A Hunting He Will Go by Fleur Lind, spider coke,

A Hunting He Will Go

 

For Pete’s sake, how much longer must I wait?? Harold muttered exasperatedly.  This was not the plan at all. I was meandering about the house, doing my hunting and gathering thing to share with the clan, and now I’m going to be late for lunch!

Harold’s thoughts ran away with him as he considered his options, of which none existed.

There is no way around or out of this mess. ‘I’m stuck. I’m cornered.’

As question marks bumped into exclamation marks in a caricature fashion, and swam in a haphazard orbit around his head, he heard the continuing, gesticulating conversation taking place on speakerphone out on the back patio.

She’s still jawing away, flapping those lips. The last time her sister called, she clocked up over an hour.  At least she replaced the batteries in the wall clock in the kitchen. I can now keep track of the day. 

 

The conversation rambled along like tumbleweed, ”I know, Fran, I know.  That’s what I said, too.  But It’s not my call to make, she’s got to make her own mistakes, I guess.”

“It’s not the end of the world, Martha, but it’s not a great start either, is it?”

I have no idea what they are on about, nor do I care.  What bothers me, there is no way out of this corner I am in.  Why didn’t she use fast-drying paint? How long will it take to dry? There’s no way I’m walking across it, I’ll get stuck -  and that will be that.

 

Harold thought he had time to get across to the breakfast bar before her paint roller got too close to him, but when Martha is on a mission, there’s no holding her back

Worst still, she’s wearing that darn green bandana so nothing is going to get in her way…except her sister with fresh gossip. So she took the call and settled on the lounger out on the patio. Meanwhile, the roller dries up and I’m left waiting.  So very inconsiderate!

Inconsiderations aside, Harold was still wondering how he was going to get down from his spot. It was going to become very tiresome indeed in his current position beside the light shade covered with fly poo. That’ll be the next thing, she’ll take all the light coverings down and wash or buy flash new ones.  The new paint will show up the dust and whatever else.

 

As Harold contemplated the complexities of this moment and life in general, there was a shift in gear out on the patio.

“Okay, Fran, you call me.  I’m painting the ceiling so I had better make a move. Let me know how you get on.”

“Okay, Martha. You haven’t got ideal weather for painting, this rain is meant to set in.”

Well, you know, when the mood hits me, it’s hard to dampen the fire in my belly.’

“True, take some anti-acids, that’s  good for heartburn, but nothing generally stops you when your mind is set.’

“Yup. You know it! Talk soon! Bye.’

Martha sighed, getting out of the lounger, ‘Now… where was I? I’ll finish that patch, and that’s the job done! She glanced at her phone as she entered the kitchen, ‘Darn it, one bar left. I better charge it up before she rings back.’

Harold sighed. Any time today would be nice…

 

Martha examined the roller, which was a little crusty to the touch with drying paint. ‘Darn it, but it’s not worth starting with a new roller for that last little bit…’

As she looked up to see where she had left off, Harold held his breath.

Martha, almost cross-eyed, peered through a splotch of paint on the left lens of her glasses. It impaired her vision somewhat, hence she had not noticed Harold thus far.

 

‘What’s that?’ She squinted, knowing it was futile to remove her glasses for a better examination of the large dark round shape on the ceiling, her glasses aided her vision, so removal was inviting a complete blur.

‘I hope it’s not mould…’ she muttered to herself.

 

Don’t roll that wet sticky crusty roller over me, for goodness sake! Harold said a prayer as his life flashed before his eyes. He also gave thanks to Pablo, who had shown him the benefits of praying when times get tough. The praying mantis community had become an ally with his clan.

As much as he tried to remain as still as possible, his leg was starting to cramp, so he agonisingly stretched it out.

“Ohhhhh…No!  Argh! How long have you been there?’

Martha, don’t get me started! The answer is - too bloody long - so if you can hold the dramatics and assist me, I’ll get out of your way, pronto!’

‘Ohhh, creepy darn thing.  I know you’re not venomous but you give me the creeps.  Ohh, what to do??  You’re so BIG! Oh, my God! Ray next door is away for the weekend, he could sort this out.  Bugger!’

Steady on, Martha, that’s one for the swear jar!

‘Ohhh I hate this…’

Stop being such a sook! Go get the broom and I’ll hop on…

As if such a thing as telepathy existed between humankind and Arachna, Harold almost saw a lightbulb glow above Martha’s mess bun. And this lightbulb didn’t have any fly poo on it.

“I know! I’ll get the broom. Don’t move! Wait right there!”

Trust me, I’m not moving, but be quick about it eh?

 

Martha was on a new mission. The painting was no longer the prime focus. As she rushed to the cupboard in the laundry, kicking the basket filled with dry washing across the floor as she went, she pulled at the broom which was at the back of the long narrow cupboard behind the mop and bucket and other assorted cleaning equipment, all with long shafts or handles. Included in this disorganisation, was the vacuum cleaner with a bag of useful attachments. There was a crash as handles went this way and that, falling forward and landing on the floor like a game of Pick-up sticks.

‘Bloody hell!’

 

I heard that…are you going to be long?

 

Martha appeared in the kitchen with a soft-bristled kitchen broom. The yard broom would be too heavy and awkward for the job at hand. Despite himself and his stressful dilemma, Harold chuckled. Martha looked quite a sight with her trusty bandana on a crooked angle to its normally composed status, and holding the broom as she did, all she needed was a black peaked hat.

 

‘Right…” Martha had never felt so unsure.

Well, that’ll do the job nicely, just don’t squash me…

‘Okay, pal, just… don’t.. fall.. on.. me.’ she stuttered as she gingerly raised the broom handle up to Harold.

Harold saw his moment. He was expecting the broom head to be his escape route, but okay, the handle was going to work equally well.  Beggers can’t be choosers. He took a big step then a leap and landed on the end of the handle. He half slid - half ran down the length, heading straight for Martha’s shaking hands.

All Martha could see was a massive Huntsman coming for her.

 

‘ARRGGH!’ Martha yelled, throwing the handle aside to avoid contact with Harold. The broom went one way, and Harold was flung to the other.

It was a bumpy landing as he hit the dinner table and skidded across the smooth shiny surface.

Holey crap! No brakes! Harold wished the salt and pepper set was in his path to break his slide.

Finally coming to a stop just before the tabletop edge, he righted himself and scrambled down the table leg to the sanctuary of the large, potted ‘Elephant Ears’ Begonia in the corner.

 

‘That went well, I wonder where he is now…’ Martha looked warily around the kitchen, hoping she would not encounter this creepy house guest again any time soon.  

Harold sighed and said another little prayer of thanks for his safe return to the ground.

Be damned if I'm getting up on the ceiling again, ad what a good job the cat wasn’t playing any part in that drama. Now to find out if they saved me any lunch!

About the author 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fleur is a Kiwi living in SE Queensland. She enjoys the fun, challenge, and possibilities of short stories. She is a member of the local writer's group - The Squabbling Scribblers. For more of Fleur's work: fleursfabulousfables.wordpress.comDid you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee?. Half of what you pay goes to the author th otrht eehalf goes to expense se.g. Maintaining rhthe web site and setting up The Best of Café Lit book each year.

A Ghostly Sign by Fleur Lind, a cocktail from Psycho Suzi’s Bar

It was Polly’s first hunt. She listened as team leader Leon blurted out the rules and dusted over any relevant ways in which the rules could or should be bent slightly. With information overload, Polly’s attention had slipped. Having just started a new job, learning the ropes in a legal firm was enough to take in without being plunged into a big team-building event with her colleagues. She looked at the faces of her team. They too had drifted in concentration,  Leon concluded his speal and opened a Q & A. Polly’s attention was snapped back with robust discussion from her team.

“We’ve got two hours to find all the stuff on this list.”

“A scavenger hunt is lame. I wanted to do rock climbing.”

“Someone might fall and sue us.”

“I was all for the mystery train trip.”

“Being Halloween and all, we should finish this event with some appropriately-named cocktails at Psycho Suzi’s Bar.”

“I’m all for that. The Hangman’s Noose or Miss Maude’s Eyeballs.”

“’ Let’s focus, people…the first thing on the list, we have to find a sign.”

“A sign?  Like from the afterlife?? A meeting of the spirits?”

“No, Annie. A sign. Like a registration plate, a street sign or something.”

“Taking one of them will end badly.”

Oh. I won’t need to pop home and get my weegie board then.”

“Good grief! Weegie boards? Polly must  be wondering what she’s got herself into…”

Polly smiled, quietly wondering exactly that; What an interesting bunch. Total nutjobs.

“So back to the sign…Psychos Suzi’s will be shut if we don’t get a move on.”

“I know where to find some. There are heaps on my Uncle Ted's old shack. He blew part of the roof off with dodgy fireworks some years ago, and a few signs are barely hanging on, so it should be easy to take one off. The shack has seen better days and times, and I think the signs hold the main structure together but it will always be his castle. He still pops in to be laird…”

“We should ask him if we can have a sign, It wouldn’t be a good look if a law firm flogged a sign without prior consent…”

“Uncle Ted died ten years ago.”

“Does anyone speak ghost?”

About the author 

 

Fleur is a Kiwi living in SE Queensland. She enjoys the fun, challenge, and possibilities of short stories. She is a member of the local writer's group - The Squabbling Scribblers. For more of Fleur's work: fleursfabulousfables.wordpress.com 

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.)

The Night Before Christmas by Fleur Lind, ginger beer

Mary gave a wide open-mouthed yawn as she padded slowly up the stairs to the second floor. The 150-year-old stairs creaked as her fluffy slippers trod a well-worn path to her bed. She stalled on the 5th stair, wondering if she had locked the front door. 

‘Bad luck if I haven’t. I’m too tired to care. If we get burglars, I hope they do some housework before the family arrives tomorrow. Thank god Christmas is just once a year. I couldn't do this gig more often. I’m getting too old for this rigmarole,’ she muttered to herself. She climbed into her welcoming bed, the blankets tossed about as she had left them that morning, with no time to straighten it up. Husband Mike wasn't bothered with a messy bed as he lay snoring, exhausted from a busy day. He’d tried to fix the toilet cistern on the 3rd floor, and there was an ongoing, work-in-progress ‘garden’ on the rooftop. It put a jungle to shame, but at least it was a bit of greenery.  One never knew what surprises they would find growing in the maze of potted tropical branches and broad leaves.

 

Not-so-soft snoring could be heard from the second floor, otherwise a beautiful quietness filled the air in the rest of the house, which was a great relief to those on the 1st floor.

‘At last! I thought they’d never settle!’

‘What a day!’

‘I’m exhausted. How will we get through tomorrow, for pity's sake?’

‘The same way we do every year.  With resilience, patience, and sheer grit.’

'Resilience is the same as sheer grit, isn't it?'

'You've been looking at that thesaurus again, haven’t you?'

I snuck a look before it was wrapped…'

'Fair enough. I checked out that new game Tommy is getting, too. That’ll keep him quiet for hours…hopefully…'

'You wish!'

'One can only hope!'

 

As the banter of the baubles, bells and various paraphernalia that hung on the 7-foot Christmas tree continued its hum, up on the third floor, a pair of eyes peeked over the blankets.

'At last!' Tommy sighed, and as quietly as possible, slipped out of bed and opened his bedroom door.  Being well-skilled in midnight feasts and fridge raids, and having lived his nine years in the characteristic terrace house in London, Tommy knew exactly which floorboards made the most noise, so he also made a well-worn path down the stairs.

 

'Shhh!'

'What?'

'Did you hear that?'

'What?'

Creaking…someone’s awake…'

'Probably going to the loo.'

'No, they’ve gone straight past the loo… they’re on their way down here.'

'Are you telling me you know what creak belongs to what floor?'

'Absolutely… don't you?'

'Pfft!'

The living room door slowly opened.

'Who….?'

'Ohhhh, what’s he doing down here??'

'Who?? I can't see a thing. I’m facing the fire and have a pine needle in a very uncomfortable place…'

'Oh, the little bugger!'

'Who??'

'Will someone tell me what’s going on? I’m facing the window and I can't see a thing either!'

The Christmas Fairy Ginger has the best view and revels in her position despite her fear of heights. 'It’s Tommy!'

'Noooo!'

Tell him to go back to bed. He’s eight hours early!'

'What’s he doing?'

'He messing up the presents, that’s what!'

'Tell him to bugger off!. He’ll stir the cat and then all hell will break loose!'

Tabitha had been sleeping soundly in her basket, having promised not to mess with the tree. The lure of the fireplace was far too tempting, so she was on her best behaviour.  But when that paper began to rustle, her ears twitched.

'Ohhh dear God…please don’t wake the cat.'

'She wouldn’t dare….'

'Oh yes, she would!'

She gave me a good swipe today and nearly knocked me off the tree. Those claws are sharp!'

'Well, if she climbs up anywhere near me, it’s all over. I don’t fancy plunging to my demise after how long it took to get me up here. Mary worked for hours to get the tree ‘just so’.  You know what she’s like.'

'Never mind your demise, the whole bloody tree is going to fall.'

'Tommy! Go.. Back. To. Bed!' Ginger hissed.

'He’s after his present!'

'He’s found it.'

I don’t believe it! He’s unwrapping it…'

No way!!'

So is he going to play with it and re-wrap it and bring it back later or something? That’s not how it works…'

'Try telling him that…'

Anytime now, you-know-who will be here…'

'Oh! Is it that late?'

'Shhh…listen…'

There was a faint sound of bells ringing outside.

Tommy looked up, eyes squinting with suspicion.

Santa appeared in the lounge doorway, his eyes sparkling with mischief and the after-effects of an eggnog.

Tommy gasped.

'Well, well…what do we have here then?'

'Oh….'  Tommy uttered.

'I think we’ll wrap that up again,' Santa clicked his fingers and the present re-wrapped itself, 'Now, young Tommy, I think you need to get back to bed…hmmm?'

Tommy was speechless.

'Quickly, off you go…'

Tommy scuttled away faster than Maude, the mouse on the 2nd floor.

Santa winked at Ginger. 'Hello up there. I'm glad to see you have your top spot back again this year, Ginge.'

'I don’t like the height, but the view is good.'

How are you all doing?  Is the cat behaving?'

'We’re all the better for seeing you,' they said in unison.

'You’ve saved the day or night, shall we say?'

'Well, I'd best get on with business. Before the cat wakes up and ruins everything. I bought her some treats if she stirs.'

'How has your year been?'

'How's your wife?'

'I’m busier than ever. I’m now getting emails and posts on socials. I need a secretary to keep up! Mrs Claus is doing very well, and I’ve got a new helper in the workshop. He’s marvellous!'

           As Santa placed the last present at the foot of the tree, he tapped his red nose and bid farewell., Take care, my friends. I’ll see you next year!'

'Adios! au revoir, see you later!'

 

That magic sound of sleep blanketed the house, but a pair of eyes remained open on the 3rd floor.

'Has he gone yet?' Tommy murmured.

 About the author

 Fleur is a Kiwi living in SE Queensland. She enjoys the fun, challenge, and possibilities of short stories. She is a member of the local writer's group - The Squabbling Scribblers. For more of Fleur's work: fleursfabulousfables.wordpress.com 

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.) <

Benjamin’s New Groove by Fleur Lind, carrot juice

Benjamin was thoughtful as he watered his vegetable patch.  They say it’s good to talk to the trees, he mused, as he adjusted the pressure to avoid flattening the young lettuces. The young leafy seedlings were called ‘Drunken Women’, so the label said. It was a good job the hose was delivering tank water, not anything stronger. Such were the whimsical thoughts randomly popping up as he mulled the answer to a far deeper, more serious question.

             ‘What if I talk to my plants?  Is that a good therapy too?  Or is that a sign of madness?’ Benjamin thought out loud.  A distant cousin of his was mad and he had no desire to join that queue. Although his cousin’s madness had led him to become a character in a classic novel, Benjamin didn’t want to go down that path.

            When the vegetable garden was soaked and droplets sparkled under the mid-morning sun, the deep serious question remained unanswered.  Benjamin had not discussed it with the carrots or zucchini, as he’d also heard that ‘green conversation’ should be light, positive, and happy. To promote the best environment and good growth.  His problem was burdening and wouldn't grow strong healthy plants and tasty food.

              Rustling sounds could be heard over the fence as his neighbour Roger unzipped the opening to his new greenhouse.

“Hey, Roger!” Benjamin called.

“Hey Benjamin, how are you doing today?” Roger was a bit older, had a wise fatherly nature, and his voice was reassuring.

“I’m okay.” Benjamin sighed.

“The rustling stopped and Roger’s head appeared over the fence, “Just okay?  What’s up?”

Benjamin rubbed his nose, “It’s a bit complex.”

“Well, how ‘bout you and me chew it over with some juice, and see if we can get to the roots of it?”

“That sounds good, your place or mine?”

“Hop over, I’ll get everything sorted.”

Benjamin felt a bit better knowing that another set of ears would hear him out.

 

Over a tall chilled glass of carrot juice, Benjamin and Roger covered the general gossip, weather and the cost of living.

          “Okay, let’s have it, lay it on me. What can we fix today?”

           Sitting with Roger was like therapy, they laughed, and compared notes on Rhana down the road and the latest weird and wonderful accessories to her cardigan. 

          “Okay, so I’m going to sound like misery guts, but I want a career change.  I’m tired of my job. I’m allergic to chocolate, I pull my hamstring with all the hopping around, I’ve got carpal tunnel from holding heavy baskets of Easter eggs, and I've got anxiety from trying not to wake kids up when I deliver my stash on Saturday night because they always look as if they're asleep but what would happen if  they wake up and I’m busted?” Benjamin gesticulated “I’m from a long line of Easter bunnies, but this job, over the years, has worn me down.  I’m in my prime, but I want a job with less drama!” he took a breath after all the troubling thoughts tumbled from his mouth.

             Roger nodded and took a sip of juice. “I see. I hear ya, man.  Your job is a tough gig.  It’s only once a year but no one appreciates how much prep goes into what you do. And there comes a time when it’s like, you just want a change.  I get that.” Roger said reassuringly.

          “So what should I do? I’ve been to a support group, the other bunnies say they have similar problems, but some are newer to the job and still have plenty of hop.  One bunny has quit, he’s gone bush, another has moved to the coast. So there lies a new problem.  A staffing shortage. Benjamin rolled his eyes and drained his glass.

       “Care for another?” Roger poured from the jug.

         “Can’t do any harm…not far to hop!”

         “What to do…” Roger thoughtfully rubbed his chin and smoothed his whiskers, “Well there’s a vacancy where I work.  I do voice-over educational audiobooks for kids.  I got the job after that terrible incident when I hit the headlines for murder.  I was framed, of course, but if anything my celebrity status was good for sales and the books bounced off the shelves.”

           “A voice-over job? That sounds like fun!”

          “Oh it is, you just be yourself and your alter ego.  Bring out the real Benjamin, play with it, run with it, hop with it.  No more hammies or carpel, and you are helping the kids learn.  The teachers love it. It’s a whole new world out there with learning.  Kids are holding their bottles in one hand and a device in the other.”

         When the jug of juice was drained,  Roger Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny felt happily bloated. They devised a plan to get Benjamin back on track and behind a microphone.  Benjamin wrote a letter of resignation to the EBC (Easter Bunny Council) and Roger showed the new ‘bunny on the block’ how to ‘rock the mic.’

        Rhana caught wind of the news and applied for Benjamin’s job, bringing a matronly tone to the table. She was also looking for a change and would wear a new accessory for every household she visited. She would take no-nonsense, being an avid fan of Bunny Break, the highly-rated prison drama series on TV.  She had the skills and the smarts to take the legendary role of Easter Bunny to the next level. More fool any kids who woke up on her watch.

 

About the author 

Fleur is a Kiwi, living in SE Queensland. She enjoys the fun, challenge, and possibilities of short stories. She is a member of the local writer's group - Rose City Writers in Warwick. For more of Fleur's work: fleursfabulousfables.wordpress.com 

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.)