Hope and Gloria by Caroline Moir, Macchiato

Thea assumed they were named in an ironic nod to the patriotic hymn, favourite of promenaders and rugby players alike. Were the promenaders under-the-skin rugby players or was it the other way about? 

Their parents were anything but patriotic. Their mother gave birth to them in an old bath tub in the field at the side of their house. She had emptied out the water and scrubbed it clean of sheep’s saliva and chewed grass. The mother had collected fallen oak leaves and filled it in the autumn of the year, which was dry for once. It would have been very awkward to give birth to them in a bath tub full of slippery leaves and in pouring rain, they would have been like eels.

They were eleven just coming up to twelve. They had been to school only the once when they were four coming up five. With inexorable logic they said they had been, and refused to go again and their parents set themselves to teach the girls at home. The natural world surrounded them. Their house backed onto woods and looked out over low fells to the Bay where there were quicksands, where cockling tractors went down under the eye of their owners, experienced cocklers at fifteen years old, and where there had been a tragedy of inexperienced cocklers. 

 It was a three-storey house with small shuttered windows set in the grey stone walls, and doors they could bar from the inside and an adjoining stable at the rear of the house with its own half-stable door and a cobbled incline leading up to the bank on the edge of the pine copse where a lane led to the hamlet closest to them. 

It was a barn really, with wide wood panelled flooring on the second and third floors. Thea had been invited in once for coffee and Hope and Gloria had sat there looking at her sidelong. She and their mother had nothing to talk about, Thea felt very commonplace beside her, and she wasn’t asked again. Nor had Thea invited their mother.  

They were advanced scholastically, though Thea didn’t know why. They were expert runners and the day when she wasn’t at work, she saw them from her cottage running away with loping, long strides, extra long considering their height, over the rocky out crops. They could calculate the elevation and the breadth of the oak trees using applied trigonometry, they had ‘swallowed a dictionary’ as their dentist remarked when they presented their perfect needle-sharp teeth to him, they had read Shakespeare. They read everything. They wrote in their notebooks observations on the seasons and the flora and fauna they encountered. When Thea asked them if they were lonely with no friends nearby, no friends at all as far as she could see, they replied that they ‘considered it an idyllic childhood’. 

Now they had to go to school. Their mother wanted to return to her work as an ecologist and their father, though he had taught them rudiments of French and German, could no longer spare the time because he had been made head of languages in the local sixth form college. Dressed in uniform, and with identical rucksacks for their books, Thea saw them on the first day of the new school year walking the mile down the grassy path that led from their home to the track that began at Thea’s cottage which led to the main road where they could catch the bus to the comprehensive. 

Thea drove in the opposite direction to her school. She wondered how long their obedience would last. The thought popped into her mind unbidden. Just as the open nature of the building where she taught popped into her mind on the morning of the Dunblane massacre. The caretaker with the built-up boot had come post haste to tell her in break.   

During the long golden days of September and on into October, reminiscent of the year they were born, they walked composedly to and from, the request stop which had been put into the schedule especially for Hope and Gloria.  After half-term for several days Thea didn’t see them but the weather had broken – just in time for Hallowe’en, she thought, spoiling the trick or treating of her pupils – and assumed their parents had taken to driving them to and from school. Then as she was leaving at the beginning of the second week, she saw them get into a taxi. She waylaid them on Friday, her day off, she was working a point-eight timetable. She asked why they were being taken by taxi instead of by bus. 

They spoke in unison, ‘The girls on the school run were horrid to us. They called us weirdos.’

Thea could possibly see why they had called Hope and Gloria ‘weirdos’ but – had they done something to provoke it? 

‘Did you talk to them?’ 

‘We didn’t talk to them. They addressed remarks to us.’

‘Perhaps you should have done’, Thea said gently. Then changing the subject briskly. ‘Are you coming down to trick or treat in my house? You did last year. If so, I will get some sweets.’

‘We don’t know.’ 

They didn’t come trick or treating. Thea was somewhat regretful but relieved. They were growing up. Last year they had masks they’d created themselves. Foxes masks. Thea had commented they shouldn’t let themselves be seen by the farmer because he would shoot them. They stared at her in disdain. Thea decided, not for the first time, for all their cleverness, they had no sense of humour. 

She didn’t see them during the second half of term because she was directing a production at her school which involved her staying late and going in her on her day off. It was very hard work, unpaid, but it was rewarding, she was doing something creative. On the eve of the penultimate day of the autumn term, it snowed heavily and the head closed two days early, because the staff had nowhere the leave their cars. 

Hope and Gloria’s school stayed open and Thea saw them equably tramping through snow up to the rim of their wellington boots. She hoped they were fleece-lined and they had got thick socks on, and a thought occurred to her, they were biding their time. 

January came, and then February, then March. Thea saw the girls at the request stop in the mornings, but she didn’t see them get out of the taxi in the afternoon, because she returned later. She saw them pass on Friday when she had her day off. Did they go to school she thought? They were composed, but they weren’t lively as when they were home-schooled, and their rucksacks were suspiciously lean. Thea’s pupils had bags that were bulging with books and PE kits and ingredients for Home Skills classes. 

She waylaid them again on a Friday. It was the beginning of April – Easter was late that year much to the annoyance of the council which had to plan holidays around it. 

She asked, ‘Did you have a good day?’ 

It was Hope who answered, ‘I had a good day, but Gloria didn’t. She was called names in hockey.’  

‘Do you do hockey in the spring term? We have netball.’

Gloria said, ‘Some of us do hockey and some of us do netball.’ 

‘Are you not in the same class?’ 

‘They split us up. They said we were disruptive.’

It didn’t ring true to Thea. She didn’t imagine the girls were disruptive and the PE teachers she knew were too careful of their pitches to play on them in the winter months. Also, it didn’t ring true to separate two sisters of the same age and of the same isolated upbringing. If it was true the head of year was deficient in their empathy for these particular students. 

Hope and Gloria walked on quietly but Thea caught a glance between them – and she could detect no sign of games equipment in Gloria’s bag. 

On the Monday of the second week in April, Thea saw them waiting for the taxi. It must be costing their parents a fortune, she thought, but no more than breakfast and after school clubs. On Tuesday she didn’t see them, on Wednesday she didn’t see them either. She supposed they’d caught some bug which was going the rounds and they were off sick. On Thursday she was off early and back after dark on a trip to Manchester. 

On Friday morning there came a knock at her door. The girls’ father stood outside. He wore a worried expression. Had Thea seen Hope and Gloria? They hadn’t come home last night. They said they were poorly on Tuesday and Wednesday and they were excused school as they had settled down very well and were liking it so much. 

Thea was surprised at this, but she said she hadn’t seen them, she would look out for them, and suggested they ring the year head. The parents had phoned. Hope and Gloria weren’t marked in on Thursday.  

‘Then ring the police.’ 

They had done. Last night. Police were scouring the countryside. The RNLI and the coastguard were searching the bay. 

A mountain rescue helicopter clattered overhead. 

They bided their time, Thea thought. 

They wouldn’t have gone down to the bay. They were mountain people, not sea people. They had escaped to their lair and would come when they were ready and they had punished their parents enough.

About the author

Caroline Moir has one novel published, Brockenspectre, which won the Lakeland Book of The Year Fiction Award 2022, a number of stories, and plays commissioned and produced, among which Lady Anne Clifford - a Woman Cast Out https://www.thegreatbritishbookshop.co.uk ; carolinemoir.author@gmail.com Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/caroline.moir.16 Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/moircaroline/ Threads: Caroline Moir (@moircaroline)

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The Deal by Nazia Kamali, cold coffee

In the air-conditioned cavity of the Blue Stars café at the GMS Road of Dehradun, Shahid sat stiff, staring at the two contracts placed before him. His hand was half outstretched to pick a cinnamon roll when the buyer presented her proposition. Shahid’s fingers had curled back into a fist that dropped in his lap as his mouth turned sour.

Ms Ray, the buyer, tapped her fingers on the table. “What do you say?” Her eyebrows stretched like a quiver ready to shoot.

Shahid bit his lower lip.

Two girls on their right clicked pictures with a bun topped with a generous layer of velvety blueberry cake. The girl on the table in front of them, hardly in her twenties, giggled as her partner fed her a taco with his hands. The server, wearing a black apron with the logo of the café, over a red t-shirt and blue jeans, weaved her way to the counter.

“Let me know what you decide.” Ms Ray instructed and left.

Developing a mobile application that detects and announces objects in front of the mobile’s camera to aid the movement of individuals with visual impairments was Shahid’s dream. He had the blueprint of the application for two years before Naved, a high-school friend, offered his support. They discussed use-case scenarios, wrote code snippets in Python, and tested the program's output on virtual machines for several months before preparing the proposal to sell the application. They lacked the financial resources to launch it on their own, and no investor was interested in a collaboration.

How could Ms Ray think he would agree to such a scandalous suggestion?

Naved was the one who brought the buyer. When Shahid told him that he could not see Ms Ray alone, Naved refused to listen to any excuse.

“Since when have you started doubting yourself?” He had dismissed Shahid’s fears with the wave of a hand. “You were always the smarter one.”

“I’m,” Shahid had slumped deeper into the antique, wrought-iron garden chair at Naved’s palatial house, “I’m just wondering if they’ll agree to deal with me. You are the man they want.”

The glasses of sweet, beige coloured, almond milk that Naved’s mother always prepared when Shahid visited stood on the table between them. Naved handed one to Shahid and took a few mouthfuls from his before speaking, “They want to meet the developer of the application, and you know everything there is to tell. Just be there at four.”

Ms Ray had no idea what she was asking of him.

The stuffy bus ride on the cruel June day covered Shahid in a slick of dust. He took off his clothes and stood under the shower. The water in the overhead tank of the building was boiling even at six in the evening. Shahid cursed and came out.

Ms Ray had given him two days to mull over the offer – cut Naved out, sell the application as the sole owner, and enjoy all the glory that comes when it succeeds. In return, she wanted him to reduce the price by thirty per cent. “You’ll still get more than your original share, and we’ll take care of the legalities, including any copyright claims filed by your partner.”

She had winked and presented him with two agreements – one listed both Shahid and Naved as developers, while the other had only Shahid’s name printed on it. “All you have to do is change a few lines of code here and there to make the program structure different. I’m sure it's easy for someone of your calibre.”

Eyeing him, she smiled in a way that made Shahid’s lunch curdle in his stomach. “You have both worked hard on the project, but your partner keeps using I instead of we,” she emphasised the I and we. “It’s time you get the credit that you deserve.”

Suffocated by the thoughts, Shahid opened the only window of the apartment. The slanting rays of streaming sunlight highlighted the splotches of dal and gravy on the floor that he had been too busy to wipe.

The bottle of Lysol that Shahid fetched from the bathroom cabinet was almost empty. He trickled a few droplets into the bucket half full of water, dipped a rag, and scrubbed the floor. Dip and scrub, dip and scrub, he worked through the length of the apartment.

Rhea, his ex-girlfriend, always reminded him to clean the place before it started resembling a chicken coop. “My bathroom is cleaner than your bedroom. Do something about it.” She would shout and rummage through the pile of clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed, sniffing his T-shirts. “Wash them today if you want to come anywhere near me.”

When she asked him to meet her at Starbucks last Friday, he thought she wanted to make another reel. Being a mildly successful food influencer with 5.2 K followers on Instagram, she always went to aesthetically appealing places. For the first time, Shahid didn’t mind paying the exorbitant amount for a cup of coffee that they could drink at a cheaper price at any other place. He was going to be rich soon, but before he could share the news, she blurted, “This is not working anymore.”

“What is not working?”

“You, me, us.” She sounded well-rehearsed.

Shahid’s heart galloped like a racehorse. “You don’t really mean that.” He wiped the tiny beads of sweat around his lips.

“Yes, I do.” She looked straight into his eyes.

“Why?”

“Because life is too short to waste.” She checked something on her mobile phone.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Rhea typed on her phone before responding, “What I mean is, you’ll always be Naved’s sidekick.”

Bile rose in Shahid’s throat.

“I waited and waited for you to outgrow him, but he is like the crutch you can’t walk without.”

Shahid wanted to dissolve in thin air.

“Consider this advice as my parting gift,” Rhea picked up her bag, “learn to take charge or you’ll never amount to anything.”

The bells attached to the strap of the handbag jingled on her way out.

The floor became as clean as one with cracked, faded tiles can be. Shahid threw the dirty water in the drain and washed the rag before sitting on the second-hand turtle green cushioned chair he bought from a mouldy shop at Indira market.

Sweat dripped down his spine as Shahid rested his back and closed his eyes. The chair’s meagre cushion felt rough and thin. He needed to buy a more comfortable one. He also needed to buy a powerful laptop – one with a faster GPU and bigger RAM, and his apartment needed a makeover to allow him to receive respected visitors. And to meet those people, he had to buy crisp clothes and shiny shoes – the ones he had now did not create the impression he wanted to make on people.

Developing one application was not going to suffice. He needed more work, and for that, he needed people to know what he was capable of.

If he sold the application with Naved, he would have enough to pay his debts and start a new life, but if he sold it alone, no one would dare tell him that he would amount to nothing. No one will look at him as someone’s second. Instead, he will become the man who rose from the ashes and conquered the world. The deal will seal the mouths of all those who questioned his capabilities. Shahid Shirazi is not the little, ugly frog destined to die in a small, discarded well. He is the shark who surpasses his strongest opponent in one strike.

The application is his brainchild. He would have completed it without Naved. He might have taken longer, but he would have definitely completed it without any help.

Sure, Naved supplied his few cents, giving his opinions and checking the codes occasionally, but Shahid was the one who did all the legwork – he created the master plan, he drew the flowchart for decision-making, and drafted the step-by-step algorithm. He was the one who spent sleepless nights, staring at his laptop screen, pushing one more line of code to refine the application while Naved attended fancy conferences in foreign lands.

Shahid opened his eyes. The fan was gyrating with lethargy. His vest, almost wet with sweat, clung to his chest. The air conditioning stopped working three weeks ago. Repairing it was tantamount to ruining the entire monthly budget. Until when was he supposed to live like a nameless beggar?

Deep breaths, Shahid, deep breaths, he commands himself. Think clearly.

He was the only one who can change his own life.

The contracts were still in his backpack. Shahid took out the one with both their names.

“Hi, Naved.” “What’s up, genius?” “How is the mobile application coming along, scientist?”

Shahid’s mind swirled with the words of all those who ignored him whenever he walked with Naved.

“No,” he seethed under his breath.

“No,” he cried out loud.

“No,” he tore the contract into bits.

By the time the news would reach Naved, Shahid would be swimming in money and fame.

About the author

Nazia is a writer based in Dehradun. Her novella Multicoloured Muffler was published in the Rize Novella Anthology by Running Wild Press. Her shorter works can be found in magazines such as The Tint, FemAsia, Caustic Frolic, Rigorous, Café Lit, Author Publish Magazine, Juste Literary, and 50-Word Story. https://www.instagram.com/naziak_writes/.

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So Perfect by Judy Cabito, Martini, shaken not stirred

 The doorbell rang at six o’clock. Karen welcomed their guests Bob and Cynthia from Dave’s office. They aren’t a couple per se. Bob, Dave’s employee, is always willing to escort Cynthia, Dave’s secretary, if Bob needed Dave to do him a favor. Cynthia knew this, Bob knew this and Dave knew this, Dave just didn’t know that Karen knew so much.

‘Happy New Year’s Eve,’ Karen said, swinging the door wide open. She accepts a social kiss on the cheek from Bob and a chilly hand from Cynthia.

‘We the first?’ Cynthia asked, advancing toward Dave.

‘Oh heavens,’ Karen said, as she took Bob’s overcoat and scarf. ‘You’re the only ones. I thought a quiet evening with just the four of us was what we needed here.’

Earlier that day, Karen and Dave began preparations for this evening’s event. They’re a stylish young couple, appearing to enjoy marital bliss. They own all the newest electronic devices, drive the latest fuel-efficient cars, live in a modest up-and-coming neighborhood, have chic jobs, Karen a personal-shopper with a sharp-eye for detail, and Dave a market-analyst who works long hours… suspiciously long hours.

While Karen takes pride in her home’s outward appearance with its aqua blue shutters against a yellow clad-facade, trimmed in junipers, and an array of pastel powder-puff hyacinth and hydrangeas, Dave works overtime.

For every occasion Karen decorates the door, keeping an eye open for anything that would tarnish the perfect look of their perfect life. In spring their door hosts a Pink Bunny, at Halloween a jack-o’-lantern, for Thanksgiving a cornucopia, winter a wreath, and on New Year’s Eve, nothing.

Karen complained right off, ‘Wal-Mart had nothing to put on the door for our New Year’s event. It ruins everything.’ She seemed perfectly upset and went to their perfectly decorated bedroom, bedecked with a DKNY comforter and shams, Martha’s best linens, a Persian rug, and a bedside lamp dimmed to a perfect intensity. She shut the door and refused to come back out.

‘Karen,’ Dave whined at the door. ‘Not everything has to be perfect, be more flexible. Besides, we have company coming. You can’t be this way now, you must forget it, nothing will change it.’

Karen refused to open the door or speak.

At five, Dave picked up his cell phone and made calls from Karen’s list of invitees she left next to her phone. Karen heard his excuse through the door. ‘She’s ill. No… no, she’ll recover in a day or so. No… no one should be around her. Sorry about the inconvenience.’

He then set about putting the food away when Karen emerged.

‘What are you doing? We have company coming, it’s New Year’s Eve,’ she said.

Dave stuttered, ‘I, I thought… I, I called everybody. Told them you were ill.’

‘Don’t mind about that. Just put things back.’

Now as Karen leads her guests into the parlor, Bob looks hungry; Cynthia nervous, Dave suspicious, no… mortified. 

And Karen? Well, she looks perfectly prepared.

About the author

Judy Cabito writes fiction. Her stories have been published online and in print, such as CafeLit, Everyday Fiction, Gator’s Spring Gazette, Foliate Oak, Salome Magazine, and Flashquake. Some publishers still exist, some don’t. Judy lives in the Lake Tahoe area of Nevada, USA.

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Realisation by Diane Neilson, a couple of glasses of Merlot

Martha awoke to a startling realisation; she had absolutely no idea who she was.

She was, however, calm and stared at the blank, white ceiling, devoid of thought. Devoid of questions. ‘I could be that ceiling,’ she thought, ‘blank, featureless, forgettable.’

Of course, she knew that her name was Martha and that she was married to Tom, her childhood sweetheart. She knew that she had two lovely, if demanding, teenage girls, and she was acutely aware that she was a busy teacher, about to jump back on the treadmill that was school life. She also knew the date; that it was the last day of the summer holidays. 

But who was she? And who would miss her if she wasn’t here…poof! Just vanished into thin air. 

Martha had had a pleasant, if uneventful, life so far; uneventful, that is, apart from the things that are supposed to happen in life: an ordinary childhood, college, marriage, children, job, holidays… she should be happy. ‘I might be happy. Am I happy?’

She had no idea.

She shook her head and got up, throwing the duvet off and heading to the bathroom. As she cleaned her teeth, she stared at her 39-year-old self in the mirror: the slightly greying hair, the faint lines around her eyes, her tatty old pyjama top. “I don’t like this toothpaste!” she said out loud to her reflection.

For now, that was the only thing that came into her mind, although other thoughts soon followed.

‘We buy this because the girls will eat it.’ Whilst pouring her bowl of cereal into the bin. ‘Why do I never buy croissants’

She put two teaspoons of sugar in her coffee. She usually had none because they (Tom) had decided it was unnecessary. Unhealthy. ‘Why did I just go along with that?’

She got out a slice of bread to put in the toaster, and then returned it to the packet. ‘I don’t enjoy white bread. I don’t enjoy spreadable butter – or strawberry jam. I want a warm croissant drizzled with honey, and a caramel latte.’

Before she could change her mind, Martha dressed quickly and grabbed her bag. She marched down the street onto the main road and slipped guiltily into the trendy café. It was emptier than she had thought it would be and she placed her order, taking a seat by the window, waiting, with a feeling that could have been excitement, for her croissant and coffee. She realised that she couldn’t remember the last time she had been excited. Another unwelcome realisation. 

As I have already said, it was the last day of the summer holidays, over a month of being chauffeur to the girls and playing housewife. Tom had been attached to his work phone during their week in France and the girls had complained non-stop because there was no internet signal. 

She had just one delicious day when she could be whoever she wanted to be. Tom was at work, the girls had gone back to school the day before, and she had done all of her new term prep. She had a whole day with a blank diary. She had woken, alone, in her bed to a peaceful house, and she had liked it. The thought scared her a little. ‘Put that thought out of your head!’

But then, her third realisation of the day, she realised that she could think whatever she wanted – who would know. That led to another thought, she could do what she wanted – absolutely anything, a whole day with nobody to answer to.

‘So,’ she thought, ‘what shall I do?’ Her mind was blank. 

Back at home, she went through what would usually be her day, should she have one to herself, ticking off the items on a mental list: clear up the breakfast dishes and tidy the kitchen; clear the living room of all the detritus that came with two untidy teenagers, depositing it in their rooms and giving them a quick tidy too – making beds, folding clothes etc. etc. Same in hers and Tom’s room, quick shower, put a wash on, call on her mum who was struggling with her dad’s early dementia, pick up some shopping on the way home, prepare something to put in the oven later – something they would all eat – a lasagna maybe.

She would also plan to read a chapter of her book, pop down to the hairdressers to get her roots done, go for a swim – but she wouldn’t do any of those things, and her family would find her flopped on the sofa, exhausted, when they eventually returned home, questioning why she was so tired when she had had a day to herself.

No wonder she didn’t know who she was. She only existed as a small part of someone else’s life – lots of ‘someones’, actually: wife, mother, daughter, teacher, friend; or in terms of her contribution: housekeeper, cook, teacher, colleague, someone who could be relied on to run breakfast club if needed – or unblock a toilet. 

Martha was deflated. ‘Even I don’t know who I am, how can anybody else be expected to know?’

Time for a good look at herself. Martha ignored all of the chores that needed doing in the house and went upstairs to her bedroom, flinging open the wardrobe doors and staring at the hangers draped with several pairs of black trousers and sensible blouses (essential for work), jeans and jumpers, a black dress – well it could double up for either a posh do or a funeral – and, right at the end of the rail, a sparkly red sequined top which she wore every year for the Christmas do. Her chest of drawers was just as bad: grey or faded underwear, ancient t-shirts, her other (equally awful) pair of pyjamas. 

Martha went downstairs and got a roll of binbags. Everything went in, everything, that is, but the sparkly red sequined top, the only item that spoke to her of anything but humdrum routine. She drove the lot to the local tip and then carried on into town, parking up at the large shopping centre. She had decided that she would only buy things that were interesting or colourful, almost in the hope that they would make her interesting and colourful too. 

On the way home she picked up a barista coffee machine, sugar, honey, fresh-mint toothpaste and some new cosmetics. She stopped off at the hairdressers: had her grey hair dismissed with a blonde rinse and lilac highlights, her eyebrows shaped and her nails gelled in shocking pink. She called at the bakery and bought a bag full of fresh pastries for morning, and cream cakes for tea. Back home, she went online and booked an ‘orientation meeting’ at the local gym, enrolling for yoga classes and a spa session, then ordered in a curry for tea.

At last, Martha sat back heavily. ‘What have I done?’ 

She heard a key in the front door and ran upstairs, panicking at what Tom would say. She had done nothing in the house – it was still the bombsite she had woken to this morning – and had spent an absolute fortune on her spending frenzy, to say nothing of the expensive gym membership that she had bought. 

Hearing Tom’s footsteps on the stairs, she shot into the en-suite, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it heavily, her heart pounding and her mind racing.

“Martha, where are you?” 

She opened the door slowly, dreading Tom’s reaction, but was stopped in her tracks at the sight before her. Her normally bearded, slightly scruffy husband was stood in the doorway looking extremely sheepish – and extremely smart – clean-shaven, sporting a new haircut and wearing a smart pair of trousers and crisp blue shirt.

“Your hair!” they both exclaimed together. 

Tom spoke first. “I just felt I’d let myself go. Let you down, you know. I thought I’d make a bit of an effort.”

“I didn’t know who I was this morning,” Martha admitted, cautiously, “I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a splurge – gone a bit mad.”

They stared at each other for the longest moment, then both exploded with laughter, somehow ending up in each other’s arms. 

“Well, I like what I see.” Replied Tom, when they had both recovered. “Let’s go downstairs and have a glass of wine. I’ve bought a bottle of that Merlot that you like.”

An hour (and a bottle of wine later), two confused teenagers walked through the door to a very untidy house and a pair of slightly tipsy parents, one minus a beard and one sporting lilac highlights. They looked at each other and shrugged before heading to the kitchen, their demands fired in quick succession. “What’s for tea.” “I’m hungry, are there any snacks?” 

“You’re having a curry,” Martha replied, “Me and your dad are going out.”

The girls returned to the kitchen doorway, and stood there gaping. 

“It’s a school day tomorrow. You can’t go out on a school night.” Spouted Clara, in a perfect imitation of her mother. “And where is my netball kit? I need it tomorrow.”

“Never mind that,” smirked Emily, “who are you, and what have you done with our parents?” 

“Well, that’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it. If we run into them, we will let you know.” said Martha, mysteriously. “Oh, and by the way, before your curry arrives, you can both give the house a tidy and put a wash on.”

A little later, and pleasantly full of pizza, Martha exclaimed to her husband, “I really didn’t know who I was this morning. I’m still not sure, but I definitely prefer this version.”

“Me too,” replied Tom, “and I can’t wait to see what other surprises are in store for me.”

Martha eyed him keenly, with a twinkle in her eye, as she leaned in. “Be careful what you wish for. You haven’t seen the bank balance yet.”

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 four books, and has had three stories published by Cafelit.

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