The Girl Who Had Everything by Steve Marc Gerson; Water, Flat

The Girl Who Had Everything

Next to her bed, on a brown table, sat a potted plant that had not been watered in weeks. It was as brown as a cigar stub smoked down to ashes. On the table also sat a glass of water, flat, one could even say dry, if wet could be dry.

As she sat on her bed, she saw from her window dusk arriving on the winter solstice. She was 35 and alone.

"Remember?" she asked her napping cat, it responding as cats do with nonchalant indifference.

"Remember when?" but she could go no further.

Everyone said she had had promise. After all, she had graduated number one in her homeschool class. She had read more books than any of her acquaintances, having more time to fill, writing detailed synopses in her diary that no one would read. She had traveled the world as a teen, her dad holding her hand when she crossed unbusy streets in unbusy villages. She learned three languages with no one to speak to. She went to college but left early, stating that none of the other students were “serious.” They graduated. She watched them have full lives.

She had accumulated more of everything that no one wanted.

Now, she was alone, contemplating her life, as empty as the box of dreams on her bedside table, the box becoming cobwebbed. Dead motes gathered in its brown corners.

Turning to look out her window, she saw what appeared to be the night's first star.

"I wish I may, I wish. . . ." She stopped, realizing the vision wasn't a star but the navigation light on a distant plane. The light was blinking. The plane was flying away, somewhere. The light dimmed. The light disappeared.

And dusk diminished into darkness.

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

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Lockdown Spuds by Sarah Swatridge, A Cup of Tetley

Mr Silver was dithering about in the tiny village supermarket. Jo, on the checkout could hear the grumbles because he wasn’t keeping to the rules.

It was tricky to keep 2 metres apart in such a small shop, but they were limiting the number of customers allowed in at any one time. Jo wasn’t sure what else they could do to keep the shop open, whilst managing the risk of people mixing. In her heart, she knew the village shop was a real life-line, in the small, rural village. In fact, more so now than ever!

Unfortunately, Mr Silver seemed to be concentrating more on his shopping list than being aware of the other customers around him. At least he was wearing his mask properly, that was something.

Jo served another customer, watching as they left through one door and nodding to the next in line at the queue that had formed outside. What times we are living in! She thought.

‘Mr Silver!’ she called but he didn’t seem to hear. It was possibly her mask disguising her voice. ‘Excuse me one moment,’ she said to the customer who was beginning to unload their shopping.

‘Mr Silver, don’t forget we have a one-way system,’ she said gently and tried to steer him forward rather than letting him turn round and retrace his steps.

‘But I need potatoes. I can’t find them. I thought they’d be near the door with all the other veg.’

‘I’m afraid we haven’t got any potatoes left. Hopefully, we’ll have another delivery tomorrow, but I can’t say for sure.’

‘But I can’t go home without potatoes. What will Pamela say?’

‘I’m sure she’ll understand, under the circumstances,’ Jo glanced back toward the cash desk. ‘I need to go and serve Mrs Hopkins and you need to keeping going forward, round passed the cereal.’

‘She was due to be assessed at the clinic for dementia, but the appointment’s been postponed. We haven’t got another date at the moment. I’m doing my best for her; I’ve found a routine helps. It’s Tuesday today, and we always have shepherd’s pie on a Tuesday, and even I know, you need potatoes for that.’

‘What about a swede? You can cook it and mash it, just like a potato.’ Jo suggested but saw the face he made. Swede wasn’t for everyone.

Mrs Hopkins at the till, had unloaded her basket and was listening, as was everyone else in the little store.

‘I’ve got a potato you can have,’ Mrs Hopkins said. ‘I’m going straight home now, but I’ll nip out and leave it on your doorstep.’

‘Thank you,’ Mr Silver said. ‘That’s very kind. But one’s not enough.’

‘I’ll go to the allotment and dig up a couple, and like Mrs H, I’ll leave them on your doorstep.’

‘I’ve got some too,’ offered the girl from the post office.

‘Thank you, all of you.’ Mr Silver looked at the man with the allotment, who looked vaguely familiar but Mr Silver didn’t think they’d ever been properly introduced.

Jo wasn’t the only one to let out a sigh of relief as Mr Silver followed the arrows until he came to the queue at the checkout, where he did keep his distance from the woman in front of him.

By the time he’d washed his hands, put the kettle on and unpacked the shopping at home, he’d noticed movement at the front door. He’d leave it a while, so no one would be tempted to stop for a chat, much as that would have been welcome.

True to their word, he found a small, but more than sufficient, collection of potatoes, and a few freshly dug carrots. The kindness of strangers, thought Mr Silver with a tear in his eye.

He returned to the kitchen with a spring in his step and began to rinse the vegetables, putting them on the chopping board to be peeled.

Pamela stood looking at the potatoes, as if she wasn’t quite sure what they were, or how she should prepare them.

‘Potatoes, love,’ he said gently. ‘I can peel them, if you like?’
‘I know they’re potatoes!’ she laughed. ‘But why don’t they match?’

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

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The Last Ones Standing by Ken Whitson, mug of spiced cider

‘I love the smells of festival,’ Jake said.

The Last Ones Standing by
Ken Whitson

‘Yeah, yeah. The woodsmoke. The fried dough. Even the damn straw. You say that every year, Jake.’

‘Doesn’t make it wrong.’

The woman snapping the bands on their wrists interrupted their annual argument with the same look she’d given them when she’d caught them in her henhouse trying to “turn chickens back into dinosaurs.” The same look she’d given them each time she’d seen them since. It said, Can the two of you try to stay out of trouble for once. Please. The hmmph the woman gave as she dropped Jake’s wrist said she knew her plea was useless.

‘What, do we look like Calvin and Hobbes?’ Jake said settling the band on his wrist.

‘Maybe not in looks,’ Sarah replied. ‘But our legendary escapades over the years have certainly painted us in that vein. Besides, I’m ok with C&H — minus the GROSS club, that is. The real question this year is who gets to be Hobbes.’

They walked through the gate.

‘I’m older,’ Jake said.

‘By an hour.’

‘An hour’s an hour, and yellow’s yellow.’ He waggled his adult wristband at her. ‘First one to drain the flight gets to be Hobbes.’

‘We finally have these, and you want to bet the Hobbes crown on a couple of sips? Wimp.’

‘Fine. What do you propose then?’

A slight pause followed by the smile Jake recognized as preceding every other questionable decision they’d ever made.

‘Last one standing wins.’
Jake looked at his own wristband before deciding. ‘Done.’

***

Auntie Mae’s cider stand claimed its usual spot between Sam’s Funnel Fries trailer and the scarecrow-guarded corn maze entrance. A look between not surprised and lord have mercy crossed her face as the two planted themselves at her counter.

‘Well, look what the festival cat dragged in. I see your cohabiting hasn’t split you apart yet. Good. But a ring’d net you both a better tax break, you know?’

‘Hey, Mae,’ they replied in unison, ignoring her ring comment with practiced efficiency. ‘You two really old enough this year?’
Jake waggled his wristband. Sarah waggled hers.

‘Damn. I’m too old for this. Hold on a sec. If I know you two—and everyone in this town does—my normal small sample cups are going to have you wearing a trail to my counter before half the night’s out.’

Sarah grinned at her back while Jake mumbled something about first the ticket lady, now Mae.

Mae returned, looked at them both a beat longer than politeness demanded, slid the laden tray across the counter, and looked to her next customer.

The first flight went the way of first flights—and seconds and sometimes thirds. The rest went somewhere else.

***

‘You sure you can handle that one?’ Jake said at some point, watching Sarah drain a cup without stopping.

‘I can handle whatever you’ve got.’

‘That’s what she said.’

‘That’s what she said.’

They cracked up, setting their empties on the counter. Mae did not. 

‘Last one, kids.’

‘Aw, Mae—’

 ‘Last one.’ She set another tray down, four normal samplers. ‘Stuff makes you do things you won’t admit you want to do, if you’re not careful.’

They rolled their eyes in unison.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Thanks, Mae.’
She watched them take the tray and said nothing more.
Jake made it about halfway to their table before he stopped and handed Sarah the tray. ‘I gotta hit the head.’

‘You just went.’

‘Cider goes through me.’

‘Cider goes through everybody, Jake, that’s how cider works.’

‘Whatever. Just don’t go pouring your cider into the hay while I’m gone, loser.’

When he came back, Sarah was looking at the hayride wagon.

‘Finish up, loser. Wagon’s about to leave and I, for one, could use some time away from this noise.’

‘Lead the way,’ Jake replied, emptying his side of the tray before following. ***

Jake and Sarah sat, as they usually did, back-to-back in the rear of the wagon—pretending and failing to ignore the two couples in front of them.

‘Remember when you and Freddy snuck off to his dad’s barn and did something like that?’

‘Shut up, Calvin. I should never have told you about that. Besides, what about you and horse-face Suzy?’

‘That’s not fair. She cornered me. What do I look like, someone who would go out of his way to make the poor girl feel bad?’

‘Actually, you look like someone who’s about to piss themselves again. Wanna sneak off this rig and find a pumpkin to pee on?’

‘I do need to pee. But what if I accidentally let loose on a baby or something.’

Sarah bumped the back of his head with hers as she’d done at least as many times as there were pumpkins in the field.

‘You know that’s not where kids come from, right? We had that talk in fifth grade, Jake. Keep up.’

‘Ouch. That hurts. But not as bad as my bladder. Let’s go.’

***

‘Sarah. Are you purposefully trying to annoy me by hiding straw in my stuff? I just found another piece in my boot.’

‘Dude, I was about to ask you the same thing. I found some in my bra this morning. It’s like it’s multiplying.’

‘Ew. The festival was like three weeks ago, girl. How often do you do laundry?’

Sarah snorted, threw a towel at his face, and got a juice box out of the fridge. Her cheeks were pink. From the insult, Jake told himself.

‘Well, if you’re going to be that way, I’ll just leave you to your silly juice boxes. BTW, didn’t you give those things up in like the sixth grade?’

Sarah grabbed another dishtowel, but before she could launch it, Jake beat a retreat to his bedroom.

As he turned to close the door, he glanced across the hall into Sarah’s room and noticed a single piece of straw nestled in the dish reserved for her best jewelry. Stuff’s everywhere he thought, closing the door and settling on his bed. He pointedly ignored the piece poking from the flannel shirt he’d worn to festival—but hadn’t yet washed.

***

Jake dropped his keys in the dish by the door and headed for the fridge with a sideways glance at Sarah.

‘Want one? Looks like you could use it.’

‘No thanks, dude. I think my body is still trying to metabolize all that festival cider.’

‘Now who’s the wimp? Coffee, then? I bought fresh beans yesterday. Your favorite.’

‘No thanks. Upsets my stomach these days, for some reason.’

‘Anything you say, Calvin.’ Then, pointing to a pharmacy bag sitting on the end table, ‘Hey, what’s that?’

‘It’s the candle you just had to buy at the festival. Six weeks it’s sat there and you haven’t put a match to it once.’

She snatched up the bag, jostling the candle in the process, and walked out of the room. Jake looked at the candle.
Well, that was weird, he thought and tipped his beer.

***
Jake chuckled at the cat video on his phone before moving on to the next.

‘Shit.’

He stopped scrolling. 

‘Sarah?’

Nothing.

Jake set the phone down and sat straighter.

The bathroom door opened.

Sarah came out holding something like it might break. She looked at him, looked at the thing she held again.

‘How did this happen?’ she whispered.

He saw the two pink lines as she let her hand fall.

He tried for a laugh. It was the only thing he had.

‘Apparently Mae’s cider does more than make us dance on tables?’ 

‘This isn’t funny, Jake,’ she said, launching the test at his head.

Jake yelped as the test hit the back of the couch—right where his head had been planted watching cat videos just seconds before. It lay there on the cushion, its two accusatory pink lines still showing, daring him to make another joke.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Sarah crossed the room, nudged Jake over and sat down, her back to his, head bumping his lightly, toes tapping the opposite armrests—as they always did.

‘We always knew we’d attend each other’s weddings, right?’ Jake said, now holding the test. ‘And this’ll certainly make syncing calendars easier.’

‘Jerk.’ She rapped the back of his head with hers, more gently than he expected.

‘Hey, we’ve been a team since our parents moved next to each other. We’ll figure this out.’

A piece of straw lay between them on the cushion. He didn’t know where it had come from. He didn’t pick it up. Neither did she.

‘Maybe it’s fate,’ he said. ‘You know. Giving us a little nudge.’ She was quiet for a long moment.
‘Serendipity?’ she whispered. ‘You think?’
‘I think that’s a perfect name. It’s certainly better than Hobbes.’ He waited for the headbutt that never came.

Sarah laughed, then said, ‘Apparently kids really do come from a pumpkin patch.’

Words came late to Ken Whitson, arriving only after he’d lived enough to find them and failed enough to make them interesting. And then — from the intersections of a life lived almost always askew — they spilled forth. Ken’s been gathering them at linktr.ee/KWhitsonWrites ever since.

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saturday Sample: Stone Angle, by Paaa lR.C. Readman,whisky

Chapter One

 

 

The First of Nine

1971

 

The first painting in my urban Roofscapes series now stands on a mahogany easel in my drawing room. Heavy faded velvet curtains surround a stone-arched window through which pale sunlight floods, giving the room a shrine-like appearance. My agent Basil has been studying the painting for some time. He leans forward slightly with his broad back to me. I recline on a threadbare velvet sofa, swirling whisky around in a crystal glass.

I’m an artist. And, like all artists, I was born to create. Creativity flows through my blood and is in everything I see and do. The world is a series of lines that I must draw, and then reproduce in paint on raw hessian.

When I begin a painting, I place a new canvas on the paint-splattered easel and breathe in the smell of the paints, turps, and linseed oil. On closing my eyes, I allow my mind to clear and fall into a sickness.

It’s like misery, all consuming. The darkness envelops me, I feed on its strength, and it empowers me. I lift a paint-filled brush and mark the canvas. She appears. Her beauty wraps itself around me. Her smiling face haunts me almost as much as my father’s steely stares. Then, just as quickly, she leaves. Passion spent, my desire gone, my heart stills. Weak, I am unable to hold my brush. It falls onto my palette.

When I awake the virgin whiteness of the canvas is gone. In its place is a work of art in shades of grey, dull green, blue, and inky black – my trademark.

I’m jolted out of my thoughts by a comment from Basil.

“I do believe this painting is one of your finest so far, James,” he says as he straightens and offers me his empty glass.

“Help yourself to another, old boy.” I wonder what’s different this time as he normally helps himself to my whisky.

“Thanks. And less of the old boy,” Basil protests as he crosses to the drinks cabinet. In mid stride, he pauses to study a small collection of my mother’s watercolours. “Dear God, I do so love this room. I can’t make up my mind whether it’s the clash of styles, or its sense of history. To think, I didn’t know who you were when we first met. And here we are, surrounded by all this fame and fortune.” He holds out the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue.

I shake my head, holding up the half-filled glass. He nods and fills his glass to the brim before dropping into father’s old chair next to the fireplace. I take a sip of my glass, allowing the layers of richness to separate, and close my eyes. I roll the smoky liquid around my mouth, pushing it through the small gap in my front teeth before swallowing the sandalwood taste. As I do so, my thoughts settle on how we met eight years ago.

 

In the summer of 1963 I bumped into Basil at the opening of a new art gallery in London. I was squatting with a bunch of beatnik artists in all that remained of a once handsome Edwardian four-storey terraced house. It had survived Hitler’s bombs enough for its spacious rooms to become studios. With no real income between the artists, they spent most of their days splattering paint over large canvases in the style of Jackson Pollock as they dreamt of fame and fortune while smoking themselves into oblivion. I steered clear of the drugs, busy rebranding myself, into a poor artist called Tommy Blackbird. I knew how dangerous fame was after witnessing the damage it had done to my mother. Though living with them had its rewards.

Joe, who ran the squat, believed we were the reincarnation of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. We all agreed to help each other. While they were happy to share everything from beds to food, paints, clothes, and even their girlfriends with me, I was being far more self-centred. Only one girl sparked my interest, the unobtainable girlfriend of Joe. I certainly appreciated Candela’s shapely form, a willowy blonde with dark green eyes.

Candela and her friends, Trudy and Dor, worked as picture hangers in the major galleries around the city. Most evenings they would supply us with a meal while keeping us in the loop about the latest art news from across the city, and sometimes from across the pond in New York, with information on art competitions, or galleries that were on the hunt for new and up and coming artists.

One evening over supper, Candela told us about a new gallery that was to have a celebrity launch party. While we sat feasting, we made plans to gatecrash.

A few days later, we arrived at the gallery to find the party in full swing. Posters covering the front windows proclaimed that the exhibition was for the art critic, Lawrence Alloway’s ‘Pop Art’ artist, David Hockney. In awe of the large white space with its pale grey carpet and loft-style gallery, I stood transfixed, wanting nothing more than to grab a paintbrush and start work. The fluorescent lighting seemed to bring the modern abstract paintings alive.

My conspirators seemed more focused on the gathering masses. Candela tugged on my arm. “Oh my God, Tommy, look who else is here!”

Over my shoulder, I saw Joe moving towards a group of new arrivals. Among them was a young up and coming singer, Mick Jagger, with his latest flame clinging to his arm, as well as celebrities from film and TV, all milling about, chatting with artists and agents. They stood before the large canvases, holding up their wine glasses, smiling into the cameras, pleased to have their pictures snapped in the trendiest, newest hotspot.

As the others wandered off to mingle with the famous, my attention returned to the paintings. Soon I was looking for a quiet corner so I could sketch down a few ideas. As I made a few notes on colours and positions of figures, I became aware of a couple talking.

“I can’t believe it. He’s here!” an excited woman said.

“You’re having me on. Where?” a pretty boy replied. “I’ve been here since it opened. He wasn’t here then. I went over the whole place and didn’t see him.”

“He’s upstairs in the main gallery. You know, where it says private.”

 “Oh well, that’s no good for the likes of us, dearie.”

I slipped the notebook into my jacket pocket as their excited laughter faded. Unable to locate Joe or Candela, I headed for the stairs to see if I could catch a glimpse of Hockney.

Of course, I wasn’t the only one. The place swarmed with his admirers. Well, who wouldn’t want to be around him? The guy had the Midas touch. That’s the trouble with fame. You become the property of the masses. Everyone wants a piece of the action.

While barging through the milling crowd on the stairs, I somehow locked arms with a tall guy dressed in a striped boating blazer with cream trousers. He deposited his red wine down the front of my white shirt.

“Jesus bloody Christ. I’m so sorry mate!” he yelled over the din.

“Hey, it’s all right. I thought I was blending in too well with the walls anyway.” I laughed.

For a moment, I thought he was on something as he stared blankly at me. Then his grey eyes widened, and he began to laugh.

“I’m Basil Hallward.” He offered me his hand.

As I took it, I became aware of his tightening grip, and he pulled me away from the steady conveyor belt of people that were pushing to get past and guided me to the corner where I had taken refuge earlier. I’m not sure at what point he mentioned he was an agent, or whether I told him I was an artist looking for representation. The next thing I remember clearly about that night was leaving the party early, after we exchanged contact details and he had made an appointment with me to view some of my work in his London office a week later.

As for Hockney, I never did meet him.

I left the launch party and made my way back to the squat, deciding it was the right time to leave Tommy Blackbird in London, and head home to Halghetree Rectory.

At the squat, I took the stairs two at a time, wanting to be gone before anyone else arrived back. I paused on the landing below mine when I became aware of someone crying. Joe’s studio door stood slightly ajar. I placed an eye to the gap. Suddenly transported back to my childhood, within the paint-splattered studio, I saw my mother amidst spilt paints and torn canvases. I shook my head in an effort to clear the awful image from my mind and struck the door, causing it to swing open. Mother turned with a bloodied knife in her hand.

I froze.

“Christ, Tommy! I thought it was Joe!” Candela shrieked, and mother vanished.

I tried to make sense of the torn paintings strewn across the room. It wasn’t blood covering them, but red paint.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.

“What the fuck do you think?” she said, tossing the knife into the disarray. “I can’t take any more of his lies, so I’m leaving him a farewell surprise.”

She picked up a couple of bags and pushed past me.

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

She paused, her hand resting lightly on the bannister and looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. “As far away as possible,” she said with a shrug of her thin shoulders before continuing down the stairs.

“How are you getting there?” I ran after her.

“Train, bus, I don’t care. I just want to be gone before he gets back.”

“Wait! Give me a moment and I can take you. I have a car. I can drop you off anywhere you want or… Come with me. It’s up to you.”

As her green eyes locked with mine, I recognised the bitterness that burned within them. I inhaled deeply. The smell of paint, spilt turps, and linseed oil caused something inside me to snap. I knew whatever happened next; Candela had to come with me.

***

The squeaking springs in my father’s chair brought me back to the present. I open my eyes, my breath catching in my throat. It still shocks me to find someone sitting in it beside the fire. I try to squash the displeasure on seeing Basil relax as he surveys the room, glass in hand. I let my breath out slowly and wait for him to comment on my painting. It’s the only reason I have allowed him into my inner sanctum.

After doing a series of land and seascapes in my own unique style, Basil suggested I should try something urban. It amazes me that he should have suggested such a subject matter. The idea was not new to me. What I’m showing him was actually painted eight years ago. It’s why I’m more than a little intrigued to know his thoughts on my interpretation.

Within the painting, a semi-naked, grisaille-style woman posed in shades of grey, dull green, blue, and inky black in a bleak cityscape. Her arms tied behind her cause her to lean forward like a figurehead on a sailing ship, among the saintly statues and gargoyles on the side of a Gothic building. The rain plastered her hair to her head while four small metal clips held her eyelids open, causing blood to trickle down her cheeks.

Oh how I recall the power of the muse as she played with my emotions. Within every sweep of the brush, I built the paint up, layer upon layer to convey the symbolism and eroticism in the way the halter strap of the model’s body harness emphasised her breasts. I wanted the art connoisseurs to search for answers within each stroke as they do when discussing other great works of art.

Basil clears his throat, jarring me out of my thoughts. I take another gulp of my drink and tried to clear my mind of Candela.

“Hmm,” he utters before taking another sip of his drink. “There’s something quite dark about your painting, James. Something unspoken.”

I smile, satisfied that he’s hooked. There’s a sparkle of delight in his grey eyes, though. It could be just his bank balance sparkling. You never can tell with Basil.

“James, my dear man, finally you’ve found your voice. Your last series of paintings was brilliant. And I must say they’ve made us a small fortune, but… this is outstanding!” Basil crosses to the painting again. The twitching muscles in his back as he scans the painting betray his excitement as he calculates the value of each brushstroke.

My agent has taken more than his fair share in extra commission on each sale he makes on my behalf. It doesn’t bother me. If he has his hand in the cookie jar, I hope for his sake he’s lined his nest well. One day soon the axe will fall, and he won’t know what has hit him.

With fame, if you have a big enough fortune, it allows you to get away with things ordinary folk cannot. Basil constantly reminds me he’s a friend, someone I can confide in.

Now that’s not something I find easy to do. We all have things we like to keep to ourselves. I know his vice, but he doesn’t know about mine yet. My alter ego, Tommy Blackbird, was too kind and didn’t know how to paint, while James enjoys playing among the shadows, painting in his unique style.

Basil reaches for the bottle again. “They say behind every great piece of art is a story. So, what’s yours? What’s your inspiration, James?”

I shrug. “I paint what I see.”

A puzzled look crosses his face. “Does it have a title? Is it painted from real life, or just your imagination?”

“It’s an idea I’ve been toying with for some time. I’ve called it Roofscapes, but it is really ‘a work in progress’.”

“Oh, so it's on-going. Part of a series like ‘Of Land and Sea?’”

“You could say that. I’m already working on the next one.”

“That’s great. I can’t wait to see it.”

I drain my glass, not telling him that I’ve already finished nine. 

Find your copy here 

About the Author

 

Paula R C Readman grew up at Moulsham Mill in Chelmsford where her father worked as a master miller. She now lives in a village in Essex with her husband and two cats. After leaving school at sixteen with no qualifications, she spent her working life mainly in low paying jobs. In 1998, with no understanding of English grammar, she decided to beat her dyslexia, by setting herself a challenge to become a published author.

She taught herself ‘How to Write’ from books which her husband purchased from eBay. After 250 purchases, he finally told her ‘just to get on with the writing’.

In 2010, she had her first taste of success with fiction when English Heritage published her short story in their anthology, Whitby Abbey-Pure Inspiration. In 2011, Paula took the opportunity redundancy offered her to take up writing full-time and started concentrating on writing short stories for publication in anthologies and for competitions while mastering the skills needed to write novels. Paula has had over fifty-nine short stories published, one collection of short stories, Days Pass Like a Shadow, published by Bridge House publishing, and a crime novella. The Funeral Birds, published by Demain Publishing.

Also in 2011, she had her first overall win in the World Book Day short story competition run by Austin and Macauley Publishers, and then 2012 the Writing Magazine and Harrogate Crime Writing Festival short story competition, when the crime writer Mark Billingham selected her dark crime story ‘Roofscapes’ as the overall winning entry.

In 2014, Paula decided to take the main character James Ravencroft’s point of view from ‘Roofscapes’ short story and turned it into the Stone Angels novel.

 

 

 

For the third time this week I’m stabbed by a fork by Judith Younger, Double Shot

Right under my thumbnail where it hurts like hell. Ever since he turned the flaps down on the cutlery basket and insists we put all the knives, forks, spoons in the squared holes, prong end, blade end, bowl end up. Which is turning my mornings into injury roulette. ‘They’re just not cleaning properly, the way you do it.’ He has felt the need to intervene after twenty years’ consideration of my dishwasher technique. For the third time this week I wonder how far I could ninja fling a fork and if I aimed carefully whether I could land it right in the side of his bristling neck. I wonder if the three pin point stabs would trail back to me or if I could pass it off as a toothy adder bite.

‘Make sure you rinse them this time.’ He is upset by washed spaghetti in his Weetabix while checking his phone. I know it will be her.

For the first time this week I wonder about her dishwasher style and if she stacks cutlery individually upright, pert and gleaming, or does she have a special drawer on top where they wait in spotless glossy promise. ‘I’ll be late again tonight. You should probably change the filter.’ He’s coming over to inspect, snapping his tongue round his teeth like one of those dart-mouthed frogs, and now for the first time I am scrolling and I am learning that, once embedded, pulling a fork from a neck causes severe and fast bleeding.

Judith Younger has recently discovered flash fiction and has had work published in several anthologies.

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Mr. Rhombus by Christian P Jacobson, Hot Chocolate

'I wish for some peace and quiet and a relaxing birthday.' Mr. Rhombus inhaled and held the little cupcake up to his mouth, but the breeze blew out the candle before he could. Frowning, he slouched back into the wooden bench and glanced around at the greenery. A flock of ducks splashing around in the big fountain made him smile. He took a little bite of the cupcake and beamed. Knees wobbling, he slowly rose to his feet. He licked his lips and stuck out his behind, shaking it from side to side. 'Oh, a happy birthday indeed!'

Out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Rhombus saw the family of four, who had been playing catch in the field, looking his way. He froze, sat back down, and turned away. They're probably laughing at me, he thought. The parents waved hello to him, but he didn’t see. Sighing to himself, he stared up into the sky. The clouds blocked out the sun. His gaze lowered once again onto the big fountain and the ducks. One duck was missing. Mr. Rhombus furrowed his brow and leaned forward, looking for that missing duck. She was a few feet from the others, with one foot stuck in some deep mud.

Eyes opened wide, Mr. Rhombus thought to himself, Someone has to help that duck! The family in the field wasn’t very far off. 'Excuse me!' he tried to yell to them. Unfortunately, his tongue slipped and he let out, 'Excuthee!' The family turned around to face him, but he spun his face away and winced. When he opened his eyes, he saw the duck shaking and hopping, trying to dislodge her webbed foot from the mud.

Mr. Rhombus struggled to his feet again and grabbed his four-legged walker. 'But what if she bites me? No, no. She might peck, but ducks can't bite. Well, a peck would still probably hurt!' She flapped her wings at him and quacked louder as he approached. Using the walker for support, he lowered himself to the ground. He reached towards the stuck foot, but pulled back quickly as the duck's bill pinched and ripped the delicate skin on the back of his hand. He wagged a finger at her. 'You know, I could just leave you here by yourself,' he warned. But he tried again. This time the duck quacked, but she didn’t peck. Using his uninjured hand, he pulled away enough of the mud so that the struggling bird could hop out. She honked twice and then jumped into the fountain.

'There we go, little one,' he said, rising to his feet. Holding his throbbing hand, he smiled. Once again, Mr. Rhombus stuck out his behind and shook it back and forth. He closed his eyes and hummed a triumphant tune to himself. When he opened his eyes, he saw the little duck was back in front of him, shaking her tail to his rhythm.

'Look at you!' he said to the dancing duck. 'Okay. Bye-bye now.' But as he tried to walk away, the dancing duck followed. He turned around and shook a finger at her. 'Go!' But she followed. He went around the whole fountain trying to get her off his back, but she danced behind him the whole way. As he approached the bench again, he noticed the family in the field laughing and pointing at him. He stopped and faced the duck. 'I’d like to be alone, please,' he said to her, and was relieved to see her waddle back towards her flock.

She approached her friends and started dancing once again. At first they all watched. After a few seconds, two more joined in, slowly at first, and then in time. The others quacked at them and flew away. The three dancing ducks came back up to Mr. Rhombus, who watched with an open mouth. 'That’s it, I’m going home, where I can have some peace.' As he walked away, three ducks followed behind, all shaking their tails.

Mr. Rhombus turned over his shoulder and glanced at the ducks. He sped up, determined now to shake them. The distance was growing between them. Still focused on the ducks behind

him, he crashed into the fountain and fell face-first into the water. Thrusting himself upwards, he let out a cry. Tears fell off his wrinkled cheeks. 'Oh, look at me! How embarrassing! Surely you want nothing to do with me!' he shouted. But the ducks stood there, staring at him, still wagging those tails. It really was a funny dance, if he was being honest. A little laugh sprang out through the sobs. Sighing, and then inhaling deeply, Mr. Rhombus let himself slip back under the water.

Holding his breath, he looked up at the sky. The sunbeams now broke through the swirling clouds. A V-formation of birds flew by, and much higher up an airplane passed in the same direction. The three ducks hopped into the fountain, and softly paddled their webbed feet above him. He rose up out of the water, and smiled. The nearby family had come running over to help. 'Are you okay?' they yelled to him. He laughed and waved away their open hands. 'Yes, thank you! I’m just playing with the ducks!'

Christian Jacobson is a 28 year old restaurant and construction worker, going to nursing school and hoping for a future in writing. Based in Orlando, but having lived all over Florida, he enjoys raw, naturalistic stories.

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