Papa Jean by Henry Lewi, absinthe with a cube of sugar

In the hot sticky night, they found his twentieth victim and they knew Papa Jean had returned. They found the body of a middle-aged man behind the Café du Monde on the banks of the Mississippi. Today the good folks of New Orleans would not be having their beignets. The locals told of stories of a killer that had lived amongst them for the last 200 years. They talked of a curse; they spoke of a murderer that had arrived from the old island of Santa Domingo. They spoke of a dead French Slaver seeking vengeance.

  They told of how when the summer nights were hot, Papa Jean appeared and killed, always leaving his mark.

  In the shadows the killer watched and listened. His profile occasionally lit up by the flickering lights of the police vehicles. He was tired. He had needed a new body. This one he had been using was worn out: modern life he thought, bad food, no exercise, too many cigarettes, so it was time to change into a younger fitter healthier body.

He watched; he saw the shimmering image of Algiers Point across the water. He watched, as the first ferry crossed to the Canal Street Ferry Port, and as the ambulance took away the body.

The heat rose from the ground as the sun heated it up and Algiers disappeared behind a haze.

He watched and remembered. He remembered the slaves arriving. He remembered the slave markets. He remembered the battle for New Orleans in 1815, the fires that destroyed the shipyards in ’62 and the old plantation houses in ’95.

The humidity and heat were becoming uncomfortable and as he left the shadows unobserved and crossed Jackson Square entering The Cabildo, the old courthouse, where the marbled floors were always cool and reassuring.

The portraits of the great and good of old New Orleans brought back memories of who he was, why he was, and where he had been. He remembered when he had first arrived in 1812.  He wandered into the gallery devoted to the Battle of New Orleans of 1815, stopping at a portrait of “Les Volontaires Francaise d’Orleans”. He stared at the image of himself, Jean Baptiste St. Juste Honore in the second row, or who he had been then, 200 years ago.

  The slave revolt had begun on the Island of Santa Domingo in 1791, and for many years the leaders of the revolt murdered the Spanish, the French, and each other, switching allegiances at will. Jean Baptiste and his family, owned slaves and a sugar cane plantation in the north of the island. During his absence in Port au Prince, Toussaint Louverture and his men burnt the plantation and murdered Jean Baptiste’s family during Louverture’s ‘March of Freedom.’

 The island burnt as the sugar cane and coffee plantations were put to the torch. In retaliation Jean Baptiste led 300 slave and plantation owners, with French and Spanish militia on a “Ride of Death” across the Northern half of the island.

  During one attack on a village of freed slaves, Jean Baptiste was faced by a young Creole woman, the voodoo princess known as “ti se Marie”, holding a small figurine in one hand and a white cockerel in the other standing in front of her burning hut.

‘I curse you Jean Baptiste St. Juste Honore, I curse you and your family, to walk the earth in shame and death,’ she said.

Before Jean Baptiste could reach her, she bit off the head of the cockerel, doused the figurine with its blood, and threw both into the flames, even as he ran her through with his sabre.

Jean Baptiste had been cursed many times before. What was the babbling of one more Creole witch worth?

  Jean Baptiste developed a hunger to kill that he needed to feed.

  After the massacre of 1804 Jean Baptiste, had to leave the island of Santa Domingo, and he travelled the islands, from Santa Domingo to Guadeloupe. From Guadeloupe to Jamaica, from Jamaica to Trinidad, helping to put down slave insurrections on behalf of whichever group of owners paid him.

The hunger never left and was rarely satiated.

In 1812 he arrived aboard a slave transport at Algiers point hoping for a different life in the newly purchased US city of New Orleans, where a new killing field had opened up. The Hunger never left.

  In the past two centuries he’d been able to wear new bodies like clothes. He knew how to change, but not the why of the change. His hunger now came in cycles: usually a single kill sufficed for months but every few years he had to feed on many “companions”, always during the hot summer months.

After a summer killing cycle, he learnt he had to change. Sometimes he was tired, weary, and exhausted, and then he’d kill, and take a new body. As long as he could use his hands, eyes and mind he could move from body to body.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a group of tourists. Their guide was a pretty young Creole woman who spoke with the Cajun patois. A perfect companion she'd be; he felt the sharp edge of the blade in his pocket

  Through the hot humid day, he shadowed her and the tourists, as they wandered through the French quarter.

As he stepped out to cross Basin Street to enter Treme- Lafitte he never saw the truck that hit him.

Waking up was a struggle; he couldn’t breathe easily, couldn’t move, or turn his head, and he couldn’t speak.

“Cher,” she said, bending over him, ‘its ti se Marie. I’m finally found you again. I’ve followed and lost you all these years; I got close many times, but you changed. I knew it was you Jean Baptiste, you watching at the Café du Monde, you watching at the Cabildo.’

‘The accident, it was my truck, broke your back; you can’t move, you can’t leave, you will hunger and remember the islands. Adieu Jean Baptiste St. Juste Honore.’

Papa Jean could only lie there unable to move. He was paralyzed from the neck down. A tube in his throat was helping him breathe. He couldn’t feed. His hunger grew. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t change and he couldn’t leave. He could only remember. 

About the author

 Henry is a retired surgeon and member of the Canvey Writers Group. He has published a number of stories on the CafeLit site. 

 

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Karjaque by Rick Taliaferro, absinthe

 The dense arrays of taillights and headlights were tranquilizing. 

            But as he approached the PanNet Corporation headquarters again, he began to fidget as the unsettling feeling of having been disconnected resumed.

Two guards stood in the main gatehouse gazing out at the luminous stream of traffic. 

The local news trucks that covered the resource action had left an hour before. 

He wished he had crashed his car through the gate earlier.  That would have been an interesting item for the evening news.

Resource action.  Sounds like a phrase that a cartoon snake would hiss.

            He drove past PanNet with jaw clamped. 

Eight big buildings, set among a sprawling immaculate landscape in what had once been tobacco fields and loblolly pine woods.

He’d driven past them back-and-forth several times but wasn’t ready to give in to the layoff and go home.  Not until he reconnected somehow. 

He took out his cell phone, enabled caller-ID, and keyed Madison’s number, expecting her to not pick up.  She had hung up on their previous conversation, but he was anxious to talk to someone.

Despite his agitation, he leaned to his right to glimpse himself in the rearview mirror and held the phone so that other drivers could see his silhouette using the latest in cell-phone technology.

“Hey,” Madison answered sympathetically.  No, pityingly.  “I thought I’d heard wrong, but when I looked you up in Collabo, you weren’t there.”

            With the flick of a few keys, a roll of a mouse, he  had been wiped out of Collabo, PanNet’s email, scheduling, and virtual-conferencing system.

“Are you okay?” Madison queried.

            “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

            She sighed.  “You’re going through a traumatic milestone in your career.”

“I’m not the only one,” he said, as if accused of something.

            “Well, now, I realize that, and it’s definitely a, uh, paradigm shift for you and the others who were selected for the RA.”

            He breathed deeply before replying through his teeth.  “You sound like the severance package.”

            “I don’t mean to.”

            “Of course not,” he said.  “After all, you didn’t receive one.”

            “Not yet,” she said.

            “Oh, come on, Madison, you don’t have anything to worry about.  There’s always a position in PanNet for an MBA.” 

            They had been hired at the same time, but her career movement had been at a 45-degree angle, while his had been horizontal, even with a couple extraprofessional achievements.

            “Especially an MBA with your connections,” he added. 

            “But you can be sure that my resume is updated and ready for distribution,” she countered.

            He laughed at her conversational slumming.  She was one of the FLOPs, a “future leader of PanNet,” and was being groomed by management and was on her way up just as surely as she had been on her way out of his life after a short year together.

            “It’s a positive indicator that you can laugh about this reduction in force,” Madison said encouragingly.

“Wasn’t laughing about that.”

            “No, I suppose it’s not a laughing matter,” she humored him.  “But PanNet is the loser.”

            “Just like you were the loser when you let me go?”

Her breakup speech had been as stilted as the words in the layoff package.  He intuited that it had more to do with his declining corporate visibility, and less with romantic reasons. 

Or both.

            “Our goals were just no longer aligned,” Madison said.

            “On the corporate level,” he sneered, “or the personal level?”

            “Look, I answered your call because I thought I could help to mediate your career and life adjustment, but I don’t feel that I’m accomplishing that.”

            He laughed again.  Now she sounded like a PanNet Career Coach.  And he realized that that was how he had frequently thought and talked.  But no more. 

“We’re getting off topic,” Madison said.  “I suggest we try a more productive discussion later in the week.” 

            “Well, let’s synch-up our calendars,” he scoffed.  “Oh, wait, I forgot . . . Collabo doesn’t know me any longer.” 

“And the way you’re acting,” Madison said, “you’re no one that I know.”

He didn’t respond but kept pointing the cell phone at his ear.  Though traveling at 60 miles per hour, he had no sensation of movement.

“Are you there?” Madison asked.

He didn’t know how to answer that, so he closed the phone and continued traversing the Beltway.

The Beltway was unfinished and shaped like the headphone icon on his confiscated laptop.  When he got to one barricade to the unfinished part of the Beltway, he’d turn around and drive 29 miles to the other barricade, passing PanNet enroute. 

Though he knew the Beltway, he kept the UR@ map glowing conspicuously on the dash where a Virgin Mary might have stood.

 

Olde Towne Centre

Next 3 Exits

 

            The green light from the overhead mall sign flashed on his severance package in the passenger bucket seat. 

For five years, he had thought of himself as a PanNeteer.  There had been times – for example, walking down long empty carpeted corridors late at night, the ubiquitous white noise barely audible -when he felt one with the corporation. 

For five years!

            Now he recognized PanNet as a betrayer, and carting around the severance package was insult to injury.  

            He briefly wondered how much personal information was in the package that could be used to steal his identity, and then didn’t care.  He pushed the automatic sunroof button and chucked the thick envelope into the rushing draft.

            Cars behind and passing him blared their horns.      

            One driver kept abreast of him and was probably cursing at him. 

He taunted the driver by ignoring him, keeping his eyes on the license plate ahead:

 

I S P L T @ M Z

 

            The driver precariously squeezed in front of him and angrily shook a middle finger at him.

            He felt a sudden affinity with his antagonist, but then realized that the antagonist was misplacing his anger.  For he was behind them, scattered by traffic over the lanes of the Beltway, among the spirits of deer run over on nights during the fall migration.

“I’m back there,” he muttered.  “Somewhere, I am.”

I am.

            He forced a sardonic laugh.  Collabo had a menu function titled I am that displayed an employee’s profile.  Any user of Collabo could view another’s profile with a similar menu function titled Meet your team.

He had a superlative profile, just what the company said it was looking for. 

Summa cum laude BS in computer science and math, with a concentration in human-computer interaction.

And as early as his first year at PanNet, he had earned a patent related to the work that he was doing to help redesign one of PanNet’s many graphical user interfaces:  Algorithm for Subject Retrieval Using Metadata.    

So how stupid had he been not to have induced the shutdown of his under-performing product line, and secured another job before then? 

How complacent had he been at the transfer of jobs overseas?

Floodlights revealed two isolated buildings in the darkening terrain.  Lighted from below, the black glass edifices looked spooky, like a flashlight held under one’s chin.

 

He’s Not Here

 

            He wondered how many times he had seen that nightclub bumper sticker during the past several years on the Beltway as he drove to and from work.  How appropriate.

            As he again approached PanNet, and the disturbing feeling of having been disconnected, he flinched as his cell phone played that week’s ring tone, Jan and Dean’s “Dead Man’s Curve.” 

            Madison?  Calling back in concern?

            It wasn’t Madison.

“Yew sure this ain’t Pan Perfect Porque?” the caller pestered him.

He snapped the phone shut and threw it onto the passenger seat.  He cringed wondering whether his next job would be taking food orders over the phone, and wrung his hands around the cushioned steering wheel to stretch his arms.  He was startled to realize that he had been looping the Beltway for several hours.

He became even more anxious as he noted that the twilight traffic was thinning.  He was being left alone. 

            He had always secretly liked the traffic as much as the noisy open-floor workplace at PanNet, though he would complain about it with his peers.  Both the cramped cubicle farm and the congested traffic made him feel . . . what was it?  Like he belonged.

But on this evening in early March, with the black tree limbs like discrete networks in a blue-screen-of-death sky, he felt as detached as the separate bits of white dividing line would feel. 

He glanced at other drivers and wanted to reach out to them, even if only to exchange curses or horn blaring.

Most of the cars were single-occupant, the drivers’ immobile, mask-like faces lighted by the cool greens or blues of their dashboard lights.  The drivers and passengers of the few cars that had multiple occupants likewise stared forward as motionless and silent as turned-off monitors. 

What was needed was some kind of tool to bring him together with them, like the disk defragmenter on personal computers.

            But it wasn’t that easy, and he snickered at his silly thought. 

All he had was his cell phone.  If he could only use it to connect.  Just once, briefly.

He opened the cell phone and tried to join a chat room that he frequented that was probably abuzz with the layoff, but was dismayed to see he was out of range for a wireless connection.

He fondled it as he considered his options.  He could try a random phone number.  Or Dial-A-Prayer.  LifeLine.  CrisisLine.  911.  He would have been better off calling any of those instead of that Madison.  If he waited, maybe he’d receive another order for barbecue.  Family.  Friends. 

No, he wanted an anonymous call, for that’s what he was now.  Rather, he was nonexistent.  He couldn’t even link to a chat room.  PanNet and Madison had set up the proof for his nonexistence.  He’d make it a theorem. 

He couldn’t get anymore anonymous than 1-800-HOTTEEZ.  And it was something he would never have done in the past. 

            “Trixie” sultrily answered his call.  Her name and fake Southern accent struck him as comical.  And her patter -- “Ah’ll be your intimate-needs counselor this evening” --  might have been written by PanNet’s public relations.  But he didn’t chuckle.  He was nervous, and embarrassed to be calling this place, that he had come to this.    

            Trixie understood all that and said it was normal for first-time users of the service.  And no one would know it was “little ole you talking to little ole me,” if that was bothering him.

“You can call back when you’re ready to commit,” Trixie suggested. 

“I’m ready now,” he said.

“Me too,” Trixie said.  “But don’t you think it would be a lot more intimate if you’d tell me your name?”

Anonymity be damned, he suddenly wanted her to know it was he, and where he was. 

“I like it in a car, Kylar,” Trixie said.  “There are so many positions you can assume.”

To his surprise, he became aroused, feeling the numbness leave his mind and spirit as his cheeks flushed with the conversation. 

            “Speaking of assuming,” Trixie breathed, “do you like role-playing?”

            He was about to respond, “Sure,” but several seconds of reflection triggered the opposite response.  “No!” he said vehemently.  “Not now.”

            “Okay, shug, okay,” Trixie placated him.  “It’ll just be you and I then.”

As they talked and became more personal, Kylar accelerated.  He whipped past the exit sign to Vistful Vue, the last standalone housing tract before the end of the Beltway, barreling past every car.

“I wish,” he gasped, “you were here.”

            “I am.”

            “I mean really here.”

            “But I really am there.  How ca-an I prove it?”

            He told her.    

            “Oh, I do like that,” Trixie said.  “Drive safely, hear?”

“Complete control.”

            “Oooh, master,” she cooed.

            “No, say my name,” he pleaded.

            “Kyyylar,” Trixie drawled.

            He stomped the accelerator, ignoring the frantic honking and flashing headlights behind him. 

            As he shot his car between a blur of orange-and-white striped DO NOT ENTER signs, the concrete barricade loomed for a millisecond before crushing him with an orgasmic shriek.

 

About the author

 Besides technical documentation, Rick’s fiction publications include short stories and one YA novel (CASCADES).  Journal experience: eight years as an associate editor at Bartleby Snopes; December 2023 - March 2025, associate editor at Fiction on the Web.  Most recently, “Shock Corridor,” went live at Maudlin House on July 30^th.

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Odd Todd

 

by Sandra Nguyen

absinthe

 

            Todd glanced at the ceiling. He had come to recognize the pair of dark eyes that stared at him, and the vile thoughts behind them. Last time he saw those eyes, they spoke to him, telling him to hurt Jim, his neighbor. The image of him holding the knife, forcing the sharp blade onto Jim's arm, and sliced it open, made him crumble on the inside. Todd never forgave himself for what he did. He never wanted to hurt Jim, or anyone, but the eyes would not leave him alone until he did what it asked for. After that incident Todd decided he needed help. He was a danger to others.

            Todd blamed the car accident, in which he sustained a brain injury. He started seeing things, and hearing things, that no one in his surrounding could see or hear. His life spiraled quickly downhill, and soon he earned the nickname Odd Todd when he told people he could see the shadow people, and that they constantly whispered to him. The shadow people reminded him of humanoid figure. Sometimes he could catch a glimpse of them out of the corner of his eyes. But most often, he only saw their eyes. Those things thrived on human suffering. They could attach themselves onto a vulnerable person, like a bloodsucking leech, and fed on their life energy. They would whisper into your ears – forcing you to do things against your will, planting seeds of lies and deception, casting shadows of despair, until you become cripple from the inside and out. They want to keep you in the dark and afraid. 

            This place was like a feast buffet for the shadow people and there was nothing Todd could do about it. He had his own battle, and was struggling losing the one lurking in the ceiling. All he could do was watching his peers slowly deteriorating as their life force diminished, losing their mind, and become a living puppet. Todd looked at miss Camilla, the young nurse he had come to like. He pressed himself against the wall, both hands on his head, trying to fight off the vile thought. He knew what the eyes wanted him to do. It painted him a very vivid and repulsive vision. A vision in which he could feel his strong hands gripping around Camilla's neck, draining her life essence as she struggled to breathe when he closed off her air pipe. Camilla turned around and gazed at him, her fingers nervously fumbling the cross-necklace, sensing his disturbing thought. Ashamed and angry at the thought of hurting Camilla, Todd made sure he was out of her sight.

            Big Danny entered the common room with a newcomer. Holly Hager was her name. She seemed so small standing next to him. She let Big Danny lead the way and seated her in the chair. Todd noticed she did not take her eyes off of the ceiling, shaking her head in protest, as if someone forced her to do something against her will. He asked Big Danny for a piece of paper and some crayons, and began drawing, using only black crayon to draw the eyes and the rest of the humanoid figure. He walked over to Holly when he finished the drawing. She didn't seem to pay him any attention, her eyes still locked on the ceiling. He put his drawing on the table and gently pushed the box of crayons closer to her. Holly stared at him, then picked out a single black crayon. She flipped the paper and started off with few soft streaks, then quickly sped up the pace. His eyes widened when he saw Jim in the drawing, fending off Todd from piercing his chest with a kitchen knife. Holly even drew the dark eyes next to him, whispering in his ears. She pointed to the ceiling and then pointed to the dark eyes in the drawing. Todd was aghast at the accuracy of the drawing, but how did she know?

            Miss Katie came into the room to gather her horde for recreational therapy class. It was Todd's favorite activity. He watched Holly, with a mixture of amusement and jealousy, smearing black crayon all over the white paper. He wished he had half of her talent. The drawing depicted Nellie Lindh surrounded by three pairs of dark eyes. Todd traced his finger along the painted tears that rolled down Nelly's cheek. He turned his head and caught Nelly smiling at him, and just like in the drawing, she was surrounded by three pairs of dark eyes. Holly pointed at the clock in the drawing, ten o'clock it said, and then counted down with her fingers – five, four, three, two, one. Todd wasn't sure what Holly tried to tell him, but it left him helpless and horrified. After class he turned in Holly's drawing to miss Katie. She was bewildered when he told her that they needed to keep an eye on Nellie at ten o'clock tonight.          

            That night, Todd dreaded falling asleep. He was afraid that if he fell asleep he wouldn't see Nellie again. Sweet Nellie who wouldn't hurt a fly. He listened impatiently for any sign of chaos, and then it happened. Someone called 'code blue', followed by footsteps and voices, but these did not belong to the night staff. He strained his ears to catch a sound, but he found himself sinking deeper and deeper in the abyss. The sleep medication was kicking in.

            The following day Todd was scheduled to see his therapist Mr. Bentzen. In his hand he held Holly's drawing.

            “Todd, I want to talk about the drawing you made in Miss Katie's class,” Mr. Bentzen started.

            “It's not my drawing,” Todd replied. “Holly drew it.”

            “Who's Holly?” Mr. Bentzen wondered. Todd started laughing hysterically. Was Mr. Bentzen blind? Holly sat next to him.

            “Holly Hager, of course. There's only one Holly in this room,” Todd answered.

            Mr. Bentzen froze at the mentioning of Holly Hager. He recalled the name vividly. Holly was one of his patients. She was a very special patient, didn't talk much, but used drawing as a mean of communication. Mr. Bentzen carefully examined the drawing again. How did he miss it? The drawing had Holly's signature all over it. She always drew with black crayon. And those eyes she drew, they always made his skin crawl whenever he looked at them. His eyes caught something at the bottom left corner - Holly's signature, H.H. It was barely visible, but it was there.  Mr. Bentzen scratched his head. He knew Todd was not artistic, but Miss Katie had insisted it was Todd who made the drawing in her class. He debated with himself, whether or not, he should tell Todd that Holly Hager had passed away five years ago.

            “Todd, miss Hager is no longer with us,” Mr. Bentzen decided it was best for Todd to hear the truth. 

            “I know,” Todd answered. “And neither is Nellie.” 

            Mr. Bentzen felt a sudden chill surrounding him. He jotted down in his notes 'Dr. Pinsky', and quickly wrapped up the conversation. He thought perhaps Dr. Pinsky could adjust Todd's medication, since his hallucinations had worsen the past few days. Before leaving the unit, Mr. Bentzen made a call to the hospital and asked for Nellie Lindh. His face had turned white as he listened to the voice on the other side of the telephone line.

            “Poor Mr. Bentzen, he just found out that Nellie is dead,” Holly said.

            “Should we tell him that he has one of those leeches following him?” Nellie wondered.

            “Nah, he wouldn't believe us,” Todd said. 

About the author 

Sandra Nguyen was born in Vietnam and raised in Sweden. She writes short stories and poetry. Her work has been featured in anthologies as well as in online publications. She lives and writes in Sweden. You can follow her writing journey here: https://www.thetopazjournal.com/ 

 

 

 

 

It'll Never Work

by Robert Ferguson

Absinthe

 “So I thought if I could just show you my design, you might be interested.”

          “I’m sure I would, but perhaps another…”

          “Well, its quite urgent, actually. You have so many candidates, and there’s already a backlog. Let me just show you…”. He spread his large sheet of paper across the documents on the other’s desk.

          “Yes, but…”

          “Now, you see how simple the design is. It can be knocked up quickly, from minimal materials, anywhere and everywhere you needed one. The main thing is a good, sharp blade, forged to fit these twin supports, and the other thing you need is grease, to make sure it slides cleanly in its run.”

          “I’m sorry, but I really must insist that you remove…”

          “Well exactly, you have to remove the remnants after each operation, but that’s easy enough with my design. There’s a basket here at this end, and the labourers simply slide the raw material onto this trough here before the machine is operated, and then slide the

 remainder out again into the cart from which it came. Just a matter of seconds per operation, you see.”                                 

          “No, no, M. Guillotine, I’m sorry, it’ll never work.”

About the Author

Robert has previously contributed a number of short stories to CafeLit, in addition to publishing “Late Starter”, a volume of poetry, and other poems in 2018 numbers of “The Cannon’s Mouth”. He is the winner of the Solihull Writers’ Workshop Poetry Competition 2018.

The Artist Returns

Janet Bunce

absinthe

Candice unlocks the door to her new home and rushes to the cellar – soon to be her studio.

She was drawn to it and cannot wait to begin its transformation. Eagerly she opens a crate left behind by the previous owner. Sepia photos wrapped in a 100-year-old newspaper fall out.

Excitedly she examines each one in turn.

The backdrop clearly is the cellar where she now stands.

In the foreground a slim girl poses for a portrait.

Only the model is seen in the first few photos.

The next one captures the smiling artist. She gasps, 'its me!’

  

About the Author

Janet lives in Essex and enjoys writing. She loves writing short pieces but really hopes to progress to something longer soon!

Advent Day Three

Advent Day Three

December 03 2015

Janet Bunce

The Artist Returns

Absinthe

Candice unlocks the door to her new home and rushes to the cellar – soon to be her studio.

She was drawn to it and cannot wait to begin its transformation. Eagerly she opens a crate left behind by the previous owner. Sepia photos wrapped in a 100-year-old newspaper fall out.

Excitedly she examines each one in turn.

The backdrop clearly is the cellar where she now stands.

In the foreground a slim girl poses for a portrait.

Only the model is seen in the first few photos.

The next one captures the smiling artist. She gasps, 'its me!’

  

About the Author

Janet lives in Essex and enjoys writing. She loves writing short pieces but really hopes to progress to something longer soon!

Published December 03 2015

Astral

Astral

Ginny Ratcliffe

Absinthe

The first moments of dawn brought with it a breeze strong enough to shunt a passing seagull off course, its outstretched wings blending in with the final few moments of a pinkish moon. The bird made towards land, its reflection gliding across the sea, rippling, following.

***

The screeching of brake pads pressing against hot rubber filled the morning air as a Ford Escort M1, that had seen better days, came to an abrupt halt at the edge of a cliff.

               Renee wasn't sure what to do now she'd come this far. She was still getting her mind round why she was here in the first place. The sun was threatening to rise and she rolled the window down to take in the sea air. She spent a few moments, breathing in, out, and mentally engineering a ploy to destroy the solar system, if only it meant she could just rest her eyes. Just a bit of peace, a minute for her mind to... be. A little stolen time.

               Instead, she reached for the glove compartment and pulled out her sunglasses, hooking them on her t-shirt. Life was all about making do, right? Plus, she figured, you can't go wrong in Ray-bans. And if you did, well; at least you'd be a suave looking mistake.

               She paused for a moment, tracing her finger down the pile of tapes that were stacked by the gear stick. Her memory threw weak grappling hooks to thoughts of better days. She contemplated the weirdness … no, the strength of the mind, of how one song can transport you back in time.

She shut her eyes and felt green grass around her toes. Her bitten nail came to a halt on a particular cassette, her eyelids rose, and she remembered.

Back in the day it was all fields and making out, summer fayres and alcohol – decks, sex and electro. She missed the high pitched twangs of the top E, skittering around her ears like electric mosquito's in the breeze. She longed for the hot, wet summer days climbing over rocks in streams, sleeping under trees and walking home barefoot covered in pollen, the soles of her feet black with dirt and bruises. She still had the odd scar, and looked upon them as old friends. Scattered remnants of better days, a bloody map of teenage adventures, silvery lines of a life long since lost, but not forgotten.

Renee removed the keys from their leather and steel encasing, turned up the radio, and exited the car. The sun was casting long shadows across bits of battered tarmac, catching itself in nooks and pebbles, leaving parts of itself behind on its long stretch to the bottom of the cliff.

               As the door swung shut, she glanced at her other self in the wing mirror. Ivory skin, freckles dotting around her face and straying over the lines of her lip, long auburn ringlets wrapped around each other in some eternal tangle that she'd never quite been able to tame. Turquoise eyes peered out of their reflective prison, golden flecks tinting them green in one continuous circular wave, like spilled champagne on the surf.

               She dragged her trainers on the walk to the boot, scuffing lines into the dirt, contemplating, as she lifted the door.

Removing the sunglasses from her t-shirt, she brushed away an auburn ringlet and placed them over the docile green eyes of the limp, crumpled body in front of her. A pale, almost opaque arm lay over its chest. Renee's eyebrows faltered as she leaned over and gazed upon a girl she once knew, so well. A tear escaped her eye and trailed down her cheek, landing on the girls face, from one freckled maze to another. The reflection in the Ray-Bans was of someone she didn't particular know any more. She bent down and pulled the laces from her boots, held them up to trail in the breeze, then swung her leg backwards, forwards, and kicked off her shoes, straight over the edge of the cliff.

               The sun was almost fully risen as Renee walked around to the front of the car, sat inside, turned up the radio and released the handbrake.

***

The seagull lifted his head out of the foaming water, a small black fish in his mouth as a great metal lump came plummeting towards the rocks. Pushing his feet off the wet sand, he flew to a higher distance and in the process, dropped his dinner. The fish fell through the air and straight into the birds watery reflection, causing the wings to part in obscure circular ripples.

               Footprint marks trailed up the beach, followed by various metallic nuts and bolts, and the gull watched as a bare, bloody foot disappeared behind a rock; then turned back to his now peaceful reflection.

Author Bio

Ginny Ratcliffe is a 21-year-old Creative Writing student from Yorkshire, i.e. that place that looks a bit like The Shire but with less hobbits. She can often be found in dark corners and/or record shops questioning reality, or attempting to show her friends how she can psychically guess the contents of a Kinder Egg without even opening it.

She enjoys writing prose and screen plays, and has a slightly unhealthy obsession with Hacker the Dog off CBBC. Her favourite authors are the whimsical masterminds Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.