Repent at Leisure

By Joanne Deluce

"You're so lucky," my bridesmaids eagerly echo one another in a chorus of hollow agreement. 

Each facet of the five carat sparkler strapped to my finger casts prismatic light across their awestruck faces; I stare transfixed at my reflection. 

A vision of bridal perfection. Pristine white satin sweeps around me like the cocoon of something becoming, transforming.

Is it too tight? Too low cut? Am I flaunting myself again? I'm regressing, shrinking, diminishing. 

They don't hear the arguments, or see the bruises. Yet, if they do, they will forever hold their peace.

"Yes," I beam, my façade unfaltering, "so lucky."

The Coin

By Bean Sawyer

Beneath the canopy of a chestnut; she buried the purse with a promise she would return.

The conkers grew plump and spiney, leaves danced, snow-topped branches stood sentinel. Year after year, the old tree leaned further to the east, due to the persistent westerly wind. 

Lovers kissed, children played, cows lifted soil with their hooves over and over. A woman stopped to rest, saw something golden glisten in the grass. 

Felt the weight of it in her palm, unearthed the timeless voice of a ghost.

Rabbit’s Foot

By Amalie Trollhaugen Wad

‘Twas the night before Easter

and at Her behest,

an egg-laying rabbit

had furnished its nest.

They were edible blessings 

these eggs on the lawn

from the goddess Eostre,

who governs the dawn.

But lurking nearby;

an abhorrent portent,

was a villainous poacher

with murderous intent.

Unfortunate lately,

he’s out to obtain

a rabbit’s foot trinket

and find luck again.

He felled the poor rabbit

and cut off its paw

without pity or prayer

or concern for the law.

In her rage, with her light

the spring goddess tore

out the eyes of the man

and he saw dawn no more.

Time and chance come to us all 

By Gabrielle Josephine Lewis

Eli was as swift as a peregrine in full stoop, as strong as an elephant felling trees, as wise as a salamander choosing meals, as understanding as a mamba striking prey, as skilled as a shark surviving the womb. These qualities served him well, until we turned fifty-two. 

When Hitler sent his dogs after David's blood in Drenthe, it was easier to hide me, a barren man, than Eli's family of seven. 

They say that his baby drew the slavering hounds to the gap beneath the floorboards. It was then I knew that I was the lucky one.

Count Your Blessings

By Michelle Bennett

The first time we made it to six months. Butterfly flutters, frequent toilet breaks, furniture chosen, names debated. 

The second time we made it to four months. Butterfly flutters, frequent toilet breaks, around the clock nausea, persistent anxiety.

The third time we made it to eleven weeks. Butterfly flutters, incessant dread, fearful hope, private grief.

The last time we didn’t make it very far. No butterfly flutters, no congratulations, no expanding waistline, no dreams left. 

A false positive. 

Each time the same empty platitudes. “You’re lucky it didn’t go as far along this time. Saved yourself a lot of heartache”.

Lucky Girl

By David Haworth

Beatrice Strange crack-crack-bends arthritic knees,  

swollen fingers hunt the dirt, tired eyes strain to see, 

‘Three, 

three,’ 

sigh, 

‘three.’

As a child she chanced upon a four leaf clover,

‘What a lucky girl am I!’

Ever since she’s tried to find another. 

Only stops when the sharp snows fly. 

Beatrice Strange hates winter. 

Dark days at draughty door, waiting for the thaw.

Fifty years now.

Back bent out of shape, neck aches.

Once her ‘one true love’ passed by, covered in rabbits’ feet.

All she saw was his shoes. 

They never kissed.

How many rainbows has Beatrice missed? 

Secret Admirer

By Joel O'Flaherty

I’m clutching her favourite book, the one she reads in the window of her apartment when it’s late at night and she’s feeling lost.

I linger outside the café opposite her office, three stops on the Northern line from her home.

Watching. Waiting.

Poised to enter in a hurry as she leaves, to knock the iced latte (coconut milk, always) from her hand, insist on buying her another. 

She’ll recognise the book.

Our eyes will lock. 

She’ll finally notice her soulmate from afar.

And in years to come, I’m certain, she’ll reminisce and smile:

‘I’m so lucky I met you.’

Just my luck this is…

By Dave Thrasher

Alarm didn't go off, now I'm stuck in rush hour traffic, listening to the radio. That Putin's well off his trolley, isn't he? Bombing people going to work - and kids? Oh for heaven's sake, a school bus blocking the bridge to let them off? I'm gonna be late. Just my luck this is. I mean what's that all about? A woman in Iran beaten to death for not covering her hair? That's mental that is. Better not miss my hair appointment, I can tell you. Come on mate, move! Just my luck this is.

Viva Las Vegas, Baby!

By Lisa H. Owens

Bob reminisced while sipping two-fingers of watered-down house whiskey. Hell, who was he to complain? It was free, meant to loosen purse strings. The problem was the purse had been empty for years. In-side-out and shaken empty. Bob swallowed, pulling a face, the taste barely tolerable. 

Barely. 

He stared at his nemesis, its screen a mess of mismatched numbers and fruit. Dirty bastard. He tipped his head back. Felt the whiskey burn—down to his ulcer. This was his night. He felt it in his bones. He shook hands with the devil, yet again. Cherries and Sevens set in motion.

Four

By Malcolm Todd

Her delicate features fill his vision as she crosses the gap between two trees and pauses. The crosshairs centred just below her twitching ear, he breathes in, breathes out and gently squeezes the trigger …
She treads stealthily across the forest floor, sniffing the air, ears cocked for danger, snatching mouthfuls of clover. Something different catches her eye and she bends towards it, curious. At that moment, a crack, and she is off, swifter than thought.
He walks to where he missed his target. Amongst the clover she was feeding on, he spies something unusual. Smiling, he counts the leaves.

Working away on a Winter’s Day

By Judith Wilson

Can’t wait to get home
See you on the platform
Lucky I caught the early train. Later ones are cancelled cos of the weather
Remember our first date throwing snowballs
When you kissed me and put snow down my jumper
Nice cold breasts
Firmer then
Still gorgeous today
Smooth talker
See you in an hour. Love you xxx
Love you too xxx
A grey-haired man with eyes full of devotion smiled out of the phone.
The paramedic placed it back into the woman’s lifeless hand and hurried on to the next passenger in what was left of the broken carriage.

Luck of the Irish

By Robert Burns
I remember the field of clover rolled out, an endless verdant carpet, colliding in the distance with the crystalline blue sky.
We walked barefoot, ankle deep in the cool, silky herbs. Pausing, Tony studied the green at our feet. With a broad smile, he bent to pluck the one he sought.
“For good luck,” he said, placing it in my palm.
I studied the plant. No simple trefoil—four leaflets on this single stem.
How did he do that? A mystery to this day.
I tuck the four-leaf clover back into my billfold and return to my work.

You Make Your Own Luck

By Pippa Brush Chappell
You make your own luck. Ma always said so.
She rolls a soft scrap of rabbit’s fur between her fingers. Leave him his foot. Don’t want that. Presses an extra leaf onto the trefoil she found in the grass until they are almost one. Almost four. Runs her thumb along a bent nail. From a horse’s hoof. Maybe. She found it on the road. Wraps it all in gold foil, saved from Christmas. A rough, misshapen ball. It scratches. Gathers dust in her pocket.
What are you fidgeting with there? Show me. He never misses a thing.
Just my luck.

Four Things that Bring Good Fortune to a Home

By Caroline Jenner
When you left I painted the front door pillar box red.  The colour of courage  - the promise of a fresh start.
When you left I changed all the cushions to elephant prints; a symbol of wisdom; a recognition I’d learned my lesson well.
When you left I threw out your coffee and began drinking chamomile tea, its sharp, earthy scent restoring my dreams.
When you left I bought a mirror, placed it on the wall facing the window.  I watched the room expand alongside my heart.  I saw in its reflection the greenness of the garden – and breathed.

The group chose ‘Repent at Leisure’ as their favourite. Congratulations, Joanne Deluce!