The Checkout Menagerie, by Doris d'Scarlett, Aperol Negroni

My boyfriend broke up with me last night.

Standing in the hallway of my apartment, I started shaking as he went on and on about how no good I was, how being with me had practically ruined him. Somewhere between you drain me and I’ve never loved you properly, his face shifted. Nose lengthened, jaw squared, teeth the size of piano keys, all gums and rage, like that horse from Tangled who hates everyone but the frying pan. And instead of talking at me, he was chomping and chomping on hay.

That made me feel better. The shaking stopped. I stepped around him, opened the front door, and told him he’d better get off to his stable. I think he may have kicked at that because my shin’s got an blue lump on it this morning. Ungrateful beast!

After a hefty dose of caffeine, I think about horses and wonder if stallions go around shagging every mare in sight. I’m pretty sure he had. I make it to my shift at Tesco by 8 a.m., and think I’m holding up pretty good, considering.

The automatic doors sigh open. Cold air laced with petrol and damp gravel. Tesco isn’t really a supermarket. It’s Noah’s Ark with a barcode scanner. Every species crammed into fluorescent aisles, grazing on bargains.

I work till seven, mostly on till three — what Steve, the rat king of managers, calls “the chaos shift.” The one where pensioners collide with teens nicking Monster cans and everyone in between forgets their PIN numbers at the worst possible moment.

I’m twenty-six. I’ve been here since eighteen, minus one disastrous attempt at uni — left after my mum died and my dad bolted to Spain with a barmaid from Benidorm. Came back to this town, this flat, this job. It’s not awful. Not good, either. Just… beige.

The animals make it better.

Here comes one now. Fox in a brown cardigan. Narrow face, twitchy little eyes. Sniffs her receipt like she’s testing it for poison. ‘You’ve overcharged me four pence,’ she says.

‘Four pence?’ I repeat.

‘That’s four pence I could put toward my bus fare.’

I refund her just to see if her whiskers twitch. They do. Satisfaction achieved.

When I was little, I used to spot foxes in the back garden and pretend they were lost princes under a curse. Mum said foxes were scavengers, not royalty. She also said I should stop talking to things that couldn’t talk back. But foxes, I reckon, understood me better than most people ever have.

Behind her, bulldog in hi-vis. Jowls swinging, breath like lager gone off. Plonks four cans of Stella and a Scotch egg on the belt.

‘Clubcard?’ I ask.

‘Lost it.’ Drool. Actual drool.

I picture him rooting through bins behind the shop after midnight, triumphant when he finds kebab wrappers. Makes me weirdly fond of him.

Two ferrets dart through self-checkout, hoodies stuffed with Monster cans. One hisses when the gate beeps. Their mum comes in an hour later, buys three sausage rolls, pretends not to know them.

A peacock glides in, hair waxed to a ridiculous point, trolley full of craft beer and avocados. Feathers flaring every time he checks his reflection in the freezer doors. He winks at me when I scan his oat milk. I do not wink back.

A family of walruses blocks the snacks aisle. Bellowing over prawn cocktail crisps. One kid licks the glass of the freezer. I don’t judge. Sometimes the freezer looks lickable.

An old man shuffles up—tortoise. Places exact change for a single tin of soup, one coin at a time. Says thank you three times. I want to put him in my pocket.

Steve, my boss? Rat King. Always twitching, always chewing—biro caps, fingernails, nerves. His voice is a squeak: “Smile more. Be approachable. Customers buy more when you smile.” I imagine him gnawing the electric cables above the break room. Sparks flying. Little singed tail.

Mrs Sutcliffe from the next door flat arrives next, perennial hen in a floral dress. Calls me duckie, asks if I’ve found a nice boy yet. I tell her I had my eye on a horse, but he’s gone to the knackers. She cackles like she’s laid an egg.

The horse used to be charming. He wore suits that made him look like he’d been ironed straight out of a catalogue. We met in the meal-deal aisle, him grabbing prawn mayo, me ham and cheese, and he said something daft about destiny.

Six months in, the jokes dried up. The chewing started. Chewing on my choices, my hair, my breathing. He wanted me quieter, smaller, tidier. Wanted me to stop talking to animals like I was five. Wanted me to stop calling him Horsey when he stomped his foot during arguments.

The last straw wasn’t even big. Just him saying I’d never amount to anything. That working Tesco was for people with no ambition. Said it like ambition was something you could shove in a trolley and scan at checkout. So I started imagining him with hooves. It made the shouting funny. Less cutting when it came from a big dumb herbivore.

At lunchtime, there’s two hyenas—teenage boys—laugh at everything, even the price of crisps. Their laughter sticks like burrs.

Octopus mum wrangles twins and a basket of baby food while fielding a call from school about her older kid. Arms everywhere. I bag her stuff for her. She says thanks, eyes shining with exhaustion.

A man in paint-splattered overalls—spaniel—buys milk and a single Cornetto. Licks it in the queue. Doesn’t care.

Truth is, all this started with Mum. She could tell who’d knock on the door before they did, just by listening to the wind. Said she could see the “animal soul” of people, and it told her everything she needed to know, who’d lie, who’d love, who’d leave.

She called Dad a magpie. Said he’d steal shiny things and fly away. She wasn’t wrong.

When she died, sudden, aneurysm, I started seeing them too. Not spirits. Just faces flickering, tails twitching. Coping mechanism, therapist called it. Survival, I call it. If you know someone’s an alligator, you don’t swim too close.

By 4p.m., my body hums like the strip lights. Feet aching. Mouth aching from forced smiles. But inside, I’m oddly still. The animal thing has become a shield. Their teeth can’t touch me if I’ve already named them. Sometimes, though, I wonder what animal I am. Some days I’m mouse, quiet, fast, always braced for hawks. Other days, otter, floating in my head, keeping soft things close.

Yesterday, with him, I was prey. Today, I don’t know.

The last customer before my break is an albatross of a man, tall, draped in sadness like seaweed. He buys a bottle of gin and a bag of ice. When I hand him the receipt, his hand trembles. For some reason, I want to tell him I see him. That I know what it’s like to carry a storm around your neck. 

I sit in the staffroom with a cup of instant coffee that tastes like wet cardboard. Someone’s left a birthday cake on the table with only the middle missing, just a crater of icing. I laugh harder than I should. Then I cry into my sleeve until the laughter comes back again.

Near closing, the zoo thins. Shelves bare, air heavy with the smell of mop water and onions. The doors hiss open. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. He trots in like nothing happened. My now ex. Mane flicking. Hooves clattering against tile. Same hollow eyes, same chewing jaw. Heads straight for my till. I keep scanning. Bags of carrots, frozen peas, loaf of bread. My hands don’t shake this time.

‘Well,’ I say, meeting his horse eyes, ‘why the long face?’ Something in me, something small and scared, laughs. For real this time.

He blinks, ears twitching. Doesn’t know what to do with me now I’m not prey.

Later, I walk home past the carpark puddles, strip lights buzzing like cicadas. The night smells of fried chicken and rain. Easier to name others than myself. But then I catch my reflection in a darkened shopfront. For a second, I expect the mouse. The otter. Something small. Instead, I see eyes gold as streetlights, shoulders set, teeth sharp and clean. Wolf. Not hiding. Not prey. Not tamed. I smile at her—at me—and keep walking, soft paws silent on the wet concrete.

About the author

Dorit d’Scarlett is a Danish/Australian poet and writer ‘of a certain age’ living in Malaysia whose short stories and award-winning poetry have featured in Rattle, Meniscus, Antler Velvet, and many other international literary journals. Her long-form fiction has been long-listed for multiple writing awards.

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I Like The Heat, by Steve Gerson, beer and chaser

It's hot. My asphalt street is melting like the La Brea tar pits. But I'm the dinosaur this time. My bones are old. I'm petrified, not just from ossification but from fear.

How did the dinosaurs feel, I wonder, when faced with extinction?

Did they huddle together for strength? I could do that, I guess, gather my ilk of old buddies, swig bottles of beer with chasers of whiskey to narcotize my demise. "Hey, old man, pass me a Bud. I need numbing."

Did the stegosaurus bow in wingless bird prayer with the velociraptors, forgiving each other's willingness to maim or be maimed? I could do that, I guess, gather my old coworkers, all of whom I fought with for survival against deadlines and corporate expectations, and pray for collaboration. "No, Carl, let's share. You take the PGM account this time. I'll get the next one."

Come on! Who am I kidding? I might be a dinosaur, but I have no desire to pray or gather, to placate or befriend. Kumbaya my ass. The hell with them all. I'll stick to my predatory ways.

I'm going to eat up as much life as I can before the sun broils me to death in its moral equivalent of climate change.

Here's the plan. I'll sharpen my blades, honing my rough edges against life. No more dull me.

"Sir, there's only one chocolate chip cookie left. Could my little girl have it?"

"Nope. I'm on my way out, I mean really on my way out, and I'm taking this cookie with me. She can get one some other time."

"Could you hold the door for me, please? I've got my hands full."

"Nope. My hands are full too, with life's challenges."

Get the picture?

The dinosaurs caved to an asteroid attack, so we're told. They froze, starved, or were blown apart by explosions, debris, and tree shrapnel.

I might be facing extinction, the dying of the light, but I'm not going to cower in a corner, sniveling, shivering, shaking in despair, pleading, “Woe is me,” like Hezekiah begging for more years to his life (Look it up.  2 Kings 20:1-11).

I've got both fists raised. I'm ready for a fight. I like the heat.

About the author

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his six chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; and There Is a Season

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Why Time Learned to Slip Away, by Kate Hollingsworth, green tea lemonade

Since the beginning, time had a way of sticking to Nicholas. He couldn’t help it. A few seconds here, a minute there. They clung to him without much prompting and collected. It was never too much, never weeks or even days. He never saw the point, really. But the lost seconds stuck anyway, small things that knew their purpose before he did.

            In fact, Nicholas’s first theft had almost been an accident. Just a few seconds stolen from a young man as he stirred his coffee during breakfast.

            The young man had been trying to decide whether he ought to call his mother when he felt a ticket in his pocket. The ticket reminded him he needed to collect his dry cleaning. And that was enough. He lost his train of thought and with it a few seconds to Nicholas, still just a young boy, sitting at the next table.

            He felt a little guilty, of course. About the time he took. About how easy it was. How unnoticed. Once, in university, he nicked almost an hour from a classmate who couldn’t seem to focus during a lecture on economics. Time had no patience for the distracted, they say. No interest in the disinterested.

            But the moments that slipped away so easily from others were rarely something they missed. Actually, no one ever seemed to notice that their time had gotten away from them.

            By his 25th birthday, Nicholas learned how to use the time he’d captured. He would always claim the first success had been on his wedding day, bonding a few loose seconds into a kiss with Maria.

            That was a chaotic day and it was hard to be sure. But that kiss lasted longer than it should have. Long enough to remember it well.

            As he grew older, he found it easiest to stick and spread the seconds over objects, like butter over warm toast that had softened for awhile before spreading. He slowed melting candle wax at dinner, so that a good conversation might last a bit longer. Or, after a long day, he would pour some seconds out into the tub so that the bath water’s warmth could linger.

            Little luxuries.

            After many happy years passed, Nicholas knew that his own time was petering out. There was more life behind him than ahead. And Maria’s time was running out faster than his.

            And so, Nicholas slowed their Sunday drives through the countryside, spinning extra seconds into the wheels as the road threaded beneath them. He stoked fires with seconds on cold nights, so she could fall asleep with the golden warmth she loved.

            He watered Maria’s favorite peonies on the windowsill with seconds, so she could wake to their soft sweet scent again and again. Each morning a fresh bloom, defying clocks, calendars, Chronology himself.

            And at the last, he stuck extra seconds into her blanket. It was his way of lingering. Of whispering,  I love you, I am here, I am with you.

            Till the End. Maybe even a little past it.

            And yet.

            Somewhere else, someone else stirs their coffee.

            They remember their dry-cleaning but forget to call their mother.

            They lose a few seconds to a little boy or girl nearby. To someone who doesn’t yet know the purpose of borrowed seconds.

            But they will. In their own time.

About the author

Kate Hollingsworth is an American living in Bristol, UK. Her words appear in the FlashFlood Journal and Flash Fiction Festival Anthology Volume 6.

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Socrates Jones, by Mike Everley, Hot chocolate

Socrates Jones was a dying breed. Cwmddu was filling-up these days with accountants and estate agents, who commuted daily into Newport, people who worked in the financial sector and had hands that shone pristine white.

 Lying back on the sun-lounger, strategically placed to catch the last of the evening sun, Socrates gazed across an uncut lawn to the valley stretching like a lazy black cat below. His hemlock, in the modern form of small white tablets, was within arm’s reach on the round, plastic patio table. Yet, for some reason, Socrates did not pick up the yellow bottle, nor unscrew the new-fangled top that only his grandchildren could comprehend. Rather, he suffered the pain and drank in the sensations his heightened awareness offered him.

The sweet smell of sin from the roses that climbed over the garden wall and burst into a riot of reds and yellows against the blue backdrop of sky, the taste of sweat that sprang from his forehead and trickled down his face to find the corner of-his mouth, the sound of the baby active in its playpen in next door’s garden, Gurgling in the sunshine and within earshot of its doting mother, and the feel of the grass beneath his bare feet. He longed to be part of it all, not to be old and set apart from the world of his observations. To be somehow one with the whole big ball of sensations that he felt he could, at that moment, crumple in his heavy hands and toss into the wide, waiting sky. For that reason alone, the hemlock remained in its bottle. Untouched.

 His snowy white hair was thinning now. Gone were the strong curls that dared even comb and water. Gone too was the energy that leapt from his eyes. Oh, it was still there at moments. Flashing from the shade and burning with a quick intensity that devoured itself. No longer could he sustain enthusiasm. It seemed pointless, a crime somehow against the unity of the moment, a last selfish act against the harmony. Against the truth that he knew with certainty within the very tissue of his being, the truth that he knew but could never express. It was as if the words of his language conspired against him and formed their own, predetermined meaning. Leading him away from the certainty that he felt when he merely accepted and did not try to impose an order onto the world.

 The small plastic robot lay at his feet. "To keep you company Granch", the yellow haired bundle of energy had told him. Presenting him with the black, square toy with the large red eyes that lit with fire as it walked uncertainly along the garden path. Socrates thought fondly of his grandson. Growing out of clothes before his mother could wash them. Sprouting towards the stars and the top of next-door's bean canes. Still young enough to be certain that what he wanted he would get. And, what he wanted most was his Grandfather still around to tease him and look in that mock-serious way whenever his mother came running around with his latest piece of mischief.

Socrates would look at her from under the golden frames of his bifocals, like a doctor or solicitor, and weigh her up. Then out would come some story from her childhood, told so serious that it had to make you laugh. Yes, Grandfathers had their uses after all.

 Socrates bent down and switched the robot on. For a moment it did nothing. Hovering in indecision, like a human. Then its programme took over and its great fiery eyes burned futile against the sunlight and its unsteady legs jerked forward as stiff as an arthritic pensioner.

We all march Socrates thought, to our own programmes, some slow and ponderous, some quick and fast moving. But all controlled the same. Saving or burning out our batteries, what did it matter? What choice had we?

The robot stepped forward. Brushing flowers it could not smell. Carving its course through a world that it could not know, a world that, although it surrounded it, lay just beyond its reach.

 Socrates felt a twinge of pity. Along with the sorrow came a deeper realisation that he too was excluded. They were alike, him and the robot, both blundering through a world that they could never know, could never comprehend. In a sudden movement of empathy he reached forward and picked the robot up. Holding it close to him as a child would hold a kitten. The moment was heavy with meaning, the red of the giant eyes flashing against the cotton of his shirt like blood.

Socrates dozed as he half watched the sun, now low in the sky, glance off the cars that wound snakelike up Black Rock Pitch. Climbing the steep incline with machine efficiency. Here he and Gwen had strolled in the summertime of their youth and lay entwined amid the heather and the Wimberries. So sweet those berries had tasted then. Stolen from the mountains and heavy with guilt.  Where are you now, Gwen? Where are those days we treated so carelessly and spent like spare change in our pockets?

Socrates felt the sorrow deepen, as it always did, after a memory of past happiness flitted through his mind. It was the price he had to pay, the price we all have to pay, for the gift of remembrance, for the knowledge of what we were as well as of what we are. Perhaps God had been right to leave that spoiled apple beyond man's reach.

Tiredness crept like a shadow over him. He placed the robot onto the garden path, the mechanism hummed into life as the plastic legs shuffled it forward along the concrete. Weeds broke the hard surface after their long, dark journey in search of the sun. The occasional Dandelion shook its golden mane. Unheeding the robot marched forward, its frenzied eyes flashing crimson in the fading daylight.

 

Socrates waited, half way between sleep and consciousness. Caught between the pain of reality and peace. In the distance, the robot whirred and continued its journey towards the timber fence at the garden’s edge. Unaware of the distance it had travelled from the now resting man. Unaware of its existence, unaware of the low charge left in its batteries, walking slowly toward the fence where it would halt and glow red in the long chill evening to come.

Unaware of pain or of beauty, a creation left free to roam a world that it did not seek to comprehend, a world without meaning, its giant eyes flashing as programmed by its intricate circuits, its legs shuffling in imprecise motion towards its journey's end. 

Socrates rested, the last of the sun gentle on his face. Thoughts of peace, and of Gwen, warm on his mind.

About the author

Mike Everley has been writing for many years and has had poetry, short stories and articles published in numerous publications and online. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement. Now, a silver scribbler, he devotes his time to creative writing.

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Fugue by Mike Lee, Vodka tonic

She was a kid, yet honestly—not really. She just turned 55, pays the rent, works hard, and was diagnosed with chronic depression by her psychiatrist. Genetics and bad experiences were hard to overcome, but she did. It left her mostly exhausted while self-medicating but talkative with her therapist.

So, that girl, well — woman, had long reached and passed the age of knowing better, having never been raised by circumstance to walk the narrow path to Heaven or, despite parental or alternative authority, just chose to go her own way. She was left-handed, which is where the word sinister comes from, and of course, no good would come from people like that.

Her grandmother said this when she was five, and she never got over it. You just don’t.

When she arrived at the crossroads at certain age in life, she already had her chosen path. There was no devil to make a deal with, not that she wanted to ask for something in return. Instead, the decision was made effortlessly on her own, and it seemed without much thought was involved. She was not one for self-reflection except to check her make-up or horns finally sprouted.

A dangerous person is confident without the burden of faith tugging at their soul—an inhuman lacking remorse or reservation. The kind who doesn’t break stride as she hurts people on the journey. Draw a distinction between those who love and care and those who hate.

She also thought herself wise. As she progresses, she becomes mindful of the story of the great-uncle who disappeared on a high school trip because he decided to go his own way, stepping off the road and into the forest—his body was never found.

She craved the attention too much to disappear, so she walked straight in the middle of the trail on the way to whatever destiny left for her.

The leopard skirt was too young for her, but whatever, pretend it will be the last time. The day sucked, and nightfall brought opportunities for a respite of hopeful socializing, and the bartender liked her enough to comp half the orders.

The decision on footwear depended on how drunk she was going to get tonight, so she settled for Docs--over fishnet—she wasn’t that old.

She put on her oversized black t-shirt to hide the gut. She thought about a session in hot yoga again and not blowing off the gym, but forgot both looked in the mirror and realized she still looked younger than her age thanks to her hairstyle and fair skin.

She threw on her shawl and motorcycle jacket. She was that kind of girl. Slapped on her headphones and left her apartment, listening to obscure shoegaze loud to start up the tinnitus by the time the elevator doors opened, walking through the courtyard, passing the fountain, and onward to the street before turning the corner that led to the dive bar.

While walking, she remembered the rocker girl days. It started with a cheap black leather jacket made in Pakistan, purchased at St. Mark’s Place for 99 dollars. Then came a couple of mock turtlenecks at the Gap, a garrison bilt made from lacquered leather, and two pairs of drainpipe black jeans that never faded unless she washed them in cold water in the sink at her dorm at NYU. She completed the ensemble with black leather pointed-to boots at a used closing warehouse in Brooklyn.

She remembered becoming a different person. She was surprised at how fast and complete the transformation from good girl to badass was.

But this was only in appearance, and it wasn’t long before she became yet another East Village cartoon, wandering from King Tuts to the Pyramid to the Knitting Factory and both Downtown Beiruits, along with Space From Chase, shows at the Ritz and the wretched old dance hall in Midtown, where she first tripped during a Spiritualized show.

Dipped into a well of the blackest ink and dropped into a feral New York landscape where one never ventured alone past Avenue B.

It wasn’t too long before she was invisible. Just another punk rock girl attending an expensive school with no plans or real friends, even though she never really tried.

She reached the bar, pausing at the window, looking in. The brewpub down the street closed last week, so that crowd had taken over. Younger, professional, button-down shirts, neat haircuts, and designer everything,  likely ordering new hip cocktails, like espresso martinis.

The kids working the bar knew how to make them.

She put her hand to the window and saw herself as she was. Outside looking in.

Turning, she walked across the street to the liquor store, bought a half-liter of vodka, and returned to her apartment.

She drank herself into a fugue state, and while asleep, she dreamed of walking in the middle of the road, no destination in mind, her leather cowboy boots crunching on gravel, going nowhere, as always, nameless in a crowd until work begins Monday morning. 

                                                                                                                                        About the author

Mike Lee is a writer and editor at a trade union in New York City. His work appears in or is forthcoming in Wallstrait, Bright Flash Literary Review, Panoplyzine, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Bristol Noir, BULL, Drunk Monkeys, and many others. His story collection, The Northern Line, is available on Amazon

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Sunday Serial: Seeing the Other Side by Allison Symes, Vimto

 

Kidding Around

 

'I suppose you think that was funny.' Anne glared.

'Well, yes actually. You need to lighten up, the sooner the better.' Mark yawned. 'You used to be such fun, Anne. What went wrong?'

'I became Queen, Mark. It's different now. Did anyone see you come here?'

'Of course not. I do know how to be discreet.'

'You could have fooled me, Master Smeatham. Why turn up here unannounced? I have enough enemies at Court.'

'Nobody saw me. Why shouldn't the Queen's musician play music for his Queen?'

'Because the King gets jealous at the slightest thing. It would help if I could give him a male heir this time. You had better go. Cromwell has people everywhere.'

'But I've only just got here.'

'I didn't ask you to come here. Go on, off you go.'

The young redheaded musician rose reluctantly. 'What are you worried about, Anne? That he'd have your head off over something that is not your fault?'

'If I don't produce a boy this time, yes. That's precisely what Henry will do.'

 

Eye Witness

 

I know what happened to Sam, but nobody on this world would believe me. Not only that but I would be roundly mocked. Jess is drunk again would be the best I could expect.

Sure, I like a drink. Most do. People forget I never used to touch alcohol. I was happy being teetotal but wouldn't you turn to booze if you saw your parents whisked away by an UFO?

You should've heard the laughter when I reported that. The local rag had fun with it too. Goodness knew how they got hold of it. I still think it was my Goth friend George’s mother. She is a right nasty…  Anyway, I didn't leave my flat for weeks. Oh I was glad to shop online. And even now, a year later, I go out when it is quieter. I hear the sniggers though. I wish I could be wherever my parents and Sam have gone. It's got to be better. But then I've never fitted in. I was always the dreamy girl in the red coat.

So was I reporting my brother Sam being whisked off by what I swear was the same spaceship? No way!

I just hope they come back for me soon. Someone else will spot my family keeps disappearing soon. And then what? A murder charge?

I grab my big red coat. I'm off to the Common. It's where the UFO landed before. Third time lucky I hope.

 

Red

 

He thinks of her every time the autumn leaves fall. It's the red leaves, he thought, Jess loved her big red coat. How long have I been here now? It feels like years. They say not.

Sam turned away from his window. He had no idea where he was but his captors had treated him decently. I don't know what they want to know about life on earth, yet alone why they think I can help them.

The cell door opened. His jailer entered with a loaded tray. Sam smiled on spotting the doughnuts with blood-red jam oozing out of them. Naturally there was a big teapot and two mugs of tea with it. How do they know what I like? Presumably my jailer is partial to an afternoon tea then; why else the second mug?

Sam looked again at his jailer. Once you got past the three heads, nine eyes, three huge mouths, and the crimson skin, Sam could make out what looked like big smiles on the faces.

'Where am I? What do you want?'

The jailer bowed. It took a few minutes for the alien to get his heads to bow in unison. 'To study humans with impeccable colour taste.'

The words weren't spoken but somehow planted into Sam's mind and in Sam's own Mancunian accent. Sam looked at his burgundy shirt and black chinos.

'We collect specimens who wear red. It is the most noble of colours. And get ready. You will have company soon.'

The jailer left.

Ten minutes later, the door opened again. The jailer was back with a girl in a big red coat.

'Jess!'

 

 

 

Seeing The Other Side

 

Perspective is a strange thing. I had mine, she had hers, and my mother thought we were both stupid. And we were all right!

I saw the strange craft first. Not that you could miss it as it landed on the park behind our house, leaving no room for a daisy to breathe, yet alone for anyone to be able to walk on what was now crushed and burnt grass.

Jess and I had to go and see it, of course. We weren't an item, much to my mother's relief. She thought Jess was too much of a dreamer and with that odd business of her parents and brother Sam vanishing, Mother didn't want me to get involved. I told her we ought to be kind to Jess, it wasn't her fault she'd been abandoned effectively. Mother only accepted Jess because she was my only real friend. There aren't any other Goths round here, see.

Not much happens in our village and we wanted to get to the park before the TV crews turned up to film the UFO. Jess had to grab her red coat - she rarely went anywhere without it. I always teased her about it - you know the kind of thing. Fancied being Little Red Riding Hood Mark Two, did you? Jess just ignored it all. Her coat had been made for her by her granny.

Anyway, we went and had a good look at the craft, despite my mother yelling at us both to stay away from the thing. Mother couldn't see how unique it was to be there at the park. I couldn't see that Jess would want to go on board the UFO when the doors opened. Mother dragged me away before I could go after Jess.

'She'll be out in a sec. Come on, get away.'

Jess didn't come out. The UFO vanished. Mother screamed. I looked at her in disgust. If anyone had the right to scream, it was Jess. And I said so before walking away.

Every night now I look at the stars and wonder where Jess is.

About the author 

Allison Symes, who loves quirky fiction, is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing. She writes for Chandler’s Ford Today and Writers’ Narrative.  

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Saturday Sample: The Fortune Teller of Philippi by Jenny Robertson, sour wine

 

Chapter 1 The cloth seller from Philippi

Melissa selected a shady corner of the courtyard. Her former nursemaid Adah sat on a stone bench beside her.

‘Where’s my daughter?’ Ada fussed. ‘Come, Keziah, we have much mending to do.’

Keziah brought out a basket full of clothes to be mended and sat down beside her mother. Adah selected a torn tunic and held it up so that Keziah could see where she should sew. Behind the fine woollen cloth, Adah whispered in their own Aramaic language, ‘The Master just had another of his rages. Things are bad here, very bad. The mistress doesn’t tell her daughter how bad. She’s afraid the family’s money troubles will drive any hopeful bridegroom away.’

Adah put her finger to her lips, lowered the tunic and spoke to Melissa, ‘It’s a good thing you brought your jar of ointment, Melissa dear. Your skin looks sore today.’

‘It’s always sore.’ Melissa sighed. ‘I’m fed up with these ointments. They don’t help at all.’

 ‘You must apply them just the same.’ Adah’s Latin was fluent, but foreign. ‘Your lady mother say she must find you a bridegroom, so we need to get your skin right.’

Melissa opened a jar of ointment. She sniffed it and pulled a face but dipped her finger in and looked at the thick cream on her forefinger and sighed again. ‘My skin will never be right. I’m fifteen, already past the marrying age. No one will wed me with a rash like this.’

 A long strand of dark hair had escaped from its clasp. She pushed it back with her non-oily hand. ‘Sing to me, darling Adah. Sing about the reeds in the storm. I love that song, it makes me feel hopeful.’

Adah smiled. ‘I love it too. It reminds me of home, oh so far away, but so close here.’ She pressed her hand to her breast. ‘Join in, Keziah,’ she said.

And so in a courtyard of a Roman officer’s farmhouse, a two hour journey from the bustling city of Philippi, mother and daughter sang in their own language:

 

My love went out to the desert

after the storm.

Rough winds had died away;

the sun shone warm.

 

And lo the reeds that lay

flattened by storm,

rose up again, ah rose,

like love reborn.

‘Like love reborn,’ Melissa whispered. ‘Will there ever be love for me?’

‘Or for me?’ Keziah said, half under her breath.

Melissa looked up, shocked. Love? For Keziah, the nursemaid’s daughter?

And then they all jumped because Leo the guard dog had started barking like crazy and jumping about on his chain. From the other side of the wall an unseen donkey brayed, harsh, strident. Melissa was so startled that she dropped her pot of ointment. Keziah put her hands over her ears. Melissa jumped to her feet. ‘Someone’s coming. We never have visitors so who could it be?’

‘It might be a cloth merchant,’ Adah said. ‘Your father sent an order to Philippi for the finest linen. He wants the very best, not for himself, but for your brother, against the day when young Flavius will become an adult.’

‘Oh yes, nothing but the best for kid brother Flavi,’ Melissa began. ‘Even though Father can’t afford it.’

The dog’s deep-throated baying drowned out her words. Keziah pressed closer to her mother. Most tradespeople were so scared of the dog that they waited at the gate until the steward Justus or one of the farm slaves had been summoned to take hold of Leo’s chain, but the cloth seller clearly wasn’t scared of the big dog. He had just walked right in. Just the same, Melissa rushed forward to calm the dog. ‘It’s all right, Leo. Calm down. That’s it! Good boy.’ She plunged her fingers into the dog’s thick hair and rubbed his powerful neck.

‘Good day, my lady,’ the merchant said.

Melissa stared and the young man grinned. ‘Don’t worry. People in the city are used to me but out in the country they always look twice.’

Melissa’s face flushed red. ‘I – I’m sorry, it’s just -.’

I’ve never see anyone with such dark skin, she wanted to explain but that sounded stupid. She gave Leo a hug instead. The cloth seller came even closer. ‘I love big dogs. Leo the lion, come here, boy.’ The great hound leapt to his hind legs and put his huge forepaws on the merchant’s shoulders. The young man fondled Leo’s muscular neck.

‘Oh well done!’ The words jumped out before Melissa had time to think.

The cloth seller laughed. His broad brimmed hat had slipped back and the sun shone full on his face. A huge thrill of emotion overwhelmed Melissa. She smiled at the young merchant. But then her mother appeared.

‘Whatever are you doing?’ Claudia grabbed Melissa’s shoulders. ‘You’re dragging our family’s good name into the dust with this audacious behaviour. It’s hard enough finding a husband for you, even a toothless old widower would think twice about marrying you. Get back inside at once.’

Claudia pushed her daughter hard. Hot tears of hurt and humiliation filled Melissa’s eyes. She blinked them away and ran back into the house. Bitter feelings choked her. She hated her mother, hated her. She would just say that a Roman citizen’s daughter should never talk to strange men and Melissa knew that already. Her mother didn’t need to put her down like that, especially not in front of that handsome cloth seller. Melissa blushed from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet and couldn’t think any more. ‘I don’t even know his name,’ she whispered.

However later that evening she wrung two pieces of information out of Adah. The young man had looked sad at the way Claudia had treated Melissa, Adah had said, shaking her head at the very idea that a visiting tradesman had witnessed such mother and daughter issues in the house of a retired Roman army officer. Sad - so that meant he had been on her side. Melissa hugged that knowledge to her like a ray of sunshine in her mind.

The second piece of information was his name. Merekl. What an exotic name!

That night Melissa tossed and turned on her couch. She tried to keep quiet so as not to disturb Keziah who slept on a mattress beside her, but her skin seemed to be on fire and nothing brought relief.

Next morning Keziah brought breakfast into Melissa’s room and the two girls shared white goat’s cheese and bread that kitchen slaves had baked during the night.

 ‘Listen, Keziah, I’ve got something to tell you. I must speak to my father,’ Melissa said.

Keziah, who had been Melissa’s servant since her earliest days and never contradicted her, choked on her cheese. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘I can and I will,’ Melissa declared. ‘Mother says he’s too busy to bother with anyone in the family, except for stupid young Flavi. Well, he’s got a daughter too and for once he’s going to have to be bothered with me.’

Keziah’s face had gone red. ‘Your father is very sick. That’s why he never sees anyone in the family.’

‘He sees your mother,’ Melissa said.

‘My mother knows how to calm him down.’ Keziah took a long, hard look at Melissa. ‘It’s that cloth merchant, isn’t it?’

Melissa jumped up. She lifted her hand. Keziah flinched and drew back. Melissa had never struck her before.

Melissa let her hand drop back to her side and clenched her fingers tightly so that the nails dug into the palms of her hands. She turned her back on Keziah and walked away.

How dare she? How DARE she?

Deeper than her anger was a voice that said, If only she could help her father get better! If only she could tell him about the things that mattered to her, have a really close father and daughter talk. Well, just for once, she was going to.

Melissa hurried along the corridor faster than a young lady should. She slowed down as she entered her father’s room – and drew back in dismay.

Ex-centurion Flavius Senior was stretched out on his couch. The light that filtered through an air vent barely touched his yellow face and haunted eyes. Parchments and clay tablets were piled around him. Jugs and overturned goblets joined the general mess. Melissa smelt alcohol.

No, it couldn’t be alcohol, she told herself. Flavius Varus wasn’t a drunkard. It was some kind of medicine. Her father must be so sick.

Her heart lurched with pity. She dropped to her knees beside the couch. A nauseating smell almost choked her. Was it from the bed linen - or could it be from her father’s body? She hardly knew this man, hardly ever saw him.

‘He’s too busy,’ her mother always said. ‘And you’re only a girl. He doesn’t bother with women.’

He bothered with Adah though and she was only a servant. Melissa was his own daughter and she wanted so much to help him.

 ‘Father, lord -,’ she faltered.

‘What do you want?’ Flavius growled.

Melissa couldn’t find the words she wanted to say - and it wasn’t just because of those obnoxious smells. This man had the power of life and death over her. A scene she knew from Adah’s telling and re-telling danced in front of her eyes.

A room, a birthing room. Teenage Claudia had reclined on the birthing chair. Adah was present too, along with a midwife who held the new-born baby, but did not give her to Claudia, didn’t let the young mother look at her first born child, her little daughter.

‘Not till your father was called,’ Adah always said so Melissa had grown up knowing of the moment when her father had decided her fate.

So now she found her voice. ‘Father, lord, when I was born you could have rejected me. You just had to shake your head and the midwife would have put me outside to die – or be sold as a slave.’

Her voice shook. Sold as a slave – nothing could be worse, better by far to die.

Her father turned his haggard face towards her. His eyes barely seemed to focus but Melissa carried on, ‘You didn’t shake your head, Father. You didn’t cast me aside.’

She heard Adah’s voice in her head. ‘He didn’t smile, didn’t speak, didn’t hold you, just gave a nod and so the midwife knew that she could let you live.’

So now Melissa said, ‘I want to help you, Father, even though I’m only a girl. I can be your right hand person in the farm until Flavi’s older.’

Flavius Varus, Roman citizen and ex-army officer rose on his elbow. ‘Get out! Never come here again! Out! Out! Out!’

He struggled up, clenched his fist, ready to strike, gave a weird snorting noise, dropped his arm and fell to the tiled floor with a thud. Melissa backed away in horror and bumped into two house slaves who ran into the room, summoned at the sound of the master’s shouts.

Melissa ran sobbing back to her own room and flung herself on her couch.

Moments later Adah rushed in, ‘What have you done? What have you done?’ Her voice was harsher than Melissa had ever heard it.

Melissa sat up. Fear gripped her throat. She stared at Adah.

‘Your father, he take a stroke. The physician is sent for. It is not good.’

Melissa was too scared even to cry. ‘Father’s going to die – and it’s my fault,’ she whispered.

Adah slipped her arms round Melissa’s shoulders. ‘Hush now, Melissa. Your father, he very sick, before this. Only never ever let your lady mother know that you spoke to him, whatever it was you said.’

‘I wanted to help him.’ Melissa’s voice was choked with tears.

Adah laid her finger on Melissa’s lips. ‘Not a word, nothing. No one knows. No one saw. I tell the slaves to say nothing. Your father, he is in the land of shadows now, pray that it will not be long.’

A short time afterwards Flavius Varus passed away.

 

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 About the author 

Jenny Robertson is an experienced author of many widely translated books for children and adults. She authored the popular Ladybird Bible books. She has written about the Warsaw Ghetto and contributed to PRISM, the journal for Holocaust educators and students. Jenny deeply respects the Jewish origins of Christianity and regrets the anti Semitism that arose later in the Christian story. Jenny has contributed to several Bridge House anthologies. Her most recent books are Wojtek, War Hero Bear (Birlinn, Edinburgh), From the Volga to the Clyde (Fleming Publications) and From Corsets to Communism (Scotland Street Press)