The Healing, by Andrew Senior, Shiraz

It happened when George Collins was sixteen years of age. That was when he first saw the hole, and then there was everything that came after. 

George lived with his parents and his sister at 12 St John Road. Until recently he had spent his evenings roaming the streets of the neighbourhood, leading a gang of school mates in the performance of petty misdemeanours. But his dad had grounded him indefinitely after George had been caught on a doorbell camera, chucking lighter fluid into Richard Johnson’s wheelie bin and setting it on fire. It was a step too far. Even George’s best friend, Tommy, had tried to stop him. 

Richard Johnson was the Collins’ neighbour, an eccentric man of indeterminate age, with a strabismus; his right eye looked up, his left slanted off to one side. He was always smartly dressed but with hair like he’d had an electric shock. A slight crick in his neck meant he saw everything from just below his brow. Last summer, when Richard Johnson had a prolonged hospital stay, Martin Collins cut his lawn – no small task – but that was the only meaningful interaction between them in nearly fifteen years of living next door to one another.

Richard Johnson was a frequent and easy target for George and his gang. They followed him up the road mimicking his funny short-stepped walk. They subjected him to knock-a-door-run. Tommy, the loudest of the lot, made sudden strange noises as they ran past his house. Once George threw weedkiller on the plants in Richard Johnson’s front garden. 

Following the incident with the wheelie bin, George’s mum had said they could have given poor Richard Johnson a heart attack. George just shrugged. His parents had become increasingly uptight since his dad had lost his job. In any case Richard Johnson had already said he did not intend to take the matter further. He said he understood the foolishness of youth and believed second chances, not punishment, were what could make all the difference. His parents had been pathetically grateful. It hadn’t stopped his dad grounding him though, partly to appease the grumpy neighbour on the other side (Barry), who’d said he thought the police should have been involved, and partly to reassure George’s anxious sister, who whined that she thought George would burn their house down while they were all in bed. 

George had rolled his eyes. As far as he was concerned, he could do whatever he wanted. It was his neighbourhood.

But there were times when George and his mates found themselves just standing and staring in at Richard Johnson in his strange circumstances. 

Of an evening he sat in his cavernous front living room (he never closed the curtains), reading in an armchair which he had retained in the middle of the room, along with a small table and an ornate floor lamp. Like the rest of the house, the room was almost completely empty. (Martin Collins and his wife had watched in disbelief when a van bearing the name The Matthias Hospice came and took away a whole load of expensive looking furniture. ‘It’s not fair,’ Mrs Collins had muttered. ‘Maybe he’s moving out,’ Martin Collins had said, hopefully.) When Richard Johnson eventually shifted his head towards the window the gang would all duck behind the hedge, or leg it up the road. George hated those moments. In those moments they were no longer mocking Richard Johnson. Instead they had become fascinated by the man, and almost a little fearful. So one evening, to try and shake them out of it, George had gone right up to the window and despite their protests, pushed his face against the glass until he could tell Richard Johnson knew he was there. He would stare him down. But the man did not react. He was studying some papers, whilst other papers lay in neat piles on the floor around him. When his head finally moved, his big-eyed, skewed gaze had calmly shifted around where George stood but without settling on him - as though George almost existed, but not quite - and George thought that he would have to do something drastic to assert himself over the man. And that was what led to the wheelie bin idea. 

But whilst grounded and confined to his room, George noticed in Richard Johnson’s garden, the garden where his dad had set to with the mower, a hole. Rectangular in shape, precisely cut, a dark patch dug illogically in the middle of the lawn. George could not work it out. So one evening, after everyone had gone to bed, he snuck downstairs and outside, where he crept through a gap in the hedge.   

He could see as he approached that the hole had deep, vertical sides disappearing down into the darkness. Various piles of displaced earth were visible around it. It wasn’t the sort of hole dug for planting. Momentarily he was distracted by a soft light appearing on the other side of the tall hedge. The bathroom light. One of his parents going to the toilet. 

He turned his attention back to the hole and it dawned on him what it looked like - a macabre purpose utterly out of place in the setting. It was at that moment George realised there was someone standing at the foot of the nearby fir tree; a presence sensed before seen, and it rose in him, the panic, the fear, the exhilaration, of having been caught. 

Richard Johnson stepped forward out of the shadows. 

Despite the gloom, George could see immediately that something was different. For a start Richard Johnson’s hair was combed neatly into a side parting and had the sheen of some product holding it in place. But stranger still, the man seemed to be stood perfectly upright, with no sign whatsoever of any crick in the neck.

‘What are you doing in my garden?’ he said, watching George closely. It was the first time George could recall properly hearing him speak. The voice was much deeper than he’d imagined it would be, commanding, like some of the teachers at school, the ones who took no nonsense but were begrudgingly respected. 

‘I just came to look…’ George stammered, indicating towards the hole.

‘Always looking. That’s what you seem to like doing, George.’

George shifted awkwardly.

‘I look too George. Every morning. I see it from my bedroom window. That’s why I dug it here.’

Richard Johnson gazed down at the hole.  

‘I call it my Lazarus hole. It took me long enough. My arms still haven’t recovered. I won’t be laid to rest here, of course. But it helps me keep perspective. Life is short and there’s so much distraction, so much worry. I hear them arguing, your parents. Always about money it seems. I’m not sure I’d always want to be in the house with them.’

George nodded.  

‘It’s said that unless a seed falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies it bears much fruit.’

George looked uncomprehendingly at Richard Johnson. 

‘My time is almost done George. When I’m gone, perhaps you could fill it back in. I’d appreciate that.’

Then he smiled pleasantly and moved his position slightly and George could not believe what he saw. Richard Johnson’s huge eyes, dark and piercing, looked in perfect unison, straight at him, their unsettling misalignment utterly and inexplicably rectified. 

‘Goodnight George,’ said Richard Johnson and turned and walked away up his garden. A moment later George heard the door at the house shut and a light came on. Keeping to the edges, his heart beating hard somewhere near his stomach, George followed after. He was desperate to get another look at the man. But as he approached the house the light went off and presently another came on somewhere upstairs.  

George stood for a moment in the darkness, wondering what to do. He pushed his way back through the hedge but he did not want to go home. Instead he went down the path at the side of the house and out on to the street. 

The houses of the neighbourhood stood in silent rows, oblivious to his presence, and the streetlights, caught in the trees, created their own display of illuminated leaves. He began to walk. They’d been up this way a few weeks since, just the two of them. He saw that the yellow grit salt bin had been put back in its place and the brown salt swept away. And that the glass in the bus shelter had been replaced. He wondered now why they’d done it, him and Tommy. 

#

It was 1am when he got back. He found his dad sat in the kitchen, laptop open, waiting for him. 

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Out.’

‘Out. Doing what exactly?’

‘Just walking.’

‘Just walking. You were in Johnson’s garden. I saw you. What the hell were you doing there?’

‘Just looking.’ 

‘Just this, just that. There’s no just about it lad,’ he said angrily. ‘Why can’t you just leave the man alone?’ 

George sighed and told him about the hole. Martin Collins listened and shook his head. 

‘Get to bed. We’ll carry this on tomorrow,’ he said and slammed the laptop shut. 

#

The following morning, concerned that Richard Johnson’s patience might finally run out and that he would decide to get the police involved with regards to the bin incident, Martin Collins reluctantly went round to offer apologies on behalf of his wayward son. But getting no answer at the door, and himself curious about the hole, he pushed the gate and found it opened.

It really was a long garden and Martin Collins found himself regretting the time and energy he’d expended on it, for a neighbour he wished he did not have. He saw the hole straightaway. 

As he got nearer he realised that there was something lying at the bottom. Then he gasped, and stopped short. Still smartly dressed, hair surprisingly tidy, the light from the sky above reflected where his eyes had not fully closed, lay Richard Johnson.

Martin Collins turned and walked quickly away, already fighting a quiet dread that was taking hold of him.

#

‘He said so,’ George insisted, when he got home from school and was told what had happened. ‘He knew. My time is almost done, he said.’

‘No one can know,’ replied his dad. ‘It’s just coincidence. He was funny in the head. Must have gone back out and climbed down after you’d left.’

‘He knew,’ repeated George, still in disbelief at what had happened. But his dad had already turned on his laptop, ready for another fruitless evening of job seeking. He glanced up at his son.

‘Johnson was just an odd, old man,’ he said.   

#

Several weeks passed. Richard Johnson wasn’t in it of course, but the hole was still there. George could see it from his window. He stood for long periods of time looking down at it. His dad said that the police had erected a temporary shelter over it, whilst the body was removed. 

Then one morning something clattered through the letterbox and on to the doormat and Martin Collins came into the kitchen holding a letter in his hand. 

‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.

‘Dad!’ exclaimed George’s sister in shock.

‘What is it?’ asked his wife. 

‘The house. Next door. Johnson’s. 50%. It’s worth a fortune.’

‘What?’

‘50%. We get 50%.’ 

She took the letter from him and read. Her eyes widened. 

‘Is this a joke?’

But it wasn’t a joke. The solicitor later said that the distribution of Richard Johnson’s estate, and the array of beneficiaries in his will, was one of the most unusual things she’d seen in thirty years of legal practice. Included in it, Richard Johnson had directed that half the proceedings from the sale of his house were to be bestowed on Mr and Mrs Martin Collins of 12 St John Road. 

‘In recognition of gardening services.’ Martin Collins read aloud from the letter. He looked up at his family.

‘I cut his lawn, once.’ 

‘We won’t have to sell up,’ said his wife quietly.

‘We’re going to sell the house?!’ exclaimed George’s sister.

‘No. Not now we’re not.’ 

Martin Collins turned to his wife and shook his head in disbelief.

‘It’s a miracle,’ she said, with tears in her eyes.  

#

George went out to the garage where the spade hung lopsidedly on a big nail in the wall. 

Richard Johnson’s garden seemed horribly empty now. He went to the hole, feeling behind him the presence of the house. He recalled the man sat in his armchair, warmly lit by the floor lamp and a hollowness welled up inside him. Before he began to dig, he tossed the spade to one side, and sat down, letting his legs hang into the hole. The branches of the fir tree, beneath which Richard Johnson had stood watching him, were steadily swishing as the warm breeze passed between the needles. From through the hedge he heard his mum laugh and the faint chink of glasses and his dad said something in a jovial tone. George could not recall the last time they had been so happy, so full of joy. 

He jumped down and landed with a gentle thud on the compact earth. The ground was cool and damp. He could feel it through his school uniform. Dangling in various places from the walls of earth were ragged root ends, cut off when Richard Johnson had dug the hole. This was the last thing he saw, thought George as he lay. Plumbs of white cloud drifted across the sky. He tried to recall Richard Johnson’s strange words, about seed and fruit and dying.   

He dragged himself back up out of the hole and brushed himself down. He picked up the spade and began steadily to shovel at the first pile of earth. His V-neck sweater was uncomfortable to work in and he took it off and continued in just his white shirt which became damp with sweat and smeared with mud where he wiped his hands. He shovelled all morning until at last the hole was filled. 

Tired out from his work, he went and sat at the foot of Richard Johnson’s fir tree and dozed. Where the hole had been there was now a rectangle of rough earth. It was the type of broken-up soil in which something could be planted. At the school there was a Tree of Remembrance and they’d all laughed at Tommy when he’d been specially chosen as one of the pupils to help plant it. Tommy the Tree Hugger they’d cleverly called him. 

#

George told Tommy that he’d met Richard Johnson in his garden on the night he’d died and that Richard Johnson had changed, but before he could explain what he meant, Tommy started laughing and he laughed and laughed and couldn’t stop and said it was the way George had said it. George laughed too, because he didn’t know what else to do and didn’t try to explain any further. 

George gave his parents no more trouble and made every effort to get along with his sister (though their collective demeanour suggested he was simply behaving like they thought he should always have been behaving). The hollowness left him but it was replaced by something else, a deep longing that he realised his life at 12 St John Road would not be able to fulfil. There was just one thing he had to do. 

#

The people who eventually moved into Richard Johnson’s house were confused over why there was a sapling tree growing in a patch of earth in the middle of their lawn. But it was a delicate and fine-looking thing and they decided to keep it. They expanded the border so that the two trees stood together in the same area of soft ground, the sapling growing steadily stronger every day.

About the author

Andrew Senior is a writer of short literary and speculative fiction, based in Sheffield, UK. His work has recently appeared in various publications including Crow & Cross Keys, Isele Magazine, Postbox Magazine, Litro and The Honest Ulsterman. Visit https://andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com/

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A Lost Boy, by Jane Spirit, a local ale

 Martin Nugent had only felt the full force of his fear after the event. Once the trembling caught up with him, his employer had made him sit in front of the large pub hearth. Despite it being a mild September day, the logs had been made up and the fire lit in Martin’s honour.    

‘That will warm you through,’ the landlord had said to the shaking boy, ‘It will take away the deep chill of the water,’ he had added.  

There had been quite a hubbub in the bar of the Boat Inn, Jackfield. This had included lively discussions of Martin’s brave actions. Whilst there had been some condemnation of the young ruffian whose life Martin had saved, any criticism had been tempered by a sense of overwhelming relief amongst the drinkers, many of whom had witnessed the rescue for themselves.  

Despite the noise around him, Martin had found himself almost dozing off in the single wooden chair at the fireside, though as potboy he was hazily conscious that he should be dispensing beer to the unexpected crowd. It made him think how quickly the news had spread in this little hamlet by the Severn. That made him picture in turn the few houses of the nearby village. He thought of how the dark and brooding river seemed entirely to define its inhabitants whose livelihoods connected them all to its currents.  

Without the river there would have been no China works, and no returning workers destined to quench their thirst at the pub nearest the ferry crossing, and so no job for him. And Martin was glad of his job. It had felt like such a piece of luck when his uncle had mentioned casually on a day visit to his Birmingham relatives that ‘young Martin’ might do a lot worse than try his luck as pot boy. There was work to be had, he reckoned, at more than one of the expanding hostelries close to the factory where he himself had risen to become a skilled craftsman. Born with a slight limp, Martin knew that even in the enlightened times of the 1840s he would never be seen as robust enough to be taken on at the pottery. He knew also that his father had long given up hope that he might find himself a place as cabin boy, working alongside him on one of the merchant ships voyaging to the new world to trade goods. Martin had never been able to tell him how glad he was that his somewhat unusual appearance had meant he need never set foot on a boat. For ever since he had been a baby, Martin’s recurring nightmare had been one of falling from a rolling, reeling deck to be pitched into a tempestuous, swirling, pit of water. Then he had dreamed of himself flailing, unable to raise his head high enough to make out land, or to scream for help, and hearing no sound beyond that of the swelling water as he felt himself gripped by the current and shoved against his will downwards into darkness. Martin knew he had been a disappointment to his sailor father. How then could he ever have told him how much he dreaded being close to water, let alone being on it?  

          No, he had been relieved when his father had allowed him to follow his uncle’s suggestion to seek his fortune elsewhere. And whilst the Boat Inn was a humble kind of place right next to the river ferry, the landlord had at least been willing to give him a trial for a week or two in return for regular food and a place to doss down in the loft above the bar. Despite his misgivings about the fast-flowing channel outside the place, Martin had been keen to please his employer, for he did not want to return to Birmingham. The landlord had already spoken about training him up to help him with managing the beer kegs in due course, so he had been able to report to his uncle that he now had ‘prospects’ of making his way in the public house trade.  

Martin was a quick learner, amenable with the customers and observant of their ways. He understood the unspoken pecking order of the men as they presented themselves at the bar. Drowsing in his chair now, he could recollect the stream of faces that had been passing through the bar on the men’s way home from Coalport. He pictured the children with them, left outside to lark about after their day at the factory whilst their fathers tried to swill away the smell and taste of the paint leads. Then Martin relived the moment when he had heard the desperate shout. It turned out that one of the children, who had been throwing twigs into the stream to race them down the river towards the next bend, had leant too far forward and somehow lost his balance, then his foothold, and slipped with brutal suddenness into the river.  

The boy’s father had been out of the pub in a moment, as if sensing his boy was in danger, and running towards the bank shouting. ‘Son, son’ was all he had screamed. Martin was fast behind him too. His limp had not deterred him, and he had reached the bank alongside all the other adults anxiously peering into the river. Martin recalled now the silence that had fallen on them all as each scanned the murky water in hopes of seeing the child. It had been Martin who had found him though. He had not been staring across the wide channel, but downstream and towards the nearside bank as he calculated how far in the boy might have fallen and how likely it was that the current had pushed him in towards the near river edge. He did not see much, just a streak of blond, but it was enough to galvanise him, rushing him along the bank and then, oh so foolishly, leaping into the water to raise the boy’s head upwards to the air with no thought of the danger he was placing himself in. Only the quick thinking of the other men who had commandeered a fisherman’s net, saved him and the boy from drowning, pulling them both back in to shore and manhandling them out of the water. They managed it just in time before the weeds waving in the water could extend their grasp to clutch Martin and the boy into an icy embrace from which there would have been no release.  

Yes, that was how events had unfolded, Martin thought before he fell asleep in his chair, waking only much later after the customers had departed, to be helped up the stairs to his straw bed by the landlord who had told him again how well he had acted earlier in saving the young boy’s life.   

It was only in the days to come that Martin had come to realise that his sleep was no longer troubled by the recurrent nightmare of drowning. He had even found himself contentedly watching the ferry boat coming and going from the Boat Inn side of the river to the towpath side on which many of its customers lived. It was as if his childhood terrors had been lain to rest and so he might finally dare to make his own way in the world, without feeling himself always destined to fail. Not long afterwards, the landlord had recommended him to an old pal of his who was looking for a steady worker to help him to run a public house in Ludlow. The job was a better paid one and Martin was eager to accept the opportunity, if sad to leave the place where he felt he had found his feet so to speak.   

A few days before he was due to depart for his new job, Martin had found himself serving an old man who had wondered into the bar at a quiet hour and who seemed a little out of place because he was not one of the regulars. Martin had handed him his beer in the small tankard he had requested before inviting him to take his ease on one of the benches placed around the edge of the bar space. Martin had thought it an act of kindness to pass a few remarks with the customer by way of being hospitable whilst the man drank his beer slowly. After some time, the visitor had produced an old-fashioned clay pipe from the inner recesses of his well-worn jacket and puffed on it for a while. Then the visitor had stood up and made his way towards the door, seemingly deep in thought and sighing deeply as he lifted the latch. Martin had thought that he was about to leave without further conversation, and he was surprised when the man turned back for a moment towards him, scrutinising him closely, before speaking, falteringly at first, and then with certainty, ‘You do remind me of my father long gone. Yes, you have his look.’  

Then the man paused before slowly, placing his pipe back in the deep spaces of his jacket before he spoke again. ‘That was a terrible night for us all when the ferry went down in ‘77… Twenty-eight souls ripped from this world there were when it capsized. I grieve for my father still and for my brother who was on his way home from the factory with him … only eight he was.  Ah well, I best be walking on now. I come over from time to time, you know, to remember them where it happened’.  

As the old man turned as if to undo the door, Martin found himself desperately wanting to show interest in the old man’s tragedy, but unsure of what to say. He was about to blurt out some sympathetic enquiry about how far the man had travelled that day, when the departing customer turned back from the door for a moment to look directly at him. 

‘The name is Nugent’, he had said quietly, but clearly. And with that, he was gone into the night.

About the author

Jane lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK. With the encouragement of the local creative writing class which she joined in 2021 she has been writing stories ever since, some of which have appeared on Café Lit. She also enjoys writing essays and articles about Victorian literature.

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The Cape to Brisons, by Gillian Silverthorn, beer on the beach

It's always the same the day they arrive. Once they get over the shock of the view, the sheer beauty of the ocean either completely calm and turquoise, sun shining or contrastingly, the vast expansion of crashing waves over the rocks throwing foam hundreds of feet up into the air.

            The questions and statements are carbon copies: "Do you live here, wow, you're so lucky, it must be so beautiful","Have you always lived here?", "Is it really lonely? Is it isolated in the winter?". Year in, year out they come and the questions never alter. They are in love with the idea of living here, with the sea, the sky, yes the dark sky and the stars. They'd look out across the sea towards the Cape, gasping at it's sheer beauty, the sky and the water becoming one.

            Tonight nature is at her best. Lightning darts downwards and splits the sea, the tourists sit looking out of their windows with delight as they drink their champagne,I can hear one saying, "This has to be better than the fireworks at Land's End."

 

My father and grandparents and many generations before were born here, grew up here, worked the sea, told stories of older relatives working in the mines - two contrasts; a great expansion of light or darkness depending what family you were born into.

            My father told me to just take the rough with the smooth, the beauty, the harshness, there is a community and they will look out for you, you'll always belong, and as long as you make a living that's all you can ask for and be satisfied. Now, you will hear the sea is over fished and the mines shut down, you can't make a living any more. If you want to stay you have to either get a holiday let or take the tourists out on a boat.

            I can see why they're bitter, they look around and everyone's an outsider. I hear them say "They know nothing of the heritage, no Cornish blood". But I still love to see the holiday makers arrive - it brightens up my day, though I can't be part of their lives for long, they don't want an old woman in her late eighties hanging around. I always make sure to watch out my shutters for their cars to arrive at 2pm when they are allowed in their holiday cottages and I'll go outside pretending to be sweeping the yard and they can't help but say hi and ask their questions. I'll act surprised when I see them, "Oh, hello, are you on holiday?" I'll say.

            They see an old woman, an old woman who knows the land and that's it. They know nothing of her youth and I don't imagine they think she had one but I could tell them a story or two. They'll be inside now saying how sweet I am, they will say "Ah, bless her, isn't she lovely, do you think she has a husband? Maybe he's died, she is really old."

 

Jon was the closest I came to commitment, and when I felt myself getting too comfortable I scarpered, disappeared for a few weeks, I couldn't breathe if he got too close. I don't want to be alone, now I'm old, in this deserted place, but I don't want to be with someone either, tied down, someone interfering, organising, finishing my sentences. I didn't want to grow old and senile with him. But, on this occasion, this is all I want.

            It's that couple that just arrived, they look like us. I got my albums out and flicked back through photos when we were twenty, taken on a the pinhole camera Jon made from some ash wood. I couldn't bear it – it made my chest pull tight and my breathing shallow - just like when I was young and felt trapped.

            There's not a damn thing I can do about it now, it's too late, I'll console myself by saying "It's going to happen to us all, so maybe it's better that it happens when we're alone so things aren't so hard at the end." It might feel comfortable settling down in a warm house at night, sharing those years with a special person, but one day you wake up alone anyway. I have the ocean and the the call of the gulls to wake to and my memories.

            He said it was my hormones, my age, apparently you can lose your mind in your forties. But he couldn't blame my wandering on hormones, he didn't like me being independent, he wanted me to commit to him. We would have eventually started to think as one, we wouldn't have had our own thoughts at all, it happens all the time, I've read about it. No, I'm happy I've managed to escape that.

            He loved taking the tourists out on his little boat, just like the younger ones do today, telling the same stories like an old worn out record, "You may be lucky enough to see dolphins today, you'll see seals around Longships Lighthouse but we won't get too close. They may lose their pups if we come in too close. Look there's a shag." Or did Jon say a cormorant, I could never remember the difference no matter how many times he told me to concentrate and listen to the description, I still don't know to this day. He never got bored, I think I managed to go out with him about two dozen times before I couldn't bear it any more, hearing the same guided tour, the same response from the tourists. He couldn't understand why I wasn't satisfied with this life but it became no different than a nine to five job, saying the same thing, doing the same thing, day in day out. We tried to make it more fun by telling stories of mermaids and drinking beer but that got tedious too.

            We weren't a couple, I'd made this clear from the beginning, you can't be tied down in your thirties. He accepted it while telling me that one day he would change it, trying to make light of it, watching for my reaction. He didn't like that there were others, sometimes tourists, sometimes locals. He always looked more hurt if it was a local, he found it easier if it was a tourist knowing it wouldn't last long. I'd say "What's so bad if you won't see me for a week or two?" When I turned back up he would sing out "One day, one day, yes one day you'll be mine, I will be the only one", we'd laugh and let it go.

            One night after a few ciders on the beach he took my banjo and added lines to his song, "It's deep rooted, you won't commit, you're scared of being left..." I told him to stop and he knew not to bother with that kind of talk again.

            Those that are still alive and stayed in this place know me as that zany woman who sat on the sands playing her banjo, smelling fragrant, drinking with anyone that was around, lighting fires, swimming naked in the ocean, waiting for full moons.

 

He's still alive, if he outlives me he will take my ashes out on the boat and scatter them just past The Brisons, also known as the big friendly giant by a family of holiday makers. They say that they see in the rock a giant lying on his back, there's his head see, then the dip is his neck, his stomach's poking up towards the sky. That's where we swam on my birthday every year, from the Cape to The Brisons, gasping for air, clinging on to the rocks until we got our breath again, then the swim back. Yes, that's where he'll scatter me. And I'll be gone, far away from the tourists and their versions of what used to be my home.

About the author

Gillian Silverthorn grew up in a village in Hampshire before moving later in life to

Cornwall where she lives with her husband Kevin. In the last few years she has taken up writing short stories and poems.

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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.