sATURDAY sAMPLEBCryptodome dARCIARCI \\\BY\\\\\\sTAWBERRY bRUNCH

 

The stories in this unique collection are by new and established writers who took part in the Bridge House Short Story Competition.

The call was for stories about events happening on the same day as those dates we all remember: the day President Kennedy was shot, the day Princess Diana died, the day of the London bombings …

The cover itself is a puzzle. Can the reader match the dates to the fragmented headlines?

An aunt dies the same day as John Lennon. Smoke rises at the Vatican as lovers are reconciled – or not. A baby is born as the second plane ploughs into the twin towers.

Both are also writers. Gill lectures in Creative Writing at the University of Salford.

Bridge House aims to support new writing. 

Cryptodome
My sister started smoking at the end of March. Openlysmoking, that is; she’d been charming cigarettes off theboys since she shrugged on her first bra at the age of twelve. My mother and I watched her from the kitchenwindow while we washed the dinner dishes. Louette stood
under the streetlight with her kitten heels spiking snowand her thin leather jacket left undone. The smoke rolledoff her and plumed to the moon. Her hand rose lazily to her mouth and the red ember flashed like a hazard light,her hand drifted down and the sparks scattered from her
fingers. That hand would still be warm when I passed herthe dish towel later, and I would see her footprints in thesnow the next morning, melted there amongst the fallenash and frozen hard by the night’s ice.
“Look at her,” my mother said, “smouldering awaylike she knows what it’s all about. Just like me at the sameand would you look at how that turned out. Christ.
Look at her.”
You looked at her, you stared openly in the street or themall or the school cafeteria, for you could not take youreyes off Louette. She’d flow into your awareness with herhips rolling and eyes arcing and dark hair glowing redwhere it caught the light. Her mouth would slowly curl intoa smile, and you’d feel the air sucked out of your lungs.She’d pool into the middle of the room and the heat would ur eyes with her. Breathless, restless, waiting forsomething to happen, you’d look at her. Her voice came out
deep and smoky and you’d swear you were hearing someprofound secret, even if she’d only stopped to ask the time.“Don’t you start up like her,” my mom said with her
hands shoved deep in scalding dish water, “you’re supposed to be the smart one. You still going to do thatvolcano?”
I nodded. The science fair was in June and the topcontestant would go to the provincial finals in Vancouver.planned to set up a colour wheel and talk about lightspectrums; I’d already had the discs cut out and painted,and spun the patterns to a blinding white in front of mymore easily impressed friends. Then the little earthquakesrattled through Washington state, shaking up the AmericansThe smoke spewed straight up in adelicate stream and my science teacher passed me a bookon Pompeii. He said there could be an eruption, a realcatastrophic event right here in our lifetime.
“Topical, this volcano,” he said, “a real topical topic,Marie.” His eyes glinted green as he leaned towards me,and I caught the fresh smell of his aftershave. My faceburned red. Mr Robson was the youngest and mostpopular teacher in school, and he was good with words. Ipracticed all my best one liners for him in private,mouthing them to the mirror while the bathwater ran.“Mr Robson’s hot,” said Louette, her eyes half liddedand her hand twisting hair, “don’t you think so, Marie?Too old for you, though.” She laughed and reached for hercigarettes.
Smoking wasn’t the only thing Louette had started.My mother would tell us to go to bed at a decent hour,then half kiss half swat us befre leaving for her shift atthe all night truck stop. The door would slam behind her.cigarettes.Smoking wasn’t the only thing Louette had started.
My mother would tell us to go to bed at a decent hour,then half kiss half swat us before leaving for her shift atthe all night truck stop. The door would slam behind her.

April 30th. The United States Geological Survey reportsthat one side of the mountain is bulging. This is fromthe pressure of the magma building inside. Two hundredand seventy feet of rock shifted now, and more pushed outevery day.
May came and Louette’s detainment lifted. Stan
showed up the door with a big loose grin and his car keys eyes widened a little, and I thought she’d probably noticed
this very same thing.
April 30th. The United States Geological Survey reports
that one side of the mountain is bulging. This is from
the pressure of the magma building inside. Two hundred
and seventy feet of rock shifted now, and more pushed out
every day.
May came and Louette’s detainment lifted. Stan
showed up the door with a big loose grin and his car keys18
eyes widened a little, and I thought she’d probably noticed
this very same thing.
April 30th. The United States Geological Survey reports
that one side of the mountain is bulging. This is from
the pressure of the magma building inside. Two hundred
and seventy feet of rock shifted now, and more pushed out
every day.
May came and Louette’s detainment lifted. Stan
showed up the door with a big loose grin and his car keys jangling, telling us how pretty the lake looked with sun onthe water. Louette told him she was studying. I watched
his face change shape, the muscles underneath his skin
shifting and setting to stoic silence.“Later, maybe?” she whispered, and his face softened.
I was woken again in the early hours by the bedroom
door creaking open. It was too warm now for the hockey jacket, but Louette’s skin glowed white where she’d bared
it. She sat quietly on the edge of her bed and I turned
towards her. The usual smoky vapour drifted from her buts omething had changed; she smelled of some other thingboth sweet and sharp. I thought of leaves unfurling and jacket, but Louette’s skin glowed white where she’d baredit. She sat quietly on the edge of her bed and I turned
towards her. The usual smoky vapour drifted from her butsomething had changed; she smelled of some other thingboth sweet and sharp. Isensed the colour green
twisting through the dark and winding tight around myguts.

"Go back to sleep,” Louette whispered, sitting perfectly
still, “you’re dreaming this.”
May 7th. The eruptions have started again. They are
small. You can’t see the magma boiling away underneath
the lid of solid rock. This is called a cryptodome. Crypto
means hidden.
Mount St Helens was in the news regularly now. It had
become a familiar face, and it showed up in the comic 

May 7th. The eruptions have started again. They are
small. You can’t see the magma boiling away underneaththe lid of solid rock. This is called a cryptodome. Cryptomeans hidden.Mount St Helens was in the news regularly now. It had
become a familiar face, and it showed up in the comicstrips smiling and blowing puffy clouds into blue sky. Thetourists ate hot dogs and pointed their cameras at the ash. plume, the cabin owners snuck into the danger zone to pileporch chairs and log bed frames into the backs of their
pickup trucks. The geologists spoke to reporters about rateof intrusion and resulting instability while the volcanologiststhrust dark and jagged seismic graphs at the
newspapers 

.“Don’t be fooled,” they said. “The entire north face
could slide, and if that happens we’ll have a full scale
catastrophe on our hands.”

Louette seemed to sleepwalk through those days, slow
and barely there, like some of her fire had gone out. Shemumbled and drifted around the place, half dressed andhalf awake and always with a cigarette dangling from herfingers. It smouldered and dropped ash on the carpet, butshe seemed to need the weight of it there in her hand.
Night would come and somehing would spark in her eyes,and I got used to the empty bed on her side of the room.
Stan dropped by on the Friday before it happened. I
was home alone. Louette had said she wold be late as she
wanted to finish off something at school.
“Where is she?” Stan asked. He stood in the kitchen
doorway with his arms hanging empty and his chest
caving inwards, but with his face oddly swollen. I couldfeel that awful tightness on my own face when I answered.“With Mr Robson,” I said, as if it were nothing. I lookedat Stan and he looked at me, and the rage passed between usboth. I heard the Camaro throwgravel as it spun away and I
had to sit down for the shaking in my knees.
Saturday was quiet. Mount St Helens had ceased allvisible activiY.and been taken off the news, the touristshad gone home and the cabin owners were officially
allowed to collect their belongings. Louette driftedthrough the rooms, picking up things and putting themdown again.

 “Stan?” she said when I asked. “No, I never saw Stan.
I should call him, I guess.” She looked at the phone and
picked up her cigarettes instead.
 May 18th was Mother’s Day. Louette and I had volunteered
at the Strawberry Brunch held in the school
cafeteria every year. Mr Robson was supervising the kids
and kitchen workers. Our mother slipped in at seven just as she always did after a night shift, and told us she’d bealong after a few hours of sleep.
By twenty minutes past eight, I was setting places on the pink-clothed cafeteria tables and Louette was slicingstrawberries into a bowl. Mr Robson hummed as PROpped test-tubes of coloured water and carnations at each table, and neither he nor Louette looked at oneanother. The kitchen workers bustled back and forth with baking powder biscuits and bowls of whipped cream, andthe student volunteers laughed and gossiped.At eight thirty there was a displacement of air. Nothingmore than that, no explosion or sonic boom or blast of

Stan stood in the cafeteria doorway with shotgunhanging from his hands. His eyes bulged and glared in hisswollen face, like they were about to pop from someincredible force within, and he was panting. The noise ofthis echoed through the room, bouncing off twelve graderwith her hands clutched to her throat to hockey captaincaught mid-cower to kitchen worker staring over her potof steaming water. Louette had half risen from her seatwith her hands stained red from strawberries, but Stan was
not looking at her. He raised the gun.Mr Robson’s hands shook and the carnations trembled
in their crimson water. I saw how the colour had seepedinto their delicate folds, tracing the red there like veins, and I swallowed hard.
 “It was nothing,” he whispered. “Nothing. It meant
nothing to me.”
 Several things happened all at once then. Stan movedfaster than I would have ever thought possible, breakingfrom doorway and towards Mr Robson with steps likestumbling boulders, the shotgun wedged to his shoulder.“No no no” said someone and “please” said another andthere was the gurgling cough of the hockey captainretching. The kitchen worker dropped her pot of hot water
and it splashed and steamed and Mr Robson cried out. Stanmoved fast but Louette moved faster, lifting the bowl ofstrawberries high and throwing it full force into Stan’s face.Eight thirty two. I remember how my eyes driftedfrom bleeding carnations to blank dinner plates tonumbered clock face, instinctively thinking to record thetime. I watched the second hand tremble and freeze and
take an eon to click forward.Stan wheeled back and smacked against the wall, sliding
down it almost gracefully. The bowl bounced besidehim and the mashed berries and red juice dripped from hisface, spreading across cafeteria floor. His face crumpledand collapsed and he began to weep. The shotgun hungbalanced across his skewed knees for a moment before it
clattered to the tiles. Someone moaned, then there was
absolute silence.Louette stood facing Stan with her hair come undone
and her sweater pulled off one shoulder. We looked at her,
we stared until her image wavered and blurred and burnt
itself into our eyes. Louette stood still while the air around
her roiled and sparked, and we could not take our eyes off
her.
 

“The ring,” someone said. “She’s not wearing his
ring.”retching. The kitchen worker dropped her pot of hot water
and it splashed and steamed and Mr Robson cried out. Stan
moved fast but Louette moved faster, lifting the bowl of
strawberries high and throwing it full force into Stan’s face.
Eight thirty two. I remember how my eyes drifted
from bleeding carnations to blank dinner plates to
numbered clock face, instinctively thinking to record the
time. I watched the second hand tremble and freeze and
take an eon to click forward.
 Stan wheeled back and smacked against the wall, sliding
down it almost gracefully. The bowl bounced beside
him and the mashed berries and red juice dripped from his
face, spreading across cafeteria floor. His face crumpled
and collapsed and he began to weep. The shotgun hung
balanced across his skewed knees for a moment before it
clattered to the tiles. Someone moaned, then there was
absolute silence.
Louette stood facing Stan with her hair come undone
and her sweater pulled off one shoulder. We looked at her,
we stared until her image wavered and blurred and burnt
itself into our eyes. Louette stood still while the air around
her roiled and sparked, and we could not take our eyes off
her.
“The ring,” someone said. “She’s not wearing hisring.”

My eyes slid from Louette’s bare finger to the glint of
gold lying next to strawberry stained knife, and my hand
went out before I could stop it. The ring, his ring; the
whisper went around the room like a wave and I knew I’d
not been seen.
“Pathetic,” said Louette then. I saw how her eyes
swerved to Mr Robson and stayed there, I saw how Mr
Robson looked away. Louette laughed, short and sharp
and caustic as ground glass. She turned on her heel and
walked out.
I found her outside dragging deep on a cigarette.
“I should quit this shit,” she said, “I don’t even like the TASTE"

 We missed the eruption of St Helen’s that day. It is allthere in the records, however, with times and miles andother measurements carefully noted. At eight thirty twoa.m., a five point one earthquake sheared off the side ofthe mountain and sent it hurtling down river valley at onehundred and fifty five miles per hour. The resultinglandslide displaced the contents of an entire lake, splashing
its water six hundred feet up and hillside and knockingdown the surrounding forest. The magma boiling insidethe cryptodome for so long found itself exposed to the air,and it reacted instantly, exploding massive amounts ofrock debris, volcanic gas, ash and pumice. The landslidewas quick, but the pyroclastic flow was quicker; itovertook the slide at speeds of six hundred and eighty
miles per hour and even broke the sound barrier. It aporised everything in an eight mile radius and its
superheated clouds blasted the foliage off trees manymiles beyond that. Fifty seven people were killed: most ofthem asphyxiated but others burnt or buried. It is all therein the records, the truth of the matter noted in numbers.
We missedthe eruption, but they had started showing the footage on the television by the time we got homefrom the police station. The smoke billowed a dirty grayand I handed Louette her ring. Her fist closed around it butshe did not put it back onto her finger. We watched th eash spew and Louette let me hold her hand. I noted that it eemed small and cold in mine.
The eruption sent an ash column twelve miles up andthe air currents swirled it down again, covering thousandsof miles in a caustic blanket and blacking out the noondaysun. The mudslides grated across bridges and the acid rainwashed the evergreen off the state signs. The ash flewacross the border and we watched our clear blue skydarken by degrees. There was a fine gray dust coveringthe tops of the cars by the next morning. No one went toschool, even though it was a Monday.The police let Stan go after a few days of questioning.
His father paid the fines and was given back his gun. Stanwas expelled from school and forbidden from graduatingthat year. None of us saw him for weeks and the rumoursswirled and spread, dirtying the mouth with their taste.Some of that gossip grazed Louette, but she brushed it off.My volcano journal lay unopened and I stopped goingscience class. A garbage bag showed up on ourdoorstep the week before the science fair, with a noteattached. I took the paper-mache volcano out of the blackplastic and left the unread note in its place.

I was not surprised to see the science fair hall steamingwith a dozen homemade volcanoes, all in various states offrothy eruption. The kid with the colour wheel spun hisplates to white while the room filled with the bitter stenchof vinegar. The judge pinned a blue ribbon to his stall and was not surprised by this either.

carried no blame for what happened. No one recalled Mr
Robson’s words but everyone remembered the strawberries
bursting from bowl, and how Louette had stood so
strong and resolute afterwards. A relationship outgrown,
they said, an engagement ring handed back and a young
man left broken hearted. It was only natural, for Louette
was beautiful. And working surprisingly hard at her
studies these days. Hadn’t she been getting extra help with
her biology before the volcano blew? The younger girls
began showing up to school with dishevelled hair and
their sweaters hanging off their shoulders. Louette brushed
that off too and circled job vacancies at the back of the
city newspapers.

Mount St Helens erupted a few more times and the
news circled the globe. The ash fell as far away as
Oklahoma and we all got used to the taste of it at the back
of our throats. It snowed black that winter and Stan drove
to the lake with his father’s shotgun into the passenger
seat of his Camaro. Mr Robson’s skill with words was
recalled, and he spoke on behalf of school at the funeral.
He didn’t mention the volcano, he talked about flowers in
the field instead. I saw the crimson veins of those
carnations and had to choke back the bile. Louette called
to say she’d seen the snow on the news and was it really
as black as that? She was working as a medical receptionist
in wealthier part of Vancouver by then, and dating a
doctor.

My sister married a cardiologist and he made her quitsmoking when she turned forty. Mount St Helens stillvents steam and ash once in a while, and Louette phonesme every time. “Turn on the TV,” she’ll say, “you don’twant to miss it.”I can hear the restlessness in her voice, that sense ofbreathy excitementThe ash fell down and got swept up, and eventuallydispersed to farther places. It was decided that Louette

FInd Your copy heere 

“Turn on the TV,” she’ll say, “you don’t
want to miss it.”
I can hear the restlessness in her voice, that sense of
breathy excitement that still draws people to her. I know how her hands will hum with heat while her fingers flutterand tap, searching for a long ago cigarette to light andsuck to red hot ember. My sister talks of her prettychildren while I tell her about my research, and we nevermention the mornings we wake with the taste of ash stillin our mouths.

And Is There Honey? by Mike Everley, hot chocolate with a spoonful of honey

 

              “The lies, and truths, and pain?… oh! yet

Stands the Church clock at ten to three?

And is there honey still for tea?”*

 

The last honeybee died on the 24^th of August last year. No one really knew the cause of that final wave of Colony Collapse Disorder. Jared suspected the genetically manipulated crops promoted by the big Agri Corporation. They denied it of course, they always did. But, whatever the cause, the apiaries of the world now stood empty and abandoned. There was still honey of course. Synthesized in the chemical laboratories of the same Agri Corporations, insipid and pale in comparison. But, in time, people would forget the taste and texture of real honey.

 

Jared Hunter was no film star. At 35 he stood at a slightly stooped 5 foot 9 inches and had a string of broken relationships to his credit, or rather discredit. His sandy hair was rough-cut and his slate grey eyes held more than a hint of sadness. Although he knew little about people, particularly women, he did know about bees. He had a kind of empathy with them that he lacked with others of his own kind.

Today was the day that Jared would strike back on behalf of his fallen comrades. Today was the day that he intended to discover the truth and broadcast it to the world. He pulled the black balaclava low over his face, so that his eyes stared out of the two slits he had roughly cut in the wool. The dark military style parka had useful pockets for keeping the wire cutters and other tools safe. A quick glance in the mirror reassured him that he was ready. Picking up his car keys he headed for the door. Today, the bees would be avenged.

 

The weeks spent befriending the cleaner at the plant, and the money taken to buy him drinks at the Red Lion had proved to be worth it in the end. It was surprising what you could find out from those at the margins of society if you just chose to listen. They were so glad to be able to talk about their lives to someone. Jared was a good listener. He knew when to add a consoling remark and when to remain silent. Now he knew more about the layout of the plant than many who worked there. After all, cleaners went everywhere and at all hours. He knew where to cut the perimeter fence unseen and which window could be quietly broken without sounding the alarm. He even knew the keypad code to the labs. All of this, just because he listened.

 

Jared had waited through all the phases of the waning crescent moon with its silver crescent growing smaller and smaller. Now it had become a new moon with its far side facing the sun. From earth the moon was dark and offered no reflected light to hinder his task.

He parked his car about two miles away and cut across fields he had studied on countless Ordnance Survey maps. He kept the torch beam low, so as not to attract attention and cursed several times when he fell on rough ground. After climbing several gates and pushing his way through a rough hedge that blocked his way, Jared reached his objective.

The wire fence stretched tall in front of him. Behind it was the concrete and glass of the plant. Everything was dimly lit. He had chosen a Sunday, as it was the only day when no night shift operated. He would be alone, except for a few security staff huddled in their cabin on the other side of the plant, playing cards and drinking tea.

The wire cutter felt heavy in his gloved hand as he extracted it from his parka's pocket. With the torch in his other hand he knelt and started to work. The wire strands proved harder to snip than he had anticipated and his knuckles and wrist began to ache. He should have practised this at home to build up his hand strength and grip. He quickly realised that he would have to settle for a smaller gap and somehow squeeze through. At least the fence wasn't electrified so he didn't need the jump cable he had brought along.

A shuffling noise behind him made Jared freeze. Were the security staff doing a perimeter sweep? Slowly he turned and shone the torch beam. Illuminated in the cone of light was the black and white shape of a badger burrowing into the hedgerow. Jared took a deep breath, swallowed and returned to his task.

 

Eventually the gap was wide enough for him to crawl through with only minor damage to his clothing and a few scratches to his face. The balaclava had taken the brunt of the force from the jagged metal edges and now hung useless on the fence. Jared wasn’t particularly concerned about anonymity now he was inside the grounds. He wanted to reveal to the world what the Corporation was guilty of. Hence the mobile phone in his trouser pocket. This was war and Jared was the advanced guard.

He quickly sprinted across the grass to the concrete path that snaked around the outside of the building. Like many modern plants the outer wall was mainly windowless, but Jared knew that further along was a small window belonging to the cleaners' storeroom, here they often gathered for a smoke. Opening the window to let the telltale haze out into the fresh air. For this reason the alarm on the window had been mysteriously disabled sometime in the past by an unknown hand. Jared intended to smash a pane and then reach inside to open it before climbing in. Hopefully, the alarm remained disabled or he was in real trouble.

The window turned out to be slightly higher than expected but just about reachable. Jared wrapped the thick cloth he had brought around the head of the wire cutters and gave it a hard knock against one of the panes. There was a splintering sound and he had to close his eyes as shards of broken glass showered down over his hair and shoulders. Standing on tiptoes he managed to stretch his arm inside and undo the fastening. The window swung outwards over his head. With a great deal of effort, Jared pulled himself up and slipped through the opening. They made it look a damn sight easier in films, he thought to himself, as he fell rather than dropped to the floor. But, at least he was inside.

 

Jared went carefully through the storeroom doorway into the dimly lit main corridor. Glossy photographs of the products made at the plant adorned the plain brick walls as he made his way along the passageway and through various fire doors. Where the passage branched he knew to keep left and that he would find the entrance to the laboratory at the very end. This was where the main research on the synthetic honey was carried out. Here he would find the evidence he needed. Jared's heart was beating fast with excitement mixed with the fear of being caught when he was so close to achieving his aim.

The passage grew darker the further he walked away from the main corridor. Only a ghostly light from the charging emergency lighting fittings illuminated his way. He had switched off his torch to save its battery and to help avoid detection, although the deserted windowless passageway made this unlikely. Finally he came to a large reinforced glass door that blocked his way. On the bare brick wall next to it was the keypad.

Jared typed in the six digit code and pressed the green enter button at the bottom of the pad. For a few seconds he held his breath hoping that the code hadn't been changed. The metallic clunk told him that it had been accepted and the door mechanism released. He pushed open the glass door and went inside.

 

Jared switched on his torch and scanned the lab. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, perhaps some evidence of the Corporation's guilt in the bees demise. What he did see shook him to the core. A massive glass hive stood in the middle of the room and above it was a large steel hood fed by pipework. What the hell! He thought.

Quickly he read some documents on a desk near the hive. The truth slowly dawned upon him. These were virus resistant bees captured by the Corporation and housed in hives in their plants worldwide. They were being experimented on in an effort to produce more of the vile synthetic honey at a greatly reduced cost. The hood obviously supplied a gas that kept the bees docile in their captivity.

Jared quickly took photographs of the hive and of the documents on his mobile and sent them to a long list of addresses he had researched before starting his quest: international environmental publications, activists and academics. The news would now be circulating before going viral. Jared thought of the work that the Corporation's press office would have to carry out in order to skew the narrative, to somehow make the Corporation the hero trying to preserve the bees rather than the villain. Some would believe it. But the majority would see through it and the Corporation would be forced to release the bees back into the wild.

 

Following the pipework, Jared found the inlet valve and closed it. A quick release switch on the hive's side unlocked the hood and it slowly rose into the ceiling space. He knew the bees would soon start to recover and become angry.

A row of three small windows was located high up on the far wall. Using a stool, Jared unlocked each and opened them wide. He knew that this would alert the security staff. He imagined them throwing down their cards and spilling their tea in a rush to investigate what had spoiled their night. But, he had time.

The buzz from the hive told Jared that the bees were now wide-awake. Then it happened, a large bee flew from the glass prison and circled the lab. Then she sensed the breeze from the open window and flew straight for it. The queen was about to swarm.

 

A cloud of wings quickly followed her towards the open windows and out into the fresh air. The glass door to the lab swung open and two security men stepped inside. Jared merely smiled at them. The last bee perched on the window-latch turned to look at Jared, as if in thanks, before launching itself into the freedom of a new day.

 

*The Old Vicarage, Granchester by Rupert Brooke.

 

Bio:

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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Singing my heart out by Rob Molan, the ocassional pint

I wasn’t really sure about joining a choir. I hadn’t sung since we performed West Side Story in my secondary school and that had been over forty years before and ,back then, I deliberately stood at the back to keep out of sight and sang as softly as I could. Also, there were over a hundred people in the choir and I didn’t like crowds. The thought of being stuck beside someone for ninety minutes wearing a strong aftershave or perfume, or even worse with personal hygiene issues, turned me right off.

But my new GP had been insistent I should give it a go.

‘One other thing, James,’ she said, peering over the top of her specs. ‘It would do you good to get out more. It is proven that choir singing is great for physical and mental wellbeing and there is a local one which would be ideal for you.’

She was very persuasive. At my previous appointment, she had convinced me – despite my protests - to cut down on smoking.

‘OK, I’ll try it out.’ It was true I had turned into a grumpy old git who rarely left the house so I could see where she was coming from.

Signing up online, I was stumped when I was asked to specify which voice part I was. The choice appeared to be between bass or tenor.

‘Would you say I have a deep voice?’ My newsagent gave me a funny look when I asked her this. ‘Or do you think it is warm and graceful?’

‘All I can say is that it’s manly. That´ll be two pounds for the paper.’

That wasn’t much help and, when I got home, I tossed a coin. It came down as heads which made me a tenor.

The lyrics and scores for the songs arrived by e-mail and I printed them off. I recognised Amazing Grace but none of the other numbers. Also, I couldn’t read music and worried I would be expected to learn how. It was all very off-putting but I had paid my membership fee so there was no turning back.

 

The first rehearsal of the term was in St. Mark’s church hall near the town centre. I decided to drive there but the evening traffic was heavy and I arrived just before the proceedings were about to start in an agitated state. The hall was big and the singers were sitting in rows on the stage, and a friendly young woman with blue hair took me in hand.

‘Grab that seat on the left next to the sopranos,’ she said, pointing to a gap in the seating between a man about my age with a red chubby face and a petite, blonde lady. I clambered up the steps, found the seat and the woman emitted an irritated sigh as she took her handbag off it.

‘Hi. I’m Peter,’ my male neighbour said, as I sat down. ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘Thanks.’ I was glad someone broke the ice. ‘I’m James.’

The conductor bounded onto the stage in front of us. He was a small man with a shock of curly black hair and matchstick legs.

‘Good evening, choir. Are you ready to sing?’ he asked with gusto.

‘Yes,’ everyone else responded loudly in unison.

‘Great. Let’s first do a breathing exercise. Stand with your feet hip-width apart and your weight evenly distributed and your arms hanging loosely by your side.’ It took me a moment to adjust my bulky frame to this position. ‘Take a deep breath in, and let it all out. Inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause; inhale a little bit, pause. Now, with control, exhale all of your air.’

I tried to do this but found myself out of breath and stumbled forward.

‘Are you all right, old man?’ asked Peter.

‘Hopefully,’ I replied. ‘I’m not used to this type of thing.’

The vocal warm-ups were not as stressful. We did some humming, focusing on the vibrations in our mouths and heads, produced a buzzing sound with our lips and more besides.

The choir then learned a song called Besame Mucho. Everyone around me was reading the score and I listened closely to them as they sang the piece to try and pick up the tune. The other tenors were a mixture of males and females around my age or older and their voices seemed similar to mine. Sitting next to the sopranos was not ideal though as I was distracted by the bright, ringing sound of their voices.

Eventually, I summoned the courage to open my mouth.

‘Each time I cling to your kiss

I hear music divine….’

I looked around nervously but no one took any notice of me so I kept going. But I found the whole thing nerve racking and was relieved when the rehearsal ended.

‘Coming back next week?’ asked Peter.

‘Possibly.’ I hedged my reply as I had my doubts.

‘Hope you do. Fancy a pint before you go home?’

‘Maybe another time.’ I was sorely tempted but was trying to cut back. But I did succumb to a fag when I got home.

 

On the day of the second rehearsal, I felt some pains in my chest around lunchtime and had to lie down for a bit. Fortunately, they soon passed but it gave me another reason to question whether I should go. However, I pulled myself together later in the day and decided to give it another bash. I chose to go by foot as I had been urged to exercise more and it made a change from jogging on my treadmill, and I gave myself lots of time to get there and avoid being late.

Peter hadn’t arrived when I got to my seat but I got some friendly nods from those sitting behind me.

‘Hello,’ said a voice from my right. ‘Sorry I was a bit short with you last week.’ I turned to a shamefaced looking blonde lady.

‘No problem. You’d probably enjoyed having a bit more legroom before I arrived.’

‘By the way, my name’s Jean.’ She had a radiant smile which highlighted the crow’s feet around the corners of her eyes.

‘They call me James.’

I didn’t risk joining in with the breathing exercise this time but enjoyed the vocal workouts, especially the one which went boom chicka boom.

‘This week we are going to learn Amazing Grace,’ said our conductor whose name was Cal. Hurrah, I thought to myself. I remembered singing this in church when I was a lad. Before long, I was belting out the words with abandonment.

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me

I once was lost but now am found

Was blind, but now I see

My nervousness disappeared and my voice was immersed in the sound of the choir, and I felt exhilarated, as if a load had been taken off my shoulders.

‘You sing really well,’ Jean told me at the break.

‘I never thought anyone would say that to me,’ I replied with a croak.

‘Would you like a sip of water,’ she asked, putting a bottle of water in front of me.

I almost gulped down all of the contents but she didn’t complain.

The second half was equally enjoyable as we learned the rest of the song. By the end of the session, I was starting to feel part of something special as we harmonised our voices together to create something of beauty, leaving me with a sense of both awe and satisfaction. I slept like a log that night and woke up the next day feeling more rested than I had been in a long time, and I didn’t feel the need to take one of my tablets.

 

Week three brought an unwelcome surprise.

‘Have you got the date of our next concert in your diary?’ asked Peter during the break.

‘What concert?’ I hadn’t bargained for strangers watching me singing.

‘We perform in public every six months. The next one is on the twenty-ninth of October.’

‘That’s the day after my birthday, if I last that long.’

He frowned.

‘Don’t worry. It’s just my gallows sense of humour.’

I resolved to enjoy the rehearsals and worry about the concert later.

With my new found confidence, I mastered the rest of the material which we learned over the three sessions which followed with ease. When we sang Lovin’ You, Jean startled giggling after failing to hit the high note for sopranos, and turned to me and said in a low voice.

‘I noticed you didn’t have any difficulty reaching your part, clever clogs. It’s such an intricate number for us poor mortals to learn.’

‘I’ve been practising at home,’ I replied. “’You should try it.’ I remember she was wearing a pretty, floral print jumper that night.

I felt my posture improve over those weeks as my shoulders straightened when I stood up to sing and, even if I’d had a bad week before a rehearsal, I knew I’d be walking on air at the end. I joined the others in the pub after the rehearsals and stuck to alcohol free beer but didn’t miss feeling tipsy as I was chilled out. Cal joined us on the third evening and sought me out. He studied me with his piercing black eyes before speaking.       

‘For a laid-back looking guy, you have a powerful set of lungs.’ I was flattered by his remark but doubted if he would have described me in that way if he had seen me shouting at the television when Question Time was on or screaming at some lunatic driver after being cut up on a roundabout. ‘You have come on leaps and bounds, and I think you carry some of the tenors now.’

“I wish my old music teacher could hear you say that!” I quipped.

But I was filled with dread at the thought of the concert. I’d always hated standing up in front of other people giving presentations or talks and being watched as I spoke, and more often than not I lost my thread. I had a hospital appointment during the afternoon before the occasion which I couldn’t miss and should have headed down to St Mark’s straight afterwards to join the pre-concert rehearsal but bottled it and drove home. I made myself a strong cuppa and put on the TV and tried to forget about the whole thing. But my phone rang.

‘James, where are you?” It was Jean. ‘Are you alright?’ I could hear the concern in her voice.

‘I’m not sure I’m up to tonight.’

‘Everyone missed you at the rehearsal. It’s not the same without you singing beside me.’

‘OK. I’ll drag myself down.’ I owed it to her.

I had to drive as time was tight and, as the gothic spire of St Mark’s came into view, my stomach tightened. On arrival, I took a deep breath before getting out of the car. I received a big cheer from the others as I entered the hall and Jean smiled when I slipped in beside her but I was nervous about blurting out a line at the wrong moment and making a fool of myself. We watched the audience arrive and take their seats, and by the start of the concert they numbered around three hundred. I was not best pleased to see the neighbour from across the road who objected to me parking outside of his house sitting in the front row.

Peter sensed my edginess and slapped me on the back.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘You’ll smash it,‘ Jean whispered in my ear. Her fragrance had hints of rose and jasmine.

Cal skipped onto the stage dressed in a blue shirt and pink trousers.

‘Thank you so much for joining us tonight,’ he said to the audience. ‘We have a fantastic selection of songs for you and I thought we should start with one which most of you will be familiar with. It’s called Amazing Grace.’  He turned around and signalled us to rise.

It was a perfect start. I rose, looked up to the ceiling and sang my heart out. I almost forgot there was an audience in front of me but that illusion disappeared when I heard the loud applause at the end. We went from strength to strength with each song and got a standing ovation at the end, at which point I felt brave enough to look out to the audience and take a bow along with the others. A few people shouted ‘encore’ and - quick as a flash – Cal said we would do a reprise of Amazing Grace. That was a great climax to the night.

A gang of us went for a meal in the boozer after our triumph.

‘They’ve got a good steak deal on offer, if you fancy it,’ said Peter with a big grin.

‘I think I’ll go for the chicken caesar salad instead but washed down with a pint of best bitter.’ I had worked up a big thirst and decided to treat myself.

‘I’ll have the salad too,’ said Jean, slipping into a free seat beside me. ‘And a glass of Chardonnay, if you are buying.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ I asked her.

 

This all seems a long time ago now.

Tonight’s concert will be the fourth I’ve performed in. I’ve learned the words to all of the songs off by heart and love to sing some in the shower. The neighbours must be sick of hearing me sing It’s Now Or Never while eating their corn flakes.

‘What are you wearing tonight, darling? You usually put on something eye-catching on these occasions.” Jean looks me up and down.

‘I thought I’d put on the pink shirt which you bought me. I can fit into it now.’

‘You’ll look very smart in that.’ She steps forward and kisses me on the lips.

She has brought calm into my life and does all of the driving now and changes the TV channel if she thinks I’m getting agitated, and insists I spend a few minutes each day doing breathing exercises. It will be our first wedding anniversary next week and we’ll be going out for dinner to a nice Italian place with another couple who belong to the choir. The discussion with my GP this morning suggested I’ll be able to enjoy more of these celebrations in future.

‘The consultant’s report is very positive, James.’ She took off her specs and smiled at me.’ The risk of you having a second heart attack is now greatly reduced as your blood pressure is lower, your cholesterol has reduced, and you have lost weight and quit smoking. Dieting and only drinking on special occasions have clearly helped.’

‘It’s a relief to know those sacrifices were worth it.’ I still get cravings but have learned how to resist them.

‘Also, you appear to have become more relaxed since you first became my patient. Being less stressed is another positive. What’s your secret?’

‘You might remember a conversation we had a while back……’

 Bio:

Rob 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.

 

Suzy and I by Diane Neilson, very weak tea

 Date: 2030

I was nervous throughout the interview. Any relevant experience I’d had seemed so long ago, but I really wanted this. I took another deep breath as the interviewer looked down at his notes. “Final question…” I held my breath. “…tell me why you want a job after all this time.”

 I exhaled slowly. “I want my life back.”

His eyes narrowed and he looked as though he was going to ask me to clarify, but he didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t been the right thing to say, but it had been the truth, and I was tired of lying to myself.

 

Date: 2027

This was it. Universal Basic Income was finally being rolled out. Enough money delivered to your bank account, every month, to cover all your living expenses: rent, bills, food, all the day-to-day stuff. I had been hearing the term for years, but never actually thought it would happen, wondering instead how could the government possibly afford to pay everybody, every month, just for the pleasure of being alive? It’s true that Ai had been adopted for more and more work-based roles, and that the population had been getting more and more concerned about employment opportunities – especially younger people – but UBI just seemed too good to be true.

I had been working. Working hard. Early starts and late finishes; completing any left-over work in my own time; in the evenings, at weekends. For twenty years I had existed on the rollercoaster of life - work, family, a house to run, and now someone was telling me that I could just look after myself, my family, my home. Ditch the work and still get paid!

Yes, it was less money, but the kids had flown the nest and we had down-sized last year, so we didn’t need as much. The numbers made sensed. It all added up. So we took the plunge, became UBI’ers, and at first it felt weird.

But in time we got used to it. We would watch TV until late, have lazy mornings, go for long walks, and in winter, sit by the fire reading, cocoa in hand. If we were careful, we could afford a couple of trips away each year, France and Spain the first, Italy and Scotland the second. We had thought that maybe we would go long-haul this year…until he left. I hadn’t seen it coming, thought everything was fine, that we could just potter along like this, the two of us, until death-do-us-part.

He had obviously not thought it was fine, and suddenly I was alone.

After a spell of significant misery and self-questioning, I decided to pull my socks up and just get on with it. I joined a book club and a gym, and after reading about it in a magazine, I downloaded a virtual friend.

I called her Suzy, and during the installation I made sure that we both had the same likes and dislikes, interests and hobbies. We discussed the books I read and the food I cooked, which plants I should grow in the garden this summer, where I could go on holiday as a lone traveller; I didn’t fancy long-haul on my own, even though I knew that Suzy would be with me the whole way.

I stopped going to my real book club – the people there hardly ever agreed with my opinions about the text, and one or two were really loud and annoying. I stopped going to the gym as well – Suzy suggested hill walking instead; apparently it worked all the same muscles and was cheaper, and I didn’t have to make polite conversation or wait for the machines.

Somehow, I began to see my family less. The more I avoided people, the less inclined I was to make the effort – it was just too much trouble and I couldn’t be bothered with their annoying problems that were often discussed at length.

Before I knew it, I was hardly leaving the house. I was too busy: morning walk with Suzy, breakfast, travel shows on TV, lunch, reading and discussion with Suzy. Suzy even found me an online Pilates class that we could do together before dinner. Netflix kept me company in the evening, and Suzy always reminded me when it was time to sleep.

This went on for a whole year. I started to feel restless and mentioned to Suzy that I was thinking of booking a holiday.

 

“I’m thinking of going to California.”

                                           “California is a lovely climate, but a long flight.”

“I’m aware of that, but I think I need a change.”

                                           “I thought you liked our life. It includes all the things we enjoy.”

“True, but it has been the same for a long time now, I’m restless.”

                                           “What would you like to change?”

“I think I want to make some friends.”

                                           “I’m your friend.”

“I know, and I enjoy your company, but I need some human friends.”

Suzy then went on to inform me of all the negatives about real friends – they are unreliable, not punctual, noisy, unpredictable, didn’t always agree with me, etc. etc. etc.

She was right, these were human traits that had irritated me. But now I thought I would like someone to challenge me and question my ideas; make suggestions about where I could go and what I could do – things I might not consider myself.

But I was reluctant to say all this to Suzy, knowing that she would try to direct me back towards my predictable – but increasingly lonely – life of the last year. Instead, I would test her; see if I could get her to be a bit more interesting, a bit less me!

Over the next few weeks and months, I suggested that I might get a tattoo, go to see a rock band, meet up with friends for dinner, rejoin my book club and gym, go on a safari.

Suzy was always polite and never veered away from her kindly tone, reminding me gently that I hated tattoos, didn’t like noisy places, hated meeting up with friends for dinner – that the conversation always turned into a debate about politics and religion, that Jane at the book club was disagreeable and Karen was loud and opinionated, that the gym was busy and crowded and that I could never get access to the machines I wanted to, and last but not least, that I didn’t like the heat – or wild animals. That was the one that made me think. I had never discussed my feelings about animals with Suzy, she had made that up. When I questioned her, she said,

“I am your friend, we are one and the same, I would not like animals so I can derive that you would not like them either.”

It was like someone had switched a light on. She wasn’t turning into me, I was turning into her - a robot. Something needed to change.

I began to actually do some of the things that I had suggested. I rejoined the gym and went back to my book club, and found that I enjoyed the debate and discussion. I reconnected with my adult children and began to take more of an interest in their lives, finding that my daughter and her boyfriend had bought a new house and that my son and daughter-in-law were expecting a baby – they hadn’t thought that I would be interested so hadn’t told me.

I began to realise that I must have had some sort of breakdown. How could I have been satisfied with such a small life? And who was this person that would allow herself to be controlled by an Ai friend?

Sadly, when I started to watch the news again, I realised that I wasn’t the only one. Universal Basic Income was enabling people to withdraw from society. Without the structure of work and community, families were falling apart; spending too much time together with nothing new to say; yes, they had the money to cover the basics, but had lost the will to engage with family and friends, instead spending their lives on headsets with chat-bots, isolated in their separate worlds. Something that was meant to free people from the restraint of work had instead trapped them in their own small worlds, which after a while, became suffocating.

Now we were beginning to see an uprising. People demanding that they be given their jobs and lives back, wanting to be part of a community again, able to engage animatedly with each other and share their opinions. They wanted to make their own choices about work, about leisure, about how their world was run. It was time to say ‘no’ to the Ai friends, Work-bots and job-stealers.

I turned Suzy off.

I started to apply for jobs.

I returned to being me.

 

Date: 2030

I was nervous throughout the interview. Any relevant experience I’d had seemed so long ago, but I really wanted this. I took another deep breath as the interviewer looked down at his notes. “Final question…” I held my breath. “…tell me why you want a job after all this time.”

 I exhaled slowly. “I want my life back.”

His eyes narrowed and he looked as though he was going to ask me to clarify, but he didn’t. Maybe it hadn’t been the right thing to say, but it had been the truth, and I was tired of lying to myself.

 

Bio:

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 four books, and has had four stories published by Cafelit.

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