasubraman.bsky.social

Fiction – Lisa Thornton

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Summer mix


The knights of New Hampshire

Our grandfather taught us to identify trees by the shape of their leaves. If we hold out our cousin arms, we see patterns of elm, maple and oak on our skin. Maine and Massachusetts meet in the dim light. Who will conquer who this summer?

Worn paths lead to abandoned cabins in a ring like spikes on the head of a thistle. We divide into factions and use the dilapidated structures as bases. Water-stained calendars from the 1940s hang from nails in the walls and chipped ceramic bowls fill the cabinets. We sit cross-legged on plank floors planning our attacks, white stuffing exploding from mortal wounds in upholstered couches so laden with dust our eyes itch and water if we bounce on them. 

We fight like our parents with their menthols and plastic cups. Practicing for when slaughter comes at the hand of a sharp sentence, we slice at the air with sword branches and fling balls of mud with rocks rolled surreptitiously inside them. We know the true nature of family. We know how to play. We were taught by the parries and the starve-outs and the silences. The tricksters and the go-for-the-throats.

We hide in hollowed tree trunks and beneath crumbling porches with slugs and caterpillars and earthworms. We hold our breath. The oldest of us, in from the coast, steers us away from the refrigerator tossed down the hillside. When one of the twins get scared and starts to cry, we bury him in a pile of fallen leaves. We hide behind stacked towers of empty Michelob cans and jump from disemboweled mattresses, ignoring the far-off voices when surely it is not dinnertime yet. We strip twigs from a birch limb and peel off its bark. We kneel, circles of moisture growing on the knees of our jeans. We tap shoulders one at a time, bestowing power, demanding allegiance, promising fealty. We give each other new names.

We use hub caps as shields and mix toxic teas of mud and clover, dandelion and sand in upturned, dog-chewed frisbees. We wriggle under foundations. We ride horses made from bent bicycle tires and plywood and strips of moldy tarp. We pry splinters from our fingers and lick blood like soft serve dripping down the sides of our hands. We drink from the stream and catch glimpses of our foes darting through shadows. We sling broken bricks at their chests and shoot arrows of greenstick and sharpened slate at their cheeks.

The voices reach us again and we swat them away like mosquitoes or biting flies but they return, landing in our eyelashes and buzzing our ears and we are pulled from the dappled and into the monochrome without a clear winner, with no trumpets to declare victory, and someone’s mother says let’s get all of you together for a picture and we stand in the cut grass squirming hip to hip with enemies whose hair we have yanked and faces we have slashed. We blink at the adults lined up next to the porch, sipping and smoking and shifting and chuckling. Alright kids, someone’s dad barks while holding a camera up to his eye and they all chant in unison-say cheese. 

Lisa Thornton is a writer and nurse. She has work in SmokeLong Quarterly, Hippocampus Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Necessary Fiction, and other literary magazines. She has been shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction award and the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize. Her stories have been nominated for the Best of the Net award and the Pushcart Prize. She lives in Illinois and can be found on Bluesky and Instagram @thorntonforreal.

Poetry – Ewen Glass

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Keeping Score

I can’t stay in my body.

I can’t get out.

And so the th

                          r 

                        u

                             m

Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and a body of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland and One Art. Bluesky/X/IG: @ewenglass

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