I Want to Wear a Dress with Lemons All Over It by F.C. Malby – Sledgehammer Lit Mag

“Ready for war but not yet called up, fuelled on coffee and vodka with a lick of cynicism and delayed hope.”

My poem, I Want to Wear a Dress with Lemons All Over It, has been published in Sledgehammer Lit Mag. It was inspired by a photograph of a dress that Jill Biden wore, along with an ensuing conversation on Twitter about said dress. As a writer, I questioned why it had caused such a stir, especially because I’m not keen on the media focus on what women wear, so I played with the idea that it was the boldness of the colour and the print…

“the brazen cheer of it, the rebelliousness with which is stands out against the grey and drudge of news bulletins.”

And there began my poem….

“Somewhere there must be a place for a dress with lemons all over it, if not here, then there.“

I want to wear a dress with lemons all over it,

a bright yellow citrus burst of colour like the

pansies in the garden. The brazen cheer of it,

the rebelliousness with which it stands out

against the grey and drudge of news bulletins

and long faces, people in their houses, locked

away with slippers, computers fixed to bodies

like combat clothing. Ready for war but not yet

called up, fuelled on coffee and vodka with a lick

of cynicism and delayed hope. The blackbird sings,

establishes itself as the Beethoven among birds,

competes with the Woodlark, Thrush, Skylark and

Robin. Song that pierces the dawn, punctuating

thoughts of another day, another unsent email

dishes rising in dank sinks, laundry spills

out of baskets waiting to be slipped against

flesh or folded and stacked, but the only things

folding in these times are dreams and jobs. Doors

close as we wait for a window to chink open.

Somewhere there must be a place for a dress

with lemons all over it, if not here, then there.

This is the Year I Learn to Float

Today is the National Flash Fiction Day 10th Anniversary and I have a flash fiction piece published in their Flash Flood Journal which was chosen from 2,000 entries!

I am eight years old and this is the year I learn to float. It is the year I learn to speak Spanish, although I firmly believe floating will be more useful, especially if I want to become a magician’s assistant. You don’t need language qualifications.

“Heather?” Mum yells up the stairs. “Come down and set the table.” I wonder if I can do this by floating, but I will need more practise. She doesn’t understand magic. Not many people do. I set the table and float back upstairs, but I have to stop half way as I lose my focus.

At the dinner table, later in the evening, the conversation revolves around government policies, shopping lists and Harry’s exams. “I can levitate,” I say. Silence falls across the room. Grandpa is snoring in the corner in his rocking chair. Dad gives me an eat-your-food look and that’s all I say for the rest of the evening. At breakfast tomorrow, I will try Spanish. It will be more acceptable.

Find out more about what’s happening this weekend and beyond at National Flash Fiction Day.

You Fold Yourself into Tiny Spaces

My story has been longlisted in the Reflex Press Quarterly International Flash Fiction Awards 2021.

You fold yourself into tiny spaces, words come at you like rain. You tuck in your arms and feet – soles digging into your calves – so that the words don’t slice your limbs. You hide your competition win in case it’s seen as an indulgence, like the cakes you get for afternoon tea: Miniature, crustless cucumber sandwiches, cakes and scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam. Saliva lines your lips as you imagine this.

You squeeze your words into shorter sentences and, sometimes, single words. Your arms sting with the folding and the tucking. The tiny spaces make her feel bigger, less threatened; more. You listen hard and speak less, reaching a point where the bird flying overhead, beyond the skylights, provides the distraction you need.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks, but you know you can’t give a proper answer.

‘I forgot,’ you say, and take a swig of hot tea, the mug leaving a ring on the mat. This will be noted… continue reading at Reflex Press.

Small Sounds Ricochet Through the Darkness by FC Malby

My story, Small Sounds Ricochet Through the Darkness, has been published in Idle Ink today. It was written in memory of Sarah Everard and anyone who has been affected by violence against women.

Don’t walk home alone, not at this time of night, my friends say, waving at me from a table of empty cocktail glasses, flapping like a gaggle of geese. I’ll be fine, I say, I’ll text you when I’m home. Are you sure? they ask, but it’s more a way of allaying their own fears. Yes, I’ll be fine.

I walk out of the bar, keys in hand, each one pushed between my fingers — a miniature Edward Scissorhands — EarPods in, mobile phone clutched in the other hand. I wore flats, because that’s what you do when you might need to run. It’s normal, except that it’s not. Normal is wearing what you like, not thinking about when you might need to run or who you would need to call, it’s not turning the music down in case there’s a Come over here, Love. Oi. You. I’m talking to you.

Normal is a regular heartbeat, a regular pace to your stride. It’s not hovering under a streetlight where people see you before crossing the stretch of darkness. It’s not scanning a route for places to hide, or rounding a corner and sprinting like a triathlete because the footsteps behind are picking up speed.

The girls will go home later in a taxi, but I need to get back for the babysitter, pay her, get into my pyjamas and sleep, having kissed the cherubs on the forehead, checked their breathing. Every parent checks the rise and fall of their child’s torso, especially when it is still.

Like the still of the sea without wind, nights like this make me nervous, nights where I get followed or shouted at with no one around, where the air is thin, where small sounds ricochet through the darkness. These are the nights when men get too close, gaze for too long, howl like a pack of hyenas… continue reading at Idle Ink.

Sacred Halos

The guide ushers us through rooms with a sweeping arm movement. You see a windmill. She points to a Rembrandt and a Picasso as though they are the same. Her crimson lipstick has left its mark on her upper tooth, reminds you of a girl you used to take salsa classes with, until she vanished.

Tourists behind are snapping pictures, pressing you forwards, reminds you of a Rolling Stones concert.

“No flash,” she says. “Stop.”

Her words pull away like birds vanishing into the eye of a storm. There is a final snap of a shutter release and she growls like a dog: lips curled at the edges, eyes fixed to the floor.

“And we have our final room, the Cubists.”

She says the word, Cubists, as though the best has been saved for last, as though she is about to produce a vintage port, but you know it is not the highlight. The highlight was the entree: Da Vinci’s Last Supper…. Read more on Medium