Night Time EconomybyPpenny Rogers, a mug of cold coffee

p> 

Night Time Economy

 

I went to bed at 8.30. Mind you I didn’t get home until 7.45, it had been one of those nights. The birds were singing, no, shouting, as I staggered up the road and I remember saying something that was meant to be good morning to the bloke two doors up who was walking his dog.

            ‘Heavy night Jen?’ he asked.

            ‘The usual.’

            ‘Perhaps you ought to try…’ his words were a blur as I fumbled for my key.

The house was blessedly quiet: no loud shouts, no shrieks, no thump, thump, thump. There was a glass by the kitchen sink; I filled it and emptied it in one go, refilled it and took it upstairs. My head ached, but then so did my neck and my arms. What had I been doing? Why was there a bruise on my forearm that was rapidly spreading and turning darker even as I looked at it? My phone buzzed.

‘Hello Mum. Yes, I’m home. What did you hear on the radio? Yeah, I’m fine, I’ll call you later.’

Don’t get into bed I told myself, have a pee first and it might be an idea to clean your teeth, mouth feels like the floor of a bird cage. At last, soiled, crumpled clothes on the floor and a pillow under my head.

I woke up at about 1.30. The afternoon sun shone encouragingly through the curtains. Five hours and I’d start doing it all over again. In the shower a life without all this seemed quite attractive. Better hours, more money in the bank, less stress, less danger. But last night Jazi made it and Cal went to rehab.

Just time to put the washing machine on, do some baked beans on toast and drink coffee. Tomorrow I’ll try to go to the supermarket. And perhaps tonight won’t be so long. Maybe, just maybe I’ll leave early or at least before they make me go home. The bruise has stopped spreading up my arm and is turning that sort of purple colour that you sometimes see at sunset. I can discern the shape of a man’s thumb in the centre of it; I sipped another coffee and wondered, could I have handled it differently? Probably not, my head was already swimming by then.

Dressed and ready to go. Check hair, make up, bag (must get more tissues). Text Mum, tell her I’m fine and not to worry. I’ll see her asap. I have time to walk; the fresh air will do me good. Going in I meet Will. ‘Are you OK? I was worried about you. We seem to be getting more aggressive bastards, but they don’t always make the headlines like that one did.’

‘Thanks for asking, I’m fine.’

 He smiles at me. Together we follow the signs to accident and emergency

About the author

 

 

enny Rogers lives in Dorset in the south of England. She writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poems and facilitates an informal writing group. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit. When she’s not writing Penny makes jams, pickles and preserves from home grown or foraged produce. 

you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

vDrowing In Thin Air: No Name Edit byName: Lila-Josey J James,fizzy water

 

I’ve always wanted to jump from a great height. It’s less about the dying and more about feeling the Earth rush for once. As a child, I would lie in the car during Fall excursions to Skyline Drive. I’d steal glances out the rear window and watch red maple leaves tumble off the road. They’d sail hundreds of feet into the valley below.

“If you’re afraid, why do you stare?” My mother would ask.

“Even if planes don’t crash all that often,” I say, “It happened to Dad.”

“But this is a mountain.” She replied. 

She never understood.

Now, older, I am sublimating. I’m shocked at how high I’ve climbed, fear and all.

“James,” Tom says.

I ignore him. It’s hard to feel on the 77th floor. I sip my coffee and watch the sun set.

Tom tries again.

“The consultants.” He says.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I do,” I say. “I’m headed up there now.”

“I hear it’s even better from the eighty-seventh floor.” Tom relaxes.

“Regardless, I’m just proud of what we built.” I beam and mean it.

“Ah, the board would be lucky to have you.” Tom rests his dry right hand on my left shoulder.

“Building anything here is a damned miracle, kid,” Tom says.

My shoulders ripple up into my neck. A cold disgust runs down my spine.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of all the little people,” I laugh.

My phone interrupts.

“Well, that's me, old man,” I say.

Tom starts to smile. “Better get used to it.” He glances down at my hand.

His front right tooth is stained yellow.

I ride up to the hundredth floor. The building is swaying. As the doors open, an old feeling rises up. I see my boss standing in the corner. His head is resting on the glass. He’s staring straight down. I think of red maple leaves and my father as I join him.

With my head on the window, he begins to talk.

“Great plan, sport.” He says. “How’d they take it?”

“That’s what we pay consultants for,” I say.

I feel my stomach drop. He laughs.

“Have you seen the projections?” He asks.

“They all go up,” I say.

There’s a long moment of silence as we both stare 1500 feet down. From this vantage, you only see crowds. It’s too hard to make out a single person. I wonder if Tom is down there already.

“How’s your daughter, by the way?” I ask.

“Oh, fine, when’s the honeymoon?”

About the Author 

a-Josey is a trans witch living in Brooklyn. She enjoys tea parties, walks, and dogs.Lila’s recent work appears in Boudin, 6/26, and she has upcoming work in The Words Faire. Lila-Josey is a trans woman living in Brooklyn with her dog Estelle. She enjoys tea parties, getting into trouble for the right reason, and aimless walks. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

THeOxo Bears by Sarah Swatridge Pink Champagne!

The Oxo Bears by Sarah Swatridge

Pink Champagne!

‘What are you making, Mummy?’ my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter asked.

            ‘A bear,’ I replied and cast on more stitches.

            ‘Another bear!’ she exclaimed, ‘You keep making bears and they’re all for other people. You never make me a bear.’

            I put down my knitting needles and wool carefully so I didn’t drop a stitch. Then I picked up my little girl and held her on my knee.

            ‘You have a box full of teddies and toys in your room. I didn’t think you wanted any more teddies.’

            ‘But you keep making the same teddies for someone else and they must have a box full of teddies that all look the same.’

            ‘These bears,’ I tried to explain, ‘are for children who don’t have any toys…’

            My daughter’s eyes were wide at first and then the disbelief took over. ‘Don’t be silly, Mummy – everyone has toys.’

            I hoped she wouldn’t say, ‘you just have to ask Father Christmas,’ because I would have found that difficult to answer.

            Instead, I reminded her of a television programme we’d seen of children playing in the street with stones. I don’t know how much she took in. I thought of changing the subject but it seemed like a good opportunity to impress upon her that she was a lucky child and some were not so lucky. It’s never too early to learn.

            ‘The bears are for children who are in hospital. Doctors find that children who have a teddy to cuddle and to take home with them, get better more quickly than those who don’t have anything to hug or play with.’ My child nodded. Sometimes she was three, going on thirty, with her knowing looks and wise comments.

            Quite suddenly she got off my lap and disappeared up to her room, which was more like a small branch of Hamley’s. I left it at that and took the opportunity to knit a few rows. I’d made several bears now and only needed to glance at the pattern to reassure myself that I was on the right lines.

            A short while later, my daughter appeared at the door with an armful of assorted toys. I was about to remind her that she already had two boxes of toys downstairs at the moment, when she smiled up at me and asked if the children in the hospital would like these toys, too? A lump came to my throat.

            ‘Oh darling, I’m sure they’d love your toys and it’s very kind of you but won’t you miss them?’

            ‘I have lots of toys and it’s my birthday soon,’ said the mature little voice.

            ‘Well, perhaps we could give these to the driver when he collects the bears,’ I suggested.

            ‘Don’t the children get toys for their birthdays?’ she asked innocently. I felt we were getting dangerously near Father Christmas again.

            ‘Darling, this is Bobbin – surely you want to keep him?’ At this, her determination melted. Yes, she would keep Bobbin and the small blue bear that Granny had given her and the one that looked like a space monster, but the poor, sick children could have the white bear, the Rupert bear, the spotty bear and the one that had a plastic face and was half bear and half doll. I’d never liked that one either!

            ‘I’ll put them in the bag and keep them until it’s time for Mr Robbins to load up his lorry again.’ She nodded, clutching Bobbin, close to her.

            ‘You can put them with the Oxo bears,’

            ‘Oxfam bears,’ I corrected, remembering where the original knitting pattern had come from.

            Two retired teachers collected things, loaded them into a van and drove over to Bosnia themselves. I felt happy about this because I knew that everything really did go to the hospitals, orphanages and schools that they were intended for.

            There were no middle-men, no red tape, no huge organisation with staff to pay; just Mr and Mrs Robbins who made their journey once a year and took it as their holiday. And the photos – well, I admit I shed a few tears. It was a wonderful, heart-warming feeling to see a child hugging a small knitted bear; it could have been one that I’d knitted only I’d have given him a smile.

            I recalled my aunt saying once when the news was on that you never see people in hand-knitted jumpers or wrapped in blankets made from ninety-six crocheted squares. I had to agree, but now I’d seen this child with her bear. Her Oxo Bear. It was enough to keep me knitting.

            My aunt called in a few days later. She had three Oxo Bears: Bear Right, Bear Left and Stark Naked! I chuckled and put them in the bag under the stairs. I soon finished my latest bear – they don’t take long – it now had that, in my opinion, essential happy face.

            ‘That one’s called Boxer after Granny’s dog,’ said my daughter. She’d become quite attached to Boxer, who was dressed in Barbie pink. I made up my mind that if she wanted to keep it, she could, at least until the next lorry went and she’d grown out of handmade teddy bears.

            In due course Mr and Mrs Robbins called round to tell us that they were off in a few weeks and to ask if we had anything for them to take. I produced the bags from under the stairs, one stuffed with Oxo Bears and one of donated toys.

            My daughter duly unpacked the bags and lined up all the bears on parade to have them inspected.

            Mrs Robbins knelt down and looked very carefully at each in turn.

            ‘Oh, what a lovely smile…I do like this one’s trousers…which one is your favourite?’

            She was introduced to Boxer. ‘Is Boxer coming with us, or staying here with you?’ asked Mrs Robbins tenderly.  Boxer was thrust into her arms.

            ‘He’s to go with you and you’re to give him to a sick child who likes pink.’ Instructed my little one. ‘He gets a bit travel-sick, so he needs to sit with you at the front of the lorry.’ The cab of the lorry had always held a fascination.

            A month or so later we waved them off with a reporter and photographer from the local paper. He photographed them in the cab of the lorry; we’ve got the picture and Boxer can be seen quite clearly looking out of the window on top of a pile of maps.

            About three weeks passed; then we received a postcard from Boxer saying that all the girls liked pink, but he had found a special little girl and was very happy.

 

This story was originally published in Home & Country Magazine December 1998.               

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. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining hthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

Deep in the Woods by Lynne Curry, double espresso

Massive storm clouds crouched over the mountains; their underbellies swollen with rain. The trail wove between towering Sitka spruce and western hemlock, their dark green boughs filtering the weak light into restless patterns on the moss-laden ground.

When I’d started the hike, the solitude had felt like a gift—space to breathe and to decide what to do. Jim had offered—no offer at all, really—that he’d marry me if I insisted on having the baby. A half-hearted concession, wrapped in an exit strategy. And now that I’d taken a hard look at Jim, I didn’t want him. I did want the baby—but could I raise a child alone?

But now, with the stingy sunlight bleeding away, and the wind’s teeth slicing through my jacket, I turned back toward the trailhead.

My boots bit into damp earth, the rhythmic crunch of loose gravel and decaying leaves a steady tether as dusk deepened. The trail dipped, sinking into a muddy creek bed—and that’s when I saw them. Fresh brown bear tracks. I stilled. The musky stink of wet fur clogged my nose. My pulse picked up, sharpening at the edges.

I needed to reverse course, go further down the trail, away from the trailhead but further from the bear. I turned, and two bear cubs tumbled onto the trail, fifty yards ahead, rolling, swiping at each other in a playful scuffle. One scrambled upright, nose twitching as it tested the air.

My breath hitched. Cubs meant a momma bear. I’d already seen the tracks—between me and the trailhead. I stepped back, scanning the brush, fingers clenching around nothing. No sow in sight. Yet. But the moment she scented me, she’d charge—no hesitation, no warning.

The trail—now an ambush waiting to happen. My fingers closed over the bear spray on my belt. I lifted the canister and listened.

A raven’s caw split the hush, jagged as a blade. And then, a low chuff. The momma’s warning. Behind me.

I veered off the trail, slipping into the undergrowth, where ferns and devil’s club pressed in thick between moss-draped trunks.  Quiet. Stay quiet. Watch every step.

A hundred feet in, maybe more, I stopped. The forest held its breath with me. No crashing branches. No deep-chested huff of a bear ready to defend its young.

Safe.

I’d angle through the woods, cut back to the trail beyond the bears, and return to the trailhead and my car.

            Except—the world had shifted.

I turned. And turned again. The trees stood like identical sentinels in every direction, their trunks charcoal with shadow. Silence pooled around me, swallowing my breath.

Another turn. No break in the undergrowth. No familiar landmarks.

I’d been watching the ground, panic herding me forward, not mapping my way back. A slow, sick realization curdled in my gut.

The sun bled into the horizon, its final streaks of orange pointing west. I squinted against the fading light, trying to orient myself. The trailhead—north, right? Or was it east? The forest had swallowed any sense of certainty.

I yanked my phone from my pocket. No service. The battery—low; I turned it off to save it. My gaze darted to the mountains—too distant to guide me back to the trail but I knew where the road lay in relation to them. I rested my palm against my belly. I’ll get us home.  

As I strode forward, the forest pressed close, branches clawing at my sleeves. The sharp tang of pine filled the air. And the rain began. A steady beat at first, then harder, drumming through my clothes.

I shivered. Not just from cold.

Why hadn’t I told anyone about the hike? But I knew. I didn’t want their questions—not until I had answers.

Twilight blurred the woods, rain stitching the forest into a bad dream from which I wanted to wake. The ground turned treacherous—soft in places, jagged in others. No trail. Not even an animal path. Just the occasional patch of disturbed earth.

Ahead, the trees thinned and for a heartbeat, hope flickered. Then—nothing. No road, no safety. Just a clearing swallowed in shadow. A sinking feeling settled in my gut. I wasn’t getting out of these woods before dark.

Despite the rain, the wind stirred the grass, lifting something faint, feral. A shiver crawled down my spine. I stilled. 

There—through swaying grass, barely visible in the fading light—a shack. Tucked away, the roof sagged, its wood dark and worn. Maybe I’d find someone. Maybe just shelter. A wall between the bears and me.

But with every step closer, unease coiled tighter in my gut. Something felt off. My gut whispered turn back. My head said get out of the rain.

            I approached the shack, careful of every step, as if my footsteps might alert something—or someone—inside. I paused at the door, hand hovering over the knob. When my fingers curled around the rusty doorknob, it felt so cold I almost pulled back. Something in me wanted to knock or call out but the words died in my throat.

I opened the door and stepped into the shack, my boots whispering against the creaking floorboards. The room smelled of damp rot, stale sweat, and smoke. A wood stove sat in the corner, its surface rusted, the chimney pipe snaking up through a hole in the ceiling. A thin mattress lay on a wooden frame, its blanket askew as if tossed aside. An oil lantern with cracked glass sat on a battered table.

Whoever lived here cared about survival, nothing more. Just like the life I’d have had with Jim—the basics but no warmth. When I told him I’d rather make it on my own, he’d stomped out after saying, ‘You should take the deal you’re offered.’  It wasn’t until my mother sided with Jim that I began to second-guess myself. Who was I to think I could raise a child on my own?  

I moved to the cupboard and opened it. A coil of nylon rope, dried dirt clinging to the rope fibers and a heavy-bladed knife, dark stains crusted along the edge, lay on one shelf. On the shelf below, a battered notebook lay open. I pressed my cell on, turned on the light and squinted in the darkness. Jagged writing. They never see me. Never hear me. I turned the page. Another one came looking. And a list of three names, crossed out: Abby, Lena, Hannah.

A branch snapped—close by. Something moved in the forest, crunching leaves. Not the aimless rustling of an animal, or the wind, or trees shifting. My fingers gripped the canister of bear spray.

Move silently, move quick. I slipped out the door, around the side and to the back, sucked in a breath and held it. Whatever was out there had stopped moving. Waiting. Listening.

I forced my legs into motion, not pausing to glance back at the shack. False shelter was no shelter. Time to trust myself, to trust my instincts. The rain poured harder, but I didn’t care. The wet earth sucked at my boots, the branches tugged at my jacket, but I kept going.  

I concentrated on the mountains, barely visible through the rain but the moonlight helped. Their ridgelines could be a compass of sorts. It didn’t matter if I got to the trailhead, I only needed to get to the road and find a state trooper or a phone. I pressed forward through the brush, ignoring the sharp sting of branches scraping my skin.

The wind had picked up, howling through the trees. One step at a time, baby. I moved toward where the road might lay, the panic from earlier faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of my steps. I found my breath, slowed my pulse. I could do this—and I could have a baby on my own. I’d done harder things.

Finally, a familiar scent—the tang of asphalt and freedom—slipped through the rain-soaked air. The road. I pushed forward, rain slicking my skin, but nothing could slow me now. I wasn’t running from a bear or seeking false shelter.

When I stepped onto the road, I knew where I was. Miles from the trailhead—I’d walked a long distance in the woods, but walking came easy. The world felt light, despite the storm. The weight of these past months—uncertainty, indecision—lifted. I didn’t need a road sign or a map. I had myself—and my baby had me. And that was enough.

 About the author

 

Microfiction, founded “Real-life Writing,” https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW and a weekly “dear Abby of the workplace” newspaper column. Curry has published fourteen short stories; three poems; one article on writing craft, and six books. Social media links: 

Facebook: https://bit.ly/44CjOyy https://lynnecurryauthor.com/ https://twitter.com/ 

https://lynnecurryauthor.com/ 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author the oher half goes to expense se.g. Maintaining h the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.