wake with the Birds by Diane Neilson, morning coffee,

 

A

She awoke early.

She had dozed into an easy slumber around midnight, lulled by the soothing call of the Tawny Owl in the field behind the house, but from about 4am she had slept restlessly, her right hip aching and her mind racing. It was the news that haunted her, the children in particular; their little tear-streaked faces, the dirty drinking water, the flies –– especially the flies! And then, in the next report, bombs being dropped on those same families; grief-stricken mothers, whole families homeless – or lost; boys fighting boys, and for what? All in the name of power or religion. Religion! She was pretty sure that Jesus wouldn’t have approved of all this fighting.

It was no use, there was no sleep in her so she might as well get up and do something useful. The cat was pleased – an early breakfast and cuddle – but she still couldn’t settle. She needed to walk. She crept back upstairs, stealthily avoiding the creaky fourth stair and the squeaky floorboard on the landing. She scooped up yesterday’s clothes and hurriedly dressed before re-navigating the descent in reverse and pulling on her boots and coat.

When she opened the back door, it was still dark, the moon dipping over the hill at the back of the house and the sky clear, a light breeze whipping at her hair. She crossed the bridge over the brook and began to trudge up the lane, just one foot in front of another trying to shake the feeling of frustration that all was not right with the world.

A rustle ahead dragged her out of her depressing contemplation. A shadow, right in front of her. No sooner had she identified it than it leapt the wall – a deer, no more than a fawn, and it had clearly not expected to see her at this early hour. Just a baby and no mother in sight. Why couldn’t people live like wildlife, side by side in harmony? She knew it was not that simple and that there was plenty ‘war’ in nature, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t driven by power-mad, money-hungry individuals; rich people trying to get richer at everyone else’s expense and narcissists who all wanted to be ‘King of the world’, it was simply survival.

The sun was starting to rise now, a glorious tangerine and rose sky developing like a photograph in front of her. As though synchronised, a morse code of birdsong broke the silence signalling the start of the new day, and despite her feelings about the world, she felt the malaise slip from her shoulders as though a weight had been lifted.

She turned off the lane at the foot of the moor and continued uphill, the cows in the lower field eyeing her curiously before returning to their grazing. Crossing the stile, she passed through reed-beds, the path unseasonally dry for April, and continued up to the woods above the reservoir, where the trail became twisty and narrow. She crossed a stile to follow a path she hadn’t walked before, beside a fast-running stream that tumbled down the hillside over rocks, like a mini-waterfall. After a few minutes she was in the midst of the woods with only the birds for company. She sat on a boulder, suddenly needing to just be at one with nature, and closed her eyes.

The birds were now in full song; the blackbirds shouting their orders, chaffinches trilling a morning tune and the glorious melody of the song thrush reaching her ears in intricate bursts, from the uppermost branch of the oak tree. She continued on her path, the warning call of the Robin offending her somewhat – she was no threat to them!

Reaching the edge of the moor and crossing another stile, she began the gentle sloping descent. Marsh pipits darted in and out of the heather, whilst curlews glided lazily above her – how wonderful it must be to just soar high above the world, drifting on the breeze, being carried along by the thermals – no wonder they sang.

At the stream she stopped to watch the dipper, the white flash of his breast disappearing and then reappearing, emerging triumphant as he bobbed and searched for food amongst the rocks, water tumbling over him before he swept, glistening, into the trees above.

Through the gate, she was greeted by the horses, nosing in her pockets for apples or carrots. She apologised (the farmer had forbidden feeding) and gave them both a nose rub instead; obviously a poor replacement, as they wandered away to seek out fresh grass.

Suddenly something caught her eye; a flash of brown swooping down in the next field. She crept silently to the wall where she would be hidden from sight, eager to make the most of this rare, if yet unconfirmed, sighting. After a few moments of uncomfortable crouching, she made to move – she must have been mistaken. Then, from the lowland grasses, emerged a hen-harrier – a female, a ring-tale – claws empty, rising almost vertically into the sky. She watched, frozen, as it hovered, silent and still, before dropping again to earth, this time rising with a small mammal, maybe a vole or a shrew, and flying away into the woods. She wondered at its skill, its authority, its speed – a marvel of nature.

Strolling back down the footpath home, she mulled over what she had seen. Why was a hen-harrier a marvel of nature, despite being a ruthless killing machine, whilst human killing was a blatant atrocity? It was a contradiction that upset her, made her feel a hypocrite, and she wrestled with the discomfort all the way home, where she made a coffee and went to sit in the summer house.

From her vantage point in the garden there was plenty of entertainment; wrens and sparrows were darting in and out of the ivy, nest-building she supposed – it was that time of year; two nuthatches were shouting noisily to each other from the plum tree, and a parliament of rooks had gathered in the farthest sycamore. What were they debating, she wondered, they were certainly doing it noisily.  Maybe they were discussing the hen-harrier’s murderous behaviour.

She laughed to herself before rising to go back inside. The world was far from perfect, but as long as she had her garden, and the birds, she would just have to accept that the state of the world was beyond her control.

Maybe she would go and put a cheque in the ‘Red Cross’ envelope that came last week – do her bit. Who knows, there may be a ‘real’ parliament in the world who could sort out the mess made by the billionaires and madmen, and if not, perhaps a real-life murderous equivalent of her hen-harrier was waiting in the wings to swoop down and take out the ‘king-of-the-world’. An evil thought maybe, but she went in through the back door with a lighter heart and her fingers crossed.

About the Author

Diane is a new writer and her aim is to entertain and inform. She lives in the UK and likes experiments with a range of genres including poetry and short stories. She has released five books, and has had several short stories published by Cafelit. 

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 the web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

The Coast Starlight by Barry Garelick, Sweet iced tea

 

Thomas was at a time in his life when he felt on the verge of doing great things. What those things might be remained vague. He was tall and thin and looked younger than he was; he had turned thirty earlier that year. It was now mid-summer 1980, a year that saw a failed attempt to rescue American hostages taken in Iran, and the eruption of Mt. St. Helens. He had just spent a week in Seattle visiting a friend he had known since the mid-seventies and had left mid-morning on the Coast Starlight train’s once-a-day run to San Francisco, which would arrive early the next morning.

The train trip was long, and he found the part through Washington mostly uninteresting. He thought he might see the smoke from Mt. St. Helens, but it was cloudy and overcast. The timetable showed that the train would be in Dunsmuir – the stop near Mt. Shasta – by one in the morning, which meant that there wouldn’t be much to see. By late afternoon, the train entered Oregon and what little he could see through the plastic windows that were highly scratched, appeared to be more scenic than Washington. Occasional orange and yellow glints of light giving evidence of a river somewhere in forested mountains.

When he wasn’t dozing off, he tried to read but would lose interest. When he wasn’t reading, he would walk to the snack bar car hoping to find someone to talk to, a pattern that continued into the night when the lights in the cars were off. Sometime after eleven the snack bar car was empty except for a tall woman in her late twenties sitting at a table. Two hours earlier he had seen her at the same table playing cards with two men. She sat with perfect posture staring straight ahead, her lips open slightly as if she were whistling to herself.

She was pretty, he thought, and remembered telling a girl years ago that she was pretty. The girl told him later that whenever she was with him, she felt pretty. He had wondered if there were girls who knew they were pretty without someone telling them and whether the woman at the table was one such person.

She looked up as Thomas approached the table. “Still here, I see,” he said.

“Yep, still here.” Thomas saw what looked like sadness in her eyes, but it may have just been tiredness, he thought.

 “I saw you playing cards here a while back.”

 

 

“

About the Author 

 

Barry Garelick writes about time, memory, and people facing transitions in their lives. His fiction is published in Cafe Lit, Opiate, and Fiction on the Web. He lives in Morro Bay, California with his wife.

 

Scars by: Steve Marc Gerson,Southern Suicide Cocktail

 

Scars

Her left eye was opaque, the clouded blue of dusk when light fails and night arrives as an omen.

"How'd that happen?" people always asked, people probing into secrets like their hands rifling your pockets to steal spare change.

"Childhood accident. My kid brother thinking he was Robin Hood, shooting a rubber-tipped arrow into my eye," she stated matter-of-factly, having told the story about a million times to a million probing people.

"Cause you any vision problems?"

"No" (you dumb ass). "I'm used to it" (I can see your ignorance pretty clearly).

And she'd turn to go, to get away from prying questions, to get away from people staring at her like she was a chipped vase in a garage sale.

They couldn't see her other scars.

Her forearms, always covered by long-sleeved shirts, hid a labyrinth of raised pink skin from her teenage cuttings, trails leading nowhere.

And then there were the scars even she couldn't see, those incised on her memories as if during lightning-struck eclipses.

As she started to leave, she ran into an acquaintance whose name she couldn't remember.

"Hey," he said pointing. "I've always meant to ask. What's up with your eye?"

She looked down and clawed at her forearm, raising welts. Blood started oozing like spilled battery acid.

About the Author 

 

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his eight chapbooks: Once Planed Straight; Viral; And the Land Dreams Darkly; The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t; There Is a Season; Have Not; and Who Am I Today. 

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.