Saturday Sample: The Best of CafeLit 14, All Change by Jane Mooney, milky instant coffee

  

Foreword

It has been absolutely delightful to select the stories for this anthology, thank you Gill James. The collection of around 38000 words covers all genres from life lessons to funny tales and reality to future technology. All stories are ideal to enjoy with a cuppa as CafeLit provides and it’s fun to read the drinks assigned to each one. Is it a refreshing lemonade or a dark mocha?

Stories follow seasonal themes at times too which is always interesting. Some lead to books where a series has been created and here you find a section as a taster but standing in its own right as a story.

Beautiful life changes and morals are created. Reminiscences on far gone memories abide. Everyday occurrences go right and wrong. Job prospects change. Love blossoms and fades. Our natural world is explored. A bit of horror creeps in. Murder is found. Travel across the world with the stories and our authors. You will find the variety intriguing and laugh out loud at some.

As you go to your favourite café why not take this book with you? A story per drink is ideal. Gazing out of the window, people watching and meeting friends can add to the mix of course. The background noise of business fades away, the birdsong becomes more apparent as you relax. Let yourself be transported for a while.

Reading and selecting involves getting to know different writing styles and the flavour of the words. Each author writes in a unique way bringing their story to life.

The talent and imagination is set free.

Variety, different authors, setting, storyline and presentation are all factors in writing. Working as an editor, author and proof reader brings all of these together. Being both a participant and selector for CafeLit is a joy to work on. Do you have a story in you? Why not submit one? See the back of the book for details.

Inspiration comes from reading as well as experiences and short stories offer such thought. They are wrapped in a crisp format with an ending a chapter doesn’t always give and can be woven into longer pieces if they develop further.

Please enjoy the wonderful writing in this anthology and take some time to put your feet up with a well-earned cuppa in your favourite café or home.

All Change

Jane Mooney

milky instant coffee

I struggled to wake from the fog of a deep sleep. My limbs felt heavy. My mouth was dry and sticky, like peanut butter. The beginnings of a headache were tickling around my temples and the bright lights in the train carriage hurt my eyes. As I reached for my bag to look for the paracetamol there was an announcement over the tannoy.

We will shortly be arriving in Plymouth. This train terminates here. All change.

Panic clenched my chest. How was I in Plymouth? I was supposed to be in Doncaster! I racked my brains. We’d been out in York celebrating Joan’s retirement. We’d done Bottomless Brunch, which had seemed like a good idea at the time. For an all-inclusive price of £35 we got something to eat and as much as we could drink in two hours. I’m a lightweight when it comes to drinking, so I liked the idea that it was time limited. I figured I couldn’t do too much damage in two hours.

Well, it hadn’t quite worked like that. After the limited time, we’d gone on to another bar, then another. I had a vague memory of drunken, giggly hugs at York station before we’d all gone our separate ways.

And here I was in Plymouth. The train slowed to a screeching halt, and I took my purse out of my pocket to see how much cash I’d got. £3.75. And I’d left my bank cards at home so I didn’t overspend. Oh Gosh, how on Earth was I going to get back to Doncaster? 

The train pulled out of the station, leaving me on a windy, deserted platform. I thought there’d be someone to ask, but it was the middle of the night and there was no-one around so I made my way through a subway and into the ticket hall. The doors were locked. I couldn’t get out.

I sat down heavily on a bench with a lump in my throat. How could I have been so careless? The first time I’d been out since I’d lost Geoff and I’d managed to get on the wrong train AND to fall asleep as well! I pulled my cardi tight around my shoulders and cursed my friend Moira who’d persuaded me to wear this stupid flimsy dress.

Despite the cold I must have fallen asleep because I woke suddenly when a group of shouting lads emerged from the subway. They were about 16 or 17, just a little younger than my girls. I shrank into the seat hoping they wouldn’t notice me. At first, they were too busy showing off to each other, but then they spotted me.

‘Hey! What we got here?’ said one.

‘Looks like she’s ‘ad a rough night!’ said another.

‘Let’s see if she’s got anything worth ‘aving,’ said the biggest of the boys as he reached for my handbag.

He grabbed one handle. I had hold of the other, and as he tugged the bag towards him, he pulled me out of my seat.

‘Give it here!’ I yelled, yanking it back in a ridiculous tug of war.

‘Why should I?’ he whispered quietly.

He moved closer, so close I could smell the alcohol and cannabis on his breath. I tasted fear, sharp and metallic in the back of my mouth, but I wasn’t going to let him have my bag. The rest of them were closing in, like a pack of hyenas in a TV documentary. I looked around for an escape route and noticed that the doors at the front of the station were now open. With a well-aimed kick to his shins, I was able to grab the bag and run for the open doors. I ran out of the station and kept on running.

When I eventually stopped, I was out of breath and shaking, but it didn’t look as if the boys had followed me. The air was chilly and the sky was all shades of pink and purple. There was a café on the corner, lights on, windows steamed up. It looked very welcoming.

As I pushed the door open the hot aroma of frying bacon hit me, and my mouth started to water. It was crowded. Mostly workmen in overalls. The odd businessman in a smart suit. No women other than a harassed looking waitress behind the counter.

I was still shaking, and my head was throbbing. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself before stepping forward.

‘What can I do for you love?’ the waitress asked.

‘Just a coffee please.’

She steamed the milk and poured it onto instant coffee granules.

‘Nothing else love?’ 

Studying the menu which hung above the counter, I checked my pockets for further stashes of cash, hoping I had enough for a bacon sandwich. Nothing.

‘Maybe a glass of water.’ I said. At least that should help the hangover.

I carried my drinks to a table by the window and leaned my head against the damp glass. The coolness felt good against my pounding head. I heaped two spoonful’s of sugar into the mug and stirred it slowly. After the first scalding hot, milky sip I began to think straight, and to wonder how on Earth I was going to get home?

Always one for a good list, I pulled a notebook and pen out of my bag and started to jot down ideas:

1.      Hitchhike.

But it’s a long way from Plymouth to Yorkshire, and I might get murdered.

2.      Beg, steal, or borrow the money for the train ticket.

But I’m too shy to beg, too honest to steal and I didn’t know anyone in Plymouth to borrow from.

3.      Get a job and earn the money for the ticket.

But doing what? 

4.      Phone Moira and see if she can come and pick me up.

I’d never live that down.

5.      …

 

I’d run out of ideas. I reckoned phoning Moira might be the best bet, and in any case, I should let her know I wouldn’t be coming into work. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, but the screen was black. Completely dead. Of course! I’d been using Google maps to find my way around York and that always eats up the battery. I delved into my bag to see if I had my charger with me. Nope. Well so much for that idea.

Behind the counter the waitress was yelling into her phone. She threw it down, tore off her apron, and stormed angrily out of the door. Through the window I could see her shaking a cigarette carton. It was empty. She leaned back against the window. Then I remembered I had Moira’s fags in my bag from yesterday so I went outside and offered them to the her.

‘Thanks love, you’ve no idea how much I need this!’ She put the cigarette between her lips and lit it. She took a deep pull and breathed out slowly.

‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘The girl who helps with lunches has blobbed again. It’s the third time in a fortnight, and I could really do without it today. I need to get everything cleaned up quickly ‘cos it’s my little boy’s school assembly.’

‘Can I help?’

‘Are you a waitress?’

‘No, I’m a lab assistant,’ I said. ‘But I know how to wash up and I’ve nothing else to do today?’

‘You sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure,’ I said. ‘And if you’ve got an iPhone charger so I can charge my phone I’m even more sure!’

‘Well, you’re on Missus,’ said the waitress. ‘I’m Tash.’

‘Liz.’

‘Well Liz, you might just be a life saver today.’

We went inside and Tash pointed to a phone charger in the corner of the kitchen, then gave me an apron to wear and showed me where I could lock my bag and coat in the storeroom. The first job was to clear the tables, which were stacked high with greasy plates from the breakfast rush. I dumped them in the sink and spent the next twenty minutes up to my elbows in hot, soapy bubbliness. This was very different to washing test tubes and flasks. Then there were salads to wash and vegetables to prepare.

We chatted as we worked. Tash told me about her little boy, eight years old and thought he was the next David Beckham. I told her about my two girls, off at university and almost grown up. At lunchtime Tash took the orders and did the cooking and I delivered the plates of food and cleared the tables. I couldn’t believe how many people came through the door of this small café in a couple of hours. There were takeaway orders too, office workers coming in for sandwiches or burgers to take back to their desks. Around two it quietened off and Tash handed me a cup of coffee.

‘Something to eat?’ she asked. ‘There’s some meat and potato pie left.’

I attacked the pie with gusto.

‘You look like you haven’t eaten in days,’ Tash joked.

My face burned when I told her my last meal had been ‘Brunch’ in York yesterday, and there’d been a lot more drinking than eating involved. I told her about falling asleep on the train, and ending up in Plymouth, and the lads who tried to nick my bag at the train station.

‘Oh blimey,’ said Tash, ‘and I thought I was having a bad day.’

‘Well, it got better after I came in here.’ I said. ‘I’ve really enjoyed helping you, especially the banter with the customers. You don’t get that in the hospital lab.’

‘Why didn’t you just get a train straight back?’

‘No money,’ I said with a shrug.

Tash went to the till and pulled out six £20 notes which she put down on the table in front of me.

‘Oh, Tash, I wasn’t asking for money. I wanted to help you out.’

‘You’ve earned it. I’d never have got through today if you hadn’t been here to help.’

I looked at the notes on the table. It was probably enough to get me home. Problem solved.

‘How about staying on?’ asked Tash. ‘I was going to kick my assistant into touch. She keeps letting me down. So I can offer you regular work, five days a week. What do you say?’

I was about to say, No. I can’t. I live in Doncaster. Then I thought, Why not? What was keeping me in Doncaster now the girls were at university? My job had felt like a dead end for the last ten years. Perhaps it was time for a complete change.

‘Pass me my phone,’ I said. I dialed Moira’s number.

Find your copy here  

About the author 

Jane Mooney

Jane Mooney writes in the beautiful Pennine hills in Yorkshire, England. Her short stories have been published by Funny Pearls and Pure Slush. 

 

 

 

Gifts from Godfather by Vatsala Radhakeesoon, bubble tea

The little girl in blue dress buried her face in her tiny hands. Tears rolled down her wrists.

“What’s wrong, my child?” A tall man with shoulder length  grey hair and silvery matching long beard compassionately asked.

The little girl composed herself, let her face reveal her innocence and looked at him.
She was always amazed by his colourful magician- like cloak. She smiled. Then revealed, “Oh, Godfather Rainbow!   I want to be independent, more useful or rather helpful.”

“ But Sky!” Godfather exclaimed, “You’re just a child of five. As you grow up, naturally you’ll, shoulder the responsibilities meant for you.  Why hurry, dear?”

“ Perfect Creation, My Dad is my favourite . He  attends all duties in all corners of Planet Earth. At, night with puffy eyes he always bids me goodnight with blessings of immortal life.
It breaks my heart to see him exhausted all time. Everyone thinks he never gets weary but I do see that daily.”

“Alright !” Godfather sighed.  “I see, I get it now. Let’s get to work if that’s what you wish. Since, like your Dad  I’m an artist too, I will help you.”

The little girl awaited enthusiastically.

“One by one , take these three sunny bristle brushes!” the old man ordered.

Little Sky picks up Flat  Brush labelled Infinity -A.

“Now , close your eyes , Child “Godfather requested “Imagine colours , then let the brush do its work!”

She instantly obeyed. The brush paced from left to right, up and down and the other way round.

“Now open your eyes! “Godfather ordered.

“Uniform blue ! Uniform blue !  Replica of  my dress!” Little Sky excitedly said.

 “Well Done!” the old artist approved. “Now, perform the same exercise with Brushes
Infinity -B and Infinity -C .”

“ Alright , Godfather , here I go!”

Infinity -B saddened the little girl with  homogeneous grey and infinity -C blurred clarity with charcoal black.

“Wonderful!” Godfather exclaimed satisfactorily. Then , he further added “ As you may have noticed, blue is the dominant  colour when the sun is happy during daytime. Grey prevails when clouds carry their burdens of sorrows and  can’t focus on sunny smiles. Black veils everything coming its way when everyone feels sleepy at night except the stars, moon, bats and owls. There are also other colours like pink of Dawn’s soft hugs and yellowish orange and unique red of sunrise and sunsets’ hopeful solace. Glimpses of more colours reflect on my own cloak as well. Thus, my dear girl, I’m gifting you this rainbow lorry loaded with packets comprising of dozens of  One Wish -Accurate brushes. Each of them has microscopic-natural clocks  sealed amidst the bristles. Each day, at the appropriate time, a particular brush  will beep like an alarm warning to your creative mind and will compel you to pick the brush, imagine the colour and guide you to paint  your planet sustaining roof  or  shelter uniformly, and keep each creature safe. This will be your endless life’s responsibility. Go on, Child, paint the mysterious never-falling anchor accordingly.”

“Thank you, Godfather Rainbow!” said Little Sky spontaneously.

“God bless you, dear !” he whispers after kissing her forehead.

The little cheery girl ran from cloud to cloud that highlighted their remarkable stainless whiteness. They winked at her in return  and shortly tested her abilities of maintaining the balanced gait as some clouds were well- chiselled ,strong; others were randomly  scattered, rather feeble. Brave Little Sky won over them all.

“ Don’t be so harsh with her ! She’s only  a child!” Perfect Creation reminded them and thumbed-up to Godfather Rainbow.

“Daddy!” Little Sky exclaimed joyfully rushing to his warm, affectionate  fatherly embrace.

“Proud of you, my daughter!” he said supportively.

About the author

 Born in Mauritius in 1977, Vatsala Radhakeesoon has been writing poems for more than 30 years and she is the author of numerous poetry books. She is also an abstract artist and likes to experiment various possibilities that bless Art. Vatsala is a literary translator and currently lives in Mauritius. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Lopsided by David Waters, Chianti Classico

On the occasion of his ninetieth birthday Stella took Vinnie to that Italian place on Folsom. The Uber had room in its trunk for his wheelchair and the driver helped her load him into the back seat. She wore her black dress and the 18-carat hoop earrings he had given her for their fiftieth anniversary. Hell, since Vinnie's stroke last year, you could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times they had left the house.

 

            You could. Stella could. Vinnie couldn't. He was mostly aphasic, and paralyzed on his left side. He still had his wits about him, Stella said, and she could mostly understand his garbled speech. Pizza, he had replied when she asked what he wanted to eat for his birthday. Sicilian pizza. With the little brown fishes on it, by which he meant anchovies. He wanted it served on the silver platter someone had given them for their wedding. So the platter was in the back seat between them.

 

            Face-to-face across the table, Stella observed Vinnie as if for the first time. Beneath the thick crust of age she could discern the handsome man he used to be. His sharp blue eyes had pierced her heart, and she could still imagine his hot, urgent breath as he hovered over her, bursting with intensity. Their twenty-year age difference seemed nothing back then. She idly wondered whether, in the afterlife, their bodies would regain the blossom of youth, or be old and withered as in death.

 

            Vinnie eschewed his knife and fork and ate his pizza slices with his good hand. Stella thought he was doing well as she reached across to wipe a splotch of red sauce from the corner of his lips. She would allow Vinnie a second glass of chianti. As often happened when she was having fuzzy loving thoughts about him, the tip of her tongue touched the chipped corner of her upper middle tooth. Vinnie had done that, long ago, in one of his rages. She remembered the terror as his thick, knotty wooden cane came whistling toward her face. The chipped tooth was the least of it. Her nose had been broken, her lip deeply lacerated, her jaw cracked, and she was knocked cold. Her lopsided face never looked pretty to her again, and she never felt pretty either. Vinnie claimed he loved her and was so sorry and would never do anything like that again, but he kept the cane. Said he was too unsteady to walk without it, and that it had been his father's and grandfather's.

 

            Stella sought help. The priest said that she must learn to handle him. "He's a good man, Stella, but he's Sicilian and he was brought up like that. We can't expect him to change." Stella stared at him as if he were the village idiot.

 

            The therapist was an older woman with curly gray hair, kindly gray eyes, and a red mohair sweater. Vinnie has intermittent explosive disorder, IED, she announced, as if that solved the problem. Stella thought IED was for the improvised explosive devices that blew limbs off troops in Iraq. The therapist said that Vinnie's episodes were unlikely to improve without treatment, although they might decrease in frequency as he got older. He's pretty old already Stella had thought.

 

            Her cellphone beeped and she returned to the present. Vinnie's just-emptied wine glass was making its precarious trip from his lips back to the red-checkered tablecloth. Her heart jumped when she glanced at her phone and saw the first response to her new match.com account, some guy named George with a broad smile and a beige puppy in his lap. After months of hesitation, she had constructed her profile and joined a week ago. Stella wondered about George's photo because the one she had used was a decade old. She hadn't thought someone her age would get many responses and she was right. With a twinge of guilt she closed her phone and assessed Vinnie. He was sleepy from two glasses of wine and most of the pizza. Despite his limited dexterity he had managed to capture and disappear the anchovies from the two leftover slices.

 

            Stella sipped her wine and pushed her mostly untouched cacio e pepe around on her plate.

 

            Both the priest and the therapist had told her than Vinnie's rages were likely to continue, and she was sure that they would have, but since his stroke he couldn't hurt her. On the other hand, she was now his caretaker, and she resented that. She cooked and cleaned for him, helped him dress, get into and out of his chair, the toilet, and his bed. He showed no gratitude. Sometimes when he demanded help to get up from his chair she ignored him. Left him there for hours. Let him beg. Let him holler. Once she ignored him till he peed himself.

 

            He had sat there looking sad with a dark wet oval on the crotch of his jeans. She could smell it across the room. She remembered thinking that old men had the world's foulest-smelling urine. She told him she wouldn't help clean him till he calmed down and co-operated. It took a long time to get him undressed, sponged off, and dressed in clean underwear and pants. She was thankful that he could at least wipe his own butt.

 

            She fantasized that someday she would hit him with his cane, as hard as she could, but knew she would never do it. In some strange way she still loved him. Besides, he wouldn't live much longer. And maybe George with the beige puppy would be her Prince Charming.

 

            She touchd the tip of her tongue to her chipped tooth again. It had become a habit, like a lot of her life. She smiled at Vinnie and he smiled back, lopsided. She would let him have his favorite dessert, affogato. The evening, she thought, had gone as well as could be expected.

 

About the author 

David Waters is a retired cardiologist who lives in San Francisco with his wife and Kerry Blue terrier. His work has appeared in The MacGuffin, Cleaver, JMWW, Peatsmoke Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Blue Lake Review, and a dozen others. His work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. He teaches prose and poetry at The Writers Studio.

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Sweet revenge By Jane Spirit, a couple of glasses of bubbly

Gloria finished disinfecting her sink with aplomb. With a final flourish she deftly removed the rubber gloves she always donned whether cleaning for money or in her own small but sparklingly spotless flat. Now she could let herself cite aloud the line from Macbeth that had been running through her mind all afternoon as she scrubbed: ‘Out, damned spot! Out, I say!’  As she uttered those famous words, she drew on her theatrical experience to provide them with undertones of gravitas, but also of rising hysteria. This, she felt, was the right way to perform Lady Macbeth’s ritualistic unravelling.

Fortunately, she reflected, she was not unravelling. No, she was perkier by the day; quite undefeated by the rejection she had experienced at the Bolton repertory company all those years ago. That was when the director, Frederic Newman, had told her that her melodramatic and wooden delivery was more suited to the role of witch number three, which was already taken. He had failed to realise that she would have made a perfect Lady Macbeth because her strength lay in scheming, attention to detail and utter ruthlessness. Instead, he had given the part to Marcia Grey with her willowy figure and distrait manner. No matter. She had in any case proved herself to be so much more successful than Lady M. in the real world beyond the footlights. No-one had ever discovered her modus operandi for getting close to those she most wished to destroy. Nor had she ever experienced any fits of conscience. There was no quality of mercy about her.

She had played the long game all right. Amongst the earliest of those she had dealt with had been John Lancaster. He had played Banquo in that ghastly Bolton production which she had eventually sat through at a matinee. Afterwards, she had kept an eye on his career and seamlessly edged her way into his life twenty years later. She had hung on his every word that evening when she’d contrived to get chatting to him at his customary bar. She knew that he was not inclined towards women, but that he liked to have them around to smooth his brow, prepare tasty titbits, and remind him of his dear old mother whilst they wielded an occasional feather duster or rubbed a little bit of Brasso into his collection of dramatic awards. Johny as he liked to be known, had always talked openly about his dreadful insomnia. A decade after she’d become his housekeeper, he had received terrible reviews of his Creon in an avant -garde production of Antigone. That had been quite enough to drive him to despair and who would have suspected his faithful housekeeper of having doubled, or was it tripled, his sleeping tablets without him realising? He’d even left her a few of his tasteless treasures as a token of his affection. She had sold them on discretely after a suitable time since she scarcely needed them for sentimental reasons.

Luckily, Johny had already recommended her cooking, cleaning, and companionship to so many of his old friends. These included Frank Dimari, who had been cast as the needy Bolton Macbeth alongside the feeble Marcia Grey who, astoundingly, had gone on to become a feted actress, though not quite a national treasure.

Frank’s demise had taken her quite a while to engineer. She had worked as his assistant for a decade; ten years of home cooking and putting up with the ridiculous yappy dog he’d trailed everywhere with him. In the end she’d hurried on the dog’s death by illicitly feeding him dark chocolate Then she had gradually supplemented the grief-stricken Frank’s favourite meals with small doses of a paranoia inducing substance, having conducted the necessary research in a scattered variety of libraries where she had posed as a mycologist. Grief stricken and lonely, Frank had become convinced that the other cast members in a west end revival of ‘The three musketeers’ blamed him for its poor reception. During a fight scene, he had jumped from the top of the backstage scaffolding he was not even meant to climb. Having landed on his head, he had died instantly.

Most recently, it had been Marcia’s turn. Gloria certainly had not found it so easy to worm her way into that woman’s affections. For a start she did not eat much, nor did she want flattery from another woman. Still, she did like to show off her magnanimity and did like things to run efficiently and Gloria was useful to her on both these counts. After five years of serving Marcia as her personal assistant, Gloria had been flown out to the riviera, like some kind of old retainer. Her employer boasted to all that she needed a little time off on her yacht before she reprised her Lady Macbeth once again in a fresh and innovative staging. Marcia had asked Gloria to fix up the canapes for her guests as they cruised out into the mediterranean. After a couple of glasses of champagne, she had popped in to check on progress and had stood admiring the waves yonder with her back to the galley as Gloria worked. Conveniently Marcia had lingered there by a wide doorway opening onto a still deserted deck at the very back of the yacht. All Gloria had had to do was to offer her a nudge in the right direction. A little while later, as she was still piping the final decorative touches onto her savoury bites, one of the guests had hurried in to tell her that Marcia had disappeared. For a moment Gloria had held her breath, thinking that her arch nemesis might somehow have survived to be rescued. Fortunately, Gloria’s calculations had been correct. Marcia had landed close to the rotor blades of the still running engine. Her body had been torn into so many pieces that it was only useful for fish food and no other verdict other than accidental death could be agreed on.

Her tidying done at last, Gloria took a seat at her cosy little breakfast bar, having poured herself a glass of bubbly. She allowed herself to bask in the satisfaction of a job well done. Of course she was not a fool. She knew it was too late ever to play a lead role, but that did not stop her tasting the sweetness of what she had done to those who had stood in her way all those years before. How good it was that she would not need to work again either. ‘Dear Marcia’ had provided her with a legacy that would be quite sufficient. Life was for the living, she thought. What’s more, she was in good health and quite sane. No nightmares for her, just the steady rhythm of the mop or swish of a duster in Archie’s little apartment for a few weeks more. How fortunate it was that she’d managed to get into conversation with the budding young director after they had all disembarked from Marcia’s yacht in Biarritz. Tragically, Archie Newman’s father had died of a sudden heart attack many years previously, but Archie remained determined to follow in his father’s theatrical footsteps. He was about to make his directorial début with the cutting-edge production of the Scottish play in which Marcia had been due to star. Gloria had employed just the right breathless tones, to confide in him her own life-long ambition of playing a teensy little role on the stage. And now not only was she Archie’s regular cleaner and confidante, but she was also going to be an extra in his forthcoming ‘Macbeth’. Archie had cast her as one of the moving trees of Burnham Wood, so she would only be a part of the background action, but still her name would appear in the programme.

And who knew? She might, in the end be elevated to a grander role, initially perhaps to be the prompt, given her efficiency and memory for detail. If they had any sense, she would eventually be recast as the servant woman attending on Lady Macbeth in this highly anticipated new version. No matter, her brilliance could hide in plain sight for a little longer she reckoned, just long enough for her to ensure the ruin of Archie’s family name, if she so desired.  More importantly, her casting would give her the time to befriend the new lead who had taken Marcia’s place; Joanna Brewster, once the little girl who had played Fleance back in Barnsley and who had happened to giggle offputtingly throughout Gloria’s brief audition.

Gloria put down her empty glass decisively and braced herself. She moved swiftly to kneel on the floor and shifted a small rug to lift a section of the solid wood flooring at one end of the kitchen area. From underneath the treated timber, she retrieved a battered old suede bag before deftly taking from it what looked like an old-fashioned programme. She also took a vintage tourist board ‘Beautiful Barnsley’ pen from the bag and slowly began to turn through the pages of the booklet in her hands. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the names of John Lancaster, Frank Dimari and Frederic Newman, each already neatly crossed out. Next, she carefully ran a new line through the name of Marcia Grey, before briefly letting the pen hover above a child’s name under the subheading ‘Children from the Northern stage school’. For now, however, she clicked the pen shut and placed it alongside the programme back in the suede handbag, before zipping this up again. Then she returned the bag to its burial place, gently replaced the piece of wood and finally moved the rug precisely back into place. Only then did she stand up to pour herself another helping of bubbly from the fridge. She raised this second glass as if proposing a nostalgic toast to happy memories whilst the ghost of a smile still lingered on her lips.

About the author

  

Jane lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK. In 2021 she joined her local creative writing class and has been writing stories ever since. Some of these have appeared on Café Lit. She also enjoys writing articles about Victorian literature. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Baggage Claim by Patrick G. Roland, a green tea with honey

 I pinched the tiny green bow between my fingers. My favorite color. I wondered if favorite colors were inherited.

“Can you hold my dog?”

I turned and looked into blue, tear-glossed eyes—the kind that warned of a breakdown in progress. I looked back at the security line and took another step forward. She followed in sync. Her dark blue dress was wrinkled and stickered tightly to her body. The sound of static popped with each step. A softball of dark hair and tangled tendrils sat on the top of her head. My flight didn’t depart for three more hours. I assumed hers was about to pull away from the gate.

“Um, sorry.” I said, “I’m in a bit of a hurry.” I took a larger step backward.

She quickly closed the gap with a long series of pops. “Just for a minute,” she said. “I can’t hold it any longer.”

She shoved the speckled Yorkie into my folded arms and zipped and crackled out of line, bobby pins falling from her hair, tapping the linoleum as she walked away. I tried to track her path toward the restroom or a check-in counter, but she disappeared into a flock of travelers blinking at their phones and swiveling their heads like pigeons unsure which way to fly. All of them appeared carefree. Not one of them had a dog. A burden.

I did.

I looked down at the Yorkie staring up at me with eager eyes, waiting for an answer. I touched its cold nose, rubbed its fluffy ear, felt its belly warm against my arm. I looked back for the dark blue dress, listened carefully for her static.

“Next!” a TSA agent shouted.

I scanned the line behind me for sideways glances, for a hidden camera crew with a bushel of mylar balloons to emerge from behind the potted palm trees, congratulating me for my strangerly kindness. When no eyes or balloons returned my frantic gaze, I turned back to the agent.

“Hey, you’re next!” said a stern voice behind me. I turned to see a middle-aged woman with bright red hair staring at me and down at the Yorkie.

I stepped up to the TSA agent. “This isn’t my dog,” I said.

“Take your baggage to the right,” the agent replied, flatly, “but you’ll need to hold it during the scan.”

I looked once more for the dark blue dress. Still no crackle. Not even a pop. Sweat trickled down my back. I squeezed the Yorkie’s belly slightly, feeling for a bulge or the outline of a handgun. Another agent waved me into the scanner. The Yorkie and I both closed our eyes, waiting for a siren or a stern voice.

“Sir, move ahead,” said a kind voice.

I scooped up my backpack from the security scanner and waited. And waited. The Yorkie licked my arm. It was calming. I took a deep breath and pushed it out slowly. The dog’s collar had no tags. Just a stranger. Like me. Thirty minutes passed. Then two hours. No dark blue dress. No crackle. Just passing feet and the occasional eye roll.

“Flight 94 now boarding at Gate 20,” a voice over the intercom announced.

I was leaving something behind too. Mine hadn’t barked or wagged its tail.
It had cried black mascara tears. Begged me to stay. Told me to stop being so selfish. To be happy with our new life, with our future. To stop searching for an easy way out.

But I wasn’t ready. I could barely take care of myself, let alone someone else. How could I allow something to trust me when all I ever do is run? Disappoint. That’s what I’d be to that child. More disappointment. They both deserved better.

I stood and started walking toward my gate. Yorkie in hand. I considered panicking. Setting it down and running away. But instead, I scratched behind the dog’s ears and realized I wasn’t angry or panicked. Not yet. Not even afraid. I felt a quiet I hadn’t in years. The kind of quiet I hoped Flight 94 and ten states of distance could create.

A woman approached me from behind and hissed, “Is that even your dog?” She had bright red hair that looked like little sparks against her white blouse.

“It’s—uh—I’m watching it for someone.” Why didn’t I just hand over the dog?

“Sure you are.” She crossed her arms and marched toward a counter lined with people who all looked upset about something.

My palms started sweating again. I should’ve called security hours ago. Walked away from the dog. But I held it tightly. Walked with a stranger’s baggage warming my arms. Thought of her lightened load. How easy it was for her to abandon something. I started to hate her. Hate me. The Yorkie never looked back. Always at me. Like it had known all along.

“Excuse me sir, is that your dog?” asked a police officer, his hand resting on the heel of something shiny and black on his belt.

I waited for the fear, the anger, the panic. I started to close my eyes, leaned over to drop the dog, leave it behind. Then I noticed the green bow drooping from behind its ear. “I, um, yes,” I responded.

“Man, she’s cute,” he said. “I used to have one just like her. Can I give her a pat?”

“Sure,” I responded, meeting his dark brown eyes.

He scratched the Yorkie’s head, behind the green bow. “Take good care of her,” he said with a grin. Then he tipped his hat and walked across the terminal in the other direction.

I still didn’t know if I’d be a good father. But I knew I couldn’t keep leaving the things that needed me. I cradled the Yorkie, rocked her gently, and turned away from the gate.

About the author

  

Patrick G. Roland is a writer and educator living with cystic fibrosis. He enjoys exploring other people’s attics and basements, where most of his writing ideas are created and sometimes lost. He lives near Pittsburgh. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Ordure & Regrets by Robin Wrigley,

 Hello Mummy, 

I regret that I have not been able to write before now. I had to wait and see how my  new job worked out before I told you. Some of it good but not all I’m sorry to say. First though just to let you know I’m keeping up my English learning. I learned two new words yesterday in the town library where I’m writing this letter. It is ordure and excuse me if I tell you, it means shit. I learned it so I could tell you all about the way the people are with it. First, I tell you another bad thing here is that there are a lot of dogs. Lots of people have one and when they walk with them if the dog has to do his toilet in the street the owner puts it in a little plastic bag and takes it home with them. But I was told by the man I work for they put it in special bins for them. He didn’t know why or could not explain it to me. I don’t think he wanted to talk about it. But here is the strangest thing: when a horse does his in the road, they leave it. I mean they don’t have so many horses like we have bullocks on the road, but you would think they could use it when they take so much care of the dog’s stuff. I did ask the man I work for why they don’t use the horse ordure, and he said something about growing roses which I didn’t understand. I think he was too embarrassed to have this to talk about it. I know you don’t like that I am working for Mister Suliman but honestly Mummy he knows I am not a Moslem, and he promised me that he will not ever try and convert me. I have also met his wife and his sister. They do not have any children and think of me as their daughter. So please do not worry. I am now a waitress as I have had a promotion from working as a dishwasher. I also learned that this is a plongeur in French this my other new word. I learned this from reading one of George Orwell’s books so you can see I am not wasting my spare time and will soon be applying for better jobs when I get some more confidence. The weather has got much better since my last letter as it is now spring in England and much warmer. How is Pappa now? Has he been able to walk a little yet? Please tell him I pray every night that he will get better and that I will be good child for him even if I am only a girl.

Your loving daughter,

Aisha 

About the author

  

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Sunday Serial: 280 x 70, 70.70. Get online, bitter lemon

 

Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 280 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

The way around it of course was Zoom. If you couldn't meet in person why not Zoom? Why not Skype, or Teams, or Web X, though? Because Zoom had more of a ring about it.

Some sat there with pads over their ears, and some had little buds in them. Some had a microphone on their desks. Even sometimes an old-fashioned round one. Like the guy on the telly last night. On the BBC of all things. Who’d have thought it?

He should really get himself set up like that. How much did it cost, that sort of equipment? He searched through his favourite on-line shops. He read the reports. This was the best. And cost-effective. He'd saved more than that by not going to the pub, by not taking the tube and by learning to  cook.

So, he filled out the order carefully and tracked it anxiously. It had left the depot. It had arrived in the nearest town.  It was less than a kilometre away. There was a van in the street. The doorbell rang.

"It's on the step, mate," the delivery man shouted to him.

He opened the parcel, washed his hands, disposed of the packaging, washed his hands again and set it all up according to the instructions. And washed his hands again.

He opened Zoom and saw himself on the screen. Yes this was it. Now he looked right.

He started letting his people into the meeting room.

"The first news," said Thackeray, the chairman," is that we have made the office safe. You can all come in as form tomorrow.  This will be the last meeting we need to hold like this."     

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing. 

http://www.gilljameswriter.com 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE 

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)