Sunday, 11 October 2026

A Tragic End to a Short Life by Maxine Flam,Chianti

A Tragic End to a Short Life

I can’t believe I’m about to get the hell out of this place. It’s been too crowded for my taste plus it’s been quite the ride. First, I was tightly packed with all my other friends in a metal container. Then I and my buddies were released into some plastic container, and the temperature changed from cool to cold in nothing flat but at least I had room to breathe.

What’s this? It looks like a spoon or tongs to scoop my friends and me up to go to somewhere else. Geez, not another ride…Well, they didn’t get me this time. No siree. Missed. Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah, Nah…Oh, here comes some lady heading this way. Maybe if I ignore her, she won’t pick me. Oh, shit…she grabbed me and about twenty of my friends with the tongs and put us on semi curved place. I think someone called it a plate…whatever that is. At least I’m not alone.

She sat down. It’s warmer over here. But I’m confused. I don’t know where I am.  Now she is using something pointy to pick up each of my friends. They are disappearing one by one. Hey…what’s that thing? She didn’t get me. I’m the last one. HA. You missed me…

Oh, no…here comes that thing to get me…shit, she missed, I’m in the air and now on a hard surface. I hear laughter.  What’s so funny? I don’t think it’s so funny. I’m down here and she’s up there. People are walking all around me. OMG. I’m on the floor. I’m about to be stepped on.

Oh crap……………..splat.

I hear more laughter. One of the two ladies over there did this to me. Half of me is on someone’s shoe. The other half is on the carpet. Damn. I still don’t think that it’s at all funny… Jesus… here comes the carpet sweeper. Rrrrrrrrrrr.

Crap.

 

The end. 

About the author

 

 

\it's been ten years since Maxine became disabled and took up her passion for writing. She has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News, along with Nail Polish Stories, DarkWinterLit, BrightFlashLiteraryReview, OtherwiseEngagedLit, CafeLit, MaudlinHouse, and TheMetaworker.com 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, 10 October 2026

saturday sampleIf Crows Could Talk by Debz Hobbs-Wyatt, coffee

Prologue


Wednesday April 10th, 2019

 

 

It’s the day every path led back to.

April holds the coffee cup with both hands; fingertips pressed lightly to the paper folds. Her reflected face ghosts against the rush of passing trees and gray office buildings. Her neat red bob is caught in the flickedy-flick of the changing landscape. It was still dark when she left the apartment, still dark when she fumbled with the email saying where they were to meet. Only she always knew where they would meet. Still dark when the Amtrak left South Carolina.

And there it is again – the feeling.

She should have told him. What if he never understands?

 

The world clickedy-clacks its way past. People fumble with luggage and make their drunken-like stumbles to the bathroom, reapply lipstick and slap tired faces awake with cold water. Seven hours on a train – but April is sick of driving, sick of flying, sick of the lies.

She pictures Joe back in Lexington, folded into the lilac duvet, a Post-it stuck to the refrigerator. Not the note he wanted. She was planning on talking to him; she didn’t mean it to turn into a fight. There’s something I have to do. And there she was, fingers teasing open the blinds, looking out onto the street, listening for the cab, hoping he didn’t stir, because if he did how could she explain?

What would she say? That she isn’t who he thinks she is?

find your copy here 

About the author 

Since she was a little girl Debz Hobbs-Wyatt always dreamed of being a writer. Inspired first by Enid Blyton's Island of Adventure series, then her love of the classics and later Stephen King, now she devours anything literary and is a big fan of Jon McGregor. She has always believed stories can change the world. She now lives and with her husband and her cat and dog in Essex and works as a full-time writer and editor. She has an MA in Creative Writing from Bangor University and has had over thirty short stories published in various collections. She has also been shortlisted in a number of writing competitions, including being nominated for the prestigious US Pushcart Prize 2013, one of two UK writers on the short list of the Commonwealth Short Story Prize 2013 and winner of the inaugural Bath Short Story Award.

While No One Was Watching, her debut novel, was published by Parthian Books in 2013.

Her short story collection Because Sometimes Something Extraordinary Happens was published by Bridge House Publishing in July 2019.

Debz is represented by Camilla Shestopal at Shesto Literary.

If Crows Could Talk is another American mystery novel inspired by her love of the States and various long trips, and by her interest in representing diverse characters. She does also write UK-based UpLit literary fiction set closer to home. What Debz loves best is to create authentic characters and give them voice and If Crows Could Talk allowed her to give Lydia from her first novel a cameo role, since so many people requested to see her again.

Debz is thrilled that Walela Books have chosen If Crows Could Talk as their first publication.

 

 


 

 

 

 

 



Friday, 9 October 2026

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.’

about the author


Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

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Thursday, 8 October 2026

Was by Steve Gerson, water


I used to be the driver. I was the pathfinder, the trailblazer who sought frontiers beyond the horizon. I opened doors. I flew kites in lightning storms to feel the thrill. I smoked pipes to think beyond thought. Once.

Then, it hit. Age, early dementia, Parkinson's, reality.

I picked up the keys, but Louise said, "Uh uh, Bill. You know the rules."

Damn right I did. Sit and take it. Be a vegetable in a cart.

So off we drove, to one of my many doctor's appointments, Louise navigating while I sat and stared and misremembered and trembled.

I reached for the radio dial, my finger shaking like Tantalus seeking a taste of apple.

"Let me, Bill."

I tried to sip from my Stanley water bottle.

"I've got it," as Louise picked it up for me, placed the straw in my mouth, and held a tissue under my dribbling lips.

We arrived. Louise jumped out of the car, her body not failing, to open my door. Then, she helped me out, reaching under my arm for support, a quiet smile radiating from her tired face.

I stood and teetered, swaying like a storm-tossed dinghy, oars cast overboard.  And I walked, each step a stutter, my brain in synaptic spasms, an electrical cord frayed, light intermittent.

"How are you today, Bill?" my neurologist asked, his voice wooden, as he looked at my chart, never in my eyes.

I didn't respond. I couldn't get words out. I was in a jar, lid tight. The pressure in the jar was building. An explosion awaited. I wanted the explosion—release, my last frontier.

about the author 

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his 11 chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; Who Am I Today; Dystopia; Grim; and Through Shadows 

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Wednesday, 7 October 2026

We Are All Trying by Xinyi Koay, Sikhye

After Hyun-woo dropped two Yonsei students off in front of their dorm, he looked longingly at the guitars on their sweaty backs before driving off. It wasn’t like him to linger. Yet the guitars reminded him of a distant past.  
  
He used to be well known in his neighbourhood for his soulful lyrics and melodic voice. But after moving from Pohang to Seoul to chase after his dream, he quickly learnt that Seoul was filled with other young men who could sing and play the guitar too. Other young men with deeper voices. Other young men with quicker fingers on the guitar. After months of trying, he finally found a small entertainment company willing to take him in as a trainee. But his dream ended almost as soon as it began when the company went bust. He ended up trading his guitar for a steady income behind the steering wheel to pay his growing bills.

When can I sing again?  

Jeongsin charyeo. He shook his head hard to pull himself together before planting his hands firmly back on the steering wheel. 

He drove towards his favourite gisa sikdang, hoping that a piping hot bowl of bibimbap would bring him back to his senses. As he waited for his rice to cool, a charming new shop adorned with bright pink fairy lights caught his eye. He found himself drawn to the tarot shop and its promise of answers. 
He tried to take a bite of his bibimbap but it was still too hot to swallow. Maybe that was the sign he needed. He laid his chopsticks on the table and strode across the road. 

Yu-jin’s first customer had a defined jawline, high cheekbones and a wonderfully symmetrical face. He was conventionally handsome, but he had an unspeakable sadness in his eyes. 

“What question do you have?”  

“When can I sing again?” 

His words were desperate, but Yu-jin appreciated his deep and warm voice. She was sure any song he sang would sound lovely.   

The first card he chose depicted a beggar. When he saw the card, the man’s eyes looked sadder than they were before. They reminded Yu-jin of her own lifeless eyes that used to greet her in the mirror when she was still working her old job as a receptionist. 

“Go forth and chase your dream.” 

Yu-jin knew that wasn’t what the card meant, but she couldn’t help herself. It was probably the man’s first time at a tarot shop. He deserved to dream again, just like she did when she opened her shop. 

“How can that be true?” 

 “It’s true,” Yu-jin assured him, “A beggar has nothing to lose, and neither do you.” 

Hyun-woo quickly walked back to his cab, eager to get back to his guitar and his long-forgotten dream. 
He had told his mother not to worry about him, so even after the company shut down, taking his savings with it, he refused to return home. He couldn’t let her know he was struggling. She had sacrificed too much already, toiling away on the family farm while her only son was off in the big city chasing after his dream. 

He dusted off the guitar hiding in the back of his closet and started strumming as he sat on the barren floor. He sang of his hopes, his dreams, and how he wouldn’t give them up again. He was out of practice, but by the end of the night, he could feel his heart beat with purpose once more.  

After his fateful visit to the tarot reader, Hyun-woo’s life still moved like clockwork. He’d start the day with some banchan along with instant rice. He’d then walk down the steps from his second-floor apartment to his bright orange cab, his trusty companion for the day. But every night, he’d return home to his guitar, his voice, and the passion he thought he had lost forever. 
 
After a few months, he started to upload his music to SoundCloud, one song after another, wishes into the void. For weeks, he barely had any new listeners. But one day, a DJ chose to play one of his songs on her morning radio show, and his music started to find its audience.  

Yu-jin was listening to the radio before she started her workday, a short reprieve before customers began streaming through the door. 

“This next song is Kkum”, announced the DJ. 

She recognised the deep, warm voice immediately — it was the voice of her very first customer all those months ago. She never thought that she’d end up lying to a customer, much less her first, but as his dreamy voice filled her shop with light, she was grateful she did. 

They were all trying. 


Koay Xinyi is a writer from Singapore. Her ideal afternoon is one spent in a library, a good book in hand. Her work has been published in Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, ScribesMICRO and Star 82 Review.

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.