Monday, 10 February 2025

Freedom by Allison Symes, red apple juice

The day the mirror shattered was the day I found my freedom.

I hadn’t asked to be trapped inside that wretched thing. I hadn’t asked to be forced to tell the truth regardless of what question was asked or who asked it. I knew the moment I told Madam she was no longer the fairest in the land she would try to kill Snow White. So it proved. Glad the girl escaped all right. How do I know?

Simple. The moment Snow White was set free from her enchantment - always beware suspiciously red apples by the way, if it’s too red to be natural, there is something wrong - I too was freed. I am a genie, caught by Madam many years ago and put to work inside the mirror, always there to flatter her vanity. I hated every moment of it.

How did she catch me? She made a bet with me. I like a gamble but I lost this. She made the bet with me I couldn’t tell the truth no matter if my life depended on it. I said I could. She said prove it and then trapped me in the mirror.

I then told the truth all of the time of course but she said it was too late. I would only be freed when love set me free. She laughed horribly. She assumed the love would have to be for me. No chance of that with me trapped, was there?

But I guess it proves love can find a way if it wants. It isn’t just Snow White who is now free to live a good life. I’m off now. Not sure what I’ll do yet but I’ve been told by one of the dwarves not to go to Earth or enter their politics. Truth is a rarity there and I would find things hard going. Honesty is ingrained now so he’s probably right I’m best off here in the magical realm.

Wish me luck anyway, won’t you? I’m not nasty. I didn’t want to help Madam. I really couldn’t help myself. Still, I may peep in on the royal wedding and see if I can have some of the cake. I always have been partial to cake. I won’t be touching the apples in the fruit bowl. I bet Snow White doesn’t either!

 

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. 

Website: https://allisonsymescollectedworks.com/ 

Books: http://author.to/AllisonSymesAuthorCent 

YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@allisonsymes 

Her flash fiction collections are From Light to Dark and Back Again and Tripping The Flash Fantastic. 

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Sunday, 9 February 2025

Sunday Serial: 280 x70, 49 Hunger, by Gill James, breakfast tea,

Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 280 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

49. Hunger

What to do? Tom's money wouldn't come until next week. Geraldine needed to up the electricity or she wouldn't be able to cook tonight and it was important to keep the kids warm wasn't it? Her part-time job was supposed to stop this but Jamie had needed new shoes.  There was one thing she could do she knew. She didn’t like t but it would have to do this time.

She'd always donated herself, hadn't she, when times had been better. It's just that it felt like giving up.

"What are we having for tea?" Allie was nearly always hungry. Geraldine knew she wasn't getting enough. She couldn't let the children get ill. Or they'd take them away from her.

"I'm not sure. We've got to go out first."

It took a while to get there - it always was a rigmarole getting them dressed for outdoors. It was  a long walk too but she couldn't afford the bus fare to get them into town.

"Just choose what you want," said the woman who reminded her a bit of her own mother. "Maybe pasta and a sauce? And take a couple of tins to tide you over. And some treats."

"Thank you."

"Thank you.” echoed Jamie.

"I know what," said the woman," I'm just really supposed to do this but would you like these?" She held out two shiny red apples. "I'd never manage them all and they only came in big packs of four."

Later after the children were fed and put to bed Geraldine watched the early evening news. Despite the effects of Brexit," said the presenter, "England remains one of the wealthiest nations in the world."

Really?         

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter

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Saturday, 8 February 2025

Saturday Sample: Good News ...?, Anna’s Secret Mission by Sara Knapp, prosseco


 

Yes, Constable Dale, I’ve seen the footage. And yes, I certainly can understand why the detective alerted you. Definitely on the ball, there.

But there’s a perfectly good justification for what you’ve seen. It just might take time to explain. All the time in the world? Right. I’ll try my best…

Every family has its stories. Funny, tragic, weird.

For example, my grandma’s neighbours, the Dobbs, met twenty-odd years ago when they got stuck in one of those see-through lifts in a shopping-centre. He has no head for heights. She’s claustrophobic. But they were practically engaged by the time they were rescued.

And my best mate Emma and her siblings were all born, several years apart, in the first week of August. People speculate on how their parents celebrate Bonfire Night.

What? Yes, I do think it’s relevant, Constable. I’m scene-setting.

My family anecdotes, though, tend not to have happy endings. For example, way back, my dad’s dad had a £50,000 win on something called the Football Pools. The cheque came as a total surprise. My grandma was at the bus-stop across the road, so he rushed over to tell her, and was killed by a Number 9.

And when my Aunty Jo won a crystal decanter at a fete, she tripped on the way out, crashing to the ground and landing on her prize. She bled loads and the scar is huge.

So we never place bets, do the lottery or buy scratch cards. We don’t Guess The Weight Of The Cake. If someone runs a raffle, we may donate, but we refuse the ticket. It’s safer that way.

Yes, Constable. Idiosyncratic maybe, but then you haven’t seen my aunty’s scar. Where was I?

So: I often shop for my gran, and sometimes her friend Sue who, ever since a phantom pineapple mysteriously added itself to our bill, likes to ‘check receipts properly.’ If I’d been paying attention, maybe I’d have noticed the coupon attached to my receipt. But evidently I wasn’t. The woman in front of me at the check-out, though, turning to make sure she’d packed everything, squealed: “|Oooh look, you’ve got a ‘Pop-Me-In!’ coupon,” plucked it from my hand, and ‘popped it in’ to a cardboard pretend computer thingy by the door. Which shook and pushed out (I think it’s faulty) several red tickets.

“There you go, dear – that’ll be nice, won’t it?” she said, puzzlingly, dropping them into my carrier, and headed off. The person queueing behind me coughed meaningfully, so I took my shopping and left.

I forgot all about the tickets until I was sorting stuff (me, Gran, Sue) on my kitchen table. I gave a squawk when found them. They were supermarket vouchers worth £15, £25 and £50.

Now you can see the problem, can’t you, Constable? Can’t you? Well…

These vouchers were of course, indisputably, “winnings.” And as established earlier, my family doesn’t ‘do’ winnings. They bring Bad Things.

I groaned, grabbed Gran’s and Sue’s bags and headed off. Clutching the three blood-red rectangular omens…

What? Yes, Constable Dale. I am getting to the point. Actually, I just had an idea. I happen to know that Sue would absolutely love to meet a real policeman! Maybe you’d like to interview her? You’ll see? OK. Where was I?

Well, quite logically, my grandma and I – given the family history, which I have been at pains to explain – felt that there should be no tempting fate. We couldn’t use the vouchers for Personal Gain.

And Sue decided that, out of loyalty, she would align herself with us – after all, Gran’s her best friend – and that therefore, she too would decline to use any of the vouchers.

This left us with the problem of what to do with the blessed things. But the answer to that came to us all simultaneously, I think. The vouchers should go to ‘deserving shoppers,’ as defined by yours truly, Anna Blake. Designated Shopper.

Aha. I think you are on my wavelength now, Constable Dale? No?

So I was charged – ha, ha – on my next trip, conveniently close to Christmas, with what I and my, um, accomplices have christened ‘Shop-Gifting.’ I limbered up by slipping the £15 voucher into the bag of an old lady who’d only bought yellow sticker stuff. I did that near the bus-stop; maybe the CCTV doesn’t pick things up beyond the car-park? Anyway, the cashiers will know if the woman with the purple coat and the white hat with those ear-flap things has used a voucher. Or maybe just looked a bit happier of recent…

I think I can tell what you are going to say, but I’ll just finish, if I may.

Now, your CCTV footage there shows Mission 2: the £25 ‘drop’, so to speak. The voucher is squeezed between my fingers as I flip it into the man’s carrier. I expect it is zoom-in-on-able? I did have to drop my brolly so he’d bend down to retrieve it. That’s a technique Gran and Sue hit upon; I must say it worked a treat. Good job they’re on the right side of the law.

Pardon? Yes, I realise you’ll have to check this out. But since it’s perfectly verifiable, I have no worries. Well, save the obvious one…

What? Well, the blindingly obvious fact that I have not yet carried out The Biggie! The £50 voucher ‘drop’.

Actually, it occurs to me, Constable Dale, that were you able to accompany me on my final mission, you would constitute the perfect distraction. If you were to engage the young mum I’ve nominated (two little girls, she has, and such a tired smile) in conversation, I’m sure I could Do The Deed and slide that £50 voucher in her bag easy as pie!

You would?!

A condition? What condition?

Oh. Well. Now you mention it, a glass of something to celebrate a final act of shop-gifting would not seem inappropriate. OK – it’s a date!

Good news! Our family luck may just be changing…

About the author

Sara Knapp was born in Manchester (UK). A sometime translator and teacher, she has always loved reading and listening to stories of all genres. She has published non-fiction, short stories in Yours Fiction and more recently in sci-fi anthology AI, Robot (JayHenge Publishing KB).

Find your copy here 

Friday, 7 February 2025

Snooky's Last Show by William P. Adams, Irish coffee

 We now join The Snooky Mathers Show, which is already in progress… announcer Toddy Rodgers is at the mic.

       “Our next guest is no stranger to the show… let’s give a warm Mathers welcome to the star of Good Night Nurse! the one and only Kiki Chattaway!”

       The studio audience erupts in applause as Kiki strides from backstage with confidence onto the set, air-kissing long-time co-host Jimmy Crisp then, in an exaggerated tango, slinks over to funnyman Snooky Mathers, the host with the most, where he dips her seductively, eliciting howls of raucous cheering from the audience.

       “Ring-a-ding-ding!” cries Snooky, his trademark catchphrase delivered with the same panache after nearly thirty years in show business.

       Kiki, dramatically fanning a hand in front of her heart-shaped face, falls gracefully into the chair next to Snooky’s set desk.

       “Woo! You know how to get a gal’s motor running, Shnookums!”

       Jimmy interjects, grinning and fawning, “He’s still got it. Hahaha!”

       Snooky smugly settles into his high-backed, ergonomic captain’s chair and takes a swig from his famous mug, which, not coincidentally, is graced with a likeness of his famous mug – and, if the rumors are true, contains a bit of liquid fortification.

       “Kiki Chattaway, we haven’t seen you in so long; I guess no one wants to work with an aging actress.”

       Kiki answers with a playful pout, “Oh, Snooky, you’re terrible! - you know I was just here after the Emmys, and I’m still miffed about the snub!”

       Jimmy nods in agreement, then says, “So true, so true - you were robbed, Ms. Chattaway. That was a travesty!”

       Snooky takes another pull from the mugged mug, then eyeballs Kiki with a renewed focus.

       “My dear, you look like something the cat dragged in after a three-day bender. Seriously, Kiki, you look like shit!”

       The audience's reaction is a smattering of polite laughter and confused murmuring. Jimmy Crisp gulps, looks uneasy, but maintains an obsequious grin.

       Kiki, stunned by the Snookster’s unexpected comments, manages a stilted laugh and stammers, “Snooky, darling, I think you’ve had one too many sips from that mug. Let’s get back on track—season two of ‘Good Night Nurse’ will blow your socks off!”

       “Season two, shmeason two. Why don’t you give us a song now, doll? Let’s liven things up here!”

       Kiki, wide-eyed and shrinking into her seat, looks over at Jimmy, who makes a quick shoulder shrug.

       “Uh, I have nothing prepared, and you know I’m not a singer, Snooky. Is there something wrong?”

       With concern etched on his usually jolly moon face, Jimmy stands up and tries to mitigate the uncomfortable interview.

       “He’s fine, Kiki, just pressure from doing the show.”

       Snooky looks daggers at his co-host.

       “Shut up, you simpering moron, and sit your fat ass down. I don’t pay you to have opinions!”

       Jimmy takes a seat and looks down at his shoes.

       The audience is visibly squirming in their seats as camera two pans over them.

       Snooky turns back to a mortified Kiki Chattaway, still seated and looking sick to her stomach. “Well, how about that song, babe? Howsabout Leaving on a Jet Plane’ Or better yet, Hit the Road, Jack – and don’t you come back no more no more no more. Ring-a-ding-ding!”

       Kiki looks frantically in the direction of show director Lenny Shackleford who motions for the cameras to keep rolling as Snooky bounds out of his chair, lurching toward center stage next to the Snooky Mathers Show Orchestra.

       “What, no song from the washed-up Nurse Dishrag? Well, that’s just too bad. Here’s something better…”

       Snooky begins a clumsy soft-shoe dance, and bandleader Sonny Wiggins, after a quick look at Lenny, starts the band up in a syncopated accompaniment.

       Jimmy finally grows a backbone and escorts a shaken and unbelieving Kiki Chattaway off set.

       The audience finds its groove again and cheers as Snooky butchers the Old Soft Shoe before tripping over his own feet and landing in a heap.

       Cut to commercial.

       The Snooky Mathers Show is now on hiatus for the foreseeable future.

About the author

William P. Adams resides in the Pacific Northwest and writes short fiction in various genres. His work has appeared in Rockvale Review, Neither Fish Nor Foul, Macrame Lit, Bright Flash Literary Review, and others. 

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.)