Shorts #2 text reader accessible version

Contributors

Managing editor: Marnie Devereux. Issue #2 contributors: Jas Cook, Marnie Devereux, Jim Fleming, Charly Gullett, Adrian Harding, Vic Hendrickson, Janet A Hopkins, Michael Hunt, Angela Huskisson, Jane Leakey, Gail Mangham, Sandra McKenna, Melissa Todd, Paul Toolan. 
Thanks, you crazy kids!!! Cover image:  Postcard, 1903. (New York Public Library)/Picryl.comFacing page:State Archives of Florida/picryl.com (1958)Postcard, 1900 (New York Public Library)/Picryl.com digitaltmuseum.org/picryl.com (1932)Special mention if you can identify issue #2 cover quote! #1 quote was from the 1958 song ‘Short Shorts’ by The Royal Teens.Send items to be considered for publication to: editor.shorts@gmail.com. Editor reserves the right to refuse content. Copyright remains with the contributor. Shorts is created with care and social distancing in Arizona, USofA. Enjoy.

Welcome to Shorts in isolation!

‘Such a fabulous, innovative magazine!”STUNNING and utterly, utterly amazing! I love it.’ ‘Asolutely wonderful! Many thanks for sending it my way.’  ‘Great job!’ ‘Well done on the first edition of “Shorts”!!’

– just a few of the comments I’ve received following last month’s launch of Shorts. I’m blown away by the positive reception; you’ve joined us not only from the UK and US, but also from Singapore, New Zealand, China, Spain, Finland and Japan! A massive thank you to all the amazing contributors who helped make issue #1 a big success!
Although Shorts aims to be a quarterly journal, I thought this interim ‘special edition’ would be a welcome respite from the current madness of Covid-19, for both contributors and readers alike. We all face our own challenges and share, perhaps, similar problems; I hope Shorts will provide you with a little respite for a short time.
Stay safe and keep well,
Marnie

www.shortsmagazine.com

Angela Huskisson: She

She had my man. In fact She had more than my man. She had sunk her over-manicured nails into his shining athletic form. She had successfully punctured him with her venom and hey ho… 

And now here they both were, about to process up the aisle and it obviously wasn’t just the two of them anymore. There was definitely an interloper on the way as She had so obviously managed to squirm her way into that particularly exclusive club. The handcuffs were on alright. After all She would also never dream of having a child out of wedlock- Heaven forbid! And what would Mater say? Well, she’d actually had quite a lot to say and none of it particularly complimentary. So, the bump was now fairly obvious and She had made no move to reach for cover. 
And of course, I’d been invited to participate in this Great Day so that She could show off. I don’t doubt it – I am totally convinced. What have I got to complain about after all? It is a beautiful October morning and the sun is shining brilliantly. He was always so well blessed in every way. I hadn’t seen him for a while, my man. We’d parted pretty acrimoniously after all, way back last January. He told me he didn’t want children and obviously not with me. So I hope that I have positioned myself well at the end of a pew and She can take in every last inch of me in my extremely eye-catching outfit. She glides past me then and glances, as I know she will, boldly in my direction with that smirk stuck to her face that says ‘look what I’ve got’. 
Please God, I think, don’t let my waters break. Or maybe, please do.

About the author: Angela Huskisson was born of Anglo-Indian origins in the north of England. Her parents had fled the splendour of India to arrive in a UK struggling with recovery post-WWII. Her mother had an old Smith-Corona and Angela would tap out stories with a relentless gusto. Angela studied arts and drama and moved to London where she taught in the East End and found her niche. Angela taught creative writing, has written a novel, gained a degree and put together several anthologies. She has an avid interest in politics, dance, film, books (of course) and teaches yoga in her spare time. She describes her musings as acts of ‘prosetry’ where word combinations begin to conjure and morph themselves into all sorts of fantastical designs as poetry draws itself into prose and vice versa.

Charly Gullett: Lizards

You know, it was one of those Wednesdays…I get up late, decide there is no time to take a shower, skip coffee and blow out the door to work. Then about 2:30 the boss asks me to pick up a package in the lobby that turns out to be a big crate of books, the elevators are busted and the hand trucks are nowhere in sight. I end up schlepping this dead weight crate up three flights of stairs to the boss’s office where she thanks me less than matter-of-factly just as we both realize the chump sweat I am radiating smells like the south end of a dead rhinoceros. Clearly a career-limiting situation and I mean, it’s really bad. To mitigate this occupational disaster I head for a happy hour after work located in a really low-life slum bar featuring free hors d’oeuvres just so I can kill this monkey on my back without being recognized.
As I sat at the bar inhaling my third strawberry margarita and a few free happy hour oyster shooters, I look down at my arms and I think—I really need to get some sun. The downside is of course the pre-mature solar ageing that transforms body parts into a 3D projection of Death Valley.
Later that night I’m standing in the Fry’s frozen food aisle trying to count up my bargain boosters for some green chilis and a new skin lotion for my arms. I’m still wobbling a bit from happy hour when up walks this lady. She is wearing a scarf pulled over the top of her tightly bunned Alberto VO5 Blue hair, wearing big sunglasses, a white blouse tied around her waist just above the belly button and yellow toreador pants with a big red belt, stiletto heels and old school hosiery with the black line running down the back. She must have been a knockout with this outfit at the Tupperware parties in 1951.
She turned toward me and said, “You’re getting Lizareus Membranous youngman.” Thinking that was some kind of click- bait, and trying to dodge the comment I said, “You know, I’m just gonna to take the green chili…”

Continuing to press the issue she says, “You already have an advanced case. But, you’re young, so what do you care?“
Recognizing the depth of my skin depravation I hesitantly asked, “Is there anything I can do for that?“
“Could be serious from the looks of it,” she said. “This part on your arm really looks pretty bad.” Now I’m really starting to smell a rat. She reaches out with her hand, stops just inches from my arm and shakes her head. “What did you call that disease?” I said. 
“Lizareus Membranous, of course. We could keep an eye on that while we have a couple of drinks. I know a place…” she says with a wink. 

Somewhat too quickly I said, “No thanks.”
At this point I am starting to look for the exit, reeling from the happy hour oxygen loss in my cranial vault, and the profound predominance of Tequila in by blood stream, I realize my palms are getting sweaty.
“Is there another name for that disease? Something I might have heard of?” I said as I look over my shoulder to see if anyone thinks I am talking to the frozen food case. There’s nowhere to go from here but out, and I start to back away. After a few steps I turn and break into a run, bargain boosters fluttering to the tile floor like lost snowflakes in a savage storm. Over my shoulder I hear her again, “They call it Lizard Scales! My husband can sell you a no exam insurance policy…it’s only…” and her voice trailed off as I hustled out the door running across the hot asphalt to the relative security of my pickup truck. Well, I needed the exercise, but I wasn’t ready for it. The Arizona summer night was unseasonably hot still pegging the gauge at over a hundred and creating little wavy lines above the paint on my black truck. My hand burned slightly on the door handle as I got in and I realized I had this sweet watery taste in my mouth.

In an instant I remembered the sweet taste and the memory of the Kohler toilet that I had my head stuck in at the time was not pleasant. I knew enough not to toss a load on the inside of the truck, so I slid off the bench seat just in time to project the first plate of free happy hour oyster shooters against the driver’s side door. That was when I lost my balance. I had just enough control to point myself toward the truck as I fell—desperately trying to break my descent. But like the distant thunder of a big tree falling to the expert skill of a professional lumberjack that dissociative dive like the harsh jaws of hell was inevitable. As I heaved Tequila and oysters one last time on my way down, my face slid across the now liquified side of the hot black truck, my cheek making a staccato squeaking sound as both puke and crackled face skin made for homeward bound on the bricks. I don’t

remember my head hitting anything, but there was some blood adding minor injury to this ignoble insult. As the hurled liquid dripped down off the door matting my hair, I vaguely realized I have now compromised my job, puked and bled all over a rare disease and it’s only Wednesday.
I’m flopping hideously in the parking lot like a decked and terrified Atlantic tuna wondering why twenty years of petroleum oil leaks from badly tuned Toyotas can possibly smell better than what I have just vacated, when these two Catholic nuns show up. They look at each other and shake their heads. Through the fog I could just make out their tiny little voices.
“How very sad, Sister Agatha. God moves in strange ways.”

Adjusting her habit and puckering her church-lady lips very slightly, the other nun replies, “Yes. It is a wonder he lasted this long. What an awful cross to bear!“

“How do you mean, Sister?” 

 “Oh, the Lizard Scales, Lizareus Membranous. Look at his arms; worst case I ever saw. You drive the car, Sister, and I’ll tell you about the Minnesota Lizard Scale epidemic those darn Presbyterians had back in ‘51. Now there was an act of God if I ever saw it…” 

About the author: Charly Gullett is a technical author, singer-songwriter, digital engineer and commercial artist. He is now retired; builds and repairs violins and teaches acoustic folk guitar to returning American veterans in the Guitars for Vets program at the local Veterans Administration hospital in Prescott, Arizona.

Marnie Devereux: Gaia

In the beginning, they treated it as a bit of a joke. The moment anyone coughed or sneezed, it would be countered with ‘Ooh, you’ve got the virus!’ accompanied by a dramatic clutch of the throat and a pratfall. Catch-phrases abounded among late-night comedians, reviving several flagging careers, and satirical radio shows were supplied with enough material for the whole season. Later, once it began taking hold, the jokes died away along with the old and the vulnerable. The cynics observed, ‘What’s it matter? They was gonna have died anyways’. 
Church congregations, already large in this conservative town where folks prayed to their imaginary gods as often as they beat their wives and children, grew exponentially, using public spaces as overflow parking lots for their trucks and RVs. The men stood stiffly in rows, eyes squeezed shut in silent supplication, while the womenfolk whispered their catechism, ‘God willin’ and the creek don’t rise’, and did their best to shush their children into grudging obedience. In the markets, they chose carefully, ignoring the bundles of fresh, hand-picked produce, instead stocking up on those items that would last the longest time, just in case. Cashiers discreetly squirted anti-bac lotion onto their hands between customers, all the time doing their best to make it look as though that was something they had always done.
It was the pangolins who had finally decided enough was enough. A quiet word in my ear, and I saw the way things were heading. I have to say I did not like it, no sir. Not one iota. My skirts were ragged, my dainty shoes worn through. I worked my poor old fingers to the bone, and this is the gratitude I get? Well, that’s no way to treat a lady. Now you might look down your nose at me in disdain, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right? I was stifled. CO2, global warming, deforestation, microplastics; I swear by all that’s holy, this is not what I had intended back in the day. What’s that you say? Have mercy? Excuse me? That’s not how mamma raised me.

Tired of the mass desecration of their kind in the markets of Wuhan and numerous towns across Asia, the pangolins fought back in the only way they could, using their decimated bodies to infiltrate the living, little by little, until their murderers fell sick and the disease, along with the rumours, spread.  

In the Western cities, the ones who were happy to confirm their prejudices talked of the casualties in China, and their massacre at the hands of the Communists. Meanwhile, the Leader of the Free World repeated his mantra that everything was fine in their glorious nation. No need to panic, folks, it’s business as usual. Spin doctors were appointed to cure all ills, so that eventually the virus became the new Asiatic elephant in the room. Everyone knew it was there, but no-one mentioned it. It distracted the masses from political scandals and from realising that they were, in fact, nothing more than cannon fodder in the new economic war on disease. Most folks were so poor they couldn’t afford to see a doctor, so the virus went unchecked, spreading at church and school until the pretence of normality became too great, and they asked ‘are you well?’ before opening their doors to visitors. 

I opened my parasol, its fringes swinging in the warm breeze that was starting to blow in from beyond the mesa. Summer came, and tempers rose in the hundred-and-twenty degree heat. The streets were mostly empty now, but when a man was run down in broad daylight as he staggered feverishly into the oncoming traffic, no-one was surprised, or even alarmed. The blank-eyed driver of the vehicle involved simply shrugged, drove straight to the carwash and ran his Dodge through three times until he could be satisfied that nothing of the contaminated tissue lingered. 
‘Mask-chic’ became the new trend in glossy magazines and on social media; lifestyle bloggers and celebs tweeted about their latest, jewel-encrusted face masks while the wannabes made do with grafitti-tagged designs like they were true badass style. #maskmybaby did a roaring trade in full-facewear for the under-5s, and no-one could tell a bank teller from a bank-robber but for which side of the counter they were stood on. 

Stock markets imploded. A run on the banks meant that wallets were heavy, but there was nothing to spend the cash on. Drive-through food supplies dried up. Trucks no longer made the long journey up the mountain from the valley, and the barren desert landscape was no place for growing crops. On June 24th the internet disappeared. Gun-toting preppers disappeared too, underground, into their concrete shelters lined with stacks of toilet paper and survival food. No-one saw them again. 
And then it snowed. Well, what would you do? A late winter storm, blowing in drifts from the mountains, a fog-like tsunami rolling across from Granite Mountain. Next morning the folks who remained woke up to a frozen landscape, and no electricity. Do I feel remorse? No. After all, as a wise man once said, I’m not in love with them any more than they are with me, so frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. 

Weeks passed, and still it snowed; the cold front gently caressing the small desert town with its deadly fingers, until, inevitably, no-one remained. 
In time, if anyone had been there to witness, they would have noticed a lone mule deer tentatively make her way down the canyon, followed by the javelina, bone-thin from their shelter among the mesquites up in the hills around Hidden Valley. Bobcats returned to Lynx Lake, scenting the crystal-clear air and marking the fresh snow with territorial assurances. Coyote roamed the deserted streets, teaching their young the new ways, undisturbed by shoppers or vehicles. The creek rose, and overflowed with snow-melt; grass grew through the cracks in the sidewalk, and the sound of birdsong filled the air. I loosened my corset, and breathed.

Paul Toolan 
42nd Street: The Story of a Short Story

In A View from Memory Hill, my first short story collection [smarturl.it/avwm], there’s a story called 42nd Street. This is more or less how it came about. I live in a village in rural Somerset, England. Every year, in June, the village holds a folk festival day which fills the streets with dancers, musicians, street vendors – and hundreds of happy visitors. Three years ago, I squatted on a straw bale in the village square, watching a female clog-dancing team called The Beetlecrushers click and tap their clogs to the music of fiddles and guitars. 
I was there to enjoy myself, not to collect material, but as the dancers performed, a story idea filtered into my head regardless. From the corner of my eye I noticed two or three elderly couples watching the colourful dancers – and I suppose I wondered what they were thinking, these older folk. A few days later, the story began to focus on just one couple – a pair I invented, quite unlike those I had seen, with distinctive ways of moving and speaking. These two characters, along with the setting and the event, provided a solid structure. Stories, though, need conflict and a sense of flux. To provide these, the main characters had to do more than simply watch the performance, colourful though it was. I’m no spring chicken myself, and well aware that older folk have lots of memories. What memories might the Beetlecrushers stir up, I wondered? Could the swirl of skirts and the tapping of clogs send my characters back in time, to a parallel experience? After a bit of research – cinema history, street names, accurate dates and the like – I found a memory I was happy with. 
Could I enrich this memory, so that the contrast/conflict between present and past moved beyond the characters themselves, to a broader truth? Why not judge for yourself, as you read [free!] 42nd Street…

Paul Toolan
42nd Street

The Beetlecrushers clog-dancing team clicked and tapped their way across South Petherton village square. Folk Festival Day was warm and muggy – shirtsleeves and pushchairs, panting dogs, the smell of fried onions, fresh pizza and spit-roast Dexter beef, wafting from West Street and the courtyard of The Brewers Arms. 

A fiddler bowed a single note and the crowd, squatting on lines of straw bales, stilled to a murmur. Two guitars mirrored the note. A bearded mandolin player fine-tuned his strings as eight rainbow-coloured dancers slid fresh flower-stems into hats of yellow straw. 
Leaning on his stick, an old man shuffled towards the one remaining bale, helping his frail companion ease slowly down. It wasn’t comfy, the bale, but at least it was a seat. 
‘Hope I can get up again,’ she said. 
‘I’ll give y’a push.’
‘Tuh, you couldn’t push a fly, these days.’ 

He looked at his gnarled hands. No, he thought, these days the fly would win.
‘Keep still’, she said. ‘They’re goin’ to start.’
The pair of them watched as bright skirts swished to the music and felt the first beat as eight clogs rose and hovered over the ground, pausing for muscle-tearing moments before dropping to the tarmac with a single click. Eight more beats and eight more again, the rhythm quickening to the trill and ching of mandolin and guitars, and the fiddle spinning tight circles of sound which the tapping dancers chased and caught.

‘You’re tapping your stick,’ she whispered, pointing. He was following the beat, hadn’t noticed.

‘Well, you’re tapping your foot. I saw you.’

‘Tuh, tapping the good one,’ she said, rubbing at the bandage on the other.
Skirts swirled and spun as the dance grew faster, his well-worn stick and her one good foot involuntarily tapping, tapping to the circles of sound, to the rhythm of clogs, tapping the two of them back, tapping their memories back, back to 1934 in Yeovil, to The Gaumont Cinema on Stars Lane, where they ‘stepped out’ together for the very first time, his arm around her warm young shoulders in the back row of the celluloid palace, watching Dick Powell’s dancers in 42nd Street, and she asking him, ‘Who’s best, Ginger Rogers or Ruby Keeler?’ 
And him saying, ‘You are.’
As one, the dancers climbed into the air on invisible strings, landing and spinning, eight clogs tapping and heeling, tapping and heeling, before the music flicked to a sudden stop – click – and eight pointed toes slow-slow-slowly rose, knee-high, the audience rising with them, breath held, tensing, waiting, for one final rhythmic clack! Then eight toes falling in teasing-lingering-unison till they touched the ground with the tiniest of clicks, and the smiling dancers bowed.
Whoops and whistles rattled the windows of the homes and shops surrounding the square as applause swelled and fell, its last echoes fading into silence somewhere between the delicatessen and the pharmacy. 
Then the crowd dispersed and the dancers were gone, pitching the two companions out of their cinema seats, out of The Gaumont, spinning them back from 1934 to a new century, all the way back to an old straw bale in the emptying village square.
‘I wish I could dance like that,’ she sighed.
‘You are,’ he said, his stick pointing at her one good foot, still tapping.

Melissa Todd: A Tiny Good Deed

Book to return. Parcel to post. And wedged in a small secret pocket at the bottom of his rucksack, a bottle of bright pink nail polish, a slight glimmer to it. He felt the secret hard bulge it made. His wife was talking. No, he wouldn’t be long. No, he wouldn’t forget the broccoli like last time. Yes, he could defrost the steak. Why wouldn’t he write it down, actually? Since he couldn’t keep a few simple jobs in his stupid bald head. He smiled and patted his rucksack again, the glittery secret a talisman. She’d go to her mother and he’d have three hours clear, and nothing, nothing she could say now could dull the shine of that glorious empty afternoon stretching before him, August to a schoolboy. She couldn’t find enough jobs to use up more than half an hour, try as she might, and sending him to town provided a useful alibi. He could kiss her for it. He did kiss her, with such rare tenderness she stopped talking to stare at him. 
“Mind how you go, love. I’ll get the table ready.” 
She sniffed and left, quilted purple anorak pulled taut over her hips, handbag banging furious in pace with her stride. He exhaled as he watched her go, leaning a little against the doorframe, suddenly giddy. Then pulled himself together. Not a moment to waste. Not a moment. Three hours could vanish in a heartbeat if he let them. 

He performed his chores in a dream, head down, fearful that someone he knew might see him and want  to chat. But no, he was early, much too early. Time enough for his bowels to turn liquid yet. He watched the seconds tick past on his watch, sitting on the wall outside her flat. Mustn’t be late, no, but not early either. She’d warned him about that. She ran a tight schedule. Others to see besides him. And the dog to walk, that yappy little shit. He was much less important than the dog. She’d told him that too, several times. The knowledge made him quiver. 

At last the hour struck, met his finger poised over the bell. She answered after a minute or so. 

He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her gaze. The scent of her was enough. 

“Come in. Wait there.” 

She pointed to a corner of the room. He stood there for a full five minutes before she addressed him. 
“Tim. It’s been too long.” 
He cleared his throat. 
“Yes. Sorry.” 
“I don’t want to hear sorry. You know I can’t abide sorry. What have you got for me?” 
He bent to retrieve the small bottle of nail polish and, beside it, a thick wedge of notes. 
“Very well. You may kneel.” 
She sat back on her velvet chair, dog on her lap, her legs and feet bare. He crawled towards her and began to stroke and rub at the toes, pawing at them clumsily, moving his hands over her instep, heel, then up to her ankle. Inches from his face, she stroked her hands over her dog, burying her jewelled fingers in its fur. Long pink fingernails. Thank God, his gift wouldn’t clash. His hands were shaking but keeping them moving disguised the worst of the tremor. He clung to her ankles, pressed his thumbs into the Achilles heel, delved deep into her flesh until she moaned. 

Ordinary, everyday unhappiness receded before her. He wanted to suffer sublimely. To have his suffering mean something to someone. A suffering that involved the surrender of his identity, the occupation instead of something new. Life itself is exceptional. To live moderately is to  trivialise it, waste its gift. “That’s enough. Get on with it.” He snatched up his bottle like a drunkard, trembling fingers at the lid, praying he wouldn’t spill like a fool and make a mess and have her refuse to see him again. Careful, careful. The mixture glowed in the gloom. He loaded the brush and began to apply the Barbie-pink paint to her toes, wedging his fingers between them, bold now, turning her legs to the light so he could distinguish between nail and flesh, the better to serve her, please her. Thank God, she didn’t complain. She pointed her toes like a ballerina, stroking one foot over the other, admiring the effect; then, after a moment’s thought, moving a foot over his cheek and lips. He could smell her, taste her almost, sweat and perfume and dog fur. He kissed the tip of the big toe, then, reckless with desire, pushed his tongue down into the crevice between. She ran her other foot over his head, silky skin against his wrinkled, spotted old scalp. Brought both feet down to meet his mouth, wiggled toes against open, waiting lips. 
“Alright. Time’s up. Maisie needs her walk now, don’t you sweetie; yes, she does! Leave that there. See you next month. If you can find the time.” 
“I will. I’ll make time.” 
“You’d better. You have performed a tiny good deed today. I like my toes and you have made me happy. Keep that up, if you want to come again.” 
He stumbled away and flew home, presented his broccoli with a flourish, for he was now the man who had performed a tiny good deed for a woman so far above him she could barely be seen from earth. For a moment he had made her think of him. For a moment he had lived in her mind. And when she took her toes to bath or bed or wrapped them around the back of the Godlike man who was permitted to share her life, perhaps then she would remember him, wretched stupid balding old fool though he’d become, and he’d again inhabit her head, even if only for a moment, the way she perpetually occupied his.

About the author: Melissa Todd works as a music therapist and runs ‘Hags Ahoy’ theatre company. She is also a contributing editor to Blue Nib literary magazine. Melissa lives in Kent, UK.

Jane Leakey: Finders Keepers

We sat on the warm pavement. You and I, sisters together. 
We watched. And waited. 
We watched the Big Boys from across the road play with their little toy soldiers in the long grass, too absorbed to notice the two eagle-eyed little girls watching them.
We bided our time, waiting until their mothers called them in for tea. How strange, looking back, that they all seemed to have it at the same time.
 The boys would hurriedly gather up their little men from the grass, stumbling over each other to collect their armies. But they were never quick enough; their mothers would get impatient.

Tim! I said it’s time for tea!
A mad scramble – long legs in short trousers, running home, clutching their boxes of little plastic men. Each going their separate ways in time for tea with their perfect mothers.
Silence. We look at each other, breathlessly, full of excitement.

Come on Jane!
We run over to the long grass and land on our hands and knees, searching through the undergrowth for carelessly abandoned treasure.
Look Jane! Look at this one!
You hold up a small plastic fighting man triumphantly in the air.

Yes Angela! That’s a Jap!

I search through the grass, excitement mounting. I have found two soldiers, three – now I have four! All left behind by those careless boys who appeared to want for nothing.
Unlike us.
Jane! Look! I got you a flame thrower!
What joy.

We laughed with excitement at each new discovery.

We soon amassed our own small army – a mismatch of Germans, Japs, Yanks and Brits. Representing different eras, different wars.

And I loved them. Because they were now mine.

And I loved you for helping me. For not judging me for playing with toy soldiers. For wanting to be a boy.

Those little plastic men gave me great joy. Matched only by the thrill of the chase with you, my dear sister. ​
Thank you.

Vic Hendrickson: Music: a personal journey

The 70s were a seminal time in my life. I was born in sixties England to Jamaican parents, and had grown up listening to ska and reggae, but also Tom Jones, Elvis, The Beatles, Rolling Stones and a lot of “disposable” pop music like The Sweet. My parents were musically progressive in the fact that they allowed all music through their front doors. Then, when I was ten, we moved to Jamaica for a few years…
As an impressionable child, being raised by Jamaican parents talking about what Jamaica was like, I was so excited to go there and experience what they experienced when they were my age. So we moved to Jamaica, and what an eye opener it was! Seventy-degree Christmases, fruit on trees in the back garden that you could rarely buy in the shops in England. Let’s be honest… fruit everywhere. There were also mosquitoes and red ants the size of buses, but on the whole, paradise.

To me the biggest surprise came in the form of music. I had expected to hear a lot of reggae, and there was a lot of reggae: Bob Marley (of course!) Max Romeo, and Lee Perry to name a few. But there was also Paul McCartney (Band on the Run) played on the radio. Did you know that Jim Reeves was the best-selling artist in Jamaica in the 70s?

I stayed with my grandfather for a while, and he had an old transistor radio that was powered by battery, and that radio could pick up radio stations in Florida. There was a station called WGBS, and every night, my grandfather and I would sit on the veranda and listen to American music including Andy Gibb and Bill Withers. At eleven years old I could hold the “day” from Lovely Day for the full eighteen seconds! The first time I ever heard Hotel California was on my grandfather’s veranda, and to this day, hearing that song brings me joy because of that memory; an eleven year old boy, in Jamaica, with his grandad, just hanging out, hearing that amazing solo.

As you can tell, thanks to my family, I embrace all types of music. So it was no surprise that when we moved back to England in 1977, I embraced punk music.

Now, you have to remember that there was a recession in England at that time; very few jobs, and Maggie Thatcher was destroying the unions.

The bands at the time were stadium fillers like Styx, Chicago, and also disco music, and none of that music represented what it was like growing up in such a depressing time, where teenagers felt that there was no future for them (there was actually a punk band called NO Future). Punk rock came out of that disenfranchisement. No more Babe I Love You, just two-and-a-half minute gems like White Riot by The Clash.

Then, things calmed down, as did the music. We had new wave, synth pop, ska. I still believe that the 80s had the best mix of music, and clothing, of any decade. My youth taught me this; all music is good music, if you give it a chance. To that point, I’m still working on modern country music. I listen to Leadbelly, classical, blues, R&B to name a few, but my heart is in the 80s. Prince, Kate Bush, The Clash, Wham! 
Nuff said!  

About the author: Vic Hendrickson moved from England in 2015, and now resides in Prescott, Arizona. His first novel, ‘Trigger Warning’, was published in 2018. 

Gail Mangham: The Goldilocks Exit

Cast: One woman, 60’s to 70’s, dressed in nice but casual clothing, light makeup. She grew up in Texas, but lost much of her accent. She drinks 3 Martinis in the course of the monologue, but her inebriation is quite subtle exhibiting only in a benign expansiveness and flair for the dramatic. From time to time she may lose her standard American speech or affect a more posh accent for effect. There should be no caricature unless intentional on her part. She is experiencing the subtlest symptoms of dementia.The kind when you can’t recall vocabulary you’ve used your whole life, names, places visited or when you rush through a story, your mind sprinting ahead of the words, making sure the synapses are providing the needed information or when you fall into a silence waiting for the right word, concept, date, determined to will it into being. The actor may search for such opportunities, but use them oh-so-subtly, so that the audience is not quite sure whether there is a problem or not.
Set: The following can be scaled down as required. Bar with Martini set up. Three servings of Martinis are pre-made. One serving is already in glass with lemon twist, remaining two in shaker. One dish of olives on toothpicks and one dish of lemon twists. Easy chair (wing-back style but not so much that sight lines are obscured), side table, floor lamp, picture in frame of her youngest aunt.

(In the opening blackout, the woman speaks the following line…)

Lights up.
(Lights come up suddenly and she blinks, and holds up her Martini.)I’d offer you one, but…I don’t share my Martinis.Especially when I’m creating. I’m writing this monologue. I mean this monologue right now, this instant. It’s a competition.  Swimming with Giants—that’s the theme. I’m a wannabe writer. Of course I can write. Emails—I’m very good with emails! My emails are the BEST, the BEST words, the Best thoughts! (mimics Trump gesture and voice on the word ‘best’). Draw the line at tweeting; tweeting is for twits. My postings on Facebook? They shape the world! And research papers. OK my last paper was my dissertation—a lifetime ago. It’s actually sitting on a shelf (spoken with mock grandeur/affectation) in a library of Gothic style and proportion.

I’m an author; I’m published! (self-deprecating laughter.) Last time I looked, no one has ever checked it out.
(Sips martini and sits in chair.)
To be a writer, a fantasy I suppose–like galloping across a mountain meadow bareback– clothing optional– but long hair required, dancing a Viennese waltz with a tall, dark and yes! handsome guy in (searches mind for the word) uh those things on the shoulders, tip of my tongue,–YES epaulettes, no corset please, oh yes and having a big reunion with my family, all my sons in the kitchen cooking…and singing.
But to see my name on the cover of a book and know that people are reading it. Big fantasy. Egad–it would be like someone watching me have sex. Well, in any case…intimate.

So —Swimming with Giants. (Sips drink.) Very average swimmer and don’t know any giants. I’m in deep shit here. I know, I know– theme, metaphor, action. Write what you know about. That would be me I guess. I know me pretty well, 70+ years.

Nutshell– born, grew up, married, had children, grandchildren, lived abroad, trod the boards of many a stage, and now Act III is upon me. Possibly a short Act III. It should be short I suppose…actually ideally it should be the perfect length with a perfect exit. Leave too soon and the audience is left wanting more–and maybe me as well; stay too long and you might get the hook. “Aye there’s the rub.” The rub? A metaphor. But for what? Still no swimming– or giants for that matter. Sheesh I’m lost here; almost had it.  My brain is so fuc…sorry…terribly fuzzy. Now is the time when I would normally take a walk, drive across country or drift off to sleep.That’s when the ideas come, really come. Time for Martini # 2. There are three in this monologue I’ve decided.
(Gets up to make Martini.)
Some people have great Act III’s. Acts Three?? (Pause as she grapples with this for a  moment.) They find new love, new careers, solve humanity’s problems, figure out the meaning of life, die peacefully with their loved ones around them. “Aye there’s the rub.” The exit. 
(Distracted by choice of martini garnish.) 
Olive or Twist…Twist or Olive. Why not both? 
(Pops olive in mouth and drops a twist in Martini.)
Oh dear lost ‘me’ train of thought. (Done in a faux British accent.)
Oh right! Exit. Finding the Goldilocks moment to move on to ‘the last, great adventure’– too soon, too late—just right.

(These last two words are spoken as she finishes pouring in glass. She sips, approves.)
Seven, ten, thirteen, respectively– years that is. Years that my three aunts lived with…Alz– (stops herself and drops voice to a stage whisper) Maybe I won’t say it. Some people believe that if you name something you make it real, manifest it. (The following interruption in her musings has a completely different rhythm and tone than the foregoing. It’s quick and lively as she discovers details of the memory and experiences growing satisfaction at her accomplishment.) 

Oh my God! Swimming! Giants! I just remembered. OK! Got this! I was sixteen working at a  summer job. No money one day, so I decided to walk home rather than take the bus. It’s  blazing hot, summertime in Houston. A mile into the walk I suddenly come to a point where I  have to either cross a very busy 6 lane highway or I could, could swim across Buffalo Bayou  running under the road. I take off my shoes, stuff them in my purse, hold it over my head and wade in. Can’t see the damn bottom! Mud oozes through my toes. It feels great; the water’s  cool. Soon the bottom disappears and I’m doing a very graceful, OK, graceless, one arm dog  paddle, i.e. SWIMMING (maybe sings this and toasts herself). About halfway across I hear a  splash. I look back and there is a, note, GIANT, alligator gliding toward me. I don’t panic. I  am sixteen. I am invincible. I will live forever. But I feel him behind me; silent. (All very  dramatic as she enjoys telling the story.) I get to the other side, dripping wet, scramble up the  bank, look back; no alligator. (Pause) But I felt him coming, you know?
(The line above is a break in the tone and alacrity of story. At some level she knows something is tracking her. Then back to previous tone and pace below.)
Anyway I cross the service road, apartment in sight, a bus pulls up to let off passengers. I  recognize the driver, smile and wave. True story…honest to God, well maybe the alligator  wasn’t a giant, but definitely big enough to scare me into some Olympic level swimming– uh dog paddling.

(Mock toast with Martini #2, finishing it off.) 
 There hit the theme right on the nail head! Yeah, OK… Should’ve used the computer. Not sure this approach is working. I need another drink. This will be the last one I promise. Three is my limit. 
(Makes Martini # 3 and continues thinking aloud.) 
Let’s see…Act III, Exits, Rubs. 
(Searches mind for a thread to hang on to, sees photograph.) 
A few years before my youngest aunt died of (starts to name it; stops herself.) the disease- that- shall-not-be-named, I was asking her about my grandfather. He was killed in a gunfight  over Louisiana politics. There was a detail I’d always wondered about; but when I brought it  up, she just gave me a blank look. She had told that story a million times over the years, yet now she had no memory of it, at all. Not of my grandfather, not of the shootout. I was stunned. Just like her sisters she finally knew no one, not even herself. Nothing. 
Now there was a giant in my life — (picks up photo.) my second mother, a member of the greatest generation and she had a good, very good Act III. (Sips drink.) 
 But the timing of the Exit…perhaps…I don’t know…I just don’t know. 
(Sits in chair.)
Sheesh! This, this…piece is going nowhere…and I wanted to be a writer?!
(Scoffs at self, sips drink.)

I do know what I don’t want. I don’t want to live a decade losing myself day by day. I don’t want my children or grandchildren to see me disappear. I don’t want to be a burden on family and society. The indignity…(voice trails off.) A friend of mine said to me, “But sweetie you won’t know; so it won’t matter; it’s all good.” But I do know; I know now– in this moment; and—I–choose— the ‘just right’ exit. 

(Swallows the last of Martini and holds up glass.) 
The End! 
(Realizes she is still in the light.) 
Oh Shit! I forgot. Blackout! 
(Blackout and End of Play)

About the author: The attached piece was written for a short playwriting competition titled ‘Swimming with Giants’. Frustrated with what and how to write, I decided to just tackle the notion of writing for a competition and how challenging that can be. I had no idea where the piece was headed.Gail Mangham is the Founder and Artistic Director of The Artist’s Path in Prescott, Arizona (www.theartistpath.org). She holds a BA in French, English and Education and a Master of Fine Arts in Drama. An actor, voice and diction coach, director, producer and arts activist, Gail has worked coast to coast In the US as well as in Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates.

Adrian Harding: My Perfect Dorset Day

In order to plan my perfect day in Dorset, I need to perform a trick of packing four seasons into a single waking day.

My ideal morning begins with a springtime meander alongside the Stour. At Eye Bridge, Cowgrove, I watch the dawn mists rising off the river and rolling across the meadows. I am unlikely to catch a glimpse of the otters which play on that stretch, but hopefully I will be lucky enough to spot a kingfisher diving for breakfast in an unspoiled Windin the Willows riverscape. From here it’s a short mile to the gates of Kingston Lacy, as they open for the day, to walk the snowdrop trails in Henrietta Banks’ footsteps and enjoy a quiet moment of meditation in the Japanese Tea Garden.

Shifting from spring to summer, I head for Wareham, stopping to take tea by the luminous waters of the Blue Pool. I pass Corfe Castle, heading to Worth Matravers for lunch at the Square and Compass, an experience which seems untouched by time since long before Hardy’s day. A Dorset Blue Vinney ploughmans lunch washed down with scrumpy from Cider from Rosie will ease me back through time to a much-longed for, slower pace of life. Onwards to Weymouth, on the afternoon of the annual Seafood Festival. Here, I will enjoy grilled fish, fresh from the sea, and walk off the excesses on the beach whilst marvelling at the meticulously crafted sand sculptures, and chuckling at the rumbustious antics of Punch and Judy. The season changes to autumn as I drive past the ancient slopes of Maiden Castle on my way through Dorchester to Cerne Abbas. I will break my journey at the viewpoint to study the world-renowned Cerne Giant. A Roman relic or Civil War satire? Who cares, it never fails to put a smile on the face of anyone who stops to stare. I walk the path alongside the mill leat into the centre of Cerne, to marvel at the historic Pitchmarket, the impressive Manor, the ducks paddling at the ford and the mystical St Augustine’s Well, running clear with magical water percolating from the hillside.

The temperature plunges as I arrive, early evening, in Sherborne at Christmastide. The tip of my nose is tingling with the cold, and I wrap a woollen scarf around my neck. There is late night shopping at the quaint shops in Cheap Street, packed with distinctive gifts. The air is filled with the heady aroma of mulled wine and mince pies. The lights on the giant tree at the Conduit sparkle with seasonal joy. The chime of bells from the Abbey summons me to a Carol service, which inspires me to sing out heartily whilst reflecting and relishing the pleasures of this blessed county. 
Finally, to bed, and where could be nicer than the elegant surroundings of the Eastbury Hotel? My head touches the downy pillow, my sleepy eyes close, the smile remaining on my lips after my perfect Dorset day. 

About the author: Adrian lives in Dorset, England, having recently retired from a lifetime in the aerospace industry. He spends his time now sociably, as an enthusiastic amateur actor, and in solitary contemplation as a long-distance walker.

Jane Leakey: Underwater Buddha

I kneel on a soft expanse of white sand at 18 metres deep, waiting. Slowly breathing in, slowly breathing out; my breath amplified and supplied by the regulator in my mouth which will provide my air for the next hour underwater. The more relaxed I am, the longer the air will last, which equals more time diving. Slow, deep, calm breaths. Darthvader-like. Kneeling, back straight and upright, Buddha-like. My hands rest gently in my lap. I wait for the other divers to descend from the boat. Occasionally, I look up to the distant surface and give the “ok” sign to the dive leader. I see the black legs and coloured fins of the other divers kicking and swirling far up above, waiting to descend the rope. I suspect someone has problems equalising (pinching the nose and blowing hard, to make their ears “pop”) and needs to take their time.
No matter. I know all I need to do is patiently wait and eventually the other divers will join me down here. It is beautiful. Dazzling white sand as far as the eye can see. Contrasted by a rich, deep blue background. Not many fish. But no matter. I am just grateful to be here. It is an artificial reef, consisting of clusters of concrete blocks and huge, concrete tubes, wide enough to swim through, spread out across the seafloor.  Now abandoned, it was originally constructed by the Gran Canarian local authorities to study marine life.
As I wait, I am aware that I am not alone. A large, grey stingray has come to check me out. She majestically swoops into view, turns her smooth, shark-like body towards me, comes close and gives me the eyeball. She is magnificently large: around 1.5 metres long, gun-metal grey. Her beautiful, intelligent eyes look into mine. I do not feel afraid. I am in awe as I return her gentle gaze. Such a beautiful moment of privilege when a wild animal chooses to make contact with a human being. For she chose this moment, not me. Satisfied with what she sees, she regally turns and slowly and gracefully flies off again into the blue, effortlessly using her powerful “wings” which measure one metre across, to swim into oblivion. 
Four years earlier: I am very fortunate to learn to dive in the beautiful, warm waters surrounding Bunaken, a small island off Sulawesi (Indonesia). Measuring 8km2, Bunaken is a true tropical paradise. The island is surrounded by a pristine, untouched, vertical coral reef. This environment attracts thousands of multicoloured fish which feast on its abundance of soft and hard corals. On every dive we see at least five turtles, some slumbering on shelves of coral. Some with sleeping babies. Wait long enough and you will witness a tired, timeless, rheumy eye slowly open and stare into yours. The green turtle can weigh up to 120kg. Females must reach the age of 40 before they can even start laying eggs. I have yet to meet a diver who is not thrilled when they encounter a turtle. Even old hands with thousands of dives under their weightbelts.

After completing our first lesson, we are free to explore the seabed, at around 10 metres down. Plunging into perfect azure tropical waters, I slowly descend down onto a shimmering carpet of sand. There are no rocks or coral, which means less fish. The intense sunlight is refracted down through the surface of the sea far above. Shafts of light are flickering and dancing as they hit the white floor. I lay on my belly, taking it all in. My very first lesson and I. Can. Dive. Wow. As I lay, enjoying this moment, I notice several huge, fat, coffee-coloured starfish laying on the bottom. They are at eye level as I lay low with them. These large, bigger-than-your-hand creatures are astonishing: they appear to have been embedded with a multitude of chocolate chips. They resemble giant cookies. So I take a closer look, slow in my approach. These awesome animals measure about 40cm across. I later discover that they are known as the chocolate chip sea star. I love that description: sea star. Much more apt and romantic than star fish.
As I study my new companions, I make two amazing discoveries. First, I realise that they are not sitting on the sea floor. They are moving. So, so slowly. Almost imperceptably. But they are moving. If you take time when you dive, stopping and waiting, you will be rewarded with similar revelations. Many divers are in a hurry, finning swiftly through the waters, onto the next bigger and better thing (sharks in particular), ignoring all the beautiful, often miniscule miracles in their wake. In rushing like this, they will also consume more air, so shortening the dive. 10,000 year-old corals can be destroyed in an instant by a careless kick of a manic fin. I let them pass, to crash on, leaving me to savour the moment. To wait. To be. To see what wants to swim to me. I am just happy to be there. Looking, waiting, taking it all in. I am very fortunate that I have a great dive “buddy”, Anji, who shares this philosophy, along with a mutual passion for underwater photography. So, back to the incredible chocolate chip sea star, my introduction to watching and waiting. Apparently these creatures move using hundreds of tiny tubed feet located on the underside of their bodies. Watching closely, I am amazed: they appear to be changing colour. As the dancing shafts of light playfully reach down and caress them, their beige bodies are subtly transformed by a tinge of neon blue. Amazing.

When scuba diving, the breath plays a crucial role. It’s not only about breathing slow, deep breaths to conserve air and extend the length of the dive. This mindful, measured breathing also helps us to stay calm and present. Which is, of course, extremely important underwater. Yet there is another amazing way in which divers use the breath underwater: to move vertically. Up and down. Firstly, we need to master neutral buoyancy: the ability to hover completely motionless in the water. Like floating on air. Effortlessly. Miraculously. To adjust my depth, taking a slightly longer in or out breath will take me up or down, just a little. Almost imperceptably. It is astonishing and beautiful to be able to do this. When I breathe in this way I feel a deep connection with the Ocean and its inhabitants. 
I feel truly alive when I am under the Ocean. I hear it calling me; it beckons me home. At times, it can be challenging. Currents, poor visibility, cold temperatures, rough seas. Yet I know I am meant to be down there. I have overcome many obstacles to achieve this, after experiencing a

particularly horrific UK dive shortly after returning from Sulawesi. And when things get tough on terra firma, I recall, in my mind, all the wonder and beauty I have so far encountered underwater. I also remind myself that I am strong, that I am brave, that I am amazing. Because it has taken guts, true determination and courage over many dives to overcome my fears, to feel at home once again.
I am weightless. Alert, yet calm. Suspended without effort, at one with myself and my surroundings. In tune with my body. In tune with my breath. Which sounds loud in my ears; a constant, immediate reminder of being Alive. In this very moment. I delicately flick my fins to gently propel myself forward into the joyous, delicious, Infinite Blue. 

Taking a long, deep breath I rise slightly and effortlessly over an ancient coral reef; then exhale slowly and completely and allow myself to sink gently to land softly on the eternal, welcoming sea bed. I have come home.

About the author: Jane Leakey is a wildlife photographer specialising in underwater photography. She has completed 100 dives spanning the Galapagos, Bali, Sulawesi, Thailand, Crete, Gran Canaria, Ibiza, Costa Rica and the Red Sea. She can’t wait to do more. If you would like to purchase a framed print please contact Jane@janeleakeyphotography www.redbubble.com/people/apeart

Poetry

Michael Hunt: Coyote Resting

When you woke, you had no thought the javelina would be waiting in the dry wash behind our house. You are old, your sight is failing, and the javelina are too strong. They leave you with a gored belly. You can barely stand, your eyes are closed. Your side is slick with blood. You collapse in a pool of sunshine, at the foot of a manzanita tree. Your fur glistens, amber and gold. I cannot tell if you are dead or sleeping, a sleep from which you might not wake. I wonder if you know, and welcome the escape? You look at peace, lying in the sun, on the hillside where you caught rabbits, raised new versions of yourself, and kept us awake with your howling. Is it a relief to lay down the burden, the restless obligations of a predator? Death does not look so unwelcome.

Adrian Harding: Machu Picchu

Granite and green grass Interlocking blocks of lifeless stones and living earth. Pachamama breathed life into your stones Pachamama let you be here, she wanted you to be here She wants you. She made you face the sun She brought the cog clear water to trickle through your veins She spread the dark earth to grow your corn She gave you her riches. You looked towards the sun and smiled You tied him to your hitching post and smiled You gazed down on the wild and boiling waters of the Urubamba and smiled You were eye-to-eye with the eagle and the condor You smiled for a short, short while.
Why did they leave you, those who had loved you? Why did they leave you, those who had shaped you with their hearts and hands? Why did they leave you, to turn your face alone from the sun? To hide behind the curtaining clouds and twining vines, clothing your naked walls with all-enveloping, all-consuming nature. Safely hidden from the ravages of those who meant you harm. Labors were not complete

Love had not had time to blossomLife was not fulfilled The tears still flow across your sacred face, and seep into the dark earth. Pachamama feels your tears She knows your sorrow. She wants to hold you in her embrace, your living blocks of granite and green grass She wants you again within her heart She wants you again deep, sleep within her soul She wants you.

Jas Cook: An Affair of the Heart

Whispered I love you through closing doors. Hours and minutes when I am yours, But I am also his as well, You both have me under your spell. 
Sometimes with him I think of you. Some days the opposite is true. Sometimes I wish that we had more, But at this point I know the score. 
You go home into her arms, And me, I fall more for his charms. Though late at night when I’m alone, I sometimes wish you’d call my phone. 
Perhaps in time we’ll grow apart, And someone else will change my heart, But just for now it’s not a race, For I am safe in your embrace.

Jim Fleming: The Real Hunger Games

by the side of the grounds on a fair summer day sat a lonely youngster head down, slumped in despair while other children played their early morning games 
what can be the trouble? 
the kindly teacher asks I’m hungry said the child I’ve had no food today but for a meager slice of plain bread and butter 
but where are your parents? she cautiously inquires they went searching for work the child in tears replies but they’ll be back tonight they promised me they would 
this child, of course, was fed but sentiment be damned! here’s the message for all: hunger is not just there hunger’s found everywhere in anyplace you’ll go 
 why, why should this be so?  

Galleria

Featured artist: Sandra McKenna.

If Skipton is the “Gateway to the Yorkshire Dales” , I live on the doorstep and have done for the last five years. I attend a weekly art group in Cononley, North Yorkshire. We have just over thirty members, some in their late 80’s. Along with regular workshops and demonstrations by local artists we enjoy painting together and sharing our own successes and failures. Anyone can join us, from absolute beginners to those who have always painted.

Everyone shares their knowledge and skills, their ups and downs. The situation we now find ourselves in is like no other time. Humans are social animals and this “lock down” strikes at our very nature – contact with others. Many artists, writers, and creatives work alone but it is rarely in total isolation. Our work is informed by, and a reaction to other human beings. Anyway, sharing what we all do is perhaps more important now than ever.

Shorts: Rear End

Submission Guidelines

Shorts considers submissions from anywhere in the world. In keeping with the magazine’s name, keep it, well, short. Shorts particularly welcomes writing from under-represented minorities, the LGBTQ community, people who care about the environment, creative writers, flash fiction fans, list fanatics, non-writers who want to ‘have a go’, introverts happier speaking out in writing, animal lovers, Marmite lovers, Marmite haters, Arlo Guthrie wannabes, etc. etc. Send it in. If I like it, I’ll print it. Editor’s decision is final; copyright remains with the contributor. 
Don’t be shy now.

We’d love to hear from you (yes, you!)

Shorts encourages contributions from all around the world. Even if you don’t consider yourself to be a ‘writer’, but have something to say, we’d love to hear from you. Do you have a subject you’d like to write about? A topic or point of view you’d like to share with a global audience? Now’s your chance. A cool photograph or an original cartoon? Send it in. A travelogue or a research interest? Shorts would like to hear from you too!
Are you a well-wisher who’d like to make a positive contribution, large or small, to Shorts, enabling these ‘silent voices’ to be heard? We are actively seeking funding to improve our presence online. Donations welcome via Paypal to editor.shorts@gmail.com. 
Shorts is a free magazine, all contributors donate their time and skills. Please consider making a small donation to help fund our web costs; even if it’s only one dollar, pound, euro, *insert currency of your choice* or the price of a coffee ($5 in Starbucks, sheesh!) it will be greatly appreciated! Thank you. 
Send your input to: editor.shorts@gmail.com 
I hope you enjoyed reading Shorts and look forward to hearing from you! 
Ed. 

End of Shorts issue #2