Coyotes by Jim Bates, iced tea

 His brother pointed to the scrub brush area to the left. “The coyotes come down from the hills at night to hunt.”

“Cool!” his older brother said. “I’d love to see them.”

“If we’re lucky maybe we will.”

The two of them were sitting on the younger brother’s back patio watching a sunset turn from fiery orange to molten red. The wind, a gale during the day, had abated now to a whispering calm. By common acknowledgment, the two brothers quit speaking and were silent, listening to the nighttime quiet enveloping them.

Suddenly the silence was broken. An ethereal call pierced through the night like a sharpened knife. It was followed immediately by a wild howling, the rising up of a primeval lament high into the sky, spreading out across the land, echoing off the dark shadows of a long-forgotten time.

Off to the left was a motion. One, two, three, dark shapes came into view loping along, hunched over and secretive, heading down out of the hills. The two brothers watched as the coyotes stepped daintily among flood-cast pebbles and rocks. They were roaming as a pack, and they were hunting.

The brothers sat back and smiled at each other. They didn’t have to speak. Instead, they watched as the coyotes drifted into the night. The breeze picked up and carried with it a whiff of their musky scent, their desert wildness. Then, in a blink of an eye, they were gone. Only furtive tracks of their nighttime passing remained, ghostlike and serene, a fleeting vision of their wild wonder. The wind was blowing harder, but they were in no hurry to go inside. The night was young, and the coyotes were on the hunt. Seeing them was an incredible gift that they would love to see again.

With silent acknowledgment both put on their jackets to ward off the chill and settled in to wait. Who knows? The coyotes just might return. And if they did, the brothers would be waiting for them. Just one more glimpse, that’s all they were hoping for. Just one more. Man, that’d be so cool.

About the author

 

Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in over 500 online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com. 

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Back to the Farm at Last by Frank Zahn, a glass of iced tea

 I can still hear my mother talking about it—making things right for us at last by going back to the farm. It was during those days long ago when she felt so helpless because there was little food in the house, if any, for supper.

 

Her face shrouded in worry, she would rock back and forth anxiously in the rocking chair that belonged to her mother—Grandma Abell—and say aloud in earshot of my brothers and me, “Believe you me. I mean what I say as never before. Somehow, someway, I’m goin' back to the farm where we can have good food and plenty of it. Yes, Siree! I'm gonna make sure my family never goes to bed hungry again. I’m goin’ back, and nothin’ gonna stop me. And I mean nothin’!”

 

Holding back tears, she always added with little variation, “No one goes hungry on the farm, and the food tastes better than this stuff we buy in the grocery store nowadays. My mother and dad had thirteen of us children, and we never missed a meal—not one. We had lots of chickens—raised them up from baby chicks in the brooder house that my daddy built. There were chickens for laying eggs. There's nothin’ like fresh eggs for breakfast. And there were always chickens for pan frying and old hens with lots of fat on them for stewing with homemade noodles or dumpling—not just for Sunday dinners but whenever it suited us.”

 

The worry on her face faded as she continued to remember aloud how it used to be when she was young and lived on the family farm just outside of Gardner, Kansas. Tears of joy came to her eyes as she remembered her mother and father—mostly her mother because her mother was one of those women who were always there for anyone who genuinely needed care and a helping hand.

 

Everyone admired and respected Grandma Abell. My dad never said much about anyone—positive or negative, but when Grandma Abell’s name came up in a conversation, he talked about her as if she were a saint—a wise and loving woman who truly lived up to her Christian faith.

 

Mother was a lot like her mother, and my brothers, my little sister, and I admired her for that, even though we had to listen to what had begun to sound like Mother’s empty promise of taking us all back to the farm so that we would never be hungry again.

 

“And that's not all, not by a long shot,” Mother would continue. “I want some fat little pigs—at least six or eight—so that when they’re full grown, we’ll have slabs of bacon and hams smokin’ in the smoke house. A farm’s not a full-fledged farm without a smokehouse. Of course, we’ve got to have a cow for milk and cream for churning butter and a team of horses for plowing a field for a garden. I want a big garden just like the one we had back when I was a girl. We’ll plant and raise cantaloupe and watermelon and all kinds of vegetables. We’ll have tomatoes, potatoes, carrots, bush and pole beans, radishes, lettuce, green onions, cucumbers, and cabbage. And, of course, we have to have green peas. They’re a must. And trust me, they just don’t taste right unless they’re taken right out of the pods when hand-picked in mid-to-late May the way my brothers, sisters, and I used to do."

 

When Mother mentioned the peas, her remembrances aloud always ended as they had begun—abruptly. She would jump up suddenly from the rocking chair and head for the kitchen. Something for supper always occurred to her when she remembered the peas. No one knew why, and when asked, she said she didn’t know why either.

 

More often than not, she ended up fixing fried potatoes and fried eggs in lard and slices of day-old bread with oleomargarine that she bought with money from selling a treasured item in her China closet to a neighbor. Fried cornmeal mush with sugar syrup or baking powder biscuits with milk gravy were frequent last resorts as well.

 

“It's not like dining at the Waldorf, but it's not all that bad,” she would say. “And it will keep us goin’ until I figure out how I’m gonna get us back to the farm. When that day comes, we’ll never have to worry about something to eat again. It’s gonna happen, and I got a feelin’ it gonna be sooner rather than later.”

 

My brothers and I couldn’t understand how Mother could be so positive when there was so little to eat, but if we complained, she told us to be still, eat our supper, and be grateful for what we had. It made no sense to complain further, even though my younger brother Henry couldn’t always resist the temptation.

 

Even with the best of intentions, the short of it is that Mother didn’t make it back to the farm during her lifetime. And she passed away when she was seventy-six years old with only that one regret.

 

In the years to come, my brothers, my sister, and I had families of our own and prospered, and something to eat for supper was never an issue. My daughter Deborah was four years old when Mother passed away, and even though she doesn’t remember her grandmother, as fate would have it, she had her grandmother’s dream of going to live on a farm for the last twenty of her forty-three years.

 

She started her farming experience in the backyard of her home just outside the city limits of Newark, New Jersey. She bought and raised three baby chickens—the legal limit in the area. She named the chickens Freda, Lola, and Roxy and referred to them as the girls. She fed them mash when they were young and introduced them to scratch as they matured into laying hens. She salivated each time she mentioned how delicious the eggs were for breakfast. I seriously doubt, however, if she will have the heart to kill, prepare, and use the girls to make chicken and noodles or dumplings when they become too old for laying eggs.

 

In raised gardens, she also planted and harvested amaranth; beans—bush and pole; beets; broccoli; brussels sprouts; carrots; cauliflower; cucumbers; lettuce; peanuts; peas; hot and sweet peppers; potatoes; pumpkins; spinach; sweet potatoes; tomatoes; and herbs, including basil, oregano, thyme, and tarragon. She planted and harvested small amounts of each because of limited space, and looked forward to having a farm with more space so that she could grow larger quantities and more varieties.

 

“When that day comes, and it will be sooner rather than later,” she said in a conversation we had on the telephone. “I’ll add corn and asparagus to the list of vegetables I grow. I have a fig tree now, and I’ll have one on the farm along with lemon, persimmon, apricot, apple, and pear trees. And, of course, I will grow lots of blueberries and raspberries.”

 

I marveled at how much like her grandmother she had become when she talked about her plans to buy a farm—a small acreage—and become more self-reliant.

 

“Self-reliance is important to me, especially when it comes to what I eat,” she said in an email. “But my dream of living on a farm is not just a self-reliance thing. It’s a health thing. I want to know where my food comes from. Once, when I was shopping in Whole Foods, I had a moment. I felt disconnected from all the food there. It seemed so unnatural. And with large corporations like Monsanto turning our foods into Franken foods—foods that are genetically modified, I want control over the nutrients in what I eat—and the tastes as well.”

 

To that, she added, "Plus, if—or rather, when—the zombie apocalypse hits, I want to be ready." The tongue-and-cheek remark must have been in reference to World War Z, one of Brad Pitt's recent movies.

 

Unlike her grandmother, Deborah has never had to worry about something to eat for supper or any other meal. Nevertheless, she felt her grandmother's need to put herself in a position where she controlled the quantity and quality of food available to her. And each time she talked about it, she became more anxious.

 

Was her grandmother more anxious than her? Yes, of course. Quantity to her grandmother was more of an issue than quality. But control though the self-reliance a farm provides made their dreams the same.

 

Deborah finally realized the dream when she and her husband bought a small acreage in upstate New York recently. The first thing on her agenda was buying baby chickens and raising them, especially those for laying eggs. The second thing was preparing the soil and planting a garden—actually a series of raised gardens for easier tending. What comes next remains to be seen.

 

I've always suspected that in some inexplicable way my mother was behind all this—Deborah's dream, the motivation, and the actual move to the farm. And if Deborah ends up buying some pigs and building a smokehouse, I'll know Mother was behind it for sure. But even without the pigs and the smokehouse, the truth is that Mother finally made it back to the farm in the person of her granddaughter, my Deborah. And I'd be willing to bet that Mother is looking down from heaven with a more than contented gleam in her eyes. She might even sigh once in a while and say under her breath, "Thank you, Jesus. I made it back to the farm at last."

About the author 

 

Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com. 

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The Readground by Ping Yi Yee, iced tea slightly sweetened, which is what the Third Readers carry in their tumblers

 

‘This is a playground! Why aren’t you playing?’ – Older Sister.

 

 

The First Readers.

The morning brought no wind to lift the stultifying humidity of the summer night. If anything, the air grew thicker, denser. Yet the sky was clear of cloud and rain, its avian denizens taking keen flight in search of cooler airstreams, desperate to shed moisture from laden wing and feather. They would find no relief today, just as they found none the day before, or any other day since time began.

 

Shortly after, the first readers arrived at the clearing, their mounts snorting and bristling. It had been an arduous journey of days beyond reckoning, from the Ivory Fortress astride the peaks of Mount Moira by dragon, through the treacherous Gulf of Weeds by kraken, over the Desert of Tachy Sands by pegasus, and through the Jungle of Eternal Peril by unicorn.

 

The readers dismounted, their number fewer than when they had set out. No matter, more readers will be born, more will be groomed, and more will come. Men and women they shed broken weapon and armour as one, and sang their word-songs to the departed. The unicorns departed as equals, each galloping towards a different compass point, leaving as the pegasi, the kraken and the dragons had.

 

In single file and with great reverence, the first readers walked towards the centre of the clearing, towards the Tree that towered above all else in the Jungle. But such was the nature of its wards and charms, the Tree was only visible after one made it through to the clearing, in body and soul. Its giant roots spread out to reveal crystal-lit chambers within and beneath the Tree, chambers with shelves upon shelves upon shelves.

 

They have arrived. They have come to read.

 

*

 

The Second Readers.

 

The evening brought no chill to ease the stultifying heat of the summery day. If anything, the air grew warmer, drier. Yet the sky crackled unnaturally with light and fury, hurling bolt after bolt over the clearing, over the dark forest treetops. The fauna would find no relief today, just as they found none the day before, or any other day since the Sundering.

 

Shortly after, the second readers arrived at the clearing, their mounts snorting and bristling. It had been an arduous journey of months beyond reckoning, because Magic had forsaken the World. The dragons and kraken were no more. The pegasi and the unicorns ceased to be. The Tree was no more.

 

As the Mountain had shattered into ruin, as the Gulf had frozen in eternal winter, as the Sands had fused into eternal glass, the memories of the first readers became lost for generations. The World had changed and changed again, until the second readers awoke from amongst women and men. The day came that they set out on their wolf mounts, camels and horses. They rode in packs, decamped along the way to farm and feed, never taming the wilds, and rode on.

 

The readers now dismounted, their number much fewer than when they had set out. No matter, more readers will come. Women and men they shed broken weapon and armour as one, and sang their word-songs to the departed. Their mounts, freed from owner and duty, sprinted back to the forest, away from thunder and lightning.

 

In single file and with great reverence, the second readers walked towards the centre of the clearing, and into the Cave. They held up an oil lamp, but the passageway revealed a warm light beneath, then a giant chamber was before them, with shelves upon shelves upon shelves.

They have arrived. They have come to read.

 

*

 

The Third Readers.

 

The midsummer afternoon brings a passable breeze to dispel the stultifying stillness of the day. The air becomes pleasant, reminiscent of the Highlands of Genting. The sun deigns to soften its glow upon the scene.

 

The clearing has changed again, for the World is Resundered, once more. Technology is now upon the realm.

 

Shortly after, the third readers arrive at the Readground, whereupon they declare as one, ‘I want to read.’ Best companions three, they have journeyed by mindless electric carriage, and by ceramic-metal wyrm burrowing beneath the lands.

 

And one reader discourses in imitation, ‘We are late for our virtual conference!’ The second mimes, ‘Where are my keys? Where are my keys!’ And then the third remonstrates, ‘Remember it’s soy milk!’ and they scream their word-songs of woe and judgement.

 

A while later, in single file and with great reverence, the third readers walk past the Swings of Joy, past the Slides of Glee, towards the centre of the Readground, towards the Cast-Iron Bench. As one, they shed their satchels, sit down, and take out their books.

 

They have come to read. And they will read.

 

* * *

 

Dedicated to the Readers of all Time.

About the author

 

Ping Yi writes poetry and fiction, and is in public service. His work has appeared in London Grip, Litro, Dreich, Sideways, Meniscus and ONE ART, and is forthcoming in Orbis, The Prose Poem, Aimsir Press, Harbor Review and Consilience. He is from Singapore, and lived in Cambridge, UK, and Boston. 

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Briana Jane Wants to be Cool by Rosemary Johnson, iced tea

 Briana Jane lives in Texas, where temperatures rise to three digits and humidity to something gross per cent.  In summer, as she told English pen-friend, Olivia, she just suffocates.  When the air conditioning in her parents’ house failed, Briana Jane went hysterical.  ‘What d’you mean the electrician can’t come till tomorrow?  I’m melting right now.’

‘We don’t have air conditioning,’ says Olivia by text.  ‘Never gets that hot.’

‘Can I visit with you?  Puh-lease?’

‘I’ll ask Mum.’

It’s raining when Brianna Jane arrives at Heathrow. Immediately she’s hauled her suitcase - maximum weight allowable by the airline - off the carousel, she fishes out the sweater which Mom packed and which Brianna Jane swore she wouldn’t need.

Later she texts friends back home.  ‘England’s cool.' 

Too cool.  ‘Hey, Olivia.  Y’all have heating?’ 

 

About the author

 

Rosemary has had short stories published in 'Friday Flash Fiction', 'Paragraph Planet', 'The Copperfield Review', 'Scribble', 'Mslexia' and 'Fiction on the Web'. Her novel, Wodka or Tea With Milk set around the Solidarity trade union in Poland was published in September 2023. Rosemary lives with her husband in Essex. 

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Whatever Works by Jim Bates, iced tea

 We were walking along a favorite woodland path when I turned to Mom and asked, “Say, I was wondering. What’s your favorite memory?”

            Even though she was slightly hunched over and walked with a cane, she was still a spry lady. She also had a wicked sense of humor.

            “At my age, too many to mention,” she grinned. Then she winked and added, “But, I’ll tell you this, Jack. Walking in the woods with you is among my all-time favorites.”

            Mom always had a way of making me feel good. Wanted. Something that meant a lot to me since I was one of those guys who was quieter and more withdrawn than most. Expressive and outgoing I was not. Not like my other brother Marc, for instance, a successful insurance salesman with friends galore.

I lived by myself in a single bedroom apartment with my cat Ralph near where I worked stocking produce at a local grocery store. A job I liked. I must have, since I’d been hired in high school and now, fifty-three years later, I was still there.

            I liked routine. Walking like this with Mom had been a Sunday tradition for us ever since I’d left home and moved into my apartment. We used the time to get caught up. It was when Mom told me she was leaving Dad because, as she put it, “I’m sick of his fooling around and womanizing.” It was when she told me she had earned a BA degree in early childhood education and was going to begin working with at risk preschoolers. It was when she told me she was moving into the Lakeside Senior Living complex. And it was where she told me she had an inoperable brain tumor.

            I was on my way back to the car when my phone buzzed. I grimaced. I had a feeling who it was. I looked at the screen. I was right.

            I picked up. “Hi, Marc. How’s it going?”

My older brother had strong opinions. One of them was he didn’t agree with me “communicating” as he called it with our dead mother. Especially out in public on my woodland walks with her. Too bad. It worked for me.

“Just fine, little brother,” he said. I waited for a biting retort but none was forthcoming. Instead, Marc asked simply, “Are you still coming for lunch?”

            I metaphorically wiped my brow, glad the two of us would not be arguing, especially on this day, the tenth anniversary of our mother’s passing.  “Yeah,” I said. “For sure. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

I liked seeing my brother. Plus, Marc was a great cook. His nod to the anniversary of our mother’s death was to prepare her favorite meal, chicken and rice casserole. He’d fix a simple salad to go with it, and he and I would share a glass of her favorite wine. “Still on for 1 pm?” I asked.

            “Absolutely. Like always.”

            “Sweet. See you then.”

            A pause on the other end of the line. Then, “Out communing with Mom?” he asked. Then, without missing a beat, he chuckled.

            “Yeah, I was.”

            “Thought so.” Another pause, then, “Well, whatever works.”

            Interesting, I thought to myself. My older brother must be must be mellowing. Not wanting to break the ice of this delicate détente’ I said, simply. “Exactly.”

He chuckled again, then said, “Okay. See you at one.”

            “Sounds good,” I said, glad to have dodged a potentially brotherly bullet. My stomach suddenly growled. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was. “See you then.”

***

With the chicken casserole baking in the oven, Marc went into the dining room and set the table with cream-colored Spode plates accented by an ivy border, his mom’s favorite. He put down a setting for him and one for Jack: a knife and spoon, a dinner fork and a salad fork, linen napkins with wooden napkin rings, just like his mother always liked.

            He thought of his mom as he finished setting the table. The divorce so many ago had been hard on everyone. He’d sided with his father, his brother with their mother. It was just the way things went. Their father had remarried only a week after the divorce was final and within a year, he’d died of a massive heart attack. Their mother stayed happily single for the rest of her life. He smiled. She’d been a teacher, a wonderful grandmother to his kids, and when it came right down to it, a really good person.

            He wiped an unexpected tear from his eyes. Honestly, he really did miss her.

            A sudden urge came over him. He went to the cupboard, took out another plate, and made up a place setting for their mom, right down to the linen napkin and wine glass. When he was done, he poured a glass for her and one for himself. Then he raised it in a toast.

            “Here’s to you, Mom. Thanks for everything.”

            He took a sip and was turning away when he thought he heard something. What was that?

            He turned to the table. Oh, my lord.

            “Mom?”

“Hi, son.”

            “What are you doing here?”

She smiled. She always did have a nice smile. Open and honest.

            “I just wanted to thank you.”

            “For what?”

She cast her hand over the table. “For including me,” she said.

            Wow! This is crazy.

It was, too. Nevertheless, it was great to see her. He smiled. “I’m glad you could make it.”

            She grinned. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

            So, this was what Jack was talking about. Communing with Mom. It felt good. He made a snap decision. “In that case, how about Sunday, I’ll join you and Jack on your woodland walk?”

            “Your brother would love that.” Then she smiled. “So would I.”

            “All right, then,” he said, and sat down next to her. They had a lot to talk about. “It’s a date.”

About the author

Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in over 500 online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com. 

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Raspberry Patch by Jim Bates, iced tea

 Lottery numbers were picked that year in July for the draft. He was old enough to be in the group so his number was drawn. Now, all he could do was wait to see if he’d be called or not.

It was a long, hot summer. The relentless sun beat down unmercifully. The air was wet with humidity, like a sponge dripping. One day blended into the next while the muggy, foreboding air hung thick. Even the occasional breeze gave no relief.

One day while working in the backyard garden his mother turned to him. “That raspberry patch in the far corner needs a lot of help,” she said. “It’s full of weeds. I want you to clean it out.”

He took one look and agreed with her. It was a mess.

“Okay, Mom,” he said.

He removed the dead canes and added them to the compost pile. He weeded and weeded and weeded some more, and then used a pitchfork to turn over and work the ground. He put up chicken wire and covered it with cheesecloth to keep the birds away. He added bags of compost and horse manure to enrich the soil.

With a new lease on life, the raspberry plants flourished and turned green. Flowers formed on the canes and bees arrived. Butterflies too, yellow swallowtails, and red admirals. Then raspberries formed on the stalks, juicy red fruit, plump and ripe and a joy to behold. To him, it was a garden of pure delight.

In the evenings he’d pick some of them.

“Here, Mom,” he’d say after he’d added a couple of scoops of ice cream. “Here’s a bowl for you.”

He’d fix a bowl for himself, and then they’d sit in the backyard in the twilight on old wooden chairs. They’d look at the raspberry patch, marveling at the bees and butterflies circling around, and watch as long shadows crept softly across that special corner of their world. They’d talk quietly together while savoring their freshly ripened raspberries still warm from the sun in spite of the ice cream. They’d chat about what they’d done that day in the garden. By mutual agreement, they put aside the reality of the war ever looming. Instead, they enjoyed their time together, watching the twilight fade to the west and darkness settle in.

After a while, the stars came out and the raspberry patch faded into the darkness, and their fine day of working in the garden would finally come to a close. It was then time for the two of them to stand and go inside. A new day was just around the corner. So was the draft. Would he be called to serve or not? He didn’t know.

But what he did know was he had a garden to tend, and a bountiful raspberry patch to care for. It was something to look forward to. There were also more raspberries to pick, too. Of that much he was certain.

Tomorrow was another day. He was looking forward to it.

About the author

Jim lives in a small town in Minnesota. He loves to write! His stories and poems have appeared in nearly 500 online and print publications. To learn more and to see all of his work, check out his blog at: www.theviewfromlonglake.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.)

Rebirth by Anushka Kulkarni, iced tea

 

Lily walked to work, tightly bundled in her warmest coat. Autumn was giving way to winter and she could see her exhalations make little puffs of steam. As the newest employee, Lily was given the responsibility no one wanted. She opened Rebirth, the only thrift store in town, at seven in the morning. And suffice to say that Lily was not a morning person. She didn't understand why a thrift store must open this early. No one goes shopping at this hour. Cursing under her breath, she unlocked the heavy front door, flipped the board in the window to "Come in, we're open" and settled down with the newspaper. She'd barely made it to the second page when she heard the door open.

"At 7 30 in the morning! That's either a robber or a maniac," she thought to herself. Turns out, it was far worse- an elderly man with a cane in one hand and precariously perched boxes in the other. Lily always felt uncomfortable around senior citizens; she never knew what to say to them. Feign interest and you're stuck in an endless conversation. Any uninterest leads to an endless lecture.

"Hello dear," the man chirped, interrupting her dilemma.

"Good morning sir. What can I do for you?"

Setting the boxes on the counter, he said,"I'd like to donate some clothes."

"Lovely. How many pieces, sir?"

"Fifteen, I think. I'd better count again. My memory isn't what it used to be." A pink slurry spilled from the boxes.

"They're my wife's, you know. She loved the color pink. Had to wear something pink everyday." He proceeded to tell her, in meticulous detail, where and when each piece of clothing was bought. Lily tuned out the rest but caught the end of his monologue.

"She died a couple of years ago. Cancer."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thank you. It's fourteen pieces actually. Here you go."

"Thanks sir. Your donation is appreciated."

"Take good care of them please. Especially this fuchsia coat, she really loved it."

He stroked the coat lovingly, as if brushing his wife's cheek for the last time.

"Good day, dear," he turned and left.

Lily started sorting through the new clothes, but her mind kept wandering off to memories of humid summer days in Gran's house on the outskirts of town. The scent of freshly baked apple pie would waft down the hall, accompanied by the click-clack of Gran's favorite pink high heels. She never wore those anymore. The doctor said they were bad for her back.

The door opened again, letting in a gust of cold wind that shook her out of her nostalgia.

"Someone came in so early?" Her co-worker, Brandon asked as he walked in.

"Yes. Just an old guy. He dropped off quite a few clothes."

Lily's phone buzzed. It was Tina.

"Sam kicked me out. Can Spencer and I stay with you for a little while?"

Lily sighed exasperatedly. This was the third time in the last two months. Hadn't she warned her sister not to marry that dead beat, sorry excuse for a man? But no, she went right ahead, and had a baby too. Now if she tossed them on the street, she'd be the heartless monster.

"Fine." She texted back.

"Oh look, here comes another customer," Brandon said. "Take her please. She looks chatty and I'm in no mood."

Brandon was right- she did look extremely chatty. She was middle-aged, dressed in a T-shirt, faded jeans and sensible shoes. Probably a stay-at-home mom.

"Hello, Lily," she said, reading her name tag. "I'm here to drop off some clothes."

Lily gestured to the counter.

"I wasn't actually sure about donating these. They're my son's old clothes, so many memories. I wish he would've stayed a baby forever. But he's nine now, of course he doesn't fit into this," she chuckled, holding up a blue onesie.

"I had a practical reason for keeping these too, you know. My husband and I, we've been, well....trying again for the past five years. But no luck. Maybe it's the pills I took when I was younger. Anyway, I guess it's time to let go. It's just satisfying knowing that someone will use them, you know. I mean-"

"Okay, these are twenty pieces. Thank you ma'am," Lily interrupted.

"Oh, yes you're welcome," the lady said. She looked surprisingly unfazed for someone who had just revealed her bedroom problems to a complete stranger.

"She's lucky; God spared her a round of sleepless nights," Lily thought to herself, as the lady walked away.

Spencer was always getting on her nerves with his crying and need for constant attention. Although, he did look like an angel when he slept. And his spit bubbles were adorable. But really he was more trouble than he's worth, Lily decided.

After two blissfully silent hours with her newspaper, the rush began. Homeless people from the nearby shelter and low income families circled within the store, stalking their reasonably priced prey.

A young man wearing ripped jeans walked up to Lily.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm looking for a birthday gift for my younger sister. She's about fourteen. Can you help me pick something out?"

Lily sighed inwardly. "This is a thrift store, not Gucci. I'm not your concierge," she wanted to say. The thought of her manager's stern face veered her in a different direction.

"Sure, did you have anything specific in mind?"

"Well, winter's almost here so maybe a pair of boots or a sweater. Usually I'd get her something new. But I lost my job because of Covid. This is all I can afford. I don't want her to know that her gift is second-hand. Can you show me something that looks new?"

Lily led him to the rack of women's winter wear. Watching him sort through the clothes with a focused furrowed brow reminded her of Tina. She'd always get Lily the perfect clothes on her birthday.

"What's her favorite color?"

"Pink," he said immediately.

"Then I think she'll like this," Lily said, pulling out the fuchsia coat. "It's only three dollars."

The young man seemed satisfied with it. He thanked Lily for her help, paid and left. Lily found herself wondering if his sister had some pink shoes to go with the coat. Heels would do nicely, but fourteen is young for that.

Her fashion bubble was burst by another customer who loudly announced that a dollar was too expensive for a pair of shorts. She dealt with him and the next customer and the next.

Before she knew it, it was six o'clock. Time to close up. She turned off all the lights, flipped the sign in the window to "Sorry, we're closed" and locked the front door. As she turned to leave, a flash of blue caught her eye. After a brief internal struggle, Lily grabbed the onesie off the shelf and left two dollars in the cash register.

Exiting through the back door, she walked down the street to her apartment, thinking of fuchsia coats, pink high heels and her nephew in a blue onesie.

 

About the author

 

Anushka Kulkarni is a teenager from India exploring the power of her words. Additional work by her may be found at Potato Soup Journal, The Weight Journal and The Drabble among others. 

 

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