Sunday Serial: Seeing the Other side by Allison Symes, pumpkin juice

 

Restrictions and Pastry Crusts

 

They gave me generous limits but wanted me not to exceed them. Well, I wasn’t going to resist temptation like that, was I?

I remember my dear old mum telling me promises were like pastry crusts - made to be broken - so took the view the same could apply to restrictions. I knew what I was doing and, just as importantly, why. Where would the harm be? I forgot my dear old mum had become somewhat cynical by this stage - let down far too often by those she thought she could trust, though never by me. I thought she was unlucky, gullible, or both. I should have known the same might apply to me. I take after her a lot, see, and unlike the others, I stayed with her to the end. She appreciated that.

So what went wrong?

Every single spell I cast went wrong. It started with that wretched pumpkin. Yeah, sure, I turned it into a coach, a nice one too, but the wheels were wonky, the suspension was non-existent, and Cinders needed a load of perfume to swamp the smell of pumpkin! She walked into that ballroom smelling as if she'd fallen into a perfumery vat. And I pride myself on my subtle charms. Not a chance here! Mum would've been mortified.

The less said about the glass slippers the better, but all credit to my goddaughter for being able to walk in them, yet alone dance with His Nibs. But it is the mice I feel really bad about. The moment they stopped being footmen and changed back, a greedy fox came out of nowhere and ate the blasted lot!

The classic spellbooks tell you to use natural ingredients and use magic to exaggerate their usual qualities. It was pushing it somewhat to get transport out of organic matter yet alone make humans out of rodents.

I've got two letters on my mat. One’s from the boss. You can't miss the royal seal. Perhaps I can tell her some humans are worse than animals so I felt it would be okay to use animals to be better than humans for a bit. And I swear I had no idea that fox was lurking about!

The other letter looks like a posh invite. The stationery feels heavy. Well they can both wait. I'm shattered. I'll see what they bring tomorrow.

 

A Way Round

 

You know the old “you only have three wishes” ploy? I’ve beaten it.

I was clearing Mum's place, preparing to sell up. Dad died years ago. Mum lived again. Think prehistoric school. I miss Mum.

Anyway, I found this old lamp. I know the tale. Mum and I loved pantomime. Later, she introduced me to the theatre, Shakespeare especially.

For a laugh, I rub the lamp.

I nearly joined Mum when that genie appeared. He was equally surprised and sorry to hear about Mum. He loathed Dad.

The genie told me Mum used one wish from him for an endless supply of dirt for blackmail purposes. She then asked for two payments only to be paid in cash, never more than £5000 each, so the people concerned felt they were getting off lightly. No wonder we could afford theatre trips. It wasn’t due to Mum’s pay. She was a hospital cleaner.

If the genie gets returned to his world, he'll be executed for corruption so he must stay in his lamp.  As Mum's only heir I inherit her second wish so I can keep this going! What I don’t do is use the third wish. Like Mum, I know not to be greedy. Dad never knew.

I also found Mum’s black book. There are so many in here Mum didn't blackmail. She only managed ten per cent of the politicians!

I must be off. Have lots to do! Wish me luck, maybe?

 

What You Wish For

 

I guess the old saying about being careful what you wish for is true. I wish it wasn’t! Here I am, a powerful genie, stuck in a lamp because I dare not go back to my proper world. Okay, I’m on to a good racket with the humans here but if you’d asked me, when I was in magic school, how I’d envisage my life ending up, it wouldn’t involve getting stuck in a bloody lamp!

The mistake I made was wishing to be able to get away with my “little ways”. You’re not supposed to cheat at magic. Things like using magic for your own benefit are frowned upon. Well, I wasn’t having any truck with that, was I? What is the point of being a magical genie if you can’t have any of the benefits? That life of service malarkey is for suckers!

Anyway, I must admit I did have a riotous time though one of my wishes still hasn’t happened. I’ve yet to meet the lady genie of my dreams. But overall I had fun and then the Council wanted to call me to account. I know why. I was supposed to give their head chap a rake-off from my financial gains. No way. I got myself a bigger and better lamp as I progressed and those things cost. Trust me, they cost. I guess you could say I’ve got the palatial suite of lamps If you were to see my accommodation.

So I had to run and then stay hidden in my lamp. I do take a quick peek every now and again at my old world but I daren’t connect to it for long. They could trace me, see. Head chap is still running the Council so I can’t go back with him there. And yes, I have tried wishing him away. Nothing happened there. I can only assume he’s got a bigger, more powerful genie than I looking after him. It’s a pain when that happens but hey you can’t win them all.

So I sit it out, help my humans make money from the people they’re blackmailing, and I guess you could call it keeping up my skills. I just wonder when it will end though. Nothing’s everlasting, is it?

Is it?

Wish Hard Enough

 

The piles of money were a joy to behold and, better still, there would be more to come. Finding that lamp in the old man's house when Mark was clearing the place out had been the find of any century.

Yeah sure, Mark knew the Aladdin story but had never dreamed there could be any truth in it. But he'd been unable to stop himself rubbing the lamp and, once over the shock of the genie turning up, had realised the potential.

What was disconcerting was the genie had been upset to hear the old man was dead and that Mark was not a blood relative. Mark had assumed genies did not have feelings and were meant to do as they were told. Still, the genie knew that now and had granted Mark's wish to develop the perfect scam.

And the money rolled in, all untraceable of course. People who could be conned deserved it, Mark had told the genie. Mark was merely fleecing the greedy. Honest people would never fall for the get rich quick scheme.

In vain did the genie say Mark had conned dementia sufferers too. Mark's view was their families should have looked after them better.

Mark poured a whisky. Some woman was coming round here in ten minutes to beg for the return of her ill father's money. Mark never let people come here as a rule but this should be good for a laugh.

He was surprised the woman was younger than he thought. The brunette was attractive too.

'You have one chance to restore my client's money. I recommend you do so.'

Well he'd give her due credit. She had a brass nerve or several dozen to come out with that on his doormat. Hadn't even got to the offer a coffee and chat her up stage.

'Client? I thought you were here for your father?'

'I am acting for the father of a friend and I know about the genie. It's time for the genie to be set free too.'

‘How the hell did you know about the genie?’

The woman smiled. ‘Because I’m the witch who put him in there in the first place. Go on, summon him up, you’ll soon see if I’m telling the truth or not.’

Mark didn’t bother. He laughed. It was the last thing he did. A puff of smoke later saw the genie standing in front of the woman and an enraged Mark entrapped in the lamp.

The genie smiled. ‘I never expected you, my nemesis, to be my deliverer.’

‘Well, the curse was broken. I had finally found someone with more reason to be entrapped than you! Now off you go and make a proper go of your magical life this time!’

 

.

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.   

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.)

Support Me on Ko-fi

 

 

 

 

Saturday Sample: at Play and Other Stories by Amita Basu, fish soup

 

FISH

 

April 15^th, 2020. Day 24 of Lockdown.

I’m walking to the fish shop. Saleem has phoned to say he’s received fresh rahu. Juhi and I have been conserving groceries for weeks, and yesterday Modi extended the lockdown till May 3^rd. Juhi’s Goan-style fish curry will fortify us for two more weeks of this nightmare. At midmorning it’s already sweltering, but Covid has made the streets startlingly dust-free.

Up ahead, a line of families straggles down the main road with cloth bundles and toddlers too tired for mischief. Bangalore is opening its pores and releasing, drop by sweaty drop, its millions of migrant labourers. These families, heading towards Nagasandra, must be going home to the villages around Tumkur. Some of them look like they’ve been walking for days, from Vellore, perhaps. A bulge-bellied man in khaki stands, arms akimbo, wooden lathi protruding like a slender electroshocked tail. A masked old man approaches cautiously, mewling, brandishing before him the white flag of a doctor’s prescription. The policeman waves him on and resumes his scowling scrutiny of the migrant beeline.

It is not, I remind myself, so bad for us. Normally, Juhi and I would be working all year in different cities, meeting at Holi, Dussehra, and Christmas. Now we work across from each other at the desk all day, then relocate to the sofa for Swiggy home-delivery dinners over true-crime documentaries. For us Covid’s been a long holiday.

As I approach the fish shop, a couple in ice-blue jeans, FabIndia kurtas, and sunhats turn to glare at me. I retreat to await my turn outside the fish shop. Fingering their PM-95 masks to check for good seal, the couple scan me for signs of disease.

Outside Saleem’s shop there are no squares chalked on the pavement, six feet apart, to remind customers to socially distance while queueing. Outside this shop there’s no pavement. There’s unpaved earth and the back alleys leading to tin-roofed hovels.

The couple is inside the fish shop now, still looking over their shoulders occasionally to glare at me. They don’t know me, but I know them. Every morning in Nike Airs and high-tech tracksuits they trot their two snorting pugs beside the lake. Everyone knows Utkarsh and Nikita Sharma.

“Basa, you have?” says Utkarsh, simplifying his English – for Saleem the fish-shop-owner is illiterate – and shouting, though Saleem isn’t deaf. Maybe it’s to project through his own double-masked face that Utkarsh is shouting.

“Yes, fresh basa!” From the small cooler, Saleem produces a lissome, pink-finned beauty. Its scales glitter million-silver in a sunbeam breaking through a hole in the tin roof.

“One kilo. Bengali cut,” says Utkarsh, “no backpieces!” For the dorsal side of the fish bristles with hair-thin bones.

“Backpieces hard to eat,” Nikita explains more mildly, half to me, half to Saleem.

Saleem nods. This shop is poor but this neighbourhood has gentrified. Saleem’s intimate with the whims of the wealthy. He passes the fish to his sons at the worktable.

Eleven-year-old Hasan scales the fish with a broad-faced nail-studded wooden brush, sending scales flying towards the walls, which are brown with congealed fish blood. Then fifteen-year-old Ali guts, cleans, and slices the fish.

“Bengali cut,” repeats Utkarsh, raising himself on his toes ten feet away, keeping on this side of the invisible fence he’s built. Ali nods.

I’m standing in line outside the shop. Over Utkarsh’s shoulders, beneath the counter, I see a cat. White, with adult proportions, but stunted and emaciated. Belly-up on the grey stone floor, she plays with Saleem’s black rubber slippers.

She looks starving. How is she just lying there playing? Maybe the slippers chew like food. Or maybe they’re her pacifier, her hunger-killing opium.

This cat is new here. She must be a migrant too. Perhaps she used to haunt another, bigger fish shop. With so many shops shut, streets empty, and rubbish dumps picked clean, millions of street cats and street dogs have been displaced too.

“Shop open all day?” Nikita interrogates Khadija.

Behind the counter Khadija, Saleem’s leather-faced wife, looks up from her basket-weaving, which provides the Abduls with a side income. Alone in the family, manning the cash drawer, Khadija keeps her hands fish-free.

“No mam. Four hours only,” says Khadija. “We follow government orders.”

“Bet they do,” Utkarsh mutters to Nikita, “with nobody to enforce them!”

“You should follow government orders,” insists Nikita, speaking slowly, as if Saleem were a three-year-old. “Shop open four hours only, yes? Everyone should come morning only. Like us. Then you close. Then everyone safe!”

Khadija nods. Hands and eyes busy with her basket-weaving, she says, “After Their Majesties have transacted their business, everyone should shut up shop and go starve so that Their Majesties stay safe.” She speaks in Kannada, her tone casual as if discussing the wholesale rate for basa.

Saleem smiles affably at Utkarsh and Nikita. The Sharmas, who speak only English, smile back. Saleem disappears into the back room.

The cadaverous white cat rises, stretches, and follows. Behind half-drawn dingy curtains, four cots lie pushed together under motley, dingy bedsheets. Here, under the hot tin roof, the family eat and sleep.

An old man shuffles up the empty road. He’s wearing a kurta and dhoti which were once white. His eyes are bloodshot. His left hand unsteadily grips a crooked walking-stick. His right arm is extended palm-up. Seeing us, he frantically jingles the heap of small change on his palm.

“Why can’t they put beggars somewhere inside,” Nikita mutters, “and feed them? Look at him just walking around, spreading disease. This is why the lockdown had to be extended. Here!” She flings a coin at him from twenty feet away. The beggar is alone on the street but he crumples in a panic and gropes in the dust. He drops some of the coins he already has, then makes a fist of his hand and uses his thumb to recover the runaways. His eyes bulge with panic and he gnashes his teeth at an imaginary rival scrambling for his coins. Then he rises slowly to his feet, his knees wobbling, his mouth working with the pain of stiff joints tested, his hand fisted around coins and dust.

When he reaches me, I hand him the two packets of Parle-G biscuits I carry for street dogs. Even in Bangalore, where beggars never were as numerous as in Delhi or Bombay, beggars have become more numerous, now, than street dogs. The Sharmas’ disapproving gaze pierces me.

“He’s not even wearing a mask,” Nikita calls out at me from her sanctum inside the shop.

“Surely he can afford one?” Utkarsh reasons with me. “Those cheap black ones? How much can those cost? Ten, twenty rupees?”

Disregarding them, I finally enter the fish shop – there’s room enough – and approach the fish cooler and select my rahu. The Sharmas edge as far away from me as they can without brushing against the blue walls splotched brown with fish blood.

“Utkarsh,” Nikita mutters, “let’s find another shop. These Muslims” – she eyes me, checking if I’m Muslim too – “everyone’s saying they spread Covid deliberately, congregating in mosques. And just look how they live! Guaranteed to spread disease.”

I watch Ali gutting the Sharmas’ basa in one dexterous motion. Hasan is scaling my rahu. Saleem reemerges from the bedroom, milk bottle in right hand, infant on left arm. He catches me staring.

“My sister’s,” he explains. “She’s in the hospital… What a time to be born, eh!” He laughs at the cat, who’s hunting his trouser hems. “This unfortunate has also newly entered our lives.”

The cat battles with his hem. Has hunger driven her mad? She sinks her teeth into the fabric, gets them stuck, then panics with frantic claws and manic eyes to get free.

“Enough, Monkey,” murmurs Saleem.

The cat ceases and desists, and sits back and meows, her eyes blue saucers.

“I’ll feed you soon,” Saleem tells her. “Have this, meanwhile.” His foot nudges out a cracked and dented aluminium bowl from under the bench where, in better times, customers waited to be served. He squirts some milk into the bowl. The cat drinks.

Ali sets aside the basa’s backpieces and plastic bags the rest for the Sharmas. Will the backpieces go discounted to another customer, I wonder, or into the Abduls’ lunch?

Saleem weighs the basa. “240 rupees, sir.”

“Google Pay?” asks Utkarsh, brandishing his iPhone.

“Cash only.”

Grumbling, Utkarsh counts out the notes to Khadija, receives his change with the tips of plastic-gloved fingers, and sprays with sanitiser the notes that’ve come out of the cash drawer. Khadija snaps the hundred-rupee notes straight as the Sharmas leave the shop.

Whistling, Ali tosses a slice of rejected rahu backpiece. There’s a flash of white and then the cat retreats under the bench to enjoy her lunch.

“Selfish idiots,” I mutter, watching Utkarsh and Nikita stroll away through the heat-shimmering noon.

Khadija laughs. “There’s a saying, mam,” she says in Kannada. “‘People are as stupid as life lets them be.’ When there are floods, potatoes get pricier. But rich people don’t notice. They don’t eat potatoes. They eat kiwi fruit from Australia. If a neighbour moves, or dies, they don’t notice. It’s not like their neighbour used to babysit for them, or steal from them. We notice because we have to.”

Waiting for my rahu, I watch the migrant white cat eat. Emaciated but unhurried, she picks her way around the deadly bones.

Find your copy here  

 

 

About the author 

Amita Basu is a Pushcart-nominated writer whose fiction appears in 85+ venues including The Penn Review, Bamboo Ridge, Faultline, Jelly Bucket, Phoebe, and Funicular. She’s won the Letter Review prize and Kelp's Shelter in Place contest, and been shortlisted by Five Minute Lit’s and Phoebe’s fiction contests. Amita’s favourite writers are George Eliot, Thomas Mann, and Alice Munro. Eliot, with her piercing insight into a wide range of personalities, combined with compassion, is Amita’s North Star. Amita admires and envies comic writers from Aristophanes to Kingsley Amis to Wodehouse, as well as contemporary standup comics. She’d love to write a comic novel. She’s still stuck making laboured, embarrassing dad jokes, so the comic novel will be a while coming. Meanwhile, she’s working on a climate action/high-fantasy novel and her next collection of literary realist short stories.

Amita lives in Bangalore, India. She has a PhD in cognitive science. Her doctoral work examined the valuation and discounting of nonmarket goods. Climate change and environmental destruction being problems caused by human behaviour, Amita believes that solutions must focus on understanding and shifting behaviour. Amita is Senior Research Fellow at Transitions Research, a climate action thinktank. Here, she helps design and test interventions to encourage pro-environmental behaviours: e.g. the adoption of rooftop solar, the use of electric vehicles and public transport, and the segregation of waste at source. Transitions Research also works on developing behaviourally informed policy recommendations, and works with a range of stakeholders to create change.

 

Amita loves dogs, spending time in nature, and classical music. She blogs at http://amitabasu.com/

 

Train Station The Begin, Passing Through or End of a Journey by Diana Lorenz, builders' tea

Kindness goes a long way and is much appreciated. Small change buy food and a scrap of dignity.

It is early afternoon and the train station is as busy as it gets. Judging by the passengers’ clothes it must be a hot summer day, inviting them to wear shorts or skirts. The smell of sweat, sun cream, and perfume tickles my nose. Despite the heat from the train station I’m cold from the inside out. I shiver, goosebumps creeping up my spine. I close the half zipper of my jumper. I’m watching her, the old lady with white hair and a beige handbag from last century. She struggled to disembark from a train, fighting with her bags and a large pink suitcase. The suitcase is festooned with heart stickers. She must have a grandchild who loves stickers. She is the most likely candidate for my purpose. She looks a bit lost in the big train station. Does she know how fragile her situation is? One small push and her bags will be unattended.

From the old lady my eyes fall on one of the pigeons walking between hurrying feet, scratching at the grey concrete for morsels of food. I envy them. Pigeons always seem to find enough to fill their hungry bellies, unlike Peter who tries to beg for small change. The passengers buy themselves mouthwatering baked goodies or the tummy-filling burgers, which Peter can’t afford. I see him nearby, dragging his feet in shoes that were broken a year ago. His trousers should have been replaced months ago and his coat can’t camouflage his tattered shirt. When he shuffles by my bench, he nods slightly in my direction. I don’t know what happened to Peter’s foot - was he born deformed, was it an accident, an illness? I don’t ask and he has never told me. I glimpse his hollow eyes that have seen too much and his matted hair that hasn’t felt the touch of a comb for days. He is not looking where he is going and trips over the old lady’s bags. To steady himself, he puts up his hand and leans against the train. He is lucky that the train is stationary. If it moved he would risk getting caught between the moving train and the gap of the platform. The old lady looks even more frightened as Peter lurches toward her. She opens her purse and thrusts some money into his hand. Peter looks confused then his face lights up and he shuffles back toward the food stands. I’ve known Peter for years now. He has a good heart even though he fell hard through no fault of his own. Regardless, he will remain overlooked by the people hastening by to catch a train in their polished shoes, with smiles on their faces and money in their pockets.

Watching Peter reminds me of Julia. When she arrived at the train station she was too young, too cheerful, too happy. She was a runaway. Running from poverty, neglect, and violence her dreams of finding a better life stalled out in a train station.

I’ve seen a lot over the years, but to see Julia’s spirit fade away hurt the most. A year of hunger, cold and heat took its toll on her young body, the wonder and hope in her eyes buried under despair that was always visible unless her body was shaken by nightmares. Her cheerfulness changed to frustration, then hate, and finally aggression. The pitying looks from the passengers changed to disdain and even loathing. People on the go to their holiday destination, to visit family or to work don’t want to be reminded of the dark side of life and society. They liked to pretend they had nothing in common with the hollowed out young woman who demanded money and spit at them when they refused as if they could never be as unfortunate as she.

One winter night, Julia collapsed outside the train station. She had become pregnant. But how can a body grow a child if the mum struggles to find food, has no basic hygiene, and the cold, grey, snow-laden, unforgiving winter sky is the only roof over her head. Red blood leaked out of her failing, broken body soiling the red hoody of a forgetful child. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was breathing her last.

After, a newspaper ran a story about Julia’s tragic fate. The good people of the city  honoured the young homeless woman with flowers and cuddly toys. What good to her after she had left this world? But even that small interest didn’t last longer than a few weeks. How quickly they forgot her. I will never forget Julia. I keep a shrine for her in my heart.

The old lady is still next to the train. She heaves a big sigh of relief after she had checked that all her bags are still there. Slowly, I get up and make my way to her. She looks at me warily, still upset by her encounter with Peter.

I’m grateful that people tend to lose things in train stations. The men’s jumper I’m wearing is on the big side but looks newish enough, the shoes are on the small side, but they are better than Peter’s,  and my jeans don’t have holes. My clothes make it easier to mask what I am.

The train starts to move and I grab the old lady’s arm to get her away from the abyss.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

‘I need to catch the 5:15pm connection train to the airport.’ The old lady’s pleading eyes rest on my wrinkled face. I see the unasked questions in her face. She's wondering if I'm like Peter, assuming he was a threat when he was only needy. I don't want to explain my situation.

‘Me too,’ I lie. ‘This way. I’ll take some of your baggage.’ I muster a smile and before she can protest, take the suitcase and one of her bags. She’s still clutching her beige handbag.

‘I normally don’t trust strangers.’ She’s forced to follow me or risk her luggage disappearing.

We walk across the train station - a fair distance - and for once, the train is on time so I quicken my pace. I can hear the old lady hurrying after me, breathing heavily.

‘Here we are.’ I help her onto the train. She falls onto a seat, trying to catch her breath.

‘Are you sure this train is to the airport?’ she asks me, but looks at the man sitting across from her. He’s wearing a neat suit and has a respectable haircut. He’s probably had a shower only a few hours ago and after that probably a healthy breakfast with coffee and fresh squeezed juice.

‘No worries.’ The man takes his cue. ‘You are on the right train.’ He gives the old lady a warm smile. He has sparkly white straight teeth.

I’m quite certain that the conductor will not check tickets so I stay near my prey.

Shortly, the train ride is over. Before the old lady can stand I take her bags  and step off the train.

‘Where are you flying to?’ I ask, guiding her to the escalator. She looks towards the lift. I hate lifts and before she can protest I’m on the escalator, her suitcase in hand. I turn around and see her step tentatively on it as well.

‘Ireland,’ she says. She seems to have relaxed, trusting I won’t disappear with her luggage. ‘My daughter moved there a couple of years ago. I’m on my way to see my grandchildren again. This is the first time I’m flying alone.’ I step off the escalator and wait for her to catch up, expecting her to tell me her whole life story. But she looks tired as if she just wants to be done with her journey.

After two more questions I know which airline we need for the suitcase and larger bag drop off. We make our way there and in no time at all we have the old lady’s luggage checked in. I show her the way to the security and then it’s time to say our goodbyes.

‘Thank you so much for your help.’ She looks at me uncertainly. ‘You don’t work for the airlines, do you?’ I shake my head, trying to keep my face neutral and unthreatening.

‘Thank you,’ she says again and I start to turn away. ‘Here,’ she says. A crumpled bill and several coins in her outstretched hand. ‘Have yourself a cup of tea and maybe some pastry.’ She turns and is gone.

I look at my hand and nod. It’s not much, but it will buy me some food and a shower. The airport is not the worst place to have a snooze and maybe I can find someone here who needs help navigating the train service, carrying their bags – my next target.

Begging has never appealed to me. I learned a long time ago that offering a service to vulnerable people and some kindness buys me the food I need and my dignity. I prey on their fragility and sometimes they pay me not only with their small change but with kind words and a smile that warms my belly and my heart. 

About the author

Diana Lorenz, grew up loving stories. Her inspiration comes from controversial societal topics. She loves writing short stories and works on a children's novel. 

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.)