The Kiss by Mabel Leigh, dark hot chocolate

 

 

 

‘Love, which allows no one who is loved to escape,

Seized me so strongly with my pleasure in him,

That, as you see, it does not leave me now.’

                                                Dante, Divine Comedy: Inferno V, 103–105

 

 

Star-crossed lovers? Certainly not. They could hardly compare to poor Paolo and Francesca, those adulterous amoureux punished by Dante for their passion. Literature as inspiration has much to answer for. All that violent intrigue and infidelity in ancient myth, or culpability in those conventions that arose in courtly love. Loyal devotion, wanton rebellion, cautionary tales penned to inspire and compel; literature has it all. Those legends of passion prized by artists, worked into images or sculptures, are incarnations to beguile us still.

Before she met André, Chloe liked to imagine herself wise to the pitfalls of ill-fated romance. This was the image held firmly in her mind, that mute chant when scrutinizing her reflection before the mirror. Passionate encounters could, she believed, be cultivated and controlled to endure. Careful observation of others had shown it was all in the phrasing and pose. How playfully they flirted, how concentrated they looked sitting, silently brooding, bodies taut with yearning, barely touching but held close. How enviable they were - utterly distracted, their minds consumed as if intoxicated. Lovers were like twins, always together on the periphery of any group; always with some secret entirely their own. Neither, it appeared, would ever tire of that intensity in their bond.

It was that which drew so many to the museum. That display of affection unquestionable in its magnetism, solid and consistent in its sculpted marble form. Visitors did not flock in their droves to see the edifying tale of the historical Burghers, humility and self-sacrifice for the greater good moulded and cast in weary, tormented expressions and emaciated bodies. No, it was not that sculpture they came to admire. Not that work which marshalled them all into line where they stood, wrestling with impatience, defensively holding their place in the queue snaking down the rue de Varenne.

            That day Chloe had had to persuade André, had taken him by the arm, pulled him close, attempting to soothe his sulking frown and resentful murmuring. He knew the work well, and wasn’t in the mood to see it again. She leaned back, searching in his face - but it was Rodin that brought them together, surely he hadn’t forgotten? One afternoon, only the year before last, when Chloe had been admiring two Rodin drawings in a gallery window display. She saw him in the reflection first, a man who had stopped suddenly, seemingly caught by some fleeting impression impossible to ignore, and who stood next to her gazing down at the images, close enough for her to feel his presence. What an exquisite moment that had been - a fortuitous meeting weighted with promise, the silent agreement between their two figures aligned in contemplation. Wasn’t this, she had thought, the encounter she had so long been waiting for?

            “You don’t do this when you live here,” he muttered now, his body stiffened with bruised pride. “Visit on a day like this with all these other people.” She held his hand a little tighter, nudging his back towards the wall, reminding him of the game they had decided to play. She had decided they’d play. People-spotting, jostling against the tourists, united in their knowing gazes and wry smiles. 

            This was another kind of experience: “We are flâneurs, remember?” And she leaned closer, planting a kiss on his cheek. She fluttered her eyelashes, feigning a coquettish smile. She knew she was working hard.

Working. Was that what it had become? She had to cajole him, pull his glance away, that sneering stare he held at others. They might not notice, but she could not ignore the scornful looks he cast towards the tourists with their bum-bags and walking shoes. In the museum Chloe hoped André would be her captive audience, appreciative of all she had learned from her research. Their outing would be an occasion to rekindle what had been so fervent at the start. Pride made her persist in prompting, vainly longing for him to be for once, again, attentive to her.

She soon realised it would be no easy task. He was too irritated by all the visitors, too absorbed in his disdain at children staring, mouths agape. It could not be that he felt discomfort sharing the floor with couples who circled the figures with admiring envy. It was not embarrassment that made him mute. André never would admit to finding something alarming, of that Chloe was sure. It was some other distraction that sent his glance darting about as though he were searching amongst the people in the room. Why had she not noticed this before?

She leant closer to give her commentary. “Paolo and Francesca. I hadn’t realised they were historical contemporaries of Dante. Italian nobility, united through marriage as brother and sister-in-law, who were unfortunate enough to fall so passionately, so fatally, in love.” There was a brief nod from André, the knowing dismissal of one apparently familiar with the tale. But she continued, walking behind, still whispering, her voice creeping over his shoulder.

“Dante spins their story into the stuff of legend. Their first illicit kiss is elicited while reading together the tale of Lancelot and Guinevere. Two pairs of ill-fated lovers woven into Dante’s own narrative.” Chloe remembered how disappointed she had been to read that Dante, too censorious in his moralising, allows Paolo and Francesca but a brief moment before they are brutally slain by Giovanni, brother and husband. Then, as if this were not enough, they are cruelly cast into swirling tumults, their punishment to be lost for infinity in the tempest of Hell. She could not linger at this ending. She had searched frantically, her fingers tapping vigorously on her keyboard, her shoulders hunched, face peering at the screen, leaning back in her chair only once she had enough to content herself with an alternate view of their tale. The kiss.

            “That is the inspiration for so many other artists too: an embrace so precious they are held at a distance from the rest of the world. But look at how Rodin gives us so much more.”

Chloe paused, watching André as he walked on ahead of her, ambling slowly yet seeming equally impatient to lead the way. She caught a glance he gave the tourists snapping their selfies, snapshots sent as love-tokens: here, they say, I am thinking of you. She sensed her own stab of envy, a sharp prick even in that trite association, a simple message cast out to one’s lover on the other side of the world, while there was she, standing at his side, struggling against her lover’s scorn. She should have guessed then at his irritation, should have retreated silently, but she did not. She stepped towards him and he twisted away, staring upwards, lifting his chin with that assumed confidence sharply indifferent to her words; she could not but feel it keenly. He must have known he was taunting her, walking round the figures, arms poised with palms together behind his back, that contemplative posture for pacing; his back turned on her every word.

            There hadn’t been that need for effort or persuasion when it all began. They had slipped so easily into one another’s arms. It never did cross her mind to consider whether one was leading the other. Not in those early days when adulation was still a novelty, the fascination to explore reciprocal, their bodies constantly seeking out each other’s as though every gesture were a silently complicit exchange. Kisses full of ardour. He did seduction well, especially at first. She had felt herself falling.

Looking back on those early days, for it was only in hindsight that she could see, she had known what it meant to feel entranced. A kiss on the back of the neck, in a café, on only their second date. Or had it been the first? He had moved quickly. She had been caught, surprise a bare flicker in her mind, quashed by a quite different sensation. Only later, much later, with that distance once the infatuation had faded, would she question. His presumptuousness. Her languid pleasure. She had been such easy prey.

How had it started to change? Just as imperceptibly as it had begun. Familiarity led to acceptance for beneath that lay the memory of what had united them at the start. Those small incremental shifts, of dishes from a menu no longer proffered for tasting, comments sparking a venting of ire no longer concealed. Anecdotes of former girlfriends increasing, their character flaws imprinted on her mind, and Chloe made note, registering his warnings that she might never wish to become comparable. 

She did not object when their kisses became briefer, slighter, until they were no longer part of greetings or goodbyes; as if it was no longer deemed necessary, or too close to a domestic convention he wished to shun. She had tried not to notice the changes, the pauses lengthening into silence, an awkward stillness now of people no longer wishing to share. The tardy arrivals and messages perfunctory, thinned of the flourish that had once made her smile. Time could not be held accountable. There had not been long years of marriage nor co-habiting to dull their desire. That kind of complacency she could understand.

At first, that defiant spirit in him had a certain allure. His assured air of utmost self-belief, such a promising mark of confidence, a companionable counterpoint to some element lacking in herself. Now, when she reflected, Chloe could not imagine André listening or deferring to anyone; humility contrary to his character, he would be sure to avoid any circumstance of knowledge affronting him. In conversation, she had hung on his every word, enjoyed the tales of his adventures, her own never seeming quite enough to reveal. How easily she had become his captive audience, her questions posed to ease his flow.

She blamed it on the kiss. Those initial embraces so strong and engrossing. Nights when, walking hand in hand, they had stopped in darkened streets oblivious to any passer-by. Had he listened to her then? She thought back. They had found common interests, some at least they could share. But then he had taken her hand, pulled her towards him, pressed his lips to her mouth.

When had the kisses ceased? The last, other than playful pecks she had given him, she could not recall. Now there was only the arm outstretched at night to flip her body over, his hand firmly grasping her shoulder, rough thrusting, deeper and faster, his attention entirely his own. He barely touched the back of her neck where once he had been so attentive and tender. She had grown used to his face falling heavily, his breath hot against her skin, a deep sigh pulling in all the air he needs, she feeling little more than the sheets below and his weight upon her. She no longer attempted any sound.

But there, that day in the gallery, she persisted, ignoring the discomfort dawning, circling after him in a scurry; she would not relent, would not submit.

“Rodin is not so damning of the human spirit searching for desire. His is not a fable, like Dante’s, of perilous pursuit, a mere kiss enough to seal their fate.” She stopped, a pause that halted André too. “Rodin captures his characters in their pleasure, Francesca as much as Paolo.” Perhaps, Chloe thought, Francesca even a little more. She watched André’s eyes dart across the sculpture. He stood still as if allowing her one moment of his attention. Focus on the physical, she remembered, have him look at the way those bodies, so corporeal, speak of desire.

“See how intently the woman pulls herself up towards her lover’s embrace.” Chloe paused, wanting to run her hand along Francesca’s creamy arm, to the hand reaching, wrapped firm around Paolo’s neck; how inviting the turn of her body made that kiss appear. A woman utterly absorbed, immersing onlookers; in taking the lead Francesca is intent on having her fill of desire.

“His pose—” She stopped again, André was still there, listening. “His pose seems almost more tentative, that hand resting only lightly on her thigh. His is a muscular body of masculine force, but see her back, her arms and thighs, her body animated, physical and strong. She is no ephemeral spirit coyly restrained in flawless form.” André had begun to circle the sculpture again. She had not noticed the crowds disappear. It was just the two of them there in the gallery. She continued, her voice echoing round the room.

“Rodin prided himself on provocation. We admire the bodies, their fleshy naturalism as much as their pose. There’s no high polish or effete gesture to cast them as gods. This is the mastery of Rodin: human form and feeling.” André was looking away, distracted again, now by the row of portrait busts lining the far wall, softly rendered visages of dreamy women emerging from chiselled blocks of stone. Chloe knew she could not tell him any more about The Kiss. It would not interest him to know that critics refer to this as a defining work of the period; a rare example of the female figure imbued with agency. That, she realised, was something André would never wish to understand.

In the next gallery, where the lighting was lowered and thin blinds were pulled down to keep out the sun, few tourists lingered, as if unsure what to make of the fluid forms of female nudes floating on the page. Rodin’s drawings. Would André remember? There were preparatory sketches for those larger sculpted works, but also his practice and exploration from his studio, the figures spare and sinuous, bodies sketched in watercolour barely contained by pencil lines drawn on the page. Their poses were at once graceless and affronting, their legs spread, sex revealed, crouching, rolling to one side readying the body to stand upright. They might be acrobats or dancers, their bodies contorted, defying the meek gestures of nymphs and goddesses of the idealised classical style. There Chloe saw female forms elusive and vital; women more nimble and unrestrained than any male counterpart. She walked to stand behind André, reaching out her hand, placing it firmly on his shoulder. His muscles tensed and she saw his face bristling. She clenched her fingers tighter. He could not ignore her now. She would not have him peer through those lazy eyes glazed with indifference. She would have him listen to her words.

            “Look around you,” she whispered, her voice sharp in his ear. “No, look more closely.” She was insistent. His expression flickered, alert to slight alarm. There she had him, but it was no longer desire. Her pleasure she would have later for one final night. She would wrestle him beneath her, clamp his body between her thighs, she as solid as the marble Francesca just to show him something of her will. She no longer cared how he might retell their story, how he tired of her needy inclinations. He would have no chance for that vain sneer, she would thrust her hands down over his face, smother his eyes, his mouth – the satisfaction of that instant would be hers alone. Her fingers dug deeper into his shoulder; she did not withdraw her hand as she might have done before if she sensed he would pull away. He would cast her as the crazed character and at this Chloe smiled; there would be no wan fading away in her story.

But at that moment, standing alone in the gallery after André had wandered into the next room, Chloe turned back to the drawings. She no longer wished for someone to appear beside her, his reflection looming in the glass of the display case. Passion, she would find again. Until then she would not be ill-fated as those legendary characters condemned to be buffeted and blown by the tumultuous winds of Hell. She wanted nothing to disrupt her pleasure in those images, a single figure on each page, bodies of an agile and sinuous beauty; bodies that rose up from their poses, danced, whirled and leapt with a spirit and energy entirely their own. 

 

Bio:

Mabel Leigh is an art historian and teacher. She has lived in Paris and London, and is now based in the south of England. She writes short stories in her spare time. 

Painting Lessons by Ed Ahern, coffee.

 

The evening art class at the high school was crowded with middle agers. The much younger instructor kept brushing the palm of his hand against what was left of his hair, as if depilating his nervousness. Our porta-easels were raggedly arranged around the meeting room, with those supposing they had talent setting up in the front.

I had little talent, but needed to get out of an empty house that would pirouette me back into bad habits. I set up and hoped that Mindy Warwick would make her usual slightly late arrival. She did.

She wore a wedding band but no engagement ring. Her clothes were clean and unwrinkled, but well used, and the car she drove off in after the sessions made expensive repair noises. We were able to laugh with each other about our artistic efforts, and I liked her without knowing much of anything about her.

We helloed during the clatter of set ups, listened to vague instructions, and started daubing. The top of her head barely cleared the top of the easel, but her small hands made bold strokes.

“Slow down,” I said, “or you’ll be done before he has a chance to pick on your technique.”

Mindy didn’t laugh, her expression one of pained anger. But not at me. Whatever was upsetting her she’d walked in with. I’m borderline obtuse to social cues, but recognized she was churning within herself.  

During the break I had to ask. “You seem upset. Anything I can help with? Do you want to just talk?”

“Joey, I wish you could help me. God, do I. But there’s nothing you can do. Just leave me be.”

“Sure, but if you change your mind, just complain into my good ear. I’m an okay listener.”

Her half-smile was almost a wince. She turned back to her easel and solitary suffering. Over her shoulder I glanced at her painting. It was a grouping of four people, but the figures were rendered like Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” distorted and in pain. I said nothing.

When the session was over, we repacked our gear and headed out to our cars. I tossed a couple of inane comments at Mindy, but she was too deeply buried within herself to pay attention.

She was parked facing my car and a few spaces down. As I started up, I heard her clunker making rasping noises. I waited, but her car didn’t move and she didn’t get out. After a few minutes I walked over.

Mindy was sitting behind the wheel crying. I motioned for her to lower the window and she did. “Won’t start?”

“No, God damn it.” She resumed crying.

“Do you want me to call someone?”

“There’s no one.”

“Your husband maybe, or one of your sons? A car service?”

Her laugh was bitter. “As I said, there’s no one available.”

I surprised myself. “Look, it’s getting cold and you can’t stay out here. I can take you home if you want, and you can make arrangements for the car tomorrow.”

“It’s a long half an hour from here.”

‘That’s okay, I’ve got no life.”

Her smile was crooked but visible. “All right, but I can’t pay you for your gas.”

“There’s no need.”

We bundled her art stuff into the back of my SUV and left. I didn’t interrupt Mindy’s silence for the first few miles, then “I meant what I said about being ready to listen.”

She started crying again, then burst out in an angry tone. “What’s the use! Do you want to hear about my older son in prison, or my younger son being evicted and sued because his pit bull bit the landlady? Or my almost ex-husband who’s off on a bender with our overcharged credit cards? Or my crappy car and almost as crappy job? I don’t think so.”

There were a few seconds of silence because I had no idea what to say. Then, “I go to the painting class to get away from myself. I’m only a few months away from my last serious mistake. My ex-wife dumped me two years ago. I only recently got another job. Yeah, I think I’m able to listen to you.”

And I did. For the rest of the ride, Mindy, in pained words, told me how bad it was, crying one more time. I dropped her at a little slab house that she said had been built for the military. The house looked to need as many repairs as her car.

Once I got her and her gear to the front door I said,” Give me the key to your car.”

“No, why?”

“Your car noise sounded like an alternator. I’ll get it fixed. You can pay me back when you have a chance.”

Her look was dubious. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. Call in sick for a couple days while it’s getting repaired.” I realized why she hesitated. “No strings. I’ve been there. I’m just paying it forward.”

“I can’t…” But she had no options. “How much do you think it would cost?”

“A few hundred dollars.” That was a lie. I figured it would be nudging toward a thousand.

“I’d have to repay you monthly.”

“No problem, no interest.” I smiled at her. “You could also lie and tell me how good my painting was.”

Her return smile was feeble. We exchanged phone numbers and she took the car key off the ring and handed it to me before gathering up her artistic tackle and going inside.

I interrogated myself on the ride back. Helping her hadn’t been entirely altruistic. Mindy was attractive in a pleasantly weathered way, and I’d already wondered about getting more involved. She had a rotting garbage bag of a life, but so, at one point, had I. I tried to tell myself to go to church and date someone in the choir, or find a wealthy widow, but kept circling back to a petite woman who probably had more personality problems than personal ones.

The car repair ran to seven hundred dollars. I called Mindy and asked if she’d mind dropping me back home after I brought her car. Her words were a thankful yes, but her tone was hesitant.

I gave Mindy a doctored bill from the garage for $300. The younger of her two sons was at the house. Jake of pit bull ownership said little more than hello, and immediately volunteered to take me home. Mindy didn’t object, so Jake and I rode back in close to hermetic silence. As I was getting out he said curtly, “My mom is going through a lot. She doesn’t need any complications from you.”

I nodded. “Don’t plan on giving her any.” That was about a quarter lie, because I didn’t really know how I felt. “Thaks for the ride, Jake,” I said, trying to flate a little warmth into the comment.

The start of the next painting class was awkward, Mindy a little standoffish, maybe because she felt vulnerable about her obligation to me. But by the time we packed up we’d gotten back into our usual groove of gently ribbing each other.  Just before we left, she held onto my arm. “Having someone to lean on and listen to me really, really helped. You can’t know how much.”

I was vaguely embarrassed. “It was nothing.” Which wasn’t quite true. I’d called in a favor at the chop shop that fixed her car. They usually tore apart rather than repaired, but owed me.

As the class was winding up, I turned to her. “Coffee? A drink?”

She had a firm, sad expression. “I can’t, but thanks for asking. It makes me feel interesting.”

“Sure. Is the car behaving itself?”

That eked out a smile. “It’s amazing. It’s like there are a bunch of new parts. Thanks again.”

“Any time. See you next week.”

The next week she was a no show at the painting class, and I called her during the break. “Mindy, it’s Joey. I noticed you were truant. Is everything okay?”

Her voice was raspy and nasal. “Oh yes, everything…” and then she started crying. “Just ignore me Joey. Things aren’t good here.”

My antennae quivered. “Anybody bothering you?”

“No, no, oh hell, it’s my husband. I got a call from some guy Ralph owes money to. He threatened Ralph, then said we’d have to sell things to make good. Including my car.”

“Hah. Did this guy give you a  name?”

“Sal. Ralph is in the wind, I don’t know where he is.” More crying.

I paused. There was a lot I shouldn’t say. “Look, maybe it’ll work out. Give it a day or two. Call me please if you need to talk.”

We spent another few minutes talking about nothing and after we hung up I put in another call. Connected guys use aliases, but are stupid enough to use the same one.

“Frankie? It’s Joey… Nah, I’m completely out of things for now… You know how parole works. I can’t fuck around yet. Listen, a favor. Does your mope Philly, aka Sal,  still collect for you?... Ah. Could you tell him to pick on a guy named Ralph Warwick rather than his wife?... you got a dirty mind. Listen, I’ll guarantee the vig while Philly finds this asshole. Then he can do whatever he wants with him. But leave her alone…. Thanks Frankie. Yeah, fuck you too. Best to the family.”

Mindy was at class the next week, but not happy. After we were done smearing paints, I touched her shoulder. “Things better now?”

“God, no. Ralph was in an Indian casino four days ago and got beaten very badly. Three of the fingers on his right hand are broken, and that’s what he does everything with.”

I pushed myself into a sympathetic expression. “Wow, that’s terrible. Is he paying the loan shark back?”

“So he says. He tells me he’s quit gambling and using the money to pay back what he owes, a little at a time.”

“You don’t seem sure.”

“I’ve heard that story before. And we’re still broke.”

The class finished up in May, and Mindy and I agreed to sign up for the fall session. A few days later I changed my mind. Being a platonic support group of one for Mindy was antithetic to what I usually was. And she didn’t deserve to be manipulated.

That fall, Mindy called. “Joey, you weren’t at class and the instructor with the neurotic hair said you hadn’t signed up.”

“Hi Mindy. Yeah, I decided I should accept my lack of talent. But I’m glad you’re still at it.”

“Coward.” Her tone was jovial.

“You sound good. I’m glad.”

“Ralph moved out and I’ve filed for divorce. I’ve still got close to nothing, but it’s my nothing now.”

I smiled. She was going to be maybe okay. “That’s great.” I wanted to say more, but residual affection for her prevented me.

“I did some checking on you, Joey. You’re not a nice boy, are you?”

I laughed. “Haven’t been accused of that since maybe fourth grade.”

“There’s two things I want to tell you. You need to sign up for the course. My painting isn’t the same without your ribbing. And I’m ready for that cup of coffee.”

 

Bio:

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over 600 stories and poems published, and twelve books. He's on the review board at Scribes Micro, and is the idle figurehead at Scribes Micro

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Cold Call by Gregory Ballinger, frozen lemon bitter with a twist.

 Burt Longmeadow was sitting in his study, happily deleting all his daily junk emails that persisted on trying to sell him things he didn’t need. ‘If I wanted a solar-powered light up garden gnome, then I would buy one,’ Burt muttered to himself, deleting the last of them, so he could finally get down to the task of doing his work. He took a sip from his searing coffee, grimaced, then took another. Burt opened his work finally, but then three loud knocks rang through the house. Burt leant back in his chair, cocking an ear towards the door, ‘Hello?’ he called out, and the three knocks sounded again, just as before.

Burt huffed, slapped his legs and got up, marching down the hallway. ‘If this is someone messing around or worse, someone selling something, I will not be happy,’ Burt thundered, opening the door with barely controlled annoyance. His fixed expression was ready-to-argue, but quickly softened when he saw a little old lady, hunched over, wearing a shawl, looking up at him. ‘Hello?’ Burt said. ‘Are you lost?’

‘Hello, dear,’ the little old lady quavered in a creaky voice, tilting her whole body to look up at him. Her eyes were like two sunken dots in a wrinkled face, while her rosy red cheeks seemed to exude radiance and warmth. ‘Lovely sunny day today.’

‘Yes, it is,’ Burt answered, standing there and scratching the back of his head, unsure of what to do.

‘Climate change seems to be giving us more sunny days,’ the lady remarked, with a little chuckle.

‘I suppose it’s better than more rain,’ Burt parried back, almost smiling in return.

‘We’re lucky to live in such a sunny part of the world,’ the lady went on.

‘I’m sorry,’ Burt cut in. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but do you want something?’

‘I was just going for a walk and my legs started to get tired,’ the lady explained, with a little shake of her head. ‘Would you mind ever so much, if I rested a little while, then I’ll be on my way.’

‘I have lots of work to do today,’ Burt told her, pulling an apologetic face.

‘My legs just aren’t what they used to be,’ the lady added, and then with some effort, turned around and hobbled back down the garden path.

‘Look,’ Burt called out. ‘I’m sorry, of course you can come inside and rest.’

‘Are you sure I can come in?’ the lady asked, turning around again.

‘Stay as long as you need to,’ Burt smiled, finally.

‘Thank you,’ the lady beamed, as she ambled her way back towards the door.

Inside, Burt led the little old lady into the lounge, and gestured for her to sit in the comfy chair. ‘My name’s Burt, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Betty,’ she told him, adjusting herself in the chair. She looked like a fragile, waif of a person, with her shawl wrapped around tight, giving her the appearance of a plant husk that could be blown away at any moment.

‘Cup of tea, Betty?’

‘That would be lovely.’

When Burt returned with the tea, he placed it down on the table with a small selection of biscuits, feeling slightly guilty about being so rude, but also because there was something about this little old lady that made him warm to her. ‘Tell me Betty, have you walked far?’

Betty nodded, then gazed towards the window. ‘It’s lovely to have all this sun,’ Betty commented, her face unfolding into a smile. ‘I see your neighbours have solar panels.’

‘Bit of an eyesore if you ask me,’ Burt stated.

Betty seemed shocked. ‘To take advantage of all this lovely sunshine and to ease pressure off the household budget?’

‘You sound like one of those emails I’ve just finished deleting,’ Burt quipped and Betty stared back blankly. ‘They keep messaging me, it’s relentless.’

‘Why don’t you get solar panels?’ Betty asked.

‘I don’t have the time.’

‘Sorry dear,’ Betty apologised, starting to get up. ‘I’m taking up your precious time.’

‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ Burt reassured her, raising his hands in mock surrender and gesturing for her to sit back down.

‘They take less than an hour to be installed, once the first payment has been made,’ Betty rattled on.

‘You seem to know a lot about it, do you have them yourself?’

Betty blinked slowly, then continued waffling, ‘They’d save twenty percent off your household energy bills and anything that isn’t used can be stored in a solar battery.’ Betty paused, momentarily. ‘That can’t be a bad thing, not during an energy crisis. Do you like the planet?’

‘Of course I do,’ Burt snapped back like a rubber band, unhappy with the direction the conversation was taking, but then corrected himself when he saw the old lady’s withered face. ‘I’m sorry, I get lots of junk sent through each day, it’s frustrating.’

‘Do it for me Burt,’ Betty reaffirmed, leaning forward and touching Burt’s hand, ‘and the planet.’

Burt looked down at the frail old hand, it felt cold on his skin. ‘I’ll look into it.’

‘Will you?’ Betty beamed back. ‘Do you promise?’

Burt nodded, then added, ‘you haven’t touched your tea, it’ll be getting cold.’

‘In a moment,’ Betty answered dismissively, not taking her eyes off Burt. ‘Will you sign up for the solar panels today, if you get a fifteen percent discount?’ Betty continued to press and Burt shrugged, unsure if she was losing the plot. ‘Do you have a pen anywhere?’

‘Yes,’ Burt confirmed, reaching into the drawer of the coffee table and retrieving a pen just to make her stop.

‘Make an old lady happy and sign the contract,’ Betty pleaded. ‘Then I’ll be on my way.’

‘Okay,’ Burt agreed, playing along with significant pantomime, watching as Betty ferreted around in one of her pockets looking for something. Burt observed as she pulled out sweet wrappers, then a handkerchief and some old tissues, followed by a scrunched-up piece of tatty paper, reaffirming in his mind that she was indeed mad.

‘Make an old lady happy and sign the paper for me,’ she repeated, putting the piece of rumpled paper on the arm of the chair with a shaky hand.

‘If that’s what you want,’ Burt continued with forced politeness, signing his initials on the scrappy paper. Once complete, Burt sat back and the old lady snatched the paper away with swift dexterity and quickly concealed it back within her shawl out of sight. Her eyes seemed to glow for a moment, then she sat up straight for the first time since arriving and became very rigid.

‘By signing up for our solar panel discount plan, two thousand dollars has been deducted from your bank account to cover installation costs,’ Betty informed, concisely. ‘A further payment of five hundred dollars per annum will be taken from your solar gains,’ Betty droned on, unperturbed. ‘We at Solar Energy Ltd are thrilled to have you as a new and valued customer,’ Betty paused. ‘Do you understand the information that has been given to you, or would you like it repeated?’

Burt sat for a moment, stunned, until the old lady stood up and boomed at full volume, ‘Do you understand the information or would you like it repeated?’

‘I’d like you to leave,’ Burt fired back, finally putting his foot down. He reached over to hurry her along, but she seemed quite solid, as if glued to the spot with terrific strength. ‘Excuse me, can you please leave?’

‘Do you understand the information, or would you like it repeated?’ Betty parroted, then added, ‘You’ve signed a legally binding contract today and breaking it could lead to a court summons.’

‘Wait a minute, I haven’t signed a legally binding contract,’ Burt countered, but then Betty pulled back her shawl to reveal a metal body with a transparent box attached showing the scrunched-up paper, now ironed out flat with Burt’s initials signed on it. ‘Man alive, you’re a machine!’ Burt yelled, looking at the complex system of levers and pulleys, with wires connecting everything in all different colours. Burt could see her legs had been angled to give her a hobbled stoop and on closer inspection, her feet had a set of wheels on the bottom where they connected with the ground.

Suddenly, Burt heard a buzzing near the window and saw a swarm of drones descending on the roof. Getting up, Burt could hear drilling from above and realised the solar panels were already being installed. ‘I didn’t sign up for this.’

‘Actually, you did,’ Betty informed him with metallic indifference, then printed off a copy of the contract for Burt to keep, before wheeling herself smoothly back to the door at great speed. ‘Must dash, customers to sign up, targets to meet, planets to save,’ Betty chimed, already opening the door.

As she wheeled out, Betty wrapped her shawl around to hide her metal body, then hunched back over, before meandering down the street, already on the look-out for the next unsuspecting customer.

Bio:

Gregory Ballinger is an avid reader, writer and time traveller. When Gregory is not reading or writing, he often travels back to the 1800’s in England where he likes to spend his time in country gardens as an ornamental hermit, contemplating life in the cosmos. Gregory also likes cats.

The Spirited Baseball by Charles Sutphin, magical butterfly herbal tea

“I’m going to tell you a story I’ve never told to anyone.”

“Not even grandma.”

The boy tucked his knees under his chin. A sheet angled down the length of his legs and stretched tight to the end of the bed.

“Okay, fine– I’ve never told anyone, except your grandmother.”

The man looked at his grandson and recognized his own eyes staring back. Light blue and wide like almonds, the eyes reflected a shared lineage stretching through the centuries—and beyond. His grandson’s nose tapered long and slender but with a crease at the tip that originated from someone else.

“What about Dad?”

“What about Dad?”

“Has he heard it?

“You don’t seem that sick to me.”

The boy fabricated a sound like a waste disposal grinding a bone. At the age of eleven, the days of a free pass were nearing an end.

            “I am sick, Grandpa! Really I am.”

            “Of course, you are.”

The man scooted across the foot of the mattress until his back leaned against the wall. His long legs splayed off the edge of the bed. Pots clattered in the kitchen downstairs as the boy’s mother prepared dinner. A greasy smell suggestive of burgers or brats wafted through the back hallway.

“I was about your age when it happened,” explained the man in a gravelly voice, “maybe a little older. Standing on the mound, flawless in my delivery, I was pitching a perfect game when the umpire called it off on account of weather.”

The boy expressed incredulity that the old man had ever pitched a baseball, let alone a no-hitter.

“You were a pitcher—no way!?”

“A million years ago, Jack—yes, I was a pitcher, just like you. But the umpire told us to go home. Since my family lived close by, I moped my way through some fields before climbing a hill that sloped down to the backyard.”

“Where your family raised chickens?”

“We raised chickens. Can I finish the story? Are you sure you’re sick? You don’t seem sick to me?”

            The boy made another rattling sound before shaking his head.

            “At the top of the rise was a pasture. Clouds were rolling in my direction like an armada rushing toward the edge of the world . . . as if I were watching the beginning of some cosmic battle.”

            The man laughed and ruffled his grandson’s hair.

            “Answer me this —” he asked, “wouldn’t it be—I don’t know—epic to climb a ladder, stretch your hand into the clouds and feel the mist brush past your fingers? I wanted to reach into those clouds as they were preparing for battle, but that was impossible so I did the next best thing: I tossed a baseball into the air—just so--and watched it skim across the bottom of the storm. Then I threw the ball straight up, it arced, touched the clouds before falling back into my glove. After a few more throws, something happened. . .  ”

From the bottom of the stairs a voice echoed upwards: “You boys hungry? Are you staying for dinner, Dad?”

            “Just a minute,” answered the boy. “Go on, Grandpa, what happened?”

            The old man placed his hands in front of him like a magician at the end of a trick, flung them open and announced: “It vanished!”

            “What vanished?”

            “The baseball.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “On that final toss, I reached into the bottom of my being and threw that ball with all my might: it floated into the clouds and . . . disappeared.”

            The man looked upward as if tracking an object sailing through the top of the ceiling.

            “It never returned,” he continued. “Not that day at least.”

            “Grandpa, have you been drinking again?”

            Jack placed his head on top of his knees like a pumpkin waiting to be smashed.

            “I mean—” said the man, ignoring the comment, “I threw that baseball into the clouds, waited for it to fall . . . only it didn’t. I waited and waited, mouth open and . . . nothing. It vanished. I searched every inch of that field until the rain turned vertical. I ran home, changed my clothes, came back a few hours later. I’m telling you, Jack, the armies of the wind or spirits of the world, something blessed or infernal, grabbed that ball and there’s nothing more to say . . . except what happened next.”

            With a flat face and sharp chin that resembled her son’s, the woman from downstairs appeared with a tray of food. She asked if Jack was feeling better. The boy acknowledged his symptoms were improving but remained uncertain how he might feel in the morning. After a brief discussion the older man instructed his daughter to take the tray back and explained that he and his grandson would need a few more minutes to finish before joining the family for dinner.

            “All right,” said the woman, “but I don’t want this food going to waste.”

            The man continued elaborating upon the miracle of his life.

“Fifteen years later I’m thinking about marrying your grandmother. We’d survived Elvis and the so-called British Invasion when Mimi insisted that if we weren’t getting married, she’d better things to do than hang around with a scallywag like myself. She put the squeeze on me, Jackie boy, so we got engaged and were set to live happily ever after until the day before the wedding when I got a case of cold feet.”

The man stood up. His knees cracked as he walked to a chair and sat down to finish the tale.

“I was filled with doubt,” he explained. “I walked all over Eagle Creek Park, muttering to myself and resigned to live the life of a celibate when it started to rain.”

“A what?”

“Like a monk—you see, she wanted me to stop drinking, claimed I was making a spectacle of myself and that after the wedding I needed to quit. I was cursing everyone and everything when I wandered into Blakely Field.”

“Next to the abandoned house.”

“That’s right.”

“Where we found those magazines one day.”

“Yes, Mr. Honor Roll, thanks for reminding me. Now do you want to hear the rest of this story—or not?”

The man stood to leave. The boy begged him to finish.

“On one condition,” he said and seized the opportunity, “promise you’ll go to school in the morning.”

“What if I’m sick?”

“Promise.”

“Okay,” the boy whined, “but if anyone gets pneumonia, don’t blame me.”

“So I’m staring at the ground muttering about women when I hear a whizzing sound followed by a thump, like a meteor dislodged from the sky only….”

He stared into a pair of eyes that were also his eyes and wondered if the boy would have a life as blessed as his own had been.

“It wasn’t a meteor; was it?”  said the grandson.

“Buried a few feet in front of me was the baseball from when I was a kid.”

“Come on, Grandpa—you’re making this up!”

“True story,” said the man. “I’ll tell you want I think. When I threw that ball into the air, a current in the universe or some kind of vortex sucked that ball into the sky where it circled the globe as part of the weather until one day it plummeted into the ground as an affirmation that your grandmother was the woman for me.”

Jack waited for his grandfather to crack a smile. He blew snot into a tissue before saying, “That’s not possible, Grandpa.”

“Not possible?” said the man leaning forward to rub his long legs. “From my experience, Jack, much of what a person sees and does every day is not possible. Birds, bees, you and me—a dream of improbability, so that baseball hurtling from the sky to land at my feet while I’m contemplating not marrying your grandmother—one more coincidence in a universe filled with meaning, if you open your eyes and look for it.”

“And it was the same ball?”

“I’m not sure. I won’t embellish and say otherwise. You know that word?”

Jack shook his head.

“It’s a fancy word for lying, but I’m not. It was the same ball because that’s what I believe. Do you understand? I’m not worried about proof. I believe it was the same ball telling me to create a family—to create you. I believe what I choose to believe. At the end of the day, I think we all do.”

“And you still have it?”

“I don’t. I found that ball buried in the mud, some relic from the sky, and I married your grandmother. A few years later when the clouds were thick, abnormally low, and my arm was strong I . . .”

“Don’t . . . ”

“ . . . threw the ball, watched it sail, arc into the clouds and . . .”

The man waited for the youngster to fill in the blank.

“Disappear,” he said dejectedly.

“To swirl around the world and fall again and inspire someone else to contemplate the miracle of a blessed life—maybe even you, Jackie boy, maybe even you.”

 Bio:

Charles Sutphin is a retired professor, attorney, journalist and capitalist. He volunteers at the Northside Food Pantry and serves on several not-for-profit boards. Married for 35 years, he has two children. His writing has appeared in Eclectica, Vita Poetica, Metaworker, Literally Stories, Helix Review, Agape and many other fine publications.