When We Watch The Lord of the Rings Movies Back to Back (Extended Edition) by Hannah Retallick, old-fashioned with popcorn syrup

We watched Frodo trudge to Mordor on one of the rare days he was with me instead of her. A bowl rested between us, crammed with popcorn, sweet and salty because he can never commit. Frodo leant on his faithful companion. I sucked my fingers clean, waved them towards the screen.

True love right there, I said.

He didn’t show he’d heard. Maybe he hadn’t. Still, we kept watching, silently, eleven hours straight, stopping only three times to refresh ourselves and shake our bodies awake.

My crossed leg switched sides every few minutes, proving it didn’t care either way. When it was towards him, I slipped into his sofa rut. The empty popcorn bowl was the only thing separating my hand from his burning arm. Summer or winter, his sun-speckled skin runs as hot as Mount Doom. I feel it, she feels it, we all feel it, drawn together in voiceless fellowship; a fellowship we pretend doesn’t exist, because we’re ‘not like other girls’.

He was yawning by the time the credits rolled. He checked his phone, perhaps looking for a message from one of the others, but who knows? He had made it none of my business.

I longed to watch the extra features, make a weekend of it, but I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. It would have thrown us straight into the lava, hurried our inevitable end. At least for now, he was here, and we were safe.

 About the author

Hannah Retallick is from Anglesey, North Wales. She was home educated and then studied with the Open University, graduating with a first-class BA (Honours) Arts and Humanities (Creative Writing and Music) degree, before passing her creative writing MA with distinction. Her work has been placed and shortlisted in several international competitions.
Website: https://www.hannahretallick.co.uk/about
Blog: https://ihaveanideablog.wordpress.com

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Gabriela by Rob Molan, Tequila Sunrise

My visit to Octavio’s house earlier set my mood for the night. He and his family had erected a candlelit altar in their home adorned with photos of departed relatives. These sat alongside the favourite foods and drinks of the deceased, plus pots of orange marigolds which scented the room.

 

‘On this day, we help to guide the spirits of our loved ones back home from the land of the dead,’ he said with a misty-eyed look. ‘It’s an important custom for us.’

 

‘It’s one which I admire. I wish we honoured the dead with more respect in England,’ I told him. Many people back home regard it as a taboo subject.

 

‘I lost my mother two years ago and miss her wisdom and love so much. Now, you must excuse me.’ He got up from his chair and walked over to the altar where he stopped in front of her photograph and bowed his head. His wife and children remained on the bench and watched him in silence.

 

Now, I’m standing in the main square in Mexico City watching the Day of the Dead procession. An endless stream of La Catrina skeletons, dancers, moving altars and giant puppets have passed by for over an hour, and I’ve been serenaded by the sound of guitars and trumpets and the rendition of traditional ballads by singers.

 

Suddenly, one of the Catrinas stops briefly and her hollowed-out green eyes study me from beneath a large hat and a smile forms on her stitched mouth before she dances gaily off into the night. Her gaze triggers a memory of when I first met Gabriela in London.

 

 

My first words to her were an apology.

 

‘Sorry, love,’ I said staring at the Guinness I’d spilt on her white skirt. ‘That was clumsy of me. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.’

 

An amused expression appeared on her face.

 

‘You’re a gentleman but it will cost you as the fabric is silk. Give me your number and I’ll let you know how much you owe me.’ Her accent sounded exotic to me.

 

‘Let me scribble it on the back of your hand.’ I pulled out a biro and she laughed and stretched out an arm.  Her startling, emerald coloured eyes glowed at me.

 

‘By the way, my name is Gabriela.’

 

‘I’m Michael.’

 

It turned out she lived ten minutes from my flat and so after her call I decided to settle the debt in person. She greeted me at her door barefoot wearing a diaphanous blue dress. She looked amazing.

 

‘It’s kind of you to come round. Do you want to come in for a coffee?’

 

‘Sure.’  I almost ran in.

 

‘Grab a seat in there,’ she said, pointing to the lounge. The smell of lavender greeted me when I entered.

 

‘Do you like living in London?’ I asked her over the first of several cups.

 

‘Yes, but I also love getting out to the English countryside. It’s so different to the environment around Mexico City where I’m from. I’ve got four months left on my course and I want to see as many chocolate box villages as I can before I go home.’

 

‘Well, that’s a coincidence. I regularly go on country walks and belong to a rambling group.’

 

‘Perhaps you could be my guide?’

 

‘That would be my pleasure.’

 

Our eyes were feasting on each other as we chatted and I could feel myself falling under her spell. We discovered we had other interests in common, a love of Abba, disco dancing, and playing chess. But more than that, we were easy in each other’s company and laughed a lot.

 

We became inseparable after that evening and set off on a dizzying voyage together, tripping the light fantastic, exploring the corners of each other’s minds, and watching sunsets together in the Chilterns. We were an unlikely couple. She was a pixie sized beauty with almond shaped eyes and long lustrous black hair. I was a tall, gangly bloke with a mop of red locks and freckles. She was conceived in a far-flung city whereas I was dragged up in Barking. She had a mellifluous voice whereas I talked with a Cockney accent. She was a high flyer doing a business course whilst I taught English in an inner city comprehensive. But through some strange magic we found a connection.

 

I was proud to introduce her to my family.

 

‘I can see you’re a good influence on him, Gabriela. He takes more pride in his appearance now,’ Mum told her. She had always hated my jeans and T shirt look.

 

‘You’re punching above your weight, son. Good on you!’  My Dad slapped me on the back as he gave me his approval.

 

‘Don’t I know it,’ I replied, watching Gabriela helping Mum to wash up.

 

I tried to persuade myself that we were having a passionate fling which would end when the time came for her to return home and we would both move onto other relationships. But I was fooling myself. I was head over heels in love with her.

 

My pal, Tony, sent an invitation to his wedding and Gabriela came with me. She caused a stir wearing a traditional floral embroidered dress and a red flower in her hair.

 

‘Wow. Are you trying to upstage the bride?’ asked one of the other guests.

 

‘No. This is how I usually dress for a wedding,’ Gabriela riposted with a big grin.

 

As I watched Tony and his betrothed standing at the altar, an image appeared in my mind of Gabriela and me in the same position. I glanced to my right to see the expression on her face but I could only guess whether she was thinking the same as me.

 

I finally made my feelings known one warm Saturday afternoon. We’d been walking in the city for a change and reached the gates of Brompton cemetery.

 

‘Let’s go in and have a rest,’ I suggested. ‘You’ll like it. The lives of many people are commemorated by spectacular memorials and the wildflowers attract birds and butterflies.’

 

‘OK. I’m feeling a little tired.’

 

We wandered up an avenue of stately lime trees and sat down on a bench beside an imposing, ivy clad mausoleum.

 

‘This makes me think of El Dia de Muertos when we visit the graveyard where my grandparents and other relatives are buried,’ she said softly. ‘We clean their graves and decorate them with candles and flowers to prepare for their return.’

 

‘That’s a beautiful ritual.’

 

The sun came out of the clouds and lit up her face, and I felt a tug on my heart.

 

‘I love you, Gabriela. You make me so happy.’ It felt so good to say it out loud.

 

‘You are wonderful,’ she replied.

 

I leaned over and kissed her soft, pillowy lips.

 

I dreaded the prospect of her returning home as the end of her course approached. Matters came to head when we went for dinner one night to Café Pacifico which had recently opened as the first Mexican restaurant in London. The dining area was dominated by a colourful mural and mariachi music was playing in the background. When we sat down, she picked up the menu.

 

‘Let me order for both of us,’ she said.

 

‘I’m in your hands.’

 

She studied it for a few minutes.

 

‘Ok. I’m going to order pollo en mole.’

 

‘Sounds interesting!’

 

The food arrived and I realised it was chicken in a sauce.  I cut a piece and put it in my mouth, and slowly chewed it. It didn’t taste like anything I’d eaten before.

 

‘Do you like it?’ She looked nervously at me.

 

‘Yes, it's delicious. What’s the sauce made of?’

 

‘Chili with a hint of chocolate. I hope it’s not too spicy.’

 

‘No, I’ve had curries much hotter than this.’ I laughed and sipped some beer.

 

We ate and chatted for a while until I mustered the courage to say what was on my mind.

 

‘Have you thought about what I said last night?’  I placed my left hand on hers.

 

‘Yes, but it’s difficult for me.’ She freed her hand. ‘I promised my father I’d be home by the end of June. He paid for my course so I could help the family firm and I can’t let him down.’

 

‘But you should pursue your own dreams. We’re so good together and it would be tragic to throw away what we have. I’m sure you could get a job here.’

 

‘I'm sorry, Michael but I’ve booked a seat on the Aeromexico flight next Tuesday.’

 

‘That soon?’ I suddenly felt sick.

 

‘I’m afraid so. In another life, things might have worked out differently.’

 

I leaned forward and looked her in the eye.

 

‘I'll follow you there. Just give me time.’ It was a promise I was determined to keep.

 

‘Que sera, que sera. Whatever will be, will be,’ she said doubtfully.

 

 

The procession is now disappearing out of sight and it’s dinner time. I turn off the main avenue and head down a side street and walk until I reach the brightly lit restaurant. The Mestizo is close to the British Council's office where I teach English and I’ve taken a few clients to it since I started working here three years ago. When my short-term contact expired I was pleasantly surprised to be offered a permanent one and snapped it up.

 

It's noisy inside and the owner sees me and comes across from the bar. He’s a paunchy middle aged guy with a twinkle in his eyes.

 

‘Good evening, Michael. How are you?’ He likes to practice his English with me.

 

‘Fine thanks, Jaime. Is that table free?’ I point over to one in a quiet corner.

 

‘Yes. I'll get you the menu.’

 

‘There's no need. I'll have pollo en mole with a beer.’

 

‘Good choice. Please sit down.’

 

I pull up a chair and make myself comfortable. The table has a pot of marigolds on it and a candle is burning in the middle.

 

Jaime returns with a bottle and opens it.

 

‘Is your lady not joining you tonight?’

 

‘No, she is with her family.’

 

‘That’s a pity. She has a good business mind and I like to get her advice.’

 

‘She’ll probably be with me next time.’

 

I slowly sip my beer until a young waitress arrives and puts a plate down in front of me.

 

‘Buen provecho,’ she says.

 

‘Gracias.’

 

As she leaves, I take the photo out of my wallet and stand it up against the candleholder. I gaze at her face for a few moments before placing the napkin on my lap and starting to eat.

 

Savouring the rich and decadent flavour of the sauce, I hear her voice in my head.

 

‘Do you like it?’

 

I reply in a whisper.

 

‘Delicious, as always.’

 

I recall the scent of her lavender perfume and, when I shut my eyes, can imagine her sitting opposite me, talking to me with her honeyed voice. I’m briefly transported back to the happiest days of my life.

 

But that all too short reverie is rudely interrupted by the memory of the newsreader's voice on late night radio.

 

‘Mexican authorities have reported that no survivors have been found following the crash of the Aeromexico flight from London to Mexico City. The plane went down north of its destination after the pilot had reported a fire on board to the control tower.  It’s the worst air accident in the country's history.’

 

I’ve never listened to the radio after dark since that day.

 

I slowly finish the meal, making sure that no sauce is left on the plate. I wipe my mouth with the napkin and look at my watch. I’d better get home. Carla will be wondering where I am. If we stay together, I’ll need to find a way of explaining to her why I need to be alone on this day.

 

About the author

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had a few stories published by CafeLit and in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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Beanpole John by Barry Garelick, ristretto macchiato

I don’t know much about you apart from our being cousins, and attending family get-togethers when we were growing up, and that you served in Viet Nam. When you were a tall and skinny teenager my mother in her adoring way said you looked like a beanpole. I called you Beanpole John once when I was little. That memory has stayed with me, though I have no memories of ever calling you that again.
I’m one of many who has migrated in life. Many of us are scattered throughout the country and the world, no longer where we were raised and usually rarely going back there. I moved from Detroit years ago as did you, though I moved out west; you didn’t move as far. You moved to Ann Arbor and then to Florida.
 

After I retired I started to feel isolated from my past – I know others who say the same thing. That feeling has increased over the last few years. I call it isolation, though it may just be a feeling of discontinuity, or maybe a combination of the two. I know people who stayed in the area where they grew up, maintaining ties with those they knew in elementary and high school and even college. I envy such continuity at times. Family and friends become more important when you get older and have more time on your hands.
 

The internet has served to connect me to people I once knew, some of whom I was close with and others not. Many people are connected by computers as is evident by the number of people on any street these days, looking down at their phones. Those transfixed on their phones are focused on the immediate present. In my case and others near me in age, it’s the past mostly. I rarely use the phone; I use the computer at home. I communicate through Facebook sometimes; other times through email. It isn’t my only form of contact with the world. I have friends where we live, and friends not too far away, and our daughter lives nearby. I go to a café every morning and occasionally talk to people I know. Most of the time, I just listen.
 

The internet that connects me with my past is, ironically, also a window on a disturbing mixture of hostile conversations, incivility, and images of violence. It feels as if the world has gone crazy and we are on the brink of disaster. My wife thinks it’s a reaction to the conflicts and threats of wars over the world. The end of democracy here seems like a reality and worldwide fascism and antisemitism appear to be on the rise. From what I’ve read about the two world wars, it feels like we are headed for one.
There is no mention of any of these things in the café I frequent in the morning, though I think it is on people’s minds. We live in a small town on the coast that my wife jokes is too small to be bombed in case of war. She also says we’ve never lived through a war like our parents did; very few people have now. We have no memories of the past other than what we’ve been told. I’m pretty sure that’s why I asked you recently whether you thought there would be a world war.

*     *     *

I called you ‘Beanpole John’ only once. It was during a visit my family made when I was six, and you were a teenager. It was shortly after your family moved from Detroit to Lake Orion, a small town considered out in the country then – an hour’s drive from Detroit on two-lane roads lined with sumac trees festooned with their red berries. I looked at the area recently using Google maps. Now it looks like any other town-turned-suburb: gas stations and Taco Bells have replaced the sumac trees, and strip malls stand where older houses used to be.
 

What I remember of your old house was the pump organ in the living room. I would try to play it, but my legs were too short to reach the pedals. You sat next to me and pumped the pedals while I pressed keys at random and pulled the various enamel covered knobs. I wasn't used to someone older lavishing attention on me. I expected at any moment that you would tire of me and go off and play with my older brother.
 

That never happened. Instead, you took me to the lake, down a vine-covered path just large enough to allow one person at a time. I asked if there were poison ivy. ‘Yep, it's all over,’ you said. ‘Don't worry, there's none on the path.’
 

The path snaked through a wooded area and eventually led to a beach pock-marked with rocks. A constant ripple of waves traveled across the surface of the small lake. The waves moved endlessly right to left. We stood on the shore, looking at the water. As I stared at the constantly moving ripples I felt as if we were travelers on a shore moving slowly to the right.
 

‘Doesn't it feel like we're moving?’ I said.
 

‘Yes, it does,’ you said. You walked out to the end of a rickety pier to which a rowboat was moored. 

 

The wood planks on the pier had turned gray with age. There were spider webs underneath the pier. No 

spiders were visible, but I knew they were somewhere.
 

 ‘Have you ever seen the spiders?’ I asked, pointing to the webs.
 

‘Once in a while.’
 

‘Are they big?’
 

‘Some are.’ I backed away from the dock. ‘Don’t worry. They keep to themselves.’
 

You picked up a rock and threw it over the water so that it skipped four or five times. It was the first time I had seen that trick.
 

You took me out in the rowboat, and I remarked that now we really were moving, it was no longer an illusion, though the waves were still moving in their constant path across the lake's surface. I wondered if it were possible for the boat to be stationary while the world was moving around us, making it seem as if we were moving. ‘Is the lake moving or are we?’ I asked.
‘We are,’ you said, and then a few seconds later said ‘and so is the lake.’
‘So you don't have to work so hard rowing if the lake is doing the work,’ I said and you laughed.
When we reached the other side of the lake, you pulled the boat up on the small rocky beach. We stood there, the waves now traveling from left to right, and consequently, both of us and the beach we were standing on now appeared to be moving in the opposite direction as it was on the other side.
 

‘You ever swim across this lake?’ I asked.
 

‘Sure. It's easy.’
 

‘Looks big to me.’
 

‘It isn't.’
 

You rowed me back to the other side and once there, showed me how to skip stones. It took a few tries, but I eventually got it. I was overcome with joy at being able to do this. We took turns skipping stones and at one point, as I watched you skip the stones I shouted ‘Beanpole John! Big Beanpole John!’ My memory of what happened next varies; sometimes I see you picking me up and spinning me around, and other times I see you turning around and laughing.

*     *     *

Your parents moved back to Detroit when I was in high school. Shortly after, you joined the army. It was during the Viet Nam war, when boys were being drafted and those who went to college had a deferment. After basic training you visited us during a short leave before you had to leave for Viet Nam. You showed my father photos taken during your basic training. One was of you standing next to a sign on your barracks, proclaiming your unit the ‘best platoon’.
 

‘They all say that,’ my father said. I could tell that hurt you. I guess you expected some camaraderie from someone who fought in World War Two. My father didn’t approve of the war in Viet Nam, and as far as his experience in the war, he didn’t talk about it much. As you were getting ready to leave, he put his arm around your shoulder and said ‘Just take it one day at a time.’
 

Shortly after you returned from Viet Nam in 1967, there was a welcome home party for you at your house. I remember Uncle Bill saying in a loud celebratory voice, ‘Let the war go on forever now that Johnny’s back home, right?’ My mother gave him a dirty look.
 

You were very quiet. Your mouth looked hardened and your eyes looked sad. I overheard Aunt Florence say to my mother, ‘He keeps to himself mostly and he swears a lot. He never used to swear.’
A few years later, you moved to Ann Arbor. You were working for the medical school, in purchasing, I think. You met Jan there and a few years later you married her. I was a sophomore at college by then. Aunt Florence invited me to have dinner with all of you one weekend. I think she wanted you to be like a big brother to me, since you were living in Ann Arbor and my mother was worried about what I was getting into.
 

You picked me up at my dorm and gave me a ride. I remember we hardly talked. I tried to make what conversation I could, but it was difficult. At one point, desperate for something to talk about I asked, 

 

‘Do you remember when I was little and you took me rowing out on Lake Orion?’
 

‘I think so,’ you said. ‘That was a while ago.’
 

I imagined telling you about how we were studying relativity in my physics class, and what relative motion was all about and that’s what I was seeing when you rowed me out on Lake Orion. I decided to keep quiet; the conversation we had was strained, and I felt I would have been showing off. Back then I thought I knew a lot more than I did.
 

The dinner at your house was tense. Aunt Florence made most of the conversation, and you and Uncle Henry were quiet. It was like you weren’t there.
*     *     *
You friended me on Facebook a few years ago, and I recently heard from you after posting a picture I took of the Pacific Ocean and the sky above the horizon. As many others are doing, I document my life with photos that I post on social media. Mostly, my pictures are of trees, clouds, ocean, streams, forests, sky, hills, sunrises and sunsets.
 

You said my picture reminded you of the South China Sea. According to your profile, you’ve written and self-published some books. I asked if you were planning to write about the war. ‘Maybe,’ you said, then later another message that said ‘No,’; then yet another sometime later: ‘I don’t remember much of it.’
 

I’ve tried imagining you in the war and pictured you being called ‘Beanpole’ when you were over there. It’s the type of name you see in war movies – one of many nicknames a drill sergeant gives out that become the soldiers’ identities as they go off to war. I asked if they called you that when you were there. ‘Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other?’ you said. ‘I’m now 80 years old. I’m still fairly tall; I haven’t shrunk much, but I weigh 185 pounds. I left the Army at 165. Not quite a beanpole even at my most fit. There were others a lot skinnier.’
 

I don’t know a lot about war other than what I’ve learned from movies and books and what people have told me. Which is to say my understanding of it is not fueled by memories. My limited conception of war has come down to relative motion – danger coming for you, or you coming toward danger, or both at the same time. I asked you if you had seen any action when you were there. ‘Not a lot,’ you said, and then told me what action you remembered.
 

 ‘I was stationed at a fort in Nah Trang. The Marines were in the fort next to us, but they moved out; two weeks later the Second Army Division moved in. I guess they told someone what they were doing, but not us grunts. One day they put up bunkers with machine guns on top, aiming over us at the enemy who we could not see. I had no rifle as a weapon; only a grenade launcher. Memories to forget. I’ve managed to forget most of my time there. Someday I’ll forget all of it. But I still get reminders: some pay I receive because of Agent Orange.’
 

When I asked you your thoughts about a world war you said, ‘I hope not. It seems like there’s always lots of wars every few years and that we’re heading for disaster. But things eventually calm down. I like to believe things will stay in that pattern. I can’t think about things I have no control over. Jan has been ill and she might not live much longer. There’s not much I can do about that other than to think about what I will do when that happens.’
*     *     *
It has been many years since we last saw each other and I really don’t know you very well. You’ve always been somewhat quiet. I expected different answers to my questions, but what I thought you would say is quickly being replaced by what you did say in my memory. In addition to imagining you as a war hero called Beanpole, I had pictured stories about watching soldiers die. I also thought you would say more about your thoughts of a future war. What you said was what you thought needed to be said; and it was enough.
 

What I know of you is mostly from the distant past, from our time at the lake, and my sense and memory of your unspoken kindness. Like you, I also take refuge in the belief that everything will be fine. My belief comes from a vague feeling of being watched over and protected by someone telling me not to worry. The messages may come in daydreams, or sometimes whispers I hear when I’m just waking up from a dream, or as I’m going to sleep at night. The voices are sometimes those of strangers and other times of people I knew, some alive, some dead. They all say the same things. There’s nothing new under the sun even though the world is changing. Things will settle down eventually, though we probably will not live to see it. We just have to believe in what we won’t be around to see. And to take it one day at a time.

About the author

Barry Garelick has fiction published in Heimat, Cafe Lit and Ephemeras. His non-fiction pieces have been published in Atlantic, and Education Next. He lives in Morro Bay, California with his wife.

 

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