In The Festive Season Do Cyber Monday Deals Follow Black Friday Discounts? by Henry Lewi, - hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows

The column in the December edition of the Las Vegas Review-Journal read; ‘Don’t ‘Miss‘ Cyber Monday who is now appearing as a Guest Dealer in the Casino at ‘The Devil’s Playground’.  The hotel now owned by The Demonia Tenentes Group, have acquired the services of Miss Cyber Monday as a guest dealer at their Poker Tables for the coming month. The lady, an internationally known Poker Dealer is a veritable demon with the playing cards, the shuffling is at light speed, and when she deals there is a definite electric buzz as the cards hit the green baize. If you don’t play at least visit the Casino in the ‘The Devil’s Playground’ and watch this ‘Demon with the cards’.’ 

 The beautiful Miss Cyber Monday had an unworldly gift with playing cards, shuffling, cutting, and dealing seemed to occur at light speed, always known to be as honest as the day was long, she was now regarded as the best Poker Dealer in the known Universe.

  Every time she dealt a card at the Poker table an electric buzz went through the players as well as all those watching, and she had dealt her cards at all the finest Casino Tables in the World, from London to Monte Carlo, from Macao to Baden-Baden and from Atlantic City to Las Vegas.

  The great pokers players of the world travelled from far and wide to play at her table, not just for the thrill, but always sure that the deal was fair, honest, and true. Their winnings allowed them to tip her generously, which allowed Miss Cyber Monday to enjoy a lavish lifestyle, dressing in the most exclusive designer clothes and travelling from Casino to Casino by Private Jet.

 And so for three consecutive weeks Miss Cyber Monday dealt her cards in the Casino in The Devil’s Playground Hotel. Four hours in the afternoon and four in the evening as the greats played at her table; fortunes were won, fortunes were lost, but the players accepted this in good grace, I mean who doubted the cards when Miss Cyber Monday dealt them?

  For the last week of her guest appearance, the CEO of the The Devil’s Playground had announced a unique Poker tournament, with the eventual finalists to play at Miss Cyber Monday’s table for the gift of Immortality to be granted by their host Lucifer the Chief Demon.  The players at this particular game would all be granted safe passage and any necessary Immunity for the duration of the Tournament, and a Twenty Five Million Dollar fee was an entry requirement.

  The forty-eight entrants which included amongst them, two Heads Of State from so-called Rogue Nations, four leaders of notorious South American Narco-Trafficante Cartels, a number of Organised Crime Bosses, as well as Minor Royal Dignitaries, and Wealth Fund Managers, but interestingly no serious professional Poker Players.

 The participants would play at tables of eight and the six winning players would contest the final game which would include Lucifer himself, with Miss Cyber Monday dealing the cards.

  Lucifer had certainly dressed for the part with white frilled shirt, black shoelace tie; a red and black striped waistcoat topped off by dark glasses and a bowler hat what he called ‘Riverboat Gambler Chic’.  

 As the six winners of the earlier rounds took their places around the green baize table, they now included the two heads of state from the Rogue Nations and the four notoriously violent Cartel Bosses; Lucifer seated himself opposite Miss Cyber Monday.

  Producing four sealed packs of cards she invited one of the players to choose a pack, another to cut the pack, she shuffled the cards with lightning speed and finally asked two more of the players to again cut the cards and gave them a final shuffle.

  In her soft sensual voice Miss Cyber Monday announced,  ‘the Game is ‘Texas hold ’em’, Aces high, I will deal, you will all play. The winner gets Immortality, the losers will give their souls to Lucifer for all eternity, are we all agreed.’

  The six players silently nodded their heads.

  ‘Very simply, I’ll deal two cards to each of you, as well as Lucifer, and the communal cards which I’ll call the flop, will be dealt in two stages, a first round of three cards, and at that point anyone can fold and quit, and walk away. I’ll then deal two more, so there are five communal cards, and with your own two cards make your best five-card hand, and as I said before, best hand wins immortality, losers still in the game give their souls to Lucifer. Are we all clear?’

  Again the six nodded their silent agreement.

   Miss Cyber Monday dealt two cards face down to each of the six plus Lucifer, then in the centre of the table she fanned out the three communal cards face up. The room was silent, the remaining Great and the Good, the Bad, The Rich, the Royals as well as the Professionals silently watched.

  ‘Gentlemen, at this point you can fold and walk away, but when I deal the next two cards there’s no quitting,’ said Miss Cyber Monday looking at the six now smiling players, Lucifer’s expression behind his dark glasses was unreadable. 

 Miss Cyber Monday dealt the final two cards into the flop; the six players smiles turned into huge grins, as they individually prepared for Immortality and untold riches, Lucifer remained inscrutable.  

 Miss Cyber Monday addressed the six and asked, ‘are we ready gentlemen, and are you all happy with the ultimate reward, and the consequences if you loose? If so, it’s now show and tell.’

  The outcome was inevitable, Lucifer won the hand as he always would, and the six let out unearthly screams as they saw their infinite futures, and finally, finally, Lucifer smiled.

 Miss Cyber Monday was indeed a Demon, whose loyalty to her boss was unequivocal.  She had an unworldly gift with the cards, the shuffling, cutting, and dealing occurring at lightning speed, and could anyone really tell if the cards were stacked or dealt from the bottom of the pack.

  Was it possible that Miss Cyber Monday or Lucifer had made the six players believe their cards were better than they really were, or were Lucifer’s cards really as good as everyone thought.  It really didn’t matter, the six souls were now forfeit, there was no immortality and Miss Cyber Monday silently left the Casino.

  She returns to the The Devil’s Playground once a year on the first Monday in December, always following Black Friday, to host Lucifer’s Festive Poker Game, and Players Worldwide are now told ‘Don’t Miss Cyber Monday Deals.’

About the author

 

Henry is a retired surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site. 

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.)

What Do You Want from Santa? by Florentina Caliman, Pina Colada cocktail

“So, what are you hoping Santa brings you this Christmas?” the fairy inquired.

“Every December, the same question, like a broken record: ‘What do you want from Santa’?" I sighed, annoyed. "As if Santa ever cared.”

The fairy arched her eyebrows. “Pardon? My hearing’s not the best, and it’s always the same ear. The left, I think... or was it the right?"

“Santa would do well to come himself as a gift. Wrapped and tied with a red bow in the Christmas stocking. But he should get rid of his belly and shave his beard because, frankly, it’s pretty unhygienic.”

“Hey, relax!” the fairy urged. "Why not leave something nice for him under the Christmas tree? That way, he’ll be happy and might even leave you a splendid gift in return.”

“Here’s the thing: I’ll place some broccoli and spinach under the Christmas tree, hoping that it will help him build muscles just like Popeye the sailor man. It also serves to make him feel guilty for never getting me any presents all these years.”

“Maybe this year, he’ll finally bring you your Prince Charming.”

“I prefer Santa Claus himself. Not only does he possess a sack filled with an abundance of gifts, but he is also bound by tradition to be very generous. Apart from this, the guy is an unparalleled champion of speed. During one night, he traverses the entire world, delivering presents faster than any prince on horseback!”

The fairy simply shrugged and walked away, leaving me behind to engage in a grumpy monologue. “Damn Christmas! All I really want is a few days off to relax. I just want to stay home, cozy up in a blanket, and watch Christmas movies. You know, those movies that have almost the same plot, just differing in the setting and characters. In a small town, a Santa who yells “HOHOHO” reunites lost old lovers or pairs up two people who just met by chance.”

After the movie marathon, I felt a comforting numbness, and I soon drifted off into a peaceful sleep. When morning came, a gentle ray of light roused me. I stretched, keeping my eyes shut, and felt a surge of happiness knowing I didn’t have to go to work. But then, something felt off; I didn’t seem to fit in the bed. Startled, I leaped up as if burned, having accidentally touched a hairy leg. A magnificent specimen of a man chuckled, finding my reaction amusing. “Oh my God,” I thought, “is he actually wearing red, loose fur underwear, knotted at the waist so they don’t fall off?”.

“Ho, Ho, Ho, good morning! I was feeling a bit bored while waiting for you to wake up. Right away, I’ll come over, bringing you breakfast. I noticed you left something for me under the Christmas tree, and I thought it would be nice to share the gift. There’s an old Romanian saying that goes, ‘Sharing what you’ve been given makes life feel heaven’. So, I made you a ‘spanakopita’ — Greek spinach pie — just the way you like it. By the way, I wasn’t sure what to do with the broccoli, so I ended up juicing it.”

I squinted my nose, musing, “It would have been better if I had left him a few macaroons, not broccoli! I hope he put a lot of feta in the spanakopita. That’s the way I like it.”

“Damn it! Could you please bring me a croissant with a generous amount of cream and a hot chocolate instead?” I replied.

“Nooooo! Spinach and broccoli are actually good for maintaining a healthy figure! Can’t you see the benefits?”

After gently touching the squares on his abdomen, he continued on. “Finish your food! Soon we’ll take a stroll to the North Pole, where you can meet the elves and goblins.”

“Santa, do I look like I’m built for snow? My ideal winter is sipping cocktails in the Caribbean, not wrestling with reindeer in sub-zero temperatures. Plus, now that you’ve lost weight, you don’t have that extra layer to keep you warm anymore, and your stomach deserves to be shown off on the beach.”

“Well, it seems like you’re always finding something to complain about. Anyway, just to let you know, we’ll be heading to the Caribbean as soon as I finish removing the hair from my legs.”

He placed his fingers in his mouth and let out a sharp whistle, summoning Rudolph the Reindeer, who swiftly appeared.

“Get ready! We’re heading to St. Barts in the Caribbean in two hours!”

The sled touched down on the sandy shores of Eden Rock Beach. Once the sexy Santa caught their eye, a crowd of women, each looking like a top model, flocked to him like bees around their queen. With a confident smile, he flexed his muscles, drawing cheers from his fans. “Wow, now that I’ve lost the weight, I finally understand the appeal of swimsuits,” he said, pulling sunscreen from his pocket. “However, my sensitive skin needs protection from this brutal sun!”

Meanwhile, my eyes lingered on the endless sea, where the sun bent toward the waves with a tender smile, its rays caressing the water, which shimmered like the radiant face of a happy woman.

I lounged on a chaise longue, placing an order for a refreshing cooler. To my surprise, they served me a detoxifying juice made from freshly squeezed cucumber, but at quite a steep price. I concluded it was neither better nor worse than broccoli juice.

I flagged down the bartender. “May I have a pina colada and a cheesecake, preferably a big slice, please! And could you kindly hand the bill to that gentleman over there?”

I pointed at Santa, letting my fat belly bask in the sun. Eyes closed, I started humming a tune to myself.

Santa, you seem so youthful,

Is this your first visit to me?

I won’t allow you to leave again. Truthful!

It will be a dreamy night, you’ll see.

And then, I really woke up. The Caribbean Sea vanished, and so did Santa. Even so, I’ll leave an apple pie under the tree—just in case.

 

About the author 

 

Florentina Caliman is an engineer who has always been enchanted by fairy tales, ancient history, and mythology. Now, she channels that passion into creative writing, transitioning from scientific writing to storytelling. 

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.)

Another Nutcracker by Sally A Locke, to be consumed with a nice strong sup of tea and a mince pie

Elspeth knew it was time to go.

She put her hand on Debbie’s shoulder and squeezed it.  The two of them looked at each other with watery eyes.  Their gazes were deep and neither of them had any words.

‘I’ll let them know’, said Debbie.  ‘Cup of tea?’ she asked, reflecting that this was probably the last one she’d make her mum.

‘That would be lovely, please.’ replied Elspeth.  The steam rose and Elspeth held up her cup, as much as she was able, to admire the delicate blue flowers on it. ‘We got these as a wedding present.’ Elspeth sighed.

Debbie nodded.  She’d heard this many times before.

‘You do make a lovely cuppa’, said Elspeth.

The ambulance men were calm and quiet.  They handled her gently.  They knew what to do.  The ride to the hospice seemed to take forever, as Elspeth breathed through her pain and focused on memories of the many happy times at 9, Leewood Avenue.  They had moved in when Debbie was just three weeks old, so it was the only home she’d ever known.  Now Debbie had her own daughter, Eleanor, who reminded Elspeth of herself as a young girl, especially as Eleanor was a mad keen ballet dancer just as she used to be.

Moving Elspeth into her room was smoothly done.  They passed by the beautiful hydrangeas, still flowering so late in the year, on their way to the patio doors. As though to welcome her, Elspeth thought.  Holmwood House was silent.  You wouldn’t know there was anything going on in the background: the nursing staff, the administrators, the small restaurant, visitors coming to see their loved ones, the managers, the maintenance men and a whole team of gardeners making sure everything was pristine for their special guests.

Yes, they did make you feel special.  Not like someone who didn’t have much time left but more like someone whose remaining time was so very precious that every moment had to be cherished for them and with them.

Elspeth only had to ring the bell very lightly and smiley people would appear, ready to tend to her every need.  She felt like the Queen of Sheba.  She didn’t mind any more whether she was here for a day or for a week or a month.  Time had ceased to be important.  Elspeth switched on Classic FM.  She and John always used to have it on in the background, even when they were reading companionably with their feet up in the lounge. Hearing Swan Lake or The Sleeping Beauty reminded her of when she used to be on stage, back in her twenties.  At once she could feel the movements.  ‘Remember, you are Clara,’ Miss Stone, the ballet master would say.  Clara was her favourite role.  She closed her eyes and could feel her blue silky dress floating and the laces of her ballet shoes on her legs, raising her arms high as she pirouetted across the stage.

 She knew Debbie and Eleanor would be coming to visit as soon as she came out of school.  Eleanor would be excited to see Granny in a different place.  No doubt she would want to play with the electric bed, making it go up and down, and eat some of the colourful fruit out of the bowl on the sideboard.  She wouldn’t understand why Granny was here or that soon she wouldn’t be.  The important thing was to continue making happy memories for her to keep.

She felt very frail and drowsy now but she managed to find a pen and the little notecard she had chosen at the stationery shop a few weeks ago.  It had a pink ballet dancer on the front. She wrote the message she’d been thinking out in her shaky hand then sealed the envelope and propped it up behind a vase on the shelf above her head.  Then she decided to have a little snooze before they arrived.

**

‘Granny, Granny.’ called a high voice as the little girl skipped into Elspeth’s room. ’Wake up, we’ve come to see you.’ Eleanor picked up Elspeth’s hand but it went floppy in hers.  Debbie gasped and pulled Eleanor to her.  ‘It’s OK. Don’t try and wake Granny.  I think she’s deep asleep.  Let’s go and get a drink for now.’  She knew.  Elspeth had held on long enough.  She had such a peaceful expression on her face, that all Debbie felt for now was relief.  She would find a way to tell Eleanor later.

**

After the funeral, Debbie went back to Holmwood House to collect her mother’s things.  She found an envelope with her daughter’s name on it.  How lovely, she thought.  Her mother was always thinking about her family.

            ‘It’s a letter Mummy.  Oh look at the picture on the front.  It’s so pretty.  It looks like me,’ said Eleanor.  She read it out loud,

‘Dear darling Eleanor,

By the time you read this, I’ll have left your world for the next one.  I’m sure it’s going to be full of sugar-plum fairies, all dusted in icing sugar, dates stuffed with pistachios, and chocolate brownies, all those yummy goodies.  I’m going to miss you so much, my sweetheart.  But, when you put on your tutu for your shows –I’m sure there will be many – think of me and I will be there in the audience, watching and encouraging you, my lovely little dancer, even though you won’t see me.  When your name goes up in lights, I will be clapping and cheering you on, even if you can’t hear me.  I will be there in your dreams, even when you don’t remember them.  My heart is inside yours forever, all my love Granny. ‘

 

**

Ten years later, Eleanor was still mad-keen on dancing. She auditioned for a role with the English National Ballet.  She was delighted to be chosen to play Clara in the Nutcracker at The Coliseum.

‘That’s so exciting,’ said Debbie.  ‘Your granny danced in that ballet at the Coliseum. She would be so proud of you.’ She helped Eleanor pack her bag for the dress rehearsal.  ‘So, you’ve got your point shoes, your white tights, your costume is at the theatre.  Anything else?’ she asked her daughter.

‘You’re forgetting one very important thing,’ said Eleanor, reaching into her bedside drawer and taking out a scruffy, folded piece of paper.  ‘Granny may not be here in person, but I always take this when I’m in a show.’ She popped it in her bag.

‘Of course,’ said Debbie. ‘I’ll be in the audience for the dress rehearsal so if you get a chance give me a wink.’

‘I think that may be difficult with all the lights, but I’ll try,’ said Eleanor.

**

 

The smell of the chalk on the floorboards, the sound of the swish of skirts.  Eleanor could almost taste the dust.  It all felt natural to her.  Like home.  As she warmed up in the wings, all she could see was dark shadows across the auditorium, going back and back for ever.  The Coliseum was after all the biggest theatre in London.  But she didn’t feel overwhelmed, she just couldn’t wait to dance.

As she tiptoed onto the stage with the other children to decorate the Christmas tree, everything seemed to light up even brighter.  Tchaikowsky’s music engulfed her body and she stepped across the magical scene more delicately than she’d ever danced.  She remembered to glance very quickly into the stalls, where she knew her mother would be sitting.  There were hundreds of parents and friends there to support them. She couldn’t make out any faces in the shadows, just silhouettes. But as she looked, she stared and blinked. She hesitated for a moment in disbelief. There was one face that stood out from the audience, lit up in a strange but beautiful way.  She fleetingly noticed the familiar smile, saw the love in her granny’s eyes, before the dark shadows returned. This would be the best dance of her life.  

 

About the auhtor

  

Sally Locke has recently retired from her work as a counsellor and coach. She has always been equally fascinated by human behaviour and by figures from literature. She’s been writing all her life but especially enjoys writing about quirky things that happen to ordinary people like herself. 

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.)

Hey Dad by Leonie Jarrett, a cup of strong English breakfast tea

Hey Dad, I remember my first Christmas. Well, I don’t actually. The first Christmas that I remember, I don’t remember exactly how old I was. I think my childhood Christmas memories have jumbled together...I remember Mum always putting out a carrot and a cookie and a beer for Father Christmas before I went to bed. Is leaving out a beer an odd Australian thing Dad? A nod to the fact that Christmas in Australia is summer? Did you do it growing up in Ireland? I never asked you that.

 

I remember wanting to hurry to bed and hurry to sleep because Mum told us that Father Christmas would not stop at our house if we saw him. Nice one, Mum. Well played! I would be too scared to look at the sky just in case I caught a glimpse of Father Christmas, the sleigh or the reindeer. He wasn’t Santa when I was a child; always Father Christmas.

 

I remember big gatherings with my aunties, uncles and cousins on Mum’s side. Your side were all in England and Ireland. Did you miss Christmas with your family Dad? I never asked you that either.

 

I remember Christmas 1975. We spent it in Southport, England with your family. I was seven years old and I wanted to see snow. But no snow came. There was you, Mum, Lou and me. Paul wasn’t born until the next year. You had three sisters all living in Southport and all with children. Your brother, his wife and children (they had five of them) came over from Ireland with your Dad. Your Mum had died suddenly the year before. I think that was the idea of the trip – have your Dad and the family meet all of us including Mum. Overseas travel wasn’t “the norm” then. Not like now. It must have been a big deal for the four of us to go overseas.

 

I remember that, after Christmas that year, we went to Ireland and I went with you to lots of people’s houses to visit. They would play cards and drink and smoke. You never drank nor smoked but you loved playing cards. Ironically, cards - Bridge - kept you going in retirement. Gave you a purpose and a routine. Anyway, I am skipping ahead.

 

I remember certain, special Christmas presents...my first bike. The only bike I ever had actually. It was metallic dark blue – I guess you put it together; not the Elves! And the trampoline, still in the box unassembled and to be shared with Lou and Paul. In those days, trampolines were just rectangular things with no padding over the nasty springs. No one ever got hurt on our trampoline which was a miracle really.

 

I remember my first Christmas as a wife in 1992 (it meant I had a lot more to think about and more presents to buy) and my first Christmas as a mother in 1996 (Mark was born in early January so I had to wait almost a year for that occasion). I also remember every first Christmas with each of my four children. You were always there – part of every Christmas.

 

I remember for many years after you and Mum divorced that you wanted to spend Christmas Day with your new partner and her friends. You also wanted to see your grandchildren so you always wanted to come by for breakfast. It meant we had a rushed Christmas morning every year then lunch with my in-laws and dinner with Mum or the other way around (we alternated each year). Christmas became a test of endurance for me. I resented you for the rush and tried to tell you so many times but you were stubborn about it. I never could change your mind about anything Dad. You were black and white. No grey. Decision made, decision done. I’m not like that.

 

Why all these memories? All this reminiscing? It’s because of the last few months with you Dad. When you were sick and then we realised you were dying. The long days in the hospital keeping you company as the cancer ate away at you and you shrivelled in front of me.

 

This year is my first Christmas without you Dad. I knew it was coming. Knew it a year ago when you were diagnosed. Just didn’t know when exactly.

 

Parents should die before their children. That’s the right order. And you were 83. Not young. But the finality has rocked me. More than it did when my father-in-law died and that’s not because I didn’t love him. I did. He was a beautiful man and I miss him to this day, thirteen years on.

 

I think you going Dad has rocked me because you were always there. From the beginning. So many childhood and adult memories are weaved with memories of you and now you’re gone. And if I have a memory which leads to a question, I can’t ask you any more. All I can do is have these conversations with you in my head.

 

Anyway, I remember Dad. All those Christmases. Lots of things actually. Over my whole life.

 

Hey Dad, I miss you.

About the author 

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

 

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.) 

 

Saturday Sample: Angels and Devils by William Wilson, clean drinking water

 

ANGEL OF MERCY

 

 

'I don't know what I'm doing here,' she says. 'It's not as if I can make any difference.'

She is standing by a bed. It has a rusting cast-iron frame, a thin mattress and a red-cross blanket. The woman in the bed, not much more than a teenager, with livid burn marks across her face and arms, is moaning and trying to remove the bandages around her eyes. Outside there is the thump of artillery and the occasional crack of rifle fire.

      'You always make a difference,' I say. 'Look at me.'

      She faces me, a mask over her nose and mouth, her hands gloved, her eyes cast down as if looking for a hiding place in the floor. I place my hands on her shoulders.

      'Look at me.' I shake her shoulders gently. 'Come on.'

      Slowly she raises her gaze, large soft eyes tilting upwards, tears rimming the lower lids, bulging outwards, waiting to fall. She angrily scrapes them away with the back of a sleeve and blinks a couple of times.

      'You just have to get through this,' I say. 'Think about your place here. We cannot manage without you. Really. If you give up, then we might as well all go home.'

      'But there's nothing we can do to help these people,' she says. 'They may as well already be dead.' She gestures towards a tiny baby with its huge head and staring eyes and little twigs of arms, its withered legs drawn up to its belly in a tangle of pain.

      'There's not much I can do for this little fellow,' I say, 'but you will give him love, you will help him in his final moments, and this woman here.' I look at the old lady in the bed behind us, curled up asleep, breathing evenly. 'We have saved her. Remember the story of the starfish?'.

      'What's the story of the starfish?' she asks. She knows I love telling stories.

 

'There was a man walking along a beach after a tidal surge on the Massachusetts coast,' I begin. 'There was hardly anyone about. There'd been warnings the day before to stay away from the shore, but the danger was over now. Among the flotsam and the stinking seaweed there are thousands of starfish washed up above the tideline. He sees a young boy, tousle headed, rough clothing, no shoes, picking up one of the starfish and preparing to throw it into the sea.

      'Whatever are you doing?' says the man. 'There are thousands and thousands. You can't possibly save them all.'

      The boy doesn't answer, just looks at him as if he is stupid, then he takes a little run forward and throws the starfish as far as he can out to sea.

      'I saved that one,' he said.'

 

'Hmmm. And what about him?' the nurse says, removing her mask and pointing to a bed beside the wall, her pretty mouth downturned in distaste. The rebel soldier is propped up on pillows, bloodied bandages binding his chest, a deep cut across his right cheek carving an ugly 'V' across his ear, a crazy paving of stitches and sutures. 'What are we saving him for?'

      'We must not take sides,' I say. 'We are all God's creatures. We must have compassion for everyone.'

      'But when he leaves here, he will go on to kill and rape and maim more than we can possibly save,' she says.

      'We must not take sides. You know that.'

      I can see her looking at the soldier. He is strong despite his wounds. He looks back at her, eyes narrowing. There is another rumble of artillery fire, getting closer, and he grins. She is thinking, chewing her lip. She looks brighter; suddenly a new perspective has opened.

      'You're wrong,' she says to me, very matter of fact; there is no argument; she is very sure of herself. 'We cannot stand and watch. It's a bit like the starfish. We have to act.'

Smiling now, the nurse strokes my arm as if to comfort me, to reassure me, and takes the key from her apron pocket and picks her way between the beds to the locked cabinet near the operating table. She unlocks the cabinet, takes out a ridged green bottle and loads a syringe from it, enough to kill a horse. She looks back as if daring me to make a move. She goes over to the soldier and holds his hand, caresses his forehead and makes soothing noises in his good ear. He closes his eyes. She takes his arm and pushes the needle deep into the muscle.

 

Published in anthology Twisted Tales,

 Ragingaardvarkpublications 2016

Find your copy here  

About the author 

William Wilson pursued a business career and travelled extensively before retiring in 2003. He subsequently took a BA Fine Art degree course, graduating from Brighton University in 2010, followed by Creative Writing Course with New Writing South. He is a widower with two daughters and four grandchildren, and lives in Hove.