Not Since The Bear, by Lynne Curry, Amaretto coffee

 I hadn’t returned to the cabin—not since the bear.

Now, alder branches clawed at my sleeves as I climbed the ridge, snagging like they meant to stop me. The wind rattled through spruce needles, brittle with rime. Snow fell in hard, wind-blown flurries that needled my neck. The brush closed behind me, a trapdoor slamming shut—no path back, only forward. Cold chewed through my jacket and sank deep. Late May on the Kenai Peninsula never pretended to be spring.

I crested the final rise. The logging road lay buried under a crust of snow that softened the ruts, blurred the past. Like the road forgot what happened here.

I hadn’t.
Silence hadn’t either. It pressed close, thick as breath held too long. Waiting.

The trees thinned, and the cabin slouched into view—porch sagging, stovepipe jutting at an angle, crooked as a snapped wrist. The claw-gouged railing still hung loose.

My fingers curled tight around the 30-06 slung across my shoulder.

Back then, I hadn’t learned to shoot. Had refused to. “I don’t want to kill anything.”
“You don’t have to. Just know how to protect yourself.”
“That’s what I’ve got you for, right?”
I’d meant it as a joke. He’d laughed, pretending the joke landed.   

But no one protected him.

Memory slammed through me. The bear—bursting through the door, foul breath and muscle and hunger.

Inside, the cabin stank of ash and rot and ghosts. Cold clung to the walls. I dropped my pack beside the stove, struck flint with frozen fingers until a spark caught. Fed the flame, willing it to burn the guilt out of me. Heat licked the air.

I didn’t look at the floorboards.
Didn’t look at the stain.
Blood seeps deep—even after it’s gone.

Everyone swore it wasn’t my fault. Freak accident. Nothing I could’ve done.
Except—
I could’ve tossed Jack the rifle. Used the bear spray. Screamed.
Anything.

Instead, I’d curled into a ball in the upstairs corner.
While he screamed.

He’d gone out for firewood. No gloves, just that thin fleece, damp with snow. He’d brewed coffee. Could’ve become our morning together.

It became his last moment.

My first night back, I didn’t dream. Didn’t move. I slept like prey—small and still, hoping silence might keep me unseen.

By dawn, the sky bruised pink over the ridge. I dressed fast, brewed bitter coffee in the percolator on the woodstove, and slung the rifle—the same one I’d refused to touch last fall—across my back.

All winter, I drilled. Range days stacked, penance in lead and powder. Hands trembling, breath fogging the sightline. I learned to clean it, load it, shoulder the recoil. Learned to stand my ground. I hated every second. But I learned.

Outside, the cold slapped hard. Sharp as judgment.

I took the trail behind the cabin. Snowmelt glazed it in icy crusts, narrowing it to a deer track, but I kept walking. My breath smoked. My shoulders itched.

Three trees in, I saw them.

Fresh claw marks. Deep. Bark peeled in long curls, sap bleeding like the tree had been flayed.

I kept walking.

Then came the smell—rank and thick. Rotting meat soaked in fur and sweat. My stomach flipped. Scat steamed on the snow.

My lungs locked. Every shadow twitched. Every creak of wind sounded aimed at me.

A crack.
Brush moved.
Something stepped through.

Just like that—I was there again.
His boots on the porch. The low growl. The thud of the axe dropping.
His scream.
Mine—too late.

This time, I didn’t freeze.

I raised the rifle, its weight familiar, its rhythm mine. 

The bear emerged—fur slick with meltwater, muscles flexing, eyes locked on mine, all challenge and heat. It didn’t bolt. It advanced. Deliberate.

Snow crunched under its weight.
My heart kicked. My hands didn’t flinch.

The rifle cracked—sharp, echoing, a verdict. 
Recoil punched my shoulder. Smoke curled past my cheek.

The bear roared, then thundered into the brush.

It left. I stayed.

I stood in the churned snow, knees buckling, boots soaked, lungs clawing for air. Pulse pounded behind my eyes, buzzed in the spine.

Alive. Blisteringly alive.

Back at the cabin, I stoked the fire high. Fed it the glove he’d left on the woodpile—the one I couldn’t touch until now. Watched it curl, blacken, vanish into heat.

The floor still held his blood.
The porch still bore claw scars.

But I’d faced what wrecked us. And sent it away.
This time, I didn’t hide.
Didn’t run.
I stood my ground.

Jack once told me survival wasn’t about strength.
It was about remembering what mattered, even when you’re afraid.

So, I remembered him.
And remembered the woman who froze, then learned to fight.
I walked home, not to forget, but to begin.

About the author

Lynne Curry founded “Real-life Writing,” https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW. She also publishes a weekly “dear Abby of the workplace” newspaper column. Curry has published seventeen short stories; three poems; two articles on writing craft, and six books.

Social media links:

Facebook: https://bit.ly/44CjOyy

https://lynnecurryauthor.com/

https://twitter.com/lynnecurry10

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Sunday Serial: Seeing the Other Side by Allison Symes, craft beer

 

 

Staying In

 

'There's another one on the news, Ben.'

'Another what, Mum?'

'Don't you watch anything? Another poor sod has been found strangled with a deflated balloon. You be careful out there.'

'Mum, I'm off to the pub with Rob and Steve, as usual. Stop worrying. You should watch out. I at least look like a rugby player. You look as if a strong gust would knock you off your feet these days.'

'I'm not going anywhere.'

 ***

 

The knock startled Moira. Bloody Ben's left his key behind again, I bet.

But it wasn't Ben at the front door. The guy looked her own age.

'Who are you? What do you want?'

 ***

 

It was just after midnight Ben found his late mother in the hall where she fell. On her face was a red balloon.

 

Getting The Job Done

 

She collected specimens, whether they wanted it or not. They didn’t get to argue for long. They didn’t have to be alive for a start. Tell them that and she usually got their co-operation.

So why was this one being so belligerent? She couldn't remember when someone last argued with her. She did know nobody ever got to tell the tale. All she had to do was inform her supervisor there was an awkward one. Everyone back home understood that.

Well, nobody was going to make a dent in her track record. She whipped out a light gun and aimed it at the tiny creature in front of her. It was a stupid looking thing. All fur, floppy ears, and big brown eyes. Goodness knew why the bosses wanted it and then she found out.

The puppy sat, whimpered, and held up a paw. There was a husk of some sort in there.

She put the gun down, gently removed the husk, and was rewarded with a big lick across her three pink noses.

She scooped the pup up in her elongated pink arms. 'Sod the bosses. You're staying with me. Let's find you something to eat.'

The pup squealed and wagged its tail. She smiled. She'd not had anything nice happen for a long time. She'd focused on just getting the job done.

There were going to be changes around here.

 

 

Test Pilot

 The crash landings were becoming embarrassing. Nobody minded the odd accident. That happened to everyone but this one was going to mean the test pilot, if unlucky enough to survive, would be hauled before the Board of Inquiry.

Like all such Boards, there was a hell of a lot of bureaucracy and paperwork. Unlike most Boards, said bureaucracy was to minute in minute detail what happened to the late specimens who'd faced them.

And this latest Inquiry was going to play to a packed house.

The crash had been spotted by those pests of the universe - humans.

Nobody was going to forget the Board of Inquiry for Roswell.

 

Mirrored

I know where my doppelganger is. Sadly, they know where I am. They're in the mirror.

Before you say, 'don't be silly, that's your reflection', ask yourself if your reflection has ever reached through the mirror to grab you warmly by the throat before it threw you away as if you were a used tissue.

Well, it's not happening again. I've made sure. I stepped through the mirror, did to my nemesis what they'd done to me (you always return a compliment in full, right?), stepped back through again, and then smashed the mirror. I don't know where it came from but it's not staying here, nor is it harming anyone else.

Don't thank me. It's all part of my fairy godmother duties. And I would stress the godmother bit. Nobody crosses me and gets away with it.

About the author

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

 

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Satruday Sample: Charlotte and the Monster by Wendy Beasley, illustrated by Hugh Gatenby, fairy nectar

 

Chapter 1

 

Charlotte’s mummy finished reading her bedtime story about elves and sprites and said goodnight. She had no idea Lily, Charlotte’s night time fairy, had arrived and watched from the top of the wardrobe, as she did every night to keep Charlotte

safe.

      Charlotte lived in a bungalow which had been built many years ago on the edge of Fairyland, although no-one knew about the fairies. It only looked like overgrown wasteland to the builders.  The fairies living there had been concerned until Fairy Queen Blossom called a meeting and told them not to worry. They’d simply make it their job to take care of any children who came to live there.

      For a long time, there hadn’t been any children until about a year ago when five-year-old Charlotte, moved in with her mummy and daddy and her collie dog, Morgan. At first Charlotte hadn’t been sure if she’d get to like this new house and felt sad about leaving the old one, until she’d made friends with the fairies, and discovered Fairyland. Now she was six years old and had been playing with the fairies for over a year.

      Charlotte yawned and fell asleep thinking about fairies, flowers, nectar and fun.  She’d spent a lovely day with the fairies in the sunshine helping them collect their nectar supply for the winter. Once they’d finished, they played chase in the sky chattering and laughing with each other, as they swooped in and out of the trees with sunlight dancing between the leaves, in the magical place called Fairyland

Only Charlotte and Morgan knew about the fairies. They’d discovered them when they’d found one in distress in their garden and helped her find her lost wand. Queen Blossom and the rest of Fairyland showed their gratitude by rewarding Charlotte with her own wings and free passage into Fairyland for her and Morgan as often as they liked. Each time they stepped through the shimmering gateway into Fairyland, they both shrunk to fairy size and Charlotte’s wings appeared.  

      The fairies lived on nectar, although they made sure to leave enough for the bees to make their honey, only collecting it from one flower in every six or seven and flying long distances to suck up the lovely liquid through their silver straws and blow it back into the golden buckets for the store. The fairies had to work hard through the summer to ensure they had enough nectar to live on when winter came.

Fennel the gnome, who guarded the fairy gate, helped them with their task by following them in his carriage pulled by dragonflies, so the fairies could fly alongside and empty their full buckets into the big nectar tank on board.

      When Charlotte went with them, Morgan would sit beside Fennel in the carriage and make himself useful, taking the buckets in his teeth and emptying them into the tank while Fennel kept on driving. This made the job much quicker and, as Fennel didn’t need to keep stopping, they could all take a break now and then. Charlotte loved sitting inside the beautiful flowers, chatting to the fairies while they sipped the delicious nectar.

She wasn’t at all sure if she liked nectar. It tasted sweet, maybe a little too sweet, and truthfully, she’d prefer a strawberry milkshake. However, she didn’t like to be rude, and took a sip or two, especially after the fairies said nectar helped to keep their wings in good flying order. Charlotte didn’t want to risk her wings not working for any reason and decided to do all she could to look after them as she feared all the disappearing and regrowing may make them wear out quicker. Unlike the fairies, who were full up after only a couple of sips of nectar, Charlotte didn’t feel full at all. In fact, she still felt quite hungry and looked forward to getting home to eat.

      Food and time in Fairyland wasn’t like food or time in the human world. After she’d spent what felt like hours there, she’d return home to find she’d only been gone a short while, and something similar happened with food. Whatever Charlotte ate or drank in Fairyland, whether nectar, berries or fruit juice, she never felt full. Even when she’d spent a whole afternoon stuffing herself with strawberries, she always arrived home hungry and ready for her meal.               

This made life much easier, as Mummy and Daddy didn’t worry about where she’d been, or what she’d been eating. Long summer days were even longer for Charlotte, and she often went to bed exhausted. As Mummy switched off the light and left the room, she drifted off to sleep with the fairies still flying around inside her head, and Lily watching her, a tiny glow of light on top of the wardrobe.

Find your copy of the book here  

About the author 

Wendy’s love of fairy stories was nurtured from an early age by the ones her mother read to her or invented. Every night there was a bed time story. Mum was clearly a frustrated author and her made-up tales were every bit as good as the ones from the library. These led to many conversations about where fairies lived, what they ate and what they did.
 

Not surprisingly Wendy’s first foray into fiction writing was a fairytale called Charlotte and the Fairies, and although she has also written for adults, she has once again returned to the fantasy world of fairies for this follow-up, which introduces Marty the monster to the world of the fairies.
As a mother, grandmother and recent great grandmother, as well as a one-time classroom assistant, Wendy has an understanding of children and believes that fantasy should have a place in every child’s life, while they are still young enough to believe in magic.
 

Although a truly old-fashioned fairy tale, Charlotte, the Fairies and the Monster, also tackles current subjects like bullying, loneliness, rejection and feelings of failure. So, plenty for children to identify with, all woven into a magical world where fairies really do exist, and monsters may not be all bad. 

 

The Hardest Thing, by Steven Whitaker, neat whisky

The room stood dimly lit and quiet. Occasional sounds of conversation and soft electronic beeps drifted in through the large double door, accompanied by the bright corridor light, which served as the only thing illuminating the room. It was an oasis away from the rest of the ward. 

He had sat there for about fifteen minutes, trying his hardest to stifle tears. It might have been fifteen minutes, but keeping track of time wasn't of foremost concern.

Composing himself before concentrating on what had to happen, Craig dreaded what had to be done, even though he had no idea exactly what. The man lying in the bed next to him, dying, was Craig’s grandad, and this would be the last time he ever saw him. Any moment now, he needed to stand up, say some form of goodbye, walk out of the hospital and never see him again.

Always such a strong character in Craig’s life and a source of entertainment in the family, his troublesome youth and army life generated an endless stream of stories, both funny and inappropriate in equal measure. They did, however, mean that his grandchildren and great-grandchildren idolised him. The fact that the stories often blurred into fiction that even children could detect didn’t seem to stunt his popularity and, in all probability, increased it. 

One of their favourite stories, which happened to be mostly true, centred on the time Grandad and a fellow soldier ‘found’ a wagon load of condemned meat. After a profitable extracurricular mission to the nearest town, a not insubstantial outbreak of food poisoning occurred that didn’t go undiscovered or unpunished by the military, but nobody ever dwelt on that part of the story when it got regaled so entertainingly. 

Despite those inauspicious beginnings, he went on to educate himself enough to become heavily involved in the union at his bus depot, where his natural rebellious and righteous streak proved a real asset. More importantly, and perhaps the best thing that could be said of him, he was always around for his family.

Craig treasured the story of his grandparent’s relationship as resembling something out of a movie. They lived next-door to each other as children, although love took time to form. A rude tearaway didn’t make the young girl swoon, but childish first steps gradually marched towards the physique and mentality of young adulthood. They began writing to each other during his service in the military, which blossomed into a courtship upon his return. Upon leaving the service, Grandad bought a motorbike and it featured, almost catastrophically, in their earlier dates. The first ride they shared saw them dismounted after cornering a little too sharply, escaping with only minor scrapes. As no serious damage to them or the bike could prove otherwise, Grandma had made Grandad promise not to tell anyone for fear of her parent’s interference in any further romantic involvement.

A whole collection of rose-tinted spectacles had been amassed for this man, but equally remembered were the frequent tactless and thoughtless comments handed out to everyone at some point. It all generally went over Craig’s head as a child. Children tend to be more naively accepting of people because they don’t fully appreciate what’s being said. 

The one thing to always jar with Craig, even as a youngster, amounted to casual racism. Not sermon thumping extremism, more generational ignorance and rudimentary xenophobia, presumably formed by upbringing and circumstance. Those kinds of ingrained prejudices are not uncommon in people from previous generations, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear or justify. Craig would always ignore it rather than confront or discuss anything. He always forgave but couldn’t forget. Perhaps something held true in that old saying that every generation rebels against their parents and makes peace with their grandparents, or perhaps because his family in general never seemed to discuss anything of much depth or importance. The adults had their opinions about any and everything all worked out, while conflicting perspectives invited ridicule or dismissal, or at least that’s how it often seemed to a young mind. 

Regret reproached him for not having tried to say something rather than think it didn’t matter because it came out of an old person’s mouth. That certainly would have risked shattering the idyllic relationship between a grandchild and grandparent, but it might have made a difference for the better too. He sometimes wondered about phrases he currently used and those likely to cause disappointed head-shaking from future generations. He could only hope for some patient edification. Grandad too was a product of an environment, for better or worse.

Gentle snoring from another patient in the next bed came to an abrupt end with a snort that dragged Craig kicking and screaming back into the warm room. 

He needed to act now. 

He couldn’t sit there all night. Visiting hours ended shortly. 

Time beckoned insistently, but still he hesitated a few moments longer. 

Even if Grandad was incognisant, he needed to do this, for himself at least, for closure.

With a few deep breaths and an immense effort, he stood up from his chair, legs simultaneously lead and jelly. 

Telling himself he’d done the hard part failed to find much support. 

Grandad had turned himself onto his side, facing the door and holding on to the metal bed rail, squeezing it repeatedly. Craig found hollow solace in hoping the squeezing represented Dementia’s strangulating grip rather than pain or fear. It seemed likely, as there hadn’t been any kind of acknowledgement of his greeting upon entering the room. He considered standing directly in front of Grandad, to help force some consciousness of his presence. 

Each of the few short steps felt more daunting than the last.

Desperation for acknowledgement fought against his inability to grasp any meaningful words to say in the event of it happening. An indefinite age passed as Craig stood over him, staring, not knowing how long to wait or whether to bother. Noticing how small and frail his grandad looked curled up in bed like that, he contemplated leaving before the sadness of the situation engulfed him.

Then, slowly, Grandad raised his head and looked directly at him. Craig’s heart rose. His wish looked like being granted. Their eyes met but the anticipated flash of recognition didn’t materialise. Elation dashed. A flicker would have meant the world to Craig, but nothing. If Grandad indeed recognised his grandson, then he had neither the strength nor the wherewithal to acknowledge it. 

Craig wanted to say so much, but he only managed to raise his hand in greeting along with a feeble smile, barely able to fight back the onslaught of tears. The frail shell of a man just as slowly lowered his head back down to the pillow and resumed gently squeezing the metal rail. Craig felt as though he’d let him down on his deathbed. He couldn’t even manage to say a few decent words to a man who meant so much. Not able to think of anything else to do, he instinctively reached out to hold the veiny hand and used his thumb to gently stroke it. For a moment, the repeated squeezing of the bedrail stopped. It wasn’t much, but it felt like the only kind of acknowledgement likely, and it made Craig think that at least Grandad knew somebody was there to comfort him.

‘Goodbye.’

It only arrived as a whisper, and he had to force himself to say it, but he’d said it. He turned and left the room; half relieved, half devastated and wanting to turn back. After walking only a few steps, he rested like a sack against the corridor wall to dry his tears and compose himself. The light in the corridor shone painfully bright and artificial, juxtaposing the dark, peaceful embrace of the previous room. At least nobody else occupied the corridor. They’d only ask if he was alright when he clearly wasn’t, or obliviously leave him to his grief that he didn’t know how to handle. He didn’t know which sounded worse, only that he didn’t want to deal with either. He needed to get away. Distraught, walking became an incredible effort. 

He made it back to his car, unsure how. Those passing in the corridors, lift and car park had barely registered his existence. Why would they? This was a hospital, and an upset relative an all too common sight. Many of them had much worse concerns over their own loved ones or themselves.

A blurred car journey. A long evening spent alone. He didn’t contact anyone and the thought never even occurred to him as he spent the rest of the night staring at the TV, rather than watching it, heartbroken and despondent

First published by Spillwords.com in May 2025

About the author

Steven Whitaker is an aspiring writer for no credible reason. His work has appeared on Spillwords. He lives in North Shields, England with his wife and two daughters as a qualified quantity surveyor, graduating from Northumbria University.

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An Extra Gift, by Dave Dempster, espresso

It all began when John was 8. He was hiding in a cupboard, motionless and silent, when

the door opened. His father looked straight ahead at him, but then swore and slammed the

cupboard door shut. John was spared another beating that day.

An only child, John came to learn later in life that his dad was an alcoholic and John had

come off lightly compared to his abused mother. Thankfully, things looked up when John’s

dad left home to start a jail term long enough to give John and his mother the chance of a new

life elsewhere. And so, they came to Norwich, far away from their old and dismally violent

connections with Glasgow.

                                                                  

11-year-old John was in the primary school playground one day, when he saw trouble

heading in his direction. He hadn’t meant to cross Brown. He wouldn’t be so silly when

Brown was much bigger and stronger. John was only too aware of Brown’s reputation as a

schoolboy who often answered with his fists. Brown was regularly disciplined at school but

that was no consolation and no help in the here and now. John ran. He tried to get round to

the far end of the building but just wasn’t quick enough. He backed into a wall as Brown

advanced. There was no escape. Brown was a mere two metres away when he had a double-

take. He shook his head looking perplexed, turned round and walked away. It was just

extraordinary. Didn’t make sense at all. Luckily for John, the following day was the very last

day of the school term. Brown would not be sharing the same secondary school.

                                                                  #

The fair was in a field just to the north of the city boundary. “Let’s try it for a laugh” He

may have been christened Michael, but he was always ‘Mike the Fist’ as far as John was

concerned. That punch which flattened the worst school bully had earned Mike fame

throughout the whole secondary school. At 17, and nearly a full year younger than his hero,

John felt fortunate to have Mike as his friend and protector. Together they went inside the

tent, eager to learn what the future held for them.

The fortune teller was an elderly woman with what seemed to be two multicoloured

scarves around her head. The table was covered in a tattered ex-billiard tablecloth, or so

it appeared to the two lads. She promised Mike a wealthy career and long life. When John

sat down and laid his hands on the table, as instructed, the woman suddenly looked as if she

had seen a ghost. She moved forward and grabbed John’s hands. “Take care. Take care. It’s

a precious gift. You must take care.” John was stunned. Mike intervened, asking the obvious

question. “I can’t say. I must not say. You must discover for yourself,” came the perplexing

reply.

The boys were polite enough to leave without making a fuss. “Bet she says that to every

second customer, hoping for return visits,” Mike suggested cynically. Mike knows a lot more

than me, so he’s probably right, thought John, although he wasn’t entirely convinced.

                                                                   

Only a few weeks later in 2000 the two friends saw the newly released film ‘Hollow Man’

in a local cinema. Clever Mike had managed to arrange for John’s admission, even though

he was still only 17. “Wow. Fantastic power, being invisible” commented Mike, as they

exited. John agreed excitedly and began to ponder to himself.

John didn’t say anything to his best friend in the days which followed – Mike would only

have laughed at him. It was ridiculous to contemplate. Nonetheless, he started to wonder

seriously if there was a link between that time his drunken dad didn’t see him in the

cupboard, and the lucky escape from Brown in the school playground.

If there was a connection, what could it be? John took the small vanity mirror from his

mother’s room, making sure he was not discovered. He stared ahead, in the privacy of his

own room. There was no magic here. He could see his reflection as plain as day. Then he

remembered what his Uncle Richard had given him for his 6^th birthday. Not the toy, but the

extra present. Uncle Richard had always been kind to John, who treasured the little extra.

When his uncle asked John to keep it a secret, he was happy to do so. Made it feel important,

 especially as Uncle Richard told young John it was very special.

The old key didn’t look like much, but it meant a lot to John. He never lost sight of the

key. John reached into his pocket and felt for the key. He looked in the mirror. He wasn’t

there!! Nothing at all – even his clothes had disappeared.

Numerous experiments followed. John didn’t trust anyone with his secret, not even his

best friend Mike, far less his mother. He knew that once the cat was out of the bag his new

power would be shared, if not taken away from him altogether. He couldn’t allow that to

happen. John had to find out exactly how the key worked. How long did it work for? How

exactly was it switched on, and how exactly was it switched off? Did it always mask what

John was wearing, even the shoes?

It took John nearly three weeks to find answers to all his questions about the magical key.

He survived one awkward moment when his mother returned home unexpectedly. A close

shave, but his secret remained secure. John was confident that he could work the key at will.

When his skin touched the key his invisibility was assured, until he touched the key again.

The key would not work if John wore a glove. That knowledge led John to keep the precious

key in a safe place by using gloves. His mother knew the house like the back of her hand but

John was certain that the key was safe at the back of the top of his wardrobe.

For John, the next step was to decide how the key could help him. He wanted money. He

loved fast cars. He dreamed of having his favourite, an Aston Martin! But how would he get

the money, and how would he explain how he came by the money? Being found out was the

last thing he wanted. At first John thought that a bank robbery would be ideal. He would have

to use a disguise to make the teller believe his threat. His special power would be particularly

helpful in assisting his getaway and would give ample time to successfully dispose of the

disguise and clothes used in the robbery. However, John’s wariness of a bank dye pack

ruining the money put paid to that idea.

In the end John planned to rob a rich, elderly lady who lived nearby. If it worked out he

would consider more ambitious ventures. The lady clearly had a lot of money. She lived

alone in a large house without the protection of a guard dog. John had done his homework.

 

The lady did have an iron front gate. Entry could only be gained by way of an intercom.

John would use a false accent. The lady never went out, so far as John could tell. He was sure

a lady of that age would keep valuables at home. Looked like a promising target.

John bided his time. He wanted to get it right. He had to get it right. When he was sure he

had minimised the risk, he went into action. There was no difficulty in reaching the front

door. As it began to open John touched his key and went past the old lady unseen. When she

closed the door after some hesitation, John made his threat in the same false accent – “Just

give me your money and you won’t get hurt.” Disaster struck. The old lady gasped in shock

and collapsed. Her head hit the wooden floor awkwardly. She didn’t move. John bent down.

He didn’t want to touch his victim and leave his DNA behind. He couldn’t detect any sign of

life. In his panic John glanced at an old-style phone sitting in the hallway, but he didn’t dare

use it, for fear of leaving his fingerprints behind. Besides, the poor old lady was beyond help.

As he had planned, John was able to close the front door behind him, using a small

wooden wedge under the handle as leverage. He had been careful to take the wedge from his

right trouser pocket, staying well clear of the key in his left. John could feel sweat gathering

under his shirt. The same procedure applied at the garden gate. As it clicked shut behind him

the noise caught the attention of a man walking on the opposite pavement. The man stopped

walking and looked towards the gate. John froze instinctively. Was he really invisible? The

man seemed to hesitate for an eternity, before continuing to walk away. John took a deep

breath of relief.

   When he reached the safety of his home John reflected on the whole miserable episode.

He replayed in his head over and over to reassure himself that the Police would not think that

anything suspicious had occurred. After all, nothing had been stolen and no damage had

been done. The old lady simply had a heart attack. What else would anyone think? He felt

sorry for the old lady but it was accidental and unintended. Then he checked on the computer.

Causing an unintended death during a burglary? Felony murder! God, no.

John was racked with guilt. What had he done? Sleepless, or mostly sleepless, nights

followed. He still couldn’t dismiss the fear that somehow the Police would find him out.

 

Then, about a month later, there was a story in the local press about the isolation of elderly

people in the community. It was reported that the old lady had no-one watching out for her

and she ‘had died in the loneliness of her home weeks earlier’, or words to that effect. John

knew then for sure that his crime had not been detected but he felt even worse about what he

had done.

Could John make amends somehow? Could he use the key to help others in some way? He

remembered how the key had saved him twice. He also remembered how well he had

prepared for the burglary and look what happened there!

                                                                     #

 John had the key with him. He wasn’t sure why. It was as if he was being directed. He

was wandering, it seemed aimlessly, when he came across a church. Hardly surprising, with

Norwich bulging at the seams with churches. John was not religious. The last time he

ventured inside a church was years earlier when he attended Uncle Richard’s funeral service.

The open door beckoned to him, and he moved slowly inside, taking a seat close to the

door instinctively, in case his entry was unwelcome. The place was deserted. He bowed his

head and closed his eyes. The silence swept over him. It was inexplicable. After only a few

minutes he felt astonishingly refreshed. He now had resolve - he knew exactly what he had

to do.

Making his way quickly, as if moving more slowly would weaken his determination, he

walked along the streets. At last, he could see the River Wensum, partly hidden by bushes on

the near side. There was no-one around. Anonymity encouraged him. But as he came closer,

John felt temptation. It was tangible. Very real. Carefully using a glove from his right

pocket, he removed the key from his left. He looked down at the key, which had drenched

him in so many emotions - joy, ambition, greed, guilt, despair. He threw the key into the

middle of the water and saw it sink.

    The overwhelming sense of freedom never left him.

About the author

Dave Dempster is a retired lawyer and aspiring writer living in Norwich,UK. His work can be read, or is to be read, in two of the Crimeucopia anthologies, as well as online in Jonah, CafeLit and East of the Web.

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