Curlew New York 11/7/25 Curlew New York 11/7/25

November 7, 2025 — “In the Darkroom” by A. Gliss”

CW: Grooming

In the first picture of you two, the flash turns both your eyes into pools of red. His stage-makeup concealer glows white under his. You stand a head taller than him, wearing khakis and a polo because that’s what you only ever wore when you dressed nice, your style as repressed as your sexuality. Still, you think you look good. You haven’t mastered the art of smiling without squinting. His arm wraps around your waist, too low to be entirely platonic. A woody scent spills from his skin, and the first word that pops into your head is rough. But describing smells as rough doesn’t make sense, right? He is rough, though. His grip, his jaw, his eyes. He is a cage, and he’s given you the key.

“Text me the photo,” he says. Yes, yes, of course I will, of course, you say, you think, you embody, you become: a reason to talk to him.

You stare at the picture for so long that you see it even when you close your eyes.

***

The next picture is just him. “You look so old for sixteen,” he texts. “Here’s what I looked like when I was sixteen.” He’s in the backseat of a car, silhouetted by light. His hair is brushed to the side, much longer than it is now. He layers a coat over a gray sweatshirt, both too large, swallowing him. A flip phone presses against his ear, his fingers awkwardly touching the base. He smirks, his eyes staring at the camera, and you. His past sixteen-year-old self leaps across time to connect with you, and it feels close to destiny.

***

At a water park, the wave pool splashes behind you both in the picture. You had two free passes from your Mom’s work. After returning from the bathroom, he says, “Sorry I took so long. It takes a while for pee to travel down, if you know what I mean.” This is not the first time—nor the last—he wants you to know how big he is. “I’m surprised my boyfriend can take it all,” he’d say. Yes, there is it: another hurdle to your love. He has a boyfriend he met in college, whom you rarely see, since he still needs another year to graduate. When you do see him, you suppress your bubbling hatred, thinking he is the reason why you two are not together. He spends more time with me anyway, you think.

But here, in front of this wave pool with screaming children, melting ice cream dripping down sugar cones, a hot, baking sun, he provides another glimmer of hope: “Seventeen is the age of consent here. You know that, right?” You shake your head no. He wears sunglasses, so you can’t track his eyes’ movement. He might be looking at any—or every—part of you.

Waiting a year and a half might not be an issue anymore. You turn seventeen in six months.

He just turned twenty-three.

***

A full solar eclipse, the first one visible from the U.S. in decades. He asks you to come with him, traveling three hours south to the path of totality—but it’s the first day of school. You spend an hour convincing your parents to let you go, using the same logic and reasoning he gave you. You pull up a map on your phone. You use many hand gestures, marveling at how entangled yours and his language and body movements have become in this moment. You put forth everything to spend a full day, alone, with him. Before, you would have never missed the first day of school, but you love how much he’s changing you. You feel more daring. Adventurous.

Your parents say yes. They trust this man, and now, looking back, you realize how hard he worked to earn their trust. Sweet talking your mother whenever they crossed paths, filling her with compliments that she soaked up like a dry sponge.

In the picture, your solar eclipse glasses perch on your nose, and you wonder how these flimsy paper frames will protect your eyes from permanent damage. Your heads point towards the sky. Razor bumps cover his neck, his after-shave carrying that cedar scent that you will soon always, and forever, associate with him.

On the car ride back, you’re awakened by a hand on your thigh, shaking you. The touch is electric, which may be cliché, but clichés exist for a reason. “We’ll be home in ten minutes.” Ten minutes? The day went by too fast. You hate yourself for falling asleep, missing precious time with him.

***

You don’t see him for a while. Sorry I’ve been so busy, he texts. Your camera roll fills with art containing sappy quotes that resonate beyond belief:

Let’s just stop being each other’s almosts, shall we?

Before the tempest comes, I remember how we feel.

Why is love the hardest thing of all?

The movie Call Me By Your Name releases on your seventeenth birthday; it feels like a film pulled from your life, except you live in a small, Midwestern, boring town, not Italy. But still, it all resonates, spreading throughout your body like an infection.

You wish it was summer, when you hung out with him all the time. Summer is for love. For wandering outside on cool nights to escape stuffy rooms. For late, longing sunsets. For bleeding skies that rip through clouds. For sweaty sheets and moving fans. For escape. Winter is hollow, cold, empty.

You’re alone on your seventeenth birthday. Your friends ask to hangout, but you say you can’t, on the off chance he texts you.

And he does. I have a birthday present for you. You’re seventeen now. Of course, now your romance will bloom. It’s legal. How could you not have realized?

You shave, Googling how to shave parts of your body you’ve never shaved before, thinking he’ll take you then and there. You speed to his house, running at least three red lights. He opens the door, wearing sweatpants that tightly hug his legs. You sit on his dirty carpet abound with stains, not on the couch, which somehow feels more intimate.

He passes you a card. Inside it, a letter. A letter you still keep in your nightstand drawer for some reason, a relic of how much it meant to you, but now, reading it over, you laugh, you cringe, your stomach turns, and you wonder how you could’ve been so stupid. So naive. But you were a teen, after all, even if, at every opportunity, he described how mature you were.

You,

My lack of telling you how incredible you are as a young man is not due to my lack of thinking so. I write these sappy things once a year and I like to just save it for then. I wish my 17-year-old self was as put-together, respectable, and mature as you are. For what it’s worth, I’m very happy to say that I’ve played a role in that over the course of our friendship.

Yes, he did always say he’s happy to be your role model. He sensed your obvious vulnerability: a wasp ready to lay its eggs. You clung to whatever crumbs of love you could find.

In our state, 17 is a big birthday because of the legal change, so I thought I’d share some “I’m 17 now, so what’s next?” thoughts with you.

I wanted to first address the elephant in the room—you can bang whomever you like now. When I turned 17, I remember that being my first thought. I was garbage then. I’m not really worried about you. I just thought you’d be amused at some of my slutty stories. By the way, I’ll officially tell you slutty stories now.

The next paragraph is going to be my “be careful,” real-talk paragraph. The gay community can be gross and dangerous (and so can the straight community, but the culture of shame and needing to be secretive has snowballed into a sometimes scary rape culture). If a guy much older is going for you (and at this point, that means 3+ years older) then they probably have a twink fetish and are not the guys you should be spending your love and effort on. I’ve said it before but while being gay may seem lonely at times, don’t go searching for a boyfriend. You’re a fucking catch and you will find a guy and be happy—don’t worry. You are everything I wish I was at your age.

With so much love,

Him

In the picture, you hold up the space-themed card, the earth, stars, and comets scattered throughout the navy background. Only the corner of his head is in the picture. You smile wider than you have in years, so ignorant of the false happiness that has claimed you, but it’s all the same; it’s what gets you up in the morning.

He does not take you then and there, however. He says he’s tired. Has an early morning tomorrow. You leave, crying in your car, wondering how easy it’d be to drive off the side of the road. A deep emptiness nestles its way into you. You’re seventeen now. So what’s missing? What will it take to earn his love? Why does he always trap you in his web, then just leave you there, never taking a bite?

***

His “gay army,” as he calls them, gathers in a coffee shop. He met them all through theater productions, including you. You take eager sips of your chai latté, welcoming the heat it brings in this crisp fall weather. You lean forward in your chair. Everyone talks too loud, puncturing the peaceful space. People stare, sending daggers through their eyes, but no one whispers. Everyone shares their stories of him. His venom, his web, his hold, his cage, his key. A dam has shattered. Stories spew out, uncontrollable. He cheated on his boyfriend with one of them. He said he can’t wait to date one of them. He said this, and that, and that.

You share your stories. You realize you are not special. It’s freeing, in a way, but equally devastating. Thankfully, you and him were not hanging out anymore. If you were, you wonder if you would have defended him. God, you hope not, but you’re not sure, because then you would’ve felt like the chosen one; the one who survived the most rounds of some cruel, evil dating show. Either way, your eyes are open, so you can finally end this chapter, right?

There’s a selfie of everyone in the coffee shop. You’re wearing a hat since it’s early and you didn't have time to brush your bed-head. In the selfie, there are held-up peace signs, tongues stuck out, brightly colored braces, faint hints of facial hair. No one looks “mature” for their age. They look like teenagers. How teenagers should look.

Four different lives, all entangled by him.

You leave for college. He barely graces your mind. He’s from another life. Another world.

***

A pandemic sends you home from college freshman year, when freedom and expression became your normal, wearing crop tops and painting your nails with friends from your dorm floor. At home, however, you revert. You’re sent back to the cage you worked so hard to escape.

You rearrange your bedroom three times. You buy new video games. You read with a cup of tea on the back patio, burying your toes in the grass and soaking up sun. You bike twelve miles on a trail near your house, until your thighs melt and the world shuts away. And still, and still, and still, it is not enough.

It’s summer, which you now associate with danger; it’s when your longing peaks. Now you know why some say heat is suffocating. Loneliness feels even more apparent when you’re constantly outside, but there’s no one else to share this sun with.

He must sense this, somehow; a predator seeking prey. He messages you: “Are you back in town?”

Yes, you say, you embody, then try to sever.

“Let’s meet up for dinner sometime.”

You’re nineteen, with a year of college under your belt. You feel capable of seeing through his tricks, his manipulation. Yet, something pulsates, thrums from your being, still, after everything, and you hate it, but you cannot stop it.

After dinner, he says he needs to show you his new house. You drink and play Mario Party, tapping into your competitive natures. You’re tipsy. The alcohol lessens your nerves, and reality slips away, this whole scene feeling hallucinatory, or something you’re acting out in a movie.

“You can spend the night.” A pause, as if scripted. “If you want. I don’t think you should drive.”

“Yeah, sure,” you say, wondering if he planned this. You think you know where this is heading, but you’re not sure. Him and his boyfriend broke up a year ago.

It’s an old house, so the wooden stairs creak as you make your way up to his bedroom, where all the blinds are closed. A cat encircles your legs. You sneeze, since you’re allergic to cats, and the sound scares the cat away. Now, though, with the cat gone, the privacy of this space settles on your chest like a weight.

His bedroom is barren, despite its enormous size; it contains only a bed, coach, and TV. He turns the TV on, but not the overhead lights, and once more you can guess where this is going. You take a big gulp of your mixed drink, the soda sizzling down your throat. The TV plays, the light reflecting across the dark room, shadows stretching across empty walls. You’re finally getting what you want, right? What you waited for, right? What your past self craved.

“Come sit on the couch with me,” he says, tapping the cushion next to him.

There are no pictures here. Some things are better left in the darkroom, forgotten, never developed.

***

The next picture appears on your Instagram feed. He’s a high school teacher now. He’s surrounded by teenage boys for the sport he coaches, most probably the same age you were when you first met him. You stare at the photo, a knife twisting through your gut, then quickly hit the unfollow button. You pray the cycle does not continue, that it ended with you, but deep down, you know that won’t be the case.

***

Graduating from college, you find yourself lost with nowhere else to go, so you return home. You post your new job acceptance on Facebook, and, of course, of course, of course, he messages you. And still, and still, and still, you reply, but it’s simple, cordial, like when he messaged you last summer: “I saw your mom at a retirement party. Did she talk to you?” Yes, she did, passing along his message: He wants to see you.

You keep your response short once more, hoping he gets the point, hoping to keep communication short—to keep the cage closed as he dangles the key in front of you, testing how easily you may come back. But you won’t. You can’t.

You could unfriend him on Facebook: the last communication outlet between you two, but it feels too overdramatic, too petty. In reality, you know, but don’t want to admit, that you don’t want to completely sever all communication ties with him. You are entangled, after all, and severance is more difficult than you think. How often does your childhood self seeking validation crawl its way to the surface? How much hold does he still have over you? You’re not sure, and that terrifies you.

***

You’re also not sure why you write all this, in a way it feels like a confession, a cleansing. But roots that are groomed and watered dig deep. There’s no easy purge, no matter how many fires you set, how many droughts you suffer. But you’ll write this for you, me, I, us, and them—a reminder of your past whenever your poisoned mind might try to reach out to him, to be wanted, to feel when feeling becomes almost impossible in this small Midwestern town, where you want nothing more to escape to a big city with options and overflowing love, but don’t the means right now.

You just turned twenty-three, the same age he was when he met you.

Every now and then, that emptiness resurfaces. You’ve never been in a relationship, but, when love hopefully one day arrives, you’ll remind yourself it was all worth it: the buried trauma, the secrets, the shame, the hollowness. One day, you hope, it will all be worth it.

A. Gliss is an English teacher from the Midwest. When he's not reading, writing, or grading papers, you'll find him doing yoga or watching/rewatching the reality TV series Survivor. His work has appeared in The /t3mz/ Review, Samjoko Magazine, and 96th of October, among others.

Curlew New York 10/31/25 Curlew New York 10/31/25

October 31, 2025 — “Waiting” by Kathylynne Somerville

On the verandah of his Queenslander, he slumps under corrugated iron slats in a fold out chair.

His slim torso a bending a bow into canvas with Dad painted on the back in block letters.

The portable Panasonic radio chats BBC and forewarns fires, the humidity hikes in sweltering

degrees, perspiration droplets bud his forehead underneath the felt brim of his Akubra hat. Over

the balustrade, a family of bottle trees are militant in towering unity against waves of heat.

Galahas sweep pink and grey splotches across the sky, shadowing timber peaks, winging shapes

over tin, their shrills sift into white cumulus, a tarpaulin of blue. Between the latticework’s slats,

he observes the wooden gate through the cream rings haunting his eyesight. He waits to hear the

latch clunk, and release.

Kathylynne was reared in Australia’s down under, but moved to Los Angeles to pursue screenwriting and was fortunate enough to have a few optioned. One day, while she was writing, her mind went walking about, wandering, and she saw a sign that said: Write Poetry and Prose. Following her directions, and not forgetting her visual roots, she allows her pen to roam, penning pages of poetry, and lucky to have had several published, online and in print. At present, she is perspiring doing the hard yakka on her first novel.

Curlew New York 10/24/25 Curlew New York 10/24/25

October 24, 2025 — "Standard Hotel" by Cliff Tisdell

Cliff Tisdell’s art is drawn from various genres of painting, sculpture, cinema, literature and illustration. Swept in the NYC underground scene of the 1960s, he went on to attend the School of Visual Arts and the Arts Student’s League. His work is in private collections in the United States, Europe and Canada. Venues include the Edward Hopper House Museum, Carnegie Hall, Eric Fischl’s America Here and Now Project, the Chautauqua Institution, Ivan Karp’s OK Harris Gallery, and the Village Voice. Recently, his work has appeared in Blackbird VCU and Your Impossible Voice literary journal.

clifftisdellart.com

Curlew New York 10/17/25 Curlew New York 10/17/25

October 17, 2025 — "Mega City" by Cliff Tisdell

clifftisdellart.com

Curlew New York 10/10/25 Curlew New York 10/10/25

October 10, 2025 — "Zipper Building" by Cliff Tisdell

clifftisdellart.com

Curlew New York 9/26/25 Curlew New York 9/26/25

September 26, 2025 — “Fish Market, 1984” by Henry Hughes

I picked, rinsed, culled and counted rough gray oysters into red

mesh bags, tagged and hauled to the market where Freddy paid 15¢

apiece, and handed me a beer.

Freddy had the most beautiful daughter, Maya, who danced

between stinky refrigerator trucks and their smoking drivers;

around blue totes, knives, fluttering scales, slime, guts, hoses,

bloody ice in the scuzzy drain,

and put on her clean white apron, gliding behind the long glass

case, past blue claw crabs and sleeping clams, over halibut,

sturgeon, Norwegian salmon, Dover Sole, and mad-eyed mahi-

mahi, to pluck a putty-colored fillet of cheap local bluefish— 99¢ a

pound—slicing off a couple inches and feeding her black cat,

Mermaid, which the Health Department said she shouldn’t do.

It’s what she likes, Maya said. Freddy shook his head and walked

into the back. I patted the cash in my pocket and pet Mermaid,

both of us rewarded and still hungry amid the stilled and stirring

delights of the sea.

Henry Hughes grew up in Port Jefferson, New York, and he continues to maintain strong connections to Long Island and New York City. He is the editor of the recent Everyman’s anthologies, River Poems and River Stories, and the author of five collections of poetry, including Sergeant Dark, forthcoming from Lost Horse Press.

Curlew New York 9/19/25 Curlew New York 9/19/25

September 19, 2025 — “On the Marshy Edge” by Henry Hughes

A great blue heron

aims its gold lance.

Stab, flip and tip—

something silvery

slides to the gullet.

Car doors slam.

Startled grawk,

wings yarded,

dragon flapping

over our damp heads

on the city’s

marshy edge,

waiting for a guy

we don’t like

to get us high.

Curlew New York 9/12/25 Curlew New York 9/12/25

September 12, 2025 — “The Sky Flashes Pigeons” by Henry Hughes

Brooklyn, New York

During the pandemic, the boy raised pigeons

on the roof, banded the left foot of each squab,

holding them wing-cupped

to his cheek. Bright flapping flocks,

shit-spotted windows. The woman next door,

with no pets or plants, complained.

The boy’s grandpa apologized, offered to wash windows.

She slammed the door and sprinkled poison.

There were shouts, pleas, threats,

the kid crying over the feathered lump of his favorite

checkered hen. Then he pulled a pistol

from grandpa’s sock drawer.

You can see where this might go

and the awkward relief when, weeks later,

that neighbor dies. The family says Covid,

carts away boxes, the rest out with the trash.

Grandpa feels uneasy, whispers prayers to the clouds,

and throws that stupid gun off the pier.

The boy scrapes the loft and strokes

a fledgling. Police, taxis, drones, hawks,

butterflies and unmasked mothers with strollers

circle Prospect Park. The whole city

on the move again. Like a spotlight over

a crowd, the sky flashes pigeons.

Curlew New York 9/5/25 Curlew New York 9/5/25

September 5, 2025 — “The Storm” by Joseph A. Miller

Images of figures or figures in landscapes, in groups or in isolation, share a common feeling of significance. Wholly absorbed within themselves or the dialogue shared between one another, they wait for the unfolding of their private story.
— Joseph A. Miller

Joseph A. Miller is an Associate Professor of Art at S.U.N.Y. Buffalo State University, where he has taught drawing and painting since 1997. Miller’s work is in numerous public and private collections, and has been shown internationally in Finland, China, Poland and the Czech Republic, as well as across the United States, from Berkeley, California to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Curlew New York 8/29/25 Curlew New York 8/29/25

August 29, 2025 — “Memento Mori” by Joseph A. Miller

Curlew New York 8/22/25 Curlew New York 8/22/25

August 22, 2025 — “Crossing II” by Joseph A. Miller

“I focus primarily on the human figure depicted in environments that create a context for psychologically charged open ended narratives. Many of these narratives explore ideas about power and vulnerability, about enchantment and play.”
— Joseph A. Miller

Curlew New York 8/15/25 Curlew New York 8/15/25

August 15, 2025 — “Passage” by Joseph A. Miller

“Quality of light is a common theme. In particular, the way in which atmospheric light and locale can suggest a sense of mystery and silence. These works are dark, humid and hopefully, at their best, memorable. For me, the most successful are those that evoke the feeling that an event is about to happen or has recently happened.”
— Joseph A. Miller

Curlew New York 8/8/25 Curlew New York 8/8/25

August 8, 2025 — “Consciously Unconscious” by Priya Chouhan

Isolated by the wool of magnificent hypnosis of beauty, cold milk lukewarm in taste,

praying for the unseen optimism, coffined decently like an unused piece of cutlery in a

rusted drawer.

A gleaming array of reasoning on past choices, murky grey thoughts as I came closer,

static observation of degrading hatred, she breathes as I live.

Owns all the clothes of peculiar false artistry, draped around the sleek waist of conceit,

wounded heart, the most lovable smile, merciless lessons taught by pure evil, panting at

the door.

Long stares at the mild calmness encircling the foggy air, she froze, pale skin of dead

accountability, subtle scratches of warm affection.

Closed eyes couldn’t sleep, devastating loss of conscience, just a little closer to giving up,

heaven seems too crowded to her, life infuriatingly blushed at the gullibility of untrue

emotions, I couldn’t process the stillness, crumbling soul empathetic.

Yearning heavily for the sweet peace of perished affliction, nothing changed, who

survived is still unknown.

Isolated - - - - drawer!

I have recently completed my masters in Economics of Public Policy from Barcelona School of Economics, Barcelona (Spain) and currently preparing for my further studies. For me, poetry has been a tool to write on neglected matters. It aids me to weave the unspoken and an inexplicable contentment fills my heart when words finally reveal their beautiful meanings. My poems have been published in the following magazines/journals: Corvus Review, The Black Moon, Dreich, Brief Wilderness, Literary Yard, Littoral Magazine, The Wise Owl, Bosphorus Review of Books, Malaysian Indie Fiction, Journal of Expressive Writing, Scarlet Journal, Juste Literary, W-Poesis magazine, The Ecological Citizen, etc. - Priya Chouhan

Curlew New York 8/1/25 Curlew New York 8/1/25

August 1, 2025 — “Square Nights” by Miriam Bahrami

Miriam Bahrami is a photographer and charcoal sketch artist who is originally from North Carolina, and has made homes in Vermont and Spain before journeying to New York City, where she currently resides. She speaks Farsi and Spanish and aims to foster a sense of curiosity and exploration in her work, which can often feature New York herself.

Curlew New York 7/25/25 Curlew New York 7/25/25

July 25, 2025 — “Mia” by Miriam Bahrami

Curlew New York 7/18/25 Curlew New York 7/18/25

July 18, 2025 — "Park [ing]" by Miriam Bahrami

Curlew New York 7/12/25 Curlew New York 7/12/25

July 11, 2025 — “Pearls” by Miriam Bahrami

Curlew New York 7/4/25 Curlew New York 7/4/25

July 4, 2025 — “Brother Blood” by Kushal Poddar

The brother who opens your id

and loses the key,

makes you drunk and piss

in your own yard as your wife

watches from the first floor boudoir

returns.

You know the grey. You know the why.

You know the honey

and the sting he hides.

You lower your guards in the ring,

let the blood ooze, trickle

down your chin and yet do not wipe

the corner of your mouth.

He offers your children lift

to their school,

takes them for fun instead.

Nothing sharp, not more harm

than one pale ale too many,

your wife sees a blade

whenever sun catches his glasses.

He returns. He disappears.

You know where. You know why.

Kushal Poddar, the author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe.

Twitter - https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

Curlew New York 6/25/25 Curlew New York 6/25/25

June 25, 2025 — “Goose - 1” by Kushal Poddar

This, a good place to begin

the circle, dear jogger, opens up

the park and the morning.

You should not stir the goodness

or the goose.

The skein of the waterfowls are scattered

in the pasture.

Today's mood made them shells holding

a hollowness and a howl for the sea.

When the exotic wings glide in

the park the goose fights for her

boundary at first.

Zen eventuates. She settles between

the flocking birders and the winter's

slaty sun.

We, the local walkers, already gave her

pet names. The goose stare hard

with its hundred names, native pride,

doubting vigilance.

Twitter - https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

Curlew New York 6/23/25 Curlew New York 6/23/25

June 23, 2025 — “Cracks” by Callum McGee

Graeme McNeil was brushing his teeth for the night when he heard his wife scream from downstairs. He paused, straining to hear more, then gurgled and spat in the sink. Before he left the bathroom he placed his toothbrush back in the glass above the sink, twisting it so the bristles faced away from hers.

Sheila was standing in the living room, shards of broken glass at her feet. An icy draught drifted through the gaping hole in the centre of the window, making him shiver under his dressing gown. He moved past her to the window, crunching over the glass in his slippers. A large stone lay on the carpet by the radiator. He picked it up and felt its weight in his hand. He raised the blinds and scanned the dark street for signs of movement. Nothing stirred, except the gentle swaying of bushes in the wind. The only light came from the harsh glare of the lampposts.

‘Who could have done this?’ Sheila said, still standing behind him.’

‘Someone who doesn’t know any better,’ Graeme said. ‘I’ll call the police.’

He could feel her eyes on him as he walked over to the telephone.

The McNeils had lived in the village for almost twenty-eight years, nearly as long as they’d been married. They were both retired and their sons had already moved out and started their own families. Graeme had been the village postie, up every morning at six o’clock to deliver mail to their neighbours and friends. Sheila had worked in the local nursery, a job she loved so much she still volunteered there a few hours a week. She threw herself into community activities and in retirement had become the unofficial ‘village planner’, helping to organise school fairs, bingo nights and sports days. She carried around with her an A5 notebook in which she scribbled down dates and ideas for future events. Sometimes she also wrote down the village gossip.

***

Now Sheila was watching him from the living room sofa, her notebook open in her lap. He was sitting in his chair by the window, reading the paper and eating a slice of cake. It was Sunday lunchtime – the day after the incident. Graeme had swept up the shards of glass and thrown them in a plastic bag, ready to take to the tip. He’d then stuck some masking tape over the hole in the window, but a cold wind still whistled through the room. Half a dozen families had already dropped by the house to offer their condolences. Doreen Farquhar down the road had baked them the cake – a lemon sponge.

‘They’re all talking about it,’ Sheila said.

Graeme didn’t look up from his paper. ‘Let them talk,’ he said. ‘As long as they stop coming round.’

‘How’s the cake?’ she said.

‘Too sweet,’ Graeme said. He grabbed another slice from the coffee table and crumbs rolled onto the carpet.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. Sheila leafed through the pages of her notebook, but she couldn’t concentrate.

‘Who could’ve done this?’ she said at last.

‘Probably just some daft teenager thinking he’s clever,’ he said through a mouthful of cake.

‘But why this house? Why us?’

‘Who knows? Things just happen.’

‘But what have we ever done to folk in this town?’

‘Who says we done anything to anyone?’ he said.

Graeme finished off the rest of his slice, licked his fingers and then folded the paper. He turned on the TV and let out a sigh. She watched him for a moment, then got up and went to the kitchen.

***

When he got back from the pub that evening, she was waiting for him at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea. Her face looked hollow under the bulb’s dim glow.

‘Your dinner’s cold,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to stick it in the microwave.’

‘Righty,’ he said. She didn’t get up, so he crossed the room and took his food out the oven.

When he sat across from her to eat, he noticed her notebook on the table beside her.

‘Anything coming up this month?’ he said.

‘Just the bingo,’ she said. ‘The same as every month.’

‘Bingo,’ he repeated, like it was a new word to him.

‘You should come,’ she said.

‘Not after last time,’ he said, spearing some lasagne with his fork. ‘That game’s fixed.’

The wind had picked up, and he could hear the fence creaking in the back garden.

‘You said nine,’ she suddenly said. She looked at him from under her specs.

He felt his lips working. He’d never liked it when she watched him eat.

‘Eh?’

‘You said you’d be back at nine.’ Sheila slurped her tea and watched him.

Graeme had once meant to tell her about it – the slurping. But that was over thirty years ago. He wondered if she got irritated by things he did. She was bound to, after so long together.

‘I tried to get away, but folk kept buying me drinks.’ He swallowed. ‘Because of this business with the window.’ He’d left the food in the microwave too long and it stung the roof of his mouth.

‘What if they come back?’ she said.

Graeme reached for her hand and squeezed it.

‘I won’t let it happen again,’ he said. Her hand felt small and frail in his.

They sat like that for a moment, then Sheila pulled her hand away and got up. She went over to the sink and started washing dishes, keeping her back to him. He glanced again at her closed notebook on the table, then shovelled another forkful of dry lasagne into his mouth.

***

She sat on the sofa doodling in her notebook while he slumped in his chair, watching TV with the volume low. It was Thursday afternoon, and the rain and wind were battering against the window. Every so often she looked up and watched him. He didn’t make a move to turn the TV up. He followed the moving pictures with a confused look on his face, his lips forming silent words. The tape covering the window was peeling off, and raindrops spattered through the crack. The room was cold and damp.

Sheila shut her notebook and drummed her fingers on the cover.

‘When are you going to call the window repair man?’ she said.

‘Tomorrow,’ Graeme said, keeping his eyes on the TV. ‘It’ll hold for now.’

‘Mañana, mañana,’ Sheila said to herself.

Graeme looked up. ‘What’s that mean?’

‘It’s always tomorrow with you,’ she said.

Graeme snorted. ‘Alright, give me time,’ he said. ‘I’m still processing the whole thing. I’m in shock over here.’

‘I was down here when it happened,’ she said. ‘I witnessed it.’

‘Aye, well at least no one was hurt,’ he said, grabbing the remote. ‘That’s the main thing.’

Sheila looked across at him. He gripped the remote in mid-air, his thumb hovering over a button. She could remember how safe she’d once felt in his strong hands, the hairs on his knuckles like copper wire. Now his hand was visibly shaking.

‘I do wonder,’ she said.

‘What’s that?’

‘Why it happened.’

‘This again.’

‘I just can’t think who’d do it. I’ve been racking my brain and nobody pops up.’

‘Don’t waste your time racking,’ he said, turning up the volume of the TV.

She picked up her pencil and looked at him side-on. ‘Maybe there’s something,’ she said.

‘Something?’

‘Maybe something you’ve done, Graeme?’

She watched the wheels turning in his brain.

‘Like what?’

‘Well, you know the way you are with people sometimes.’

He turned the TV off.

‘What you on about?’

She consulted her notebook. ‘Last Saturday, when you ignored John and Linda Morrison at the shop.’

He had turned away from the TV and was now facing her.

‘That woman’s got verbal diarrhoea,’ Graeme said quickly. ‘We’d still be there if I didn’t —' He paused. ‘How come you recorded that in your wee book?’

‘It’s not right.’

‘Ach, John’s thick as mince, don’t think he even noticed.’

‘You see? The way you are with people.’

‘That’s not enough to chuck a stone through a window.’

‘Maybe not, but you’ve got to watch the way you are with people.’

Graeme snorted. ‘The way I am with people.’

‘And there was Thursday 17th October,’ Sheila said.

‘Was there now?’

‘Don’t you remember? When you gave wee Alfie Simpson a rollicking for kicking his ball in our garden?’

‘It was hardly a ‘rollicking’, Sheila. I merely advised the young lad he would be better off shooting away from our house.’

‘You didn’t need to puncture the ball right in front of his mates and hand it back flat as a pancake.’

‘That’s the only way they’ll learn.’

‘You made them all cry.’

‘Ach, kids are too soft these days.’

Sheila licked her finger and flicked through more pages.

‘You enjoying yourself?’ Graeme said.

‘These are the facts,’ she said.

‘I’m telling you none of that is enough to target this household.’

‘What is enough?’ She stared at him.

He didn’t answer. For a minute they both listened to the rising wind rattling against the window pane.

Sheila then stopped on a new page. ‘I’ve also been meaning to tell you about last—'

‘Hold on a minute,’ Graeme said. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Aye, let’s do you now,’ Graeme said. ‘You and your constant planning and meddling in folks’ lives.’

Sheila let out a short puff of air. ‘I haven’t done anyone harm.’

‘That right?’ Graeme said. ‘You sure about that?’

‘Name one thing I’ve done,’ she said. Her voice had got high and quivery.

‘Gossiping?’

‘I’ve done no such thing.’ Sheila got up and stormed out of the room.

***

That night Graeme slept on the living room sofa. He tossed and turned, shivering from the icy wind blowing through the hole in the window. At one point he got up in the dark and examined the glass, tracing his fingers along the web-like pattern. The cracks had spread, spiralling down to the windowsill. He turned on the TV and tried to watch an old black and white western, but he couldn’t focus. He was listening more for movement from upstairs. All was quiet. He went out into the hall and put on his shoes and coat. He made sure to close the front door quietly behind him.

Outside, it was bitterly cold. He walked briskly down the street with his head lowered, feeling himself propelled forward by the wind at his back. The streets were so familiar he didn’t need to look up to know where he was going. Every front garden, every tree, every path, every pothole and crack in the road – they all flashed through his mind like images in a photo album.

When he turned off down a cul-de-sac and reached the Morrisons’ bungalow, he stopped and looked up. Both cars were there, one parked in the driveway and the other along the curb. There were no signs of activity inside the house. All the lights were out.

It had been a one-time thing four years ago, not long before he retired. One Wednesday morning he’d knocked on their door with a parcel, and Linda invited him in for tea and cakes. They blethered about the weather and other nonsense for half an hour, and all the while he felt she was looking at him in an odd way, and not just because there were cake crumbs stuck to his beard. Graeme had always secretly found her attractive and good for her age, though the woman talked too much. It wasn’t long before she was leading him upstairs, and into her brightly lit bedroom. Her husband John was at work and wouldn’t be back till six.

After that day, Graeme had left future parcels beside the wheelie bin in their back garden. He had wanted to see her again, but it was too risky. After all, words spread like wildfire in a wee village like this. At the time he’d told himself these things happened everywhere, probably more than folk realised. He had needs that weren’t being satisfied. He was human, after all. It had already turned stale with Sheila long before that morning with Linda.

Now it had finally come back to bite him. After so many years, the guilt must have got to Linda and made her confess it all to John. Graeme didn’t think John had it in him to retaliate, but he guessed he was wrong.

He took one last look at the bungalow and turned back for home, pushing back against the powerful wind.

***

The next day, Sheila met the ladies for lunch at the village coffee shop. According to the forecast, a storm was on its way. Outside, fallen leaves danced along the pavements and cartwheeled through the air. She spoke less than usual and spent most of the time watching her friends’ faces for signs of hostility. They chattered away, but nothing showed in their eyes. Not even a flicker of ill-feeling towards herself. Yet she still felt a hot, rising guilt building inside her. For what, she didn’t know. All she knew for sure was that the house had become too suffocating. Graeme kept so still in his chair she often wondered if he'd stopped breathing.

After lunch she drove to the city and spent a couple of hours in shops, taking her time walking down the aisles. The shops were mobbed and most of the shelves empty with folk panicking over the approaching storm. But Sheila didn’t mind. There was a different energy in the city that she liked. She was less likely to bump into someone she knew.

When she returned to the village, it was late. The trees in the park were shaking, and wheelie bins were rolling up and down the streets. She turned into the driveway, and immediately drew breath when she saw Graeme in his usual position, glued to his chair. Anger burned inside her. As she hurried with her shopping bags through the wind and rain to the front door, she thought there was something odd about the way he was sitting this time.

And when she entered the living room, she knew something was different. The room was freezing and smelt wet and earthy. She looked past him to the window, but it wasn’t there. All that remained was an empty rectangular space. The pane had shattered under the force of the wind, and hundreds of pieces of glass lay glinting all around the room – on the radiator, the carpet, the coffee table and even on his arms and feet. But he just sat there rigid, staring at the blank TV as if nothing had happened. Sodden leaves and empty sweetie wrappers swirled through the room.

She set down her shopping bags and waited.

Graeme didn’t move. His lips were working.

Callum McGee was born in Edinburgh and grew up in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. His stories have appeared in Litro, The Honest Ulsterman and Postbox Magazine. He works as an English teacher in Portugal.