LOST by Marion Ward, a nice cup of cocoa

It was in April 2021 that Nathan lost his last remaining tooth.  It fell out, with no warning, on his 89^th birthday.  As this would be his last chance he decided to place the tooth under his pillow to see if there was any truth in the story that fairies would take it away overnight and leave him money.  Apparently it used to be a silver sixpence but what with inflation, not to mention decimalization, it could now be £2 or even more.

He went to bed early, as normal, and then woke with the rising sun.  He looked under his pillow.  His tooth was still there but so too was a note which read

We are sorry but we are extremely busy at the moment and are experiencing fairy shortages due to COVID.  Please be assured that your teeth are important to us and we would ask you to try again later.

Nathan scratched his head.  He had not considered that fairies could catch COVID.  Still there was nothing else for it so he left his tooth under the pillow for a second night.  The next morning he woke to find his tooth was gone but no money had been left.  He wrote a rather curt note of complaint and left it under his pillow.  He knew his was only a very old front tooth but it should be worth something.

On the third morning he woke to find his note gone, no money but another note left which read

We are sorry but we are extremely busy at the moment and are experiencing fairy shortages due to COVID.  Please be assured that your teeth are important to us and we would ask you to try again later.

He was getting quite cross now so left an even more sharply worded note of complaint.

On the fourth morning he woke to find no money but a note which read

We are sorry for the poor service issue caused by fairy shortages due to COVID.  We are pleased to advise we are now in a position to pay you £2.50 for your tooth but, due to COVID we are not undertaking cash transactions at this time.  If you could kindly provide your card details we will credit your account accordingly.

Now Nathan was delighted with the offer of £2.50 and only regretted all the other teeth which he had so carelessly disposed of.  The trouble was he did not own a credit card or a debit card not even a bank card.  He could not be doing with all those new fangled things when the space under his mattress had served so well all these years.  So he left a note under his pillow asking if he could be paid some other way i.e. by a can or two of cream of mushroom soup which was his particular favourite.  He woke on the fifth morning to find a note which read

We are so sorry but we are out of stock of cans of cream of mushroom soup as there is a shortage of mushrooms due to covid and the fact that our mushroom picking pixies are on furlough.  Please advise an alternative and indicate whether you are prepared to accept a substitute if the product is unavailable.

Nathan duly left a note saying he would like mulligatawny soup and that, yes, he would accept a substitute.  He just wanted to bring the whole thing to a conclusion.  He woke on the sixth morning to find a note which read

We are sorry but we are extremely busy at the moment and are experiencing fairy shortages due to COVID.  Please be assured that your teeth are important to us and we would ask you to try again later.

Rapidly losing the will to carry on Nathan had a restless night before he woke to find a note which read

We are sorry but we are out of stock of mulligatawny soup but at your request we have left you a substitution.  If you are not satisfied please simply return it to us and we will issue a refund to the card used to make this purchase.

Nathan lifted the pillow a little higher to find......a tube of Sensodyne Pronamel Gentle Whitening toothpaste.

 

About the auhtor 

Marion  ward is a retired business woman now trying to expand and enjoy her creative self through fictional writing 

 

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Lost

by James Bates

egg coffee

Randy took the map out of the Duluth Pack and looked at it, trying to decipher where they were. If it wasn't bad enough they were lost, it was doubly irritating that they'd gotten lost while he was trying to impress Libby with his outdoor skills, limited as they were. After all, she was a biologist, comfortable being outside in nature, and he was...well, he was a software design engineer who could barely find his way around the Minneapolis Bird Sanctuary, an urban park where Libby liked to take him bird watching. But they say opposites attract, and, if that was the case, Randy and Libby were meant for each other. Still, there was the nagging fact that they were lost, and being lost in Boundary Waters Wilderness Area was no joking matter.

            "Here, Randy, let me see that map." Libby leaned over, brushing her tanned arm against his rather pale one. They'd pulled their canoe up to a tiny island in the middle of what he thought was Gunflint Lake and were sitting on a log near the shore. Unfolded, the map was good sized, three feet by four feet, but Randy still had to put his readers on to see clearly. Libby leaned in closely and pointed, "Well, here's the problem. We missed a turn on that last portage. I'll bet we're on Loon Lake. Look." She scooted even closer so their hips were touching. "We went south. Gunflint is north of us." She looked at the tree line on the far side of what was now, apparently, Loon Lake. "See that ridge there," she pointed. "Look here on the map. This symbol marks a high spot. See."

            Randy looked closely and then followed where she was pointing. He wanted to be a good camper, he really did. He'd always taken direction well, it was one reason why he made a good engineer. But right now he didn't care if they were lost or not. It was just nice to be so close to Libby. Her scent, an earthiness mixed with lingering sweet sweat, was beguiling beyond words.

            "Yeah. I see it now." He shook his head, trying to get focused. "I feel like an idiot." But getting re-focused was hard, especially with Libby sitting almost on top of him.

            They'd met six months earlier in the dead of winter at the Como Park Conservatory. He'd taken his sister's two boys for an indoor outing to get a break from the bitter Minnesota cold. Libby had done the same with her two nieces. They'd met over a stuffed dinosaurer display in the gift shop. A week later they'd gone to see a retro showing of The Big Lebowski (a movie they both loved) and had been dating ever since.

            "Don't worry about it, happens to everyone." Libby leaned into to him, smiling, rubbing his shoulder. He picked up more of her alluring scent.

            Wait a minute. Were they talking about getting lost or having sex? Randy risked at look. Libby smiled back at him. He leaned into her and put his arm around her shoulder. "Sorry about getting us lost," he said. He was forty-three years old, the same age as Libby, and she was the first person he'd ever had these kinds of feelings for. He caressed the hair at her temples, then kissed her.

            After a few minutes Libby put her hand on his chest, leaned back and grinned, "That's nice, but maybe we should dial it back a little, hot stuff. What about being lost?"

            "I thought you said you knew where we were. Loon Lake." He grinned back at her, calming down. He picked up the map. "It looks like if we paddle that way," he pointed to the right, to the east, "we can get back to the portage. Then we can hike in to where we, well, I," he smiled, sheepishly, "made the wrong turn. We can take a left, hike for a quarter mile or so and get over to Gunflint." He looked to the west, the sun was a little above the trees. "We still have daylight left."

            He was about to glance at his watch when Libby put her hand out to stop him. "Or..." she said, stretching the word out seductively. "Or, we could just make camp over there," she pointed to a smooth patch of ground twenty feet behind them under some tall red pines, "and stay here tonight."

            Randy didn't even have to think. In the past, a change of plans would have been traumatic given his orderly disposition. But that hadn't been the case recently, a welcome change he attributed all to being with Libby. "I'd like that," he said.

            Out on the lake a loon called, a haunting reminder of the kind of wildness found in the Boundary Waters. They both turned to listen. Libby pointed to large black and white bird bobbing sedately far out on the lake. "Look, there it is." A few moments later another one called.

            "I read that they mate for life," Randy said, taking Libby's hand.

            "Yeah, they do," she said, squeezing his in return, softly caressing it. "It's late in the summer. Their young ones are probably around here somewhere."

            "Maybe we can stay tomorrow, too," Randy said, "Watch for them."

            "What about being lost?" Libby poked at him, joking.

            "I read once that Henry David Thoreau said that just one time he'd love to be lost. I guess it was because he felt so comfortable in the woods. They were like home to him."

            "What do you think about that?" Libby asked.

            He put his arm around her shoulder as they gazed out over the lake. "I think I get what he means."

            "Good," Libby said smiling. She gave him a quick kiss before standing up and helping him to his feet. "Then let's get the tent set up. Lost or not, we might be here a while."

About the author

Jim lives in a small town twenty miles west of Minneapolis, Minnesota. When he was a teenager he canoed in the Boundary Waters with a YMCA group. He and some friends ended up getting lost but only for about four hours. He'll never forget the experience. You can check out his blog to see more of his stories: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com.

Lost

by Richard C Elder 

strong black coffee with plenty of sugar

In the garden of the house opposite mine, there’s something small and bright in the unkempt grass. It’s not moving now, but it was; that’s what drew my attention. Maybe it’s a balled tissue rocking in the breeze. There it is again: small flicks and turns within the forest of shining green blades. Could be a mouse. The woman who lives there, Liz, she’ll want to close her front door. Ah, not a mouse, a bird, a small bird. Its wings blurred but it didn’t fly. 

          Then I see the cat. It’s lying on its back in the garden next door, dozing in the August sun.

          Coffee slops over the rim of my cup when I set it on the window sill and make for the hall. 

Two adult house martins are swooping in turn to the mud pellet nest in the gable of the house, feeding their brood. Earthbound, the chick stumbles through grass and daisies. The martins spot their offspring and scythe through the air above it but never land, fearful of the cat, respectful of its ability to hook even the quickest and slam them to the ground. 

         The cat stirs, opens its eyes and watches the martins fly. Rolling onto its feet it takes a spine-cracking stretch: front legs and claws extended, back bowed. Pulling velvet lips back from needle teeth it opens its jaws wide and yowls. Now it begins a slow, loose-limbed walk down the hot tarmac driveway, shoulder blades popping up and down, its black head swiveling from side to side looking for anything of interest. For the moment the chick is safe, screened by a small shrub.

Running across the road I shout at the cat, ‘Leave it be, go on, leave it, sisssssssssssss!’

Mere inches from the chick the cat drops to its belly in the grass, glaring at me, its white-tipped tail metronoming with irritation. It doesn’t retreat until I’m very close. Hunkered down I focus on the bird. It’s quiet and unmoving, looking at me with black pinhead eyes. The cat waits less than six feet away. I think to lift the chick, take it to safety and nurse it back to health. Then I see the infestation of insects, like armoured spiders, scuttling across the blue-grey plumage covering its head and back. I try to flick them off but they’re attracted to my fingertip, rushing toward it, thirsty for blood. 

This tiny creature fallen to earth is exhausted and beaten, on its way from what should have been to oblivion.

         There’s a length of wood stuck into the soil of a planter near my elbow. It looks like a piece of brush shaft. I pull it from the soil, feel the weight. It’s about eight inches-long. The cat waits, yellow eyes wide and staring. 

         There’s no one else on the street. Grass shifts and rustles in the warm breeze. Dart-shaped shadows streak across the tarmac and the martins cry, powerless and distraught. Their hearts and mine are breaking. Whispering, ‘I’m sorry,’ I raise the stick and strike. The chick convulses and flips over, revealing its snow-white breast. I strike again and it stills, its body deflated and limp. I push it under a vibrant azalea and go home, sick to my stomach.

         The cat creeps forward and sniffs the bird, then lopes away. 

Back in my kitchen, I fill a tumbler with water and down it in one. My hands are trembling. I can’t get the bird’s death throes out of my mind.

          ‘Saw you over the road, Mum, in the lady’s garden.’

          Turning from the sink, I shake my head as my eyes fill with tears. She rushes to me and throws her skinny nine year-old arms around my waist. ‘Mum?’

          ‘I’m okay, love. Really. A little bird died.’

          ‘That horrible cat. I saw it lying in the grass. I hate it.’

          ‘No, Caitlin, it’s a cat. They don’t know any better.’