THE WICKED MOTHER-IN-LAW ISN'T ALWAYS A MYTH by Lilia Mahfouz, champagne

 

 

One Christmas Day, we had my mother-in-law over for lunch. She had been divorced twice. She taught French. Perhaps as an occupational hazard, she couldn't resist correcting people, quoting authors, or criticizing anything she didn't understand. She fancied herself a great intellectual.

After the traditional chocolate Yule log, it was time to exchange presents. Ray and I had bought her the latest novel by one of her favorite authors. A bookseller had wrapped it carefully in beautiful red paper decorated with silver stars.

My mother-in-law handed each of us a gift.

Ray opened his first. Inside was a pair of blue cotton pajamas by Le Slip Français. We avoided looking at each other. He thanked her politely.

Mine contained about a dozen kitchen towels. They were colorful, patterned with flowers, birds, and sea creatures. I genuinely loved them. I thanked her warmly, telling her the gift couldn't have come at a better time because I had been meaning to buy new kitchen towels.

My mother-in-law's face froze in surprise. A few seconds passed. At last, her lips tightening with irritation, she murmured,

"That was just a joke! That's not your real present!"

She placed a second package in front of me. It was smaller, wrapped in rather ugly gift paper, with layers of tape piled over one end. With a gesture, she urged me to open it.

Once again, I told her how pleased I was with the towels and that they would have been more than enough. Without blinking, she motioned for me to open the package.

Beneath the cheap wrapping paper, I found a plain white cardboard box with no markings. The flap was torn. Inside was a bottle of Yves Rocher perfume called Comme une Évidence. It was only three-quarters full.

Ray shot me an incredulous look. I couldn't think of anything to say except,

"Did you notice the box was torn?"

My mother-in-law answered immediately.

"Oh, that's not the original box. I bought it at the market. The man just gave me whatever he had!"

Silence settled over the room. She had bought the perfume from one of those market bins filled with old bottles—display testers and sample bottles.

I looked at my mother-in-law for a long moment before finally thanking her. Then I smiled at her. Mostly because Ray had never worn pajamas.

aboutthe th auhtor 

 

 

Lilia Mahfouz is a French author based in Paris. A laureate of the Society of Dramatic Authors and Composers Writing Prize, her fiction has appeared in French literary journals, as well as in a wide range of American and British literary magazines. 

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Dante Writers’ Circle by Paula R C Readman, a glass or two of Champagne

“Hello everyone, please welcome Denise Kane to our group,” announced Tabatha Hargrave, the co-founder of the Dante Writers’ Circle, in the echoing village hall in Temple End on a chilly spring evening. “Let me introduce you to everyone,” she continued, gesturing wildly as the group members settled into their usual seats. “Oh, where is Lawrence?”

The eight members exchanged glances and shook their heads, each hoping someone else would speak up.

Tabatha gave Denise a half-smile. “Never mind, I’m sure you’ll meet him later.” She turned to the group. “Right, I’ll get started without him. Even though we are a small group, we all get along well and are happy to support and help one another, don’t we gang?” Tabatha said enthusiastically.

The group smiled half-heartedly and gave slight nods before returning to their whispered conversations. Denise felt her enthusiasm about joining the group fade. She had joined on her aunt’s advice. A terrible car crash while working aboard had left her unable to support herself. At her aunt’s suggestion, she moving in to live with her in Temple End and now fully recovered she was ready to meet new people.

“You can sit here.” Tabatha said, pointing to a chair next to a woman dressed in a long gipsy-style dress and a large, chunky, red plastic beaded necklace that matched her bright red, unnaturally dyed hair. “This is Miranda Murdock who writes poetry and has had many of her poems published.”

Miranda smiled broadly, extended her hand, and said for all to hear, “More than most here have been published. Nice to meet you.”

“Yes, you have, but we don’t want to discourage others,” Tabatha replied, then turned her attention to the white-haired man dressed in a dark grey tweed suit, who sat next to Miranda. “Denise, let me introduce you to Fabian Pritchard, who writes Wild West stories.”

“I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Kane,” Fabian said.

“It’s Miss Kane, but please call me Dee,” she corrected him gently.

“Oh, right, Dee it is. I’m so pleased to finally have fresh blood in the group. How long have you been writing?” he asked.

“Seriously for about two years. I recently had an article published in a magazine, and my aunt suggested I should join a writing group.”

“What made you take up writing?” Miranda asked as Tabatha returned to her seat at the head of the table and pulled a folder out of her bag.

“Well, a combination of two events really: I had to take early retirement due to a long recovery from an accident.”

“Oh dear,” Miranda replied, but there was no trace of empathy in her voice as she pulled a notebook out of her bag. “I have some new poems to read out this evening.”

“It must have been a serious accident. Are you fully recovered now?” Tabatha called over her shoulder.

“Are any of your Wild West books available in print, Fabian?” Dee asked, changing the subject to avoid the attention. Tabatha was now in conversation with another member of the group.  

“I’m not writing Westerns anymore.” Fabian said through narrowing lips. “I’m now working on my second novel based on my undercover work in the Far East.”

“Wow, where can I buy a copy of your first book? I’d love to read it,” Dee said.

“Uh, it’s with my agent at the moment.” He coughed and turned to Miranda. “Any news on your book?”

The banging of the outer door heralded the arrival of another member, causing everyone to turn towards the entrance. A tall, thin woman dressed in baggy jeans and a suit jacket, with short-cropped grey hair, entered and unceremoniously dumped a large bag on a table.

“Hello, comrades!” Ruth’s bright and cheerful voice echoed around the hall. “At last, I’ve done it. I’m in print.” She pulled a magazine out of her bag and held it up like a magician presenting a rabbit. 

The room fell silent until Dee spoke up. “Congratulations! How exciting!”  

Ruth turned to Dee and said, “Thank you. I’m Ruth Honeywell, and you are?”

“I’m Dee. It’s my first time here.”

“Oh, Ruth,” Tabatha called from the other side of the room. “Have you see Lawrence?”

“Yes, he was just pulling in the car park behind me. When I got out of my car, he was still looking for a place to park. He’s not normally this late.”

“Damn nuisance that he’s late today! I’ve some exciting news to share with you all. Are you ready to get started?” Tabatha said. A ripple of excitement spread among the members, who were milling around chatting, causing them to return to their seats and pull out their notebooks and pens, eager to hear the news.

In the far corner of the room, a door opened, and a plump, middle-aged woman entered carrying a tea tray. She resembled the singer Dolly Parton, with her dyed blonde hair piled high on her head, bright red rouge cheeks, and matching red lipstick. However, unlike the singer, Agnes had a somewhat clownish appearance dressed in ill-fitting, dowdy clothes that even a charity shop would have rejected. The woman banged the tray down in front of Tabatha, spilling some of the contents onto a folder lying there.

“Please be more careful, Agnes,” Tabatha snapped, lifting the folder away from the spilt drinks and wiping it clean before passing the drinks around.

Agnes nodded, and with a bright smile, disappeared back through the door, only to reappear moments later with a tray of cakes.

Miranda whispered to Dee, “That’s Agnes. She's one of the founders of the writing group, but she never gets involved with the writing— just makes the drinks and brings in homemade cakes.”

“Thank you so much, Agnes,” Tabatha said, as the tray was set before her. “The cakes look delicious as always.”

Dee studied Agnes closely as she took her seat, pulled some knitting from a bag, untangled the needles from the yarn, and began to knit. Agnes smiled, aware that Dee was watching her, and waved the rainbow-coloured jumper she was working on in Dee’s direction.

Fabian, sitting next to Dee, leaned closer and whispered behind his hand, “For the life of me, I have no idea why she comes. All she does is knit: I’m sure she’s been working on that same jumper for years.”

“Maybe she enjoys the company,” Dee suggested, taking a sip of her drink.

“That may be true. She does live alone in a big, old house,” Fabian replied after replacing his cup.

“Doesn’t she have any family?” Miranda asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe Tabatha knows. It’s funny; after knowing her all these years, I really don’t know her that well. She keeps to herself,” Fabian muttered.  

 “Are you all right, love?” Miranda called to Agnes sarcastically as the clicking of the knitting needles filled the silence. “How’s the jumper coming on? Will it be as nice as the one you are wearing?

Agnes smiled and nodded. The multi-coloured, faded jumper hugged her ample bosom, making it look as though it had shrunk in the wash. Miranda shook her head in disgust and turned back to the group.

“What is taking Lawrence so long?” Babs said to no one in particular as she opened her notebook. “I wanted his input on a new idea for the book I’m working on—”

 “Sorry to interrupt,” Tabatha said, “but I’ve something amazing to share with you all as soon as Lawrence arrives. It is about our annual outing. We have been invited—”

The door crashing open cut Tabatha off mid-sentence, as a tall, strong-jawed silver fox entered. “That bloody car park! I wish we could meet elsewhere. This place doesn’t help my creativity; I’m always worrying about whether I’ll be able to find parking.” After hanging his jacket on the back of his chair, he sat down and tugged a notebook out of his pocket. “Hello, a new face, and a young one at that.” A beaming smile lit up his face. “Hello, I’m Lawrence.”

“This is Dee,” Tabatha said.

Dee nodded in Lawrence’s direction.

“A pleasure to meet you, Dee,” Lawrence replied with a wink.

“If I may start,” Tabatha said, struggling to keep her annoyance out of her voice.

“Please, carry on.” Lawrence said and leaned back in his chair.

“To begin with, Lawrence,” Tabatha said, her eyes narrowing, “If you arrived early, you wouldn’t have a problem parking. We meet here because it is the most affordable hall available in the village. “Would you like to start the evening off by updating us on your publishing news, especially your book?"

Lawrence muttered something before meeting everyone’s stare. “I was late because I was on Facetime with my agent. He explained that he could secure a much better deal for my book, which is why it is taking longer than expected. What were you saying about our annual outing when I arrived?” Lawrence said, changing the subject. “I hope we’re not visiting another art gallery. If I see one more, I’m leaving this group.”

“I thought the experience would give us a spark of inspiration— Oh, never mind.” Tabatha stood to address the group. “Now, my fellow writers, as your chairperson, I’m pleased to announce to everyone—”

"For goodness’ sake, get on with it, Tabs! I could have written another book by now.” Lawrence interrupted.

Tabatha sat down; all of her excitement vanished. “What I’ve been trying to tell you is that we’ve received invitations to the International Writers’ Guild Awards evening next week.”

“We have! How is that possible? You can’t just show up there; it’s by invitation-only and they’re only sent out to—” Miranda stopped mid-sentence as Tabatha pulled the tickets from her bag.

Lawrence’s jaw dropped as if he had just discovered he actually did have an agent. He took the gold-edged card with his name on it from Tabatha and read aloud. “Prestige invitation.”

“How do they know about us?” Fabian asked, turning his card over. “Is it for real?”

“For goodness sake, Fabian, don’t knock it! At last, we have something good to post on our website. It will be great to mingle with real writers and agents. Oh my, I might find a publisher!” Miranda exclaimed.

“But I thought you had a publisher for your book, Miranda,” Babs said.

“You’re so naive. I’m self-published. Many self-published authors eventually get picked up by big publishers.”

“Oh, so you’re no better than the rest of us.” Fabian narrowed his eyes and waved the card about. “It could be fake and I don’t want to arrive there only to be turned away because someone though it would be a bit of a laugh.”

“Fabian, you’re a cynic.” Babs sighed.

“When I worked undercover in—”

“Oh, please spare us! I’m going. It’s about time I mixed with some real writers instead of a bunch of amateurs.” Miranda replied tartly.

Tabatha coughed. “Now then, there’s no need to be rude. We’ll all go. Transport has been arranged for us as well.

“I agree with Tabatha,” Babs said, “They look real to me. How many invitations are there?”

“Enough for us all.”

All eyes turned on to Agnes, who sat quietly knitting. The soft clicking of the needles was the only sound she made as she completed another row on the long-awaited new jumper. No one ever questioned why it was taking her so long to complete it.

Lawrence swung back around in his chair. “My God,” he whispered, lowering his voice further. “She’s not coming, is she? I mean, there will be some important people from the literary world at these awards.”

Tabatha lowered her head. “Why shouldn’t she come with us? Agnes comes to every meeting; She’s always on time and never cancels.” Sarcasm edged her voice as she glared Lawrence.

“Yes, but every card has our names on them, except one.Agnes isn’t included.” Lawrence pointed out.

“She doesn’t write, just sits bloody knitting,” Fabian snarled.

“Now, my old fellow, Tabatha is right. You know.” Lawrence smiled over to Agnes, who returned his grin. “She does make us drinks and excellent homemade cakes all year.”

Fabian tutted in disgust.

Miranda spoke softly. “Well, if anyone is interested, I think Dee should come with us as our guest.”

“But I’ve only just joined,” Dee said and smiled weakly at Agnes, who winked back at her.

“Yes, I absolutely agree with you, Miranda. Dee should come with us; it would help her with her writing.” Fabian said with a broad smile.

“Well, that’s a first—Fabian, you agreeing with me.” Lawrence remarked, and then continued, “The evening will be more beneficial to Dee than to Agnes. I expect she would only want to take her knitting with her.”

 

On the evening of the event, they climbed excitedly into the stretched limo in their fine evening clothes. As the limo glided through the evening streets, they all sipped the champagne on offer. Lawrence laughed. “This is just how I imagined my writing career to be: fine clothes, wine and—”

“Women!” Fabian finished with a laugh.

“I’m sad Agnes isn’t here too,” Babs said, “She would have loved the glamour of the evening.”

“How do you know that?” Tabatha asked.

“I don’t know. There’s always been something about our Agnes that I could never quite put my finger on.”

At their destination, The Dante Writers group found themselves seated at the front of the proceedings, surrounded by the literary greats. Once the diners finished their meals, the lights dimmed, while the stage lights brightened. The presenter approached to the podium and announced that the international mystery novelist, Agatha Chase — known for her fifty-bestselling novels— would start the evening off by presenting the awards to the winners of each category.

The audience erupted in applause and began to stand as an elegantly woman with golden auburn hair, delicate make-up and dressed in a blue silk gown floated onto the stage and took her place on the podium.

“Thank you, everyone, for recognising my achievement. I would like to extend a big thank you to the many fans of my books and my heroine, Agnes Shepherd— the avid knitter and private investigator. I would also like express my gratitude to a special writing group, The Dante Writers. I’m so glad you could all make it this evening. You have all inspired me over the years.”

The Dante Writers’ group turned to each other as an usher laid a multi-coloured jumper before them.

“But, I don’t understand,” Miranda said, pointing at the jumper. “It can’t be— Isn’t that’s our Agnes’s -  the one she was knitting. 

“Oh no, she’ not here, is she?” Fabian said, finding his voice.

“Agatha Chase is my aunt,” Dee said, with a bright smile. “I guess you didn't know she was a published author?

“No! What, our Agnes is actually the international mystery novelist, Agatha Chase!” the Dante Writers exclaimed in unison, finally agreeing for once.

“Oh yes, Dee said, “she explained to me that her success came from truly listening to others, and understanding her characters."

“So all the time she was coming to the group, she was listening to our conversations,” Tabatha said with a sigh.

About the author

 Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer who has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives with her husband, Russell, in a Garden Village in Essex. Just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up. 

 

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Dinner parties by Jane Spirit, a glass of chianti, St-Emilion or champagne

Anna sometimes wondered why she’d always treated Martin and Sarah with such deference. Whenever they’d invited her to one of their dinner-parties she’d always cancelled her plans to be there and paid for other people to look after her mother and for the journey to London. The events themselves had often seemed to be a bit of an anticlimax. She usually stayed in her school friend’s little flat at the end of the central line from which it was a long but convenient journey to Martin and Susan’s duplex apartment in Notting Hill. Afterwards, during the long tube ride back to Woodford, she always found herself going over the evening in her mind and worrying about the impression she had made on the other guests. They tended to be either wealthy entrepreneurs who were associates of Sarah, or artsy cinematographers who Martin knew through his work as a director. Of course, these people were polite to her, but she always felt that she bored them. Also, whilst she’d never actually lied during conversations over rustic Italian dishes served with a good chianti, Anna was conscious that she had let the others assume wrongly that she was a successful businesswoman.

 She didn’t in fact own the clothes shop where she worked. She would have loved to, but after university, where she’d met the charismatic Martin and the serious Sarah, she’d gone back home to live with her parents so that she could carry on with her textile art. After her father died suddenly and her mother began to act erratically, she’d managed to obtain a part-time role at a family friend’s dress shop, ‘Fine and Dandy’. From there she had segued almost seamlessly into being her mother’s carer. After university, Martin and Sarah had moved to London separately and built up their careers in finance and film - making quite independently, before meeting again, moving in together and eventually marrying. Perhaps it was a sentimental gesture on their part, but they seemed to like to keep in touch with Anna. She sometimes thought they regarded her as a kind of talisman, connecting them back to their younger days when Martin was still enthused by all things cinematic, and Sarah was determined to pursue her dream of financial independence. They never seemed that curious about how her life had turned out. She wondered sometimes whether they even remembered how brightly she had once dressed as an art student, or her eye for colour and design?

Sarah and Martin had never shown any interest in visiting the midlands town where Anna lived. She’d never invited them there either, of course. She did not want them poking around in the small world she had created for herself and passing judgement on its inadequacies. This meant that she was puzzled as well as surprised when Sarah messaged her to say that they would be coming to Fernham and would love to see her whilst they were in town. Deconstructing the message, Anne was acutely aware that Sarah had not suggested she came to dinner with them at their hotel. She felt obliged to invite them to her flat for a meal and Sarah accepted with alacrity.

For several weeks before their visit, Anna mulled over what kind of food to cook before deciding to play it safe with a French style casserole and crème brulé. Then she chewed over the question of who else, if anyone, to invite. Her table only had comfortable seating space for four people. Inevitably, her thoughts turned towards the new man in her life, Nigel. She had met him first when he came to talk about funeral planning at the care home where her mother had spent her last few months. Their paths had crossed again at the wedding of a mutual friend, and then he had turned up at her choir and she had been struck again by his youthful physique and by his kind eyes. They had been going out with some of the other singers for a meal or a drink after rehearsals for the last few months. Yes, he would be a good choice as a foil to Sarah and Martin: a businessman, though artistic in his love of baroque music. He was also gentle and stoic, perhaps partly because of his work. If she was completely honest, she was curious to see how her old friends might react when they asked him what he did for a living and he told them that he was an undertaker.

Nigel had seemed pleased to be invited. He was already there and chatting to Anna at the kitchen counter when Sarah and Martin arrived with champagne to go with the desert. Despite her slight nervousness, Anna enjoyed giving them a brief tour of her flat. It might have been small, but she knew that its vibrancy reflected her love of colour. She had hand made the soft furnishings to incorporate motifs that reflected her personality. Embroidered musical notes played their way across the curved patches of ruby red and emerald- green felts she’d sewn on to creamy textiles. She felt relaxed and, in her element, now, wearing the charity shop green beaded necklace and bulbous red earrings which she remembered Martin admiring so much in their university days. Sarah seemed genuinely appreciative, if a little distracted, whilst Martin did not seem to notice her jewellery. He quickly insisted on popping out to the local shop to buy an extra bottle of wine to complement the beef they would be eating. Nigel, affable as ever, agreed to go with him to show him the way.

As she turned from the door after seeing them off, Anna noticed that Sarah was crying. Shocked, she found herself instinctively putting an arm round the friend she had always found rather prickly and private and asking her to tell her what the matter was. Sarah confided that Martin, for all his apparent bonhomie, had begun to treat her unkindly. Nowadays, he watched Sarah’s every move and was constantly critical of her behaviour. He was particularly resentful of the long hours she spent working to ensure their comfortable lifestyle. That was why Sarah had suggested a trip to see Anna and to get them away from the pressures of their London life for a weekend. Aware that Martin and Nigel would soon be back, Anna reassured Sarah as much as she could. The two women were standing together at the work surface, chopping herbs and arranging olives in a bowl when the men returned carrying a classy St-Emilion.

Things began calmly with the meal. The food was delicious, and they stayed on sure ground with the conversation, reminiscing to Nigel about bands they had been to see at university. Anna even allowed herself a moment of quiet pride about how well the evening was going, despite Sarah’s concerns about Martin. It was just at that moment that Martin’s mood seemed to pivot. He leaned forward to top up his wine and told Anna in a quiet voice that the necklace and earrings still looked great, but that she didn’t. After all, hadn’t she wasted her life in this shitty little no man’s land of a town?

It took Anna a moment to react to what he had said. She did not feel embarrassed, only angry. She too spoke in a quiet voice. How dare he pass judgement on her? Who was he to tell her she was a failure when she, at least, was still content with her life? She heard Sarah agreeing with her whilst Nigel, still quiet, took her hand and squeezed it in support.

Now Martin was on his feet and laughing at all of them.

 ‘That’s so funny coming from you bunch of losers.’

 He was almost shouting now as he gesticulated.

 ‘Look at the three of you! Underachieving Anna the failed artist, my wife the obsessive, possessive work addict. Oo and then look at who has joined us. The clown, “Nice Nigel” the small-town undertaker … Oh yes Nigel and I have had quite a chat about that whilst we were out.’ Martin paused as if for dramatic effect. Then he turned, grabbed his jacket and left, slamming the door behind him.

In the silence that followed, Anna noticed that Nigel had placed his other hand on Sarah’s. Anna reached across the table to do the same. They sat there, companionably, for a few moments, Anna noting Nigel’s calm and Sarah’s vulnerability. Then they opened the champagne and toasted, ‘Friendship and the Future’. Even so they would have been surprised to know that in a year’s time all three of them would still be together in Middleham. Nigel and Anna would be living together; Anna and Sarah would be the joint owners of ‘Fine and Dandy’ where Anna worked and Sarah lived in some style above the shop. She’d quit her job in the city.

Martin, in the meantime had also moved on. He’d jettisoned the idea he’d been developing which had focussed on a group of forty something friends meeting up in a nondescript midlands’ town. It was rumoured that his new project would follow the fortunes of a middle-aged film director as he tried to create a homage to magical realism amongst the Mayan remains of Mexico. Word also had it that the results would not chime well with a younger audience. The film could never be the success he’d anticipated.

About the author

  

Jane Spirit lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK and has been inspired to write fiction by going along to her local creative writing class.

Hard Rubbish by Peter Lingard, a glass of champagne

Ramona meant to walk through the court, across the vacant plot and into the park.  However, piles of hard rubbish awaiting collection caught her eye.  There was an old peddle car showing rust undoubtedly accumulated in a garden shed.  She felt for the mother who must have resisted ejection for as long as was practically possible.  Had the boy left home and his parents had a clean-out of his no-longer treasured childhood possessions?  What was that expression?  Something to do with becoming a man and putting aside childish things.  Perhaps. 

She moved on and saw an old, heavy computer and its equally heavy monitor.  She remembered when monitors had been called a visual display units.  Who thinks these things up?  There was a bedside table.  Didn’t they come in pairs?  Where was the other one?  Had somebody come by, taken one and rejected the other?  Why?  Maybe there wasn’t enough room in the car?  Are they going return for this second, matching piece?  Was that a pogo-stick?  How long’s it been since she saw one of those?  Do kids have pogo-sticks today?  She hadn’t seen one in a long while.

            On the next nature strip stood a brown leather settee.  Are they still called settees?  Couch, sofa, lounger?  The colour had changed.  Colours. She saw many different colours, some light, some dark - several shades of dark.  The arms were the darkest, well, the tops of the backrest were dark too.  How many people had rested their heads against it?  It was a lot like the one she and Juan had had at the start.  They’d picked it up from the street.  They’d been starting out and couldn’t afford much furniture.  They’d planned to replace it once they had the money, but they’d never got round to it. They had made love on it that first night.  She felt a tinge of excitement in recalling the event.  She had found the raised edges of the seat cushions too uncomfortable and had thrown them onto the floor. 

            Afterwards, she’d been convinced that they’d conceived a child and had told Juan.  He’d laughed and asked how she could possibly know that.  They’d picked up the cushions and had been about to replace them when they found a penny lying on the settee’s seat.  Juan had said it must be an omen and if they had a baby girl as a result of that night’s loving, they’d call her Penny.

            They hadn’t got rid of the settee until Penny moved to Adelaide with her husband and Juan had helped pack the settee into the U-Haul along with the newlywed’s meagre possessions.

            She circled the nature strip, inspecting the piece, irrationally wondering if there might be some remembered mark.  But her settee was in Adelaide wasn’t it?  She smiled at her foolishness as she headed to the park.

About the author

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Floating by Leonie Jarrett, a celebratory champagne

I close my eyes in the darkness, garnering courage. Opening my eyes, I realise that we have left the ground. As if in slow motion, we are slowly ascending.

There is silence but for the bursts of propane gas and the clicking of cameras.

Terrified of heights, I am nervous to look down but the gentleness of our ascent tempts me. The ground moves further and further away. I count more than fifty hot air balloons but there are plenty more still on the ground, waiting to join us in the air.

The inky blackness is lightening minute by minute as the warm, golden rays of the sun start to fill the sky.

We float over the town of Göreme, still sleeping but for the holidayers who have woken pre-Dawn to watch the balloon show overhead.

We float over fairy chimneys and former cave houses.

We float.

There is still silence but for the bursts of propane gas and the click of smartphones and cameras.

Silence is probably not the right term – silent awe is better I think.

Silent awe at the skill of the hot air balloon pilots. I lose count now at over one hundred balloons in the air together. We are flying so closely together that only pilot skill is keeping us all safe.

Silent awe at the serenity of floating so smoothly. There is no turbulence; no jolting; just floating.

Silent awe at the beauty of what lies beneath us but also at what lies around us. Hot air balloons form a patchwork of all different colours and patterns, all flying at differing heights. A kaleidoscope of colour set against the changing hues of the sky as a new day begins.

My trepidation vanished in the first few moments of flight. I imprint in my memory this scene of vibrant colour and this feeling of tranquil floating.

This is what travel and, indeed, life is about – those moments that remain with us forever.

About the author

 

 

Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than three decades, two of her four adult children and her two Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

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Sunday Serial: 240 x 70, 30. Just Two Days 21 February by Gill James, champagne,

Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 240 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

30. Just Two Days 21 February 

 

"I'll be blunt. You have just two days' worth of oxygen left. We're truly sorry." The commander's face was grey and he was frowning slightly.

"Thanks for letting me know.” This sort of end had always been on the cards. They were prepared.  That was why his salary was so high and his pension would carry on at exactly the same rate. At least Susie and the kids would be fine.

"Make yourself really comfortable. Shall we keep in touch?"

Brad shook his head. "No, it would just be a reminder."

"Al right. Call us up if you need anything. And we suggest instigating protocol 500 in thirty-six hours."

"Will do."

 

The vintage champagne had been supplied for when the centre was fully open.  Well, that wasn't going to happen now. After three quarters of the bottle he began to feel a little light-headed. Bets get something to eat.

The smoked salmon and caviar was just right.

He watched his favourite old films noir: The Wolf Man, Le Corbeau and Arsenic and Old Lace.

He wrote a long letter to Susie and slightly shorter ones to Beth and Sam.

Thirty-three hours passed really quickly. He looked at the instructions for protocol 500. He would just have to attach the tube to the permacanula. They suggested then lying down and listening to music of his choice. Simple enough really. He had a play list of soothing classics. That would do nicely.

He broke open the sterile packaging and was just about to insert the tube when the communicator buzzed.  The commander again.  "Hold fire, Jackson. We've rectified the fault and your oxygen supply will be back to normal in two hours."    

About the author   

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown.  

She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation.

She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.    

http://www.gilljameswriter.com  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE

https://twitter.com/GillJames

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