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The Neighbour by Lynne Couzins

29/3/2021

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Ester sat in her armchair, needle poised above her embroidery, counting each head as it thumped onto the floor above. There would be a pause, then the sawing would resume.  The new neighbour, a middle aged, grey haired, smoking man liked DIY, liked hammering and sawing, pounding and dragging.


As the days turned to weeks Ester found her mind wandering.  Sometimes the saw was the gasping dying breath of his latest victim.  Sometimes he was an executioner sawing off people’s heads.  She didn’t know who the people were or what they had done but she was certain they didn’t deserve to be beheaded.

The noise wheezed and grated through all her days.  The days piled up like patchwork squares around her chair.  They were a puzzle that she tried in vain to piece together, to form into a cohesive pattern but they warped and twisted and defied her shaking hands.  Occasionally she wondered if she was going crazy and still the saw shuddered and juddered through the ceiling and down the walls and across the floor into her slippered feet.  She thought maybe she had turned to stone, was a statue of herself sitting in a red armchair, and that the vibration of the saw might eventually cause cracks to run up her legs, to spider across her whole body until she shattered.

She woke in the dark to a door slamming somewhere in the building.  She lay listening and heard a rhythmic swish, swish, swish.  She got up and crept to the window.  She could make out familiar shapes in the garden but the woods at the back of the flats were inky black.  The swishing seemed to be rounding the end of the building.  The grey haired man came into view dragging a large sheet of thick plastic behind him.  She could see a winking red glow as he puffed on his cigarette. He stopped to open the gate into the woods and vanished into the darkness, the noise trailing away behind him.  Ester waited, swaying slowly from foot to foot.  She thought she heard a muffled thud and thought of all the beheaded in the flat above her.  Then an uneven rasping, gasping sound was coming back through the woods.  The man appeared walking backwards hauling a great swathed lump along. Ester wondered if this was a new victim, clubbed and felled and pulled helpless into his lair.

She lay long into the night, shivering beneath her blankets.

After breakfast she knew she would have to mount a rescue mission.  She couldn’t just sit counting any more heads.  Her feet had swollen from sitting immobile in her chair for so long and her shoe laces refused to tie so she pulled on her stretched slippers.  Her hair hung lank around her shoulders.  She armed herself with a broom from the hall cupboard, then wondered if she looked like a witch.  She wrapped a thick black shawl around her shoulders and hoped it would disguise her trembling.  

Ester pounded on his door with the broom handle and jabbed it towards him when he opened the door.  
“Where are they?” she cried, “what have you done with them?”
Her voice sounded thin and cracked and dusty.  The man stepped back in alarm as she swept in through the door.
“I heard them all,” she said, “every one.”
“I’m sorry about the noise” the man stammered, shuffling along the hall behind her like a chastised child.  He was running his hand nervously through his hair, leaving it standing in sweaty clumps.

Ester became aware of a trail of dirt on the floor, earth and bits of bark.  She followed the trail through the open living room door and stopped, wide eyed, looking around in bewilderment.  There were no heads, no victims.  In the middle of the room was a workbench and on the bench a huge log with it’s centre hollowed out.  She turned slowly.  All around the edge of the otherwise empty room were little houses made from logs and tree stumps. Fairy houses, enchanting houses with tiny furniture and windows.  She stepped forward and peered in through a window.  There was a spiral staircase inside with an ornate bannister, all carved from twigs.

“You make these?”  She was breathless with surprise and relief and awe.  She let the broom drop.  
“They are beautiful, so skilled and perfect” she said.  Tears prickled behind her eyes.  The man smiled.

Ester sits in her armchair embroidering tiny bedspreads and drapes, listening to the singing of the saw and the staccato percussion of the hammer as the craftsman creates fairy worlds from fallen trees.
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    Issue 8 & 9

    January 2021
    February 2021



    The Stories

    All
    A Blanket Of Stars By Georgia Cook
    A Chance By Liz Breen
    A Close Shave By Cindy Pereira
    A Compromise By Caitlin Magnall-Kearns
    A Drink After Work By Graham Crisp
    A Furtive Conversation By Sammi McSporran
    A Letter By Joe Bedford
    A Moment Of Introspection By Madelaine Taylor
    An Easy Mistake By Rachel Smith
    An Unfortunate Incident By Hilary Taylor
    Author Author! By Andrew Ball
    Bat Chat By Elaine Peters
    Bat Woman By Niall McKenna
    Beads Of Gold By Eva Bell
    Bearly Dry By Madelaine Taylor
    Bell Bottoms And Beer By Cindy Pereira
    Bench Mark By Jennifer Patsalidou
    Bride To Be By R.T. Hardwick
    Carnaby St Boutique By Steve Goodlad
    Caroline And Steven By Graham Crisp
    Cash Or Claret By Colin Ward
    Caught In The Act By Hilary Taylor
    Chance Encounter By Jeff Jones
    Change Matters By C.R. Berry
    Command By Ian Tew
    Crocodile Tears By Felicity Edwards
    Crossed Wires By Jeff Jones
    Ding Dong Dung By Cindy Pereira
    Dreaming Of You By Steve Goodlad
    Friederike By Mark Harbinger
    Global Architects By Rachel Smith
    Happy To Chat By Elaine Peters
    Holiday Of A Lifetime By Elaine Peters
    Horror Scope By Cindy Pereira
    Hotel Kasbah By Beverley Byrne
    Hunger By Caitlin Magnall-Kearns
    Lend Us A Tenner By Graham Crisp
    Love And Sparkles By Hilary Taylor
    Mistaken Identity By Madelaine Taylor
    Molly-Dolly’s New Clothes By Elaine Peters
    Mountain By Soren Petrek
    Mr. Patel’s Shop By Graham Crisp
    Out On The Town By Caitlin M Kearns
    Peter By R.T. Hardwick
    Plenty By Miriam H Harrison
    Pocket Money By Felicity Edwards
    Raisins And Rum By Cindy Pereira
    Reality
    Room 12 By Graham Crisp
    She Thinks I'm Stupid By Steve Goodlad
    Siesta By Elaine Peters
    Taking The Floor By Claire Barnard
    Tangle By Miriam H. Harrison
    Teacher By Madelaine Taylor
    The Book Of Revelations By R.T. Hardwick
    The Choice By Hilary Taylor
    The Death Of An Actor By Steve Goodlad
    The Ending By Liz Breen
    The Incidentals Table By Liz Breen
    The Inheritance By Graham Crisp
    The Neighbour By Lynne Couzins
    The New Guy By Felicity Edwards
    The Oasis By Tanvi Nagar
    The Present By Peter Hankins
    There Once By Miriam H. Harrison
    The Rescue By Hilary Taylor
    The Returners By Liz Breen
    The Stone By Felicity Edwards
    The Surprise By Jeff Jones
    Tough Cookie By Liz Breen
    Waiting Words By Madelaine Taylor
    Weakender By JP Seabright
    Werewolves By Jessica Brown
    What A Concept By Bud Scott
    When To Err Is Not Human By Dipayan Chakrabarti


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Secret Attic - Founded March 2020