In The Festive Season Do Cyber Monday Deals Follow Black Friday Discounts? by Henry Lewi, - hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows

The column in the December edition of the Las Vegas Review-Journal read; ‘Don’t ‘Miss‘ Cyber Monday who is now appearing as a Guest Dealer in the Casino at ‘The Devil’s Playground’.  The hotel now owned by The Demonia Tenentes Group, have acquired the services of Miss Cyber Monday as a guest dealer at their Poker Tables for the coming month. The lady, an internationally known Poker Dealer is a veritable demon with the playing cards, the shuffling is at light speed, and when she deals there is a definite electric buzz as the cards hit the green baize. If you don’t play at least visit the Casino in the ‘The Devil’s Playground’ and watch this ‘Demon with the cards’.’ 

 The beautiful Miss Cyber Monday had an unworldly gift with playing cards, shuffling, cutting, and dealing seemed to occur at light speed, always known to be as honest as the day was long, she was now regarded as the best Poker Dealer in the known Universe.

  Every time she dealt a card at the Poker table an electric buzz went through the players as well as all those watching, and she had dealt her cards at all the finest Casino Tables in the World, from London to Monte Carlo, from Macao to Baden-Baden and from Atlantic City to Las Vegas.

  The great pokers players of the world travelled from far and wide to play at her table, not just for the thrill, but always sure that the deal was fair, honest, and true. Their winnings allowed them to tip her generously, which allowed Miss Cyber Monday to enjoy a lavish lifestyle, dressing in the most exclusive designer clothes and travelling from Casino to Casino by Private Jet.

 And so for three consecutive weeks Miss Cyber Monday dealt her cards in the Casino in The Devil’s Playground Hotel. Four hours in the afternoon and four in the evening as the greats played at her table; fortunes were won, fortunes were lost, but the players accepted this in good grace, I mean who doubted the cards when Miss Cyber Monday dealt them?

  For the last week of her guest appearance, the CEO of the The Devil’s Playground had announced a unique Poker tournament, with the eventual finalists to play at Miss Cyber Monday’s table for the gift of Immortality to be granted by their host Lucifer the Chief Demon.  The players at this particular game would all be granted safe passage and any necessary Immunity for the duration of the Tournament, and a Twenty Five Million Dollar fee was an entry requirement.

  The forty-eight entrants which included amongst them, two Heads Of State from so-called Rogue Nations, four leaders of notorious South American Narco-Trafficante Cartels, a number of Organised Crime Bosses, as well as Minor Royal Dignitaries, and Wealth Fund Managers, but interestingly no serious professional Poker Players.

 The participants would play at tables of eight and the six winning players would contest the final game which would include Lucifer himself, with Miss Cyber Monday dealing the cards.

  Lucifer had certainly dressed for the part with white frilled shirt, black shoelace tie; a red and black striped waistcoat topped off by dark glasses and a bowler hat what he called ‘Riverboat Gambler Chic’.  

 As the six winners of the earlier rounds took their places around the green baize table, they now included the two heads of state from the Rogue Nations and the four notoriously violent Cartel Bosses; Lucifer seated himself opposite Miss Cyber Monday.

  Producing four sealed packs of cards she invited one of the players to choose a pack, another to cut the pack, she shuffled the cards with lightning speed and finally asked two more of the players to again cut the cards and gave them a final shuffle.

  In her soft sensual voice Miss Cyber Monday announced,  ‘the Game is ‘Texas hold ’em’, Aces high, I will deal, you will all play. The winner gets Immortality, the losers will give their souls to Lucifer for all eternity, are we all agreed.’

  The six players silently nodded their heads.

  ‘Very simply, I’ll deal two cards to each of you, as well as Lucifer, and the communal cards which I’ll call the flop, will be dealt in two stages, a first round of three cards, and at that point anyone can fold and quit, and walk away. I’ll then deal two more, so there are five communal cards, and with your own two cards make your best five-card hand, and as I said before, best hand wins immortality, losers still in the game give their souls to Lucifer. Are we all clear?’

  Again the six nodded their silent agreement.

   Miss Cyber Monday dealt two cards face down to each of the six plus Lucifer, then in the centre of the table she fanned out the three communal cards face up. The room was silent, the remaining Great and the Good, the Bad, The Rich, the Royals as well as the Professionals silently watched.

  ‘Gentlemen, at this point you can fold and walk away, but when I deal the next two cards there’s no quitting,’ said Miss Cyber Monday looking at the six now smiling players, Lucifer’s expression behind his dark glasses was unreadable. 

 Miss Cyber Monday dealt the final two cards into the flop; the six players smiles turned into huge grins, as they individually prepared for Immortality and untold riches, Lucifer remained inscrutable.  

 Miss Cyber Monday addressed the six and asked, ‘are we ready gentlemen, and are you all happy with the ultimate reward, and the consequences if you loose? If so, it’s now show and tell.’

  The outcome was inevitable, Lucifer won the hand as he always would, and the six let out unearthly screams as they saw their infinite futures, and finally, finally, Lucifer smiled.

 Miss Cyber Monday was indeed a Demon, whose loyalty to her boss was unequivocal.  She had an unworldly gift with the cards, the shuffling, cutting, and dealing occurring at lightning speed, and could anyone really tell if the cards were stacked or dealt from the bottom of the pack.

  Was it possible that Miss Cyber Monday or Lucifer had made the six players believe their cards were better than they really were, or were Lucifer’s cards really as good as everyone thought.  It really didn’t matter, the six souls were now forfeit, there was no immortality and Miss Cyber Monday silently left the Casino.

  She returns to the The Devil’s Playground once a year on the first Monday in December, always following Black Friday, to host Lucifer’s Festive Poker Game, and Players Worldwide are now told ‘Don’t Miss Cyber Monday Deals.’

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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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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Winter Blues by Henry Lewi, Mississippi Sipping Bourbon

  Late December 1951, Winter Blues had remained top of the US Billboard Charts for the last ten weeks and looked likely to remain so.  The mystical Blues song by the Blues Guitarist Careful Saint Luke had come from nowhere.  The song originally played in the local radio station by the blind and barefoot blues guitarist had spread like wildfire from its original home in the Mississippi Delta town of Greenwood, to the whole of the United States.  Once heard the mystical blues melody and words remained burned into the brain of all those who heard and listened, and the records were in hot demand.  Record Producers from all over the US had made their way to Greenwood Mississippi in the hope of signing Careful Saint Luke to their record label, but he was nowhere to be found.   

  The mystery was made all the more pressing by an article that had appeared in the Delta Leader in late October 1951 which claimed that the Blind Black Blues Guitarist Careful Saint Luke, like Robert Johnson before him, had met the devil at the very same Crossroads and sold his soul for musical success. The story was picked up firstly by the Biloxi Herald, then by the Clarion-Ledger, and was then reprinted in the bigger and more influential newspapers such as The New York Times, The Boston Herald and the Washington Post.  

  Throughout the US, the Blues song grew and grew in popularity, the population mesmerized by the haunting tones of the song, and now additionally fuelled by this supposed link with the Devil; but the blind musician Careful Saint Luke, was nowhere to be found, and not a word was heard from him. The record producers aided first by the Local and State Police and then by the FBI searched high and low for Careful Saint Luke, but he remained lost, hidden or elusive.

 During December 1951 the streets throughout the US remained quiet, factories and shops remained empty as people stayed at home listening to Winter Blues as it was played endlessly on all the local and national Radio stations; the country now ground to a halt, seemingly mesmerized by the bottleneck blues song. The newspapers screamed “Communist Plot; Reds Amongst Us,” and even “The Devil’s Music, Stop It Now.” Meanwhile the Temperance Movement and the Southern based Klan organised marches against the playing of Winter Blues, and all the while the population stayed at home listening to the music of Careful Saint Luke.   Congress and the Senate discussed and debated the issue, urging the President to sign a Presidential Order banning the playing of Winter Blues but this stalled, as it would have meant the withdrawal of the First Amendment and revoking the much protected Freedom of Expression; meanwhile the people stayed at home and listened, spellbound by the music. 

  On Christmas Eve 1951, a Distinguished Professor of English at Harvard, wrote a column in The Boston Globe about the story of Careful Saint Luke and his song Winter Blues, and declared that the name Careful Saint was indeed an anagram of Satan Lucifer, he finished with the words “need more be said?” 

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. 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 Dog in the Shadows by Henry Lewi, a tank of mead

The old man regularly took a walk twice a day from his house down on to the beachfront, once in the morning and for a second time in the late afternoon, always with his silver topped black cane in his left hand and in his right he carried a leather leash. He was often seen talking and calling out to someone or something that wasn’t there. Some passers-by thought he was possibly looking for his dog that had disappeared, others thought he was just a lonely somewhat senile old man, but he didn’t have that appearance. Tall and straight with long swept back silver hair he was always immaculately dressed in a three piece dark suit or wearing a long camel overcoat if the day was cold.

   His house was one of those large tall double fronted Victorian houses overlooking the sea, and separated from the beach by a wide road, with the double gates to his property always left open; parked in the driveway was a vintage Bentley and an old Mercedes Convertible.

  The four of them had watched the old man for a week, they had noted, checked and followed his movements and observed his twice-daily walks.

  The house they knew was packed with valuable artworks and ancient artefacts that would net them a small fortune, but it was access to the vault in the basement that they really wanted.  Their Boss had told them that the safe contained an extremely rare and valuable relic, ‘It was his,’ the Boss had said, and he wanted it back, and he wanted it back badly, and he would reward them handsomely when they bought it to him.

   There were no video cameras or alarm systems in or around the house, clearly no guard dogs, and whilst the old man always carried a leash when out walking there was certainly no dog that they’d ever seen.  He was as the Boss had said, ‘just an old man living alone in the big house full of pieces of art work and the valuable contents of his safe.’ 

   ‘Easy pickings’, they all thought, well that was what their Boss had said.

  The four of them broke into the house that night, and as they entered the large white painted front living room the lights came on, and they were confronted by the old man seated in a large armchair, his silver topped cane lying across his thighs, a dog leash lying on the floor next to the armchair.  The room was empty except for the old man in the armchair and a large long tusked Golden Boar about four-foot in height quietly standing perfectly still in one corner of the room.

  ‘Get up old man,’ said the the leader of the four, ‘get up, we know you’re all alone here, so get up and open your safe for us.’

   The old man smiled and remained seated, ‘who sent you?’ He asked still smiling. 

  ‘Nobody you’d know, but he knows all about you,’ replied the the leader of the group, ‘and he’s a very, very powerful guy, so do us all a favour, get up and take us to your safe sharpish.’

  As the old man slowly stood up and leant on his cane, still smiling he asked, ‘so what did he tell you all about me?’

  ‘He just said you were an old man, an art collector who lives by himself all alone in a big house, why, are you someone special?’ Asked one of the four.

  ‘So let me tell you who I am, I am Loki, Son of the All Father Odin, and that safe you want me to open contains an ancient heavy War Hammer.  Did he bother to tell you that I’m very very well protected; so are you all willing to brave my fury, that of my dog, and the Old Gold Boar standing over there, for the sake of a few artefacts?’

  ‘Your fury, your fury, what are you Old Man, delusional?’ Replied the leader of the four; ‘we can see that Gold Boar stuck in the corner over there, standing completely still like it's a fucking statue, but this dog you keep going on about, where’s this fucking dog?   There isn’t one we can see, we can’t hear any sounds of a dog, just that stupid leash on the floor, so clearly there isn’t one, so stop with all this nonsense about the dog, as well as that Golden Boar and this rubbish about your so-called protection, just take us to the safe Old Man.’

  ‘So he really, really didn’t say anything about my dog?’ Asked the old man.

  ‘Don’t you understand what I just said?’  Replied the leader of the four intruders.

‘No, and I’ll repeat it for you for one last time, No, he didn’t say anything, about a dog, so just do what we’re asking.’

  Still standing the old man tapped his silver-topped cane twice on the floor, and pointed to the wall behind him; all four now saw the shadow of a huge silent wolf-like figure looking as if it was about to pounce.  The old man tapped his cane yet again and suddenly on that back wall appeared the shadows of three men now standing in front of the huge wolf.  Looking round the leader of the group realised that his three companions had suddenly disappeared, leaving him now standing completely alone in the white painted room facing the Old Man, whilst the Old Gold Boar in the corner remained still as a statue.

  The leader of the group watched, mesmerized by the dancing shadows on the white wall opposite, as the Shadow Wolf appeared to leap and attack the now silent shadows of his three men, who were projected onto that white wall; and all the while, the old man looked on silently.  

 ‘That dog,’ said the old man finally, ‘that dog,’ he repeated, ‘is my Hellhound, The Embodiment Of My Son The Wolf-God Fenrir, a Silent God who only keeps to the shadows.’

 ‘NOW GO!  Go tell your Boss, and YES, YES I know that your so-called Boss is my idiot brother Thor; so go tell him that his brother Loki says, that if he wants his Ancient Hammer back he knows where to come, and simply ask for it; and whilst he’s at it, he can also have Gullinbursti his old Golden Boar back as well; it keeps crapping all over my carpets.’ 

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. 

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.)

Shimmy Shimmy-Ra by Henry Lewi, a shot of Old Kentucky Bourbon

Abilene City, Kansas Territory, a wild lawless town on the cattle trail, and a railhead for both the Santa Fe Railroad and the Kansas Pacific Railroad that shipped cattle to the New Chicago stockyards.  The Saloons were crowded the brothels constantly busy as the cattle drovers and cowboys drank, whored and gambled as they received their pay at the end of their cattle drive from the Texarkana territory.  Since forever there had been little law in the town, the elected sheriff, townspeople and the occasional Federalé had tried to control the violence, the shootouts and drunken behaviour that were all too common, but were unable to fully impose law and order in Abilene.

  The Stranger led his white horse down from the stock car at the rear of the train that had transported him from Astro City in the Missouri Union. He wore a long brown duster and a black hat still pristine after his train journey.  On his belt sat his pistol and Tanto – his short stabbing sword, and strapped to his back was his razor sharp silver hued Katana, trotting quietly alongside him was his big black red-eyed dog.

  The Stranger walked his horse into town, pausing outside the largest and rowdiest saloon on the boardwalk; tethering his horse to the hitching rail outside the saloon, The Stranger entered.

  The saloon was crowded, the piano in the far corner noisily playing out of tune, the girls dancing on the stage, cowboys constantly climbing the stairs accompanied by the female or male of their choice to the rooms above.   Many, many of the customers were crowded around the various gaming tables or drinking at the bar, but despite the noise, the music, and the shouting, there were no fights, and no violence.  Behind the long crowded bar, the four bartenders poured drinks, chatted to the clientele and chittered to each other.

  As the stranger entered with his red-eyed dog at his side, the saloon went quiet and everybody turned to look at him. The Stranger, who, despite being dressed in his brown duster and black hat appeared the same, but was not quite the same as the many saloon customers.

  But there standing at the bar clearly oblivious to the sudden silence around her, she stood sipping her drink from a half full glass, her handsome leonine features crowned by a mass of blonde hair swept back in a Lion’s Mane.

  Memories flooded back as The Stranger recalled their first meeting on the Planetary Kingdom of Lycia an eon ago. He had been sent there by the The gods of Olympus to deal with the wild Chimera, but when he had first seen her he had been instantly smitten, he had tried to tame her wild and violent spirit, he had adored her, together they had loved and danced under the planet’s twin moons, they had sworn endless devotion, and then suddenly she was gone.

  His adoration for her had turned into anger, and then into hatred, and he had tracked her from planet to planet, star system to star system for more than a thousand years.   He had followed her trail of destruction, violence, mayhem and death on those many settled planets where law and order were rare, and chaos ruled supreme.  Finally, finally, here in the backwater city of Arkansas on the planet Taurian in the outer reaches of the New Orleans System he had at last caught up with her.

  Looking up at him and raising her glass, she said ‘Belle, my love, my very own Belle, you’ve finally, finally found me, are you here to love me, save me, or kill me?’  As she spoke, small flames spewed from her mouth accompanying her words.

  As The Stranger took a step forward, three giant Taurian Cowboys towering over The Stranger suddenly blocked his path, with the largest of the three snarling, ‘Stranger what do you want with our Shimmy Shimmy-Ra? One step forward and we will kill you.’

 The stranger remained silent, made no movement other than to raise his hand; his red-eyed dog growled and the three Taurians froze and were instantly turned to stone.

  Laughing Shimmy Shimmy-Ra said, ‘I see you still have Medusa’s dog with you,’ the flames continued to flicker from her mouth.

 The Stranger silently nodded as he unsheathed his Katana, and in the blink of an eye took her head off.  

  The Gods of Olympus had ordered that The Stranger should hunt down Shimmy Shimmy-Ra and destroy the Chimera, the harbinger of Mayhem, Chaos, and Death.

  His task now complete, The Stranger called Bellerophon, re-sheathed his Katana turned and left the Saloon together with his red-eyed dog Cerebrus, he untethered Pegasus his horse, she now spread her wings, and the three flew upwards and onwards to Olympus out on the very edge of Time and Space.

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 

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 Diary of a Millennial Vampire – Or How We Handled The ‘Lockdown’ by Henry Lewi, a Bloody Mary

Thankfully I settled back into the first-class seat. I had a feeling of euphoria; soon very soon the ‘Hunger’ would disappear, and I’d be able to enjoy some food for the first time in eighteen months. Well, at least the ‘Hunger’ would not return until the flight landed in Buenos Aires in sixteen hours or so.

  I don’t suppose you’ve given it any thought, but the Covid 19 pandemic has been particularly bad for us in the Vampire Community. What with the restrictions on movement, especially at night, and until the advent of the immunization programme, you couldn’t just bite anybody. I mean we’re all mostly immune to blood borne diseases, but not to the Covid virus, which seemed to have had a particularly bad effect on our community.

  We all know, that as supposedly creatures of the night, we lack vitamin D which made us all increasingly susceptible to the effects of the virus – go on, read all the newspaper reports on vitamin D deficiency and susceptibility to the Covid virus.

  Then when ‘Lockdown’ came, we couldn’t just go and knock on doors and be invited over the occupier’s threshold. And just to let you know, we don’t use violence or a gun to force entry, just good old animal magnetism – it gets us in every time. It all went downhill from there; I mean you can’t get a “click and collect” or a “home delivery” for a pint of fresh blood.

  So there we were, isolated, stuck at home, and worse off all, unable to go out and feed. We’re not immortal or unkillable just long-lived – well for a few centuries or so, but we do need a regular supply of fresh blood to satisfy our ‘Hunger’. Sure, you can get by on stored blood, but its long-term use is not recommended, it clearly states that in ‘The Handbook of Vampyr Well Being’.

  On top of that, the streets were empty; there was nobody around – remember? The only people you were likely to encounter were others from our own community, and that really, really doesn’t work for us at all.

  The only members of the Vampire Community, who were less troubled, were those who lived-in high-rise flats, but they needed to be above ten floors or higher. For some reason the higher you go off the ground the less ‘The Hunger’ troubles you. I mean there’s no logical reason for it. It just is - and living up a mountain doesn’t help; you must be physically off the ground.

  I really don’t know why in all the old Vampire films, we’re portrayed as living underground, even in coffins! That’s so wrong. I hate cellars and coffins and the fact that living a high- rise life diminishes ‘The Hunger’ is a somewhat recently observed phenomenon – well, ever since our American cousins started building their so-called skyscrapers.

  Then in the 1940s one of our brethren had a light bulb moment – that’s OK – light bulbs are fine, but as in all the folklore, it’s the sunlight that causes the problem, not artificial lighting. I mean who doesn’t like going out in the evening for a drink, a meal or even clubbing? I may be old but I haven’t aged for a couple of hundred years and can still mix it with those modern Millennials.

  Sorry I digress; it’s the euphoria of freedom, the flight and the temporary easing of ‘The Hunger’.

  Anyway, in the 1940s one of our community, flying home from a reunion in the ‘Old Country’ noticed that his hunger disappeared whilst airborne, but returned a few hours after he landed. He then tried it out flying round the world, well anyway within the limits of flights that were then available, and eating airline food, without ill effect – he didn’t age, loose his hair, nails or teeth.

  So up until ‘Lockdown’ that’s what a lot of us did. Have you ever wondered why first class and business seats are so often booked out – it’s not because of ‘important businessmen/women’ travelling to meetings, rather it’s filled with members of the Vampire Community regularly travelling by plane to control their hunger. It’s our way of fitting into modern life.

  Airline food is great when you normally exist on a weekly pint of blood, and the ‘Sanguis Travel Monthly’ regularly lists Emirates, Cathay Pacific, and Air India as the best airlines for Vampires – provided you travel First or Business; I mean, where else can you get perfectly prepared steak tartare at 30,000 feet?  Added to that. the high ambient circulating CO2 on an airliner seems to provide us all with a crackle of energy and a feeling of wellbeing. I’m sure there’s a scientific explanation. OK, OK, go read up on the ‘Bohr Effect’, but it certainly works for us!

  Mind you a Vampire must be careful when booking flights so that you leave early before sunrise and arrive at night! Flying to South America at least fits that bill.

  So here I am, flying out on one of the first flights out of post-lockdown London, travelling to a Southern Hemisphere destination – it’ll be winter when I arrive – for a temporary stay in a land of beef, tango, football, and good wine – long nights and a relatively Covid-free environment.

  The Elders always complain that I’m too flippant about being a Vampire, but when you’ve been around for a long time, you have to seek out the fun sides of this lifestyle, otherwise you’ll end up as one of those dark twisted entities that they make movies about.

  Sure there are downsides, what with the problems of a predominantly night time existence and all that blood and stuff, but sometimes you just have to make the best of it and enjoy yourself.

  You know, I quite like this modern world; it’s so much better than the Medieval and Victorian times, and don’t get me started on about the last century, what with the wars, food shortages and rationing.

  Today at least the world runs on a twenty-four hour clock, and with all this artificial lighting at night, everywhere is so brightly lit you can easily live a night-time life. On top of that you can now easily obtain your Vitamin D supplements, and get as much raw steak as you want, at all the supermarkets.

  Well I’m certainly going to embrace this New Millennium.

  I suppose you could now say I was a Millennial Vampire? 

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. 

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.)

A Visit To The Dentist or How Tyler Got His Breath Back by Henry Lewi, ice cold water

Dr Christos Cadmus had arrived in London on the coat tails of the many Old Gods of Olympus who had relocated from their ancient home in Greece to the modern bustling City of London.   A well trained and highly skilled Cosmetic Dentist and Surgeon he had set up shop in a suite of rooms on Harley Street alongside his cousin Apollo, the God of Medicine, serving The Rich, The Beautiful, and The Famous.  

  In his plush and very fashionable clinic, Dr Cadmus provided not just basic Dental Hygiene, Dental Implants, and Facial Cosmetic Procedures; he also skilfully performed the very, very complex, difficult and extremely exclusive Drakontos Odontes Procedure. As would be expected his practice flourished as Gods, Nymphs and Satyrs, as well as Humans and Centaurs, all seeking the perfect smile who were all numbered amongst his patients.

   One dreary Thursday morning he was visited by a patient who gave his name as a Mr Tyler P. Hones who had run into a bit of a problem after losing his four front teeth in a fracas in Las Vegas.

  ‘Bit of an issue,’ lisped Mr T.P. Hones, ‘I run a 24hour poker game at the Devil’s Playground Hotel in Vegas.  There was a brawl when a bunch of very, very rich CEO’s lost their entire fortunes in the poker game at my table.  I may have lost my teeth, but you should see the other guys; I need your services ASAP, the best and most exclusive you can offer.’  

   Dr Cadmus was no fool, he had recognised his patient, knew who he was, and knew how much power this so-called Tyler P Hones could still wield, despite the loss of his teeth.

  ‘Absolutely no problem,’ said Dr Cadmus, thinking for a momen. ‘I have the perfect answer and can provide you with the ideal implants for someone of your status.’

 So Cadmus sat Tyler P Hones down in his Dental Chair, arranged for his dental nurses and technicians to lay out his instruments, draw up the local anaesthetic and specified which implants they should select out for their patient.

  Three hours later the somewhat complex procedure was complete, the new four teeth implanted using his exclusive Drakontos Odontes Procedure, which, as Cadmus knew would be a perfect match, and with a mirror showed his patient the results.

  ‘Perfect,’ replied Tyler P Hones as flames shot out from his mouth. ‘What the f**k? he said. 

 ‘Drakontos Odontes, Drakontos Odontes, Dragons Teeth, my friend’ replied Dr Cadmus, ‘most appropriate for your needs and requirements, certainly for someone of your reputation and standing isn’t it Mr Tyler P. Hones, or should I now correctly address you as ‘Typhon’, thought I recognised you, you’re that old Fire-Breathing drinking buddy of Zeus.  All you need now is to re-learn how to control the flames, simple really, it will certainly add something to your reputation.’

   ‘Perfect, Perfect, Perfect,’ said Typhon the Old Olympian Fire-Breathing God with a broad smile, the flames sputtering out from his mouth, ‘Absolutely Perfect.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ replied, Christos Cadmus, the once Ancient King of Thebes.

  ‘You know, before I used them for dental implants I used to plant those Dragons Teeth to grow the Warriors necessary to defend my Kingdom; a much better use of the Teeth, don’t you think?’ 

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 

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.)

Saturday Sample: Once We Were Hereos by Henry Lewi, nectar

 

 The Gods do Tesco

First published on CafeLit 20/7/2020

  One Monday morning Zeus the chief God announced that the stocks of Ambrosia on Mount Olympus were running dangerously low.  “We’ve got to find a way of restocking, but mankind has lost respect for the old gods and won’t make any more Ambrosia or provide us offerings of wine.” 

 His daughter Athena the goddess of wisdom replied, “I blame the state of the Greek economy and the EU. The Greeks don't have two euros to rub together and impose additional taxes on the wine they make.”

 “It’s not just that,” replied Apollo. “In the interests of diversity and equality, one group of gods can’t be singled out for preferential treatment.  I was chatting to Thor, and he tells me that they are treated much better in Norway outside the EU.  We’re not looked on kindly as we have more male Gods than female, so our EU Major Deity Grant is being slashed.”

  “Right,” said Zeus’ wife, Hera. “We’ve got to do some shopping. You Apollo, and your sister Artemis get yourselves down to Tesco, as I hear they’ve a two for one offer on honey and ambrosia.  Take the Golden Chariot, you can park it in mother and child’s bay, but remember to turn off the Rising Sun option when you park up.”

  “Mum! Really? Do I have too? I’ve got a date with that Norwegian dish “Balder the Beautiful” this afternoon. Can’t Ares go? He’s got no major wars that he’s got to be at.”

 Later that afternoon Apollo and Ares entered the Tesco Store dressed in their finest white Togas edged in Gold.

It was sheer madness; the store was crowded with people obviously humans who were running hither and thither with no respect being shown for the two gods that walked amongst them!

“What in Hades name is going on?” said Ares.

“Look people are running around with armfuls of toilet paper and pasta.”

“Dunno,” said a sullen Apollo – truth be told he didn’t like Tesco he was more a Fortnum’s kind of god. “Maybe those Roman gods have inflicted some kind of plague like they did a few years ago, what did they call it? Oh Yeah Black Death or something like that.”

“Nah,” said Ares. “That wasn’t the Romans; it was that bunch of Indian Gods that sent it West. Anyway, that was because I stole the idea of the longbow from them and gave it to that English guy - what’s his name Ed, Eddy or Edward something?  Besides it was nearly 700 years ago!”

Apollo’s phone pinged, and looking at it he said, “There’s a WhatsApp message on the ‘Major Deity Group Chat’ from<> someone called Monkey.”

 

"Thanks,” said Apollo. “Seems like he’s sent this message out advising us that he’d got some viral infection from some Pangolins he was looking after for that Mexican mate of his, Yum something or other, who’s gone on a cruise to the Far East, and he won’t be able to meet up with everybody at the annual Ragnarök festival.”

“Where’s it this year?” asked Ares.

“Milan,” I think replied Apollo, “but with all this toilet roll epidemic they’re talking about cancelling it.”

Sadly, the shelves were empty of honey and ambrosia and the Tesco store manager had no idea when the next delivery would take place.

“It’s in the Lap of the Gods”, he stated staring directly at Apollo, “You’re the god of Medicine go and have a word with that guy COBRA, who seems to run the Government, and sort it out will you!”

“Why don’t we try Waitrose? A much better class of store and customer, they’re bound to have ambrosia at least – though we’ll have to pay extra; they don’t do a two for one deal!” said Ares.   

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About the author 

Henry is a retired surgeon having worked for the NHS for over thirty-five years. He has in the past written and published a number of Clinical and Scientific papers, but began writing for fun following his retiral from Clinical Practice.

Henry mainly writes on a whole variety of topics: tales from the Confused Beginning of the Universe, the modern day involvement of the Olympian Gods in London life, and a number of wartime short spy stories.

He has published a number of these stories on the Café Lit site and some have been included in The Best of Café Lit, and Aftermath published by Chapeltown Books.

He writes a monthly ‘Old Fogies’ column for The Edge a monthly magazine published in Chelmsford and is a long term and avid supporter of Tottenham Hotspur.