Bovine by Daniel Joseph Day, kale smoothie.

Bovine

 

They say cows have four stomachs. I must have at least two. As soon as one gets full, the other cries out with the most desperate pangs. It gurgles and moans until I give in.

‘Alright, alright.’ I say. If I’m at home, it’s a gallon of tea and four slices of hot buttered toast, followed by biscuits or slice of whatever cake I have in. If I’m out, I find the nearest cafe and give it a flapjack or a billionaire shortbread, washed down with a tall latte in a glass mug.

Neither of them stays full for very long, and sometimes I even suspect I have a third. Just before bed (and annoying, often after I have already brushed my teeth) this one will wake up and ask for cereal – cereal! And never the healthy stuff that has all the raisins and bits that look like tree bark, it’s the sugar-coated kind that make the milk turn sickly sweet or make it turn a weak chocolate brown. I lift the bowl to my lips, slurp the dregs then sigh in satisfaction, a satisfaction which I know won’t last even until the morning, though for now all three stomachs lay dormant, purring like kittens.

‘I shouldn’t worry about it love,’ my husband says over breakfast. ‘Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite.’ But that’s the trouble, it isn’t healthy – and he only seems to have one stomach so I’m not sure he really gets it.

I spoke to the doctor once about having them removed, these extra stomachs of mine. He smiled sympathetically if not a little patronisingly and told me I should simply watch what I eat and try to exercise a little. 

‘It’s all about calories in, calories out.’ he kept saying over and over and wouldn’t once get back to the subject of surgery. 

I stood to leave and he added: ‘try including some green leafy vegetables.’ as an afterthought. This seemed ridiculous. Cows are enormous beasts after all, and they eat nothing except grass all day long! I suppose they can’t help it, having four stomachs as they do.

I suppose it’s alright for them really, cows I mean. I don’t suspect they are particularly body conscious; most have probably never seen a mirror. They’ve got it pretty good – stood out in a field all day long surrounded by as much food as they can eat. It would be the equivalent of living on a giant banqueting table. Sure, your friends and family would be there too, trampling all over it and let’s face it, using the whole thing as a toilet, but you could just avoid those bits.

‘Most cows aren’t grass fed these days.’ my husband points out over our Sunday roast dinner. ‘That’s what all the vegan stuff is about, they feed them food pellets and keep them in overcrowded sheds and it’s not fair really.’

‘Vegans?’

‘No, cows silly!’ He takes a bite of the gravy-soaked beef joint. ‘Though I suppose cows are vegans technically.’

‘But they drink milk?’

‘Yeah, but that doesn’t count for them.’

‘Oh, I suppose not…’

Even this doesn’t sound too bad to me. Being fed food pellets or whatever they give them – at least it would keep the stomachs quiet! And there’d be no fuss about what’s for dinner: what do you fancy? Shall we order in? etc… I do feel sorry for the cows though, being cooped up like that.

‘Should we try it?’ I say, mopping up the excess gravy on my plate with a slice of white bread.

‘Hmm?’

‘Being vegan, I mean’

‘Could do,’ he chews it over then picks kale from between his teeth with his fingernail. ‘Some people do it on a Tuesday.’

‘A Tuesday?’

‘Or whatever – any day really, just once a week.’

I say we should give it a go and he agrees. Tuesday seems as good a day as any so I go to the supermarket the day before and stock up vegan sausages, vegan cheese and even this weird yoghurty thing that isn’t really yoghurt just because I’m curious.

‘What do you think?’ I ask as my husband takes his first ever bite of vegan sausage. He doesn’t answer, takes another bite and chews thoughtfully.

‘It’s a bit…’ he says, wearing half a frown.

‘Yeah, it is a bit…’ I can’t find the words either.

‘Should we…?’

‘Yeah,’ I nod. ‘Let’s.’

I thank the delivery driver and take the large brown bag inside. A tantalising ball of steam rises as I open it and pull out our individual polystyrene containers.

‘Cheers!’ says my husband and we dig into our salty, greasy takeaway goodness. Neither of us says, that’s more like it! But the sentiment hangs in the air with our satisfied sighs.

It’s only when I’m tucked up in bed, half dreaming about vegans out in a field eating grass when all three of my stomachs begin to whale in unison.

about the author  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

aniel Joseph Day is a writer and musician, living with his wife and two children in Yorkshire. He has had short fiction published on CafeLit, East of the Web and Fiction on the Web Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Saturday samplre:Advice and Other Absurdities for My Daughterby Tom Formaro,sweet wine

Paste story here  

Statement The father would like to issue the following 

He may or may not be— 

He may or may not have—

 If he did or if he said— 

If he did not he may wish or he may not— 

 If in reality he is not— 

But the truth—  

find your copy here  

About the author

Tom Formaro is a writer, drummer, and dad. His poetry has appeared in in Janus Head, e·ratio, Otoliths, Indefinite Space, Utriculi, dadakuku, M58, Exacting Clam, TrashLight. His fiction has appeared in Spoilage, Akkadian, and SoMa Literary Review. He has also published a novel, The Broken Heart Diet, and a children’s story (co-authored with his wife, Rachel Formaro), Alfonso the Christmas Pumpkin. He lives in Des Moines, Iowa with his wife and daughter. es Moines, Iowa with his wife and daughter. You can find him online at www.tformaro.com. o 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

FOLLOWING IN HIS FOOTSTEPS, by Rob Molan,a pint of ale

I step into the street from The Old Curiosity Shop and, when all twelve of the group have gathered on the pavement outside, I address them.

‘Our next stop is a building a few minutes away in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.’

They follow me in a single file down the busy, narrow street which I have walked down more often than I care to remember. As usual, most of them are complete ignoramuses when it comes to Dickens and his works, and have only signed up because the tour is on ‘must do’ lists for visitors.

Arriving at our destination, I point to a grand white house with decorative columns and a semicircular porch.

‘We are outside the home of John Forster, Dickens' biographer and close friend. He lived here between 1834 and 1856. and Dickens was a regular visitor. It appears in Bleak House in which Dickens was at his lawyer-bashing best when he wrote the following.’

I put on a deep voice.

‘Here, in a large house, formerly a house of state, lives Mr.Tulkinghorn. It is let off in sets of chambers now, and in those shrunken fragments of its greatness, lawyers lie like maggots in nuts.’ 

I say the last few words with great relish.

‘Attorneys are just the same today, Tom,’ laughs a North American gentleman wearing a baseball cap.

Leeches would be a more accurate description. When I employed a lawyer to secure my share of father’s will, the so-and-so left me with less than half of the money once his charges were deducted.

I tell them more about the sinister, obsessive character and his demise at the hands of Mademoiselle Hortense, and invite them to take pictures.

‘Our next stop is a setting from Bleak House.’

I stride ahead as I don’t want to get into conversation with any of them.  I’m still bridling over the text I got this morning from Rex.

‘Sorry, but we’ve decided not to offer you the role. We prefer someone younger. Hope something else comes up.’

He’ll reach his own sell-by date sooner than he thinks.

We arrive within a few minutes and I stop and turn to the group.

‘We are outside of Gresham College which stands in front of the building that was, in Dickens’ time, Barnard’s Inn Hall, one of only a handful of buildings in the City to survive both the Great Fire and the Blitz. The hero of the novel Great Expectations, Pip, lodged in Barnard's Inn with Herbert Pocket for a number of years following his arrival in London. When he first saw the building, he was crestfallen by what he found, as he said in the book.’

I clutch the lapels on my jacket and address them in a slow and measured tone.

‘I had supposed that establishment to be a hotel kept by Mr Barnard, whereas I now found Barnard to be a disembodied spirit, or a fiction, and his inn the dingiest collection of shabby buildings ever squeezed together, in a rank corner, as a club for Tom-cats.’

I get blank looks from the philistines.

The quote always reminds me of my mould- ridden bedsit. If the landlord follows through with his threat to put up my rent, I’ll have to find somewhere else to live. A flatshare will be the only affordable option – not a position I want to end up in as a fortysomething.

‘We will now go down the alley to my left and visit the Hall.’

After showing them around, I’m asked to pose in the courtyard for one of the dreaded photos of me in my outfit, a silk bow tie and a velvet red black Paisley waistcoat which stands out against my black tailored jacket.  It cost me nearly a week’s wages in a vintage clothes shop.

‘Cheese,’ says a diminutive lady wearing a floppy orange sun hat. But I put on a solemn look befitting a Victorian gentleman.

Just as I’m about to speak, a voice pipes up.’

‘Will we be taking in Marshalsea prison, Tom?’ asks a red-faced man. ‘I read that’s where Dickens’ father was locked up when he fell into debt.’

At least this guy knows some history.

‘Alas, no. It was demolished over a hundred and fifty years ago and only a boundary wall remains displaying a commemorative plaque. Dickens’ father was jailed for having an unpaid debt of forty pounds and ten shillings – about five thousand pounds in today’s money - and drew on the experience in Little Dorrit. Amy Dorrit had this to say about the place.’ I beckon them to come closer before speaking in a loud whisper.

‘We are quiet here; we don’t get badgered here; there’s no knocker, sir, to be hammered at by creditors and bring a man’s heart into his mouth. Nobody comes here to ask if a man is at home, and to say he’ll stand on the door mat till he is. Nobody writes threatening letters about money to this place. It’s freedom, sir, it’s freedom!’

I get a couple of nods of appreciation this time.

‘We will now head to our final stop, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese pub in Fleet Street.’

Thank God the tour is almost finished. I can’t wait for the break at the end of the month when I can be myself again.

Striding down Chancery Lane, a long-legged lady catches up with me.

‘Is it true that Dickens was friends with Shakespeare?’ she asks.

Give me strength!  I need to be polite and creative here.

‘Yes, in a metaphorical sense.” She frowns. “Dickens was born two hundred years after Shakespeare’s death but he frequently quoted, referenced, and drew inspiration from his plays, using them to shape his characters and plotlines. Furthermore, he was a passionate amateur actor himself.’

She mutters something suggesting she’s happy with my reply.

Once we’re inside the dark interior of the establishment, I lead them through the labyrinth of rooms with oak-panelled walls until we reach a seat with a plaque on the back.

‘This is the table where Dickens liked to sit and entertain his friends. In A Tale Of Two Cities, the pub was the first place that Charles Darnay visited to enjoy a simple supper and a few fine wines after escaping trial for high treason in the Old Bailey.’ I give them a moment to take in the scene before finishing. ‘I am going to leave you now. I hope you have enjoyed the tour and will leave a review on the company’s website.’

I receive a smattering of applause.  

I need a drink. That’s the second tour I’ve done today and I didn’t get to bed until two as I did an extra shift at the club last night. Before I can get my wallet out, someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around to find myself face to face with the Marshalsea guy.

‘Can I buy you a pint of ale?’

‘I never say no to a drink!’

When he returns from the bar, we clink glasses before supping.

‘I must say for a tour guide you brought the world of Dickens to life with a certain flamboyance.’

I loathe being typecast like this and empty my glass in one go.

‘Thanks for the beer. I’ve just remembered I need to be somewhere else.’

I’m gone before the poor chap can open his mouth.

                                                        

When I close the front door, I pick up an official-looking letter off the mat and collapse on the sofa and put my feet up. I wish the company would increase the price of the tour. They’ve been charging twenty quid a head for years and I only get half of that. Most of the people who go on it could easily afford to pay another fiver judging by the clothes and jewellery they wear.

 

After a few minutes, I rouse myself as I’m feeling hungry but tear open the letter before getting up. My appetite quickly disappears as I scan the contents.

 

              ‘Dear Mr.Marshall, I am writing with reference to our previous reminders regarding the outstanding debt of £2,958.75 which has remained due for payment since 11 January 2026 despite our previous reminders. Please pay this amount in full by 11 May 2026. If we do not receive payment by that date, we will have no option but to instruct certified bailiffs to recover this debt. Please be advised that we will also claim interest and recovery costs, which will significantly increase the total amount you owe.’

 

That’s going to wipe out the savings I have left.  I’d hoped to treat my boy in the autumn when his mother is performing in a play here and I’ll be looking after him but that’s not going to happen now. Once upon a time, she and I were a wonderful Romeo and Juliet together on the stage.

 

I’ll be glad when I make my annual pilgrimage to Edinburgh in a few weeks. A re-run of my old show at the Fringe should generate some much-needed cash. The critics have been very generous when I’ve I performed there in the past. A few quotes stand out in my mind.

 

‘The performance brilliantly re-imagines Dickens’ public readings, bringing the writer to life and many of the characters he created, causing audiences to laugh with joy and cry with sorrow.’

 

‘A tour de force. Tom Marshall wows the audience as he acts out Dickens’ great works just as the author did himself on his famous reading tours.’

 

‘The multi-talented Marshall has a great future ahead.’

  

I wish the last comment had been more prophetic.

 

The stage props are ready: the maroon backdrop, the lights and the waist-high desk with a block for resting my elbow on, just like the master did. As he said, there's nothing in the world equal to seeing the house rise at you, one sea of delightful faces and one hurrah of applause. It can’t come soon enough.

about the author

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 ob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Lucky Day by Sarah Swatridge,a pot of tea

‘Lucky Day’ by Sarah Swatridge

A Pot of Tea

Everything changed that day. The day the piano tuner came.

Heather’s son, William, still lived at home and for some time he’d been dating Katie, a single mum.

It was a Sunday when Heather and Joe met Katie for the first time. They took to her straight away. She was warm and friendly and above all, a gentle and loving mother. Little Tia was seven and painfully shy.

‘She’s usually so chatty,’ William laughed. ‘It’s hard to get a word in.’

‘It can’t be easy meeting strangers, and we’re all adults,’ Heather reassured her son, although she’d gone to the trouble of providing a box of toys and had offered her chocolate ice-cream for pudding which, according to Katie, was her favourite.

Heather was confident Tia would relax once she began to get to know them. Perhaps next time they met she’d be more comfortable?

As they’d eaten a big roast at lunchtime, Heather only served tea and cake for tea, in the lounge. It was, as she was pouring the tea, that she noticed Tia looking at the piano.

‘Would you like to have a go?’ she offered. Katie looked worried, ‘Don’t worry, it’s old, and probably out of tune. She can’t do any harm.’

While the adults continued to chat, Tia climbed on to the stool and lifted the lid. Tentatively she played a note or two, gradually gaining confidence and making more noise. It was the happiest she’d been all afternoon.

Over the next few months Katie and Tia became regular guests. Tia lost her initial shyness and Heather loved having her around. William said he’d arrange piano lessons for her, and so Heather decided it was high time to have the piano looked at.

Not surprisingly the piano tuner tutted and sighed as he inspected Granny Pearl’s treasured instrument.

‘Would you like a cuppa?’ Heather asked him.

‘Yes please.’

‘Heather?’ he called a few moments later. Heather rushed in from the kitchen expecting to be told it was past repair. ‘I’ve found this.’

He handed over an old biscuit tin, covered in a good layer of dust. Heather blushed and wondered what he’d think of her housekeeping skills.

‘It was at the bottom of the piano. A small glass of water is more effective. It counteracts the effect of central heating.’

Heather felt a little confused, but took the tin and returned with a glass of water which was duly placed inside the bottom of the piano.

‘Kettle’s boiled. How do you like your tea?’ she asked.

‘Milk, no sugar, thanks.’

Having served his tea, she returned to the kitchen and opened the ancient tin. And that’s where she found Granny’s jewels!

Granny Pearl had never been wealthy but various members of the family had expected her to have a string of pearls if nothing else. No one had ever thought to look for them in the piano.

‘My goodness, there are rings, chains, old watches and loads of necklaces,’ Heather grinned as she showed Joe. ‘They’re all a bit tarnished, but not plastic.’

The whole episode, although exciting, caused Heather a sleepless night. She was sure, when her grandmother died, that she was her Granny’s only living relative. Her will had specifically mentioned she was to have the piano. But in her dream, she imagined that someone else had a claim on the biscuit tin of old chains. What if somewhere out there, there was a distant second cousin, twice removed?

The following day she and Joe took Granny’s jewellery to be valued.

‘Do you want a valuation for insurance purposes or are you thinking of selling?’ he asked.

Heather looked at the rather ugly hoard knowing she’d never wear it. She didn’t think Pearl would be upset if she sold it. Granny had never been one to wear much jewellery.

‘I’m thinking of selling,’ she told him.

She left the stash with the jeweller and went for a coffee with Joe.

‘What will you spend the money on?’ he asked. Heather was quiet for a while, stirring her coffee again and again.

‘If it’s not worth that much, perhaps we could go for a meal, although I dare say Granny would see that as being extravagant.’

‘It’s up to you.’

‘If they really are of value then maybe we could have a holiday and if it’s worth a fortune then I’d love to buy a beach hut on the coast – but of course we would share it with our friends and neighbours. Tia would love it.’

As they ate their cake and splashed out on a second coffee, they thought of all the things they could buy if they were rich.

‘I’m being so selfish,’ Heather said after a while. ‘We ought to give it to William to help him get a place of his own. It’s so hard for youngsters these days. Do you think he’s serious about Katie?’ Joe shrugged. ‘I like her and she’s good for our William.’

‘You’re right there,’ Joe agreed. ‘He’s certainly matured since she’s been on the scene. And, I think he’d be a good father to Tia.’

‘I tell you what,’ Heather said. ‘I’m feeling lucky today so I’m going to see if I can win anything on the tombola.’ She looked across to the charity table in the corner of the café. It was full of prizes in aid of Cat Rescue.

‘I’ll have some tickets please,’ she told the woman behind the counter and was delighted when she won a book token, even though she made a point of using the library. She didn’t want their village to lose it.

A while later Heather and Joe sauntered down the high street calling in at the bookshop and then at the newsagents.

‘I’ve been lucky so far today so I may as well buy a scratch card,’ Heather laughed as she scratched away at her card a few minutes later.

‘Hey, I’ve won ten pounds, and you know what they say? Good luck comes in threes.’

However, when they returned to the jeweller, he told them the jewels were mainly paste, copper or at best gold plated. There was only one item of any value.

Heather fingered the gold St Christopher. It was the only piece of jewellery she could ever remember her grandmother wearing. That was because her grandfather had given it to her. It had been to keep her safe.

Heather decided she couldn’t part with the St Christopher. And it looked so much better now the jeweller had cleaned it up. Joe fixed it round her neck. She was offered twenty pounds for the rest which she accepted.

‘Shame we weren’t lucky,’ Joe said on the way home.

‘Oh, but we were,’ Heather corrected him. ‘We’re thirty pounds better off and I have Gran’s necklace, which I’ll always treasure.’

‘You’re right. We could put it toward a meal out or a cream tea?’ he said, ‘But what if we started a ‘Spur of the Moment’ fund? And give ourselves the occasional treat?’

Heather laughed. ‘I like the sound of that. Granny would definitely approve. And when we get home I’m going to empty my coin jar and add that to our fund.’

At home Katie and Tia were waiting for them. Tia had just had her first piano lesson and was keen to show them what she’d learnt. They’d never seen her so enthusiastic or chatty.

They all listened to Tia practising her scales through a couple of times and clapped.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed it because I won a book token today and got you this music book, Piano for Beginners.’

‘Thank you,’ beamed Tia as if she’d been given the Crown Jewels.

‘And we have something to tell you,’ William announced. ‘I’ve asked Katie to marry me and Tia to be my daughter – and they’ve said yes!’

There were hugs all round. ‘You were right,’ Joe told Heather. ‘It has been a lucky day.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paste author bio here Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the author the other half goes to expenses e.g. Maintaining the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.