One Day by Mari Phillips, stale beer

 One day I won’t be ashamed to tell you about my mother. The night she packed her bags and left us. What did I do wrong?

One day I won’t be ashamed to tell you about my father. The clanking packages he carried from the off-licence. Bottles hidden in the shed or the back of cupboards. He thought I didn’t know. There were several trips to the bottle bank, but only one to the crematorium.

 When I couldn’t bear things any longer, I unscrewed the blade from his razor and drew it across my forearms until I felt the warm beetles scurry away. Always red beetles. Sometimes I rang the Samaritans. ‘How can I help you?’ they said. ‘I’m watching the beetles,’ I said. ‘Would you like to tell me about it?’ ‘Not really... I don’t know.’

I saw your eyes flit over my arms. Just tiny, shiny marks now. One day I won’t be ashamed to tell you where the scars came from.

 

About the author

Mari lives in Leeds, writes mostly flash fiction, with several published in Café Lit, and is working on a couple of ‘longer’ short stories. She also occasionally dabbles in poetry. She is a keen singer and sometime traveller. 

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.)

Doing her Sums by Mari Phillips, port and lemon

Jill did her sums and wrote in her best handwriting. She played hopscotch and French skipping in the school yard until the other girls wouldn't play with her anymore. She did more sums and helped the teacher, filling the inkwells and handing out the books. ‘Teacher’s pet,’ they whispered behind her back.

She took a job in an accountant’s office and did more sums. The figures danced in front of her eyes, but she always made them stand up straight. Friday nights were pub nights with the other girls from the office. She propped them up after a few too many port and lemons and listened to their slurred stories until they didn't invite her again. She did bigger sums and helped the boss. ‘Boss’s floozie,’ they whispered behind their typewriters.

Months and years passed. Other girls came and went. Jill still did the sums and managed the team. ‘I love my work,’ she said, when she faced the mirror to fix her greying hair and touched up the orange lipstick.

 When she was fifty, they ‘let her go.’ ‘Such a treasure,’ they said. ‘We’ll miss you.’ But no-one stayed in touch.

‘She loved her work,’ they said after the funeral. 

‘Such a shame.’

‘Another port and lemon?’

About the author

 Mari lives in Leeds, writes mostly flash fiction, with several published in Café Lit, and is working on a couple of ‘longer’ short stories. She also occasionally dabbles in poetry. She is a keen singer and sometime traveller. 

 

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 Shoe Story or A Second Chance by Mari Phillips, a third of a pint of milk - with a straw

You walked in clasping your mother’s hand. She was in charge. Definitely in charge. The assistant fetched the measuring gauge and settled her ample bottom on a stool. She removed your worn sandals and fussed about checking the length and width of your feet. My laces shivered when she announced the size. I was on the counter, the lid of my box removed, tissue paper peeled back, ready for action. Not yet consigned to the stockroom.

 

‘These are new,’ the assistant said, reaching her fleshy hand towards me. ‘A lovely dark tan. A good choice for school. They should last you the whole year. Shall we try them on?’ She coaxed your feet, one at a time, into my crinkly leather uppers. She tightened my laces and pressed her thumbs over your toes. Then she sat back and waited.

 

You said you liked me, as you paced the length of the shop - noiseless on the brownish carpet. My uppers sang. ‘Serviceable,’ your mother said. ‘We’ll take them.’

 

You wore me immediately, and then every day until the first day of the new term. You paraded me proudly in the schoolyard. My soles clacked on the concrete ground and then on the stone steps that led up to the classroom. New class and new shoes.

 

Your classmates laughed and teased you. ‘Ha ha ha - cloggy!’ one said. ‘Why are you wearing those clodhoppers?’ said another. They wore pretty Mary-Janes or still sported their summer Start-Rites. I felt your toes clench inside my shoulders, and then pain when you dragged your feet and scuffed my forehead on the pavement. Your silent tears plopped onto my shiny face.

 

As soon as you reached home, you pulled me off your feet, ran to your bedroom, and tossed me into the cupboard. I found myself amongst your old shoes and slippers. Not even on a shelf.

‘Who are you?’ asked worn sandals.

‘I’m school shoes,’ I replied.

‘Well, what are you doing here? You should be at school, or under the chair, ready for tomorrow.’

‘Don’t know…I don’t know what I’ve done.’

‘Hmmm, it was the same last year. Better make yourself comfortable. Maybe some of us will get a second chance.’

About the author

 Mari lives in Leeds, writes mostly flash fiction, with several published in Café Lit, and is working on a couple of ‘longer’ short stories. She also occasionally dabbles in poetry. She is a keen singer and sometime traveller. 

 

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.)

‘love you lots’ by Mari Phillips, flat fizz

She sent me a text saying ‘love you lots’, with a smiley emoji. I responded, ‘love you lots too. See you soon. xx’. I didn’t think it was unusual. It was only later I discovered that she’d sent it to all of us. Some didn’t respond. Just smiled. Dismissed it, and hit delete, thinking it was another Sally-ism. That's what we called them. Her random texts, one liners. Daily boosters, she called them. Sometimes we teased her. She laughed.

We met at infant school, in Miss Baker’s class, exchanging whispers in the sandpit. We shared teenage tantrums and adolescent dreams at high school. She grew. The tall, chatty blonde. I was the chubby mouse. ‘You’ve great parents,’ I said with twinges of envy. She laughed and waved her hands about. Our friendship group widened. We drifted. Different universities. Different cities. Other lives. For those years, our lives diverged. But she always texted ‘love you lots’. She was always cheerful. Always? 

After the text, I received flowers; red and white roses delivered to my doorstep. The message this time was, ‘Please forgive me.’ Forgive her for what? I racked my brains. We hadn’t argued or fallen out. I rang to thank her, and her phone went straight to her tinkly voice mail. ‘Hi, this is Sally. Can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Love you lots.’

But of course, she didn’t. Wouldn’t ever.

Everyone asked why? Everyone’s friend. Her parents cried - and smiled - and thanked us for our friendship with Sally. They spoke about her highs and lows. We saw the highs; shiny, smiley, and sometimes silly. And occasionally the lows; the days when the demons took charge and rattled her brain and bones into submission. She called them her gremlins, and we’d laughed. We laughed too much. In the end, she couldn’t bear the laughter. Love you lots, Sally.

About the author

Mari lives in Leeds, writes mostly flash fiction, with several published in CaféLit, and is working on a couple of ‘longer’ short stories. She also occasionally dabbles in poetry. She is a keen singer and sometime traveller.

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.)

Memories of An Old-fashioned Corner Shop by Mari Phillips, orangeade

Redbrick. Majestic. Double-fronted. Potatoes, penny chews, fags, knitting needles, and everything in between. Stone-flagged floor scrubbed at 7am. Wooden counters beeswaxed. Fingery smears and lip-spittle wiped from glass-fronted treats: Sherbet Fountains, Flying Saucers, Lucky Bags. Jars of pineapple chunks, toffees, aniseed balls and humbugs line shelves like sentinels. Waiting for their sticky turn on the scales. Portents of decay.

 

Corned beef ‘fresh’ from the tin. Pink and mottled, like granny’s legs.

‘Mornin’, Mrs Evans. How many slices? How’s Mr Evans today, any better? Two ounces of mousetrap? There we are.’

 

Tip spuds into the shopping bag and snuggle them under yesterday’s news. A loaf retrieved from the depths of an old tea chest, wrapped in tissue paper. Half a pound of butter from under the stairs. Six penn’orth of this or that. Shillings and pence counted in Vim-scoured hands. Coppers in the till.

‘Weather’s turning, Mrs Howell, best wrap up.’

 

Time passes with each refit. Decimals. Self-service. Everything wrapped in plastic. Names forgotten as the neighbourhood crumbles into a fickle future. Videos. Kebabs. Pizzas. Graffiti. Smashed windows and shattered six-year-old memories.  

About the author 

 

 

Mari lives in Leeds, writes mostly flash fiction, with several published in CaféLit, and is working on a couple of ‘longer’ short stories. She also occasionally dabbles in poetry. She is a keen singer and sometime traveller. 

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.)