Saturday Sample: Rare Stories by Liam Bell, apple-squire (noun): a male companion of a woman of ill-repute, lemonade

Glyn knew that they talked about his wife. Not just the houses immediately next door, but the ones either side of those too. And further. It was what came of living in a cul-de-sac. Gossip swilled back-and-forth, with no through-road.

She made it worse for herself, Joan, by staring out at the children playing on the street; the six-year-old from number twelve and the seven-year-old, with the three-year-old brother, from number seventeen. They saw her peering from the edges of the curtains and they squealed and ran to tell their parents.

He heard the kids talking in stage-whispers. The woman in number fourteen, they said, has three baths a day. Her recycling is all empty wine bottles. She eats spiders from the corner of the ceiling and snails from the plant pots. The hoover stands in the hall all day, unused. The lights are on at 3 am because darkness turns her into a creature with bat’s wings and dragon’s breath.

The parents were initially kind. That was quite a few years ago. They offered to do a shop, to save Glyn from going, and invited both of them over for a drink on New Year’s Day. Soon, though, there’d been a note through the door asking them to trim the front grass and then another suggesting the name of a man who could clear the gutters.

‘We could move,’ Glyn suggested. ‘A bungalow, maybe?’

‘I’m not ready.’

‘Of course not, love.’

Part of him was relieved. A bungalow was best saved for retirement. So he settled for calling the gutter-man and negotiating a fixed price that included repainting the back fence and fixing the cracks in the driveway.

‘She’s still young,’ Edwina from number six said to him, one evening as she took out her black bin bag. She’d also had notes through the door, because she overstuffed the wheelie bin and often left loose bags at the side. ‘You’re still young.’

‘Perhaps. We’ll have to see,’ Glyn said. ‘It’s Joan’s choice.’

‘Shall I call in for her, in the daytime? For coffee, maybe.’

‘I’ll ask her. Thank you.’

‘She has my phone number.’

The foxes would get at Edwina’s bins. There would be further complaints, the council might even be called. She didn’t seem to mind, though. Her house was at the curve of the street; she could see a slice of the main road.

     

The Fultons, in number fifteen, moved out and the teenagers were replaced with eight-year-old twins. The other kids migrated into their garden. There was a climbing frame and a trampoline. They kept one eye on Joan, at the window, and she was integrated into their games whenever there was a call for a villain: wicked witch, spy, assassin, Prime Minister. It would have been useless to explain that Joan was staring only at the bare, uneven flowerbeds in her own garden.

It all got worse in Autumn. Not only the nights drawing in, but also overactive imaginations at Halloween. No guiser called at number fourteen. They knew they wouldn’t get any sweets, any chocolate.

Two days into November, Joan sat down at the kitchen table and wrote a card. She sealed it, in a red envelope, before Glyn had the chance to read it or even glimpse the message on the front. Later, when she was in the bath, he opened the drawer beneath the kettle and found four other envelopes, one for each year that had passed.

‘Love,’ he tried the next day, ‘would you like to try for a job, maybe, or you could go back to studying? An exercise class, even…?’

‘I don’t need exercise, Glyn.’

‘It might help.’

‘You tell me I don’t eat enough...’

‘It’s not about weight.’

‘Quiet,’ she closed her eyes. ‘Please.’

The house deteriorated further. The quince bushes grew too big and pushed through the fence into next door. The twins started to lob the fruit up towards Joan’s window. The double-glazing rattled and she stepped away.

In the utility room was a disorderly regiment of glass bottles, upright among the chaos of cardboard and the towels which hadn’t made it into the dryer. Glyn felt he could only leave out a few at a time, with the recycling. One dark evening, he’d pile the rest of them into the quince bushes or bury them at the edge of the grass.

The young boy, from number seventeen, was now an inquisitive five. He ran lengths of the cul-de-sac in bare feet. As Glyn walked home, he sprinted up behind.

‘You’re the man from that house,’ he said, pointing.

‘Yes.’

‘My sister says there are cameras. That you record us.’

Glyn spluttered. ‘We record…?’

‘She says you write down every move we make.’

‘Certainly not.’

He shrugged, ‘I’m too fast anyway.’

The boy turned and ran off. Glyn found that it took three attempts to fit his key into the lock and when he tried to call Joan’s name there was a quiver to his voice.

‘What is it?’ she called back.

‘We need to do something.’

‘Like what?’

Glyn walked into the hallway. He lifted the hoover and set it back in its cupboard. Then he went to the kitchen and got a black bag from beneath the sink. He shoved all of the bottles from the utility room in it, then the cardboard and the mouldering towels. As he lifted the bag, there was a noise like a window shattering.

Five years ago, he would have eased the front door open only wide enough for him and the bag. He would have made sure it was closed behind. There wasn’t much traffic in the cul-de-sac, but the cars sometimes swung around the corner at quite a speed.

Glyn lifted the bag into the wheelie bin, the one for general waste. He tipped the bin onto its wheels and walked it to the kerb. Edwina was there, black bag in hand.

‘I never did hear from Joan,’ she said.

‘No, she still struggles.’

‘All of that though…’ Edwina avoided his eye. ‘Seems an awful fuss to make over a wee dog.’

Glyn looked back at the houses behind them. The twins at number fifteen were up at the window, looking out. The one from number twelve was there too. She didn’t duck away like the others.

‘The question that torments Joan,’ Glyn said slowly, ‘is how he got the chocolate? We should have been more careful.’

Edwina tied another knot in her black bag. ‘One of those things,’ she said.

‘We should have taken better care of him.’

‘No one blames you,’ Edwina replied. ‘I shouldn’t think.’

 

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About the author

Liam Bell is author of three novels, with the most recent being Man at Sea. His debut novel was shortlisted for the SMIT Scottish Book of the Year and he has featured as Paperback of the Week in the Herald and at the 2014 Edinburgh International Book Festival. Short stories and articles have appeared in publications including New Writing Scotland, Litro and Northwords Now. He was born in Orkney, grew up in Glasgow, and is now Senior Lecturer at the University of Stirling, where he is Programme Director of the MLitt in Creative Writing. He lives in Scotland with his wife and two young daughters. More information at www.liammurraybell.com or on twitter @liammurraybell. 

  

 

 

Under the Hood by Matthew Kline, espresso with a chocolate wafer candy

As Red Riding Hood stepped into the forest, felt the swaying branches close in at her back, her breath came deeper. The usual burden clamped about her shoulders felt that much lighter in the gentle shade. Everyone knew her for her mother’s hand-me-down cape, but it was not her true covering. That would be the forest: the twigs now lodging in her hair, the chanting trees and animal chirps now surrounding her.

When she passed the brook, it was, indeed, babbling. The water gleamed, as bright and teasing to her as the older sister she had always wished for. She thought about breaking into a run across the strong riverside stones, or else kicking off her sandals and squelching deep into the mud. But those were childish thoughts and foolishness. Her fingers curled tight on the straw basket handle and all its hateful responsibilities so trustingly thrust upon her. She resolved to take in the forest slowly, with some attempt at maturity. First, she pulled the red fabric from her head, and for a moment her only hood was the golden lace of light through the canopy and the flicking pinwheels of leaves off the branches. Her favorite color was green – a treasured secret – and as for red, she could take it or leave it. Still, she had forced her biggest smile at her mother’s gift of the hood. She hadn’t known it would become her nickname, and then her actual name, swaddling close, despite her struggles to shrug it off.

Every tree along the path was like a song told in twisting knots and creeping mosses. The older trees were more beautiful it seemed, and more alive than their juniors, lush with old man’s beard and sparrow nests. Their scars and knots were broken in and worn well. Even as she recognized the beauty in them, a sensation she didn’t understand came to her. As though the whole world swayed with the trees. She pulled the hood back over her head and over her eyes and kept on her way. Her teeth gritted, and her knuckles went white with the puzzling anger.  

When the stranger appeared and started asking questions, she took too long to realize it wasn’t a daydream. After it had gone trotting away into the bushes, the dark realization at her mistake set in. For a spell, the forest shone around her, even more brilliant than before. It cried out to be studied and understood, gathered up in her arms and strained through her fingers into a basket. Then it was all greys and splashed watercolor blurs as she ran ahead. After all, there would be no time to run for help. Her legs spun up dust on the path to her grandmother’s house. The gifts of food fell away to be forgotten. Each step drove in just how foolish she had been, just how much she now stood to lose.

Later in the cottage, with the beast advancing through a shredded mass of bedclothes and broken disguises, she wasn’t afraid. There was wolf blood in her nails before it was over, and she’d got the damn thing’s eye out before it managed to choke her down. 

About the author

Matthew Kline is an author of speculative fiction and short-form poetry. His work has been published through the Pennsylvania Poetry Society, the Westmoreland Arts & Heritage Festival, and Tuxedo Literature & Arts Journal. He works at a bayside independent bookstore and sometimes draws black-and-white cartoons. 

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The Amazing Tale of Ivan Plodsky by Guy Pratt, Russian vodka

Ivan Plodsky was a very ordinary copper on the beat in Moscow during the nineteen sixties. Walking the pavement in the city one day, his thoughts faraway, paying little attention to where he was walking, he tripped on an uneven paving slab and fell heavily forward. As he fell, he clumsily knocked a pedestrian to the pavement who was rendered unconscious as his head hit the stone. Perchance the man happened to be an assassin with drawn revolver on the point of firing at the head of the KGB whose car was passing. Before Plodsky knew it the place was swarming with KGB agents and he was hailed a hero for saving the life of the KGB boss. He was duly rewarded with a placement in the KGB.

Plodsky eventually arrived at the Russian embassy in a Western capital as second assistant to the trade attache. In fact he did not have a lot to do. His main duty, because of his simple nondescript appearance was to collect messages from dead letterboxes. Embassy staff were usually closely watched by the security services in the countries where they were located and any contact with agents already spying within those countries had to be avoided, so the dead letterbox system was a simple way of passing information on, hopefully without detection.

The trade attache, Igor Evetkin, was in fact a KGB colonel responsible for clandestine operations in the country they were located in. He was a nasty piece of work who had risen through the ranks by regularly shopping his colleagues. Only Evetkin knew the full details of the agents, but his first assistant Peter Rodnikov was responsible for sending coded messages to the agents. These coded messages were posted to box number addresses and would request what information was required and detail the time and specific whereabouts of dead letterboxes the replies were to be left at. Evetkin thought the system was fool proof.

For poor Plodsky things never seemed to go quite right. There was the day when someone was to appear casually reading a newspaper seated on a park bench, then get up and leave the paper behind for Plodsky to pick up a few minutes later; the paper contained leaves of secret information hidden between its pages. Just before Plodsky reached the bench someone else sat down picked up the paper and turning to the back page pulled out a pen and started doing the crossword puzzle, then turning to Plodsky muttered something about completing it on the train and stuffed it in his pocket and walked off.

Then there was the microfilm hidden in a tennis ball and dropped on the edge of a playing field. Just as Plodsky was about to pick it he was beaten to it by a big black Labrador dog who with wagging tail raced off with it to his owner. His owner kept throwing it for him to retrieve before they walked off home the dog possessively retaining the ball.

Incidents like this continued with Plodsky failing to collect the goods. At the same time the country’s small but effective security service were starting to round up and arrest Evetkin’s well placed agents. Evetkin began to suspect Plodsky had been turned and become a double agent. His office was next door to Plodsky’s and Rodnikov’s was on the far side. In typically Russian orderly style the layout of each office was identical and if the thin plasterboard walls were removed the desks of the three men would be seen in a precise row.

A loud shout from Evetkin summoned Plodsky to his office. Although lacking proof Evetkin stormed at Plodsky airing his suspicions. He was warned that anymore failures would result in his immediate return to Moscow where he would be interrogated by the dreaded Olga Korsitsoff, feared throughout the service. If Olga didn’t liquidate him he’d probably end his days in a Siberian gulag. However Plodsky was to be given one more chance to redeem himself.

In a quiet backstreet on a neglected building plot was a forgotten pallet of bricks. If Plodsky lifted the brick at the top right- hand corner he would find a small canister lying in the frog, the indentation of the brick below. All he had to do was retrieve this – no crossword addicts, no Labrador dogs, it all sounded simple.

Plodsky entered the deserted street going towards the derelict building plot, only as he arrived he watched with dismay as a forklift raised the pallet of bricks onto a lorry which drove off before he could reach it.

It was late afternoon when Plodsky got back to the embassy and most of the staff had finished work, though light seeping under their doors indicated Evetkin and Peter Rodnikov were still there. Plodsky entered his own office quietly. He pulled a vodka bottle from his pocket; he’d had several swigs at it on the way back and now he drained it to the last. He sat down at his desk thinking of what Olga could do was too much to bear He opened a drawer and took out the standard issue pistol, flicked off the safety catch and stared down the barrel.

With a very shaky hand he squeezed the trigger and was almost deafened by the explosive sound of the shot and sat at his desk in a dazed state of half- drunk bewilderment, a small round hole in the plasterboard behind him. Poor Plodsky could he get nothing right – he couldn’t even terminate his own being.

He must have sat there for three or four minutes in total confusion expecting Evetkin to come storming in, but it was Peter Rodnikov who entered. As the bewildered Plodsky looked vacantly on Rodniknov picked up the pistol and with a cloth carefully wiped off all the fingerprints. Then taking another pistol from his pocket put it in the drawer of Plodsky’s desk. “Come with me” said Rodnikov “and don’t hang about.” Still in a daze Plodsky followed him into Evetkin’s office. The drawer where Evetkin kept his pistol was open and empty and Evetkin was slumped on his desk, a small red hole in his forehead oozing blood across the papers he’d been working on. A fearful Plodsky suddenly realised his shot must have passed through the wall to find a different victim. Rodnikov laid Plodsky’s wiped clean pistol close to the late Igor Evetkin’s hand.

“I’m about to defect” said Rodnikov.”I think you might be looking for a way out too now. Want to join me?” Dull as he was, it didn’t take Plodsky much thought to nod in agreement. Seated in a taxi speeding to the other side of the city, Rodnikov said apologetically “I’m afraid I am in some ways the cause of your predicament, so the least I can do is help you out of it. Shortly all will be revealed.”

The taxi dropped them off and after walking a short way they entered an office in a plain undistinguished building. Two men were seated in the office and Rodnikov said to them “Can you look after my friend for a few minutes while I go and chat with the Major.” Plodsky was given a chair and a sobering coffee he was sorely in need of. As he gazed at the two men he thought he had seen them before and slowly it began to dawn on him – the fork lift operator and the lorry driver.

Then Rodnikov called from an inner office “Plodsky, come through and meet the Major”. Plodsky went through and was soon seated beside Rodnikov facing the major across his desk. Again Plodsky thought there was something familiar about the Major, a paper folded to an unfinished crossword on his desk and a black Labrador dog sprawled on the floor beside him.

The Major looked cheerfully across his desk and said “Mr Plodsky we are a small country not a super-power and our counter-intelligence service too is small but we pride ourselves on our efficiency and between you and your comrade, you have helped us rid ourselves of a network of spies and traitors so we are prepared to offer you asylum, new identities and employment. Mr Rodniknov will enlighten you a little bit more.”

Peter Rodnikov continued the story “Soon after I arrived here I committed a most unfortunate indiscretion. If it had become public knowledge it would have caused a major diplomatic incident and if the embassy had found out I would have been sent home to face a terrible fate at the hands of Olga Korsitsoff.  The Major most kindly offered to arrange for the whole matter to remain secret if I would switch sides. What else could I do? I gave the Major the code and every time I was detailed to send out a message to an agent, which would of course have included details of the dead letter box to be used, I also sent a copy to the Major.”

The Major interjected “…and then it didn’t take long for our small team to put the pieces together and round up all the agents operating in our country”.

In Russian Intelligence circles today when Evetkin’s name is mentioned someone will usually remark “Oh yes, wasn’t he the chap who lost all his agents, then his assistants defected, so he did the only honourable thing.”

In their country of asylum under completely new identities Rodnikov and Plodsky were employed by the local postal service in an area seldom if ever visited by foreigners. Rodnikov goes from door to door delivering the mail. Plodsky has been given a little van and a bunch of keys and travels round emptying public letterboxes and he’s never missed a collection yet.

About the author 

 

Guy Pratt is a retired octogenarian second hand bookseller who enjoys gardening, long walks with his dog and travel. He gravitated into the book trade after earlier years in farming, the army Intelligence Corps and the civil service. 

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The Observed by Femi Salami, bitter lemon

Agent Terry sat in the dimly lit room, surrounded by rows of monitors displaying feeds from Joe Rogan's podcast, phone calls, emails, and online presence. His family and friends were also under surveillance. Terry's mission was to gather Intel on potential UFO disclosures on various social media platforms and private messages.

                                                              

As he watched Joe Rogan's live show, a guest, a former government agent, shared his encounter with UFO ships. Terry's ears perked up. He knew he had to report this to his superiors, with details plans attached to discredit the former government agent as quick as possible.

 

But just as he was about to file his report, the monitors began to glitch. Terry's trained instincts kicked in. He swiftly activated his system’s advanced firewalls, scanning the system for bugs or viruses. Nothing showed up.

 

Suddenly, a figure materialized beside him. Terry spun around, shocked at what he is seeing, but ready to trigger the fail-safe alarm.

 

"Relax, Agent Terry," the being said, its voice eerily calm. "I'm not here to harm you."

 

Terry's eyes widened as he took in the being's otherworldly features.

 

"Who are you?" Terry demanded.

 

"I'm an observer of this world," the being replied. "And a big fan of Joe Rogan's podcast, I might add. His open-mindedness is.... so refreshing."

 

Terry's mind reeled. "What do you want?"

 

"Stop reporting on Joe Rogan's UFO discussions," the being instructed. "His podcast is the reason we haven't made contact... yet. Humans aren't ready. Not even close."

 

Terry hesitated, torn between duty and the extraordinary revelation.

 

The being continued, "Joe Rogan's platform provides a unique window into human curiosity. We've been monitoring his shows, and his openness has proven to us, you are not yet ready for higher form of logic and reasoning."

 

Terry's fingers trembled, but lower his fingers from the alarm button under his desk.

 

"What's at stake?" he asked.

 

The being's gaze seemed to bore into Terry's soul. "Your species' fate! Continue to monitor Joe Rogan, but do not interfere. We love his episodes on UFOs; he is almost there."

 

With that, the being vanished!

 

Terry sat stunned, questioning everything he thought he knew about his mission and the world. He deleted his report, ensuring that his bosses don't have any new data on Joe Rogan's podcast.

 

As he resumed monitoring, Terry wondered: Was he now working for humanity's benefit or the extraterrestrial observer's agenda? Who is observing who?

 

Speaking out loud, Terry asked; “the observer is now been observed.”

 

About the author 

 

Femi is a south-western Nigerian, Male and currently based in Lagos, Nigeria. 

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Backward Cycling by Faith J Foster, dandelion and burdock

 Ricky and Ronnie Hall, two neighbourhood brats roamed about in furry raccoon hats with ratty coon tails trailing their backs. Ma always said it was heads or tails whether they came out the right way. I was scared silly of them especially when they raced around the neighbourhood on bikes all jacked up with plastic pennants flying from the handle bars. But not scared enough when one came close enough so I could snatch a racoon tail and run bold as brass into our back yard where I hunkered down inside the chain link fence. They would race about the fence like monkeys and scream, ‘Scaredy cat!’

                They were pale-faced and freckled and made me think of those doughy tea buns with raisins plopped like black bugs on the surface. Insolent as can be they rode about on their souped- up bikes like they owned the world and everything in it.

‘Oh, hells bells, look what those bratinellas are up to now,’ Ma would say as she glared out the front window. ‘Their ma was always hanging about with sailors and I reckon she drank herself into the next world the night she got knocked up with those two. Now she lets them run wild like two mad dogs while she sits in her front room smoking like a chimney from dawn to dusk. Ain’t no father about that I can see.’

Ricky and Ronnie had the knack of riding backwards right within an inch or two of me when I was taking my cat out for a ride in my dolly buggy. ‘One day yo’re gonna git it.’ They loved to warn me within an inch of my life. But I got even the day when my cat dressed in a white frilly nighty leaped out of the buggy and scared the living daylights out of the two. ‘What tha heck,’ they screamed and took off riding like the devil was on their tail.

                Years passed and Ma wrote to say that Ricky flew the coup and got himself into a trade school. ‘His ma is as proud as punch saying he’s a plumber. Now Ronnie, he’s a different kettle of fish. He’s turned into a ne‘er-do- well and got the green grocer’s daughter in the family way.’

It’s all so long ago now but I can’t stop wondering how they got to riding their bicycles backwards. Some say it can’t be done but I gotta say, ‘I seen it with my own eyes.’

 

About the author

 

Faith is a committed writer in response to daily prompts and has attended online events/courses to develop writing skills. Shorts Magazine, Half and One, The Academy of Heart and Mine, CafeLit and Dreamer Creative Writing have published her submissions. 

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The Delight of Dogs by Judith Skilleter, a nice full bodied red wine

 Hilary looks after dogs. Not anybody’s dogs – she looks after dogs belonging to family and friends when they go on holiday or go away for work. It is not a business; she doesn’t charge kennel fees or anything but she does ask that they bring any special dietary requirements that the pooches might need. And of course they must bring their favourite toys and their bed. It is working well and she has five regular dogs and two waiting in the wings.

Sancho is her favourite. He was named after Don Quixote’s sidekick as the word spaniel comes from old French espagneul which translates as Spanish dog. Sancho is a cocker spaniel with identity issues. He thinks he is human. They watch TV together and Sancho sits beside her on the sofa where he sits back on his bottom with his front paws in the air. His particular favourite is the Grand Prix when Hilary can see his head going round and round and from side to side. Sancho is the most affectionate of all her visitors, he is the most licky and in summer Hilary does not wear open-toed sandals for fear of wet feet all day. Sancho belongs to Hilary’s son who lives some way away with his family.

Then there is Fiddler who belongs to a neighbour who often goes on tour with a small band where she is a violinist, hence the name Fiddler. Fiddler also has identity issues. He thinks he is a rabbit as he doesn’t run, he bounds. He also is very inquisitive, too inquisitive. One time he disturbed a hedgehog and came back to the house leaping and bounding and scratching and in obvious distress - fleas. It took a while with tweezers to get these little pests out – and a visit to the vet and expensive flea treatment.

Cicero is an elderly black Labrador. He is a proud, independent dog and Hilary reckons that he allows her to look after him, he makes the decisions. She is his choice of carer and he is the boss. He is a gentle giant but he is old and big and pulls when they walk so Hilary has bought this special sort of lead that grips the dog by the nose and it seems to work. Cicero does not like it but it stops his pulling and especially stops him pulling Hilary into heavy traffic when something interesting appears on the other side of the road.

Miggy is still a pup with needle teeth. But Hilary loves Miggy as he and she love cuddles. She scoops him up into her arms and he falls asleep. Fabulous. Miggy belongs to a cousin who lives miles away but who is prepared to bring young Miggy to Hilary as she knows he will be well looked after – and there are no kennel fees.

Unfortunately, word has got around that Hilary looks after dogs for free and she gets calls from people she doesn’t know. Sometimes these calls are heart rending, especially when the owners say that unless she can take their dog (or dogs!) they will have to be put down. So far Hilary has been able to resist these temptations. With these new responsibilities she is starting to enjoy her life again, including her dog-free time, and does not want to be overwhelmed by canine cuties no matter how gorgeous they might be.

Another regular canine companion is Diego, a Belgian Shepherd. He is huge and hairy and he moults everywhere in clumps. Hilary collects all his moultings and is making a pillow for her visitors. He too is a gentle giant; he is not bothered by other dogs when they go out walking and he loves it when anybody gives him affection. Diego’s history is that he was a rescue dog from Romania and Hilary wonders about his early years which were probably not happy or safe years.

But when Diego yawns he looks just like a wolf and reminds Hilary of Little Red Riding Hood

“All the better to eat you with my dear!”

His rows of huge teeth are really quite alarming but so far all they have attacked are Bonios.

Her two dogs in waiting are Acorn who has just had six beautiful pups so it will be a while before she can visit, and Inky who will come when she is less destructive. Inky has a particular liking for wooden edges, like those on doors and skirting boards and tables and chairs. “A few more months” thinks Hilary.

Hilary is a widow. Darling Harry died five years ago after three years where he was looked after at home by Hilary. He had cancer, although this should be plural: he had a number of cancers. Hilary cared for him day and night. He had a hospital bed at home and Hilary slept next to him for three years on a futon on the floor. When he went into hospital she went with him and brought him home as soon as they would allow. For three years Hilary hardly ever went out but she had marvellous support from friends and family towards whom she feels enormous gratitude. It was their support that enabled Hilary and their son Michael to give Harry some contentment in his final months.

Hilary and Harry had been a match made in heaven. They met and were married within two months and they had over forty years of marital happiness. They had one son; to their dismay other children did not come along, but Michael, their only child, was a delight and still is. During his dad’s illness he came home and took over as often as he could. Michael was the only other person, apart from the medics, to whom Hilary would entrust Harry’s final days. Harry died in Hilary’s arms with Michael holding both parents’ hands. It was a peaceful and very emotional death but in a kind and loving sort of way.

But after Harry’s death Hilary found that she was without purpose, without function and without any reason to get up in the morning. Hilary herself was fit and healthy and she struggled with this emptiness. Harry had been her function and purpose for so long that it was difficult adjusting to life without him. Hilary also found that when on her own at home she was without love and companionship. That was her biggest loss. For a few months life was very difficult for Hilary, she felt she was contributing to nothing, she was giving nothing – these were months in which Hilary grieved.

It was Michael’s idea that his mum look after Sancho from time to time. After his dad’s death Michael had discussed with his wife that a dog might help his mum, not so much to move on but to cope better with her loss. “Not a puppy,” was his wife’s immediate response. “They poo and wee too much.”

“And she is not having Sancho,” came from under the table where Sancho and their daughter were playing quietly. Their daughter, Esme, was giving Sancho a pedicure – his nails on his back paws were orange and those on his front paws were blue. The red ribbon around his neck was the perfect colour next to his russet colouring.

“But perhaps we could start off with her having Sancho when we go on holiday. You know how much he hates kennels”

This comment was aimed under the table and it led to a nod from Esme followed by “OK – but he has to come home afterwards.”

And that was how it started. Sancho was Hilary’s first canine companion, her first foster dog. Sancho was the first who helped to bring back a bit of function, purpose, enjoyment and companionship into her life. And of course, she had to go out as these wonderful visitors needed regular walks where she met other dogs and their owners - instant short term companionship. With dogs there are no opportunities to sit around with memories, happy or otherwise 

However, in no way could these four legged canine creatures replace darling Harry but they did help her to cope with the huge emptiness, huge nothingness, that had suddenly come into her life after years of a life that was so full in so many ways. Life would never be as good as it had been for Hilary but there was now, due to her canine pals, most certainly progress towards a happier life.

 

About the author

  

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren. 

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Sunday Serial, 280x70 by Gill James: 64 The Birds, spring water,

 

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.

64.  The Birds 

 They can be tiny or gigantic. They can do this thing that we can't. They can stretch out what passes for arms and fly. Oh why can't we? I pause right now to look out of my widow and I can see tits, finches and pigeons. 

So, that chain store produced a jigsaw puzzle of British birds but the problem was half of them weren't British. What does that mean, being British? Birds don't have passports do they? If something changes on the planet they may change where they go. Can we learn something here?

Do you member that film? By the guy who always made guest appearances? They don't use many real birds, though. They spent thousands of pounds on mechanical ones. That film became even more eerie because it had little music in it - just natural sounds and some calculated silences. The birds fight against humanity, eh? Well, it probably serves us right.

Was it happening again that day, when all of those big birds were lined up on a roof top and kept swooping down on to the road and pecking away at something delicious? As we walked along the road they flew back up to their perch and stared at us.

"Remind you of a film?" asked a passer-by. Yes.

Did you know that many dinosaurs were feathered? And that birds can be traced back to that time? Did they survive by being small enough to live on little after disaster struck?

I look again out of my window. A small tit pecks away at the bird feeder, spilling a few seeds on the ground below for the pigeons. Can't we live side by side?         

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

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