The Idea Groves
Jane Flett
They rush into the chippie in the woozy rum hours after 3am, the hours of Formica and kebabs. They gather armfuls of greaseproof paper, pungent and vinegary, with small, scrabbled hands. Wee anteater hipsters, foraging.
They resemble bug-eyed thyroid kids, expressions as huge as fists. Undoubtedly, their nails are dirty and feet unclean. They reek of pollen, the wallowing cherry blossoms of Hillhead Park and the West End.
No one asks their names, and no one gives them bother. Folk know better. That’s the way it is with the Chipshop Darlings.
Once, the kid on dish duty tried to break their fragile poise. He gathered his suds and gestured to one of the girls, with a guttural voice and all-right-darlin' air. She gaped at him, eyes widening, tears large and hot like infected wounds.
The papers rustled.
Converse scudded across the lino, doors slammed.
The shop fell silent and strangled as a dial tone, and stayed that way for a week. There were recriminations, wallops from the manager.
No one bothered them again.
They work at the Idea Grove. It’s fallen into disrepair these days, but the Chipshop Darlings still nurse the dying plants, try to tend them back to health.
That’s why they need the paper. Nothing nurtures the fragile roots of idea cuttings like the warm vinegar teats of fish&chip paper. It’s best harvested at those small hours too, while it’s still warm with drunken rambling and the thrill-gasp evening adventure smell of still-before-bedtime. That’s what works best for the ideas, keeps them cosy and fresh through all kinds of weather. Keeps them alive.
No one else much bothers with the Groves these days. They’ve got synthetics, acrylic ideas that rinse at 60 degrees, alloy ideas that withstand road tests at up to 120mph.
In Switzerland, they’re testing a new metaphysic crafted from atomised nylon that holds firm against ninety-seven degrees of scepticism. They built a long tunnel, and fired Eleatic electrons at it, almost at the speed of light. The idea held up well.
They don’t need the Groves.
No one needs the Groves.
Apart from the Chipshop Darlings.
Flight
Miranda Merklein
Confronted by the dusty outline of a bird hitting the glass, wings spread into a wide quarter-moon, feather marks still visible where it struck—This is enough to ruin everything. This is enough to press “Stop” and rewind your song indefinitely, but then you start thinking: If you had to be a bird, you would be a mockingbird made of lead, or titanium, and you would smash through windows unharmed while people cupped their faces in disbelief. You would fly past them, tear through their tedious rooms and explode the western wall.
Broadsheet
Luigi Monteferrante
Such a nice boy
In flat sixteen
Decent honest
Even pleasant
Go figure why
He shot them dead
Wife and children
And best friend
For an inflatable doll
Found in the closet
Full of love
The High Fall
Tricia Asklar
I vault, somersault and plunge, an anchor,
into the wetness that tastes like mint. The back
slap knocks my breath. My gasp obliges
the lifeguard to yell at me once,
as if I could catch enough air to answer.
When I was drowning at Adventure Island
in the wave pool deep end, I didn’t know
how far I was from the top. The roar of water
where I stayed for a few moments—the tug
at my navel: a flavor, a scent—and then the barging-
in of hooked arm and the quick pull to the surface.
I was small. Stay out of the deep end, the lifeguard
said.
The guard at Twelve Oaks squints.
She’s seen me swim the length of the pool
underwater to escape the last 500 yards
of swim team practice. Then she laughs
as I sputter in the center of the dive pool,
floating belly up.
The boys on top yell at me to move it
so they can jump. I stare up
at the barely visible tips
of their faces hanging over the edge.
It is our first time, all of us.
I make them wait.