My Second Job by Peter Lingard, a glass of full-cream milk

It is sometimes difficult to get the whole family together for a chat. Said family consists of me, the missus, Jackie, and the kids, Dwayne, Lauchlan and Willow. They all have different things going on their lives and so our best chance for an all-in meeting is Saturday breakfast. I almost limped into the kitchen as Friday night had left me a little sore. I know it’s a cliché, but I’m not as young as I once was.

When we were all seated and enjoying four kinds of cereal, I announced, ‘Yer mum an’ me reckon we’ll all go camping this summer.’

Spoons clattered into bowls.

‘What!’

‘Da ad.’

‘Do you think we’re still kids?’

‘No way,’ said Dwayne. ‘I’ve made the second team at cricket. I’m not going.’

‘Me, neither,’ exclaimed Willow. ‘I’ve made the first team.’ She stuck her tongue out at her brother to let him know she’d outdone him.

‘Yours is a girls’ team,’ he said condescendingly.

‘And I still made first team! Why don’t we play your lot?’

‘I can’t go either,’ Lauchlan said. ‘Me, Stagger, Jackson and Banksy ’re putting together a band. We’ll be writing numbers an’ rehearsing all summer.’ He looked at his sister. ‘Willow’s gonna try out fer vocals, too.’

Jackie put a hand on my wrist. ‘I did say it’d be difficult, darl. They’ve grown too old for holidays with us now.’

My stretched and achy muscles, bruised elbow and knee turned my enthusiasm to anger. I had thought a family holiday would be ideal. I knew they had gotten older but thought we had one communal effort left in us. I almost launched my resentment but Jackie must have sensed it because she quickly stood and told everyone to help clean up the table and dishes.

I decided some garden time would help me get over my disappointment. Jackie brought me another cup of coffee and I dropped the wheelbarrow to join her at the garden table.

‘You were going to vent your anger in there, weren’t you.’

‘Yeah. Thanks for saving me from myself.’ I took a tentative sip from the steaming mug. ‘I was disappointed, but I’ve realised my idea was foolish, even naive. Next thing, they’ll be leaving home.’

‘Not just yet, Tom. They still need us. Talking of which, they were all about to ask you for money to buy stuff they need. I think they saw breakfast as an ideal time until they were confronted by your camping suggestion.’

‘Confronted? My suggestion?’

‘Something like that. Thing is, Lauchlan wants a second guitar and amp. The other two need cricket gear - bats, pads and whatever. Plus, they’ll need travelling money for away games.’

‘Travelling money? ‘How far away are the schools they play against?’

‘They’re not playing for school,’ Jackie said with a smile. ‘They’re turning out for the town team who are short on sponsors at the moment, which is why you’re going to have to cough up.’

‘Yeah, well, my daytime job doesn’t cover all that, unless they can wait a bit. I’ll have ta do a little something extra to pay for it!’

‘Yes, well I have something in mind for you. You know my friend, Janice, the travelling nurse?’ I nodded. ‘One of the people she visits regularly has a fair bit of nice-looking jewellery in her dressing-table drawer. I thought you might like to check her windows and doors next Tuesday. She’ll be staying overnight in hospital for a procedure. A class cat burglar like you should have no trouble and I already have a prospective buyer for them.’

I managed a rueful smile. ‘Tuesday’s not so bad. I’ll be over my aches and pains from last night’s little venture by then.’

Jackie put on a different smile and entwined her fingers with mine. ‘Thinking of you in peoples’ bedrooms, reminds me of the night I found you in mine. Not a great night as a cat but, boy, you were great in other ways. Maybe you can wear the mask again tonight?’ 

About the author

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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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. 

 

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Games by Peter Lingard, milk

I hate this place! 

There are cliques based on income and address.  There is violence everywhere: overt and covert violence.  I even caught myself becoming involved in the one-upmanship race because my father works for a mobile telephone company and I get the newest models before anyone else.  What a thing to be known for, having the latest phone.  The smart, the truly smart, are ostracised because being smart is not a race most can compete in.  Instead, they race to be the prettiest, the most outrageous, have the richest parents.  Be the top at something, no matter what value the position holds.  Status, once obtained, can expand its value by the acquisition of foolish, fleeting friends – those who will become someone else’s friend once you are toppled from your precarious summit.  I feel smug because I’ll never lose my place at the top the best phone clique, but my smugness shames me.  Do the prettiest feel the shame of knowing they have naturally excelled at something without worth?  Do the bullies feel a measure of shame before they close their eyes at night?  Do those enriched by their parents’ money feel a shame for achieving status earned solely by someone else?  Thankfully, my father has won a promotion and we are moving to another city.  I swear, doubly swear, not to play these stupid games at my new primary school.

About the author

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Christmas Crumbs by Mari Philips, a glass of milk

“You won’t forget the biscuits for Santa, will you mum?” Janey said. John sniffed and curled his lips. He was beyond all that rubbish. His mother flashed him that look. The don’t you dare look. He wandered off. Janey! Sisters! In fact, all girls. They were silly and believed in all sorts. John knew better. He was ready for big school.

On Christmas morning he lay still. Desperate to go downstairs and open his presents, but he really wanted Janey to go first. He waited until he heard the patter of her slippers on the stairs and crept quietly behind her. She ran to the table. There were dregs of milk in the glass and just a few crumbs left on the plate. He had considered leaving the biscuits uneaten, but he loved his sister.

 

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. 

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Our Day at the Ocean by Maxine Flam, warm milk

 We pulled up in Daddy’s light blue four-door ’64 Chevy station wagon. That car had been through a lot. We came across the country in it from Pennsylvania. The poor car barely made it to my uncle’s house. Just as we got there, boom went the radiator and a white cloud of smoke came out of the engine. Daddy shouted, “Keep the kids away from the car,” as he and my uncle tried to make sure it wasn’t on fire. Daddy fixed the car and he said he was going to get another one, but I guess he wanted to take it on one more trip.

 

Ever since Mom left, Daddy spends every spare moment with me. He makes sure I eat good meals and am happy.  I am always happy when I am with Daddy.

 

I squirm in my seat; the lap belt holds me in. I can’t wait to get out of it and the car. I try to peer out the side window, but I can’t see anything because I am too little.

 

“We’re here,” Daddy says as he reaches over and unlatches the seatbelt.

 

Excitedly, I open the door. “Daddy?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“This place is so quiet and beautiful. The ocean goes on forever.”

 

“U-huh,” he says calmly as he takes an El Producto cigar out of the small cardboard box in his shirt pocket and lights it with his fancy silver lighter that has the initials SF on it.

 

Oh good. Daddy’s smoking a good cigar today, not those smelly stogies he usually buys.

 

 “Can we go down to the ocean now? I’d like to take off my shoes and socks and run barefoot in the wet sand.” 

 

“There’s an opening a few yards from here with a staircase that will take us to the beach.”

 

“Can I make a sand castle?”

 

“Why not? This is our day to do whatever we want.”

 

“Daddy, this is so much fun. We can spread the blanket, eat sandwiches, and wash them down with cold soda. Then, I will make a sand castle. Oh, Daddy, this is the best day ever, but any day spent with you is the best day ever.”

 

“I am so happy to hear you say that. Okay, we better head over and claim our spot.”

 

“I love you, Daddy.”

 

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

He takes me in his big strong arms and hugs me. At that moment, nothing mattered except being here with Daddy.

 

I carry my sand pail and shovel, and Daddy carries the blanket across his shoulders, the red ice chest full of food and sodas in his left hand. In his right hand, he takes my hand as we walk to the stairs. It is a day I will never forget -- just the two of us having fun.

About the author 

Since becoming disabled in 2015, Maxine took up her passion for writing. She took classes at a local college in creative writing. Maxine has been published several times in the Los Angeles Daily News op-ed section, The Epoch Times, Nail Polish Stories, and most recently in DarkWinterLit. 

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Noisy Neighbours by Dawn Knox , milk

 ‘Good evening, officer, I wish to complain about my next-door neighbour.’

‘What’s the problem, madam?’

‘Noise. It’s been like it for three days now. I can’t sleep at night with all that singing. There’s a huge choir, all dressed in white.’

‘I see…’

‘I don’t suppose you do, officer. I’ve never seen or heard anything like it. And as for the mess…’

‘Mess?’

‘Those ruffians who turned up yesterday bought a flock of sheep. And as for the three turbaned gentlemen who arrived on camels… Honestly, the next-door neighbour’s got no business allowing a baby to stay in his stable. 

About the author

 Dawn’s three previous books in the ‘Chronicles Chronicles’ series are ‘The Basilwade Chronicles’, ‘The Macaroon Chronicles’ and 'The Crispin Chronicles' published by Chapeltown Publishing.

 

You can follow her here on https://dawnknox.com 

on Twitter: https://twitter.com/SunriseCalls

Amazon Author: http://mybook.to/DawnKnox 

 

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Puss in Boots by Rosemary Johnson, a saucer of milk.

The cat carrier meant only one thing, or so I thought.

Until Linda, my lovely mistress, took me into a shop. A shop?  There I was, bumping along, Linda not being the graceful mover, and looking at people’s knees through my wire cage. And sniffing. Lots of interesting smells here, not unpleasant, a bit like the bathroom after Linda’s taken a shower, washed her hair and shaved her legs. Why do humans shave their legs? I don’t understand.

Then she started looking at packets of pills. Not for me, I hope?

‘Which painkiller is best for toothache?’ Linda jabbed her finger into her mouth as if the assistant she was speaking to wouldn’t know where her teeth were.

I knew about toothache. I’ve had it for months, but we cats are stoical, just curl up and wait for it to go away.

Hang on. Linda’s bought some tablets. Would I get to prize her mouth open, clamp it shut and stroke her throat? Would she spit out the pill out after twenty minutes as I do?

Now we were leaving the shop, crossing the road and into a familiar doorway. Hm. I was right after all. ‘She’s not eating,’ said Linda, as the vet dragged me out of my cat carrier, despite my shrinking into the back of it and clutching the bars with my claws.

‘Mm.’  He prodded my stomach and dazzled me with his torch as he looked into my eyes and mouth. ‘Aah!  Broken tooth.’

‘Oh, my poor kitty,’ said Linda, laying her hand on my head.

Then I heard the word ‘extraction’ several times, and ‘This afternoon’. Mm. What is an ‘extraction’?  I don’t like the sound of this at all.

That awful Linda, she left me at the vet, stuck in this carrier, all by myself. Later the vet returned and I would’ve bitten him except… everything went fuzzy.

When I awoke, Linda was back and stroking me again, but there was blood in my mouth and a bandage on my leg. What sort of vet was this?  

OK, it was only a little bit of blood.

That was yesterday. Today is better. My mouth doesn’t hurt anymore and I’ve even managed to eat a few biscuits.

Linda’s still going round with her hand over her jaw, though. She says she’s going back to Boots for some more painkillers, but I think the sooner she sees the people vet the better.

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 will be published in February 2023. Rosemary lives with her husband in Essex. 

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Summoned by the Gong by Jane Spirit, hot rum and milk

Colonel Williams, now retired, shifted a little uneasily in his chair. It had been carefully positioned to catch any potential light and warmth from the window of the dark panelled first floor sitting room in which he mostly spent his days. He was comfortable enough in its padded embrace, but wary of the bodily stiffness that would inevitably creep up on him whilst he carefully inspected his newspaper before refolding it and placing it on the carved teak occasional table at his side. He knew that it would take him some time to get his circulation going when he next stood up in readiness to walk down the stairs in pain, but with dignity. The anticipation of this discomfort made him tetchier than he might otherwise have been, that and hunger he had felt gnawing away at him ever since he had woken from his nap. This made him glance frequently at the clock on the mantelpiece as he waited for its 12 o’clock joining of hands and the sound of the gong from the hallway beneath him.

He did not need Mrs Marjoram to sound the gong of course. There was no longer any noise in the house to cut through or a household to summon for lunch, but the Colonel still perceived a value in continuing with the rituals he had been accustomed to. If truth be told, the sound of the gong and the sense of order it represented to him, gave shape to his day and comfort to his aching bones. The gong had been with the family in India. At great cost and by somewhat complex arrangements, Mary had arranged for it to be shipped home and installed on top of the side table in their rather pokey villa hallway. In her honour he had continued with its use for the midday meal, which was served to him in the dining room. Mrs Marjoram would bring in the three courses in turn and then retire between each to allow him to enjoy his soup, his chop or haddock and a simple desert these days of fruit or occasionally treacle pudding and custard. Thinking about it now he found himself salivating as the hands of the clock marched inevitably closer together to point north on the clock face. He began to shift himself a little, listening in readiness for the resounding, warm note coming from below. Simply hearing it would cheer him and then this afternoon his son Reggie was coming to visit him, and they would have tea together in his little library downstairs as they always did. He had then two things to look forward to today, though he knew of course that Reggie was only calling on him to ask for some more cash to fend off his creditors for a little longer.

In the kitchen below, Mrs Marjoram sat at the large pine table from where she could see the stove and so keep a necessary eye on the vegetables gently simmering in readiness for the Colonel’s lunch. She sat comfortably, one arm resting on the table as she read again the letter that she had received from her son Charlie that morning. Since first reading it after breakfast she had managed somehow to keep up with her morning routine, although it had been a little after the half hour when she had taken the Colonel his morning coffee and ginger biscuit. It was a slight tardiness that of course he had remarked upon and for which she had even found herself mumbling an apology. Now, somehow, she had reheated the soup, baked the cutlet, peeled the potatoes and carrots, chopped some parsley and prepared the custard to go with the tinned peaches he tolerated these days. She was agitated though. It was difficult to take in what Charlie was telling her, that all his endeavours had been rewarded, that he had already accrued a tidy sum from the business he and his old chum Tom had started. He would be calling on her this afternoon to discuss with her the house and garden he planned to buy for her nearby and the income he would be providing her with so that she need never work again.

She was on her feet now, steaming the vegetables and placing them in the oven to keep warm whilst she prepared the first tray with its plate of cut bread and small tureen for the soup alongside the Colonel’s bowl and spoon. The accustomed movements were swiftly accomplished and only the unaccustomed slight smile on her face suggested her dawning realisation of what the letter meant for her.  She would no longer have to endure the Colonel’s constant scrutiny or the clock’s tyranny. She rehearsed in her mind the litany of her daily chores: the eight o’clock breakfast and twelve o’clock lunch, before the five o’clock tea and eight o’clock supper, then the hot rum and milk for the ten o’clock bedtime toddy. In between came all the cleaning, shopping, laundering, as well as endless pandering to his little whims and fancies about the objects in his room; moving a marble bust towards him, tweaking a book on a bookshelf. It was the sheer monotony of her days that she had found so irksome and the prospect of breaking free of the Colonel’s mould that filled her with secret joy.

She glanced up to see that the upright hands of the large kitchen clock had now parted again and that she was nearly ten minutes past the lunch hour. Hurriedly she re-tucked her hair into her cap, straightened her pinafore and went into the hall. Even then she took her time and picked up the striker calmly, suddenly conscious of not needing ever to rush again. She struck the gong more gently than usual as a result. The Colonel, who had fallen asleep and was dreaming that he was once more comfortably ensconced in the officer’s club house, woke gently to the comforting sound, but also to the familiar disappointment of finding himself no longer young, or dashing or of service.

About the author 

Jane Spirit lives in Suffolk U.K. She has written academic articles and books from time to time and is now enjoying writing fiction. 

 

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