Blue Sky Days, by Beth Sherman, Salted caramel mocha frappuccino

Before she went missing, my mother used to say that spending time at the Shabby Tabby Cat Café, in Sayville, was like a slice of heaven. Cats sleeping in fluffy oversized boots. Cats nibbling treats. Cats watching other cats chase butterflies on YouTube. All the animals have been rescued from unfortunate situations, according to Rianne, the owner. She wouldn’t say what that meant, but I kept thinking of a TV show I saw where an old lady died at home and her cats started eating her after 24 hours. All the cats at the cafe are available for adoption, which Rianne told us is a better experience than going to a shelter and seeing your future fur baby caged. It cost $20 per person, per hour, which is expensive but you get free beverages. We liked to arrive at 11, so we could get the comfortable seats, upholstered armchairs with a view of the cat tree scratching posts.

We did this on Blue Sky Days when my mother said Good morning, did you sleep well,  when she took a shower, and asked me how work was going. I always took two anti-histamines before setting out. I’m not a cat person. As a kid, I’d requested goldfish but when my Dad bought a tank the fish kept leaping out anytime anyone left the top uncovered.

My mother didn’t want to adopt a cat – I’d offered – though she enjoyed watching them go about their lives.   

The last time we went to the Café – three days before she took off – it smelled like kitty litter and a couple of cats had eye infections. On the wall was a chalkboard, updated daily, showing the number of adoptions – 1,074 – since the café opened in 2018.

 I wish someone would adopt me, my mother said plaintively, sipping her Irish Breakfast tea.

What do you mean? I asked, knowing exactly what she meant. In the last few months, I’d become a mean parent, telling her what she could and couldn’t do, limiting, restricting, cajoling, pleading, reminding. Ironic, since I don’t have kids.

You know I hate living with you, Lauren. If someone here adopted me, I could move out.

She looked around the café, at the mother telling her son not to pull some poor cat’s tail, at the teenage volunteer with a nose ring, at the elderly couple petting a Siamese, as if this were a real possibility.

You can’t live by yourself anymore.   

I’d voiced this sentiment so often that it ceased to have meaning, like when you stare at a word so long it starts looking weird.

Well, I’m going to stay right here she announced loudly, picking up my peppermint iced coffee and chewing my straw. I’m not leaving.

The problem with Blue Sky Days is I never knew how long they’d last. I saw Rianne look over at us and wondered what it was like to be a married business owner with siblings who helped out in the store.

You can’t make me go, my mother shouted.

Before she came to live with me, my mother had almost set her apartment on fire because she heated a pot of chicken noodle soup, then forgot all about it. 

A grey cat with black stripes rubbed against her ankles and leapt into her lap.

Oh, said my mother, startled. Oh, my.

The cat had eerie green eyes. Do you like Miss Spinks? Rianne said, coming over. She’s very gentle, very friendly.

Aren’t you a pretty girl? my mother said, stroking the cat’s downy fur.

I wondered what it felt like to be Miss Spinks. Nestled close to my mother’s body. Content. Beloved.

About the author

Beth Sherman has had more than 150 stories published in literary magazines. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on X, Bluesky or Instagram @bsherm36.

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The Archive of Unsent Messages, by Mark Mrozinski, French martini

Jon had been working with Vince, his counselor, for almost three years, which was less than ten percent of his thirty-five years on Earth. If he only considered his adult years since he was eighteen, well, that was just about eighteen percent of his life. Still, it took Vince all that time to mention the archive. Wasted time. Jon had never heard of it before. That Vince had never mentioned it frustrated him. It sounded like something that might break the stalemate in the darkness that had covered him for most of the eighteen percent.

“It’s not going to heal you,” Vince said, but Jon was certain something might shake loose.

The Archive of Unsent Messages.

“I think if I just saw a few of them, I’ll see how ridiculous it is I’m not content with my life.” Jon snapped his wrist, cracking the joint with a brittle pop, a tick he’d had since middle school.

“It doesn’t work that way. You and I can only do so much looking backward. Immerse yourself in today. That’s the answer.” Vince always said this at least once a session, and Jon hated it.

Immerse, immerse, immerse!

Sometimes he thought himself submerged in concrete, immobile, almost unfeeling. How’s that for immersion, Vince?

That night, Jon started his clandestine search, the one for the archive, for he couldn’t ask Vince about it again. Skiffer, an orange tabby that had found Jon a few years back, skittered across his laptop as he began his quest in earnest.

“Quiet, Skiff. I’ve fed you. Now, settle yourself.” He reached over and gave Skiffer a long stroke down the length of his spine. He enjoyed how the cat pressed back, arching all the way to the tip of his tail. Look at me, Skiff seemed to say, I need your attention.

“Now, get down.” Jon gave him a gentle shove and the cat jumped to the floor, running to his nesting spot on the back of the couch.

It should be so simple—a few well-chosen keywords and the site should appear, with little map pins even—but no, there was nothing. Just junk—mostly describing how to unsend a text or email. And an online project where people posted their stories of regret. All emotive nonsense.

Jon didn’t need others’ stories, not when he had his own.

No. The place he was looking for wasn’t one of grief, or processing, or directions on how to do anything. According to Vince’s cryptic reference, some place kept the messages you intended to send but didn’t, the ones you typed but never sent. Instead, you deleted them, backspaced over them, or let them sit in a draft folder of accusation.

But even more—there were messages you intended to write, the ones you composed in your mind, the ones that never made it into your phone—your courage floundered, or your faith. They were all captured in the archive.

What would Jon learn from seeing them after all these years? For some, he’d have made the right choice not to send them, and others a wrong choice, but they’d all be unchangeable. So, why? Because you get to a place in your depression where you sense you’ve tried everything that everyone has suggested—more exercise, what to eat, what to read, what not to read, and on and on. But it had been four months since Vince had mentioned the archive, and Jon had thought of nothing else since. He realized his OCD was beginning to spiral, yet he needed to know.

#

In 2003, Jon was a young nineteen, and it was his first summer back home from university. Accounting was a breeze for him, so much so, he wanted to change his major to something more … dreamy. He considered quantum logic but found he couldn’t even explain it to his parents. Perhaps that made it perfect.

 He’d worked for his dad that summer in his accountancy firm. The work dulled his mind—especially his imagination—yet he could think of anything but numbers, even magical things, and still get the footings right. He told his dad how he hated the work, how it smothered some small flame inside his soul, but his father was uncomprehending, recalcitrant even. “You think I love my job,” he threw in Jon’s face, “but it makes a life for us—clothes, food, vacations, a good life, and it pays your tuition. Don’t forget that.” Discussion over.

So, he didn’t speak of how he loathed his studies, but most everyone understood, his mother most of all. They would never speak of it, but she knew, and it added to the heaviness she carried, her own demons compounded now with those of her husband, and her son.

#

“I’m not going to speak of this anymore,” Vince said. And that was that.

Jon had anticipated Vince’s reaction after what he’d said in their last session. But Jon had made no progress in his research. He’d slept little. His work was suffering, but he told no one what he carried—about his sessions with Vince. It was none of their business. But they still knew something, like his mom knew.

“I don’t think we’re making any progress.” Jon couldn’t look at Vince, afraid it would weaken his resolve. He instead looked at the small hologram globe on Vince’s coffee table, rotating so slowly it looked as though it were frozen. But Jon was sure it had moved, for he’d watched it long enough to notice. And then he popped his wrist, somehow pacified by the snapping sensation.

“You’re endlessly replaying—reliving—things you can’t change. Learn and move on.” Despite Vince’s directness, his face was void of sharpness, angularity, absorbing whatever ill will Jon could summon.

“But my mind seems to have its own life. I wish it were that easy.”

“These things take time,” Vince said, with a surety that ended that line of conversation.

Jon always interpreted these comments as failure—his failure to internalize what Vince was teaching. After all, Vince was a degreed, licensed psychologist. He knew his stuff, and if his stuff wasn’t working on Jon, it must be something in Jon. If he could only be more disciplined, more earnest, more something. After all, he liked Vince.

“How long?” Jon looked up, expectant of something new—something novel to hang on to.

“You know I can’t say that? It takes what it takes.” And Vince’s face transformed from one of thoughtfulness and concern to a warm graciousness that sickened Jon now. “We’re making progress. I’m certain you can feel it.”

And Jon knew then this would be their last session together, because he felt nothing. He was tired of Vince’s empty platitudes, all the churning through emotions and memories. And all for what? He had nothing to show for their time together. No—he owed Vince nothing. It abruptly seemed so transactional. I pay—he heals me. But that was the trick. The healing. Was it even a possibility? And for the first time Jon entertained a notion of utility in Vince, motivated only by the session fees. After all, Vince had a family and deserved to make a living. Jon understood the notion was a whim of his mind—not reality—yet it made the rupture more palatable, even sensible.

#

Skiff was watching from the back of the couch again, his tail flicking in intermittent irritation. He didn’t like Jon spending so much of his time at his laptop, staring at that screen. And Jon would glance up every few minutes and stare back, so Skiff would understand who the boss was. He’d pushed Skiff off his laptop enough that he’d roused the cat’s arrogance. How can an animal carry so much pretense in defeat? And then he realized Skiff didn’t see the defeat, like a great dementia that deceived the cat’s mind and allowed for the incongruence—Skiff’s superpower.

But finally, he found what he was looking for. Not truly found it himself, but rather found someone who found it through some blog in some dark corner of the Web. And after a few careful posts, the purchase of a burner phone, and then trading texts, he learned where to look.

It was there—or almost. Just a single page. An international number to text.

Jon: I need to find some unsent messages

+41 22 123 45 6: credentials?

Jon thought. How could there be a password? There was no mention of a password.

+41 22 123 45 6: ???

He closed his eyes and saw his mom on that day, the last time he was with her, face puffy, eyes half closed, in the blue robe she’d worn for the last month and a half, cigarette fuming in her hand, unsmoked. He’d never forget.

Jon: 2003.09.22

Nothing. His chest felt empty, something stolen from inside him in an instant.

But just before he threw the burner against the wall …

A hyperlink.

A form to complete.

Name: Jon Rivas

Age: 35

Messages for retrieval: _

He paused, then smiled. His hesitancy amused him. He’d assumed he’d need to provide some context of the messages, otherwise how could the office find what he needed? An individual might have hundreds, even thousands, of contemplated messages that never found their recipients.

The cursor blinked after the colon, patient, waiting.

Messages for retrieval: correspondence with my mother, September 2004

Would they need more than that? There was a lot unsaid that summer, a lot unsent. His throat tightened, then his chest. What was this? What was he feeling?

Vince would have him journal the sensations until they coalesced into emotions that would unsettle Jon. But now there was something infinitely dark on the edge of his perception, a hole of some kind, an emptiness, a longing—grief.

Yes. They’d need a bit more, so he added: regarding my mother’s death

#

After trading a few texts with some administrative type, Jon’s messages were approved for retrieval. The admin described the process as incremental. Jon wasn’t sure what that meant, but he assumed it was more of a trickle than a data dump.

In fact, he went to bed that night with nothing to show for his work. He’d made contact with the archive and followed their protocol, but no messages followed. A familiar emptiness sat in his chest as he lay in the dark that night. Skiff watched from under the desk, his eyes glowing an iridescent green, awake, indicting.

But in the morning, without preamble or explanation, the first text appeared. The message looked no different from any other on his phone, except he knew. It struck something deep inside, even though he didn’t immediately place the context. It was so generic, it could be dropped into anyone’s life and have context.

But then it burned in him in an inextinguishable way. He almost deleted it, but instead he reread it a hundred times, as though it were difficult to decipher.

The archivists. How could they access his thoughts—something unspoken, unsent—for seventeen years?

+41 22 123 45 6: It’s not your fault

#

It wasn’t her fault. She had endured enough of his dad’s oppression. He had always been missing, negligent, first with her, then with Jon. Perhaps the only blessing was the difficulty of his birth, for afterward, she could have no others.

It wasn’t her fault. The way his dad’s job consumed him, a race for some point unseen by anyone but him. And what was enough? His mother kept asking, pleading with him—we have all we need and more. Sell the firm.

And that was the first time Jon remembered. He was in the family room gaming when he heard the shouting. Jon clamped the headphones tighter on his head and turned up the volume, but still he heard the sickening smack and his mother crying.

He ran to the doorway to see, but his father, filled with some mix of anger and shame ran to him and shoved him back. He was falling, and then nothing.

When Jon woke in the hospital, his mom and dad stood by his bed, a concerned, loving suburban family. Mom had applied the makeup just right to play the part.

After that, Jon and his mom walked about the house as though any sudden noise, any shift in tone or pitch, would detonate his anger—and that became the way.

She started taking pills to help her sleep, then more to help her wake, but he never saw her eyes alive again.

It wasn’t her fault.

He wanted to say it, for he was sure she felt she had failed the family, or at the very least failed him. Why didn’t he say it?

#

Jon hadn’t been to work in days. No more messages came, yet he checked the burner every few minutes, over and over. Skiff was confused. They’d run out of cat food, but Jon wouldn’t leave, so afraid was he to upset some metaphysical balance that might be required to receive the next message. Skiff was satisfied with tuna, Jon discovered.

His head pounded from lack of sleep.

Every few hours he’d move to the couch and lie there still, eyes closed, hoping for a respite from his vigil. Skiff took offense and dropped onto his chest, causing Jon to bolt upright. Skiff screamed and darted under the desk. Now he’d been there for days, only coming out to eat and use his litter.

Jon should eat. He just didn’t know why he didn’t care.

He tested the phone a few times.

Jon: ?

Nothing.

Jon: 2003.09.22

Nothing.

Then he was worried he had violated some protocol and was afraid to send anymore texts. Did he say the wrong thing, or did he say too much?

So, he lay there in a black hole with sides so slick he stopped reaching for a way out. And when sleep finally came, his dreams were of Vince and Skiff. Now Vince accused him. Jon wasn’t trying hard enough. He needed to be open to new ways of thinking. I can’t work with nothing—you have to be more courageous. Skiff’s accusations were silent, but even more penetrating. Jon had trusted him, but now he saw the cat’s narcissism. “Give it up, Jon,” Skiff said. “You’re wasting your life even trying.”

Buzz.

He startled awake. A message.

+41 22 123 45 6: run away

#

Jon was back at university when his aunt called. His dad was incapable, apparently. They set her funeral for next week. They’d called the dean’s office, and it was all arranged.

Jon shot back question after question. When? What happened? Was Dad there? But only received the most appropriate veneer—she died in her bed. “I think it was peaceful,” she added as an afterthought.

That’s when the numbness started, and the concrete, and the darkness that covered his life. Standing by the grave, his father finally touched him on the shoulder. Jon flinched and his father pulled away, sealing the fate of their relationship. When he walked away, leaving Jon beside that hole in the ground, Jon knew he’d never see him again. He would make certain of that, and he snapped his wrist to punctuate the thought.

#

Skiff was angry. He never liked his carrier, but there was no way they’d survive the drive with him darting around the car and vomiting at will.

Destination: Maine.

White pines—tall, wavering in the wind yet unmoving. Jon had heard you could lose yourself in forests as old as time. He didn’t have any idea how they’d live, only that they would.

He never received another message, or so he guessed. A week after the second one, he dropped the phone into a pot of boiling water and watched as the screen cracked, the plastics warping beyond recognition.

Jon smiled as he locked the apartment door for the last time, Skiff hissing a furious concerto in the carrier. He’d give it a try—immersion, or whatever this was. See where it took him.

About the author

Mark Mrozinski, Ed.D., writes short fiction and composes music. His stories appear in Mystery Magazine, Beyond Words, and more. A former educator and musician, he’s earned recognition in contests from Writer’s Digest and Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival. He lives in Chicago, where he continues to write, compose, and create.

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.)

Where The Windrush Wends, by Mike Everley, chamomile tea

The Windrush meandered under several small stone bridges in the centre of Bourton-on-the-Water. Hotels and restaurants built of golden Cotswold stone stood proudly near the river's edge. The areas rich history dated back to Neolithic times, with evidence of habitation from that period up to the Roman era, when Icknield Street connected Bourton to Templeborough in South Yorkshire. During the Middle Ages it had become sheep territory known for its production of wool. Now, in the summer months, it was swamped with tourists from all over the world snapping away with their digital cameras and mobile phones, each trying to capture the charm of Olde Worlde England that the Tourist Board had carefully crafted for them.

    Ducks trod water or clustered along each bank of the river accosting visitors for food, the emerald sheen of a mallard or the bright red bill of a moorhen standing out amid the rest.

   This had been their favourite place. Near enough to Cheltenham to make day trips in summer and winter possible. Now along with memories there was a sense of melancholy. Although the model village and the motor museum remained, nothing seemed quite right. Something was missing. Even the Edinburgh Mill shop, a favourite haunt, lacked its usual charm. It took him awhile to realise that what was missing was not in the town but in himself.

 

The Riverside Cafe was relatively quiet. A few out-of-season tourists sat on high backed wooden chairs in front of square, polished tables laden with the remnants of all day breakfasts. Plastic replicas of yellow lilies stood erect in tall, glass vases amid the plates and condiments. Red mural tapestries, picked out by carefully positioned spotlights, hung from the white walls and added a splash of colour to the dining area, creating an overall impression that was clean, minimal and modern.

    A young couple, holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes, occupied the table they normally sat at. He ordered a toasted teacake and a latte. He sat nibbling at its edges rather than eating.

 

Later that evening the winter sun cast golden reflections across the Windrush and made the light frost on the pavements shine like myriads of diamonds. The trees stood stark and bare against the skyline.

    Before leaving home he had poured the ashes from the urn into an orange Sainsbury's bag to make them look less conspicuous. The ducks had already gone to sleep with their heads tucked under their wings as he slowly let handfuls of ash scatter onto the quietly moving water. Soon she would be travelling through the Gloucestershire countryside she loved so much.

    On the other side of the river an elderly couple stopped for a moment and glanced at the stooping grey haired man, apparently still feeding the ducks, before moving on.

     Slowly he made his way to his car, depositing the empty bag in a bin. Ahead lay the short journey to the empty house.

 

He would not be coming back.

About the author

Mike Everley has been writing for many years and has had poetry, short stories and articles published in numerous publications and online. He was a member of both the NUJ and the Society of Authors before retirement. Now, a silver scribbler, he devotes his time to creative writing.

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Sunday Serial: Seeing the Other Side by Allison Symes, tea and doughnuts,

  

Meeting Up

'I never thought I’d be the one left behind', Jess slipped off her red coat and hung it on a coat hook. She stared at it, then at the doughnuts and tea, and then at the comfortably equipped room, before looking at Sam again. 'This is odd. You only know it's a jail because of the bars at the windows.'

'We've been abducted by aliens, taken goodness knows where across the universe, and you think this is odd.'

Jess laughed. 'If it wasn't for the complementary doughnuts, I'd swear this was a Premier Inn!'

Her brother smiled. 'It does look like that and maybe Premier Inn have a deal with Slimming World so no doughnuts! Did you find out anything from your 'cabbie' on the way here?'

'Yeah, they weren't going south of the galaxy at this time of night!' Jess grabbed a doughnut and bit into it, relishing the feel of the jam running down her chin.

'You never could eat a doughnut without making a mess.'

'Where's the fun in that? What do you know?'

'They're obsessed with the colour red.'

'Why?'

Sam shrugged. 'Until we know more, I'd stay mum about our blood colour.'

Jess stopped mid-bite. 'You think...?'

'I don't know what to think.'

The door opened and the jailer came in, this time with a huge strawberry coloured sponge.

Jess looked at her brother. 'They're not re-enacting Hansel and Gretel, are they?'

The jailer put the cake down and bowed. Jess watched his three heads line up to bow in one go.

'Have no fear. We mean you no harm. And soon you'll see your parents.'

The words implanted in the human brains.

'They are well?'

'Yes, Mister Sam. Have something to eat and then we will see them. Then all of you will go to our red exhibition. That colour is rare here.'

Jess finished her doughnut. 'But your skin...'

'Is a cast off skin inherited from my great-grandfather. I'm lucky to have it. Red confers status here. Red is not on our spectrum and Earth has the best variety so we come to you.'

Sam and Jess exchanged wary looks.

The jailer smiled. 'We are reptilian in nature. We don't kill our own.'

'Do you extend that policy to aliens?' Jess tried to smile but failed.

'It depends how helpful you are. You are both blood donors; you will continue, yes? We know how much to take.'

Sam frowned. 'But why take human blood? It won't match.'

'We use it as a dye. Our own blood is no good - it's white. And, yes, we do think it worth crossing the universe for. There are those here longing for a red coat like yours, Jess. So do some harmless aliens a favour and donate. Your parents are.'

 

Going For A Ride

 

‘See, Miss Jess and Mr Sam, we told you we wanted your blood as a dye. You’ll donate three times a year as you would do on Earth. No harm done, eh?’

The two humans nodded.

‘And our parents are?’

‘Over in the rest area having their doughnuts and tea, come and see, Mr Sam.’ The alien jailer wobbled his way across the donation room to a separate lounge area.

‘One moment,’ Jess called. ‘There’s something I’d like you to do for me and it will give you another donor too.’

‘Would that be arranging for your strange pal, George The Goth, to come here, Miss Jess? You always have felt sorry for him, haven’t you?’

‘Oh. I forgot you observed us for a while before we came here.’

‘Indeed, Miss Jess. And the taxi, as you call it, is on its way to fetch your friend now. We see it as a rescue mission.’

Jess smiled at her puzzled looking brother. ‘You never did meet George’s mother, did you, Sam? Trust me, our hosts will be doing poor old George a huge favour bringing him here!’

Sam grinned. ‘I’ve never seen an alien shudder before, Jess.’

‘You were lucky, to use your human phrase, not to meet George’s maternal parent,’ the alien said. ‘We don’t want her type here again.’

‘Again?’

The alien studied its enormous feet, all seven of them. ‘We brought George’s mother here years ago, Miss Jess. Didn’t stop talking. Didn’t stop moaning. We couldn’t take her back fast enough. We think it’s why she tried to discourage George from being interested in other worlds. But we agree with your assessment, Miss Jess. George will be better off with us by far and he’s already a blood donor so he should settle in quickly.’

 

***

 

‘Are you okay, George? You look shell-shocked. I presume you’ve only just got here?’

‘Jess! You’re alive, you’re okay.’

Jess laughed. ‘Yep on both counts and I’ve still got my red coat, see. Are you okay?’

‘Oh yes, I feel heaps better now I’m away from Mother. She wouldn’t stop talking about you and your family. ’

‘Her reputation for that always did precede her, George. You’d be amazed at how far it got.’

 

***

 

An older woman stared at the crater in the middle of the park. The UFO had been seen again. George was missing.

But she knew where he was. She only hoped they were treating him okay.

 

 

 

Leaving Home

 

You will marry Xtia and count yourself lucky. I want to hear no more of this nonsense about finding yourself.

I swore then my mother would get her wish. She would not hear anything from me again. So I took her keys, her spaceship, and fled. Nobody would think anything of it. There isn't a universe anywhere where the kids don't borrow their parents' transport.

And so I found Earth, discovered the joys of time travelling through human history, and it is the last place my people would come to find me. They won't mix with any inferior species so will assume I will at least uphold that tradition.

Wrong! I do wonder sometimes what the reaction to my fleeing was. There would at least be some well-earned embarrassment. Good! But do they miss me even a bit? I would like to think so but daren’t do so.

 

Humourless

 

When going to work is an odd thing to do, you know you're in trouble or shortly will be. And when you are the chief tester of every imaginable practical joke going, trust me, the gags soon wear thin.

There really are only so many times you can sit on a whoopee cushion and find it funny. Children's humour may not change but I have.

I stopped telling people what I do a long time ago. I soon tired of forcing a Cheshire Cat grin every time people said 'oh that must be fun' or other similar banalities. Trust me, there is no limit to crap like that.

But the bosses pay well, I still have a mortgage, and I tell people if I revealed anything, I would have to kill them. They laugh, subject gets changed, and I have a nice time at the pub before going home and watching a documentary on the curse of umbrella making or something like that.

What I don't watch is anything they call funny. Not now. Not anymore. That explains the salary. There should be a price for losing your sense of humour.

I sometimes wonder if I could kill someone with a deflated balloon. And yes I could... so if you know what's good for you, don't ask. They say once someone has killed, they get a taste for it. Best I don't start then.

About the author

Allison Symes, who loves quirky fiction, is published by Chapeltown Books, CafeLit, and Bridge House Publishing. She writes for Chandler’s Ford Today and Writers’ Narrative. 

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Saturday Sample: Gentle Footprints

 Leopard Aware By Richard Adams Heat. Slow, enveloping heat. Not strong heat. “From above” heat. Even heat all round body. Even heat on ground. Ground all round. On ground off ground on ground all ground. The air all round. From “long way off” air. Air speaking. All kinds of speaking but first of all, “no danger” speaking. Pad pad pad pad going along pad. Draw in air cool breathe out old air. Going along pad. Draw in air cool breathe out old air warm warm air cool air warm air cool air. What? What? Air talking. What? Don’t know, but safe pad pad pad pad feel safe.

 So all goes together now. In breathe out breathe air talking pad pad pad pad. Rough ground stumble stumble now smooth again under body. STOP STOP What? Conscious. New. All together smooth heat all round four pads up and down regular up and down. Breathe in air speaking all sorts of speaking. Confusion confusion but Ahhhh! Old air speak again of what? New smells too many. Stop. Sniff take them apart one by one. But this is new, dribbling into the mouth, dribble dribble drool. Spit spit it out, but what now? All together now. heat breathe sniff sniff and pad pad under pad stones pad ground soft ground speaking pad air coming in, out in out all sorts of messages from air and TEETH and CLAWS this is 16 POWER this is POWER no longer apart but all together ears hear blasted flies get away. Flies damn flies. Swift sniff nose smells nose talks nose chatter babbles mouth dribbles. Pad pad pad pad faster slower I say whether faster slower I say. Mouth bites AND TEETH snap snap. All together whatever I say. This is ME – ME – . No more one thing and another but THIS ME. I am all ONE. I AM AN ANIMAL. My teeth, my claws, my fur my nose my tail swish swish swish. 

Ah now I feel. Feel from belly. Belly speaks HUNGER. Get belly food. So – sniff on the air AHHH that was quick yes air talking smell good this is the way, yes. Pads run I say pads run. Long time goes by as I run and run and run towards smell. YES I RUN but now no smell so says run slower. The THING mustn’t be frightened but this THING always frightened. Whole life frightened listen and smell. So I must go this way go away air go away smell of me pad pad STOP BELLY. CROUCH. Lie flat HEAD DOWN LOW. 

Time passes slowly I creep creep but now THING now THING stop, alarmed, and sniff sniff I all drooling expectation now. Mustn’t make least noise O BLAST CRACKLE STICKS CRACKLE O BLAST STICKS UNDER ME STOP THING WARNED THING gets message THING turns turns now run. All long legs long legs all clutter of legs but for me all dash out dash out towards THING dash DASH now nothing nothing but THING all running leaping away and I running empty belly says FASTER but THING FASTER TOO I leap nothing but faster faster and THING faster but faster faster faster and THING faster but now I closer can smell THING but can smell its smell, hear its breath I am nothing but hurtling leaping claws out leap not far enough. Soft soil under claws THING AH THING SLOWER now 17 again I’m LEAPING AH CLAWS INTO SOFT FUR THING’S fur on flank and claws cling cling smell of BLOOD THING’S BLOOD THING struggles but slower slower now THING STUMBLING falls on side and I panting growling onto it all noise nothing but noise nothing but biting bloody biting. BLOOD WARM TASTE BLOOD SHLOOP DRIBBLE ALL PLEASURE GNAW TEAR GULP. 

THING dying slower slower and I drooling drooling all over fur on its flank. Then rip it apart ANIMAL ALL CLAWS ALL TEETH ALL TEARING. 

Now eating eating gulp swallow belly nothing but eating tearing biting. AT LAST BELLY FULL. 

LYING not eating now lying across bloody fur belly had enough ah satisfaction. I Nothing but all satisfaction licking bloody claws NOW other animal come small teeth small claws coming all round me. Small animals snivelling snatching GET OFF MY PREY MY PREY BUT Come BLOODY FLIES BUZZ BUZZ snatch ahhh snap I’ll give you snap snap. Air cooler, close eyes rest FULL BELLY. 

Drowsy. TIME PASSES 

Small animals come WARY WARY snatch up run away come back snatch up run away thieves. Pads tired jaws tired snap yawn snap Flies oh let them have it. Drowsy. don’t want more now belly full now all right all right you can have it. Get up slowly now wandering away. Cool air light less cooler evening wash tongue lick lick clean clean blood mouth dribble blood cool air gentle but what does air say NO DANGER near drowsy sleep SLEEP. 

TIME PASSES 

Days nights cool on fur find water drink gulp drink. Sniff nose air speaking speaking all time now I make use of 18 wind air no danger no hunger. Thirst need drink to satisfy. Listless, here tree, climb tree. Drowse lying along thick branch. Dusk dim dusk. Hear owls hunting. New day sun smell on wind hear herd passing. Hooves. Come closer herd zebra. No interest hooves gone smell big water glitter water creep closer herd of flamingos all wings wings splat splat leap clutch blatter blatter kill only one eat. 

TIME PASSES 

Day air very warm. Lying easy under trees then air from up wind brings NEW SMELL. I listen to smell. Smell not go away. Smell pulls me slowly up wind. 

Richard Adams  

~~~~~~~~ 

Leopard Facts 

Species: Leopard (Panthera pardus) 

Location: Leopards have the widest range of any species of cat in Africa and Asia. Habitat: Leopards are superb climbers and their spotted coat ensures they are well-hidden amongst leaves and bushes. 

Behaviour: Big cats must defend their home-range or territory from others. Smell is an important form of communication and big cats spray urine and rub their scent on trees and bushes around their territory, as well as leaving scratch marks, to warn others to keep away. Leopards are solitary creatures, living and hunting alone. When young, their mothers teach them the skills needed to survive on their own. 

Conservation Status: Africa’s leopard subspecies are not considered in immediate danger of extinction but the IUCN1 Red List, which lists all threatened species of animals, classes Asia’s leopard subspecies as ‘Endan gered’ and ‘Critically Endangered’. 

Threats: Throughout the world, countless thousands of big cats are kept in appalling conditions in zoos, circuses and private ownership. Even in modern zoos tigers, lions and other big cats repeatedly pace, frustrated because their hunting and territorial instincts are denied. 

Action: Born Free Foundation has two sanctuaries in South Africa for leopards rescued from zoos, circuses and other captive facilities. The Born Free Foundation also works to campaign and raise awareness of the problems associated with keeping leopards in captivity. 

To find out how you can get involved in leopard projects visit www.bornfree.org.uk/animals/leopards . 1 IUCN – The International Union for the Conservation of Nature

The Checkout Menagerie, by Dorit d'Scarlett, Aperol Negroni

My boyfriend broke up with me last night.

Standing in the hallway of my apartment, I started shaking as he went on and on about how no good I was, how being with me had practically ruined him. Somewhere between you drain me and I’ve never loved you properly, his face shifted. Nose lengthened, jaw squared, teeth the size of piano keys, all gums and rage, like that horse from Tangled who hates everyone but the frying pan. And instead of talking at me, he was chomping and chomping on hay.

That made me feel better. The shaking stopped. I stepped around him, opened the front door, and told him he’d better get off to his stable. I think he may have kicked at that because my shin’s got an blue lump on it this morning. Ungrateful beast!

After a hefty dose of caffeine, I think about horses and wonder if stallions go around shagging every mare in sight. I’m pretty sure he had. I make it to my shift at Tesco by 8 a.m., and think I’m holding up pretty good, considering.

The automatic doors sigh open. Cold air laced with petrol and damp gravel. Tesco isn’t really a supermarket. It’s Noah’s Ark with a barcode scanner. Every species crammed into fluorescent aisles, grazing on bargains.

I work till seven, mostly on till three — what Steve, the rat king of managers, calls “the chaos shift.” The one where pensioners collide with teens nicking Monster cans and everyone in between forgets their PIN numbers at the worst possible moment.

I’m twenty-six. I’ve been here since eighteen, minus one disastrous attempt at uni — left after my mum died and my dad bolted to Spain with a barmaid from Benidorm. Came back to this town, this flat, this job. It’s not awful. Not good, either. Just… beige.

The animals make it better.

Here comes one now. Fox in a brown cardigan. Narrow face, twitchy little eyes. Sniffs her receipt like she’s testing it for poison. ‘You’ve overcharged me four pence,’ she says.

‘Four pence?’ I repeat.

‘That’s four pence I could put toward my bus fare.’

I refund her just to see if her whiskers twitch. They do. Satisfaction achieved.

When I was little, I used to spot foxes in the back garden and pretend they were lost princes under a curse. Mum said foxes were scavengers, not royalty. She also said I should stop talking to things that couldn’t talk back. But foxes, I reckon, understood me better than most people ever have.

Behind her, bulldog in hi-vis. Jowls swinging, breath like lager gone off. Plonks four cans of Stella and a Scotch egg on the belt.

‘Clubcard?’ I ask.

‘Lost it.’ Drool. Actual drool.

I picture him rooting through bins behind the shop after midnight, triumphant when he finds kebab wrappers. Makes me weirdly fond of him.

Two ferrets dart through self-checkout, hoodies stuffed with Monster cans. One hisses when the gate beeps. Their mum comes in an hour later, buys three sausage rolls, pretends not to know them.

A peacock glides in, hair waxed to a ridiculous point, trolley full of craft beer and avocados. Feathers flaring every time he checks his reflection in the freezer doors. He winks at me when I scan his oat milk. I do not wink back.

A family of walruses blocks the snacks aisle. Bellowing over prawn cocktail crisps. One kid licks the glass of the freezer. I don’t judge. Sometimes the freezer looks lickable.

An old man shuffles up—tortoise. Places exact change for a single tin of soup, one coin at a time. Says thank you three times. I want to put him in my pocket.

Steve, my boss? Rat King. Always twitching, always chewing—biro caps, fingernails, nerves. His voice is a squeak: “Smile more. Be approachable. Customers buy more when you smile.” I imagine him gnawing the electric cables above the break room. Sparks flying. Little singed tail.

Mrs Sutcliffe from the next door flat arrives next, perennial hen in a floral dress. Calls me duckie, asks if I’ve found a nice boy yet. I tell her I had my eye on a horse, but he’s gone to the knackers. She cackles like she’s laid an egg.

The horse used to be charming. He wore suits that made him look like he’d been ironed straight out of a catalogue. We met in the meal-deal aisle, him grabbing prawn mayo, me ham and cheese, and he said something daft about destiny.

Six months in, the jokes dried up. The chewing started. Chewing on my choices, my hair, my breathing. He wanted me quieter, smaller, tidier. Wanted me to stop talking to animals like I was five. Wanted me to stop calling him Horsey when he stomped his foot during arguments.

The last straw wasn’t even big. Just him saying I’d never amount to anything. That working Tesco was for people with no ambition. Said it like ambition was something you could shove in a trolley and scan at checkout. So I started imagining him with hooves. It made the shouting funny. Less cutting when it came from a big dumb herbivore.

At lunchtime, there’s two hyenas—teenage boys—laugh at everything, even the price of crisps. Their laughter sticks like burrs.

Octopus mum wrangles twins and a basket of baby food while fielding a call from school about her older kid. Arms everywhere. I bag her stuff for her. She says thanks, eyes shining with exhaustion.

A man in paint-splattered overalls—spaniel—buys milk and a single Cornetto. Licks it in the queue. Doesn’t care.

Truth is, all this started with Mum. She could tell who’d knock on the door before they did, just by listening to the wind. Said she could see the “animal soul” of people, and it told her everything she needed to know, who’d lie, who’d love, who’d leave.

She called Dad a magpie. Said he’d steal shiny things and fly away. She wasn’t wrong.

When she died, sudden, aneurysm, I started seeing them too. Not spirits. Just faces flickering, tails twitching. Coping mechanism, therapist called it. Survival, I call it. If you know someone’s an alligator, you don’t swim too close.

By 4p.m., my body hums like the strip lights. Feet aching. Mouth aching from forced smiles. But inside, I’m oddly still. The animal thing has become a shield. Their teeth can’t touch me if I’ve already named them. Sometimes, though, I wonder what animal I am. Some days I’m mouse, quiet, fast, always braced for hawks. Other days, otter, floating in my head, keeping soft things close.

Yesterday, with him, I was prey. Today, I don’t know.

The last customer before my break is an albatross of a man, tall, draped in sadness like seaweed. He buys a bottle of gin and a bag of ice. When I hand him the receipt, his hand trembles. For some reason, I want to tell him I see him. That I know what it’s like to carry a storm around your neck. 

I sit in the staffroom with a cup of instant coffee that tastes like wet cardboard. Someone’s left a birthday cake on the table with only the middle missing, just a crater of icing. I laugh harder than I should. Then I cry into my sleeve until the laughter comes back again.

Near closing, the zoo thins. Shelves bare, air heavy with the smell of mop water and onions. The doors hiss open. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. He trots in like nothing happened. My now ex. Mane flicking. Hooves clattering against tile. Same hollow eyes, same chewing jaw. Heads straight for my till. I keep scanning. Bags of carrots, frozen peas, loaf of bread. My hands don’t shake this time.

‘Well,’ I say, meeting his horse eyes, ‘why the long face?’ Something in me, something small and scared, laughs. For real this time.

He blinks, ears twitching. Doesn’t know what to do with me now I’m not prey.

Later, I walk home past the carpark puddles, strip lights buzzing like cicadas. The night smells of fried chicken and rain. Easier to name others than myself. But then I catch my reflection in a darkened shopfront. For a second, I expect the mouse. The otter. Something small. Instead, I see eyes gold as streetlights, shoulders set, teeth sharp and clean. Wolf. Not hiding. Not prey. Not tamed. I smile at her—at me—and keep walking, soft paws silent on the wet concrete.

About the author

Dorit d’Scarlett is a Danish/Australian poet and writer ‘of a certain age’ living in Malaysia whose short stories and award-winning poetry have featured in Rattle, Meniscus, Antler Velvet, and many other international literary journals. Her long-form fiction has been long-listed for multiple writing awards.

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I Like The Heat, by Steve Gerson, beer and chaser

It's hot. My asphalt street is melting like the La Brea tar pits. But I'm the dinosaur this time. My bones are old. I'm petrified, not just from ossification but from fear.

How did the dinosaurs feel, I wonder, when faced with extinction?

Did they huddle together for strength? I could do that, I guess, gather my ilk of old buddies, swig bottles of beer with chasers of whiskey to narcotize my demise. "Hey, old man, pass me a Bud. I need numbing."

Did the stegosaurus bow in wingless bird prayer with the velociraptors, forgiving each other's willingness to maim or be maimed? I could do that, I guess, gather my old coworkers, all of whom I fought with for survival against deadlines and corporate expectations, and pray for collaboration. "No, Carl, let's share. You take the PGM account this time. I'll get the next one."

Come on! Who am I kidding? I might be a dinosaur, but I have no desire to pray or gather, to placate or befriend. Kumbaya my ass. The hell with them all. I'll stick to my predatory ways.

I'm going to eat up as much life as I can before the sun broils me to death in its moral equivalent of climate change.

Here's the plan. I'll sharpen my blades, honing my rough edges against life. No more dull me.

"Sir, there's only one chocolate chip cookie left. Could my little girl have it?"

"Nope. I'm on my way out, I mean really on my way out, and I'm taking this cookie with me. She can get one some other time."

"Could you hold the door for me, please? I've got my hands full."

"Nope. My hands are full too, with life's challenges."

Get the picture?

The dinosaurs caved to an asteroid attack, so we're told. They froze, starved, or were blown apart by explosions, debris, and tree shrapnel.

I might be facing extinction, the dying of the light, but I'm not going to cower in a corner, sniveling, shivering, shaking in despair, pleading, “Woe is me,” like Hezekiah begging for more years to his life (Look it up.  2 Kings 20:1-11).

I've got both fists raised. I'm ready for a fight. I like the heat.

About the author

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his six chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; and There Is a Season

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.)