When Life Gets Messyby Diane Neilson,dDouble caramel mocha

 

Harry jolted awake as the front door slammed.

Jenny looked flustered as she deposited a cardboard coffee cup on the table and shrugged off her coat.

"Sorry I'm late Grandad, it's carnage out there."

"Well you shouldn't have left it 'till rush hour"

"I know, I know, but ... I had a client and it ran over."

Jenny popped back in and scooped up the ready meal. Hotpot. He preferred the lasagne.

"No lasagne today Gramps, sorry, this was all they had."

He grunted and stared at the coffee cup. Why didn't she just buy a jar of instant? She was always claiming to be skint and what those coffee shops were charging was daylight robbery.

"You should have just bought a jar, it's cheaper." he said, pointing at the coffee.

"Ah well, it's a little treat isn't it, Double Caramel Mocha."

She put the plastic tray of food down in front of him. He preferred it on a plate but he better not say anything. He started to eat, chewing slowly, his dentures finding a piece of gristle amongst the veg and gravy. He spat it out and pointedly wrapped it in a tissue before holding it out to her.

Without comment, she took it from him and dropped it in the kitchen bin, before settling herself in the armchair opposite, a bottle of plain water in hand. That was probably from the coffee shop as well. Couldn't she turn on a tap?

"Well Grandad, have you had a nice day?"

He frowned at her over his glasses and carried on eating.

"I've been run off my feet; two bikini waxes, an eyebrow re-shape and three foot massages. Oh, and a facial skin peel."

"Why don't you get a proper job instead of pandering to people's expensive and unnecessary needs?" he pronounced; a rhetorical question that he regularly repeated.

"Never mind that, have you thought about what we talked about yesterday?"

"What you talked about, you mean."

Jenny sighed. "You can't stay here much longer Gramps, you can't manage by yourself. You need looking after, now that Gran's gone."

"I've got you, haven't I?" Another rhetorical question.

They both sat in silence for a few moments before Jenny spoke up again.

"You do know you'll lose the house if you have to go into care?"

Harry rose to his feet unsteadily. "I've told you, you can have my house when I'm dead!" he barked. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going for a lie down."

He left the room, leaning heavily on his stick and muttering under his breath.

Jenny cleared away his tea tray, washed the dishes that had been left in the sink and half-filled the kettle for his bedtime hot chocolate, before peeping in at his bedroom door.

"See you tomorrow then, call if you need me."

He replied with a wave of his hand, almost a dismissal, and she bit her tongue as she left, resisting the urge to slam the front door behind her.

Jenny climbed into her old Ford Escort and sat for a moment, tears stinging her eyes. She had been caring for her Grandad for five years now, since Gran died, and it wasn't getting any easier.

She had been talking to a client a couple of weeks ago who had told her that she had signed over her whole life to her son: signed over the deeds to her house and given him power of attorney so that she wouldn't have to spend her whole worth on care home fees when the time came. She planned to spend all of her money having a great time until she was "decrepit or doo-lally" - her words.

Jenny was horrified. "But where are you living?"

"Oh, I get to stay in my house, they just can't take it off me to pay for care, and when I do pop-me-clogs, its already his. No fuss about inheritance."

She had told her grandad about the woman, explaining as best she could and hoping he would think about it. After all, he had told her often enough that the house was hers when he went, and it would simplify matters. His response had been the same as today, ‘You can have my house when I'm dead’. She had been quite offended, she wasn't after his money, she was just trying to be pragmatic.

Jenny should have led a different life. Her grandad was right about her job; it was rubbish pay and she spent her days pandering to the whims of rich ladies and daft girls. She had been all set to go to university. She got great A-level grades and had been accepted at Lancaster to study business; far enough to have to live away, but close enough to pop home whenever she wanted to.

But then her gran died quite suddenly. Jenny had lost her mum when she was quite young; her dad had never been on the scene and she had spent ten years living with her grandparents whom she loved dearly.

Overnight, her life and her plans changed. She couldn't leave her grandad on his own, so she got an apprenticeship at a local salon and moved into a tiny flat above a smelly kebab shop on the high street. She worked hard all day and then every evening, after work, she called in at her grandad's with his supper and his favourite ‘expensive’ coffee - the one he had always ordered when he treated her and gran to coffee and a slice of lemon drizzle on a Sunday afternoon.

He hadn't always been a grumpy old man and he had always been there for her, so she was devastated that he now seemed to think she was after his money; she wished she had never mentioned it.

Harry lay for a long time with his eyes closed. Jenny was right, he needed to sort things out why he still could. The problem was that it wasn't as simple as just signing over the house. If it was, he would do it in a heartbeat; there was no house to sign over - there was nothing.

When Mary had become ill, a lot earlier than Jenny was aware of, they had put the house into a shared ownership scheme; handing over their home to a company who then allowed them to live there as long as they needed to. This had freed up a bit of cash so that they could enjoy a few holidays while she was still able, and put a bit aside should Jenny want to go to university or buy her own place. He had paid the deposit on her little flat and helped her to kit it out, the plan being that when she went to Uni she could rent it out to help ends meet.

When Mary's health had taken a sudden downturn, it had taken them all by surprise. He really hadn't wanted Jenny to change her plans, but she had refused to move away, instead taking that ridiculous job painting nails.

And now he was stuck. Jenny wasn't being callous, she was being sensible. How was he going to explain this whole mess?

The next afternoon, Jenny made sure that she was early. She also made sure that she had bought Grandads favourite lasagne - for two.

When she walked in, she noticed that he had tidied up a bit, and that there was a pile of envelopes on the sideboard.

"Hi Gramps, lasagne tonight...and I picked up a lemon drizzle cake for us, a little treat."

It was Harry's turn to feel the tears pricking at his eyes, and he wiped them away quickly as she went into the kitchen to heat up the lasagne and put the kettle on.

"Sit down love, we need to talk."

By the time he had finished they were both in tears.

"Oh, Grandad, why didn't you tell me all this earlier?"

"I'd always promised you the house... and now I've nothing for you. I didn't know how."

His voice trailed off and he stared out of the window, somehow a shrunken version of the man he had been an hour earlier.

"Get your coat on," she said, "We're going out."

They sat in companionable silence, two extra-large double caramel mochas and a large slice of lemon drizzle cake on the table in front of them.

"It'll be Ok Gramps. We've got each other, you have a roof over your head for as long as you need it, and I have my whole life ahead of me to go to Uni and get a better job."

"I don't deserve you." Harry said, grasping her hand. "I don't deserve you, but I'm glad I've got you. Let's have another coffee."

 About the author 

DIane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released five books, and has had several short stories published by Cafelit.

 

Paste story here 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.  

Truth Hurts by Allison Symes, raspberry and lemon cordial

P

I knew about the betrayal for sure when I had a classic afternoon tea with Gran last Wednesday. There had been little tell-tales before that but this was definite.

Gran was a stickler for doing things right and her cucumber sandwiches (no crusts), scones, cream, jam, and a selection of cakes were fabulous and just what I needed. Gran felt she needed a girls’ afternoon only and Mum was working so it was down to Gran and me.

It wasn’t until we were on to our third round of teas Gran spoke.

‘He betrayed you, same as my George betrayed me. Had their fun, left us both pregnant, and gone on elsewhere. You will manage better on your own, Daisy dear. I did.’

Only Gran didn’t.

My lovely hubby, Steve, was thrilled to be a dad-to be.

My equally lovely Grandad, William, not George (goodness knew where Gran got the name from as there isn’t a George in the family at all), was thrilled to be a dad and then a grandad.

Neither man betrayed anything or anyone. Both took their Christian faith seriously, as I did mine - as had Gran.

Where was the betrayal?

The betrayal was from Gran.

Dementia is a cruel beast.

aste story here 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.  

Truth Hurts by Allison Symes,raspberry andllemon cordial

 

I knew about the betrayal for sure when I had a classic afternoon tea with Gran last Wednesday. There had been little tell-tales before that but this was definite.

Gran was a stickler for doing things right and her cucumber sandwiches (no crusts), scones, cream, jam, and a selection of cakes were fabulous and just what I needed. Gran felt she needed a girls’ afternoon only and Mum was working so it was down to Gran and me.

It wasn’t until we were on to our third round of teas Gran spoke.

‘He betrayed you, same as my George betrayed me. Had their fun, left us both pregnant, and gone on elsewhere. You will manage better on your own, Daisy dear. I did.’

Only Gran didn’t.

My lovely hubby, Steve, was thrilled to be a dad-to be.

My equally lovely Grandad, William, not George (goodness knew where Gran got the name from as there isn’t a George in the family at all), was thrilled to be a dad and then a grandad.

Neither man betrayed anything or anyone. Both took their Christian faith seriously, as I did mine - as had Gran.

Where was the betrayal?

The betrayal was from Gran.

Dementia is a cruel beast.

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. 

Website: https://allisonsymescollectedworks.com/ Books https ://author.to/httpAllisonSymesAuthorCent YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@allisonsymes Her flash fiction collections are From Light to Dark and Back Again,  Tripping The Flash Fantastic and Seeing the Other Side  

About the Author 

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 Sample:Past and Present by Rosemary Johnnson, cold coffee

An Important Call

 

‘Your call is important to us. It has been placed in a queue’. The voice at the end of the phone sounds like a machine and probably is one.

I say nothing.

I’m just settling into listening to Greensleeves when it cuts in again. ‘Calls may be recorded for training and quality purposes’.

More Greensleeves then Handel’s Water Music, played on something weird, panpipes possibly. I tap out the rhythm on my desk.

‘All our call-centre operatives are busy at the moment’.

I reach for my mug, only to remember that I finished my coffee some time ago. Do machines take tea breaks? 

‘We are experiencing an exceptionally high volume of calls at this time’.

You don’t say? Now I’m getting a signature-tune to some television programme from the 1980s. What was it now?

‘Customers are respectfully requested to check that appliances are connected to the power supply.’

Yes, yes, yes. I know that story about the bloke (or woman) who swore his (or her) printer didn’t work and found he (or she) hadn’t switched it on. But I'm not an idiot. My issue is real. I click my mouse several times. Still nothing’s happening on my screen. I need to speak to someone, a proper human being.

Still that awful theme tune. What was that programme?  All I can recall is that I didn’t like it. And I don’t want to hear it now. Come on. Speak to me.

‘Answers to many frequently asked questions are available on our website’.

Yes, yes, you stupid machine, but what good is that to me?  Come on. Where are you, you terribly busy call-centre operatives?  I don’t believe you’re there at all. Or that you even exist.

Not Greensleeves again. I'm going to complain. On Facebook, on X and all the other social media. I’ll write to the local paper. I’ll contact my MP, the Prime Minister even. He needs to know that people in this country have stopped talking to each other.

‘Good afternoon, caller. How can I help you today?’

‘Right. At last. I’ve got no internet.’

‘No internet, madam?’

‘Yes. I mean, no. No internet. I need you to send someone round- ‘

‘We don’t deal with internet queries here, madam. You’ll need to log your service request through our website.’

How?

FInd YOur Copy here 

Ashes by Richard Schreck, Fino

Marta Novak kept her eyes focused out the windshield. The feel of the urn in her hands, the weight of it on her lap, presented as much as she could handle.

“How are you ever going to manage?” Darcy turned her parents’ almost-new 1974 Chevrolet off the gravel road onto the driveway of her friend’s home. At 15, Darcy handled the car like a pro. Both Darcy and Marta had spent their early teen years driving unlicensed, sampling the edges of adulthood.

Raised by her grandparents, Marta had gradually taken over household tasks as her Gram had descended into dementia. Those duties would be expanded even more now that the death of her grandfather would leave his wife fully in Marta’s care. She clenched her fingers tight on the urn. “We just barely got by with him bringing in a little money when he could.” She squeezed until her fingers ached, fought against her breaking voice.

Darcy asked again, insistent. “What are you going to do?”

Marta sighed, fearing the years ahead. “I don’t know. But I can’t—I won’t—let anything change for her.”

“Just don’t be in a rush when you give her the urn.” Darcy stopped the car and turned toward Marta on the bench front seat. “If you talk too fast, she’ll get confused.”

“Thanks.” Marta knew her reply came out nasty, but she couldn’t help herself. Darcy was just like everyone else. Always spewing advice, but never any real help. Marta had always been alone and knew she was going to have to face this new ugly future the same way. She jerked her head toward the side window, to the ragged grass of the unkempt yard.

“No problem.” Darcy’s tone mirrored the nasty. Probably not intentional, but they both let it hang there as if it belonged.

Marta took a deep breath. Cradling the urn, she forced herself up the steps to the run- down wrap-around porch and crossed it into the darkened entryway of their rented Victorian.

In the dimmed sitting room, Marta pulled an ancient wooden chair close to her grandmother and offered the urn. Darcy held back, stood silent at the door, faded into shadow.

The old woman received the ashes into her hands, placed them on her lap, stared. “What is this?”

“Gramp’s ashes.” Unable to predict her grandmother’s response, Marta added, “I can put them on a shelf for you.”

The old woman clutched the urn with fingers turning white from pressing, locked into place beyond hope of release. Clearly confused, she asked, “What should I do with this?”

Marta reached out and placed her hands on either side of the urn, covering those of the old woman. The rigidity of her grandmother’s hands beneath her own brought home to Marta the immensity of what lay ahead. “Gram ...” Marta heard her own voice, that of a child calling for the return of a parent already too far away to hear her.

Behind her, Darcy’s steps crossed the room, creaking floorboards beneath the faded rose carpet.

“Miss Doris?” Barely a whisper.
Gram raised her face toward the voice.

Through high windows, trees stood undisturbed by movement of air. If traffic passed on the road outside, no sound carried from it.

“Miss Doris?” Darcy spoke soft and with emotion, her voice suddenly mature, maternal. Foreign to Marta’s ears. “Why don’t you just hold it for now?”

Marta watched her grandmother’s fingers loosen on the urn, cradle it. As Darcy’s hand settled on her shoulder, Marta’s fierce independence began to loosen its lifelong grip. She sensed that perhaps Darcy had always been willing to help. For the first time in her life, Marta wondered whether others might be as well.

Richard Schreck is the author of 40+ publications and a former editor. “Ashes” explores a world he is developing in Brain Game, a novel set in Baltimore and New Orleans and in Marta Novak, a novel of Brain Game background stories that also appear in other magazines. Website: richardschreck.com Instagram @richardschreckwriting

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.  

Once We Were Heroes by Henry J.E. Lewi, Macallan Single Malt

There had been six of us; we’d survived all these years and only a few people in the Pentagon had known our true history. A close-knit band of enhanced professionals loved by the Department of Defense but loathed by the Military Traditionalists, we were deployed wherever and whenever we were needed, using our so-called boosted ‘Super-Powers’

Under the Classified Presidential Order our existence and deployment was both ultra-secret and totally deniable. As the years went by as members of the group died, it was my job to go into their homes to remove any evidence of our secret lives. In reality I was guardian of their top-secret legacy.

Jack Lovell, ‘The Fireball’, had been the first to pass; his bright star had flamed out at the turn of the century and was soon followed by Bruce, a gentle giant of a man built like a brick outhouse, his heart unable to cope with his powerful frame.

The old man of the sea, Roman Prince, had drowned doing what he loved most: surfing in Hawaii, and The Asgardian, Blake Odinson, with the Government’s blessing, had returned home to take over his father’s business, but I hadn’t heard from him for many, many years.

Only Daniel and I were the known surviving members of the group until I got the call that Daniel had died and again it was my job to check and clear his apartment.

Frankly I was surprised that Daniel (he hated being called Danny) had made it this far. Following our military deployment in the early 80’s he’d suffered a severe chest injury that had damaged his heart, but with his engineering skills and genius had developed an advanced technology that allowed him to not only survive but also boosted his strength and his intellectual capability. His penthouse flat in New York was clean and tidy and superficially there was no evidence of his past life as an enhanced super soldier. The safe was empty of any incriminating documents but I knew that behind his clothes closet was a hidden secret compartment that of course I knew how to open, well I was a ‘Super Soldier’ too, and Daniel’s oldest and closest friend.

The compartment door slid open and there they were, Daniel’s old battle suits, the original gold one, and the newer black and silver suit, plus a briefcase, which contained just three items, a comic, a photo, and an envelope with my name printed on the front. The photo showed our group of six before our first deployment in 1982, Young, fit, and ready to go. The comic was a Tales of Mystery, Issue Number One from 1988, introducing a silver-suited ‘Man of Iron’.

I opened the letter, which read:

‘Dear Matt, 
if you’re reading this, I know you’re cleaning up the apartment. They were fun years when we all worked together for the government, and I always knew you’d outlive us all – I mean you haven’t aged a day; I guess it was that serum they gave you all those years ago. Keep the photo safe; it’s the only copy that exists – all the others plus the negatives were destroyed. For a laugh see the comic; they couldn’t even get the name and the battle suit right, though I’m surprised the government still let it through the censors back then – keep it safe.

I know you’re still working with the government alongside our old boss Max, so keep the Shield close and stay safe; your old friend Daniel.’

I put the items back in the briefcase and signaled to the yellow-jacketed “Cleaners” that it was OK to clear the apartment. I took the briefcase and left. I never wear the red, white, and blue they dressed me in all those years ago – jeans and a leather jacket suffice. The Shield is stowed in the trunk of the Bentley that Daniel gave me. Their legacy will probably survive in the comics, and I now hear they’re thinking of making a film about our early exploits – but will the public still love us, hate us, or loathe us, and anyway who’d ever believe it really happened?

Henry is a retired Surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site.

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.