Papa Jean by Henry Lewi, absinthe with a cube of sugar

In the hot sticky night, they found his twentieth victim and they knew Papa Jean had returned. They found the body of a middle-aged man behind the Café du Monde on the banks of the Mississippi. Today the good folks of New Orleans would not be having their beignets. The locals told of stories of a killer that had lived amongst them for the last 200 years. They talked of a curse; they spoke of a murderer that had arrived from the old island of Santa Domingo. They spoke of a dead French Slaver seeking vengeance.

  They told of how when the summer nights were hot, Papa Jean appeared and killed, always leaving his mark.

  In the shadows the killer watched and listened. His profile occasionally lit up by the flickering lights of the police vehicles. He was tired. He had needed a new body. This one he had been using was worn out: modern life he thought, bad food, no exercise, too many cigarettes, so it was time to change into a younger fitter healthier body.

He watched; he saw the shimmering image of Algiers Point across the water. He watched, as the first ferry crossed to the Canal Street Ferry Port, and as the ambulance took away the body.

The heat rose from the ground as the sun heated it up and Algiers disappeared behind a haze.

He watched and remembered. He remembered the slaves arriving. He remembered the slave markets. He remembered the battle for New Orleans in 1815, the fires that destroyed the shipyards in ’62 and the old plantation houses in ’95.

The humidity and heat were becoming uncomfortable and as he left the shadows unobserved and crossed Jackson Square entering The Cabildo, the old courthouse, where the marbled floors were always cool and reassuring.

The portraits of the great and good of old New Orleans brought back memories of who he was, why he was, and where he had been. He remembered when he had first arrived in 1812.  He wandered into the gallery devoted to the Battle of New Orleans of 1815, stopping at a portrait of “Les Volontaires Francaise d’Orleans”. He stared at the image of himself, Jean Baptiste St. Juste Honore in the second row, or who he had been then, 200 years ago.

  The slave revolt had begun on the Island of Santa Domingo in 1791, and for many years the leaders of the revolt murdered the Spanish, the French, and each other, switching allegiances at will. Jean Baptiste and his family, owned slaves and a sugar cane plantation in the north of the island. During his absence in Port au Prince, Toussaint Louverture and his men burnt the plantation and murdered Jean Baptiste’s family during Louverture’s ‘March of Freedom.’

 The island burnt as the sugar cane and coffee plantations were put to the torch. In retaliation Jean Baptiste led 300 slave and plantation owners, with French and Spanish militia on a “Ride of Death” across the Northern half of the island.

  During one attack on a village of freed slaves, Jean Baptiste was faced by a young Creole woman, the voodoo princess known as “ti se Marie”, holding a small figurine in one hand and a white cockerel in the other standing in front of her burning hut.

‘I curse you Jean Baptiste St. Juste Honore, I curse you and your family, to walk the earth in shame and death,’ she said.

Before Jean Baptiste could reach her, she bit off the head of the cockerel, doused the figurine with its blood, and threw both into the flames, even as he ran her through with his sabre.

Jean Baptiste had been cursed many times before. What was the babbling of one more Creole witch worth?

  Jean Baptiste developed a hunger to kill that he needed to feed.

  After the massacre of 1804 Jean Baptiste, had to leave the island of Santa Domingo, and he travelled the islands, from Santa Domingo to Guadeloupe. From Guadeloupe to Jamaica, from Jamaica to Trinidad, helping to put down slave insurrections on behalf of whichever group of owners paid him.

The hunger never left and was rarely satiated.

In 1812 he arrived aboard a slave transport at Algiers point hoping for a different life in the newly purchased US city of New Orleans, where a new killing field had opened up. The Hunger never left.

  In the past two centuries he’d been able to wear new bodies like clothes. He knew how to change, but not the why of the change. His hunger now came in cycles: usually a single kill sufficed for months but every few years he had to feed on many “companions”, always during the hot summer months.

After a summer killing cycle, he learnt he had to change. Sometimes he was tired, weary, and exhausted, and then he’d kill, and take a new body. As long as he could use his hands, eyes and mind he could move from body to body.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a group of tourists. Their guide was a pretty young Creole woman who spoke with the Cajun patois. A perfect companion she'd be; he felt the sharp edge of the blade in his pocket

  Through the hot humid day, he shadowed her and the tourists, as they wandered through the French quarter.

As he stepped out to cross Basin Street to enter Treme- Lafitte he never saw the truck that hit him.

Waking up was a struggle; he couldn’t breathe easily, couldn’t move, or turn his head, and he couldn’t speak.

“Cher,” she said, bending over him, ‘its ti se Marie. I’m finally found you again. I’ve followed and lost you all these years; I got close many times, but you changed. I knew it was you Jean Baptiste, you watching at the Café du Monde, you watching at the Cabildo.’

‘The accident, it was my truck, broke your back; you can’t move, you can’t leave, you will hunger and remember the islands. Adieu Jean Baptiste St. Juste Honore.’

Papa Jean could only lie there unable to move. He was paralyzed from the neck down. A tube in his throat was helping him breathe. He couldn’t feed. His hunger grew. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t change and he couldn’t leave. He could only remember. 

About the author

 Henry is a retired surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site. 

 

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The Sweet Smell of Success by Sarah Swatridge, a pot of tea with shortbread

1920s London

Miss Rose headed for the largest department store in London confident she would be successful. She wore her best dress and the new gloves her mother had given her. She’d managed to get a lift with a neighbour. He’d bought an ex-army van after the war. It was about as comfortable as a Charabanc, but at least it had a roof which didn’t disturb her hair. That was important today as she wanted to make a good impression.

It was still early so she had time to admire the fancy displays in the shop windows. Splendid though they were, she couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable by the contrast to the poor waifs who slept in doorways when the workhouses were full.

She heard the noise of the large doors being opened for business and felt a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation.

A handful of shoppers walked in dazzled by the bright lights and beautiful cut-glass chandeliers. Annie Rose had to remind herself she was not there to shop. She was there to do business. This was her chance to make a difference.

Annie’s father was a chemist. He’d always encouraged her to experiment with lotions and potions. From an early age she’d been given a corner of his laboratory.

Meanwhile her mother was a horticulturalist and practically lived in the garden. Over the years Annie lapped up everything her parents taught her. She spent her youth distilling rose petals and giving it to friends.

“Can I help you madam?” a suited gentleman asked. “Our Ladies department is on the first floor.”           

“I’d like to speak with the manager,” Annie smiled hoping he’d realise she wasn’t about to make a complaint.

“If it’s about a job…” he lowered his voice, “You need to use the rear entrance.”

“Oh no, nothing of the sort,” she replied. “If he’s not available now, I’m happy to wait, or to make an appointment.”

“His office is on the very top floor. I’d take the lift if I were you.”

The lift jolted to a halt. This was it! Annie took a deep breath and headed down the corridor. It smelled of polished wood. At the end was a room with a large desk in the middle. To one side there was a much smaller desk where an elegant woman was typing.

            An older woman with a dark suit and severe haircut sat behind the main desk.

“I’d like to see the manager please,” Annie said.

“Is Mr Sherman expecting you?”

“No, but…”

“What’s it about?” the secretary asked as she paused over his diary and looked at Annie with steel blue eyes.

“I make my own perfumes and I…”

“We have a buyer who deals with that sort of thing. His name is Mr Franklyn and his office is on the third floor. Good day.”

Annie hesitated. She would go and see this Mr Franklyn, but not today. She was determined to do this herself and not to ask her influential parents for help. The elegant woman from the other desk stopped typing and approached.

“I’ll escort you back to the lift,” she said and steered Annie away.

There was nothing more Annie could do that day. However, the experience got her thinking. Both the women in Mr Sherman’s office wore business-like suits. It wasn’t her style but she decided to give it a try, anything was worth a go in order to get a big department store to sell her fragrance.

She returned the following day in a below the knee smart skirt and matching jacket. She had a friend in the fashion business who’d lent her the outfit. Once again she arrived early because she’d heard that Mr Sherman and his managers often walked round the store inspecting the displays and no doubt checking whether the employees were doing their jobs properly.

She headed for Mr Franklyn’s office on the third floor. There were already two men waiting to sell their wares. Mr Franklyn entered in a starched shirt and collar. He called one of the men by name and took him into his office, the other was turned away. It seemed Annie was totally invisible to him.

“But Mr Franklyn,” she called. “At least take this sample of my perfume for your wife.”

She held out a little glass bottle for him, but he waved her away. Disappointed she headed to the restaurant for a cuppa.

A string quartet played quietly in the background. The room was light and airy with high ceilings painted in a pale green. Palm trees were festooned around in large pots and each table was neatly set with pastel pink tablecloths and serviettes.

          Just as she was about to order a much needed pot of tea there was a commotion near the entrance. She noticed the musicians sit up properly. Mr Sherman and his wife were standing at the far end of the room. Annie recognised them from the photographs she’d seen in the newspapers. There was no mistaking them nor the weedy Mr Franklyn who stood to one side held up by his starched collar.

Annie reached inside her bag and pulled out her bottle of perfume. She stood and began to walk slowly, but purposefully, toward the important people at the end of the room. She was so determined to give Mrs Sherman her fragrance she didn’t see the large hat box beside a table. She tripped, tried to steady herself, but in doing so let the perfume bottle drop to the ground.

The sound of tinkling glass filled the air just as the quartet finished their piece. Two ladies gasped in surprise. The owner of the hat box came to Annie’s aid.

Meanwhile Mr Sherman and his entourage entered the seating area heading for a large table in the middle. They crunched through the glass on the floor making it even more difficult for the waiters to discreetly clear it away.

“Ooh that smells lovely,” one lady said fanning herself.

“Perhaps we can buy it on the perfume counter?” suggested her friend.

“What’s it called?” they asked the waitress, who looked bewildered.

“It’s called Elixir,” Annie said and looked over in Mr Franklyn’s direction.   “It’s delightful.” Mrs Sherman nodded at Franklyn, as if giving him her approval.

Swiftly he moved over to the ladies who’d been taking tea, “It’s a new line. Look out for it in our Perfume department over the next few weeks,” he told them and then gave a little bow to Annie.

“Would you care to join me?” he asked, “A quiet table for two!” he said to the passing waiter, “And a large pot of tea and …shortbread.”

Annie had little experience of the retail world but being a bright and sensible woman she’d made it her business to do some research. For many years she’d dreamt of producing her own perfumes on a larger scale. She’d planned it all out in her head and more recently on paper. Nothing would give her more delight than to be able to employ young girls from the workhouse to help her produce Elixir in larger quantities.

        “I admit to being impressed. You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Mr Franklyn told her, “You certainly seem to have all the answers, but can you deliver your first batch within the month?”

“I can,” Annie said knowing she would go without sleep if necessary. They agreed a price and shook hands.

As Mr Franklyn was showing Annie out, Mrs Sherman came over.

“Franklyn, I shall require half a dozen bottles when it arrives. Please have them individually gift wrapped and charge it to my account.”

Annie hurried off excited at the prospect of sharing her good fortune. Now she was in a position to employ some wee waifs and help them out of the gutter.

 About the author

Sarah Swatridge writes short stories for women’s magazines worldwide. She now has a collection of twenty uplifting short stories called Feel-Good Stories along with her large print novels available in libraries and online. Visit www.sarahswatridge.co.uk and sign up to her monthly one page newsletter. 

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The Price of Love by Sharon Boothroyd, a hot cup of tea

'A cuppa these days seems to cost a small fortune!' My friend Rachel opened her purse and rooted through the coins.

'Don't worry. I'll get it,' I said.

A look of relief crossed her face. 'Thanks, Clare.'

We met at the park cafe every fortnight on a Saturday. But recently, things had changed...

Three months ago, Rachel had introduced us to her new partner, Luke. My hubby Kit and I had genuinely warmed to him.

The couple had met via app dating.

Both are in their forties and childless (like us). Luke's a car mechanic and Rachel's in IT. Kit and I are teachers.  

It was a heady, whirlwind romance, when Rachel gave up her warm, cosy rented flat and moved into Luke's place, I had reservations.

I'd thought it was way too soon, but blissfully in love, Rachel had waved away my concerns.

'Luke says it's silly for us to fork out for two lots of rent,' she'd reasoned.

It was a fair point, but... I'd actually thought she'd hesitate, as she lived in a nice area, overlooking the park. 

When I visited her new home (Luke's place) I was taken aback.

Luke had a small, damp, grubby terrace, off a main road, that was stuffed full of takeaways and a discounted supermarket.

I didn't mean to sound snobby, but it was quite depressing.

The tatty curtains and carpet, freezing cold bathroom, sparse junk city furniture and scuffed paintwork was a world away from the soft carpets, tasteful décor and the pleasant view that she was used to. Her lovely furniture looked out of place here.

I just couldn't see her settling here. Her gorgeous furniture looked out of sorts, all crammed in.

'I've put my bits and bobs into storage,' she announced. Luckily, Luke was out.

'Good. I'm glad about that,' I said.

'I know it's a bit grotty at the moment, but I'm going to transform this place into a little love nest,' she declared.

Good luck with that, I thought.                                                                              

'I'd have thought Luke would want to move into her apartment,' I'd said to Kit later that day, when I arrived home. 'It's a far higher standard. It'd be a big improvement for him.'

He'd shrugged. 'Well, maybe it's about cutting costs as a couple. Rachel lived in a decent district. Her local deli and bistro are lovely, but they're pretty expensive. I mean, even the park cafe is classy.'

I nodded - it was.

'I expect her rent's higher, too,' he added.

'She could afford it. She earns a higher salary than him,' I concluded.

'Hmm.'  Kit didn't expand any further.

 

                                                                          ***

 

I was given updates from Rachel when we met in the cafe.

'Luke's so organised with our fiances. He's set up a spreadsheet of our monthly income and outgoings,' she'd said.

I'd smiled. 'It's good that he wants to be efficient.'

'Well, I was absolutely hopeless with money wasn't I, Clare?' She'd giggled.

I'd frowned. I hadn't seen any evidence to support that. 

In fact, Rachel had been a stickler for paying her bills and rent on time. She'd never been in debt and had kept a close eye on her banking.

I was about to gently challenge that, when a customer entered the cafe with a cute dog and Rachel became distracted.

I couldn't prove it, yet I suspected the 'hopeless with money' remark was down to Luke.

Then I noticed that Rachel only had a five pound note in her purse.

 

                                                                         ***

'She probably hadn't had time to visit the cash machine,' Kit said later, when I explained about the single five pounds in Rachel's purse.

'Then there's his spreadsheet...'

'We have a spreadsheet for our finances,' he pointed out.

'True. But you don't tell your friends that I'm useless with money when I'm not. Why is he feeding her lies and why is she accepting what he's saying?'

We hadn't socialised with Rachel and Luke, either.

We'd invited them round for weekend lunches, but Clare had trotted out excuses about why they couldn't come.

He sighed. 'I don't know, but I wouldn't become involved in this, Clare. If you argue with her, no doubt she'll defend him, and it could all backfire.'

'I can sense that something's not right. I won't interfere - but I can listen.'

He nodded. 'Well, it's takeaway tonight. Who's paying?'

I grinned. 'We both are.'

The online payment was taken out of our joint account.

 

                                                                 ***

Next time at the cafe, Rachel looked longingly at the sandwiches.

'Why not stay for lunch? My treat,' I added hastily.

'Okay. If I pay for anything, I have to keep the receipt. Luke likes to see receipts.' She didn't seem in the least bit bothered about this.

We found a quiet table and got settled.

'Luke's really good. He allows me to have my favourite biscuits on the online supermarket shop', Rachel whispered, as we tucked in.

I was puzzled.

Why was Luke a good person by 'allowing' her a packet of biscuits? It was a rather bizarre attitude. What was the reason behind it?

I shifted in my seat, yet I adopted a jokey tone. 'It sounds like he keeps a tight rein on the grocery expenses!'

'Well, everything is more expensive now, Clare. The cost of living is going up all the time.'

I couldn't argue with that, yet I wondered if she was parroting one of Luke's phrases.

'Kit and I do the online weekly shop together. Do you and Luke do the same?'

She shook her head. 'He does it all.'

I had to speak out. 'Look Rachel, don't take this the wrong way but I really hope you haven't given him access to your PIN and bank account.'

'Of course I haven't. I contribute to the bills by giving him cash. He puts it in his account later.'

'Right.' Yet I still felt uneasy.

 

                                                                         ***

Then, a few weeks later, a problem between the couple reached crisis point, and they had a bad quarrel.

It was coming up to Rachel's mum's birthday. She wanted to book a weekend at a luxury spa hotel as a gift for her.

Of course, Luke had hit the roof and refused point blank.

Rachel demanded to know why she couldn't treat her mum.

He'd trotted out the 'we need to keep to our budget' line but this time, Rachel wasn't buying it.

The rose-tinted spectacles suddenly fell from her eyes and the reality made her see that Luke was a financial coercive controller.

'I packed my bags and went to my Mum's,' she tearfully told me over the phone. 'I wish I hadn't been so eager to give notice on my flat. Oh, I was so silly!'

'Don't be hard on yourself. You sensibly placed your furniture and things into storage and you've now regained full ownership of your own financial choices. You don't have to keep receipts or answer to him any more.'

'No.' We were both mulling things over. The situation could have been much worse if she'd  awarded Luke access to her bank account and PIN.

'I'm going to book that hotel for my mum's birthday,' she said.

'Good. I'll see you on Saturday as usual.'

'See you. Oh and I'm paying for the coffee - and lunch.'

I updated Kit.

'The split doesn't surprise me. Luke didn't strike me as a guy who'd feel comfortable about his partner earning more than him- hence asking her to move into his place.'

I nodded. 'I'm just so relieved that she's seen finally seen the light!'

About the author 

Sharon is fifty- something, happily married and lives in a small town in West Yorkshire.

As she  suffers from anxiety, writing short stories helps her to focus on something creative. It's like occupational therapy.

 

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Saturday Sample: Lancashire Writers of Today 2025 , A Pennine Haunting by David Lythgoe, scotch on the rocks

 

 

 

 

I’m running alone through an early dawn,

all thoughts turned off and weightless as my feet

are swift. A silent mist hangs motionless

on spider’s webs as if earth’s breath has stopped,

imprisoned by the millstone gritted walls

to either side.  And all is still. Until the sound

of muffled hoof beats from a walking horse, 

as menacing and thin as puritan

austerity disturbs the saturated air

from which the horse and rider crystallize.

 

                              His riding cape is

dark as night against the cold, his helmet

cast in steel, his thigh length boots black leather.

We pass without exchanging words, each one

intent on his own destiny. Then comes

into my mind the history I learned about

the killing fields of Marston Moor, Edgehill

and Naseby. Pike, halberd, musket, cannon.

Too late I turn, but horse and rider both

have disappeared. Have travelled on, forever lost

                                                 inside four hundred years of Pennine mist. 

 

Find your copy here  

Eddie Loved Christmas by Peter Eckblad, hot toddy

Eddie loved Christmas. He especially liked putting up his miniature Christmas village in the dining room. The town square was on the chest in front of the window. The fishing resort, bait shop, and pond were on the buffet. The village drive-in and McDonald’s were on the bookshelf, and the residential section with houses and a small gas station were on top of the piano. He let the lights stay on all the time.

Tonight, Eddie sat at the dining table and smiled as the little village snuggly glowed while the snow and wind beat against his window panes. His eyes began to close as he listened to soft Christmas carols and hugged a warm cup of hot chocolate.

“Hey! Lead-ass! Get over here!”

 Eddie opened his eyes and looked around. Eddie lived by himself and, even if he had a roommate, he didn’t know why they would have called him lead-ass.

“Hey! Put down the *blanking* hot toddy and help me here!” said the voice.

Eddie got up and went over to Grandma’s Cottage where he thought the voice was coming from.

“Can I help you?” asked Eddie, slightly shaken.

“Aren’t you in charge of this piece of *blanking* town?” the voice asked.

“Well, I guess you could say that,” said Eddie. “Who are you?”

“Don’t worry about me. Help me get this tree off the car. Grandma wants her *blanking* Christmas tree up.”

Eddie looked at the car. It was the VW Beetle he had set in front of Grandma’s Cottage with the Christmas tree on the roof. He could see that he wasn’t going to be able to help.

“The car and the tree are all one piece of plastic,” said Eddie. “The tree is not coming off of the car.”

“Well, then what am I supposed to do, you useless *blank*?! Grandma is yelling at me, my wife is yelling at me, the *blanking* kids are yelling at me, and I can’t get Christmas at Grandma’s put up! There’s no place to put the presents. Where do you get the *blanking* presents anyway?”

“Well, there’s the drug store on the square,” said Eddie, although he was pretty sure that there wasn’t anything in the store. Eddie was really puzzled.

As Eddie backed away from Grandma’s Cottage, he could hear the yelling and the foul language.

“I told my daughter not to marry you, you son of a *blank*. Can’t you do anything right? “Where is the *blanking* tree? Where are the *blanking* presents?”

Eddie started back to the dining table, thinking, “Oh my God. Tenants.”

Then more yelling and vulgar language.

“Hey! You!” The voice came from the gas station. “Yeah, I heard your name was lead-ass. It’s more like dead ass! How am I supposed to make any money?”

“What?” said Eddie. “What’s the matter?”

“I got a gas station and a shop. But this village, it’s got no *blanking* cars! How am I supposed to make a *blanking* living?”

“Well, there’s the VW Beatle,” said Eddie.

            “It don’t go anywhere. And it’s the only car in the whole piece of  the *blanking* village,” said the voice from the station.

            “Well, maybe others will show up,” said Eddie.

            “Not unless you go get some, Einstein.  And get some VW parts, too. And while you’re  at it, pick up some *blanking* customers. Some *blanks* who are having car trouble

“Ok,” said Eddie. “But, you know, I really wasn’t expecting you.”

            “What do you mean you weren’t expecting me, you *blanking* genius? Why did you put up the *blanking* gas station?”   

            Eddie decided to sit at the table and have some more hot chocolate. He rubbed his forehead and again wished these tenants hadn’t moved in. This isn’t the way he wanted to spend Christmas. He just wanted to enjoy his Christmas carols.

            Music and loud drunken voices emerged from the bait shop. It was too late for carousing, thought Eddie.

            “Hey! Stupid ass! Get us some beer. And make sure it’s in tiny *blanking* cans to get through the windows!”

Eddie needed to evict his unwanted tenants. He brought up the boxes from the basement and started packing up the buildings in their styrofoam packages in spite of the protests of the increasingly vocal and inebriated inhabitants.

Eddie bagged them up and went to the gift shop where the village was purchased. He set the pieces on the counter. The saleswoman was startled as the little buildings shook with muffled cries and obscenities.

“How may I help you?” she said, still looking at the trembling boxes.

“I need to return these.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Well, they’re rude for one thing.  And they’re loud and crude and they yell at me. And I didn’t ask them to move in.”

The saleswoman picked up a box, shook it, and heard protesting, profane language from inside.

“I can’t accept these,” said the saleswoman, setting the box back onto the counter.

            “Why not? Eddie asked.

            “I can’t resell them in this condition.

            “Why not?” Eddie again asked.

            “Who would buy them? You’re returning them yourself. They have to be in the same condition in which they were purchased. Clearly these are not.”

            Eddie shook his head in frustration but another building caught his attention.

            “Well, then, let me have that one there,” Eddie pointed at the piece over the woman’s shoulder.

            “This one?” she asked.

            “Yes,” said Eddie as he took his credit card from his wallet.

            The saleswoman packed up the village piece, handed it to Eddie and said, “OK. You have a Merry Christmas!”

“Thank you,” said Eddie. “I think I will now.”

            Eddie walked off with the mumblings from the bags he was carrying. He began whistling “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” and enjoyed the falling snowflakes and the crisp chill in the air.

When Eddie got home he hung up his coat, returned the buildings to their places, and turned on the Christmas music.

Voices came from the village. “Well it’s about time we got back here ya box a rocks! I still got no customers!”

Other voices yelled out, “Did you get the *blanking* beer? Did you get the *blanking* car parts? Did you at least get us Merry *blanking* Christmas trees?

The words of a cheery Christmas song came through Eddie’s speaker. He smiled as he plugged in the lights for the new Village Funeral Home and Crematorium.  

About the author

Peter Eckblad is a social worker in Racine, WI. His poems appeared in Pudding Magazine, The Archer, Voices International, and Wind. He has decided to try writing again and has published pieces of flash fiction in Flash Fiction Magazine and CafeLit Magazine. 

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